Death of a Perfect Wife

by Beaton, M. C.

  He went out into the front garden carrying a battered old deck chair and stretched out in the sun. Why had Trixie had such a hold over the women of Lochdubh? he wondered. She had, of course, quite a powerful personality. Then the village women themselves were mostly of the old school, that is, they were housewives rather than wage earners. There was no cinema in Lochdubh, no theatre, no discos, or parties. The wonder of television had long worn off. Trixie, Hamish decided, had given them all a purpose. They were still housewives in an age that had been taught to despise housewives. The days of the enormous families had gone. Time, Hamish supposed, must lie heavily on a woman’s hands. It was all right for him to be lazy and stretch out in the sun when he had the chance. Apart from his police work, he had his garden, his sheep, and his hens to look after. The only thing which made a demand on his affections was Towser. He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. Even when their husbands died, he mused, the women of Lochdubh did not promptly travel to Inverness or Strathbane looking for work. Most of them had never gone out to work in their lives, having got married as soon as they left school. Of course a lot of them worked very hard, doing most of the gardening and, if the husband had a croft, an equal share of the work load. But there were the long winter months where everything ground to a halt and they were not paid for their labours. Anything they did was part of their wifely duties.

  A lot of the local men, he knew, married not out of love but because their mothers had died or because they wanted a home of their own with someone to cook the meals and iron the shirts.

  Priscilla had been right about Angela Brodie. She had the soul of an academic. Good intelligence there and absolutely no commonsense whatsoever. Incapable of judging character. Hamish fervently hoped for both the Brodies’ sakes that Angela would revert back to her old self. But would she? She had become accustomed to interests outside her books.

  Hamish rose and ambled into the office and searched through a file of phone numbers that he had jotted down from time to time in the hope that they would prove useful. At last he found what he wanted. He phoned the Open University in Milton Keynes and said he was phoning for a Mrs Brodie who was interested in taking a science degree and would they send her the necessary papers? When he put down the phone, he had a feeling of satisfaction. Studying for a degree at home would be just the thing for Angela Brodie and a science degree would give her something difficult and practical to work on. The Open University enabled men and women to work for University degrees at home.

  He returned to his deck chair.

  He lay back and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the village, the chugging of a donkey engine on a boat out on the loch, snatches of song from a radio, the harsh scream of the wheeling seagulls, and the lazy drone of a car winding its way through the hills behind. It was a pity, he thought, that all the skylarks seemed to have gone. He could remember them in his youth, the very sound of summer, climbing to the heavens and sending down a cascade of glorious sound. No one could remain an atheist with larks around, he thought dreamily.

  ‘Wouldnae that make ye sick,’ said a harsh voice, and a shadow fell across him.

  Hamish opened his eyes and struggled up. Blocking out the sun was the square bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Standing behind him were his two sidekicks, Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.

  Blair was in a bad temper. Daviot had said the prices at the Lochdubh Hotel were much too high and so Blair and his team must commute daily from Strathbane, a drive of an hour and a half over twisting Highland roads. The sight of Hamish lounging at his ease in the sun did nothing to help his temper.

  ‘We’ve jist had the lab report,’ said Blair. ‘Thon Thomas woman was poisoned wi’ arsenic.’

  ‘Arsenic!’ Hamish got to his feet. ‘What from? Rat poison?’

  ‘Straight arsenic as far as I know,’ said Blair.

  ‘What were the contents of the stomach?’

  ‘Curry, rice, bread and cake. They think it was probably in the curry.’

  Hamish hesitated. It was his duty to tell Blair about the odd behaviour of the doctor. He liked Dr Brodie and did not like to think of him being bullied by Blair. On the other hand, Dr Brodie was well able to take care of himself. Perhaps the best thing was to suggest that he, Hamish, should interview the doctor.

  ‘I’d better tell you about this,’ said Hamish. ‘When Dr Brodie first examined the body, he was going to sign a death certificate saying she had died of a heart attack. I stopped him doing that.’

  ‘Whit!’ Blair’s piggy eyes gleamed.

  ‘So maybe I had better go along to the surgery and see him,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Listen, laddie, you jist go aboot your rural duties,’ said Blair with a fat grin. ‘But I tell ye what – I’ll let ye in on the case. Go down to Inverness tomorrow and interview that dentist Paul Thomas went to see.’

  ‘One phone call to Inverness police could get that done now,’ said Hamish with surprise.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ snapped Blair. He marched off, a squat figure, sweating in a heavy tweed suit, and followed by his two detectives.

  Hamish sighed. He may as well just look forward to a pleasant day in Inverness. Let Blair solve this one. He did not care very much who had murdered Trixie.

  But as he looked along the road, he could see the slumped figure of Paul Thomas, sitting on his garden wall. Calling to Towser, Hamish went along to talk to him.

  But before he could reach him, he was waylaid by the Glasgow woman, Mrs Kennedy. ‘How long are we going to have to stay here?’ she complained. ‘I want tae get the wee yins back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Should be a few more days,’ said Hamish.

  ‘But this wis supposed to be a holiday and I’m having to dae all the cooking, and buy the food, for the polis took everything out of the kitchen. I telt Mr Thomas he wasnae getting any money from me.’ She was a fat, sloppy woman wearing a print apron over a mud-coloured dress and carpet slippers on her swollen feet. The children all looked about six years old, but they could hardly all be the same age. They had white pinched faces and old, old eyes: three boys called Elvis, Clarke and Gregory and a girl called Susan.

  Hamish promised to see what he could do about letting them go and then went on to speak to Paul. Paul looked at him with dull eyes.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Hamish gently.

  Paul’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Who could have done such a thing? Everybody loved her.’

  ‘This is a small village and we’ll soon find out who did it,’ said Hamish soothingly.

  Paul put his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. ‘You find out,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave it to that fool, Blair.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Hamish gently. ‘Is anyone with you?’

  ‘People have been very kind.’ Tears ran down Paul’s cheeks and he wiped them away with his sleeve.

  ‘I met Mrs Kennedy, but where’s your other boarder?’

  ‘Oh, him? He’s about somewhere.’

  ‘Staying a long time, isn’t he? What does he do for a living.’

  ‘He’s a writer. Hammering at that typewriter of his day and night.’

  ‘What’s his name? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘John Parker.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Maybe I’ll have a word with him. Hadn’t you better go and lie down? You look awful.’

  ‘I can’t lie down.’ Paul’s face twisted with distress. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see her dead face.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’d better tire yourself out. You still doing the garden?’

  ‘I was, but Trixie took over and she seemed to be better at it than me and so …’

  ‘Well, let’s go around and have a look,’ said Hamish.

  The two men walked around to the back garden. ‘Hasn’t been touched for a bit,’ said Hamish. ‘Look at the weeds. Why don’t you get started again?’

  Paul nodded dumbly and started to weed between the rows of vegetables.

  Hamish heard a car arri
ving and left him and walked around the front. John Parker, the writer, was just getting out.

  ‘Bad business,’ he said when he saw Hamish.

  ‘Has the CID asked you about your movements on the day of the murder yet?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They’ll be along shortly. So you’re a writer, are you? I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen the name John Parker on the bookshelves.’

  ‘Well, you won’t. I write under the name of Brett Saddler.’

  ‘You’re Brett Saddler? The man who writes the Westerns?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said John with a faint smile.

  ‘I always thought Brett Saddler was an American.’

  ‘I’ve always liked Westerns,’ said John. ‘Must have seen about every Western movie ever made. I give them the good old-fashioned stuff. As a matter of fact, Westerns have made a come-back. I sold the film rights of my last one, which is why I’m able to take this long holiday.’

  ‘My! You must be a millionaire.’

  ‘Far from it,’ said John. ‘I got twenty-five thousand dollars, and by the time you take agent’s fees off that, and British tax, there isn’t all that much left. If you want to know where I was when Trixie died, I was off driving up in the hills. I like it up there. So quiet.’

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t meet a soul,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Do you know if anyone else had any of that curry she had been eating?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. She must have had it for lunch. The Kennedys had sandwiches and Mrs Kennedy is of the opinion that curry is foreign muck. I wasn’t here and Paul was in Inverness.’

  ‘Did the forensic boys find any pot that had been used to cook the curry?’

  ‘No, everything in the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. Trixie was the perfect housewife.’

  ‘Did you know her before?’

  ‘No. Now I’ve got to get back to my writing.’ He gave a lethargic wave of his hand and went into the house.

  Hamish then thought of Archie Maclean, who had been seen holding hands with Trixie. It had been all over Lochdubh. Had Mrs Maclean known?

  He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw Priscilla’s Volvo approaching at a slow pace. He felt in his bones that for some reason she was going to drive right past him so he stood in the middle of the road and held up his hand.

  ‘What is it, copper?’ asked Priscilla. ‘You can hardly accuse me of speeding.’

  ‘Just wanted a chat.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘Now, now, what iss the matter? You have eyes like the North Sea.’

  Priscilla stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the wheel. She was angry with Hamish over Trixie’s tale about that sweater. Although she knew Trixie must have been lying, she could not help remembering old stories about Hamish’s various flirtations. Priscilla was completely unaware that Hamish Macbeth was attracted to her. She knew he liked her but thought he looked on her sometimes as being rather young and silly.

  When Priscilla did not reply, Hamish said, ‘Someone has been saying something to put your back up. It cannot be your father, for he’s said about everything there is to say. So who could it be?’

  ‘I feel you made a bit of a fool of yourself over Trixie.’

  ‘And me the only person in Lochdubh who couldn’t stand the female,’ said Hamish, ‘apart from Brodie, that is.’

  ‘I met her wearing one of your old sweaters,’ said Priscilla. ‘She said you gave it to her and made a pass at her or something.’

  ‘I neffer gave her anything,’ said Hamish in amazement. He frowned and then said, ‘I have it. She went out driving with your father and your father must have told her about his worries that you might run off with the local bobby. She came round to me and said she was going to the toilet and she was away for a long time and then she left by the front. She must have picked up my sweater just to annoy you.’ He leaned on the car. ‘I am very flattered it did annoy you.’

  ‘It only annoyed me because I would not like to see any friend of mine making a fool of himself over such a woman,’ said Priscilla. ‘I’ve got to go, Hamish. I’m expected at home.’

  ‘What about dropping in tomorrow for a chat?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘I can’t. I’m taking this car over to Golspie for its annual Ministry of Transport check tomorrow – I don’t trust any other garage – and then taking the train to Inverness to do some shopping for mother.’

  ‘I’m going to Inverness myself,’ said Hamish. ‘What time will your train get in?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’

  ‘What if I meet you at the station and then we can go for lunch and I’ll drive you back.’ Hamish waited anxiously.

  ‘All right,’ said Priscilla. ‘Now do get out of the way.’

  Hamish stood back and watched her go with a grin on his face.

  Then he decided to go and call on Mrs Maclean. Mrs Maclean had not been one of the women at the bat demonstration. Trixie’s hold had been on the middle-class and lower-middle-class women who had kitchens full of labour-saving devices and therefore more time on their hands.

  Mrs Maclean was down on her knees, scrubbing her stone-flagged kitchen floor with ammonia. Not for her the easy way with mop and up-to-date cleanser.

  The radio was blaring out Scottish country dance music. He called to her, but she didn’t hear him so he switched off the radio and she looked up.

  ‘What do you want, you glaiket loon?’ she said, wringing the floor cloth savagely and throwing it into the bucket.

  Hamish sighed. The trouble with being a policeman in a small, normally law-abiding village was that you did not strike fear or terror into the heart of anyone.

  ‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Trixie Thomas,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Mrs Maclean sat back on her heels. ‘That wumman’s better off dead.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But since yourself had no reason to like her, you are one of my suspects.’ He looked at her sternly, but she gave a contemptuous snort.

  ‘She made a fool o’ that silly man o’ mine. He thought she fancied him when all that moocher wanted was a bit o’ free fish. Take the sugar out o’ your tea, that one would. It’s my opinion the Thomases had money enough, but they was always talking about being hard up and scrounging everything they could get. The minister’s wife goes around saying Mrs Thomas was the perfect housewife. She was perfect when it came to getting other people to do the work for her. Thae women like Mrs Wellington and that Mrs Brodie haven’t enough to do. Microwaves and washing machines. A disgrace I call it.’

  A strong smell of bleach rose from a huge copper pot of sheets on the wood burning stove. Mrs Maclean was famous for her ‘whites’, boiling everything and hanging it over the bushes in the garden to bleach further on a sunny day. Perhaps that was why Archie’s Maclean’s clothes always looked too tight for him, reflected Hamish. She probably boiled his suits.

  ‘Well, you’ll have the detectives around soon asking you questions as well,’ said Hamish. ‘They’ll want to know where you were when she was murdered.’

  Mrs Maclean picked up the scrubbing brush again and scrubbed an area of already clean floor. ‘They can ask away,’ she said, ‘for I was right here all day, and my neighbours all saw me coming and going between the house and the garden.’

  ‘And Archie?’

  ‘Himself was down at the nets.’

  Hamish all at once remembered Dr Brodie singing about Trixie being dead and felt cold. That was something he should have told Blair as well. Damn Blair.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mrs Maclean, picking out the floor cloth and wringing it out and wiping the wet floor, ‘you’ll probably find it was that husband o’ hers what did it.’

  ‘He was in Inverness at the dentist.’

  Mrs Maclean sniffed. ‘So he says.’

  When Hamish left by the garden gate, he heard a burst of music. Mrs Maclean had turned on the radio again.
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  He remembered his promise to Paul. Somewhere in Lochdubh, there was a murderer. But it was hard to think such a thing had happened. The sun beat down on a perfect scene. The eighteenth-century cottages along the waterfront gleamed white. Roses scented the air and the still waters of the loch reflected the hills and woods and the gaily painted hulls of the fishing boats.

  Trixie had gone and something nasty in the atmosphere had gone with her. And yet she had not been an evil woman. And the women of Lochdubh would have got wise to her in time.

  He saw Blair and his two detectives driving out of the village and made his way to the doctor’s surgery.

  Dr Brodie said he would see Hamish. ‘Quiet day,’ he said when Hamish walked into the consulting room. ‘Monday’s the busy day when they all come in with their bad backs. It’s the Highland disease. Every Monday morning, a bad back strikes them and they want a line so they do not have to go to work.’

  ‘How did you get on with Blair?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘He tried to bully me. Threatened to arrest me. You told him about me diagnosing a heart attack.’

  ‘I had to,’ said Hamish quietly. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘As I told that fat lump, it looked like a heart attack to me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, John,’ said Hamish, exasperated. ‘It looked like nothing o’ the kind. Spit out the truth, man. It looked bad. You had been drunk out your skull the night before and singing about how you had killed Trixie. Did you know her real name was Alexandra?’

  ‘Yes. But she’s the sort of woman – she was the sort of woman – who would think a name like Trixie cute. Well, Hamish, I’ll tell you but don’t tell Blair unless you think it necessary. I knew she had been poisoned. You had told me Paul Thomas was in Inverness but it went right out of my head. I thought maybe he had done it. I was glad she was dead. I didn’t want anyone to get the blame. I lost my head. Can you blame me? My wife’s a changed woman. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in a skirt and heels. I’ve been living with a carbon copy of Trixie – smocks and jeans and those bloody sneakers squeaking over the floorboards.’

  ‘She should be all right now,’ said Hamish awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, no, Trixie’s memory must not die. Angela’s taken over the bird thing and the smoking thing and the clean up of Lochdubh rubbish. Either I eat salads or eat out. She’s hard as nails.’