by M C Beaton
‘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 Chico 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 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 uncanny.
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 lay 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 along 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 case of poisoning, if ever I saw one.
‘It’s murder, doctor. Pure and straightforward murder!’
Chapter Four
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. Bees 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 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.
He went out into the front garden carrying a battered old deck chair and stretched out in the sun. Why had Trixie had such a hold over the women of Lochdubh? he wondered. She had, of course, quite a powerful personality. Then the village women themselves were mostly of the old school, that is, they were housewives rather than wage earners. There was no cinema in Lochdubh, no theatre, no discos, or parties. The wonder of television had long worn off. Trixie, Hamish decided, had given them all a purpose. They were still housewives in an age that had been taught to despise housewives. The days of the enormous families had gone. Time, Hamish supposed, must lie heavily on a woman’s hands. It was all right for him to be lazy and stretch out in the sun when he had the chance. Apart from his police work, he had his garden, his sheep, and his hens to look after. The only thing which made a demand on his affections was Towser. He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. Even when their husbands died, he mused, the women of Lochdubh did not promptly travel to Inverness or Strathbane looking for work. Most of them had never gone out to work in their lives, having got married as soon as they left school. Of course a lot of them worked very hard, doing most of the gardening and, if the husband had a croft, an equal share of the work load. But there were the long winter months where everything ground to a halt and they were not paid for their labours. Anything they did was part of their wifely duties.
A lot of the local men, he knew, married not out of love but because their mothers had died or because they wanted a home of their own with someone to cook the meals and iron the shirts.
Priscilla had been right about Angela Brodie. She had the soul of an academic. Good intelligence there and absolutely no commonsense whatsoever. Incapable of judging character. Hamish fervently hoped for both the Brodies’ sakes that Angela would revert back to her old self. But would she? She had become accustomed to interests outside her books.
Hamish rose and ambled into the office and searched through a file of phone numbers that he had jotted down from time to time in the hope that they would prove useful. At last he found what he wanted. He phoned the Open University in Milton Keynes and said he was phoning for a Mrs Brodie who was interested in taking a science degree and would they send her the necessary papers? When he put down the phone, he had a feeling of satisfaction. Studying for a degree at home would be just the thing for Angela Brodie and a science degree would give her something difficult and practical to work on. The Open University enabled men and women to work for University degrees at home.
He returned to his deck chair.
He lay back and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the village, the chugging of a donkey engine on a boat out on the loch, snatches of song from a radio, the harsh scream of the wheeling seagulls, and the lazy drone of a
car winding its way through the hills behind. It was a pity, he thought, that all the skylarks seemed to have gone. He could remember them in his youth, the very sound of summer, climbing to the heavens and sending down a cascade of glorious sound. No one could remain an atheist with larks around, he thought dreamily.
‘Wouldnae that make ye sick,’ said a harsh voice, and a shadow fell across him.
Hamish opened his eyes and struggled up. Blocking out the sun was the square bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Standing behind him were his two sidekicks, Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
Blair was in a bad temper. Daviot had said the prices at the Lochdubh Hotel were much too high and so Blair and his team must commute daily from Strathbane, a drive of an hour and a half over twisting Highland roads. The sight of Hamish lounging at his ease in the sun did nothing to help his temper.
‘We’ve jist had the lab report,’ said Blair. ‘Thon Thomas woman was poisoned wi’ arsenic.’
‘Arsenic!’ Hamish got to his feet. ‘What from? Rat poison?’
‘Straight arsenic as far as I know,’ said Blair.
‘What were the contents of the stomach?’
‘Curry, rice, bread and cake. They think it was probably in the curry.’
Hamish hesitated. It was his duty to tell Blair about the odd behaviour of the doctor. He liked Dr Brodie and did not like to think of him being bullied by Blair. On the other hand, Dr Brodie was well able to take care of himself. Perhaps the best thing was to suggest that he, Hamish, should interview the doctor.
‘I’d better tell you about this,’ said Hamish. ‘When Dr Brodie first examined the body, he was going to sign a death certificate saying she had died of a heart attack. I stopped him doing that.’
