by M C Beaton
Angela folded her lips into a stubborn line. “Trixie used to say that people didn’t know what was good for them. They need to be taken in hand.”
“You can make a lot of enemies, Mrs Brodie, if you try to be nanny to the world.”
“That’s a bitchy thing to say!”
“And so it was,” said Priscilla contritely. “I’m concerned for you, Mrs Brodie. You seemed a happier person before Trixie Thomas arrived on the scene.”
“I was half alive,” said Angela fiercely. “There’s so much to be done in the world. Trixie used to say that if everyone just sat around doing nothing, then nothing would be done.” She took a deep breath and said triumphantly. “I am declaring Lochdubh to be a nuclear-free zone.”
“Oh, Mrs Brodie! You yourself?”
“I’m forming a committee.”
Priscilla felt at a loss. There was something badly wrong with Angela Brodie. She wondered whether the doctor’s wife was at the menopause. She had grown even thinner, not the willowy slimness she had had before, but a brittle thinness. Her fingers were like twigs and there were deep hollows in her cheeks. Priscilla suddenly wanted to get out. An old–fashioned fly paper was hanging from the kitchen light and dying flies buzzed miserably, trapped on its sticky coating.
“I’ve suddenly remembered something,” lied Priscilla, getting to her feet. She could not wait any longer in this suffocating atmosphere for that coffee to fill the pot, drip by slow drip.
She turned in the doorway. “Do you know, Mrs Brodie, that Angus Macdonald claims someone tried to poison him today by leaving a bottle of poisoned whisky outside his door?”
“Silly old man,” snapped Angela. “It’s years since he did a day’s work. Him and his silly predictions.”
Priscilla went outside and took a deep breath of warm damp air. The wind had dropped and a thin drizzle was falling. She wondered how Hamish was getting on with his phone call.
Hamish had found everything remarkably easy. The police in Greenwich, Connecticut, knew Carl Steinberger. He owned a small electronics factory outside the town. They gave Hamish the number and Hamish dialled and asked for Carl Steinberger.
In his usual Highland way, Hamish did not get right to the point but waffled on about the screen door and the flies and the weather until Mr. Steinberger interrupted him gently with, “Look, officer, it’s great talking with you, but I’m a busy man.”
“Can you tell me what you made of the Thomases?” asked Hamish. “The wife’s been poisoned.”
“Jesus! What with?”
“Arsenic.”
“Rat poison? Something like that?”
“We can’t find anything,” said Hamish. “That other lodger, John Parker, turns out to be her first husband.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” said Mr Steinberger, “except that we didn’t like her. My wife said she had a knack of making her husband look like a fool, but we didn’t pay much attention. The place was clean and the food was good. She was a great baker. We must have put on pounds. But there was no fun in eating her cakes because her husband was on a diet and he would sit at the table and glare at every crumb of cake we put in our mouths. That John Parker took his meals in his room and typed when he wasn’t out walking. Can’t tell you any more.”
Hamish thanked him and put down the phone. He wondered what John Parker was saying to the detectives. He went along to the grocery store and bought a bottle of whisky, wondering whether he should go out with his gun that night and bag a few brace of the colonel’s grouse to sell in Strathbane and so make up for all the whisky he was having to buy.
He wandered back along to the hotel and stood outside, looking at the fishing boats.
At last, he heard Blair’s loud voice. He went to the wall of the hotel. Blair was standing with his back to him facing his two detectives. There was no sign of John Parker. One of the detectives, Jimmy Anderson, looked across to where Hamish’s head was appearing above the wall. Hamish raised the bottle of whisky and Anderson gave a brief nod.
Hamish then went back to the police station and settled down to wait.
After half an hour, Anderson appeared. “If ye want me to tell ye about it,” he said, “give us a drink first. Blair’s fit tae be tied. Can’t make a case against Parker.”
Hamish poured the detective a glass of whisky and said, “So what’s Parker’s background?”
“Ex-drug addict. Hash and a bit of cocaine. Out of work. Along comes Trixie Thomas. Social worker. Takes him in hand. Sees his writing. Badgers publishers and agents. Gets him started. Gets him off drugs. Gets him earning. And then what do you think she does?”
“She divorces him,” said Hamish.
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish slowly. “Just a lucky guess. Anvway, is he still in love with her? Did Paul Thomas know he was her ex? He must have known when he married her. Told me he didn’t, but surely he did.”
“No, he says Trixie reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.”
“Still, he must have known. She’d need to have her divorce papers, surely.”
Anderson grinned. “Seems the managing Trixie arranged everything and all he can remember is standing in the registrar’s office saying yes.”
“And when did all this take place?”
“This year.”
“And when did she divorce Parker?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Any children?”
“No, she couldn’t have any. What about some more whisky?”
Hamish poured him another glass. “So how did Parker know where to find her?” he asked.
“She wrote to him. She’d heard about him selling the film rights. Must have been in some magazine. She said she needed boarders and he owed her something because she never had asked him for alimony, and she didn’t want Paul to know, but it would be a nice way of paying her back for the start she had given him in life and all that crap. So the wimp comes up. He was paying her two hundred pounds a week. Paul didn’t know. She collected the money…cash. No income tax, no VAT.”
“Leave a will?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, left everything to Paul. He owns the house already but she left twenty thousand pounds.”
“Not bad for someone who was aye pleading poverty,” said Hamish. “But not enough to kill for. Look, maybe you can help me out of a jam.” He told Anderson about Iain Gunn and the bats.
“I’ll tell Blair,” said Anderson. “He’s so hell bent on proving Parker did it, he’ll hardly listen.”
“Look,” said Hamish urgently. “I’m going along to have a word with Parker. If the results of that bottle of whisky come through, let me know.”
“OK,” said Anderson, draining his glass. “Keep the bottle handy.”
John Parker was typing in his room when Hamish called.
“Now, Mr Parker,” said Hamish severely, “what I want to know is why you told an outright lie when you said that you hadn’t known Trixie Thomas before?”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” said John. “I didn’t murder her and I didn’t want to be the subject of a police inquiry. You’ve probably heard I used to be on drugs and I’ve been on the wrong side of the law several times in the past. I have no great liking for policemen.”
“And I have no great liking for liars,” said Hamish coldly.
“Sorry about that, copper, but that’s the way it is.”
“So tell me about your marriage.”
“There’s nothing much to tell. I was a right mess when Trixie found me. She got me into a drug clinic, paid for it herself, found my manuscripts when I was in there, and when I came out, she took me around agents and publishers. She corrected my manuscripts and typed them. She did everything but go to the toilet for me,” he said with sudden savagery. “Look, it’s hard when you have to be perpetually grateful to someone. When she said she was divorcing me, I could hardly believe my luck.”
Hamish raised his eyebrows. “Then why did you com
e back?”
He sighed, a little thin sigh. “I suppose I still felt grateful to her – really grateful. I wanted to see her again.”
“And when you saw her?”
“It was all right.” His voice held a note of amazement. “She not only had Paul, she had the village women in her control. The lodgings were comfortable and the place is pretty. I’ve got a lot of work done.”
Hamish looked at the typewriter. The author was beginning chapter ten of a book, witness to the fact he spoke the truth. “Luke Mulligan,” Hamish read, “smiled down at Lola who was holding on to his stirrup and an odd look of tenderness flitted across his craggy features.”
Beside him on the desk lay a pile of manuscript with the title page on the top. It read, “The Amazon Women of Zar.”
Hamish pointed to it. “Doesn’t sound like a Western.”
John Parker’s grey, neat features took on an even more closed look. “It’s science fiction,” he said curtly. He rose and picked up the manuscript and opened a battered suitcase and popped it inside. All at once Hamish longed to see what it was about.
“What were the relations between Mr and Mrs Thomas?” he asked.
“Fair enough,” said John. “Regular marriage. She fussed over him like a mother hen, but he seemed to like it.”
Hamish stood up. “I suppose you have been told not to leave the village.”
“Yes. That man, Blair, is determined to accuse me of the murder. In fact, he would have done so if I hadn’t threatened to sue him for wrongful arrest.” Hamish stood up to leave. His eyes roamed around the room. Whatever antique furniture Trixie had managed to get from the locals, she must have taken it all down to the auction rooms. John’s room furnishings were white and modern, the sort of units bought in Inverness and assembled at home.
“I believe from the village gossip that you’re a friend of the Halburton-Smythes,” said John Parker.
Hamish looked surprised. “I am by way of being a friend of the daughter,” he said. “Colonel Halburton-Smythe does not have much time for me. Why do you ask?”
“I would like a look around the castle.”
“It’s not very old,” said Hamish. “It’s one of those Gothic monstrosities built in Victorian times.”
“Nonetheless, I might be able to use it in a book.”
Hamish thought quickly. If he could be sure John Parker was up at the castle, then he might be able to get a look at that manuscript he had been so anxious to hide.
“I think I could fix that for you,” said Hamish. “What about tomorrow?”
“Suits me.”
“I’ll phone Miss Halburton-Smythe and then come back and tell you what she says.”
Hamish went back to the police station just as the detective, Jimmy Anderson, was arriving.
“Let’s have another drink,” pleaded Anderson. “Blair’s fuming and shouting. It was arsenic, all right, in that old fortune-teller’s bottle.”
“That’ll bring the press in droves,” said Hamish gloomily. “Good story. I Saw My Own Death, Says Seer. So what’s Blair up to?”
“He’s threatening to arrest Angus Macdonald tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Impeding the polis. He says the auld gnaff put the stuff in the whisky hisself so as to get the press to write about him.”
“Could be.”
“Now Daviot’s breathing fire and vengeance. Says if Blair doesn’t wrap up the case fast, he’ll put someone else on it.”
Hamish shook his head sadly. “It’s a daft thing to say to a man like Blair. He’ll now arrest the first person he thinks of.”
“Well, let’s have that drink.”
They sat talking about the case until Anderson realized that Blair would be anxious to get back to Strathbane and would be looking for him.
After he had left, Hamish phoned Tommel Castle and asked to speak to Priscilla.
“Miss Halburton-Smythe is not at home,” said Jenkins.
“Look, get her to the phone, you horrible snob, and do it fast or I’ll come up there and knock your teeth in,” said Hamish pleasantly.
When Priscilla answered the phone, she said, “What did you say to Jenkins? He was cringing and creeping and saying he didn’t know I was in the castle and yet he’d just served me a drink before you called.”
“Never mind. I want you to do something for me.” Hamish told her about John Parker and asked her to keep him at the castle for an hour at least.
“Oh, very well,” said Priscilla. “What about having dinner with me at the hotel tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know if I’ll manage to be free by that time,” said Hamish. “I feel I’m getting on to something on this case.”
There was a short silence and then Priscilla said, “All right. Another time, maybe.”
Hamish thanked her and put the phone down. Priscilla stood by the phone, looking thoughtfully at the receiver before she replaced it. Hamish Macbeth would never have turned down an invitation to dinner before. Perhaps he had a girlfriend. Priscilla suddenly felt very bad-tempered indeed and went off to give the butler a lecture about lying to friends who tried to get her on the telephone.
Hamish picked up his cap, called to Towser, and went out on his rounds. It was Friday night and he would need to go to the pub to make sure no-one was thinking of drinking and driving.
As he was passing the Maclean’s cottage, he heard angry voices and then a woman screamed loudly. He ran to their door, opened it, and walked in.
Archie and his wife were standing on either side of the kitchen table. She was holding her cheek as if she had just been struck.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Hamish.
“You interferin’ bastard,” howled Archie. He came round the table towards Hamish with his fists raised. Towser crept under the kitchen table and lay down. Hamish stretched out a long arm and seized Archie by the wrist and then deftly twisted his arm up his back. “Tell me what’s going on, Archie, or I’ll break your arm.”
“Leave my man alone,” screeched Mrs Maclean. “We were having a wee bit row, that’s all.” Hamish’s quick eye noticed she was standing, holding something behind her back, and he was sure that if she had not been so determined to conceal that something then she would have leapt to her husband’s defence.
“Aye, leave us be,” growled Archie.
Hamish released him and shoved him into a kitchen chair. He took out his notebook and pencil. “Begin at the beginning,” he ordered. “What happened?”
“Whit are you taking notes fur?” raged Archie. “I’ll have you fur this, MacBeth. Have you a search warrant? Whit right have you to walk into a man’s home?”
One minute it seemed to the Macleans as if Hamish was standing at his ease, looking down at his notebook; the next, he had moved like a flash around the back of Mrs Maclean and wrested what she was holding from her hand. She shouted something and tried to claw his face, but he jumped back. Under the table Towser whimpered dismally.
Hamish looked at the can in his hand. Dead-O Rat Poison.
“Well, now,” he said quietly, looking at their stricken faces. “Well, now.”
“It’s naethin’s to dae with this,” said Mrs Maclean. “We hae the rats. I got that frae the grocers the other dav.”
“You realize I shall question Mr Patel and find out exactly when you bought it,” said Hamish.
There was a long silence. “She didnae get it from him,” said Archie at last. “I got it myself from Iain Gunn over at Coyle.” He rounded on his wife. “If you had kept your mouth shut…”
“Me!” she said furiously. “Then whit was it doing at the back o’ your drawer o’ underpants?” She put her hands up to her mouth and stared at Hamish with frightened eyes.
“Well, Archie?” asked Hamish, and when he did not reply, “It’s tell me or come with me to Strathbane and tell Blair.”
“I’ll tell ye,” said Archie wearily. He looked at his wife. “I found it at the back o’ the kitchen cup
board, hidden in that old tin marked flour. I took it tae ma room for safekeeping.”
“You silly wee man,” said his wife. “Did you no’ remember our Jean and the weans were coming for tea? Wee Rory’s only two year,” she explained to Hamish, “and he’s aye under the kitchen sink, taking out things. I hid it so the child wouldnae find it. I’ve had it for a year. We had rats in the shed in the garden.” Hamish ran over in his mind what he knew of the Maclean family. Jean was their daughter and she had three small children, the ferreting two-year-old, Rory, being one of them.
“So,” said Hamish, “you thought, Archie, that your wife might have poisoned Mrs Thomas, and you, Mrs Maclean, thought your husband might have done it. My, my, Trixie Thomas must have caused some rare rows. I’ll need to take this. Where did you get it?”
“I got it from Patel a year ago,” mumbled Mrs Maclean. “Ye cannae blame me. Holding hands wi’ that wumman. He never held hands wi’ me, not even when we was courting.” She put out a red hand towards Hamish with an oddly pathetic, pleading movement. It was almost deformed with years of being immersed in boiling water, bleach, and ammonia. Her wedding ring was embedded in the swollen flesh below the red shiny knuckles.
“I’ll need to report this to Blair the morrow,” said Hamish sadly. “I’ll take this can with me.”
As Hamish looked at the couple, he thought viciously that had Trixie Thomas still been alive, he might have murdered her himself. The Macleans’ marriage, which had plodded along for years quite happily, would never be the same again.
He whistled to Towser and walked outside. It was a clear night, the rain had lifted, and great stars burned in the heavens. Towser slunk behind his master. “You,” said Hamish looking down at the animal, “are a coward.” Towser licked Hamish’s hand and slowly wagged his tail. “But you’re a decent dog and I’d rather have you a coward than savaging the sheep,” said Hamish. He stooped and scratched the doe behind his ears and leapt up and down in an ecstasy of joy at being forgiven.
The Patels’ shop was in darkness, but Hamish went around the side and mounted the stairs that led to the flat over the shop. After some time, Mrs Patel, wearing a bright red sari, answered the door.
