Death of a Perfect Wife

by Beaton, M. C.

‘Where are they from?’

  ‘Edgware, North London.’

  ‘Plenty of jobs in London,’ said Hamish. ‘Not like the north. Wonder why he’s on the dole?’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he threw up his job to come here and went on the dole after he arrived. You’re very curious about them.’

  ‘I have an uneasy feeling they are going to cause trouble,’ said Hamish slowly.

  There was a knock at the kitchen door and Hamish went to open it. John Burlington stood there. ‘Is Priscilla here?’ he asked. ‘I saw her car.’

  ‘I’m here,’ called Priscilla, getting to her feet. She introduced the two men. John Burlington’s handsome face broke into an engaging smile. ‘You’ve been away for ages, Cilla,’ he said. ‘The others are outside.’

  Priscilla and John left. Hamish wandered through to the office and idly picked up some forms and put them down again. Cilla! What a name. He could hear them laughing outside. He could hear John Burlington saying, ‘You’ll never guess what our Cilla was doing. Drinking tea with the local copper. Darling, you’re too marvellous!’ He must have brought the others with him.

  Hamish sat down at the desk. He felt he did not really know Priscilla Halburton-Smythe very well. He himself could not have tolerated such company for very long, but then, perhaps jealousy was clouding his judgement.

  Dr Brodie sniffed the air suspiciously when he came home that night. Everything seemed to smell of furniture polish and disinfectant. Angela must be worn out with cleaning. Still, he had always wanted a clean house. He sat down at the table.

  Angela lifted two boil-in-the-bag curries out of a pan and then the packets of rice. She cut open the bags and tipped the contents on to two plates.

  ‘Where’s Raffles?’ asked the doctor, ladling mango chutney on to his rice.

  ‘I shut him out in the garden. He will climb on to the table during meals and cats are full of germs.’

  ‘I think over the years we’ve become immune to Raffles’s germs,’ said the doctor, pouring a glass of something that was simply emblazoned claret without the name of any vintage to sully its label. ‘Why the sudden fear of pollution by Raffles?’

  ‘Trixie Thomas says cats are a menace. Besides, I’m sick of the hairs everywhere.’

  ‘Poor old Raffles,’ said the doctor, but his wife had retreated into a book.

  He finished his curry. ‘Anything for dessert?’ he asked. ‘The trouble with these instant meals is that they don’t fill you up.’

  Angela rose from the table. ‘I made a butterscotch pudding,’ she said. ‘Trixie showed me how.’

  She put a plate in front of her husband. He took a mouthful and his eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘This is delicious,’ he said. ‘Absolutely delicious. You clever girl.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without Trixie.’

  ‘Well, God bless Trixie,’ said the doctor, looking around the shining kitchen with pleasure.

  He was to regret those words bitterly in the weeks to come.

  The summer crawled into July. The days seemed long and irritable. Intermittent drizzle and warm wet winds brought the flies and midges in droves. Trixie had made a sign that hung outside the house – The Laurels, Bed & Breakfast. She already had guests, a broken-down looking woman from Glasgow with a brood of noisy, unhealthy children and a thin, quiet man who drifted about the village like a ghost.

  Hamish had given the Thomases a wide berth, but one day he saw Paul working in the garden. There was no sign of Trixie so he ambled over.

  The big man leaned on his spade when he saw Hamish and said, ‘I’m trying to make a vegetable garden. It’s hard work. This ground hasn’t been turned over for years.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Thomas?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Oh, off somewhere. Inverness, I think.’

  ‘That’s verra hard work,’ said Hamish sympathetically. ‘Archie Maclean’s got a rotary cultivator, you know, one of those things that just churn up the earth. If he’s not out fishing, I suppose he would lend it to you. Would you like to walk along to his house and we’ll ask him?’

  ‘That would be great.’ Paul threw down the spade and wiped his hands on his trousers and came out of the garden to join Hamish.

  ‘You must find Lochdubh a bit of a change from London,’ said Hamish, taking out a stick of midge repellent and wiping his face with it.

  ‘I think I can make something of it here,’ said Paul. ‘New start. Never been able to do much with my life. Trixie’s a marvel. I don’t know what I would do without her.’

  ‘What was your job in London?’

  ‘Oh, this and that. Trouble was, I’d got so fat, I couldn’t move, and the fatter I got, the more I felt I had to eat. Trixie came into my life like a whirlwind and took me over and put me on a diet. I owned the house I lived in. It had been my mother’s. Trixie suggested we put it up for sale and buy something up here with the money. I hope I can make something of the garden. It would mean a lot to me to be able to grow things, know what I mean?’

  Hamish nodded, and then said, ‘But don’t you miss the theatres and cinemas and all the fun of the city?’

  ‘No, I didn’t have much fun. It’s quiet here and the people are friendly. We’ve had such a lot of help. But that’s Trixie for you. Everyone loves her. She’s going to do a lot for the village. She’s forming the Lochdubh Bird Watching and Bird Protection Society. The first meeting’s at the church tonight.’

  ‘It’ll be an interest for the children,’ said Hamish cautiously. ‘It doesn’t do to go too far with this bird thing. Some of these societies can be downright threatening, telling people they can’t dig the peats because that’s the nesting place of the greater crested twit, or something. But I suppose Mrs Thomas is just interested in finding out about the different types of birds.’

  ‘I suppose,’ echoed Paul. ‘But she likes to do things thoroughly. She’s even starting a Clean Up Lochdubh campaign.’

  ‘Morals?’

  ‘No, litter.’

  Hamish looked along the street which bordered the waterfront. There was not a scrap of paper in sight.

  ‘And she’s going to see Dr Brodie about starting an Anti-Smoking League.’

  ‘My, my, she’ll be on dangerous ground there,’ said Hamish. ‘The doctor smokes like a chimney.’

  ‘I know. Trixie says it’s a disgrace. She says he’s giving all his patients cancer. And she’s had to talk to Angela about the doctor’s diet. You should see what she’s been feeding that man. Chips with everything. Too much cholesterol.’

  Hamish felt uncomfortable. ‘It doesn’t do to interfere with people,’ he said. ‘Brodie’s fifty-seven and looks about forty and he’s never had a day’s illness that I can remember.’

  ‘Oh, Trixie knows what’s best for him,’ said Paul easily.

  They walked on in silence. Hamish remembered David Currie, a thin, weedy man who used to live in Lochdubh. He had a tyrant of a mother whom he adored. ‘Mother knows best’, was his favourite expression. Then one night he had got drunk and had chased his mother down the street with an axe and Hamish had had to rescue the terrified woman. After that, the Curries had moved to Edinburgh. Hamish had heard that David was a leading light in the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  Archie Maclean was at home. He gave Hamish a welcoming smile and then the smile faded as he saw Paul behind Hamish. He agreed to lend them his cultivator but he was decidedly chilly towards Paul and Hamish wondered why.

  Hamish and Paul worked amiably together throughout the afternoon. Hamish then asked him back to the police station for tea. He put the teapot, two mugs, and a plate of chocolate biscuits on the kitchen table and then the phone in the office rang.

  He left Paul and went to answer it. It was Detective Chief Inspector Blair from Strath-bane. ‘How’s the local yokel?’ asked Blair.

  ‘Chust fine,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Anything going on there?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘You lucky sod,’ grumbled Blair. �
�Look, the new super, Peter Daviot, is coming over to the Lochdubh Hotel for the fishing. I want you to keep oot o’ his way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For yir own good, you pillock. If he finds you’re daein’ nothing, he’ll close down your polis station.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘No,’ growled Blair. ‘Keep away from Daviot. Ah’m warning ye.’

  He slammed down the phone.

  Hamish waited a moment and then phoned Mr Johnson, the manager of the Lochdubh Hotel.

  ‘How would you like a supply of free-range eggs for a month for nothing?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘I’d like it fine,’ said the manager. ‘With this salmonella scare, everyone keeps asking for free-range eggs. Of course, I’ve been telling them they’re free range. I get cook to dip them in coffee to turn them brown and stick a wee hen’s feather on some of the shells to make it look like the real thing but it would be just my luck if one of them got the food poisoning. What d’you want in return?’

  ‘Is a Mr Daviot in the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, just arrived.’

  ‘Then I want dinner for two this evening,’ said Hamish.

  ‘All right. You’re on. But don’t order champagne.’

  Hamish then phoned Tommel Castle. The butler answered the phone and Hamish asked to speak to Priscilla. ‘Who is calling?’ asked the butler suspiciously. ‘James Fotherington,’ said Hamish in impeccable upper-class accents.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ oiled the butler.

  Priscilla came to the phone. ‘Hello, Hamish,’ she said. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, will you have dinner at the Lochdubh with me tonight?’

  There was a long silence and Hamish gripped the phone hard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Priscilla at last. ‘But we’ll go Dutch. Johnson’s prices get higher and higher.’

  ‘I haff the money,’ said Hamish in offended tones.

  ‘Very well. What time?’

  ‘Eight. And … er … Priscilla, could you wear something grand?’

  ‘Any point in asking why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. See you.’

  Hamish went back into the kitchen. Paul had gone. So had all the biscuits. Not only that, but there were smears of jam on the plate. Eating chocolate biscuits with jam, marvelled Hamish. It’s a wonder that man has any teeth left.

  That evening, Dr Brodie sat down to a plate of pink wild rice. His wife poured him a glass of Perrier. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pushing the mess with his fork. ‘Tuna fish rice,’ said Angela proudly. ‘You put a can of tuna in the blender and just mix the paste with the wild rice. Try the whole wheat bread. I baked it myself.’

  Dr Brodie carefully put down his fork. He looked at his wife. Her hair was all curly, like a wig, and highlighted with silver streaks. She was wearing a white smock with strawberries embroidered on it, a pair of new blue jeans, and very white sneakers. He had not complained once about all the changes, pleased that his wife had all these new interests but hoping she would tire of it all and revert to her normal self. But it had been a long and tiresome day. He was hungry and he was weary. His home sparkled like a new pin but felt sterile and uncomfortable.

  He put down his fork and got to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Angela.

  ‘I am going to the Lochdubh Hotel for a decent meal. I hear they’ve got a new chef. Like to come?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Angela, tears starting to her eyes. ‘I’ve been slaving all day, getting the place clean, making the bread …’

  Dr Brodie went out and very quietly closed the door behind him.

  Angela sat down and cried and cried. Trixie had said he was killing himself with all that junk food and cheap wine and cigarettes. She had done it all for him and he had sneered at her. At last, she dried her eyes. There was the Bird Society meeting. Trixie would be there and Trixie would know what to do.

  Mrs Daviot said to her husband, ‘That’s a distinguished-looking couple.’

  The superintendent looked over the top of his menu. A tall thin man with flaming red hair in a well-cut but slightly old-fashioned dinner jacket was ushering in a tall blonde who was wearing a strapless jade green gown with a very short ruffled skirt and high-heeled green silk shoes. The waiter came up to take the Daviots’ order. ‘Visitors, are they?’ asked Mr Daviot, indicating the couple.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the waiter, ‘that’s Miss Halburton-Smythe and Mr Macbeth, the local constable.’

  ‘Ask them to join us,’ said his wife eagerly. Mrs Daviot was a social climbing snob and longed to be able to tell her friends that she had had dinner with one of the Halburton-Smythes.

  Soon Hamish and Priscilla were seated at the superintendent’s table. ‘I think it would be better if we just stuck to first names,’ said Mrs Daviot eagerly. ‘I’m Mary and my husband is Peter.’

  ‘Very well then,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s Priscilla and Hamish.’

  Hamish cursed the impulse that had led him to waste a whole evening, when he could have been alone with Priscilla, in spiting Blair. Mary Daviot was a small, fat, fussily dressed woman whose Scottish accent was distorted by a perpetual effort to sound English. Her husband was small and thin with grey hair, grey eyes, and a grey face. ‘So you’re Macbeth,’ he said surveying Hamish.

  ‘Do call me Hamish, Peter,’ said Hamish sweetly.

  There was a silence while they all decided what to have to eat. ‘The prices are ridiculous here,’ said Mr Daviot finally. He turned to the waiter, ‘We’ll all have the set menu.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care for something else,’ said Hamish to Priscilla.

  ‘No, darling,’ said Priscilla meekly.

  Hamish knew she was angry with him for having used her in order to introduce himself to the superintendent and his heart sank.

  ‘All ready for the Glorious?’ Mrs Daviot asked Priscilla.

  Priscilla raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I mean The Glorious Twelfth,’ explained Mrs Daviot.

  ‘I suppose my father is,’ said Priscilla. ‘I don’t shoot anymore. Few enough birds as it is.’

  Hamish ordered a good bottle of claret. ‘We’ll just have a glass of yours,’ said Mr Daviot when Hamish offered him the wine list.

  ‘You were involved in that murder case where that chap was shot on the grouse moor, weren’t you?’ the superintendent asked Hamish.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I wasn’t in Strathbane then.’

  As Hamish talked, Priscilla endured the coy and vulgar conversation of Mrs Daviot.

  The first course arrived. It was salmon mousse. A tiny portion moulded into the shape of a fish with a green caper for an eye stared up at Hamish.

  ‘I gether the chef is famous for his novel kweezin,’ said Mrs Daviot.

  ‘I’m not a fan of nouvelle cuisine,’ said Priscilla. ‘They never give you enough to eat.’

  She glanced at Hamish who seemed to be enjoying himself talking to the superintendent. Hamish did not like Mr Daviot much but found him an intelligent policeman.

  Priscilla realized with a shock that she had not thought about John Burlington in recent days. But now she wished with all her heart that he would miraculously turn up and take her out of the dining room and away from Mrs Daviot’s greedy eyes that seemed to be pricing her gown, her earrings, and her necklace.

  The next course was Tournedos Bonnie Prince Charlie. A small piece of fillet steak rested on a small round of toast. Two mushrooms and two radishes cut in the shape of flowers decorated the plate. A kidney-shaped side dish contained a small portion of sliced carrots and an even smaller portion of mange tout. Hamish mentally cut down the supply of free-range eggs by two-thirds and cast a hurt look at Mr Johnson who came hurrying up.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked. There was a crash behind him and he swung round. Dr Brodie had upset his chair and was storming from the dining room.

  ‘Excuse me,
’ muttered Mr Johnson and went after the doctor.

  ‘So it looks as if they’ll be no more murders in Lochdubh?’ said Mr Daviot.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Hamish. ‘But we have a creator of violence in our midst.’

  ‘What’s thet?’ asked Mrs Daviot.

  ‘It’s someone who sets up situations and animosities in people that often lead to murder.’

  ‘I don’t believe in that sort of thing,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Murderers are usually on booze or drugs or both. Or there’s the ones that are born bad. No one makes another person murder them.’

  ‘I think they do,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s often a way of committing suicide. You don’t do it yourself but you drive someone else into doing it for you.’

  ‘I never let popular psychology interfere with police work,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nothing beats a good forensic lab and this genetic fingerprinting is a wonder.’

  He and Hamish fell to discussing cases which had been solved by genetic fingerprinting and Priscilla was again left to talk to Mrs Daviot. This is what life would be like were I married to Hamish, she thought. But surely the fact that Hamish had sought out the superintendent meant that he was showing signs of ambition at last. Suddenly cheered, Priscilla endured Mrs Daviot’s questioning.

  The last course arrived. Flora Macdonald’s Frumenty. It tasted to Priscilla like whipped cream with a dash of cooking sherry.

  ‘We must meet up again soon,’ Priscilla realized Mrs Daviot was saying.

  Priscilla hesitated. She did not want to have to endure the company of this woman again. On the other hand, if Hamish had taken a step towards promotion, then she should help him. Besides, her father would be delighted to meet the new superintendent.

  ‘Come for dinner tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘Eight o’clock. Tommel Castle. Do you know the way?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ breathed Mrs Daviot. ‘Peter, Priscilla’s asked us for dinner tomorrow night.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mr Daviot.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Priscilla,’ said Hamish, quickly including himself in the invitation.

  Priscilla wondered what her father would say about having Hamish Macbeth as a dinner guest.