Hamish Macbeth 04; Death of a Perfect Wife hm-4

by M C Beaton

  Hamish drove into the village and parked outside the Brodies’ house.

  Angela was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, reading something. He brightened, thinking she had returned to her old ways until he saw she was reading a recipe for vegetarian lasagne.

  “I came to ask you if you bought some rat poison called Dead-O about a year ago,” said Hamish.

  “No, we’ve never had rats. Wait a bit. We had mice and I bought some rat poison.”

  “Have you still got it?”

  “Come out to the shed and we’ll have a look.”

  He followed her into the garden. The shed was scrubbed and clean. All the cans of pesticide on the shelf about the door were gleaming, and forks and hoes and spades were all polished as well.

  “I’m proud of this,” said Angela. “I gave it a good clean out only the other day.”

  Hamish took out a handkerchief and gently lifted down a can of Dead-O. He twisted open the top. It was half full.

  “You used a lot,” he said.

  “I hate mice. Nasty things. Of course, I was slapdash then, I never read the instructions, just put down saucers of the stuff all over the place. It certainly got rid of the mice. Now, is there anything else? I’m very busy.”

  “You’ll be going to the funeral,” said Hamish.

  “Yes, of…of course.”

  Hamish touched his cap. “I’ll see you there.”

  Everyone had turned out for Trixie Thomas’s funeral, even Mrs Kennedy and her brood. The church was noisy with the sound of women weeping as Mr Wellington read the service and grew louder as the congregation followed the coffin to the graveside in the churchyard on the hill above the church.

  Paul Thomas was being supported by two of the men from the village and looked on the point of collapse. Dr Brodie was standing beside Hamish. “I’d better give that man a sedative and put him to bed as soon as this is over,” he said.

  “I’d look to your wife as well,” said Hamish. “She’s in a bad way.”

  The doctor’s face hardened. “Silly bitch,” he said viciously and Hamish wondered whether he meant Trixie Thomas or his wife.

  After the graveside service was over, everyone went to The Laurels where Mrs Wellington was presiding over the funeral baked meats. Whisky was poured out all round and gradually the atmosphere began to lighten. One man told a joke, another capped it, and soon the gathering began to sound like a party.

  The men of the village were glad that Trixie Thomas had been laid to rest.

  Hamish saw Iain Gunn and went over to join him. “I’m surprised to see you here,” said Hamish.

  “I never miss a funeral,” said Iain, taking another glass of whisky from a selection of full glasses on a table.

  “I hear that old building of yours mysteriously fell down,” said Hamish.

  “Aye, providential that. I’ll hae no more trouble from the bird people.”

  “But you’ll have trouble from me,” said Hamish. “I have to investigate that building and make sure you didn’t do anything to it to make it collapse.”

  “Wouldn’t ye be better off finding the murderer than harassing a poor farmer over some flying rats?” sneered Iain. “But you’ll find nothing, I can assure ye o’ that.”

  “Did a good job on it, did you?” said Hamish cynically.

  Blair came rolling up, a glass in one meaty hand. “Listen, copper,” he snarled, “hae yet got all these cans o’ rat poison yet?”

  “No, I’m still looking.”

  “In the bottom o’ a glass? Hop to it, sonny.”

  Iain Gunn sniggered as Hamish left.

  Hamish walked around The Laurels and went in the door at the back. The small Kennedy child called Susie was eating a huge lump of cake.

  “Bad for your teeth,” said Hamish.

  “Get lost,” said the child, her voice muffled by the cake. He made for the door and she said, “or gie me some money for sweeties.”

  “No,” said Hamish. “Not a penny will you get. Didn’t Mrs Thomas put you all on a vegetarian diet?”

  “Naw, only her man. She couldnae risk scaring off her lodgers wi’ that rubbishy stuff, my maw says. Went on and on aboot sugar bein’ bad and stuffing her face wi’ cakes the whole time when she thought naebody was looking.” Her sharp face took on an evil, gloating look. “Want tae know what she and her man got up to in the bedroom?”

  “No, I do not,” said Hamish roundly and made his way through the door from the kitchen that led into the main body of the house. He edged back into the sitting-room where the funeral reception was being held in time to see Blair taking his leave. He waited a moment and then edged his way into the room and called loudly for silence. They all turned to face him. Priscilla was there, he noticed. Of course, she would be. It was expected of her. She was wearing a black dress and a small black hat.

  “I am looking for cans of a stuff called Dead-O,” said Hamish. “Patel was selling it a year ago. It’s a rat poison. If you have any, bring it along to the police station as soon as you can.”

  Mrs Wellington bustled up, looking outraged. “How dare you make such an announcement at a funeral?” she demanded. “It’s mercy poor Mr Thomas has gone to lie down.”

  “I have to find those cans of poison,” said Hamish patiently. “Pretty much the whole of Lochdubh is in here. It saves me going all around the houses.” By evening, he was satisfied with the result. He had fifteen cans of rat poison in front of him. Not a bad haul out of the two dozen that had been sold a year ago. The cans were all neatly labelled by Hamish with the name of the person who had bought it.

  Dr Brodie stood in the doorway of the kitchen and surveyed first his wife and then his dinner. Salad with goat cheese. He had told her and told her he could not eat such food and she had told him that she was not going to poison him by serving him with greasy steaks and chips any more. She was as hard as flint.

  He felt he was not addressing Angela but some strange creature who had invaded his home.

  “I want a divorce,” he said.

  Angela looked startled. “Don’t be silly. Don’t you realize I am doing all this for you? The healthy food, the clean house, no wine or spirits?”

  “You’re doing it because you are a nasty little bully like your friend, Trixie. I’m glad someone poisoned her. I hope she had a bad time dying. I’ve phoned Pollet, the lawyer, in Strathbane already and told him to draw up the divorce papers.”

  Angela’s face was as white as paper. “On what grounds?” she demanded.

  “Breakdown of marriage. Oh, well, thank goodness the hotel’s gone back to old–fashioned cooking. Good night, dear”

  Dr Brodie walked along to the hotel. He did not feel anything much at all. His wife had died some time ago, as far as he was concerned, and he was merely getting divorced from the domestic monster who had taken her place. There was something lightening about the idea that that Trixie woman was six feet under. “Pushing up organic daisies,” he said, and began to laugh.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. He, too, was heading towards the hotel, carrying a box of eggs under his arm.

  “Come and celebrate,” said the doctor. “I’ve just phoned Strathbane and arranged for the divorce papers to be drawn up.”

  ∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

  7

  The common cormorant or shag Lays eggs inside a paper bag.

  The reason you will see no doubt.

  It is to keep the lightning out.

  But what these unobservant birds.

  Have never noticed is that herds.

  Of wandering bears may come with buns.

  And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

  —Anon

  Look,” said Hamish awkwardly, “I know you haff had the hard time, but couldn’t you wait a bit?”

  “No,” said the doctor, “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit hard on Mrs Brodie? Have you ever considered she might be suffering from the
menopause? Women go a bit odd then.”

  Dr Brodie snorted. “That’s all a lot of cobblers. It’s all in the mind. Women have been told they go odd at the menopause and use it as an excuse.”

  “Well, you’re the doctor, but there’s been an awful lot about it in the newspapers lately,” said Hamish. “And there’s been an awful lot about lazy National Health doctors who don’t keep up wi’ the latest research. I know Mrs Thomas was an awful woman, but the trouble with her was a lot of the things she said were right. You know smoking’s bad for people and high cholesterol food’s bad for people…”

  “I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life,” snapped the doctor. “It was being treated like a child that I couldn’t bear. Eat your greens, pah! No sudden rush into vegetarianism. Coax the child with smaller and smaller portions of meat and larger and larger bowls of salad, until it’s only salad with the occasional nut cutlet thrown in for comic relief. She even served me dandelion coffee but I took the lot and threw it in the loch. Don’t interfere in my life. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”

  The television screen above the bar flickered into life. Angus Macdonald’s face beamed down on them. He began to tell a highly embroidered account of his vision.

  “I didn’t think they’d bother with Angus, considering he got the election results wrong,” said Hamish.

  “Too good a story,” said Dr Brodie, “They were all up at the hotel today and then they went on up to Angus’s cottage. He’ll be drunk for a month.”

  Angus’s image faded, to be replaced by the strong features of Mrs Wellington. “Mrs Thomas was the perfect wife,” said Mrs Wellington. “She brought new life into the village. No-one here wished her ill. It must have been some maniac from outside.”

  “Join me for dinner,” offered Dr Brodie, draining his glass.

  Hamish shook his head. “Why don’t you take your wife? You used to do that. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to sit down and discuss this divorce like a couple of grownups?”

  Dr Brodie sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll see.”

  Hamish looked around the bar. Bert Hook, the crofter, was getting very drunk. Hamish went over and removed his car keys and told him to collect them at the police station in the morning.

  He went outside and walked along the waterfront, wishing with all his heart that the murderer could be found and that the village could return to its normal quiet. He loved his peaceful, uneventful life in a way that Priscilla, say, could never understand. In fact, this was not the age when anyone could understand an unambitious man. The night was calm and still and a full moon floated through the clouds.

  “Hamish?”

  Hamish stopped and looked down at the man in front of him. Hamish had been so engrossed in his thoughts the man had not seen him approach. He was small and dapper, wearing a good tweed jacket and flannels, collar and tie. He had neat, clever features and thin hair.

  “Good evening,” said Hamish cautiously.

  “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Hamish slowly shook his head.

  “It’s me. Harry. Harry Drummond!”

  “Neffer!” Hamish turned Harry round so that the light on the harbour wall fell full on his face. “Harry Drummond,” he marvelled.

  For Harry had been the village drunk before he left to go to Inverness to get treatment. He had been a swollen, hairy bundle of evil-smelling rags when Hamish had seen him last.

  “You’ve changed beyond recognition,” said Hamish. “Are you back here again?”

  “No, I’ve got a good job as a bricklayer in Inverness.”

  “You’ll be taking the wife down there to live with you, then?”

  “No, Hamish. The fact is, she wants a divorce.”

  Hamish stared at him in amazement. Phyllis Drummond’s devotion to her drunken husband had been the talk of the village. She stood by him through thick and thin, taking on cleaning jobs to keep food on the table, suffering the occasional beating with never a word of complaint.

  “But why?” asked Hamish. “Is the whole of Lochdubh going in for divorce? Man, she should be delighted with you the way you are now, and you with a good job and all.”

  “No, she ups and says she cannae stand me, that I was better when I was on the drink. Women! I’ve been up here trying to get her to change her mind but she willnae listen.”

  They both turned as Dr Brodie came running up. “She’s gone,” he panted. “Angela’s gone.”

  “Mrs Brodie’s probably up at the church hall at one of her meetings,” said Hamish soothingly.

  “No, I’m telling you, she’s gone. She’s smashed up the kitchen and she’s gone.”

  “I’ll phone for reinforcements and then I’ll look for her,” said Hamish. “Harry, go round and get all the men in the village.”

  He ran back to the police station and phoned Strathbane. Then he got in his Land Rover with Towser beside him and drove off. Clouds had covered the moon and the night was pitch black. Where on earth should he begin to look for her? In the loch? On the moors? In the sea?

  He searched all night, unwilling to give up although reinforcements had arrived from Strath-bane and policemen were combing the lochside and policemen and villagers were fanned out over the moors and a police helicopter hummed overhead. The next morning was sunny although the air was still heavy and damp and the sunlight had that threatening, glaring look which heralded bad weather to come.

  He finally stopped the Land Rover and stared bleakly through the windscreen. If Angela Brodie were suicidal, then where would she go? Or if she were merely badly distressed, where would she go to put a distance between herself and her husband? He looked up at the twisting, soaring peaks of the Two Sisters, the giant mountains above Lochdubh. He left Towser fast asleep in the car and began to climb.

  Bees droned in the heather and heather flies danced in the sleepy air. Up he went through the heather and bracken. He took off his jersey and laid it down on a rock and put his cap on top of it. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt and set off again. Once, when he had been very upset by Priscilla – how long ago and far away that seemed now! – he had climbed high above the village to a ledge of rock to sit and be alone with his misery. It was a chance, a slim chance, that Angela Brodie might have chosen the same route. The ground rose steeply and he sweated in the warm air. Midges stung his face as his sweat washed the repellent from it. For an hour he toiled upwards towards where he remembered the ledge to be. His disappointment was sharp when he at last reached it and found no-one there. He sat down, unshaven and exhausted. Below him he could see the small figures of the searching police on the moors and then, as he watched, a van drove up to the harbour and frogmen got out. He was so very tired. His head swam and he longed to lie down and sleep. But somewhere in all the miles of mountain and moor and loch was Angela Brodie.

  And then his eyes sharpened. A tiny figure was struggling down far below the ledge. He leapt to his feet and tumbled down from the ledge and began to run. His feet went from under him and he slithered down, grabbing at heather roots to break his fall. At last he stopped and stood up, panting, and looked wildly around. There was the figure still below him and staggering on from side to side like a drunk.

  His long legs bore him towards that fleeing figure until with a feeling of pure gladness he saw that it was Angela Brodie. A final burst of speed brought him up to her and he flung himself on her and brought her down onto the heather.

  He sat up and turned her over. Her face was swollen with crying.

  “Come along,” he said gently. “You’re in a bad way.”

  “Can’t go back,” she said drearily.

  “We all have to go back to it sometime,” he said. “Come along. I’ve got a flask of brandy in the Rover.”

  He helped her to her feet. She made an effort to pull herself away and then collapsed in a heap at his feet. He picked her up in his arms and carried her down towards where the Land Rover was parked. He laid her down in the shade of it and got the f
lask of brandy from the glove compartment and forced it between her lips. She spluttered and her eyes opened.

  “That’s better,” said Hamish. “Now, you’ll soon be home.”

  “I don’t w-want to go home,” she said. Tears spilled down her cheeks. He took out a handkerchief and wiped them away.

  He gathered her in his arms and stroked her hair. “There, there,” he said. “Tell Hamish all about it.”

  “John wants a divorce.”

  “That’s what he says, but men often say things in a temper they don’t mean.”

  “He meant it. John never says anything he doesn’t mean.”

  “Maybe not before. But you gave the man every reason to lose his temper. He wasnae divorcing you, but Trixie. He wasnae living with you, but Trixie. You even tried to look like the woman.”

  She shivered despite the heat. “I feel so lost and empty,” she wailed.

  “That’s maybe a good sign. You feel a bit empty when an obsession’s left ye,” said Hamish, thinking of Priscilla.

  “You see, Trixie seemed to have all the answers,” said Angela mournfully. “I’ve felt so useless for years. I go down to Glasgow or Edinburgh or even Inverness and people say, what do you do, and I say, I’m a housewife, and they say, is that all? Trixie said that housewifery was a noble art and if it were done properly then it could be very satisfying. I got a high from all the work and all the committees. It was like being drunk. She praised me and no-one had done that in ages. She told me John was killing himself with his cigarettes and cheap wine and greasy meals. I Move John.”

  “He seemed awfy happy with you the way you were,” said Hamish, still gently stroking her hair. “Come on back wi’ me.”

  She twisted away from him. “I can’t.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. There was more up with Angela Brodie than the sudden loss of her adopted personality.

  “You think your husband killed Trixie,” he said flatly.

  She went very still.

  “Look, I felt like killing her myself,” said Hamish. “But I didn’t do it.”