Hamish Macbeth 04; Death of a Perfect Wife

coloured slides of birds had got mixed up with his recent holiday in India, a fact of which he seemed quite unaware since he talked down his nose and with his eyes closed.

“And this,” he said, operating the switch, “is a great barn owl.” His audience solemnly studied a slide of his lordship on an elephant.

“Wrong slide,” said Hamish.

His lordship raised his heavy eyelids. “Is it? Dear me. Find the right one, constable. There’s a good chap.”

Hamish looked despairingly at the great pile of slides. “It would take all night to look through these,” he complained.

“Then stop interrupting.” Lord Glenbader’s eyelids drooped again. “And this ish a houshe martin,” he slurred. A smiling Indian beggar appeared, holding out a hand for baksheesh.

Priscilla came in carrying a pot of coffee, poured a cup of it, and handed it to Lord Glenbader. “Thanks,” he said. “And here’s a lot of tits.” He peered down Priscilla’s low-necked blouse and Hamish sniggered. But the slide did show three blue tits and two coal tits. It was hit and miss from then on, Lord Glenbader only occasionally describing the right slide. The audience sat, numb with boredom.

Priscilla steadily poured coffee. Lord Glenbader’s lids gradually rose. “What a bore all this is,” he said crossly after the hundredth slide. “What I need is a good drink.”

“What are all these plastic bags?” asked Priscilla.

“Oh, them. They’re Victorian specimens of stuffed birds from my great grandfather’s collection. I’ll pass them round. Don’t take them out of the bags. Just peer inside. You’ll get arsenic poisoning if you handle them.”

“Why arsenic?” asked Hamish sharply.

“That’s the way the Victorians kept the bugs at bay,” said Lord Glenbader. “It was their sort of DDT. The fellow who arranged these things in the glass cases ten years ago got a chesty cough and running at the eyes and jelly limbs. Brodie diagnosed flu. Went to hospital in Strathbane, not believing Brodie and found he’d got arsenic poisoning from handling the birds. Brodie’s a fool.”

The Highland audience of men, women, and children politely peered inside the bags and then showed the first signs of interest that evening as Priscilla started laying out plates of cakes and biscuits beside an enormous pot of tea. “Least I could do,” whispered Priscilla to Hamish. “Rodney Glenbader is a crashing bore.”

Lord Glenbader was now obviously in a very bad mood indeed, made worse by the fact that there was nothing stronger to drink than tea and by the knowledge that he was not being paid for his services. There is nothing more outraged than a British aristocrat who finds he has performed a service for nothing. Lord Glenbader came from a long line of grasping ancestors. He snatched up his birds and stuffed them in a sack and went out, slamming the door behind him.

“Help me with the tea, Hamish,” said Priscilla. “You’re off in a dream. What are you thinking of?”

“I’m thinking of arsenic,” said Hamish. He joined her nonetheless and took the heavy teapot from her hands.

Mr Daviot, the police superintendent, came in. “I’m going back to Strathbane,” he said to Hamish. “Congratulations on finding Mrs Brodie.”

“I had luck on my side,” said Hamish.

“We could do with a few able men like you on the force in Strathbane,” said Mr Daviot.

Hamish opened his mouth but Priscilla said eagerly, “You couldn’t have a better man, Mr Daviot. He’s a genius at solving crime.”

“Well, I wish he would solve this one,” said Mr Daviot. He waved his hand in farewell.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak for me, Priscilla,” said Hamish crossly. “I have no mind to leave Lochdubh.”

“But you must have, Hamish. You can’t want to remain an ordinary copper for the rest of your life.”

Hamish sighed. “When will you get it through your head that it’s not clod-hopping stupidity or shyness that keeps me here. I love Lochdubh, I like the people, I’m happy. Why should I go and get a rank and money to please society’s accepted idea of success? I am successful, Priscilla. Very few folk are contented these days.”

“I made a mistake about that Macbeth fellow,” said Mr Daviot as he undressed for bed that night. “I think he’s very bright.”

“Are you sure?” His wife adjusted a hair net over her rollers. “The colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe didn’t seem to like him at all.”

“But the daughter does, and I think there might be a marriage in the offing.”

“Oh.” His wife digested this piece of intelligence. “Wheh don’t we esk them for dinner?”

“Wait till this case is solved, if it ever is solved,” said her husband, climbing into bed.

Hamish went to The Laurels after the meeting was over. Paul Thomas answered the door himself. “Come in,” he said. “I was watching television.”

Hamish went in to the sitting-room. The Kennedy family were lined up in front of the set. In front of them was a coffee table with a plate of sticky cakes. From the electric light above their heads, a fly paper hung, brown and flyless.

From upstairs sounded the busy rattle of John Parker’s typewriter.

“What can I do for vou?” asked Paul, nicking uo a cake and stuffing it whole into his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the television screen. LA Law was showing.

“Wondered if there was anything I could do for you?” said Hamish.

Paul did not reply. He picked up another cake and sat down on a chair beside the Kennedys, his eyes still on the screen.

Hamish decided if the man was that interested in watching television, he must have made a good recovery from his breakdown at the funeral.

No-one in the room noticed Hamish leaving.

¦

Hamish drove over to inspect the ruin on Iain Gunn’s farm. Three quarters of the building had collapsed, leaving one end standing up, the two floors still showing scraps of coloured wallpaper on the cracked plaster.

He puttered among the ruins, shining his torch. If there was any proof that Iain had done the job himself then that proof was buried under the rubble.

And then he heard a faint squeak. He shone his torch up to the rafters of the bit of the house which was still left standing. Small furry bodies hung in rows upside down.

Bats.

He heard the noise of an engine and switched off his torch and walked outside on to the field.

Iain Gunn was approaching in a bulldozer.

? Death of a Perfect Wife ?

8

But! I have done a thousand dreadful things.

As willingly as one would kill a fly.

—Shakespeare.

Hamish felt irritated. Iain had no right to attempt to bulldoze the building until he got the all clear. As he walked forward and held up his hand, he was vividly reminded of that day when the women had mounted their protest. He could still see Trixie, the leader of the women – leader of the Amazons? – her eyes glowing with excitement and hear that cockneyfied voice of hers.

The bulldozer ground to a halt.

“You can’t go on with it, Iain,” called Hamish. “You’ve still got bats in the bit that’s left and anyway, you shouldn’t have attempted to knock it down until you got the OK.”

Iain looked at him, a blind, flat look. He started up the bulldozer again.

“Stop!” shouted Hamish, standing in front of it.

The bulldozer moved steadily towards him.