Hamish Macbeth 04; Death of a Perfect Wife

famous for her ‘whites,’ boiling everything and hanging it over the bushes in the garden to bleach further on a sunny day. Perhaps that was why Archie Maclean’s clothes always looked too tight for him, reflected Hamish. She probably boiled his suits.

“Well, you’ll have the detectives around soon asking you questions as well,” said Hamish. “They’ll want to know where you were when she was murdered.”

Mrs Maclean picked up the scrubbing brush again and scrubbed an area of already clean floor. “They can ask away,” she said, “for I was right here all day, and my neighbours all saw me coming and going between the house and the garden.”

“And Archie?”

“Himself was down at the nets.”

Hamish all at once remembered Dr Brodie singing about Trixie being dead and felt cold. That was something he should have told Blair as well. Damn Blair.

“Anyway,” said Mrs Maclean, picking out the floor cloth and wringing it out and wiping the wet floor, “you’ll probably find it was that husband o’ hers what did it.”

“He was in Inverness at the dentist.”

Mrs Maclean sniffed. “So he says.”

When Hamish left by the garden gate, he heard a burst of music. Mrs Maclean had turned on the radio again.

He remembered his promise to Paul. Somewhere in Lochdubh, there was a murderer. But it was hard to think such a thing had happened. The sun beat down on a perfect scene. The eighteenth-century cottages along the waterfront gleamed white. Roses scented the air and the still waters of the loch reflected the hills and woods and the gaily painted hulls of the fishing boats.

Trixie had gone and something nasty in the atmosphere had gone with her. And yet she had not been an evil woman. And the women of Lochdubh would have got wise to her in time.

He saw Blair and his two detectives driving out of the village and made his way to the doctor’s surgery.

Dr Brodie said he would see Hamish. “Quiet day,” he said when Hamish walked into the consulting room. “Monday’s the busy day when they all come in with their bad backs. It’s the Highland disease. Every Monday morning, a bad back strikes them and they want a line so they do not have to go to work.”

“How did you get on with Blair?” asked Hamish.

“He tried to bully me. Threatened to arrest me. You told him about me diagnosing a heart attack.”

“I had to,” said Hamish quietly. “Why did you do that?”

“As I told that fat lump, it looked like a heart attack to me.”

“Oh, come on, John,” said Hamish, exasperated. “It looked like nothing of the kind. Spit out the truth, man. It looked bad. You had been drunk out your skull the night before and singing about how you had killed Trixie. Did you know her real name was Alexandra?”

“Yes. But she’s the sort of woman – she was the sort of woman – who would think a name like Trixie cute. Well, Hamish, I’ll tell you but don’t tell Blair unless you think it necessary. I knew she had been poisoned. You had told me Paul Thomas was in Inverness but it went right out of my head. I thought maybe he had done it. I was glad she was dead. I didn’t want anyone to get the blame. I lost my head. Can you blame me? My wife’s a changed woman. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in a skirt and heels. I’ve been living with a carbon copy of Trixie – smocks and jeans and those bloody sneakers squeaking over the floorboards.”

“She should be all right now,” said Hamish awkwardly.

“Oh, no, Trixie’s memory must not die. Angela’s taken over the bird thing and the smoking thing and the clean up Lochdubh rubbish. Either I eat salads or eat out. She’s hard as nails.”

“Shock, maybe. Look, women of your wife’s age don’t change for life. You’ll have her back soon. Just go along with it for a bit.”

“She thinks I murdered Trixie.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“It’s a fact. I see her watching me with those hard, hard eyes. She’s moved her bed into the spare room. If you find out who did it, let me know first, Hamish. I want to shake that man by the hand.”

“It might be a woman,” said Hamish.

Dr Brodie leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It might at that,” he said slowly.

Hamish had imagined his visit to Inverness would prove to be blessed with another sunny day. But to his annoyance, the weather had turned dark and rainy.

He called on the dentist, a Mr Jones, who was justifiably annoyed at his call, having already been interviewed by the Inverness police. Hamish was not surprised. He knew Blair had sent him to Inverness to get him out of the way.

“You are such an important witness, Mr Jones,” he said, “that I am afraid you have to be questioned all over again. I will not be taking up much of your time.”

“Oh, well,” said the dentist, mollified. “There’s not much to tell. What a baby that man was. He had a bad toothache because one of his back teeth was rotten. The root was all right so I said I would drill it and put in a filling. He started to shake and tremble and begged me to pull it out. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Insisted on having gas. When he came round, I showed him his X-rays and said he needed a lot of work done and then he really panicked. He staggered out of the chair and ran for the door. It’s a good thing I’d got his National Health number before I’d started or I would have ended up doing that extraction for free. He should have rested a bit till the effects of the gas wore off.”

A bluebottle landed on the dentist’s white coat and he brushed it off with a shudder. “I’ve never seen so many flies as we’ve had this summer,” said Mr Jones. “But the air’s so warm and clammy, I can’t keep the windows closed.”

Hamish put away his notebook and headed for the station. He would just be in time to meet Priscilla’s train.

He put all thoughts of the case from his mind and concentrated on the simple pleasure of waiting for her to arrive. He found he was imagining sort of Brief Encounter situations. She would run towards him through the steam, her fair hair bobbing on her shoulders, and throw herself into his arms. But the days of steam trains were long over. He did not want to abandon one bit of his rosy fantasy. So the steam remained. Rain thudded down on the station roof and the restless seagulls of Inverness called overhead.

Twelve-thirty came and went and there was no sign of the train. He went up to the information kiosk but there was no-one there. He went into the Travel Centre where he was told the train would be half an hour late due to signal failure. He returned to the platform and waited, and again in that dream Priscilla endlessly ran towards him.

After three quarters of an hour, he returned to the Travel Centre. He was again told the story about signal failure and that the train should be in any minute. The loudspeaker in the station burst into song. It was one of those Scottish songs written to the beat of a Scottish waltz and sung through the nose.

“Oh, there’s the purple o’ the heather, And the ships aboot the bay, And it’s there that I would wander, At the kelosing hoff the day,” sang the voice and the rain fell harder on the roof and the wheeling seagulls screamed louder as if to compete with the singer.

Hamish went back to the Travel Centre with that feeling of impotence that assails the average Britisher in dealing with British Rail. A young man in a tartan jacket and with a sulky ‘get lost’ expression on his face eventually phoned the station manager’s office after Hamish had told him quietly what he would do to him if he didn’t look more willing. There was a broken rail outside Inverness, said the young man. But the train would be moving soon.

Back again went Hamish. At two-fifteen, the train crawled into the platform.

He waited by the barrier.

He nearly missed her. She was walking with her head down, her hair covered by a depressing rain hat.

“Priscilla!” he called.

She swung round. “Oh, there you are,” she said coolly. “Rotten train. I’m starving. Where are we going?”

Hamish blinked at her. He had been dreaming so long of that passionate arrival that he had forgotten to think about where to take her.