4
—
The day after Trixie’s death was perfect. The clouds rolled back and the sun blazed down on a glittering, wet landscape. Beds 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’s 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 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 of 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.”
“Whit!” Blair’s piggy eyes gleamed.
“So maybe I had better go along to the surgery and see him,” said Hamish.
“Listen, laddie, you jist go aboot your rural duties,” said Blair with a fat grin. “But I tell ye what – I’ll let ye in on the case. Go down to Inverness tomorrow and interview that dentist Paul Thomas went to see.”
“One phone call to Inverness police could get that done now,” said Hamish with surprise.
“Do as you’re told,” snapped Blair. He marched off, a squat figure, sweating in a heavy tweed suit, and followed by his two detectives.
Hamish sighed. He may as well just look forward to a pleasant day in Inverness. Let Blair solve this one. He did not care very much who had murdered Trixie.
But as he looked along the road, he could see the slumped figure of Paul Thomas, sitting on his garden wall. Calling to Towser, Hamish went along to talk to him.
But before he could reach him, he was waylaid by the Glasgow woman, Mrs Kennedy. “How long are we going to have to stay here?” she complained. “I want tae get the wee yins back to Glasgow.”
“Should be a few more days,” said Hamish.
“But this wis supposed to be a holiday and I’m having to dae all the cooking, and buy the food, for the polis took everything out of the kitchen. I telt Mr Thomas he wasnae getting any money from me.” She was a fat, sloppy woman wearing a print apron over a mud-coloured dress and carpet slippers on her swollen feet. The children all looked about six years old, but they could hardly all be the same age. They had white pinched faces and old, old eyes: three boys called Elvis, Clarke, and Gregory and a girl called Susan.
Hamish promised to see what he could do about letting them go and then went on to speak to Paul. Paul looked at him with dull eyes.
“Terrible business,” said Hamish gently.
Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “Who could have done such a thing? Everybody loved her.”
“This is a small village and we’ll soon find out who did it,” said Hamish soothingly.
Paul put his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. “You find out,” he said. “Don’t leave it to that fool, Blair.”
“I promise,” said Hamish gently. “Is anyone with you?”
“People have been very kind.” Tears ran down Paul’s cheeks and he wiped them away with his sleeve.
“I met Mrs Kennedy, but where’s your other boarder?”
