money for sweeties.”
“No,” said Hamish. “Not a penny will you get. Didn’t Mrs Thomas put you all on a vegetarian diet?”
“Naw, only her man. She couldnae risk scaring off her lodgers wi’ that rubbishy stuff, my maw says. Went on and on aboot sugar bein’ bad and stuffing her face wi’ cakes the whole time when she thought naebody was looking.” Her sharp face took on an evil, gloating look. “Want tae know what she and her man got up to in the bedroom?”
“No, I do not,” said Hamish roundly and made his way through the door from the kitchen that led into the main body of the house. He edged back into the sitting-room where the funeral reception was being held in time to see Blair taking his leave. He waited a moment and then edged his way into the room and called loudly for silence. They all turned to face him. Priscilla was there, he noticed. Of course, she would be. It was expected of her. She was wearing a black dress and a small black hat.
“I am looking for cans of a stuff called Dead-O,” said Hamish. “Patel was selling it a year ago. It’s a rat poison. If you have any, bring it along to the police station as soon as you can.”
Mrs Wellington bustled up, looking outraged. “How dare you make such an announcement at a funeral?” she demanded. “It’s mercy poor Mr Thomas has gone to lie down.”
“I have to find those cans of poison,” said Hamish patiently. “Pretty much the whole of Lochdubh is in here. It saves me going all around the houses.” By evening, he was satisfied with the result. He had fifteen cans of rat poison in front of him. Not a bad haul out of the two dozen that had been sold a year ago. The cans were all neatly labelled by Hamish with the name of the person who had bought it.
Dr Brodie stood in the doorway of the kitchen and surveyed first his wife and then his dinner. Salad with goat cheese. He had told her and told her he could not eat such food and she had told him that she was not going to poison him by serving him with greasy steaks and chips any more. She was as hard as flint.
He felt he was not addressing Angela but some strange creature who had invaded his home.
“I want a divorce,” he said.
Angela looked startled. “Don’t be silly. Don’t you realize I am doing all this for you? The healthy food, the clean house, no wine or spirits?”
“You’re doing it because you are a nasty little bully like your friend, Trixie. I’m glad someone poisoned her. I hope she had a bad time dying. I’ve phoned Pollet, the lawyer, in Strathbane already and told him to draw up the divorce papers.”
Angela’s face was as white as paper. “On what grounds?” she demanded.
“Breakdown of marriage. Oh, well, thank goodness the hotel’s gone back to old–fashioned cooking. Good night,
Dr Brodie walked along to the hotel. He did not feel anything much at all. His wife had died some time ago, as far as he was concerned, and he was merely getting divorced from the domestic monster who had taken her place. There was something lightening about the idea that that Trixie woman was six feet under. “Pushing up organic daisies,” he said, and began to laugh.
“What’s the joke?” asked Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. He, too, was heading towards the hotel, carrying a box of eggs under his arm.
“Come and celebrate,” said the doctor. “I’ve just phoned Strathbane and arranged for the divorce papers to be drawn up.”
? Death of a Perfect Wife ?
7
The common cormorant or shag Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason you will see no doubt.
It is to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds.
Have never noticed is that herds.
Of wandering bears may come with buns.
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.
—Anon
Look,” said Hamish awkwardly, “I know you haff had the hard time, but couldn’t you wait a bit?”
“No,” said the doctor, “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on Mrs Brodie? Have you ever considered she might be suffering from the menopause? Women go a bit odd then.”
Dr Brodie snorted. “That’s all a lot of cobblers. It’s all in the mind. Women have been told they go odd at the menopause and use it as an excuse.”
“Well, you’re the doctor, but there’s been an awful lot about it in the newspapers lately,” said Hamish. “And there’s been an awful lot about lazy National Health doctors who don’t keep up wi’ the latest research. I know Mrs Thomas was an awful woman, but the trouble with her was a lot of the things she said were right. You know smoking’s bad for people and high cholesterol food’s bad for people…”
“I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life,” snapped the doctor. “It was being treated like a child that I couldn’t bear. Eat your greens, pah! No sudden rush into vegetarianism. Coax the child with smaller and smaller portions of meat and larger and larger bowls of salad, until it’s only salad with the occasional nut cutlet thrown in for comic relief. She even served me dandelion coffee but I took the lot and threw it in the loch. Don’t interfere in my life. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”
The television screen above the bar flickered into life. Angus Macdonald’s face beamed down on them. He began to tell a highly embroidered account of his vision.
“I didn’t think they’d bother with Angus, considering he got the election results wrong,” said Hamish.
“Too good a story,” said Dr Brodie, “They were all up at the hotel today and then they went on up to Angus’s cottage. He’ll be drunk for a month.”
Angus’s image faded, to be replaced by the strong features of Mrs Wellington. “Mrs Thomas was the perfect wife,” said Mrs Wellington. “She brought new life into the village. No-one here wished her ill. It must have been some maniac from outside.”
“Join me for dinner,” offered Dr Brodie, draining his glass.
Hamish shook his head. “Why don’t you take your wife? You used to do that. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to sit down and discuss this divorce like a couple of grownups?”
Dr Brodie sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll see.”
Hamish looked around the bar. Bert Hook, the crofter, was getting very drunk. Hamish went over and removed his car keys and told him to collect them at the police station in the morning.
He went outside and walked along the waterfront, wishing with all his heart that the murderer could be found and that the village could return to its normal quiet. He loved his peaceful, uneventful life in a way that Priscilla, say, could never understand. In fact, this was not the age when anyone could understand an unambitious man. The night was calm and still and a full moon floated through the clouds.
“Hamish?”
Hamish stopped and looked down at the man in front of him. Hamish had been so engrossed in his thoughts the man had not seen him approach. He was small and dapper, wearing a good tweed jacket and flannels, collar and tie. He had neat, clever features and thin hair.
“Good evening,” said Hamish cautiously.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Hamish slowly shook his head.
“It’s me. Harry. Harry Drummond!”
“Neffer!” Hamish turned Harry round so that the light on the harbour wall fell full on his face. “Harry Drummond,” he marvelled.
For Harry had been the village drunk before he left to go to Inverness to get treatment. He had been a swollen, hairy bundle of evil-smelling rags when Hamish had seen him last.
