“You silly wee man,” said his wife. “Did you no’ remember our Jean and the weans were coming for tea? Wee Rory’s only two year,” she explained to Hamish, “and he’s aye under the kitchen sink, taking out things. I hid it so the child wouldnae find it. I’ve had it for a year. We had rats in the shed in the garden.” Hamish ran over in his mind what he knew of the Maclean family. Jean was their daughter and she had three small children, the ferreting two- year-old, Rory, being one of them.
“So,” said Hamish, “you thought, Archie, that your wife might have poisoned Mrs Thomas, and you, Mrs Maclean, thought your husband might have done it. My, my, Trixie Thomas must have caused some rare rows. I’ll need to take this. Where did you get it?”
“I got it from Patel a year ago,” mumbled Mrs Maclean. “Ye cannae blame me. Holding hands wi’ that wumman. He never held hands wi’ me, not even when we was courting.” She put out a red hand towards Hamish with an oddly pathetic, pleading movement. It was almost deformed with years of being immersed in boiling water, bleach, and ammonia. Her wedding ring was embedded in the swollen flesh below the red shiny knuckles.
“I’ll need to report this to Blair the morrow,” said Hamish sadly. “I’ll take this can with me.”
As Hamish looked at the couple, he thought viciously that had Trixie Thomas still been alive, he might have murdered her himself. The Macleans’ marriage, which had plodded along for years quite happily, would never be the same again.
He whistled to Towser and walked outside. It was a clear night, the rain had lifted, and great stars burned in the heavens. Towser slunk behind his master. “You,” said Hamish looking down at the animal, “are a coward.” Towser licked Hamish’s hand and slowly wagged his tail. “But you’re a decent dog and I’d rather have you a coward than savaging the sheep,” said Hamish. He stooped and scratched the doe behind his ears and leapt up and down in an ecstasy of joy at being forgiven.
The Patels’ shop was in darkness, but Hamish went around the side and mounted the stairs that led to the flat over the shop. After some time, Mrs Patel, wearing a bright red sari, answered the door.
“Och, Mr Macbeth,” she said impatiently, “whit d’ye want at this time o’ night?”
It always surprised Hamish to hear a Scottish accent emitting from such exotic features. He said he wanted to speak to her husband and Mrs Patel reluctantly let him in. Their living-room was bright and gaudy with a three– piece plush suite in bright red, still covered with the plastic casing it had been delivered in. A huge display of plastic tulips in a woven gilt basket sat on a carved table top, which was supported by four carved elephants. Everything smelled strongly of curry. Mr Patel came in. He was a small brown man with liquid brown eyes and a beak of a nose.
“Evening, Mr Macbeth,” he said. “Will ye be havin’ a wee dram?”
“Not tonight. Mr Patel, you were asked if you had sold any rat poison and you said you hadn’t and yet Mrs Maclean told me she had bought some here a year ago. It’s called Dead-O.”
“I thought you meant recently! Aye, I got about two dozen frae a wholesaler in Strathbane a year ago. Used it myself. No’ very good. Didnae even slow them up.”
“You realize what this means?” said Hamish gloomily. “Blair will want me to go around every house in the village tomorrow collecting cans of rat poison.”
“Keep ye out o’ trouble,” said Mr Patel with a grin. “Why bother yer heid about Blair anyways? That man’s a pillock.”
“A pillock who is senior to me in rank. Now, Mr Patel, I don’t suppose you can remember who bought it?”
“I can remember Mrs Wellington had a can for the mice in the church. I hadn’t any mouse poison and she didn’t want traps so she said she’d try the rat stuff. Then there was Mrs Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Mice, too.”
“Anyone else?”
“Let me see. Oh, I ken. The estate agent for the Willets, them that used to own the Thomases’ place. It had been standing empty for so long that they were getting rats in, or so they thought.”
Hamish thanked him and then phoned and left a message for Blair about the rat poison. Then he went to see John Parker, who told him that Miss Halburton-Smythe had phoned and had invited him up to the castle at ten in the morning. Hamish knew Blair would have him searching for all those other cans of poison, but that would give him a good excuse to read that manuscript John Parker had been so anxious to hide.
He said good night and then made his way back along the waterfront to the pub. An ordinary common or garden Scottish Highland drunk would come as a relief.
? Death of a Perfect Wife ?
6
I am silent in the club,
I am silent in the pub,
I am silent on a bally peak in Darien;
For I stuff away for life.
Shoving peas in with a knife,
Because I am at heart a Vegetarian.
No more the milk of cows.
Shall pollute my private house.
Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian;
I will stick to port and sherry,
For they are so very, very.
So very, very, very Vegetarian.
—G. K. Chesterton.
It was the detective Jimmy Anderson who arrived at the police station first thing in the morning with the expected orders from Blair to search the village for rat poison. “Anything left in that bottle?” he said hopefully. “At eight o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Hamish. “Come back later. Is Blair all ready to meet the press?”
“He’s blinding and blasting but he’s got his Sunday suit on and his hair all slicked down aboot his horrible ears,” said Anderson with a grin.
Hamish shut Towser out in the garden and set off. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, was his first call. She was in her kitchen. Her husband was poking distastefully at a bowl of muesli with his spoon. “Sit down,” ordered Mrs Wellington when she saw Hamish, “and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
Hamish sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s a good, healthy breakfast,” said Hamish to the minister. Mr Wellington put down his spoon with a sigh. “I cannot think starvation is good for anyone,” he said. “I feel like a child again – if you don’t eat it, you won’t get anything else.”
“Well, that’s the road to the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Hamish cheerfully. “You know, become like a little child again.”
“Don’t quote the scriptures to me, Macbeth,” said the minister testily. “Why are you here?”
Mrs Wellington put a mug of coffee in front of Hamish. He took a sip and coughed. “I am here to look for a rat poison called Dead-O. What is this coffee, Mrs Wellington?”
“It’s dandelion coffee. Mrs Thomas showed me how to make it.”
Hamish sadly pushed his mug away.
“You see what I mean?” said the minister. “Why not stay for lunch? We’re having nettle soup.”
Hamish ignored him. “The rat poison,” he said. “You bought some from Patel about a year ago. You had the mice.”
“So we did,” called Mrs Wellington over one large tweed shoulder. She was scrubbing dishes in the sink with ferocious energy. “Not very good. I think the mice just left of their own accord.”
“Have you any of the stuff left?” asked Hamish patiently.
“No, I threw it out months ago.”
“You are sure?”
Mrs Wellington turned around and put her soapy hands on her hips. “I am not in the habit of lying, Mr Macbeth.”
