Death of a Perfect Wife (14 page)

As Hamish leaned back and watched the news, Priscilla studied him. He was not only free from the pangs of ambition, but, she realized with a little shock, he was free from her. She had never known Hamish had been in love with her, but now that it was gone, she realized for the first time what was missing. Had he fallen out of love with her because of John? Was that kiss which had seemed to her exciting a big disappointment to him?

Hamish’s eyelids began to droop. She leaned forward and took the brandy glass from his hand and put it on the table. In minutes, he was fast asleep. She felt she ought to leave but suddenly could not find the will to get up and go. Towser lay at her feet, snoring. The news finished and a showing of
Casablanca
came on. Priscilla sat and watched it through to the end, and then, without disturbing Hamish, she let herself out of the police station and made her way home.

Two weeks later, Hamish decided to pluck up courage and call on the Brodies. He had not seen the doctor in the pub, and heard from the gossips that the doctor had actually given up smoking.

The clammy weather had gone and the days were crisp and sunny and cool with a hint of frost to herald the early Highland autumn.

He walked around to the Brodies’ kitchen door and rang the bell.

‘Walk in!’ came the doctor’s voice.

Angela and her husband were seated at either side of the kitchen table. He was reading a book and had a pile of books on his side of the table and his wife had her pile of books on the other and was studying one which was propped up against the jam jar. Between them lay the cat, resting its chin on top of the cheese dish.

‘Oh, it’s yourself, Hamish,’ said the doctor. ‘Help yourself to coffee and find a chair.’ Angela looked up and smiled at him vaguely and returned to her books.

Hamish poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. ‘This looks like a university library,’ he said.

‘It is in a way,’ said the doctor. ‘Angela is studying for a degree in science at the Open University, and I’m getting back to my studies. I’m away behind the times.’

‘You were that,’ said Hamish. ‘I hear you’ve given up smoking. Maybe Mrs Thomas did you some good after all.’

‘I hate to say a good word about that woman,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘But I’ll tell you this much, Angela recovered pretty quickly and she said she would make me one of my old breakfasts, you know, fried everything with ketchup. Well, I wolfed it down and as I was walking to the surgery, I felt downright bad-tempered and queasy. Seem to have got a taste for muesli and salads.’ Hamish glanced at the title of the book the doctor had been reading,
Women and the Menopause
.

‘So, I decided it was high time I moved with the times,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘There’s a lot in this mind over matter business. I mean, I’ve got some patients who think they’re on special tranquillizers when they’re actually taking milk of magnesia tablets and yet they swear they’ve never felt better.’

Angela rose from the table. She was wearing quite a pretty dress and her perm was growing out. She scooped up an armful of books. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘There’s a programme I want to watch on television.’

‘So everything’s all right,’ said Hamish.

‘Oh, yes, I was afraid Angela’s mind was going to snap. And all over what? Some silly English housewife.’

Hamish reflected that the silly English housewife had at least stopped the doctor smoking and got him back to his medical books.

After he left them, he strolled along the waterfront. The sky was a pale green and the first star was just appearing. The peace of the world surrounded Hamish Macbeth.

Along at the harbour, the fishing boats were getting ready to set out. As he came nearer, he saw Mrs Maclean and Archie. Mrs Maclean handed her husband a packet of sandwiches and a thermos and then she put her arms about him and gave him a hug.

‘Well, I neffer!’ said Hamish Macbeth. He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to whistle as soft night fell and the little fishing boats with their bobbing lights made their way out to sea.

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe opened the door to her flat in Lower Sloane Street in London’s Chelsea. She was feeling tired and cross. John Burlington had not turned up at the airport to meet the Inverness plane and so she had taken the underground train and it had broken down outside Acton for an hour.

She picked up the post from the doormat and carried it through to the kitchen along with a copy of the
Evening Standard
that she had bought in Sloane Square.

She flicked through the post and noticed someone had sent her a newspaper from America. She slit open the brown paper wrapper. Her friend, Peta Bently, now living in Connecticut, had sent her a copy of the
Greenwich Times
. ‘See page five,’ Peta had scrawled on the front of it.

Priscilla turned to page five. There was a picture of Hamish Macbeth standing with Towser under the roses outside the Lochdubh police station.

The caption read, ‘Local businessman, Carl Steinberger, took this photograph of a Highland bobby while on holiday in Scotland. A far cry from
Hill Street Blues
!’

The photograph had been printed in colour.

‘He might have told them about the murder,’ muttered Priscilla. She unfolded the
Evening Standard
. John Burlington’s face seemed to leap up at her from the front page. His face bore a tortured look and he was surrounded by detectives.

‘Arrested for insider trading at his Belgravia home, stockbroker socialite, John Burlington,’ Priscilla read.

The phone rang and she went to answer it.

The voice of her friend, Sarah James, came shrilly down the line. Wasn’t it just too awful about poor John? As the voice went on and on, Priscilla looked out of the window. The traffic in Lower Sloane Street was belching fumes out in the air. She turned slowly and looked at the newspapers, lying side by side on the kitchen table, at the frantic face of John Burlington and at the happy face of PC Macbeth.

If you enjoyed
Death of a Perfect Wife
, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the
Hamish Macbeth
series …

‘You might have
known
people really do dress up for dinner in the Highlands.’ Maggie Baird shifted her large bulk irritably in the driving seat and crashed the gears horribly.

Beside her in the passenger seat of the battered Renault 5, her niece, Alison Kerr, sat in miserable silence. Her Aunt Maggie had already gone on and on and
on
about Alison’s shabby appearance before they left the house. Alison had tried to protest that, had she been warned about this dinner invitation to Tommel Castle, she would have washed and set her hair and possibly bought a new dress. As it was, her black hair was lank and greasy and she wore a plain navy skirt and a white blouse.

As Maggie Baird mangled the car on its way to Tommel Castle – that is, she seemed to wrench the gears a lot and stamp down on the footbrake for no apparent reason at all – Alison sat and brooded on her bad luck.

Life had seemed to take on new hope and meaning when her mother’s sister, Maggie Baird, had descended on the hospital where Alison was recovering from lung cancer in Bristol. Alison’s parents were both dead. She had, when they were alive, heard little about this Mrs Maggie Baird, except, ‘We don’t talk about her, dear, and want to have nothing to do with her.’

When she had thought she was about to die, Alison had written to Maggie. After all, Maggie appeared to be her only surviving relative and there should be at least one person to arrange the funeral. Maggie had swept into the patient’s lounge, exuding a strong air of maternal warmth. Alison would come with her to her new home in the Highlands and convalesce.

And so Alison had been borne off to Maggie’s large sprawling bungalow home on the hills overlooking the sea outside the village of Lochdubh in Sutherland in the very north of Scotland.

The first week had been pleasant. The bungalow was overcarpeted, overwarm, and over-furnished. But there was an efficient housekeeper – what in the old days would have been called a maid of all work – who came up from the village every day to clean and cook. This treasure was called Mrs Todd and although Alison was thirty-one, Mrs Todd treated her like a little girl and made her special cakes for afternoon tea.

By the second week Alison longed to escape from the house. Maggie herself went down to the village to do the shopping but she would never take Alison. Eventually all that maternal warmth faded, to be replaced by a carping bitchiness. Alison, still feeling weak and dazed and gutless after her recent escape from death, could not stand up to her aunt and endured the increasing insults in a morose silence.

Then had come the invitation to dinner from the Halburton-Smythes, local landowners, who lived out on the far side of the village at Tommel Castle, and Maggie had not told her about their going until the very last minute, hence the lank hair and the blouse and skirt.

Maggie crashed the gears again as they went up a steep hill. Alison winced. What a way to treat a car! If she herself could only drive! Oh, to be able to go racing up and over the mountains and to be free and not immured in the centrally heated prison that was Maggie’s bungalow. Of course, Alison should just leave and get a job somewhere, but the doctors had told her to take it easy for at least six months and somehow she felt too drained of energy to even try to escape from Maggie. She was terrified of a recurrence of cancer. It was all very well for other people to point out that these days cancer need not be a terminal illness. Alison had had a small part of her lung removed. She was terribly aware of it, imagining a great hole lurking inside her chest. She longed daily for a cigarette and often refused to believe that a diet of forty cigarettes a day had contributed to her illness.

Maggie swung the little red car between two imposing gate posts and up a well-kept drive.

Alison braced herself. What would these people be like?

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe pushed the food around her plate and wished the evening would end. She did not like Maggie Baird, who, resplendent in a huge green and gold caftan, was eating with relish. Her voice was ‘county’ as she talked to Colonel Halburton-Smythe about the iniquities of poachers, and only Alison knew that Maggie had a talent for sounding knowledgeable on all sorts of subjects she knew little about.

I can’t quite make her out, thought Priscilla. She’s a great fat woman and quite nasty to that little niece of hers and yet Daddy is going on like an Edwardian gallant. He seems quite taken with her.

She looked again at Alison. Alison Kerr was a thin girl – well, possibly in her thirties, but such a waif that it was hard to think of her as a woman. She had thick horn-rimmed glasses, and her black hair fell in two wings shielding most of her face. She had very good skin, very pale, almost translucent. Priscilla flashed a smile at Alison who scowled and looked at her plate.

Priscilla was everything Alison despised. She was beautiful in a cool poised way with shining pale gold hair worn in a simple style. Her scarlet silk dress with the ruffled Spanish sleeves must have cost a fortune. Her voice was charming and amused.

I would be charming and amused if I lived in a castle and had doting parents, thought Alison bitterly. I know what that smile meant. She’s sorry for me. Damn her.

‘You will find you have to do a lot of driving in the Highlands, Mrs Baird,’ the colonel said.

Maggie sighed and then looked at him with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. ‘How true,’ she said, ‘I’m up and down that road to the village like a tart’s drawers.’

There was a little silence. Mrs Halburton-Smythe opened her mouth a little and then shut it again. Then the colonel gave an indulgent laugh. ‘It’s not London,’ he said. ‘There isn’t an Asian grocer at the corner of every field. You have to make lists, you know. It’s quite possible to buy all the groceries for a week in one go. Doesn’t that housekeeper of yours do the shopping?’

‘I prefer to do it myself,’ said Maggie, once more falling into the role of country gentlewoman. ‘I like to get the best of everything although Lochdubh is pretty limited. I think the inhabitants must live on a diet of fish fingers.’

‘You should take a trip into Inverness and stock up,’ said Mrs Halburton-Smythe. ‘They’ve got everything there now. Quite a boom town and expanding every day. Why, I remember not so long ago when it was a sleepy place and they drove the Highland cattle to market through the main street. Now it’s all cars, cars, cars.’

‘And crime on the increase,’ said the colonel. ‘What those fools in Strathbane think they’re about to leave us without a policeman, I don’t know.’

‘Hamish!’ said Priscilla. ‘You didn’t tell me.’ She smiled at Alison. ‘I only arrived last night and haven’t caught up with the local news. Hamish gone? Where?’

‘They’ve closed down the police station and taken that lazy lout off to Strathbane,’ said her father. ‘It’s funny, I never thought Macbeth actually did anything. Now he’s gone and someone has been netting salmon in the river. At least Macbeth would have found a way to stop it, although he never arrested anyone.’

‘But this is dreadful,’ exclaimed Priscilla. ‘Hamish is a terrible loss to the village.’

‘Well,
you
would naturally think so,’ said her father acidly.

Priscilla’s cool manner seemed ruffled. Oho! thought Alison, I wonder if the daughter of the castle is in love with the absent local copper.

Maggie looked amused. ‘If you want to get him back,’ she said, ‘all you need to do is manufacture some crime in the village.’

She flashed a flirtatious look at the colonel. Priscilla thought, It’s as if there’s a beauty encased under that layer of fat.

But she said aloud, ‘What a good idea. Why don’t we organize a meeting in the village hall and put it to the locals.’

The colonel seemed about to protest but the suggestion caught Maggie’s imagination. She liked to imagine herself a leader of Highland village society.

‘I’ll arrange it for you if you like,’ she said. ‘Alison can help. Or try to help. She’s not really good at anything, you know. When shall we have the meeting?’

‘Why not this Saturday?’ asked Priscilla.

‘You are not suggesting you are going to encourage the villagers to commit crimes so as to get Hamish back!’ said Mrs Halburton-Smythe.

‘Something must be done,’ said Priscilla. ‘We’ll put it to the locals and then take a vote.’

‘A vote on what?’ demanded her father.

‘On whatever suggestions are put up,’ said Priscilla evasively. ‘There’s no need for you to get involved, Daddy. I am sure Mrs Baird and I can handle everything.’

Alison found herself beginning to speculate on this local bobby. He must be someone very special to attract the cool Priscilla. Her mind wandered off into fantasy. What if she helped to get him back, managed to do more than Priscilla? This Hamish Macbeth would be tall and fair and handsome like those paintings of Bonnie Prince Charlie on the old biscuit tins. He would fall in love with her, Alison, and take her away from Maggie and leave Priscilla with the knowledge that Alison’s inner attractions were more important to a man than stereotyped outward beauty. She lacks character in her face, thought Alison, looking under her lashes at Priscilla and trying to find fault.

At last the evening was over. Maggie was wrapped by the butler in a voluminous mink coat. I hope Macbeth isn’t into Animal Liberation, thought Alison maliciously. That coat must have taken a whole ranch of minks.

As she was leaving, the colonel suddenly leaned forward and kissed Maggie on the cheek. She flashed him a roguish look and he puffed out his chest and strutted like a bantam.

Oh, dear, thought Priscilla, I wish he wouldn’t make such a fool of himself.

She did not know that her father’s misplaced gallantry was to start a chain of events which would lead to murder.

Maggie was in a good mood as she drove home through the wintry landscape and under the bright and burning stars of Sutherland. So she could still attract a man. And if she could attract a man when she was like this – well, plump – think what effect she could have if she took herself in hand.

It was all the fault of that damned waiter, thought Maggie. Maggie Baird had earned a considerable amount of money during her career. Although she had managed to stay off the streets and had been married and divorced twice, she had made a business out of being mistress to a long string of wealthy men, occasionally straying to the poorer ones for her own amusement. Like most women addicted to food, she also had a tremendous appetite for sex. Unlike most of her sisters on the game, she had squirrelled away her earnings, buying and selling property and investing cleverly. That was when the blow had fallen. Finding herself a very wealthy woman and looking for amusement, Maggie had taken up with a Greek waiter whose swarthy good looks had appealed to her. But for the first time in her life, she had fallen helplessly in love and when she had found that he was taking her money to save enough to marry a young blonde from Stepney, she felt her life was over.

She had bought the bungalow in the Highlands, a place to lick her wounds. She had let the bleach grow out of her hair so that it became its natural brown streaked with grey. She had put on pounds and pounds in weight. She wore tweeds and suede hats and oilskin coats and brogues and everything she could to adopt the character of a Scottish gentlewoman, as if hiding her hurt under layers of fat and country dress.

Taking Alison out of the hospital made her feel good for a while, until the novelty had worn off. Now the pain of the waiter’s rejection was fading as well.

‘There’s life in the old girl yet,’ she said cheerfully.

‘You mean the car?’ asked Alison.

‘Me, you fool, not this heap of junk.’

‘It’s a very nice little car,’ said Alison timidly. ‘Auntie –’

‘I told you not to call me that,’ snapped Maggie.

‘Sorry … Maggie. Look, do you think I could take driving lessons? I could do the shopping for you.’

‘I’ve got more to do with my money than pay for your driving lessons,’ said Maggie. ‘That colonel’s quite a lad. His wife looks a bit of a faded nonentity. And that daughter of his! No character.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Alison eagerly. Both women fell to trashing Priscilla and arrived home quite pleased with each other for the first time in weeks.

The Highlands of Scotland contain many pretty towns and villages but Strathbane was not one of them. It had been attractive once, but had become a centre for light industry in the early fifties and that had brought people flooding in from the cities. Ugly housing complexes had been thrown up all round; garish supermarkets, discos, and wine bars and all the doubtful benefits of a booming economy had come to Strathbane along with crime and drugs.