Death of a Perfect Wife

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Quick!’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Downstairs. It looks as if the husband did it after all.’

  Hamish had reached the forecourt of the hotel when they came running out.

  He looked at Mr Daviot, not at Blair. ‘I have charged Paul Thomas with the murder of his wife, Alexandra Thomas.’

  ‘Has he confessed?’ asked Mr Daviot.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hamish.

  Blair heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t take much brains to solve a murder when the murderer just walked up and said he’d done it.

  ‘I’ll just take the suspect off tae Strathbane,’ said Blair pompously.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Come inside, Hamish, and tell us what happened.’

  Hamish, thought Blair furiously. The super called him Hamish!

  They all walked in to the manager’s office and explained to Mr Johnson that they would be using it for a bit. When they were all seated, Hamish told Mr Daviot how the murder had taken place and why.

  When he had finished, Blair ground his teeth. The super was looking at Hamish with admiration. Mr Daviot then turned to the big man who was slouched in his chair. ‘Do you understand what is going on, Mr Thomas? You know you are being charged with your wife’s murder?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul wearily. ‘I wanted to kill myself but Hamish said I would be better off in prison. He said no one could hurt me in prison. I wouldn’t have to think for myself.’

  Blair opened his mouth to say something and Mr Daviot flashed him a warning look. ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Daviot soothingly. ‘Hamish is quite right. Now, we’ll just take a statement. See to it, Anderson.’

  Mr Daviot took Hamish aside while Paul was drearily confessing to the murder. ‘Brilliant work, Hamish,’ he said. ‘My wife and I would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight. We’ll drive over here. Eight o’clock, say? And do ask Priscilla to join us.’

  Blair moved away. He was shocked and furious. Like a horrible dream arose the vision of Hamish Macbeth as his superior.

  At last, Hamish stood outside the hotel and watched them all drive away. He watched the car bearing Anderson, Blair, MacNab, Daviot, and Paul climbing up the long hill out of Lochdubh until it dwindled to the size of a toy.

  Then he strolled back to the police station to phone Priscilla Halburton-Smythe and tell her about the end of the case and that invitation to dinner.

  Blair sat in the corner of the dining room at the Lochdubh Hotel that evening. He was no longer furious. He was too miserable for that. His was a dark corner, but he knew the super had seen him, for Daviot had nodded curtly in his direction before turning back to his guests. It wasn’t fair, thought Blair, who had turned up in the hope of being included in the party.

  Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a flame-coloured chiffon dress that clung to her figure. Beside her, looking like the lord of the manor, thought Blair enviously, sat Hamish Macbeth, resplendent in a tuxedo which Blair assumed Priscilla had lent him, not knowing Hamish had bought it from a second-hand clothes shop in Inverness that year.

  Then Blair noticed that the festive air about the party seemed to be dying fast. He wondered what was up.

  Mr Daviot had discussed with his wife Hamish’s transfer to Strathbane while they were driving over to Lochdubh. ‘Poor chap,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘He must have hated being tucked away in that backwater. He’ll be delighted.’

  At first, when he told Hamish the plans for his future over dinner, he did not notice that Hamish was beginning to look more miserable by the minute. ‘It means more money and promotion, of course,’ said Mr Daviot happily. ‘The accommodation is comfortable enough for single men. You won’t be able to have your dog there, but I’m sure we’ll find him a place in the police kennels.’

  ‘Well,’ giggled Mrs Daviot, ‘Ay’m sure Hamish won’t be single for long.’ She gave Priscilla a coy nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

  Priscilla laughed. ‘Hamish and I are just good friends.’

  ‘Can I have a word in private with ye, Mr Daviot?’ said Hamish, deciding it would be better to start addressing the super in a more formal manner.

  Mr Daviot looked surprised. Then he looked at his wife who was winking at him and pointing to Priscilla. The superintendent’s face cleared. Hamish obviously wanted to talk about marriage plans.

  They walked through to the lounge. ‘Look, Mr Daviot,’ said Hamish urgently, ‘you need a policeman here and I am perfectly happy with the job. I do not want promotion. I do not want to work in the town.’

  ‘Why, in heaven’s name?’

  ‘I have my home here and my sheep and hens and geese. I have my friends and neighbours. I am a very happy man.’

  Mr Daviot looked up at him curiously. ‘Are you really happy?’

  ‘As much as a man can be.’

  The superintendent felt a pang of pure envy. ‘Well, if that’s the way you want it. What does Priscilla think about settling down in the village police station?’

  ‘Priscilla is not marrying me. We’re just friends. As a matter of fact, she’s got a fellow in London.’

  Priscilla herself was saying very much the same thing to Mrs Daviot. She was feeling uncomfortable under Mrs Daviot’s prying questions and had answered them coldly and then haughtily. Both looked up in relief as the men rejoined them.

  Mrs Daviot then saw Detective Chief Inspector Blair for the first time. She was smarting after Priscilla’s cold behaviour. Blair was such a nice man, thought Mrs Daviot, meaning that he could be guaranteed to grovel. ‘Dehrling,’ she said to her husband, ‘there’s thet naice Mr Blair. Do esk him over to join us for coffee.’

  Blair came over, almost at a run. Mr Daviot felt himself begin to relax. There was something so reassuring about Blair. Typical detective. Hamish was odd, eccentric and upsetting. No one really likes to come across a happy and contented man. Besides, as he was not going to marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, there was no longer any need to think of him as a social equal.

  After dinner, Priscilla and Hamish walked together along the waterfront. She had a long white silk stole about her shoulders and the fringed ends fluttered in the breeze. The wind had dropped and the stars shone brightly overhead.

  ‘So you refused promotion,’ said Priscilla flatly. ‘What is to become of you, Hamish?’

  ‘Nothing I hope,’ he said lazily. ‘Obsession’s a funny thing,’ he said, half to himself, thinking about Angela Brodie, Paul Thomas, … and himself. It was so peaceful to be able to stroll along beside Priscilla without being in the grip of that old, terrible yearning.

  ‘People who want to get on in life are not obsessed,’ said Priscilla crossly.

  ‘Like John Burlington?’

  ‘Yes, like him. What would the world be like if everyone were like Hamish Macbeth?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish mildly, ‘and I don’t care either. I don’t go about lecturing people on the folly of pursuing a career. That would be silly. Ambition’s a grand thing. I wonder what it’s like? Still hear from John Burlington?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going back in two weeks’ time and he’s going to meet me at the airport.’

  ‘And will you marry him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might.’

  ‘Poor Priscilla.’

  ‘It’s poor Hamish. I don’t believe you’re unambitious. I think you’re as big a coward as Paul Thomas. I think you’re frightened of the big outside world.’

  ‘I don’t like it, I’ll admit,’ he said, still in that placid, happy voice which was beginning to get on Priscilla’s nerves. ‘If you choose to think I’m frightened, then you are entitled to your opinion. Well, there we are. Home.’

  The blue lamp over the porch of the police station shone down through the rambling roses. Towser was standing on his back legs, his paws on the gate. Priscilla’s car was parked outside.

  ‘Coming in for a nightcap?’ offered Hamish.

  Priscilla hesitated. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said.

  She sat in the l
iving room while Hamish made coffee and fished out a small bottle of brandy. He stood looking at the bottle. He remembered he had bought it in the hope of just such an occasion as this. He put it on a tray along with the cups and coffee jug and two glasses and carried it through to the sitting room.

  ‘Let’s look at television,’ said Hamish. ‘I just want to catch what’s on the news.’ He switched on the set and then settled himself in the armchair after seeing that Priscilla had her coffee and brandy.

  As Hamish leaned back and watched the news, Priscilla studied him. He was not only free from the pangs of ambition, but, she realized with a little shock, he was free from her. She had never known Hamish had been in love with her, but now that it was gone, she realized for the first time what was missing. Had he fallen out of love with her because of John? Was that kiss which had seemed to her exciting a big disappointment to him?

  Hamish’s eyelids began to droop. She leaned forward and took the brandy glass from his hand and put it on the table. In minutes, he was fast asleep. She felt she ought to leave but suddenly could not find the will to get up and go. Towser lay at her feet, snoring. The news finished and a showing of Casablanca came on. Priscilla sat and watched it through to the end, and then, without disturbing Hamish, she let herself out of the police station and made her way home.

  Two weeks later, Hamish decided to pluck up courage and call on the Brodies. He had not seen the doctor in the pub, and heard from the gossips that the doctor had actually given up smoking.

  The clammy weather had gone and the days were crisp and sunny and cool with a hint of frost to herald the early Highland autumn.

  He walked around to the Brodies’ kitchen door and rang the bell.

  ‘Walk in!’ came the doctor’s voice.

  Angela and her husband were seated at either side of the kitchen table. He was reading a book and had a pile of books on his side of the table and his wife had her pile of books on the other and was studying one which was propped up against the jam jar. Between them lay the cat, resting its chin on top of the cheese dish.

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Hamish,’ said the doctor. ‘Help yourself to coffee and find a chair.’ Angela looked up and smiled at him vaguely and returned to her books.

  Hamish poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. ‘This looks like a university library,’ he said.

  ‘It is in a way,’ said the doctor. ‘Angela is studying for a degree in science at the Open University, and I’m getting back to my studies. I’m away behind the times.’

  ‘You were that,’ said Hamish. ‘I hear you’ve given up smoking. Maybe Mrs Thomas did you some good after all.’

  ‘I hate to say a good word about that woman,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘But I’ll tell you this much, Angela recovered pretty quickly and she said she would make me one of my old breakfasts, you know, fried everything with ketchup. Well, I wolfed it down and as I was walking to the surgery, I felt downright bad-tempered and queasy. Seem to have got a taste for muesli and salads.’ Hamish glanced at the title of the book the doctor had been reading, Women and the Menopause.

  ‘So, I decided it was high time I moved with the times,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘There’s a lot in this mind over matter business. I mean, I’ve got some patients who think they’re on special tranquillizers when they’re actually taking milk of magnesia tablets and yet they swear they’ve never felt better.’

  Angela rose from the table. She was wearing quite a pretty dress and her perm was growing out. She scooped up an armful of books. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘There’s a programme I want to watch on television.’

  ‘So everything’s all right,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Oh, yes, I was afraid Angela’s mind was going to snap. And all over what? Some silly English housewife.’

  Hamish reflected that the silly English housewife had at least stopped the doctor smoking and got him back to his medical books.

  After he left them, he strolled along the waterfront. The sky was a pale green and the first star was just appearing. The peace of the world surrounded Hamish Macbeth.

  Along at the harbour, the fishing boats were getting ready to set out. As he came nearer, he saw Mrs Maclean and Archie. Mrs Maclean handed her husband a packet of sandwiches and a thermos and then she put her arms about him and gave him a hug.

  ‘Well, I neffer!’ said Hamish Macbeth. He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to whistle as soft night fell and the little fishing boats with their bobbing lights made their way out to sea.

  Priscilla Halburton-Smythe opened the door to her flat in Lower Sloane Street in London’s Chelsea. She was feeling tired and cross. John Burlington had not turned up at the airport to meet the Inverness plane and so she had taken the underground train and it had broken down outside Acton for an hour.

  She picked up the post from the doormat and carried it through to the kitchen along with a copy of the Evening Standard that she had bought in Sloane Square.

  She flicked through the post and noticed someone had sent her a newspaper from America. She slit open the brown paper wrapper. Her friend, Peta Bently, now living in Connecticut, had sent her a copy of the Greenwich Times. ‘See page five,’ Peta had scrawled on the front of it.

  Priscilla turned to page five. There was a picture of Hamish Macbeth standing with Towser under the roses outside the Lochdubh police station.

  The caption read, ‘Local businessman, Carl Steinberger, took this photograph of a Highland bobby while on holiday in Scotland. A far cry from Hill Street Blues!’

  The photograph had been printed in colour.

  ‘He might have told them about the murder,’ muttered Priscilla. She unfolded the Evening Standard. John Burlington’s face seemed to leap up at her from the front page. His face bore a tortured look and he was surrounded by detectives.

  ‘Arrested for insider trading at his Belgravia home, stockbroker socialite, John Burlington,’ Priscilla read.

  The phone rang and she went to answer it.

  The voice of her friend, Sarah James, came shrilly down the line. Wasn’t it just too awful about poor John? As the voice went on and on, Priscilla looked out of the window. The traffic in Lower Sloane Street was belching fumes out in the air. She turned slowly and looked at the newspapers, lying side by side on the kitchen table, at the frantic face of John Burlington and at the happy face of PC Macbeth.

  If you enjoyed Death of a Perfect Wife, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Hamish Macbeth series …

  Chapter One

  In the Highlands in the country places

  Where the old plain men have rosy faces,

  And the young fair maidens

  Quiet eyes.

  – R.L. Stevenson

  ‘You might have known people really do dress up for dinner in the Highlands.’ Maggie Baird shifted her large bulk irritably in the driving seat and crashed the gears horribly.

  Beside her in the passenger seat of the battered Renault 5, her niece, Alison Kerr, sat in miserable silence. Her Aunt Maggie had already gone on and on and on about Alison’s shabby appearance before they left the house. Alison had tried to protest that, had she been warned about this dinner invitation to Tommel Castle, she would have washed and set her hair and possibly bought a new dress. As it was, her black hair was lank and greasy and she wore a plain navy skirt and a white blouse.

  As Maggie Baird mangled the car on its way to Tommel Castle – that is, she seemed to wrench the gears a lot and stamp down on the footbrake for no apparent reason at all – Alison sat and brooded on her bad luck.

  Life had seemed to take on new hope and meaning when her mother’s sister, Maggie Baird, had descended on the hospital where Alison was recovering from lung cancer in Bristol. Alison’s parents were both dead. She had, when they were alive, heard little about this Mrs Maggie Baird, except, ‘We don’t talk about her, dear, and want to have nothing to do with her.’

  When she had thought she was about to die, Alison had written to Maggie. After all, M
aggie appeared to be her only surviving relative and there should be at least one person to arrange the funeral. Maggie had swept into the patient’s lounge, exuding a strong air of maternal warmth. Alison would come with her to her new home in the Highlands and convalesce.

  And so Alison had been borne off to Maggie’s large sprawling bungalow home on the hills overlooking the sea outside the village of Lochdubh in Sutherland in the very north of Scotland.

  The first week had been pleasant. The bungalow was overcarpeted, overwarm, and over-furnished. But there was an efficient housekeeper – what in the old days would have been called a maid of all work – who came up from the village every day to clean and cook. This treasure was called Mrs Todd and although Alison was thirty-one, Mrs Todd treated her like a little girl and made her special cakes for afternoon tea.

  By the second week Alison longed to escape from the house. Maggie herself went down to the village to do the shopping but she would never take Alison. Eventually all that maternal warmth faded, to be replaced by a carping bitchiness. Alison, still feeling weak and dazed and gutless after her recent escape from death, could not stand up to her aunt and endured the increasing insults in a morose silence.

  Then had come the invitation to dinner from the Halburton-Smythes, local landowners, who lived out on the far side of the village at Tommel Castle, and Maggie had not told her about their going until the very last minute, hence the lank hair and the blouse and skirt.

  Maggie crashed the gears again as they went up a steep hill. Alison winced. What a way to treat a car! If she herself could only drive! Oh, to be able to go racing up and over the mountains and to be free and not immured in the centrally heated prison that was Maggie’s bungalow. Of course, Alison should just leave and get a job somewhere, but the doctors had told her to take it easy for at least six months and somehow she felt too drained of energy to even try to escape from Maggie. She was terrified of a recurrence of cancer. It was all very well for other people to point out that these days cancer need not be a terminal illness. Alison had had a small part of her lung removed. She was terribly aware of it, imagining a great hole lurking inside her chest. She longed daily for a cigarette and often refused to believe that a diet of forty cigarettes a day had contributed to her illness.