∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

3

The pursuit of perfection, then,

is the pursuit of sweetness and light…

Matthew Arnold.

Detective Chief Inspector Blair had said Hamish was half-witted. At the dinner at Tommel Castle that night, Mr Daviot began to think Blair was right. Hamish tripped over things, knocked over things, absent-mindedly put his elbow in the gravy boat, and had a silly sort of smile on his face the whole time.

Mr Daviot sympathized with the colonel, who appeared to dislike the local policeman intensely. What on earth did Priscilla see in the man?

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a short black slip of a dinner gown. It showed off her slim figure and set off the pale gold of her hair. Mr Daviot wished his wife had not chosen to wear beige silk with an enormous bow on one plump hip. He was used to his wife’s genteel tones, but during that dinner party, they grated on his ear.

Why could she not say glass instead of gless, or that instead of thet! He became very cross with her and to most things she said, he interrupted with, “Don’t be silly,” or, “No-one’s interested in that,” until his hurt wife became as clumsy and gauche as Hamish.

In all, it was an unpleasant dinner party for all but Hamish, who seemed off in another world. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, always nervous of her husband’s rages, sat like a silent ghost at the head of the table.

Conversation turned to the Thomases. “Pretty thing, Mrs Thomas,” said the colonel. “Called here today looking for bits of furniture. Brave woman. Struggles on down there with that oaf of a husband leaving her to hold the place together.”

“Did you give her anything?” asked Priscilla.

“I gave her that old pine washstand. It was stuck in the corner of the tack room covered in dust.”

“She seems very selective,” commented Priscilla. “That washstand’s Victorian. If she’s so hard up for furniture, you would think she would be after chests of drawers or beds or something.”

“Oh, she is. You know old Mrs Haggerty who died last year and no-one turned up to collect her bits and pieces out of that cottage? Turns out she hasn’t any relatives and the cottage belongs to the estate anyway. I promised to drive Mrs Thomas over to have a look at what’s there.”

“I would keep clear of her if I were you,” said Priscilla. “I don’t like her much. I think she’s a bossy bitch.”

“Mind your language, girl, and when did you start to become such a good judge of character?” The colonel flashed a vicious look at Hamish Macbeth.

Everyone except Hamish was glad when the evening was over. He was still floating above the ground on the memory of that kiss.

But reality crept back into Hamish’s mind the following morning. He had kissed Priscilla. She had not kissed him. She had only allowed him to kiss her because the water bailiff and the superintendent were shortly to arrive on the scene. He thought of the dinner party and felt it was like looking back on a party where one had been very drunk.

Hies were buzzing around the kitchen and he seized the fly spray mentally damning Trixie and her ozone layer, and slaughtered the lot. But the fly spray smelled so vile that he opened the kitchen door to let the air in and five bluebottles promptly flew in, followed by a posse of midges.

The doorbell went at the front of the police station. When he opened the door, a middle-aged couple were standing on the step. “We’re touring Scotland,” said the man in an American accent. “I’m Carl Steinberger and this is my wife. The hotel here is too pricey for us. We wanted to know if you knew of anywhere cheaper.”

Hamish did not want to put any custom Trixie’s way, but, on the other hand, she had the reputation of being a good housekeeper and a good cook. “There’s The Laurels,” he said, pointing along the road. “It’s a bed and breakfast, but if you want lunch, I’m sure Mrs Thomas will arrange something. Come in then and have a cup of tea.” Hamish adored American tourists, feeling more of an affinity with them than the English ones.

He slammed the kitchen door, muttering about the flies. “You’re unlucky,” he said to the Stein-bergers. “It was lovely in June. This weather’s miserable. Hot, wet and clammy and the flies are a menace.”

“I don’t know why you don’t have screen doors like they do in the States,” said Mr Steinberger.

“Screen doors?” Hamish stood with the teapot in one hand.

“Yes. All you need is a wood frame and some metal gauze or you could even use cheese cloth. Anything. Or strings of beads like they have in the Mediterranean countries.”

“Well, I neffer,” said Hamish. “Such a simple idea. I’ll get to work on it today.”

Mr Steinberger looked amused. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much crime in this area to keep you occupied.”

“We have had the murders,” said Hamish grandly. He served the couple tea and scones and they chatted amiably. When they left, Mr Steinberger insisted on taking a photo of Hamish at the door of his police station. Rambling roses rioted over the porch, nearly obscuring the blue lamp. “They’ll never believe this back home,” he said.

Hamish went out to a shed in the garden and ferreted out some pieces of wood. Then he went to the drapers and bought cheese cloth. It was the sort of drapers that still sold cheese cloth.

He measured the doorway and then got to work. The rain had stopped and the sun blazed down and the flies buzzed about the kitchen.

Trixie Thomas appeared on the doorstep. “What do you want?” asked Hamish sharply, for he was sure it was Trixie who had reported his poaching activities to the superintendent.

“I wanted to know if I could go up to your field and collect sheep wool from the fences.”

“Whatever for?”

“Mrs Wellington has given me an old spinning wheel and I’m going to spin yarn.”

“Do you know how to do it?” asked Hamish curiously.

“Oh, yes, I once had lessons from a New Zealand woman at the Women’s Cultural Awareness Group in Camden Town in London.”

Hamish groaned inwardly. He knew Trixie would go ‘on stage’ with her spinning wheel as soon as possible, probably taking it out to the front garden where all could see and marvel at this further example of domestic perfection. She made no move to leave and he asked sharply, “Anything else?”

“I wanted to know if you would like to come to our Anti-Smoking League meeting tonight?”

“If there is one thing that will keep a man smoking,” said Hamish bitterly, “it’s folk like you going on at him. Why don’t you leave Dr Brodie alone?”

“Because he is a doctor and should know better.”

“You must have been a smoker yourself once,” said Hamish. “There is nothing mair vicious than an ex-smoker.”

Hamish himself was an ex-smoker and had vowed never to give in to the strong temptation to reform people who were still smoking. Trixie opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. She was feeling in a good mood. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had driven her over to an old deserted cottage and she had made quite a good haul. The colonel had entertained her with his worries about the possibility of his daughter perhaps marrying Hamish Macbeth.

“Mind if I use your toilet?” asked Trixie.

“Oh, very well,” said Hamish, standing aside to let her past.

She was gone a long time and he was just about to go in search of her in case she was searching the rooms when he heard her voice calling from the front of the house, “I see Paul. I’ll let myself out this way.”

Hamish went back to work. She seemed to have forgotten about collecting wool from the fences. His dislike of Trixie, he realized, was mainly because of the change she had wrought in Angela Brodie. Angela with her ridiculously curly hair now wore a perpetually harried look and was thinner than ever,

He finished the door and then discovered he needed hinges and set off in the direction of the ships chandlers which was also the local ironmongers and which was down by the harbour. As he was passing The Laurels, he heard a faint humming sound and looked into the garden. Sure enough, Trixie was there, busily spinning, a self-important look on her face. He went on his way and met one of the local fishermen, Jimmy Fraser. “What about a pint, Hamish?” asked Jimmy. “I’m buying.”

“All right,” said Hamish. They walked into the pub at the side of the Lochdubh Hotel. “What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked Hamish. “I can practically see the steam coming out your ears.”

“It’s that wumman,” growled Jimmy.

“Which one?”

“Her. The Englishwoman. Archie Maclean took herself out in the boat last night. A wumman on a boat! It iss a wunner we didnae drown. Forbye, when I lit a cigarette, she struck it oot o’ my mouth, and when I went to belt her one, Archie said I wass to leave her alone and he iss the skipper. It’s a black day. There’ll be trouble from this.”

“And why was Archie Maclean taking herself out on his boat?”

“Soft about her, that’s what he iss. Sitting there, holding her hand like a giant bairn and leaving uss to do all the work.”

“And what has Mrs Maclean to say to this romance?”

Jimmy looked alarmed. “We wouldnae tell her. She’d kill that wumman if she knew.”

After a while, Hamish left him, bought the hinges, and walked back to the police station. So the perfect wife had fallen off her pedestal. Mrs Maclean was not popular but the Lochdubh women would not like an Englishwoman poaching one of their own, so to speak.

Therefore, it was with some surprise that he saw later that day the minister’s wife, Mrs Wellington, carrying a cake to the Thomases. He was out walking with Towser when he saw her leaving. “Afternoon, constable,” she called. Hamish strolled up to her. “Been visiting the scarlet woman?” he said.

“Whatever do you mean, Mr Macbeth?”

Hamish was a gossip, but hardly ever a malicious one. He decided to make an exception in this case. “Why, it is all over the village how herself went out with Archie Maclean and held his hand.”

Mrs Wellington was a large tweedy woman. She eyed Hamish with disfavour. “And it is all over the village how you were caught up on the Anstey in the middle of the night, kissing and canoodling with Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

“Yes, but I am not the married man.”

“Meaning Archie Maclean is? Shame on you, Mr Macbeth. Trixie and Paul told me all about it. Paul was laughing like mad. He said Trixie had gone out just to get some free fish – for the lambs are so desperately poor – and Archie got all spoony and she didn’t know how to handle it. Paul said there’s always some fellow or another who’s spoony about her. So if you hoped to turn me against her, you’ve failed. She’s the best thing that ever happened to Lochdubh, which is more than I can say about a certain lazy gossipping constable.” And quite red in the face with indignation, Mrs Wellington strode off.

“Now what do you make of that?” said Hamish to Towser. Towser snorted. “Exactly,” said Hamish. “Fair makes you sick.”

The Thomases had another battered-looking woman in residence with her brood of noisy children. Hamish wondered whether they got welfare cases to fill the rooms. An unmarried mother with four children would rake in quite a large government benefit. The thin quiet man seemed to be a perpetual lodger. Hamish saw him coming and said, “Good afternoon,” but the man muttered something and shied away.

The next morning, Dr Brodie poked around a bowl of something and said to his wife, “I know you’re interested in the protection of birds but there is no need to serve me their droppings for breakfast.”

“That’s muesli,” said Angela in aggrieved tones. “It’s good for you.”

Dr Brodie looked at her. “I suppose Trixie told you to serve it to me.”

“She showed me how to make it up from oatmeal and raisins and nuts,” said Angela eagerly. “It’s so much cheaper than the packet kind and better for you.”

“That woman turned up in my waiting-room yesterday and put non-smoking stickers all over the walls without asking my permission. I wasn’t going to tell you about it and worry you but enough is enough. I told her to get knotted and so she is writing to the health authorities to complain about me.”

Angela’s loyalty was shaken.

“Doctors shouldn’t really smoke, dear. You can’t really blame her…”

Her voice trailed off before the fury in her husband’s eyes. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’ve put up with your Trixie nonsense because I thought it was a passing fad. But my home has become a sterile hospital ward, the cat’s shut in the shed and the dog’s in a kennel in the garden. My wife has a hairstyle like Harpo Marx and dresses like one of those tiresome women who are always going on marches and demonstrating something. I want steak and chips for dinner and a bottle of wine. Put any more rabbit food in front of me and I will puke all over the table. And I want to see the animals in the house this evening. Mention that woman’s name to me again and I will kill her.”

Mrs Maclean hit her husband on the head with a jug when he entered the house. He reeled back, screaming, “What was that fur?”

Although the residents of Lochdubh had not directly told her about her husband and Trixie, they had told her in that sideways Highland way of communicating nasty information, apocryphal stories about men they had known who had become silly over Englishwomen, and Mrs Maclean, being equally Highland, had been able to transcribe the coded messages.

“You’ve been making up tae that Englishwoman, ye daft wee scunner,” yelled Mrs Maclean.

“She jist wanted a trip out in ma boat,” he said sulkily, rubbing his head.

“And you held her hand, like a daft schoolboy! Listen tae me, Archie Maclean, you go near that wumman again and I’ll strangle her wi’ ma bare hands.”

“You’re haverin’,” said Archie, running out of the door before she could hit him again.

He made straight for the pub where Jimmy Fraser was already propping up the bar.

Jimmy greeted him with a wide smile. “How’s the Cassanova of the Highlands?” he called.

“Shut yer face,” said Archie sulkily. But he joined Jimmy and ordered a pint.

“You’ve jist missed herself’s husband,” said Jimmy. “My, how that big fellow wass laughing about a certain skipper who had made a pass at his wife and how herself did not know what to do about it for fear of hurting the ugly wee skipper’s feelings. Yon Trixie’s been making a fine joke of you all around the village.”

Archie maintained a dignified silence while black murder raged in his heart.

Iain Gunn was a crofter turned farmer. He had bought the rundown old Sutherland farm over the hill from Lochdubh on Loch Coyle in 1975. Over the years, he had ploughed and seeded and worked hard, clearing more fields of old stones and glacier rocks until he had a moderately prosperous farm. His fields lay on almost the one flat piece of land in the surrounding countryside, looking more Lowland Scottish than Highland with their well-cultivated acres and herds of cattle. There was only one still unsightly area on his property. At the far corner of one of his fields was an old ramshackle two-storied ruin. He had rented a bulldozer and meant to flatten it, clear away the rubble, and then plough over the land on which the ruin stood. He was just advancing over the fields in his rented bulldozer when he noticed a small party of women carrying banners, standing in front of the ruin. As he came nearer, he read with amazement, “Protect Our Bats,” and “Gunn Is a Murderer.” He drove up and climbed down. He recognized Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, Angela Brodie, and various other women from the village. The spokeswoman stepped forward. He wondered who she was and then recognized her as Lochdubh’s latest incomer, Trixie Thomas.

“You shall not pass!” cried Trixie. The women behind her started marching up and down singing, “We shall not be moved.”

He scratched his head. “I do not have the nuclear missiles. What is all this about?”

“You have bats,” said Trixie.

“Och, you’re bats yourself,” said Iain.

“No, I mean there are bats in that old ruin and bats are a protected species. You cannot touch it.”

Then Iain saw with relief a white police Land Rover, parking at the edge of the field. “Here’s Hamish,” he said, “He’ll sort you out.”

The women began chanting again as Hamish sauntered up.

“Tell these daft biddies to go away,” said Iain. “They are after saying I cannot bulldoze that ruin because there are bats in it. Haff you ever heard the like?”

“I’m afraid they are right,” said Hamish. “Bats are protected, Iain, and you’ll need to leave that ruin alone.”

“Michty me. You mean a man cannae do whit he likes with his ain property?”

“Not when it comes to bats,” said Hamish.

Iain’s face darkened with anger. “I’ve a good mind to bulldoze this lot o’ harpies.”

“Do you hear him, constable?” cried Trixie. “He is threatening to kill us.”

“I didnae hear a word,” said Hamish crossly. “But you women should be ashamed of yourselves. Yes, you too, Mrs Wellington! Somehow you heard Iain was going to bulldoze this old ruin. Well, why the h – , why on earth didn’t you just write the man a letter? Behaving like silly bairns. You are a right disgrace – all of you.”

“A man as full of land greed as Iain Gunn would not have paid attention to any letter,” said Trixie.

“Now, I did hear that,” said Hamish, “and if you want to sue her, Iain, I will be your witness. Off home with the lot of ye and try to behave like grownups. Shoo!

Angela flinched. Hamish’s eyes were hard. How silly they all looked, she thought suddenly. Why had she come along? And Trixie had no right to say that about Iain. Crofters never liked farmers but although they occasionally made sour and jealous remarks about Iain Gunn, there was no real animosity in their hearts.

The women trailed off. “I’ll walk,” said Angela to Trixie. She had come in Trixie’s old Ford van.

“Don’t be silly, Angela,” said Trixie, and Angela felt she would weep if anyone ever called her silly again. “You know how much I rely on you. We had to make a stand. Gunn wouldn’t have paid any heed to a letter. Besides, I’ve got the minutes of the last Anti-Smoking League meeting to type out and I’m hopeless at it. Don’t be cross with me. I do rely on you, Angela.” Trixie’s eyes seemed very large and almost hypnotic. “Everyone’s remarked on how much you’ve changed lately. Why, even Mrs Wellington was saying only the other day that you were looking younger and prettier than you had done in ages.”

Angela melted. Her husband had never once in their marriage commented on her appearance until that remark about her looking like Harpo Marx. Sensitive and insecure, never able to think much of herself, Angela was an easy prey for the dominant Trixie.

With a weak smile, she got in the van beside Trixie.

Iain Gunn watched them go. “Environmentalists should be poisoned like rats,” he said.

Angela Brodie typed out the minutes while Trixie worked in the back garden and Paul sat on the wall in front of the house looking at the loch. She glanced guiltily at the clock, remembering her husband’s demand for steak. The butchers would be closed quite soon. She stacked the minutes in a neat pile and ran out of the kitchen, calling to Paul to say goodbye to Trixie for her. Again, Angela felt a slight unease about Trixie, but she fought it down. Her drab life was now colourful and full of events because of Trixie. She was proud of her clean house and seemed to be on a constant high of energy and hard work. She could not go back to being the lazy, dreamy person she had been for so long. But she bought the steak.

Trixie put down her spade and walked around from the back garden to the front. She saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walking along the road. Trixie ran into the house and emerged a little while later with a navy-blue sweater slung over her shoulders. Ignoring her blank-eyed husband she stepped out into the road just as Priscilla was approaching. “Good afternoon, Priscilla,” she called cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Thomas,” said Priscilla. Her eyes fell on the sweater and a little frown marred the smooth surface of her brow. “That looks like one of Hamish’s sweaters,” she said.

Trixie lifted it from her shoulders and held it out to Priscilla. “Would you hand it back to him?” she said, “I’d be too embarrassed.”

“Why?” asked Priscilla, ignoring the proffered sweater.

Trixie giggled. “Our romantic policeman’s a bit soppy about me. He gave it to me to wear, you know, just like an American college kid giving his girlfriend his football sweater.”

Priscilla looked down her nose. “Give it to him yourself,” she snapped, and walked around Trixie and off down the road.

Angela Brodie waited and waited but her husband did not return home. The cat was sleeping by the fire along with the dogs, its claws dug into the carpet in case it should be lifted up and banished to the garden again. The clock ticked slowly, marking off the time. Angela phoned the surgery but only got the answering machine referring callers to the house number. He must have been called out on an emergency, she thought, but then she had a feeling he was deliberately staying away. She tried to read but reading did not bring the old comfort. She turned on the television. There was a party political broadcast on one channel, a sordid play on another, a wildlife programme about snakes on the third, and on the fourth, a ballet with screeching music and white-faced performers in black tights. She switched it off. She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out dusters and polish and began to clean the clean house all over again.

At ten o’clock, she phoned the police station. Hamish Macbeth said he would go and find the doctor. She had a feeling that Hamish knew where the doctor was.

At half past ten, the kitchen door opened and the doctor entered, or rather was helped in by Hamish. He giggled when he saw his wife and sang to the tune of Loch Lomond, “Oh, I’ve just killed Trixie Thomas, the rotten harpie’s dead.”

“Come to bed, doctor,” said Hamish. “Come away. Where’s the bedroom?”

“Upstairs,” said Angela weakly.

She waited, listening to the sounds as the doctor sang loudly about having killed Trixie and Hamish patiently coaxed him into bed.

She could not ever remember her husband being drunk before. But Trixie had warned her that all that smoking and junk food would cause a deterioration in him sooner or later. At the very corner of her mind was a niggling little voice accusing her of having driven her husband to drink, but she did not listen to it. Instead she tucked her sneakered feet – those gleaming white sneakers so like Trixie’s – under her on the sofa and waited for Hamish to descend.

Trixie Thomas could be harsh with her husband for his own good. The fact that Paul did not want to go to the dentist in Inverness and the fact that Trixie was determined he should go was all over Lochdubh by lunchtime as the couple’s row on the subject had taken place in their front garden.

“Afraid o’ the dentist like a wee wean,” jeered Archie Maclean who had had all his teeth pulled out at the age of twenty-one and had never had to worry about a dentist since.

Paul was eventually seen driving off in the van. At one o’clock, Mrs Kennedy, the boarder, returned to The Laurels with her sticky children to see if she could coax Trixie into making them all some sandwiches. The rain was falling steadily and the children were fractious and bored. But there was no sign of Trixie and her bedroom door was locked.

Angela Brodie turned up at two. Mrs Kennedy was cheerfully raiding the pantry. “Mrs Thomas must be having a wee lie down,” she said. “I cannae get a reply.”

Angela ran up the stairs and knocked on Trixie’s door. Trixie had a separate room from her husband, an odd luxury in a couple who claimed they needed to rent out every available space to boarders. Angela hesitated. Then she knocked louder and called and waited. Silence.

It was a big, rambling Victorian villa. A large fly buzzed monotonously against the stained glass window on the landing. From below came the wails of the Kennedy children demanding ‘mair jelly pieces’ by which they meant more jam sandwiches.

Angela knew Paul had gone to Inverness to the dentist. Everyone knew that.

The silence from behind Trixie’s door was un –

Suddenly alarmed, Angela began to hammer at the door and shout.

Again she waited. Again that silence. The Kennedy family had fallen silent now. The fly buzzed against the glass and the rain drummed on the roof.

Angela decided to go for help. She would look a fool if they burst into that bedroom and found Trixie fast asleep. But she remembered stories in the papers of people who had not interfered for fear of looking foolish and because of that fear, someone had died.

She thought Hamish would laugh at her, but he put on his peaked cap and followed her to The Laurels. His face was set and grim. He tried to tell himself his feeling of foreboding was the weather. The midges danced through the raindrops, stinging his face and he automatically fished in his pocket for his stick of repellent.

He walked up the stairs past the Kennedy family who were gathered at the foot. The children were strangely silent, their jam-covered faces turned upwards.

He went up to Trixie’s room and hammered on the door. Then he tilted his head on one side and listened to the quality of the silence.

“Stand back,” he said curtly to Angela.

He kicked at the lock with all his might and there came a splintering sound and the door burst open.

Trixie Thomas lav half across the bed, her hair spilled over her face. He gently put back her hair and looked down at her contorted face and then he felt her pulse.

“Get your husband here,” he said over his shoulder.

“Is she…?” Angela put her hands up to her mouth.

“Yes. But get him anyway.”

Angela ran down the stairs and along the waterfront towards the surgery. Rain water poured down her face like the tears she could not yet shed.

The receptionist called something as she ran past and burst into the consulting room.

“Come quickly,” Angela called.

Dr Brodie was examining Mrs Wellington’s bared bosom with a stethoscope. Angela reflected wildly that she had never seen such enormous breasts before.

“Mrs Brodie!” screeched the outraged minister’s wife, seizing a brassiere the size of a hammock.

“It’s Trixie. She’s dead,” said Angela, and then the tears came and great suffocating sobs.

“Dear me. Dear me,” said Mrs Wellington, encasing her girth rapidly in underwear and Harris tweed.

Dr Brodie seized his bag and ran out of the surgery to his car. Hamish was waiting for him in Trixie’s bedroom. “Don’t move the body if you can,” he said when he saw the doctor. “I’ll have a look around outside.”

The doctor spent only a short time in the room. Hamish was coming along the corridor when Dr Brodie emerged outside.

“I’ll just write the death certificate,” said the doctor. “Heart attack. No doubt about it.”

Hamish’s eyes narrowed and he said quietly, “Go back in there and try again. It’s a case of poisoning, if ever I saw one. It’s murder, doctor. Pure and straightforward murder!”

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