by M C Beaton
“Now what do you make of that?” said Hamish to Towser. Towser snorted. “Exactly,” said Hamish. “Fair makes you sick.”
The Thomases had another battered-looking woman in residence with her brood of noisy children. Hamish wondered whether they got welfare cases to fill the rooms. An unmarried mother with four children would rake in quite a large government benefit. The thin quiet man seemed to be a perpetual lodger. Hamish saw him coming and said, “Good afternoon,” but the man muttered something and shied away.
The next morning, Dr Brodie poked around a bowl of something and said to his wife, “I know you’re interested in the protection of birds but there is no need to serve me their droppings for breakfast.”
“That’s muesli,” said Angela in aggrieved tones. “It’s good for you.”
Dr Brodie looked at her. “I suppose Trixie told you to serve it to me.”
“She showed me how to make it up from oatmeal and raisins and nuts,” said Angela eagerly. “It’s so much cheaper than the packet kind and better for you.”
“That woman turned up in my waiting-room yesterday and put non-smoking stickers all over the walls without asking my permission. I wasn’t going to tell you about it and worry you but enough is enough. I told her to get knotted and so she is writing to the health authorities to complain about me.”
Angela’s loyalty was shaken.
“Doctors shouldn’t really smoke, dear. You can’t really blame her…”
Her voice trailed off before the fury in her husband’s eyes. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’ve put up with your Trixie nonsense because I thought it was a passing fad. But my home has become a sterile hospital ward, the cat’s shut in the shed and the dog’s in a kennel in the garden. My wife has a hairstyle like Harpo Marx and dresses like one of those tiresome women who are always going on marches and demonstrating something. I want steak and chips for dinner and a bottle of wine. Put any more rabbit food in front of me and I will puke all over the table. And I want to see the animals in the house this evening. Mention that woman’s name to me again and I will kill her.”
Mrs Maclean hit her husband on the head with a jug when he entered the house. He reeled back, screaming, “What was that fur?”
Although the residents of Lochdubh had not directly told her about her husband and Trixie, they had told her in that sideways Highland way of communicating nasty information, apocryphal stories about men they had known who had become silly over Englishwomen, and Mrs Maclean, being equally Highland, had been able to transcribe the coded messages.
“You’ve been making up tae that Englishwoman, ye daft wee scunner,” yelled Mrs Maclean.
“She jist wanted a trip out in ma boat,” he said sulkily, rubbing his head.
“And you held her hand, like a daft schoolboy! Listen tae me, Archie Maclean, you go near that wumman again and I’ll strangle her wi’ ma bare hands.”
“You’re haverin’,” said Archie, running out of the door before she could hit him again.
He made straight for the pub where Jimmy Fraser was already propping up the bar.
Jimmy greeted him with a wide smile. “How’s the Cassanova of the Highlands?” he called.
“Shut yer face,” said Archie sulkily. But he joined Jimmy and ordered a pint.
“You’ve jist missed herself’s husband,” said Jimmy. “My, how that big fellow wass laughing about a certain skipper who had made a pass at his wife and how herself did not know what to do about it for fear of hurting the ugly wee skipper’s feelings. Yon Trixie’s been making a fine joke of you all around the village.”
Archie maintained a dignified silence while black murder raged in his heart.
Iain Gunn was a crofter turned farmer. He had bought the rundown old Sutherland farm over the hill from Lochdubh on Loch Coyle in 1975. Over the years, he had ploughed and seeded and worked hard, clearing more fields of old stones and glacier rocks until he had a moderately prosperous farm. His fields lay on almost the one flat piece of land in the surrounding countryside, looking more Lowland Scottish than Highland with their well-cultivated acres and herds of cattle. There was only one still unsightly area on his property. At the far corner of one of his fields was an old ramshackle two-storied ruin. He had rented a bulldozer and meant to flatten it, clear away the rubble, and then plough over the land on which the ruin stood. He was just advancing over the fields in his rented bulldozer when he noticed a small party of women carrying banners, standing in front of the ruin. As he came nearer, he read with amazement, “Protect Our Bats,” and “Gunn Is a Murderer.” He drove up and climbed down. He recognized Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, Angela Brodie, and various other women from the village. The spokeswoman stepped forward. He wondered who she was and then recognized her as Lochdubh’s latest incomer, Trixie Thomas.
“You shall not pass!” cried Trixie. The women behind her started marching up and down singing, “We shall not be moved.”
He scratched his head. “I do not have the nuclear missiles. What is all this about?”
“You have bats,” said Trixie.
“Och, you’re bats yourself,” said Iain.
“No, I mean there are bats in that old ruin and bats are a protected species. You cannot touch it.”
Then Iain saw with relief a white police Land Rover, parking at the edge of the field. “Here’s Hamish,” he said, “He’ll sort you out.”
The women began chanting again as Hamish sauntered up.
“Tell these daft biddies to go away,” said Iain. “They are after saying I cannot bulldoze that ruin because there are bats in it. Haff you ever heard the like?”
“I’m afraid they are right,” said Hamish. “Bats are protected, Iain, and you’ll need to leave that ruin alone.”
“Michty me. You mean a man cannae do whit he likes with his ain property?”
“Not when it comes to bats,” said Hamish.
Iain’s face darkened with anger. “I’ve a good mind to bulldoze this lot o’ harpies.”
“Do you hear him, constable?” cried Trixie. “He is threatening to kill us.”
“I didnae hear a word,” said Hamish crossly. “But you women should be ashamed of yourselves. Yes, you too, Mrs Wellington! Somehow you heard Iain was going to bulldoze this old ruin. Well, why the h – , why on earth didn’t you just write the man a letter? Behaving like silly bairns. You are a right disgrace – all of you.”
“A man as full of land greed as Iain Gunn would not have paid attention to any letter,” said Trixie.
“Now, I did hear that,” said Hamish, “and if you want to sue her, Iain, I will be your witness. Off home with the lot of ye and try to behave like grownups. Shoo!”
Angela flinched. Hamish’s eyes were hard. How silly they all looked, she thought suddenly. Why had she come along? And Trixie had no right to say that about Iain. Crofters never liked farmers but although they occasionally made sour and jealous remarks about Iain Gunn, there was no real animosity in their hearts.
The women trailed off. “I’ll walk,” said Angela to Trixie. She had come in Trixie’s old Ford van.
“Don’t be silly, Angela,” said Trixie, and Angela felt she would weep if anyone ever called her silly again. “You know how much I rely on you. We had to make a stand. Gunn wouldn’t have paid any heed to a letter. Besides, I’ve got the minutes of the last Anti-Smoking League meeting to type out and I’m hopeless at it. Don’t be cross with me. I do rely on you, Angela.” Trixie’s eyes seemed very large and almost hypnotic. “Everyone’s remarked on how much you’ve changed lately. Why, even Mrs Wellington was saying only the other day that you were looking younger and prettier than you had done in ages.”
Angela melted. Her husband had never once in their marriage commented on her appearance until that remark about her looking like Harpo Marx. Sensitive and insecure, never able to think much of herself, Angela was an easy prey for the dominant Trixie.
With a weak smile, she got in the van beside Trixie.
Iain Gunn watched them go. “Environmentalists should be poisoned like rats,” he said.
Angela Brodie typed out the minutes while Trixie worked in the back garden and Paul sat on the wall in front of the house looking at the loch. She glanced guiltily at the clock, remembering her husband’s demand for steak. The butchers would be closed quite soon. She stacked the minutes in a neat pile and ran out of the kitchen, calling to Paul to say goodbye to Trixie for her. Again, Angela felt a slight unease about Trixie, but she fought it down. Her drab life was now colourful and full of events because of Trixie. She was proud of her clean house and seemed to be on a constant high of energy and hard work. She could not go back to being the lazy, dreamy person she had been for so long. But she bought the steak.
Trixie put down her spade and walked around from the back garden to the front. She saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walking along the road. Trixie ran into the house and emerged a little while later with a navy-blue sweater slung over her shoulders. Ignoring her blank-eyed husband she stepped out into the road just as Priscilla was approaching. “Good afternoon, Priscilla,” she called cheerfully.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Thomas,” said Priscilla. Her eyes fell on the sweater and a little frown marred the smooth surface of her brow. “That looks like one of Hamish’s sweaters,” she said.
Trixie lifted it from her shoulders and held it out to Priscilla. “Would you hand it back to him?” she said, “I’d be too embarrassed.”
“Why?” asked Priscilla, ignoring the proffered sweater.
Trixie giggled. “Our romantic policeman’s a bit soppy about me. He gave it to me to wear, you know, just like an American college kid giving his girlfriend his football sweater.”
Priscilla looked down her nose. “Give it to him yourself,” she snapped, and walked around Trixie and off down the road.
Angela Brodie waited and waited but her husband did not return home. The cat was sleeping by the fire along with the dogs, its claws dug into the carpet in case it should be lifted up and banished to the garden again. The clock ticked slowly, marking off the time. Angela phoned the surgery but only got the answering machine referring callers to the house number. He must have been called out on an emergency, she thought, but then she had a feeling he was deliberately staying away. She tried to read but reading did not bring the old comfort. She turned on the television. There was a party political broadcast on one channel, a sordid play on another, a wildlife programme about snakes on the third, and on the fourth, a ballet with screeching music and white-faced performers in black tights. She switched it off. She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out dusters and polish and began to clean the clean house all over again.
At ten o’clock, she phoned the police station. Hamish Macbeth said he would go and find the doctor. She had a feeling that Hamish knew where the doctor was.
At half past ten, the kitchen door opened and the doctor entered, or rather was helped in by Hamish. He giggled when he saw his wife and sang to the tune of Loch Lomond, “Oh, I’ve just killed Trixie Thomas, the rotten harpie’s dead.”
“Come to bed, doctor,” said Hamish. “Come away. Where’s the bedroom?”
“Upstairs,” said Angela weakly.
She waited, listening to the sounds as the doctor sang loudly about having killed Trixie and Hamish patiently coaxed him into bed.
She could not ever remember her husband being drunk before. But Trixie had warned her that all that smoking and junk food would cause a deterioration in him sooner or later. At the very corner of her mind was a niggling little voice accusing her of having driven her husband to drink, but she did not listen to it. Instead she tucked her sneakered feet – those gleaming white sneakers so like Trixie’s – under her on the sofa and waited for Hamish to descend.
Trixie Thomas could be harsh with her husband for his own good. The fact that Paul did not want to go to the dentist in Inverness and the fact that Trixie was determined he should go was all over Lochdubh by lunchtime as the couple’s row on the subject had taken place in their front garden.
“Afraid o’ the dentist like a wee wean,” jeered Archie Maclean who had had all his teeth pulled out at the age of twenty-one and had never had to worry about a dentist since.
Paul was eventually seen driving off in the van. At one o’clock, Mrs Kennedy, the boarder, returned to The Laurels with her sticky children to see if she could coax Trixie into making them all some sandwiches. The rain was falling steadily and the children were fractious and bored. But there was no sign of Trixie and her bedroom door was locked.
Angela Brodie turned up at two. Mrs Kennedy was cheerfully raiding the pantry. “Mrs Thomas must be having a wee lie down,” she said. “I cannae get a reply.”
Angela ran up the stairs and knocked on Trixie’s door. Trixie had a separate room from her husband, an odd luxury in a couple who claimed they needed to rent out every available space to boarders. Angela hesitated. Then she knocked louder and called and waited. Silence.
It was a big, rambling Victorian villa. A large fly buzzed monotonously against the stained glass window on the landing. From below came the wails of the Kennedy children demanding ‘mair jelly pieces’ by which they meant more jam sandwiches.
Angela knew Paul had gone to Inverness to the dentist. Everyone knew that.
The silence from behind Trixie’s door was un –
Suddenly alarmed, Angela began to hammer at the door and shout.
Again she waited. Again that silence. The Kennedy family had fallen silent now. The fly buzzed against the glass and the rain drummed on the roof.
Angela decided to go for help. She would look a fool if they burst into that bedroom and found Trixie fast asleep. But she remembered stories in the papers of people who had not interfered for fear of looking foolish and because of that fear, someone had died.
She thought Hamish would laugh at her, but he put on his peaked cap and followed her to The Laurels. His face was set and grim. He tried to tell himself his feeling of foreboding was the weather. The midges danced through the raindrops, stinging his face and he automatically fished in his pocket for his stick of repellent.
He walked up the stairs past the Kennedy family who were gathered at the foot. The children were strangely silent, their jam-covered faces turned upwards.
He went up to Trixie’s room and hammered on the door. Then he tilted his head on one side and listened to the quality of the silence.
“Stand back,” he said curtly to Angela.
He kicked at the lock with all his might and there came a splintering sound and the door burst open.
Trixie Thomas lav half across the bed, her hair spilled over her face. He gently put back her hair and looked down at her contorted face and then he felt her pulse.
“Get your husband here,” he said over his shoulder.
“Is she…?” Angela put her hands up to her mouth.
“Yes. But get him anyway.”
Angela ran down the stairs and along the waterfront towards the surgery. Rain water poured down her face like the tears she could not yet shed.
The receptionist called something as she ran past and burst into the consulting room.
“Come quickly,” Angela called.
Dr Brodie was examining Mrs Wellington’s bared bosom with a stethoscope. Angela reflected wildly that she had never seen such enormous breasts before.
“Mrs Brodie!” screeched the outraged minister’s wife, seizing a brassiere the size of a hammock.
“It’s Trixie. She’s dead,” said Angela, and then the tears came and great suffocating sobs.
“Dear me. Dear me,” said Mrs Wellington, encasing her girth rapidly in underwear and Harris tweed.
Dr Brodie seized his bag and ran out of the surgery to his car. Hamish was waiting for him in Trixie’s bedroom. “Don’t move the body if you can,” he said when he saw the doctor. “I’ll have a look around outside.”
The doctor spent only a short time in the room. Hamish was coming a
long the corridor when Dr Brodie emerged outside.
“I’ll just write the death certificate,” said the doctor. “Heart attack. No doubt about it.”
Hamish’s eyes narrowed and he said quietly, “Go back in there and try again. It’s a case of poisoning, if ever I saw one. It’s murder, doctor. Pure and straightforward murder!”
∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧
4
The very pink of perfection.
—Oliver Goldsmith.
The day after Trixie’s death was perfect. The clouds rolled back and the sun blazed down on a glittering, wet landscape. Beds hummed among the roses tumbling over the police station door as Hamish Macbeth waited for news from the laboratory in Strathbane.
He had to ask a lot of questions – starting with Dr Brodie. Why had the doctor been so keen to diagnose a heart attack? But there was always the slim hope in Hamish’s mind that somehow it would turn out to be food poisoning.
He had reported his suspicions to Mr Daviot. That gentleman had finished his holiday and had been packing to leave when Hamish had arrived at the hotel. To Hamish’s surprise, he treated the news of Trixie’s death lightly. Hamish did not know that because of Hamish’s addled behaviour at the Halburton-Smythe’s dinner party, the superintendent had swung round to Blair’s view of the village constable, which was that Macbeth had a slate missing.
But Mr Daviot had called at The Laurels, been satisfied that the forensic boys had taken away everything possible from the kitchen for analysis, and then had driven off.
Hamish still shuddered when he remembered the ordeal of breaking the news to Paul Thomas. The big man had seemed to crumple up and shrivel inside his clothes. Dr Brodie had given him a sedative. Now all Trixie’s fan club were in attendance on the bereaved husband.
The arrival of Detective Chief Inspector Blair was imminent, but surely there would not be the hordes of press that had attended the last two murders in Lochdubh…if it should prove to be murder. The murder of a housewife in the Highlands would be of interest only to the local press.
