look at it. They all worked hard.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Iain.
“Trixie Thomas’s death’s the trouble. I have to interview everyone who might have had a grudge against her. Now Angus Macdonald is swearing blind someone left a poisoned bottle of whisky outside his back door today.”
“Angus drinks so much it’s no wonder that whisky tastes like poison to him now,” said Iain. “And what could I have had to do with that silly bitch’s death?”
“With her out of the road, you could go ahead and bulldoze that ruin,” pointed out Hamish.
Iain gave a derisive laugh. “That damn fool bird society she started has no doubt written letters to every other bird society, telling them about the bats. I’ll have bird watchers trekking over my land and making a pest of themselves. Do you mind the days, Hamish, when bird watchers were nice kindly people you were glad to see? Oh, a lot of them are still fine, but there’s a new breed o’ militants. The men have got beards and wear camouflage jackets and those wee half-moon glasses and they’ve got bad teeth and the women have got their fat bums stuffed into jeans and wear anoraks covered with badges. I’d shoot the lot of them if I thought I could get away with it. No, I didn’t poison Mrs Thomas, Hamish.” He leaned forward. “Look, just think of all the hassle a man has to put up with from the government these days. Look how Scotland has changed with value added tax hit squads and petty little bureaucrats enjoying throwing their muscle around. There’s a lot more folk I had better reason to kill than Trixie Thomas. You’ll probably find her man bumped her off. It’s aye the husband.”
“Why?”
“Imagine living with a woman who irons creases in her jeans and wears white sneakers.”
“Aye, it’s enough to turn the strongest stomach,” said Hamish with a grin. Then his face grew serious. “Look, Iain, I didnae tell Blair about the bats and I’ll need tae tell him, so prepare yourself for a hassle.”
“Don’t worry. I had the income-tax inspector round last week. If I can put up with an income-tax inspector, I can put up with Blair.”
Hamish made his way back up past Angus’s cottage and met the seer coming up the hill.
“They are not interested in my story any mair,” said Angus peevishly. “They haff arrested the husband.”
“Paul Thomas? Why?”
“No’ him. Her first husband.”
“Her – ?”
“Aye, it turns out that lodger o’ theirs, John Parker, used tae be married to her.”
Hamish went straight to the hotel. John Parker was closeted with Blair and his two detectives in the hotel room allocated to the police. Hamish put his head round the door.
“Get lost,” snarled Blair.
Hamish walked away. He wondered where Daviot was. As the local policeman, he, Hamish Macbeth, should have been in on the interrogation.
He saw the hotel manager in the forecourt. “Where’s Mr Daviot?” asked Hamish.
“He’s gone back to Strathbane. There’s been a successful drug raid on one o’ the ships,” said Mr Johnson. “This murder’s become small beer.”
Hamish made his way to The Laurels. Paul Thomas was working in the garden.
“What’s all this about her first husband?” demanded Hamish.
Paul straightened up from his weeding slowly and passed an earthy hand over his forehead. “It was a surprise to me,” he said in a bewildered way. “Why didn’t Trixie tell me?”
“Did you hear them having a row or anything?”
“No, they went on like strangers. It was probably him that did it. And I don’t care any more. Nothing’s going to bring her back.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and Hamish patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Can I have a look at his room?”
“It’s full of forensic people, dusting everything in sight although they’ve already dusted everything and I don’t know what they hope to find. I wish everyone would go away and leave me alone.”
Hamish went back to the police station in time to meet Priscilla who was just driving up.
Although he was glad to see her, he found with surprise that his heart no longer gave a lurch. They sat in the kitchen and Hamish told her about the seer and the first husband.
“You would think it would be one of the locals trying to poison Angus,” said Priscilla after listening in attentive silence.
“Why?”
“Well, someone was very afraid that Angus might have divined something, and only the locals would think that. I can’t see either Paul Thomas or this first husband believing in the second sight.”
Hamish poured more tea. “I think that a frightened murderer might be prepared to believe anything. I hope he doesn’t go ahead and arrest John Parker without any evidence. I would like to have a word with him.”
“Blair’s capable of anything. Oh, that’s clever,” said Priscilla, noticing the screen door.
“It was a couple of American tourists gave me the idea,” said Hamish. “I wish I could have a word with that Carl Steinberger. He was staying there at the Thomases for a couple of nights. Where was he from again? I know, Greenwich, Connecticut. He may be back home now. Excuse me a minute, Priscilla. I’ll phone the police in Greenwich and ask them if they know Carl Steinberger’s phone number.”
He was halfway out of the kitchen when Priscilla rose to her feet. “Don’t worry, Hamish,” she said. “I think I’ll call on Angela Brodie. I’m worried about her.”
Hamish stopped. “Why?”
“She makes me uneasy. You can’t go around taking on someone else’s personality without something cracking,” said Priscilla.
She drove down to the doctor’s house, thinking about Hamish Macbeth. Although he had been as friendly as ever, something had gone out of that friendship. Hamish was no longer shy of her, she thought, nor was his whole mind on her when she was there. She felt uneasily that part of his mind had dismissed her.
Priscilla walked up the path to the kitchen door and then stood motionless, with her hand on the doorknob. From inside came a faint humming sound, a familiar sound. A picture of Trixie rose vividly in Priscilla’s mind. She pushed open the door and went in.
Angela was sitting spinning wool, her thin face intent. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a shapeless white T–shirt with the legend Save The Bats emblazoned on the front.
She looked up and saw Priscilla. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Angela, getting to her feet. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Priscilla looked around the gleaming and sterile kitchen. Angela put beans – from Nicaragua, where else? thought Priscilla – into the coffee grinder. Priscilla sat down at the kitchen table. It was amazing, reflected Priscilla, how a hairstyle could alter a woman. Angela’s perm showed no signs of growing out. Hard little curls rioted over her head, making her hair look like one of those cheap wigs from Woolworths. Her mouth appeared to have become thinner with little tight lines at the corner of the mouth.
“I didn’t know you had a spinning wheel,” said Priscilla.
“Paul gave it to me,” said Angela. “Poor man. He didn’t want to keep it in the house. He said every time he looked at it, he could see Trixie sitting there.”
“How are things going?” asked Priscilla.
“Not very well,” said Angela, feeding coffee into the machine. “The meeting of the Anti-Smoking League was last night. And do you know how many turned up? Two. And one of them was that layabout, Jimmy Fraser, who thought it was a stop smoking class.”
“That might be a better idea,” said Priscilla. “You might get more results by helping people to stop smoking than by putting a sort of prohibition ban on the stuff.”
“Anyone in their right mind should know it’s dangerous to smoke.”
“But it’s an addiction, like drinking, like eating too much sugar. I read an article which said that addicts are more open to suggestion as to how to stop than outright militant bans. Look at Prohibition in the States with people drinking disgusting things like wood alcohol and going blind. I’m sure a lot of people drank more during Prohibition than they would have done if the stuff was available.”
Angela folded her lips into a stubborn line. “Trixie used to say that people didn’t know what was good for them. They need to be taken in hand.”
