Hamish Macbeth 04; Death of a Perfect Wife

Hamish put down the can opener and followed her into the other room. The mirror above the fireplace had been smashed.

“Couldnae stand the sight of herself,” he said mournfully.

“Havers,” said the minister’s wife, who had no time for psychology, “she was probably drunk.”

They returned to the kitchen. Hamish fed the spaniels and the cat and put the kettle on. Dr Brodie came downstairs from the bedroom. “How is she?” asked Hamish.

“Sleeping,” he said wearily. “Will this misery never end?”

“Be very kind to her when she wakes,” said Hamish anxiously. “If she’s still in a bad way, you might consider taking her down to Strathbane for some therapy or something like that.”

“I don’t believe in all that rubbish. If everyone just pulled themselves together and got on with life, there would be no time for crackpot psychiatrists.”

“For a village doctor, you’re a walking disaster,” said Hamish crossly. “I am glad I am never ill. What would you prescribe? Eye of newt?”

“Leave the doctor alone,” ordered Mrs Wellington. “Have you no feelings?”

Hamish went out and left them to it. He headed for the police station, dying for sleep. Then he saw the press standing outside it, interviewing Blair.

He swore under his breath and drove straight past. Blair saw him and shouted something but Hamish was too tired to care. He drove up to Tommel Castle. As he swung in at the gates, he saw one of the gamekeepers and stopped and rolled down the window. “Colonel at home?” he asked.

“No,” said the gamekeeper. “Himself and the wife has gone to Inverness.”

“Good,” said Hamish and drove on to the castle entrance.

Jenkins would dearly have loved to tell him that Priscilla was not at home but the young lady had given him such a ribbing about lying to Hamish that he did not dare. Priscilla came running down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of Hamish. “You look awful,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

“It’s Angela Brodie,” said Hamish, stifling a yawn. “She’s cracked. But she’s back home in bed now.”

“Oh, you found her. I heard she had gone missing. How is she?”

“Physically, she’s all right. I hope her mind’s in better shape when she wakes up. I need sleep, Priscilla, and Blair’s at the police station. Can you spare me a bed for an hour?”

“Yes, I’ll take you up to one of the guest rooms. Where’s Towser?”

“In the car.”

“Wait here. I’ll fetch him.”

Soon Towser came lolloping in at her heels. She led master and dog up the shadowy staircase and into a guest room and turned down the blankets. “There’s a bathroom through there, Hamish, and you’ll find disposable razors in the cabinet. There are clean towels and everything. John was hoping to fly up. He’s got his own helicopter now. But he couldn’t make it. Put your shirt and underwear outside the door and I’ll have them washed for you. When do you want up?”

“Give me two hours,” said Hamish. “Oh, Priscilla, there’s that damn bird society tonight. I told Mrs Brodie I’d run it for her, Lord Glenbader’s coming to give a talk.”

“You amaze me, Hamish. He doesn’t preserve birds except under aspic.”

“I know, he’s a pill. But I have a feeling there won’t be much of an audience. People are losing interest in all these societies and committees. Could you round up a few people?”

“Certainly. I’ll get on the phone right away. Now, go to bed.”

She went out and closed the door. Hamish removed his clothes and put his underwear and shirt outside the door and then climbed into bed. Towser leapt on the bed and stretched out across his feet. “Get down,” ordered Hamish sleepily. Towser rolled his eyes and stayed where he was.

Two hours later, Priscilla came in carrying his clean clothes over her arm. Constable Hamish Macbeth was lying fast asleep, his ridiculously long eyelashes fanned out over his thin cheeks. Towser opened one eye and lazily wagged his tail.

The bedclothes were down around Hamish’s waist. It was amazing how muscular Hamish was, thought Priscilla, looking at his naked chest and arms. His red hair flamed against the whiteness of the pillowcases and he looked young and vulnerable in sleep.

He opened his hazel eyes suddenly and looked straight at her. A look of pure happiness shone in his eyes and then it slowly died, like a light being turned down.

“Two hours up already,” groaned Hamish. “I could have slept all day.”

“Here are your clothes,” said Priscilla briskly, “and I’ve got some people to go to the bird meeting. Come downstairs when you’re ready and we’ll have tea.”

It was a black day in the life of Jenkins, the butler. To have to serve Hamish Macbeth tea in the drawing- room hurt his very soul.

When Hamish returned to the police station it was to find the detective, Jimmy Anderson, waiting for him.

“So you’re back,” said Anderson. “I’ve been left here to give you a row for sloping off.”

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” said Hamish. Anderson was sitting in the police station office with his feet on the desk and a glass of whisky in his hand.

“Aye, thanks. Blair’s right sore at ye for finding that Brodie woman. Daviot turned up to see how the search was going on and Blair told the super that it was thanks to his brilliant detective work that Mrs Brodie had been found. He was well launched on his story when my friend and colleague, Detective MacNab, who had been insulted earlier by Blair pipes up and says, “Oh, but it was Macbeth what found her. Brought her down from the hill himself. We was all looking in the wrong direction.” Blair looks fit to kill. The super accuses him of trying to take credit away from you, and Blair says he was simply describing how the operation had worked, and that he had sent you up the mountain himself. “That cannae be true,” says MacNab, “Weren’t you just saying you hadn’t seen Macbeth?” You should hae seen Blair’s face. I couldnae bear it any longer and walked away, but it wouldnae surprise me if Blair doesn’t get MacNab back walking the beat before a month is up. Blair’s gone off to grill Parker again, just for the hell o’ it.”

“How did you get on with Halburton-Smythe?” asked Hamish.

Anderson groaned. “Whit a bad-tempered wee man! How dare you waste my time when you could be out looking for the murderer. That sort o’ thing. Asked him what Mrs Thomas had taken from the cottage and he looked sulky and said it was some old china and glass and bits of furniture and odds and ends in a box. She was a sterling woman, according to his nibs. She certainly seemed to have a way with her. Was she all that attractive?”

“Not strictly speaking,” said Hamish. “But she had a very forceful personality. Type of person you love or loathe.”

“Well, I’d better be toddling along,” said Anderson. “Consider yourself reprimanded. What are ye going to do now?”

“I think I’ll jist go along to The Laurels and see how Paul Thomas is getting on,” said Hamish. “I like that man. I think when he gets over his wife’s death, he’ll settle down here all right.”

Paul Thomas was sawing up a dead tree at the back of the house.

“Feeling better?” asked Hamish.

“Still a bit shattered,” said Paul. “But I find work helps. I’ll be glad to see the back of that Kennedy woman and her rotten kids. Trixie could cope with that sort of person and pointed out we had to take anyone while we were getting started, but she whines the whole time and the only reason she stayed on was because I couldn’t bring myself to charge her rent, because that would have meant shopping for her and cooking for her.”

“How do you get on with Parker, now that you know he’s her ex?”

“We’ve become pretty friendly. In fact, he’s been a great help. I want to talk about her, you know, and he’s prepared to listen.”

“You know we found Mrs Brodie?”

“Yes, it was all over the village.”

“I’m running that bird society for her tonight. Want to come?”

“No, thanks. I’ll stay here and get on with my work. Truth is, I don’t know anything about birds.”

He should have come, thought Hamish that evening as Lord Glenbader started his lecture. It would have made two of them. Lord Glenbader obviously didn’t know much about birds either. He was also very drunk. The