Death of a Charming Man

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘I’m just going to write to Agnes and Diarmuid,’ he said to his wife, who was sitting sewing by the window. ‘Do you want to add a note?’

  ‘I wrote to them both yesterday,’ said his wife, Annie.

  ‘Well, you’d better tell me what you told them so I don’t repeat the gossip.’ The minister rose and stretched. He was a slight man with thinning grey hair, grey eyes, and a trap of a mouth. Annie had begun recently to hate that mouth, which always seemed to be clamped shut in disapproval.

  A shaft of sunlight shone in the window and lit up Annie’s hair. The minister stared at his wife. ‘What have you been doing to your hair?’

  ‘I put a red rinse on it,’ she said calmly. ‘Jock has some new stuff. It washes out.’

  ‘What’s up with brown hair?’ he demanded crossly. He had always considered his wife’s thick brown hair her one beauty.

  ‘I got tired of it,’ she said with a little sigh. ‘Don’t make a fuss about trivia, Callum. It wearies me.’ And she went on sewing.

  Harry Baxter drove his battered old truck down the winding road to Drim. He was a fisherman. There had been a bad-weather forecast and so the fishing boat at Lochdubh that he worked on had decided not to put out to sea. He was chewing peppermints because he had spent part of the morning in the Lochdubh bar, and like most of the men in Drim he liked to maintain the fiction that he never touched liquor. Just outside the village he saw a shapely woman with bright-blonde hair piled up on her head tottering along on very high heels. Her ample hips swayed as she walked. He grinned and rolled down the window and pursed up his lips to give a wolf whistle. Then he realized there was an awful familiarity about that figure and drew his truck alongside.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ said his wife, Betty.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said slowly in horror. ‘You look a right mess.’

  ‘It was time I did something tae masel’,’ she said, heaving her plump shoulders in a shrug. She was carrying a pink holdall.

  ‘We’d better go home and talk about this,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she said laconically. ‘I’m off to Edie’s exercise class.’ And she turned on those ridiculous heels and swayed off.

  There was a fine drizzle falling by early evening. Stripped to the waist and with raindrops running down his golden chest, Peter Hynd worked diligently, as if oblivious to the row of village women standing silently watching him. Rain dripped down on bodies sore from unaccustomed exercise and on newly dyed hair. Feet ached in thin high-heeled shoes. And beyond the women the men of the village gathered – small sour men, wrinkled crablike men, men who watched and suddenly knew the reason for all the beautifying.

  ‘Men’s Paws,’ sneered Jimmy Macleod, spitting on the ground.

  * * *

  Several days later, Hamish was strolling along the waterfront with his dog at his heels and his cap pushed on the back of his head. A gusty warm wind was blowing in from the Gulf Stream and banishing the midges for one day at least. Everything danced in the wind: the fishing boats at anchor, the roses and sweet peas in the gardens, and the washing on the lines. Busy little waves slapped at the shore, as if applauding one indolent policeman’s progress.

  And then a car drew up beside him. Hamish smiled down and then his face took on a guarded, cautious look. For the driver was Susan Daviot, wife of his Chief Superintendent. She was a sturdy woman who always looked as if she was on her way to a garden party or a wedding, for she always wore a hat, one of those hats that had gone out of fashion at the end of the fifties but were still sold in some Scottish backwaters. This day’s number was of maroon felt with a feather stuck through the front of it. She had a high colour which showed under the floury-white powder with which she dusted her face. Her mouth was small and pursed. ‘Ai’ll be coming beck with Priscilla to pick you up,’ said Mrs Daviot.

  ‘I am on duty,’ said Hamish stiffly.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I told Peter I was taking you off for the day. There is this dehrling house just outside Strathbane I want you and Priscilla to see.’

  Hamish opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of moving to Strathbane or anywhere near it, but realized that would bring a lecture about his lack of ambition down on his head, so he said, ‘But didn’t you hear? Trouble over at Drim.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  Hamish looked suitably mysterious. ‘I would rather not be saying at the moment.’

  Mrs Daviot grunted and drove off. Not for the first time did she think that Priscilla was not making a most suitable marriage, but on the other hand, had her husband not been Hamish Macbeth’s boss, then she would never have had the opportunity to go house-hunting with such an exalted personage as Priscilla.

  ‘Now, look what I’ve done,’ said Hamish to Towser. ‘Why didn’t I stand up for myself? Och, well, we’ll chust run over to Drim. A grand day for it.’

  He walked back to the police station, lifted Towser, who was as lazy as his master and would not jump, into the back of the Land Rover, and drove off. As he plunged down the heathery track which led into Drim, he felt he was leaving all air and sunlight behind. The village lay dark and silent, staring at its reflection in the loch.

  He parked outside Jock Kennedy’s store. It was the school holidays, yet no children played, although in these modern times that was not so unusual. Probably they were all indoors playing video games.

  The shop had a CLOSED sign hanging on the door. Half day. He thought that they were all truly spoiled over in Lochdubh since Patel had taken over the store there. Patel was open from eight in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week.

  With Towser loping behind him, he made his way up to the manse. The minister would surely be good for a cup of tea. The manse was a square Victorian building built beside the loch, with a depressing garden of weedy grass and rhododendrons. It had been built in the days when ministers had large families, and Hamish guessed was probably full of unused rooms. He went round to the kitchen door and knocked.

  After some minutes the minister’s wife, Annie Duncan, answered the door. She was a slight woman with good, well-spaced features and long brown hair highlighted with red. ‘Has anything happened?’ she asked, staring anxiously at Hamish’s uniform.

  ‘No, I was on my beat and I thought I would pay my respects,’ said Hamish.

  She hesitated. ‘Callum, my husband, is out on his rounds at the moment. Perhaps … perhaps you would like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘That would be grand.’

  She looked for a moment as if she wished he had refused and then turned away, leaving him to follow. He found himself in a large stone-flagged kitchen. The room was dark and felt cold, even on this summer’s day. It seemed to exude an aura of Victorian kitchen slavery. A huge dresser dominated one wall, full of blue-and-white plates and those giant tureens and serving dishes of the last century. She spooned coffee out of a jar into a jug, took an already boiling kettle off the Aga cooker, and filled the jug. ‘I’ll leave this to settle for a moment,’ said Annie. ‘Sit down, Mr …’

  ‘Macbeth.’

  ‘From Lochdubh?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘As I said, Drim is on my beat. It’s not as if anything has happened.’

  ‘Nothing ever happens in Drim.’

  ‘Except for your newcomer, Peter Hynd. I’ve met him.’

  For one moment her face blazed with an inner radiance in the dark kitchen and then her habitual shuttered look closed down on it. ‘Yes, he is a charming boy,’ she said in a neutral voice. She poured a mug of coffee and handed it to him.

  ‘An odd sort of place for a man like that to settle,’ remarked Hamish. ‘I mean, what is there for him here?’

  ‘What is there for any of us?’

  ‘I mean,’ pursued Hamish, ‘the north of Scotland is home to us, but it’s a cut-off sort of place, and there’s no place on the mainland more cut off than Drim. At least in Lochdubh, we get the touris
ts.’

  She clasped her thin fingers around the cup as if for warmth and held the cup to her chest. ‘I am not from here,’ she said. ‘I am from London.’

  ‘And how long have you been in Drim?’

  ‘For twenty-five years,’ she said. She made it sound like a prison sentence. ‘I met Callum when I was on holiday in Edinburgh. We got married. At first it seemed so romantic. I read all those Jacobite novels, Bonnie Prince Charlie and all that; I read up on the clan histories. The children came, and that took up time. Now they are grown up and gone and there is just Callum and me … and Drim.’

  Hamish shifted uneasily, wanting to escape. He had once visited someone in prison in Inverness. He experienced again the same suffocating feeling and desire to escape as he had had then.

  He drained his cup. ‘Aye, well, that was the grand cup of coffee, Mrs Duncan. I’ll be on my way.’

  She gave him a controlled little smile. ‘Call in any time you are passing,’ she said.

  Hamish made his way out and took in great lungfuls of air. Towser, who had been left in the garden, wagged his tail lazily. ‘Since we’re here,’ said Hamish to the dog, ‘we may as well look in on Jimmy Macleod.’ He did not know the crofter very well but he was strangely reluctant to call on Peter Hynd again and reluctant to return so soon to Lochdubh, where he still might be scooped up by Mrs Daviot and Priscilla to go house-hunting.

  He wandered in the direction of the croft, which lay just outside the village. Damp sheep cropped steadily at the wet grass. The ground in Drim always seemed to be wet underfoot. He could see Jimmy two fields away, hammering in a fencepost. He made his way across to him.

  ‘What’s up?’ cried Jimmy in alarm as he approached. The residents of Lochdubh automatically supposed – and rightly – when Hamish arrived on their doorsteps that he was on a mooching raid, but to the residents of Drim the sight of a policeman still meant bad news.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hamish, walking up to him. ‘I should come to Drim mair often, then you’d all get used to me. I feel like the angel of death.’

  Jimmy gave the fence-post another vicious slam with the sledge-hammer. ‘Fancy a bit o’ dinner? Nancy aye cooks enough fur a regiment.’

  ‘That’s verra kind of you,’ said Hamish, falling into step beside the crofter. ‘Anything happening in Drim?’

  ‘Naethin’,’ said Jimmy curtly.

  They walked on in silence until they reached the low croft house. Hamish followed him into the kitchen. ‘I’ve brought a visitor, Nancy,’ said Jimmy. ‘Manage another dinner.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said curtly and threw another mackerel on the frying pan. ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Hamish to her back, ‘I would like a bowl of water for my dog.’

  She reached out and seized a bowl from the drying rack and slammed it down in front of him. ‘Help yoursel’.’

  Hamish filled the bowl with water and put it down in front of Towser. The tension in the kitchen between the married couple seemed to crackle in the air.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ ordered Jimmy, and so Hamish sat down, wishing he had not accepted the crofter’s invitation. Jimmy stared at the centre of the table. The mackerel hissed in the pan. As if sensing the atmosphere, Towser gave a heavy sigh and lay down with his head on his paws. Nancy slammed plates of food down in front of Hamish and Jimmy and said, ‘I’m off.’

  ‘You’ll stay right where you are, wumman,’ growled Jimmy.

  She tossed her dyed black hair and went out of the room.

  Jimmy picked at his mackerel and then threw down his knife and fork and went out. Hamish could hear him mounting the stairs to where he supposed the bedrooms lay, under the roof. He tried not to listen but they were shouting at each other.

  ‘Ye’re makin’ a fool o’ yoursel’ wi’ a fellow half your age, you silly auld biddy.’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ came Nancy’s reply. ‘You dinnae own me.’

  ‘I’ve had enough. Hear this, Nancy Macleod; if you don’t come tae yir senses, I’ll murder that English bastard.’

  ‘Ach, get oot o’ my way, ye wee ferret, or I’ll murder you.’

  There came the sound of a blow followed by a cry, and then the deafening crack of a slap and Nancy’s voice shouting shrilly, ‘Take that, bastard, and neffer lay the hand on me again.’

  Hamish half-rose in his seat. He hated ‘domestics,’ as marital fights were called in the police. But he heard Jimmy clattering down the stairs and sat down again quickly.

  Jimmy came in, one cheek bright-red. He sat down and picked up his knife and fork, his calloused hands trembling. Then he threw them down and began to cry.

  ‘There, now,’ said Hamish, standing up and going round to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘There, now.’

  ‘I’ll kill that English bastard, that I will,’ sobbed Jimmy. ‘He’s bringing grief tae us all. The women have all gone fair daft.’

  ‘Is he doing anything to encourage the women?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Jist smiles and smiles, kisses them like a Frenchie, smarms all ower them.’

  ‘I’ll maybe be haein’ a wee word with him,’ said Hamish. He saw a whisky bottle on the kitchen counter and went over and poured a glassful. ‘Get that down ye.’

  ‘Neffer had the drink in the hoose except at Hogmanay,’ said Jimmy, ‘until this happened.’

  The kitchen door opened and Nancy stood there. Her figure had changed dramatically, due, thought Hamish, to some sort of rigid corseting. Her face was highly made up. Her eyes reflected a mixture of wariness and defiance.

  ‘I’m off,’ she said and slammed out.

  Jimmy drank whisky and ate steadily. Finally he pushed his plate away and rolled and lit a cigarette. Hamish sniffed the air. It was some time since he himself had had a cigarette, but he suddenly had a craving for one.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ he asked.

  ‘One o’ three places. She goes tae Alice Mac-Queen’s tae get her hair done, or she goes tae that silly biddy Edie Aubrey’s exercise class, or she goes wi’ the others tae lean over the fence at Hynd’s and gawp at him like a lot o’ coos.’

  ‘I think I’ll chust go over tae Peter Hynd’s and talk to him,’ said Hamish. ‘Neffer mind, Jimmy. You know these incomers. They neffer stay long.’

  Jimmy said nothing.

  Hamish roused the now sleeping Towser and went off. He was beginning to feel very uneasy. As he approached the community hall, he could hear the sound of music. He stood on tiptoe and looked in one of the windows.

  To the sound of the music from Saturday Night Fever, the women of Drim gyrated and sweated. Great bosoms bobbed and heaved, and massive backsides hung low over thick thighs. In front of the class was a thin woman in glasses, as thin and flat-chested as her ‘pupils’ were fat and broad. But there was no sign of Nancy.

  He walked on and made his way to Peter Hynd’s. Peter was down in the trench with his pickaxe. Above him stood Nancy with that awful dead-black hair of hers and her old-fashioned stiletto heels sinking into the earth. ‘Since you’re that busy, I’ll be off,’ he heard Nancy say mournfully.

  Peter leaped out of the trench. He smiled down at her with that blinding smile of his. ‘Come later,’ he said, ‘when I’m not so busy.’ And then he kissed her on both cheeks, very warmly, each kiss close to either side of the nose. Nancy stared up at him, doting, almost sagging in his arms.

  ‘Fine day,’ said Hamish in a loud voice.

  Peter smiled. Nancy gave Hamish a look of pure loathing before tottering off.

  ‘Is this a social call?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No,’ said Hamish curtly.

  Peter looked amused. ‘We’d best go inside, but don’t take too long. I’ve an awful lot to do.’

  They went into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’ asked Peter, holding up a thermos flask.

  ‘No,’ said Hamish with the Highlander’s innate dislike of taking any hospitality from someone he disliked, or, in the case of Peter, had come to dislike.

  ‘So what brings
you?’ asked Peter, pouring himself a cup.

  ‘I haff come to ask you to leave the women of Drim alone.’

  Peter looked at Hamish in amazement and then began to laugh.

  ‘It is not the laughing matter,’ said Hamish. ‘I like a quiet life and I do not want any trouble on my beat.’

  ‘This is marvellous,’ crowed Peter. ‘Are you expecting a crime of passion?’

  ‘Aye, maybe. This is not the south of England. People here know very well how to hate, and hate deeply.’

  For one moment, Peter seemed to lose years and looked almost like a sulky schoolboy being reprimanded by a teacher. But he turned the full force of his charm on Hamish. ‘Look, I admit my presence here has gone a bit to the heads of the ladies. But have you seen their men? Believe me, in a few weeks, the novelty will wear off and they’ll no more notice me than one of their sheep.’

  ‘They’ll lose interest all right chust so long as you do not continue to feed it,’ Hamish went doggedly on, although Peter was beginning to make him feel silly.

  ‘You’re worrying about nothing.’

  ‘Chust try to be as friendly with the men as you are with the women.’

  ‘Be reasonable. That’s a bit difficult. They didn’t want to know me from the beginning. All the offers of help came from the women.’

  ‘Try. It’s a pity there isn’t a pub here.’

  Peter grinned. ‘Oh, but there is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the back of Jock Kennedy’s after closing time. The minister frowns on all alcohol, and I would guess he’s about the only person in Drim who does not know of its existence.’

  Hamish stood up. ‘Go carefully. The Highland temperament can be dangerous.’

  He walked back down to the village. If Jock Kennedy was running a pub without a licence, then it was his job to put a stop to it. But as he looked around the darkness of Drim, he decided to leave it to another day. The men needed their comforts.

  He climbed into the Land Rover and sat back and thought about Peter Hynd, and then decided that Jimmy Macleod’s distress had made him take the whole situation too seriously. One of the men would pick a fight with Peter sooner or later and give him a nasty time of it and then the Englishman would leave.