by M C Beaton
‘Give me two hours,’ said Hamish. ‘Oh, Priscilla, there’s that damn bird society tonight. I told Mrs Brodie I’d run it for her, Lord Glenbader’s coming to give a talk.’
‘You amaze me, Hamish. He doesn’t preserve birds except under aspic.’
‘I know, he’s a pill. But I have a feeling there won’t be much of an audience. People are losing interest in all these societies and committees. Could you round up a few people?’
‘Certainly. I’ll get on the phone right away. Now, go to bed.’
She went out and closed the door. Hamish removed his clothes and put his underwear and shirt outside the door and then climbed into bed. Towser leapt on the bed and stretched out across his feet. ‘Get down,’ ordered Hamish sleepily. Towser rolled his eyes and stayed where he was.
Two hours later, Priscilla came in carrying his clean clothes over her arm. Constable Hamish Macbeth was lying fast asleep, his ridiculously long eyelashes fanned out over his thin cheeks. Towser opened one eye and lazily wagged his tail.
The bedclothes were down around Hamish’s waist. It was amazing how muscular Hamish was, thought Priscilla, looking at his naked chest and arms. His red hair flamed against the whiteness of the pillowcases and he looked young and vulnerable in sleep.
He opened his hazel eyes suddenly and looked straight at her. A look of pure happiness shone in his eyes and then it slowly died, like a light being turned down.
‘Two hours up already,’ groaned Hamish. ‘I could have slept all day.’
‘Here are your clothes,’ said Priscilla briskly, ‘and I’ve got some people to go to the bird meeting. Come downstairs when you’re ready and we’ll have tea.’
It was a black day in the life of Jenkins, the butler. To have to serve Hamish Macbeth tea in the drawing room hurt his very soul.
When Hamish returned to the police station it was to find the detective, Jimmy Anderson, waiting for him.
‘So you’re back,’ said Anderson. ‘I’ve been left here to give you a row for sloping off.’
‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ said Hamish. Anderson was sitting in the police station office with his feet on the desk and a glass of whisky in his hand.
‘Aye, thanks. Blair’s right sore at ye for finding that Brodie woman. Daviot turned up to see how the search was going on and Blair told the super that it was thanks to his brilliant detective work that Mrs Brodie had been found. He was well launched on his story when my friend and colleague, Detective MacNab, who had been insulted earlier by Blair pipes up and says, “Oh, but it was Macbeth what found her. Brought her down from the hill himself. We was all looking in the wrong direction.” Blair looks fit to kill. The super accuses him of trying to take credit away from you, and Blair says he was simply describing how the operation had worked, and that he had sent you up the mountain himself. “That cannae be true,” says MacNab, “Weren’t you just saying you hadn’t seen Macbeth?” You should hae seen Blair’s face. I couldnae bear it any longer and walked away, but it wouldnae surprise me if Blair doesn’t get MacNab back walking the beat before a month is up. Blair’s gone off to grill Parker again, just for the hell o’ it.’
‘How did you get on with Halburton-Smythe?’ asked Hamish.
Anderson groaned. ‘Whit a bad-tempered wee man! How dare you waste my time when you could be out looking for the murderer. That sort o’ thing. Asked him what Mrs Thomas had taken from the cottage and he looked sulky and said it was some old china and glass and bits of furniture and odds and ends in a box. She was a sterling woman, according to his nibs. She certainly seemed to have a way with her. Was she all that attractive?’
‘Not strictly speaking,’ said Hamish. ‘But she had a very forceful personality. Type of person you love or loathe.’
‘Well, I’d better be toddling along,’ said Anderson. ‘Consider yourself reprimanded. What are ye going to do now?’
‘I think I’ll jist go along to The Laurels and see how Paul Thomas is getting on,’ said Hamish. ‘I like that man. I think when he gets over his wife’s death, he’ll settle down here all right.’
Paul Thomas was sawing up a dead tree at the back of the house.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Hamish.
‘Still a bit shattered,’ said Paul. ‘But I find work helps. I’ll be glad to see the back of that Kennedy woman and her rotten kids. Trixie could cope with that sort of person and pointed out we had to take anyone while we were getting started, but she whines the whole time and the only reason she stayed on was because I couldn’t bring myself to charge her rent, because that would have meant shopping for her and cooking for her.’
‘How do you get on with Parker, now that you know he’s her ex?’
‘We’ve become pretty friendly. In fact, he’s been a great help. I want to talk about her, you know, and he’s prepared to listen.’
‘You know we found Mrs Brodie?’
‘Yes, it was all over the village.’
‘I’m running that bird society for her tonight. Want to come?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll stay here and get on with my work. Truth is, I don’t know anything about birds.’
He should have come, thought Hamish that evening as Lord Glenbader started his lecture. It would have made two of them. Lord Glenbader obviously didn’t know much about birds either. He was also very drunk. The coloured slides of birds had got mixed up with his recent holiday in India, a fact of which he seemed quite unaware since he talked down his nose and with his eyes closed.
‘And this,’ he said, operating the switch, ‘is a great barn owl.’ His audience solemnly studied a slide of his lordship on an elephant.
‘Wrong slide,’ said Hamish.
His lordship raised his heavy eyelids. ‘Is it? Dear me. Find the right one, constable. There’s a good chap.’
Hamish looked despairingly at the great pile of slides. ‘It would take all night to look through these,’ he complained.
‘Then stop interrupting.’ Lord Glenbader’s eyelids drooped again. ‘And this ish a houshe martin,’ he slurred. A smiling Indian beggar appeared, holding out a hand for baksheesh.
Priscilla came in carrying a pot of coffee, poured a cup of it, and handed it to Lord Glenbader. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And here’s a lot of tits.’ He peered down Priscilla’s low-necked blouse and Hamish sniggered. But the slide did show three blue tits and two coal tits. It was hit and miss from then on, Lord Glenbader only occasionally describing the right slide. The audience sat, numb with boredom.
Priscilla steadily poured coffee. Lord Glenbader’s lids gradually rose. ‘What a bore all this is,’ he said crossly after the hundredth slide. ‘What I need is a good drink.’
‘What are all these plastic bags?’ asked Priscilla.
‘Oh, them. They’re Victorian specimens of stuffed birds from my great grandfather’s collection. I’ll pass them round. Don’t take them out of the bags. Just peer inside. You’ll get arsenic poisoning if you handle them.’
‘Why arsenic?’ asked Hamish sharply.
‘That’s the way the Victorians kept the bugs at bay,’ said Lord Glenbader. ‘It was their sort of DDT. The fellow who arranged these things in the glass cases ten years ago got a chesty cough and running at the eyes and jelly limbs. Brodie diagnosed flu. Went to hospital in Strathbane, not believing Brodie and found he’d got arsenic poisoning from handling the birds. Brodie’s a fool.’
The Highland audience of men, women and children politely peered inside the bags and then showed the first signs of interest that evening as Priscilla started laying out plates of cakes and biscuits beside an enormous pot of tea. ‘Least I could do,’ whispered Priscilla to Hamish. ‘Rodney Glenbader is a crashing bore.’
Lord Glenbader was now obviously in a very bad mood indeed, made worse by the fact that there was nothing stronger to drink than tea and by the knowledge that he was not being paid for his services. There is nothing more outraged than a British aristocrat who finds he has performed a service for nothing
. Lord Glenbader came from a long line of grasping ancestors. He snatched up his birds and stuffed them in a sack and went out, slamming the door behind him.
‘Help me with the tea, Hamish,’ said Priscilla. ‘You’re off in a dream. What are you thinking of?’
‘I’m thinking of arsenic,’ said Hamish. He joined her nonetheless and took the heavy teapot from her hands.
Mr Daviot, the police superintendent came in. ‘I’m going back to Strathbane,’ he said to Hamish. ‘Congratulations on finding Mrs Brodie.’
‘I had luck on my side,’ said Hamish.
‘We could do with a few able men like you on the force in Strathbane,’ said Mr Daviot.
Hamish opened his mouth but Priscilla said eagerly, ‘You couldn’t have a better man, Mr Daviot. He’s a genius at solving crime.’
‘Well, I wish he would solve this one,’ said Mr Daviot. He waved his hand in farewell.
‘I wish you wouldn’t speak for me, Priscilla,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘I have no mind to leave Lochdubh.’
‘But you must have, Hamish. You can’t want to remain an ordinary copper for the rest of your life.’
Hamish sighed. ‘When will you get it through your head that it’s not clod-hopping stupidity or shyness that keeps me here. I love Lochdubh, I like the people, I’m happy. Why should I go and get a rank and money to please society’s accepted idea of success? I am successful, Priscilla. Very few folk are contented these days.’
‘I made a mistake about that Macbeth fellow,’ said Mr Daviot as he undressed for bed that night. ‘I think he’s very bright.’
‘Are you sure?’ His wife adjusted a hair net over her rollers. ‘The colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe didn’t seem to like him at all.’
‘But the daughter does, and I think there might be a marriage in the offing.’
‘Oh.’ His wife digested this piece of intelligence. ‘Wheh don’t we esk them for dinner?’
‘Wait till this case is solved, if it ever is solved,’ said her husband, climbing into bed.
Hamish went to The Laurels after the meeting was over. Paul Thomas answered the door himself. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was watching television.’
Hamish went in to the sitting room. The Kennedy family were lined up in front of the set. In front of them was a coffee table with a plate of sticky cakes. From the electric light above their heads, a fly paper hung, brown and flyless.
From upstairs sounded the busy rattle of John Parker’s typewriter.
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Paul, picking up a cake and stuffing it whole into his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the television screen. L.A. Law was showing.
‘Wondered if there was anything I could do for you?’ said Hamish.
Paul did not reply. He picked up another cake and sat down on a chair beside the Kennedys, his eyes still on the screen.
Hamish decided if the man was that interested in watching television, he must have made a good recovery from his breakdown at the funeral.
No one in the room noticed Hamish leaving.
Chapter Eight
Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly.
– Shakespeare
Hamish drove over to inspect the ruin on Iain Gunn’s farm. Three-quarters of the building had collapsed, leaving one end standing up, the two floors still showing scraps of coloured wallpaper on the cracked plaster.
He puttered among the ruins, shining his torch. If there was any proof that Iain had done the job himself then that proof was buried under the rubble.
And then he heard a faint squeak. He shone his torch up to the rafters of the bit of the house which was still left standing. Small furry bodies hung in rows upside down.
Bats.
He heard the noise of an engine and switched off his torch and walked outside on to the field.
Iain Gunn was approaching in a bulldozer. Hamish felt irritated. Iain had no right to attempt to bulldoze the building until he got the all clear. As he walked forward and held up his hand, he was vividly reminded of that day when the women had mounted their protest. He could still see Trixie, the leader of the women – leader of the Amazons? – her eyes glowing with excitement and hear that cockneyfied voice of hers.
The bulldozer ground to a halt.
‘You can’t go on with it, Iain,’ called Hamish. ‘You’ve still got bats in the bit that’s left and anyway, you shouldn’t have attempted to knock it down until you got the okay.’
Iain looked at him, a blind, flat look. He started up the bulldozer again.
‘Stop!’ shouted Hamish, standing in front of it.
The bulldozer moved steadily towards him.
Hamish swore and leapt to one side and as the bulldozer came alongside, he jumped on it and ripped the keys from the ignition.
Iain Gunn punched him on the face and sent him flying.
Hamish scrambled up from the ground and leapt back on the bulldozer and seized the farmer by his jacket and dragged him out so that he fell face down on the ground. He knelt on his back and handcuffed him, deaf to the stream of abuse that was pouring from the farmer’s mouth.
‘Now, on your feet,’ said Hamish grimly.
Iain staggered to his feet and stood, head down. ‘Leave me alone, Hamish,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m sorry I hit you, but don’t you understand what a load o’ rubbish this all is? Here’s a man who needs more land and there’s a bloody stupid law that says he can’t do it because o’ a lot o’ flying vermin. It’s my land and I should be able to do what I like with it. Damn that Thomas woman for an interfering bitch!’
Hamish looked at him. He should arrest the farmer and charge him with assaulting a police officer and all sorts of other fiddles. It meant paperwork. It meant a court case. It might mean Iain going to prison.
‘Turn around,’ he snapped.
He unlocked the handcuffs and tucked them away and then he took off his cap and threw it on the ground and put up his fists.
‘Come on, Iain,’ said Hamish. ‘We’ll settle this ourselves.’
Iain sized up Hamish’s thin, gangling form and began to smile. ‘Okay, Hamish, but don’t blame me if ye get sore hurt.’
But Iain found it was impossible to hit Hamish. The constable weaved and ducked, dancing lightly on his feet, diving under the farmer’s guard to land his punches. At last, Hamish said, ‘Let’s finish this,’ and that was the last thing Iain heard for about ten minutes as a massive punch landed full on his jaw.
When he recovered consciousness, Hamish was kneeling beside him on the ground. ‘All right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Man, ye’ve got a sore punch,’ whispered the farmer.
‘Well, now that the law in its way has been enforced,’ said Hamish cheerfully, ‘can I hae your word that you’ll leave the bats alone?’
‘Aye, you hae my word.’
Hamish helped him to his feet, gave him a swig of brandy from his flask and helped him back into his bulldozer and stood waiting while the bulldozer churned its way back over the soft ground.
He decided to go and pay a visit on old Mrs MacGowan and see if Trixie had managed to winkle anything valuable out of her. Perhaps it was simple greed which had caused the murder and Trixie had got hold of something worth killing for.
But as he drove into Lochdubh, he saw he was approaching Harry Drummond’s house and, in his usual, nosey, Highland way, decided to find out first what on earth had persuaded Mrs Drummond to divorce a sober and working man when she would not divorce the drunk.
Mrs Drummond was at home. She was a soft, shapeless, dyed blonde of a woman with a face covered in a layer of thick make-up and a sour little painted red mouth like a wound. ‘Whit’s he done?’ she asked when she saw Hamish on the doorstep and he could swear there was a certain amount of hope in her eyes.
‘Harry? Nothing,’ said Hamish. ‘Can I come in a minute?’
She shrugged by way of an answer and led the way through to the living room
, removing a tattered pile of women’s magazines from a chair so that he could sit down.
Flies buzzed about the room and she seized a can of fly spray and sent a cloud of it up to the ceiling. Hamish sat in a gentle rain of insecticide and asked, ‘Why are you going to divorce Harry? He’s looking great and he’s got a good job.’
She lit a cigarette and took an enormous drag on it. ‘I’m in love wi’ somebody else,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Buckie Graham, him over at Crask.’
‘But Buckie Graham’s a terrible drunk wi’ a nasty temper!’ exclaimed Hamish.
‘All he needs is someone to look after him,’ said Mrs Drummond defiantly. ‘We’re getting married as soon as the divorce comes through.’
She offered Hamish a cup of tea in a halfhearted way and he refused. He spent several more minutes trying to persuade her of the folly of marrying Buckie, but she only became extremely angry.
‘Women!’ he thought, as he drove over to Mrs MacGowan’s on the other side of the loch.
The cottage was tucked away at the edge of the pine forest. Hamish climbed down from the Land Rover and took a deep breath of sweet pine-scented air. He knew that the inside of Mrs MacGowan’s cottage was going to smell as horrible as usual.
‘So you’ve finally decided to come and see me,’ said the old woman when she opened the door.
She was bent and gnarled and twisted like an old willow tree but her black eyes sparkled with intelligence. Hamish edged his way into her small parlour. It was crammed with furniture and china and photographs, reminding him of Mrs Haggerty’s cottage. Dust lay everywhere and the awful smell of Mrs MacGowan pervaded the close atmosphere.
‘I’ll just open the window,’ said Hamish hopefully.
‘Leave it be,’ she said. ‘The flies just come in.’
‘You seem to have caught plenty already,’ said Hamish, looking up at the fly paper, black with dead flies, which dangled from the ceiling light. ‘Where do people get these things from?’
‘It was that Mrs Thomas. Herself got Patel, that wee Pakistani . . .’
