Death of a Perfect Wife (13 page)

‘Probably the water bailiff’s after him,’ said Blair, keeping his eyes on the screen.

The promontory ended on the Atlantic side in a small cliff. Silhouetted above the tumbling clouds and right at the edge of the cliff, Hamish saw Paul Thomas. He slowed his frantic pace and walked slowly up to the man and stood beside him. Down below, waves as high as houses, cold and green and stained with the black of sea wrack, crashed on to the rocks below.

‘Don’t do it,’ said Hamish quietly. ‘She wasnae worth it.’

Paul sat down suddenly and Hamish sat down beside him on the springy turf.

‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘I think this is what happened,’ said Hamish. ‘You were getting on your feet and controlling your overeating with Trixie’s help. You came up here to start a new life. You liked doing things, painting the house and working in the garden. But Trixie did not like you doing things and showing any independence whateffer and so she undermined you by taking over and doing them better. You began to eat cakes on the quiet again and she knew that and at last you found out she knew where you hid them and thieved a few for herself. But you loved her, so something bad must have happened. It didn’t need to be a man. Maybe she wasn’t all that interested in sex. A woman would do for interest. She had Angela Brodie to take over and the rest of the women. She didn’t need you any longer. Perhaps she might have guessed that when the novelty wore off, people would like you and not her.

‘So she asked for a divorce.’

Paul Thomas remained silent. A huge wave rolled in, the wind whipping the white spray back from the top of it.

Hamish’s voice was low and clear and Paul could hear every word despite the tumult of the wind and water.

‘You knew if you said you had a toothache and were frightened of the dentist then she would make you go. You had probably been nursing a bad tooth on the quiet for weeks. Before you left, you put the cakes in the box under the bed. But before you did that, you took some of the old fly papers Trixie had brought back from Mrs Haggerty’s cottage. I saw that one hanging up in your sitting room and wondered why it wasn’t sticky. It was impregnated with arsenic. Trixie told you that. You soaked them in a jug of water and then evaporated the water and got enough arsenic crystals to kill her. Maybe you had read of that Victorian poisoning case where someone did the same thing. Forensic at Strathbane told me about it. I began to remember all sorts of things about the use of arsenic in the last century. It was believed that Napoleon died because of the arsenic in the wallpaper paste in his bedroom. Arsenic was also used widely to keep down bugs. Trixie found that bundle of fly papers. An ordinary person would have found them smooth and decided they were no use and thrown them away. But not Trixie. There had to be a use for everything. She was acquisitive. And so she found out that the old fly papers were covered in arsenic, told you, put the papers away maybe intending to take them over to old Mrs MacGowan some time, and probably forgot about them for the time being. But you didn’t.

‘You put arsenic in the cakes under the bed, or perhaps just one cake, to make sure. It’s a wonder that Kennedy girl didn’t eat it by mistake. And so you murdered her.’

‘And now I’m going to kill myself,’ said Paul, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. ‘I hated her so much for wanting rid of me. The house was in her name. She wasn’t going to let me have a thing. I was so fat and down and miserable before she came along. No one had ever cared for me so much, not even my own mother. She married me and kept me on a diet. I would have done anything for her. We were going to be so happy here. I laughed about her flirting with Archie Maclean, but I knew she had done it to spite me. She was finished with me and she was out to destroy me. But when she died, I was left with the same mess. Myself. I can’t go on living, Hamish. Life hurts, people hurt, I’ll just kill myself with food.’

‘Now, now, man, isn’t prison just the answer?’ said Hamish bracingly. ‘Think o’ it, man. Locked away from cakes. Good exercise, lots of reading, no cruel world to cope with. Better than a health farm any day.’

Can I really be saying all this, wondered Hamish wildly.

‘I don’t deserve to live,’ said Paul.

‘Maybe not. But prison will be a hard enough life to make you feel you’re atoning for your sins. Discipline. Told what to do from morning to night. What on earth possessed you to try to poison auld Macdonald? You’re not a Highlander. You didn’t believe he could guess the murderer?’

‘I thought she might have told him about the divorce. She didn’t want to tell anyone in the village because she wanted to appear the perfect wife until the last minute before the divorce. I heard he was going about saying he could solve the case. I panicked.’

‘You’re a bad man, Paul,’ said Hamish severely. ‘Prison’s just the place for you. You’ll be looked after.’

‘Will you come and see me?’ Paul sounded like a lost child.

‘Aye, I might at that. Come along, man, and get it over with. Now, I’ll jist put these nice handcuffs on you to make it all official.’ And talking to the big man as if he were a child, Hamish led him back along the promontory out of the sound of the sea.

Mr Daviot, the police superintendent, had made another surprise call on Blair. He was demanding a rundown on the progress of the Thomas poisoning when Anderson, from his post at the window, turned around with a grin on his face and said, ‘Here’s Macbeth, bringing in his man.’

‘Caught a poacher?’ said Blair, getting to his feet, while inside he prayed, ‘Look God, please do not let it turn out that Macbeth has found the murderer. Jist dae that for me and I’ll never swear again.’

Detectives MacNab and Anderson, Blair and Daviot all crowded at the window, watching as Hamish led Paul Thomas down towards the hotel. The constable was talking the whole time and Paul Thomas had tears running down his face. Hamish stopped and took out a handkerchief and wiped the man’s tears away and got him to blow his nose.

‘Quick!’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Downstairs. It looks as if the husband did it after all.’

Hamish had reached the forecourt of the hotel when they came running out.

He looked at Mr Daviot, not at Blair. ‘I have charged Paul Thomas with the murder of his wife, Alexandra Thomas.’

‘Has he confessed?’ asked Mr Daviot.

‘Yes,’ said Hamish.

Blair heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t take much brains to solve a murder when the murderer just walked up and said he’d done it.

‘I’ll just take the suspect off tae Strathbane,’ said Blair pompously.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Come inside, Hamish, and tell us what happened.’

Hamish, thought Blair furiously. The super called him Hamish!

They all walked in to the manager’s office and explained to Mr Johnson that they would be using it for a bit. When they were all seated, Hamish told Mr Daviot how the murder had taken place and why.

When he had finished, Blair ground his teeth. The super was looking at Hamish with admiration. Mr Daviot then turned to the big man who was slouched in his chair. ‘Do you understand what is going on, Mr Thomas? You know you are being charged with your wife’s murder?’

‘Yes,’ said Paul wearily. ‘I wanted to kill myself but Hamish said I would be better off in prison. He said no one could hurt me in prison. I wouldn’t have to think for myself.’

Blair opened his mouth to say something and Mr Daviot flashed him a warning look. ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Daviot soothingly. ‘Hamish is quite right. Now, we’ll just take a statement. See to it, Anderson.’

Mr Daviot took Hamish aside while Paul was drearily confessing to the murder. ‘Brilliant work, Hamish,’ he said. ‘My wife and I would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight. We’ll drive over here. Eight o’clock, say? And do ask Priscilla to join us.’

Blair moved away. He was shocked and furious. Like a horrible dream arose the vision of Hamish Macbeth as his superior.

At last, Hamish stood outside the hotel and watched them all drive away. He watched the car bearing Anderson, Blair, MacNab, Daviot, and Paul climbing up the long hill out of Lochdubh until it dwindled to the size of a toy.

Then he strolled back to the police station to phone Priscilla Halburton-Smythe and tell her about the end of the case and that invitation to dinner.

Blair sat in the corner of the dining room at the Lochdubh Hotel that evening. He was no longer furious. He was too miserable for that. His was a dark corner, but he knew the super had seen him, for Daviot had nodded curtly in his direction before turning back to his guests. It wasn’t fair, thought Blair, who had turned up in the hope of being included in the party.

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a flame-coloured chiffon dress that clung to her figure. Beside her, looking like the lord of the manor, thought Blair enviously, sat Hamish Macbeth, resplendent in a tuxedo which Blair assumed Priscilla had lent him, not knowing Hamish had bought it from a second-hand clothes shop in Inverness that year.

Then Blair noticed that the festive air about the party seemed to be dying fast. He wondered what was up.

Mr Daviot had discussed with his wife Hamish’s transfer to Strathbane while they were driving over to Lochdubh. ‘Poor chap,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘He must have hated being tucked away in that backwater. He’ll be delighted.’

At first, when he told Hamish the plans for his future over dinner, he did not notice that Hamish was beginning to look more miserable by the minute. ‘It means more money and promotion, of course,’ said Mr Daviot happily. ‘The accommodation is comfortable enough for single men. You won’t be able to have your dog there, but I’m sure we’ll find him a place in the police kennels.’

‘Well,’ giggled Mrs Daviot, ‘Ay’m sure Hamish won’t be single for long.’ She gave Priscilla a coy nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

Priscilla laughed. ‘Hamish and I are just good friends.’

‘Can I have a word in private with ye, Mr Daviot?’ said Hamish, deciding it would be better to start addressing the super in a more formal manner.

Mr Daviot looked surprised. Then he looked at his wife who was winking at him and pointing to Priscilla. The superintendent’s face cleared. Hamish obviously wanted to talk about marriage plans.

They walked through to the lounge. ‘Look, Mr Daviot,’ said Hamish urgently, ‘you need a policeman here and I am perfectly happy with the job. I do not want promotion. I do not want to work in the town.’

‘Why, in heaven’s name?’

‘I have my home here and my sheep and hens and geese. I have my friends and neighbours. I am a very happy man.’

Mr Daviot looked up at him curiously. ‘Are you really happy?’

‘As much as a man can be.’

The superintendent felt a pang of pure envy. ‘Well, if that’s the way you want it. What does Priscilla think about settling down in the village police station?’

‘Priscilla is not marrying me. We’re just friends. As a matter of fact, she’s got a fellow in London.’

Priscilla herself was saying very much the same thing to Mrs Daviot. She was feeling uncomfortable under Mrs Daviot’s prying questions and had answered them coldly and then haughtily. Both looked up in relief as the men rejoined them.

Mrs Daviot then saw Detective Chief Inspector Blair for the first time. She was smarting after Priscilla’s cold behaviour. Blair was such a nice man, thought Mrs Daviot, meaning that he could be guaranteed to grovel. ‘Dehrling,’ she said to her husband, ‘there’s thet naice Mr Blair. Do esk him over to join us for coffee.’

Blair came over, almost at a run. Mr Daviot felt himself begin to relax. There was something so reassuring about Blair. Typical detective. Hamish was odd, eccentric and upsetting. No one really likes to come across a happy and contented man. Besides, as he was not going to marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, there was no longer any need to think of him as a social equal.

After dinner, Priscilla and Hamish walked together along the waterfront. She had a long white silk stole about her shoulders and the fringed ends fluttered in the breeze. The wind had dropped and the stars shone brightly overhead.

‘So you refused promotion,’ said Priscilla flatly. ‘What is to become of you, Hamish?’

‘Nothing I hope,’ he said lazily. ‘Obsession’s a funny thing,’ he said, half to himself, thinking about Angela Brodie, Paul Thomas, … and himself. It was so peaceful to be able to stroll along beside Priscilla without being in the grip of that old, terrible yearning.

‘People who want to get on in life are not obsessed,’ said Priscilla crossly.

‘Like John Burlington?’

‘Yes, like him. What would the world be like if everyone were like Hamish Macbeth?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish mildly, ‘and I don’t care either. I don’t go about lecturing people on the folly of pursuing a career. That would be silly. Ambition’s a grand thing. I wonder what it’s like? Still hear from John Burlington?’

‘Yes, I’m going back in two weeks’ time and he’s going to meet me at the airport.’

‘And will you marry him?’

‘I don’t know. I might.’

‘Poor Priscilla.’

‘It’s poor Hamish. I don’t believe you’re unambitious. I think you’re as big a coward as Paul Thomas. I think you’re frightened of the big outside world.’

‘I don’t like it, I’ll admit,’ he said, still in that placid, happy voice which was beginning to get on Priscilla’s nerves. ‘If you choose to think I’m frightened, then you are entitled to your opinion. Well, there we are. Home.’

The blue lamp over the porch of the police station shone down through the rambling roses. Towser was standing on his back legs, his paws on the gate. Priscilla’s car was parked outside.

‘Coming in for a nightcap?’ offered Hamish.

Priscilla hesitated. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said.

She sat in the living room while Hamish made coffee and fished out a small bottle of brandy. He stood looking at the bottle. He remembered he had bought it in the hope of just such an occasion as this. He put it on a tray along with the cups and coffee jug and two glasses and carried it through to the sitting room.

‘Let’s look at television,’ said Hamish. ‘I just want to catch what’s on the news.’ He switched on the set and then settled himself in the armchair after seeing that Priscilla had her coffee and brandy.