by M C Beaton
Hamish waded into the river and started to cast. The water gurgled about his waders and the wet air smelled of pine, bell heather, and honeysuckle. And then he heard someone crashing down through the undergrowth from the path. He reeled in his line and was making for the opposite bank when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Hamish!’
‘Priscilla?’
Hamish waded towards the voice. He could see the white blur of her face.
‘Get out of there,’ hissed Priscilla. ‘Someone’s told the super about your poaching and he’s probably coming to arrest you. Get out! Give me your rod and net and I’ll hide them in the bushes. Get your waders off.’
Hamish handed her the rod and net and then sat down on the bank and pulled off his waders. Priscilla emerged from the undergrowth and took the waders and went off to hide them with rod and net.
‘Hadn’t we better just go?’ said Hamish when she came back.
‘Listen!’
Priscilla stood close to him and they listened in silence. Then they heard furtive little sounds, the scrape of a foot, the crackling of a twig.
‘We’d better look like a courting couple,’ said Priscilla. ‘Put your arms around me.’
Hamish gathered her close. His senses were reeling. ‘Better make a good show of it,’ he muttered and bent his head and kissed her.
The world went spinning off. He was whirling off into infinity with Priscilla in his arms. And then a blinding light was shone on his face. He and Priscilla broke free.
Hamish stood dazed, rocking slightly on his heels.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he heard Priscilla demanding in arctic tones, but that voice seemed to be coming from a very long way off.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he heard Mr Daviot reply. ‘Really very sorry. Jamie said there was a poacher on the river, and . . .’
‘As you can see, Mr Daviot, it is all very embarrassing. Jamie, I’m surprised at you,’ said Priscilla. The water bailiff shuffled his feet.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your . . . interrupted . . . er . . .’ said the superintendent.
‘Exactly. Good night, Mr Daviot. I shall expect to see you and Mrs Daviot at dinner at eight.’
‘Yes, well, erm, good night, er, Hamish.’
But Hamish was standing with a vague smile on his face looking at nothing.
After they had gone, Priscilla bustled about, getting the fishing tackle and the waders, avoiding looking at Hamish. The intensity of that kiss and her own reactions had alarmed her. It was all very well to help Hamish on the road up the police ladder, but she had no intention of marrying him. She did not belong to his world or he to hers. At last, she tugged at his sleeve as though to wake him from a dream and he meekly took the things from her and followed her back up the hill.
Chapter Three
The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light . . .
– Matthew Arnold
Detective Chief Inspector Blair had said Hamish was half-witted. At the dinner at Tommel Castle that night, Mr Daviot began to think Blair was right. Hamish tripped over things, knocked over things, absentmindedly put his elbow in the gravy boat, and had a silly sort of smile on his face the whole time.
Mr Daviot sympathized with the colonel, who appeared to dislike the local policeman intensely. What on earth did Priscilla see in the man?
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a short black slip of a dinner gown. It showed off her slim figure and set off the pale gold of her hair. Mr Daviot wished his wife had not chosen to wear beige silk with an enormous bow on one plump hip. He was used to his wife’s genteel tones, but during that dinner party, they grated on his ear. Why could she not say glass instead of gless, or that instead of thet? He became very cross with her and to most things she said, he interrupted with, ‘Don’t be silly’, or, ‘No one’s interested in that’, until his hurt wife became as clumsy and gauche as Hamish.
In all, it was an unpleasant dinner party for all but Hamish, who seemed off in another world. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, always nervous of her husband’s rages, sat like a silent ghost at the head of the table.
Conversation turned to the Thomases. ‘Pretty thing, Mrs Thomas,’ said the colonel. ‘Called here today looking for bits of furniture. Brave woman. Struggles on down there with that oaf of a husband leaving her to hold the place together.’
‘Did you give her anything?’ asked Priscilla.
‘I gave her that old pine washstand. It was stuck in the corner of the tack room covered in dust.’
‘She seems very selective,’ commented Priscilla. ‘That washstand’s Victorian. If she’s so hard up for furniture, you would think she would be after chests of drawers or beds or something.’
‘Oh, she is. You know old Mrs Haggerty who died last year and no one turned up to collect her bits and pieces out of that cottage? Turns out she hasn’t any relatives and the cottage belongs to the estate anyway. I promised to drive Mrs Thomas over to have a look at what’s there.’
‘I would keep clear of her if I were you,’ said Priscilla. ‘I don’t like her much. I think she’s a bossy bitch.’
‘Mind your language, girl, and when did you start to become such a good judge of character?’ The colonel flashed a vicious look at Hamish Macbeth.
Everyone except Hamish was glad when the evening was over. He was still floating above the ground on the memory of that kiss.
But reality crept back into Hamish’s mind the following morning. He had kissed Priscilla. She had not kissed him. She had only allowed him to kiss her because the water bailiff and the superintendent were shortly to arrive on the scene. He thought of the dinner party and felt it was like looking back on a party where one had been very drunk.
Flies were buzzing around the kitchen and he seized the fly spray, mentally damning Trixie and her ozone layer, and slaughtered the lot. But the fly spray smelled so vile that he opened the kitchen door to let the air in and five bluebottles promptly flew in, followed by a posse of midges.
The doorbell went at the front of the police station. When he opened the door, a middle-aged couple were standing on the step. ‘We’re touring Scotland,’ said the man in an American accent. ‘I’m Carl Steinberger and this is my wife. The hotel here is too pricey for us. We wanted to know if you knew of anywhere cheaper.’
Hamish did not want to put any custom Trixie’s way, but, on the other hand, she had the reputation of being a good housekeeper and a good cook. ‘There’s The Laurels,’ he said, pointing along the road. ‘It’s a bed and breakfast, but if you want lunch, I’m sure Mrs Thomas will arrange something. Come ben and have a cup of tea.’ Hamish adored American tourists, feeling more of an affinity with them than the English ones.
He slammed the kitchen door, muttering about the flies. ‘You’re unlucky,’ he said to the Steinbergers. ‘It was lovely in June. This weather’s miserable. Hot, wet and clammy and the flies are a menace.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t have screen doors like they do in the States,’ said Mr Steinberger.
‘Screen doors?’ Hamish stood with the teapot in one hand.
‘Yes. All you need is a wood frame and some metal gauze or you could even use cheese cloth. Anything. Or strings of beads like they have in the Mediterranean countries.’
‘Well, I neffer,’ said Hamish. ‘Such a simple idea. I’ll get to work on it today.’
Mr Steinberger looked amused. ‘Doesn’t look like you’ve got much crime in this area to keep you occupied.’
‘We have had the murders,’ said Hamish grandly. He served the couple tea and scones and they chatted amiably. When they left, Mr Steinberger insisted on taking a photo of Hamish at the door of his police station. Rambling roses rioted over the porch, nearly obscuring the blue lamp. ‘They’ll never believe this back home,’ he said.
Hamish went out to a shed in the garden and ferreted out some pieces of wood. Then he went to the drapers and bought cheese cloth. It was the sort of drape
rs that still sold cheese cloth.
He measured the doorway and then got to work. The rain had stopped and the sun blazed down and the flies buzzed about the kitchen.
Trixie Thomas appeared on the doorstep. ‘What do you want?’ asked Hamish sharply, for he was sure it was Trixie who had reported his poaching activities to the superintendent.
‘I wanted to know if I could go up to your field and collect sheep wool from the fences.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Mrs Wellington has given me an old spinning wheel and I’m going to spin yarn.’
‘Do you know how to do it?’ asked Hamish curiously.
‘Oh, yes, I once had lessons from a New Zealand woman at the Women’s Cultural Awareness Group in Camden Town in London.’
Hamish groaned inwardly. He knew Trixie would go ‘on stage’ with her spinning wheel as soon as possible, probably taking it out to the front garden where all could see and marvel at this further example of domestic perfection. She made no move to leave and he asked sharply, ‘Anything else?’
‘I wanted to know if you would like to come to our Anti-Smoking League meeting tonight?’
‘If there is one thing that will keep a man smoking,’ said Hamish bitterly, ‘it’s folk like you going on at him. Why don’t you leave Dr Brodie alone?’
‘Because he is a doctor and should know better.’
‘You must have been a smoker yourself once,’ said Hamish. ‘There is nothing mair vicious than an ex-smoker.’
Hamish himself was an ex-smoker and had vowed never to give in to the strong temptation to reform people who were still smoking. Trixie opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. She was feeling in a good mood. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had driven her over to an old deserted cottage and she had made quite a good haul. The colonel had entertained her with his worries about the possibility of his daughter perhaps marrying Hamish Macbeth.
‘Mind if I use your toilet?’ asked Trixie.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Hamish, standing aside to let her past.
She was gone a long time and he was just about to go in search of her in case she was searching the rooms when he heard her voice from the front of the house, ‘I see Paul. I’ll let myself out this way.’
Hamish went back to work. She seemed to have forgotten about collecting wool from the fences. His dislike of Trixie, he realized, was mainly because of the change she had wrought in Angela Brodie. Angela with her ridiculously curly hair now wore a perpetually harried look and was thinner than ever.
He finished the door and then discovered he needed hinges and set off in the direction of the ships chandlers which was also the local ironmongers and which was down by the harbour. As he was passing The Laurels, he heard a faint humming sound and looked into the garden. Sure enough, Trixie was there, busily spinning, a self-important look on her face. He went on his way and met one of the local fishermen, Jimmy Fraser. ‘What about a pint, Hamish?’ asked Jimmy. ‘I’m buying.’
‘All right,’ said Hamish. They walked into the pub at the side of the Lochdubh Hotel. ‘What’s the matter, Jimmy?’ asked Hamish. ‘I can practically see the steam coming out your ears.’
‘It’s that wumman,’ growled Jimmy.
‘Which one?’
‘Her. The Englishwoman. Archie Maclean took herself out in the boat last night. A wumman on a boat! It iss a wunner we didnae drown. Forbye, when I lit a cigarette, she struck it oot o’ my mouth, and when I went to belt her one, Archie said I wass to leave her alone and he iss the skipper. It’s a black day. They’ll be trouble from this.’
‘And why was Archie Maclean taking herself out on his boat?’
‘Soft about her, that’s what he iss. Sitting there, holding her hand like a great bairn and leaving uss to do all the work.’
‘And what has Mrs Maclean to say to this romance?’
Jimmy looked alarmed. ‘We wouldnae tell her. She’d kill that wumman if she knew.’
After a while, Hamish left him, bought the hinges, and walked back to the police station. So the perfect wife had fallen off her pedestal. Mrs Maclean was not popular but the Lochdubh women would not like an Englishwoman poaching one of their own, so to speak.
Therefore, it was with some surprise that he saw later that day the minister’s wife, Mrs Wellington, carrying a cake to the Thomases. He was out walking with Towser when he saw her leaving. ‘Afternoon, constable,’ she called. Hamish strolled up to her. ‘Been visiting the scarlet woman?’ he said.
‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Macbeth?’
Hamish was a gossip, but hardly ever a malicious one. He decided to make an exception in this case. ‘Why, it is all over the village how herself went out with Archie Maclean and held his hand.’
Mrs Wellington was a large tweedy woman. She eyed Hamish with disfavour. ‘And it is all over the village how you were caught up on the Anstey in the middle of the night, kissing and canoodling with Miss Halburton-Smythe.’
‘Yes, but I am not the married man.’
‘Meaning Archie Maclean is? Shame on you, Mr Macbeth. Trixie and Paul told me all about it. Paul was laughing like mad. He said Trixie had gone out just to get some free fish – for the lambs are so desperately poor – and Archie got all spoony and she didn’t know how to handle it. Paul said there’s always some fellow or another who’s spoony about her. So if you hoped to turn me against her, you’ve failed. She’s the best thing that ever happened to Lochdubh, which is more than I can say about a certain lazy gossiping constable.’ And quite red in the face with indignation, Mrs Wellington strode off.
‘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 Chico 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, apoc
ryphal stories about men they had known who had become silly over English women, and Mrs Maclean, being equally Highland, had been able to transcribe the coded messages.
‘You’ve been making up tae that English woman, 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 Casanova 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.
