Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy

friends and acquaintances.

Maggie was the centre of attention. She was wearing a clinging dinner gown in a soft material. It was smoky blue and she was wearing a fine sapphire and diamond necklace. The skirt of the gown was folded over so that when she sat, she revealed one long leg encased in a gossamer fine stocking. Her breasts, expertly reduced in size, were displayed to advantage by the low neck of the gown. She was playful, she was amusing, she was teasing, and she threw only a few barbed remarks in Alison’s direction. But she did order Alison around. “Fetch Peter a drink,” or, “Move that ashtray nearer Crispin.”

But as the evening wore on, the tension in the air grew, and the men, with the exception of Peter Jenkins, the advertising executive, began to vie for Maggie’s attention. Maggie persuaded Steel to get his guitar and perform. The pop singer returned with an electric guitar. While he was singing what seemed to be a protest song, Maggie began to tear up little pieces of paper napkin and pass them around to the other three men to use as earplugs. Fortunately for Steel, he was too absorbed in his performance to notice his audience was sniggering. Alison found it all very unpleasant. Her head ached. She mourned her lost days of freedom. She hadn’t been able to bear to look at the car when Maggie had brought it home, a Maggie full of stories about how Hamish Macbeth had called her “a miracle.”

The guests, fortunately, were tired after their journeys and an early night was proposed. Fully dressed, Alison lay in bed, waiting until she heard the large bungalow settling into silence. Then she rose and put on her coat and went downstairs and out to the garage. She opened the small side door, switched on the light and stood looking at the little red car. There was a vicious scrape along the right side. Alison began to cry in a dreary, hopeless sort of way. She had to get away from Maggie, but how could she find the strength to make the first move?

She heard steps crunch on the gravel and switched off the light and walked outside. A tall dark figure stood outside the house, watching her.

“Who is it?” asked Alison, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Peter Jenkins.”

“What do you want?”

“Just need to get some air.” He moved closer, sensing rather than seeing her distress. “You upset about something?”

“It’s the car,” whimpered Alison. “She scraped the car.”

“Maggie did? I don’t understand. Is it your car?”

“No.”

There was a long silence.

Then Peter let out a faint sigh. “I don’t want to go back’ in there yet. I may as well hear your troubles. Come and sit in my car and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll bore you,” said Alison.

“More than likely. But come along anyway.”

His car turned out to be the latest model of Jaguar. It was parked with the others in a bit of open space outside the gateposts. He turned on the engine and switched on the heater. “It’ll get warm pretty quickly,” he said. “Cigarette?”

“I can’t,” said Alison. “I’ve had cancer.” She began to sob and hiccup again.

He handed her a handkerchief and waited for her to stop, then gently urged her to tell her story. Bit by bit it all came out. “If only she would die,” said Alison. “She’s going to change her will as soon as she chooses one of you as a husband.”

“She can’t choose me,” said Peter. “I don’t want her.”

“Why was she so sure of you, then?”

The end of Peter’s cigarette glowed red in the darkness as he dragged on it. Then he said, “She’s changed. I had a fling with her, oh, let me see, I’m forty-eight now, say, about twenty years ago.”

“How did it start?” asked Alison, curious despite her misery. “I mean, did you just say, I will pay you ‘X’ amount to go to bed with me?”

“No, no, that’s not how the Maggies of this world operate. We went out on dates, I fell in love, she appeared to. At first it was expensive restaurants and expensive holidays, then she needed help with her mortgage, then she needed some bills paid, then it seemed logical to besotted me to give her a weekly allowance. But on my part, it was all for love.”

“And then you got wise to her?”

“Oh, no, she ditched me, for an Arab sheik, and left for the south of France with him. It took me a long time to get over it. There’s something cruel and, well…unbalanced about her now. I couldn’t believe my luck when I got her letter. I didn’t know she had invited the other fellows. She used to be so funny and warm and scatty and affectionate. You couldn’t help forgiving her. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been carrying a torch for her for years. Never married. What a waste!”

But Alison couldn’t imagine a loveable Maggie and thought Peter a fool.

“I wish I could speak to Hamish,” she said in a small voice.

“Who’s Hamish?”

“The village policeman.”

“But, look here, you can’t report Maggie for scraping her own car!”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that Hamish seems to make things all right.”

“Well, as I can’t sleep, I’ll take you there.”

“But it’s after midnight!”

“If he’s a conscientious bobby, he won’t mind being woken up.”

“All right,” said Alison shyly, suddenly elated at the idea of seeing Hamish while being accompanied by this handsome man. And Peter did seem handsome to Alison, who did not notice the weakness in his face, having a pretty weak character herself.

Hamish Macbeth, opening the kitchen door – Alison had quickly learned that friends and locals never used the front door – thought wearily as he looked at the two faces, God help us all if the meek do inherit the earth. He rucked his shirttail into his trousers. He had been undressing for bed when he had heard the knock at the door “Come in,” he said. “I am sure it must be something awfy important to get me out o’ bed.” Towser stood beside his master, blinking sleepily in the light. He let out a low growl, sensing Hamish’s dislike of Alison.

“Oh, Hamish,” Alison wailed and threw herself against his chest.

Peter noticed the way the policeman quickly put Alison away from him. Fat lot of sympathy she’s going to get from him, he thought, feeling suddenly protective of Alison.

“Sit down,” said Hamish, “and I’ll fetch us a dram.”

Hamish, when he drank, preferred warm bottled beer. His sideboard contained only a bottle of twelve-year- old malt whisky, a Christmas present he had never broached. It seemed such a waste to open it now, but hospitality was hospitality and Alison, tiresome though she might be, might cheer up with a little whisky inside her.

He went back into the kitchen, carrying bottle and glasses, and poured three measures. “Now,” said Hamish, “begin at the beginning and go on to the end. I have had a visit from herself today. My! Isn’t plastic surgery and bleach the wondrous thing? She was like one of thae film stars, ye know, she looked like beauty preserved rather than beauty reclaimed.”

Clutching her glass, Alison told the whole dismal story, of Maggie’s will, of her plans to marry, of her damaging the car, and ended up with, “I can’t have any respect for her, Hamish, not after having read her book.”

“What book?” asked Peter Jenkins sharply.

“She’s written a book about her affairs and a nasty bit of pornography it is too,” said Alison. “So what am I to do, Hamish?”

“I’ve told you before,” said Hamish quietly. “Get away from her. You’re a grown woman. You can earn your own money.”

“But…but…I’m still weak and what if the cancer comes back?”

“It’s got more chance of coming back if you stay on with her and keep getting yourself into a state,” said Hamish.

Peter Jenkins eyed the policeman coldly. What sort of help and comfort was this? In fact, what sort of