Death of a Perfect Wife

∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

5

I know of no way of judging the future but by the past.

—Patrick Henry.

Hamish was just moving out of the police station in the Land Rover in the morning when Blair appeared, holding up a beefy hand.

“I hear ye’re going to consult the oracle,” he said with a grin.

“Meaning what?”

“It’s all over the village that Angus Macdonald is going tae solve the case by looking at his crystal balls.”

“Want to go yourself?” asked Hamish.

“I’ve got mair to dae with ma time. Typed out your report frae the dentist?”

“Why bother?” said Hamish laconically. “It’s the same stuff you got from the police in Inverness. But there’s something you should know.” He told Blair about the dealer.

“Bugger it,” said Blair. That complicates things.

“She’d probably made off with someone’s family heirloom.”

“You should ask Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish maliciously. “He was driving her around while she looked for antiques.”

Blair’s face darkened. The Daviots had been bragging about their dinner at the castle and he had no desire to run foul of the new super by putting the colonel’s back up. “Aye, well, I might send Anderson up. This is the devil of a case. There was nae arsenic in that curry. Must hae been in something else.”

Towser, who was sitting beside Hamish, growled softly.

“You look right daft with that mongrel beside you,” sneered Blair.

“This is a highly trained police dog,” said Hamish, “and I’ve already been offered five hundred pounds for him.”

Blair’s mouth dropped in surprise as Hamish drove off.

“It wasn’t really a lie,” Hamish told Towser. “If they had any sense in this place, I’m sure they would have given me an offer for you.” Towser lolled his tongue and put a large affectionate paw on Hamish’s knee.

“Should be a woman’s hand on my knee,” said Hamish, “and not a mangy dog like yourself.”

The seer lived in a small white-washed cottage on the top of a round green hill with a winding path leading up to it. It looked like a child’s drawing. Hamish parked his vehicle at the foot of the path and began to walk up. Black storm clouds rolled across the heavens and the wind roared through a pylon overhead with a dismal shriek. At least the wind is keeping away the flies and midges, thought Hamish, leaning against its force as he walked towards the cottage. A thin column of grey smoke from one of the cottage’s chimneys was being whipped and shredded by the wind.

Angus Macdonald was a tall, thin man in his sixties. He had a thick head of white hair and a craggy face with an enormous beak of a nose. His eyes were very pale grey.

He opened the door as Hamish reached it. “So ye’ve come at last,” he said. “I knew you’d be by. Cannae solve the case?”

“And I suppose you can,” said Hamish, following the seer into his small kitchen-cum-living room.

“Aye, maybe, maybe,” said Angus. “Whit have ye brought me?”

“Nothing. What did you want? Your palm crossed with silver?”

“Folks aye bring me something. A bit o’ salmon, or a piece of venison or a homemade cake.”

“I am here to ask you to tell me as an officer of the law what you know about Trixie Thomas.”

“She’s dead,” said the seer and cackled with laughter.

“When she came to see you, what did you tell her?”

Angus lifted a black kettle from its chain over the open fire and took it over to the sink and filled it with water and then hung it back on the hook. “I’ve a bad memory these days.” he said. “Seems tae me that there’s nothing like a wee dram for bringing it to life.”

“I haven’t brought any whisky with me,” said Hamish crossly.

The seer turned from the fire and bent a penetrating gaze on Hamish. “She’ll never marry you,” he said.

The Highland part of Hamish repressed a superstitious shudder. The policeman part decided to be diplomatic.

“Look, you auld scunner,” he said, “I’ll be back in a bit with a dram. You’d better get your brains working by then.”

Angus smiled when Hamish had left and then set about making a pot of tea. The wind howled and screeched about his cottage like a banshee. He could hear nothing but the fury of the wind. He hoped Hamish would be back soon with that whisky. The wind depressed him. It seemed like a live thing, some monster howling about his cottage, seeking a way in.

It was probably playing havoc with his garden at the back. He put the teapot on the hearth beside the fire and then opened the back door. His raspberry canes were flattened and the door of his garden shed was swinging wildly on its hinges. He went out into the small garden and shut the shed door and wedged a brick against it.

A fitful gleam of watery sunlight struck through the clouds as he turned and shone on something lying beside his back door. He went and looked down. A full bottle of whisky.

He grinned. Just like devious Hamish Macbeth. Leaving the whisky and hoping he’d get well oiled before the constable came back to ask his questions.

He carried the bottle inside. Time to switch on the television and watch the long-range forecast. People were always amazed at his ability to predict the weather so accurately although they watched the same programme themselves. He settled down in his battered armchair by the fire and poured himself a glass of whisky, noticing that the top had already been opened. “Decided to have a dram himself and thought the better of it,” reflected Angus with amusement.

The wind increased in force and shrieked and battered at his cottage like a maniac. As he raised his glass to his lips, the room whirled away and he suddenly saw his long dead mother. She was looking surprised and delighted, the way she had looked when he had unexpectedly come home on leave during the war. And then the vision faded. He sat very still and then put the glass down on the floor beside him with a shaking hand.

As a youth, he had been sure he had been gifted with the second sight, as that ability to see into the future is called in the Highlands. He had had it during the war. He had seen in his mind’s eye his friend getting shot by the Germans and sure enough that’s exactly what had happened. He had gradually built up the reputation of a seer. The gift had never come back, but he had found it easy to impress the locals as he knew all about them anyway and listened to every bit of gossip.

He was sitting, staring into space, when Hamish came back.

“Here’s your whisky,” said Hamish, holding up a half bottle. “Why, you greedy auld pig, you’ve got a whole bottle there.”

“It’s death,” said the seer in a thin voice. “Oh, tak’ it away, Hamish. I saw death in it.”

He was white and trembling.

“Where did you get it from?” asked Hamish sharply.

“It was outside the kitchen door – at the back. People aye leave me things, you know that, Hamish. I didnae hear anyone because o’ that damn wind.”

“And what stopped ye?” asked Hamish, looking at him intently.

Angus shook his head as if to clear it. “I saw my mither,” he said. “She was standing by the door and she looked surprised tae see me as if I’d jist crossed over tae the other side.”

“And ye hadn’t been drinking anything before that?” asked Hamish cynically.

“No, man, no. I swear it.”

Hamish took out a clean handkerchief and lifted the bottle of whisky. “Have you a bit o’ kitchen paper or something so I can take the glass as well?” he asked.

Angus nodded in the direction of the sink where there was a roll of kitchen paper standing on the draining board.

“I’ll just be off,” said Hamish, tenderly carrying both glass and bottle.

“Dinnae leave me,” wailed Angus, getting to his feet.

“Aye, I suppose ye’d better come with me to Blair, although what he’s going to make of this, I shudder to think.”

Blair was in the police station office when Hamish returned with the seer. The police station, like most of the houses in Lochdubh, was hardly ever locked.

“I know you’re not staying at the hotel,” said Hamish crossly, “but I thought Johnson had given you the free use of a room.”

“Aye, well I jist happened to be passing and needed tae use the phone. Who’s he? And whit are ye daein’ stinking o’ whisky?” Hamish was carefully carrying a glass of whisky and the bottle he had taken from Angus.

Hamish and the seer sat down and Hamish in a colourless voice recounted Angus’s vision.

Blair laughed and laughed, slapping his knees in delight. “Daviot’s arrived from Strathbane. He’s along at the hotel now tae see how the investigation’s going on. Wait till he hears aboot this.”

Blair gleefully picked up the phone and started to dial. If ever the superintendent needed extra proof that Hamish Macbeth was a simpleton, this was it.

“You’ll never guess what I have tae tell you, sir,” said Blair. “Macbeth has brought the local seer, Angus Macdonald in. Someone left this local weirdo a bottle o’ whisky on his doorstep and he’s about to drink some of it when he sees his dead mither calling to him from the other side and decides it’s poisoned.” Blair laughed and laughed. The voice at the other end of the phone squawked and the laughter died on Blair’s lips. Mr Daviot was a Lowland Scot in love with the Highlands and everything Highland. Seers were Highland and therefore to be treated with respect. “Well, if you say so, sir,” mumbled Blair and put the phone down.

“I’ve to take this whisky tae Strathbane fur analysis,” he growled, “and you and Macdonald here are tae go along to the hotel and see the super. They’ll be naethin’ in that bottle but straight Scotch, and then you’ll look like the fools you are.”

Mr Daviot treated Angus with great courtesy, ushering him tenderly to an armchair and handing him a cup of coffee.

Angus told his story to an appreciative audience this time. “And I gather that Macbeth here went to see you to ask what Mrs Thomas had wanted to know,” said Mr Daviot. “Did you tell him?”

“I was about to,” said Angus, “when I got that fright. Och, she didn’t want to know anything. She offered me a fiver for thae wally dugs on my mantel, but I ken they’re worth a bit these days. I told her greed would be the end of her.”

“And why did you say that?” asked Mr Daviot sharply.

“I hae the second sight,” said the seer.

“You may just have had it today,” said Hamish. “But it’s my guess you’d heard about Trixie already and you were cross because she was trying to cheat you out of your china dogs. I’d better take you back, and look about and we’d better get forensic up to your cottage.”

“You gang along yourself,” whined the seer. “I’ve a mind tae stay here wi’ Mr Daviot. He has the sign of greatness in his face.”

That was enough for Mr Daviot so Hamish left with only Towser for company.

The wind had dried the ground and he was doubtful whether the forensic team would be able to find a footprint. The path to the back door was formed of paving stones and outside the back gate was springy heather moorland.

If someone had tried to poison Angus then that someone must have known Hamish was going to call on him. But according to Blair, the whole village knew of Hamish’s proposed visit. He strolled over the moorland at the back of the cottage and found himself looking down on Iain Gunn’s farm. He wondered whether either Blair or his detectives had interviewed Gunn. He had not told Blair about the bats, having felt it to be of not much importance. Now with the cloud shadows chasing each other across the moorland and with the soughing of the wind, Iain Gunn seemed like someone who ought to be taken seriously. All he would have had to do was to run up the hill to the back of the seer’s cottage and leave that whisky. Hamish suddenly remembered the look of hate on Iain’s face as he watched Trixie leaving. He would need to tell Blair and Blair would rightly point out that he had been withholding valuable information.

Iain Gunn was in his farmhouse kitchen, just removing his Wellington boots, when Hamish arrived. His son, a tall, gangling youth, was sitting at the kitchen table and Mrs Gunn was stirring something on a pot on the stove.

“It’s yourself, Hamish,” said Iain cheerfully. “Sit down.”

“I would like a wee word with you in private,” said Hamish.

Iain and his wife exchanged an odd look and then he said slowly, “Come ben.”

Hamish followed him through to the living-room. It was bleak and cold and had a little-used look despite the new, fitted carpet on the floor, the plastic flowers in vases, the noisily patterned nylon curtains at the window, and the three–piece suite of acid green uncut moquette.

There was a large television set in one corner but Hamish was sure the Gunn family hardly ever had time to look at it. They all worked hard.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Iain.

“Trixie Thomas’s death’s the trouble. I have to interview everyone who might have had a grudge against her. Now Angus Macdonald is swearing blind someone left a poisoned bottle of whisky outside his back door today.”

“Angus drinks so much it’s no wonder that whisky tastes like poison to him now,” said Iain. “And what could I have had to do with that silly bitch’s death?”

“With her out of the road, you could go ahead and bulldoze that ruin,” pointed out Hamish.

Iain gave a derisive laugh. “That damn fool bird society she started has no doubt written letters to every other bird society, telling them about the bats. I’ll have bird watchers trekking over my land and making a pest of themselves. Do you mind the days, Hamish, when bird watchers were nice kindly people you were glad to see? Oh, a lot of them are still fine, but there’s a new breed o’ militants. The men have got beards and wear camouflage jackets and those wee half-moon glasses and they’ve got bad teeth and the women have got their fat bums stuffed into jeans and wear anoraks covered with badges. I’d shoot the lot of them if I thought I could get away with it. No, I didn’t poison Mrs Thomas, Hamish.” He leaned forward. “Look, just think of all the hassle a man has to put up with from the government these days. Look how Scotland has changed with value added tax hit squads and petty little bureaucrats enjoying throwing their muscle around. There’s a lot more folk I had better reason to kill than Trixie Thomas. You’ll probably find her man bumped her off. It’s aye the husband.”

“Why?”

“Imagine living with a woman who irons creases in her jeans and wears white sneakers.”

“Aye, it’s enough to turn the strongest stomach,” said Hamish with a grin. Then his face grew serious. “Look, Iain, I didnae tell Blair about the bats and I’ll need tae tell him, so prepare yourself for a hassle.”

“Don’t worry. I had the income-tax inspector round last week. If I can put up with an income-tax inspector, I can put up with Blair.”

Hamish made his way back up past Angus’s cottage and met the seer coming up the hill.

“They are not interested in my story any mair,” said Angus peevishly. “They haff arrested the husband.”

“Paul Thomas? Why?”

“No’ him. Her first husband.”

“Her – ?”

“Aye, it turns out that lodger o’ theirs, John Parker, used tae be married to her.”

Hamish went straight to the hotel. John Parker was closeted with Blair and his two detectives in the hotel room allocated to the police. Hamish put his head round the door.

“Get lost,” snarled Blair.

Hamish walked away. He wondered where Daviot was. As the local policeman, he, Hamish Macbeth, should have been in on the interrogation.

He saw the hotel manager in the forecourt. “Where’s Mr Daviot?” asked Hamish.

“He’s gone back to Strathbane. There’s been a successful drug raid on one o’ the ships,” said Mr Johnson. “This murder’s become small beer.”

Hamish made his way to The Laurels. Paul Thomas was working in the garden.

“What’s all this about her first husband?” demanded Hamish.

Paul straightened up from his weeding slowly and passed an earthy hand over his forehead. “It was a surprise to me,” he said in a bewildered way. “Why didn’t Trixie tell me?”

“Did you hear them having a row or anything?”

“No, they went on like strangers. It was probably him that did it. And I don’t care any more. Nothing’s going to bring her back.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and Hamish patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Can I have a look at his room?”

“It’s full of forensic people, dusting everything in sight although they’ve already dusted everything and I don’t know what they hope to find. I wish everyone would go away and leave me alone.”

Hamish went back to the police station in time to meet Priscilla who was just driving up.

Although he was glad to see her, he found with surprise that his heart no longer gave a lurch. They sat in the kitchen and Hamish told her about the seer and the first husband.

“You would think it would be one of the locals trying to poison Angus,” said Priscilla after listening in attentive silence.

“Why?”

“Well, someone was very afraid that Angus might have divined something, and only the locals would think that. I can’t see either Paul Thomas or this first husband believing in the second sight.”

Hamish poured more tea. “I think that a frightened murderer might be prepared to believe anything. I hope he doesn’t go ahead and arrest John Parker without any evidence. I would like to have a word with him.”

“Blair’s capable of anything. Oh, that’s clever,” said Priscilla, noticing the screen door.

“It was a couple of American tourists gave me the idea,” said Hamish. “I wish I could have a word with that Carl Steinberger. He was staying there at the Thomases for a couple of nights. Where was he from again? I know, Greenwich, Connecticut. He may be back home now. Excuse me a minute, Priscilla. I’ll phone the police in Greenwich and ask them if they know Carl Steinberger’s phone number.”

He was halfway out of the kitchen when Priscilla rose to her feet. “Don’t worry, Hamish,” she said. “I think I’ll call on Angela Brodie. I’m worried about her.”

Hamish stopped. “Why?”

“She makes me uneasy. You can’t go around taking on someone else’s personality without something cracking,” said Priscilla.

She drove down to the doctor’s house, thinking about Hamish Macbeth. Although he had been as friendly as ever, something had gone out of that friendship. Hamish was no longer shy of her, she thought, nor was his whole mind on her when she was there. She felt uneasily that part of his mind had dismissed her.

Priscilla walked up the path to the kitchen door and then stood motionless, with her hand on the doorknob. From inside came a faint humming sound, a familiar sound. A picture of Trixie rose vividly in Priscilla’s mind. She pushed open the door and went in.

Angela was sitting spinning wool, her thin face intent. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a shapeless white T–shirt with the legend Save The Bats emblazoned on the front.

She looked up and saw Priscilla. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Angela, getting to her feet. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Priscilla looked around the gleaming and sterile kitchen. Angela put beans – from Nicaragua, where else? thought Priscilla – into the coffee grinder. Priscilla sat down at the kitchen table. It was amazing, reflected Priscilla, how a hairstyle could alter a woman. Angela’s perm showed no signs of growing out. Hard little curls rioted over her head, making her hair look like one of those cheap wigs from Woolworths. Her mouth appeared to have become thinner with little tight lines at the corner of the mouth.

“I didn’t know you had a spinning wheel,” said Priscilla.

“Paul gave it to me,” said Angela. “Poor man. He didn’t want to keep it in the house. He said every time he looked at it, he could see Trixie sitting there.”

“How are things going?” asked Priscilla.

“Not very well,” said Angela, feeding coffee into the machine. “The meeting of the Anti-Smoking League was last night. And do you know how many turned up? Two. And one of them was that layabout, Jimmy Fraser, who thought it was a stop smoking class.”

“That might be a better idea,” said Priscilla. “You might get more results by helping people to stop smoking than by putting a sort of prohibition ban on the stuff.”

“Anyone in their right mind should know it’s dangerous to smoke.”

“But it’s an addiction, like drinking, like eating too much sugar. I read an article which said that addicts are more open to suggestion as to how to stop than outright militant bans. Look at Prohibition in the States with people drinking disgusting things like wood alcohol and going blind. I’m sure a lot of people drank more during Prohibition than they would have done if the stuff was available.”

Angela folded her lips into a stubborn line. “Trixie used to say that people didn’t know what was good for them. They need to be taken in hand.”

“You can make a lot of enemies, Mrs Brodie, if you try to be nanny to the world.”

“That’s a bitchy thing to say!”

“And so it was,” said Priscilla contritely. “I’m concerned for you, Mrs Brodie. You seemed a happier person before Trixie Thomas arrived on the scene.”

“I was half alive,” said Angela fiercely. “There’s so much to be done in the world. Trixie used to say that if everyone just sat around doing nothing, then nothing would be done.” She took a deep breath and said triumphantly. “I am declaring Lochdubh to be a nuclear-free zone.”

“Oh, Mrs Brodie! You yourself?”

“I’m forming a committee.”

Priscilla felt at a loss. There was something badly wrong with Angela Brodie. She wondered whether the doctor’s wife was at the menopause. She had grown even thinner, not the willowy slimness she had had before, but a brittle thinness. Her fingers were like twigs and there were deep hollows in her cheeks. Priscilla suddenly wanted to get out. An old–fashioned fly paper was hanging from the kitchen light and dying flies buzzed miserably, trapped on its sticky coating.

“I’ve suddenly remembered something,” lied Priscilla, getting to her feet. She could not wait any longer in this suffocating atmosphere for that coffee to fill the pot, drip by slow drip.

She turned in the doorway. “Do you know, Mrs Brodie, that Angus Macdonald claims someone tried to poison him today by leaving a bottle of poisoned whisky outside his door?”

“Silly old man,” snapped Angela. “It’s years since he did a day’s work. Him and his silly predictions.”

Priscilla went outside and took a deep breath of warm damp air. The wind had dropped and a thin drizzle was falling. She wondered how Hamish was getting on with his phone call.

Hamish had found everything remarkably easy. The police in Greenwich, Connecticut, knew Carl Steinberger. He owned a small electronics factory outside the town. They gave Hamish the number and Hamish dialled and asked for Carl Steinberger.

In his usual Highland way, Hamish did not get right to the point but waffled on about the screen door and the flies and the weather until Mr. Steinberger interrupted him gently with, “Look, officer, it’s great talking with you, but I’m a busy man.”

“Can you tell me what you made of the Thomases?” asked Hamish. “The wife’s been poisoned.”

“Jesus! What with?”

“Arsenic.”

“Rat poison? Something like that?”

“We can’t find anything,” said Hamish. “That other lodger, John Parker, turns out to be her first husband.”

“I can’t tell you anything,” said Mr Steinberger, “except that we didn’t like her. My wife said she had a knack of making her husband look like a fool, but we didn’t pay much attention. The place was clean and the food was good. She was a great baker. We must have put on pounds. But there was no fun in eating her cakes because her husband was on a diet and he would sit at the table and glare at every crumb of cake we put in our mouths. That John Parker took his meals in his room and typed when he wasn’t out walking. Can’t tell you any more.”

Hamish thanked him and put down the phone. He wondered what John Parker was saying to the detectives. He went along to the grocery store and bought a bottle of whisky, wondering whether he should go out with his gun that night and bag a few brace of the colonel’s grouse to sell in Strathbane and so make up for all the whisky he was having to buy.

He wandered back along to the hotel and stood outside, looking at the fishing boats.

At last, he heard Blair’s loud voice. He went to the wall of the hotel. Blair was standing with his back to him facing his two detectives. There was no sign of John Parker. One of the detectives, Jimmy Anderson, looked across to where Hamish’s head was appearing above the wall. Hamish raised the bottle of whisky and Anderson gave a brief nod.

Hamish then went back to the police station and settled down to wait.

After half an hour, Anderson appeared. “If ye want me to tell ye about it,” he said, “give us a drink first. Blair’s fit tae be tied. Can’t make a case against Parker.”

Hamish poured the detective a glass of whisky and said, “So what’s Parker’s background?”

“Ex-drug addict. Hash and a bit of cocaine. Out of work. Along comes Trixie Thomas. Social worker. Takes him in hand. Sees his writing. Badgers publishers and agents. Gets him started. Gets him off drugs. Gets him earning. And then what do you think she does?”

“She divorces him,” said Hamish.

“How did you know?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish slowly. “Just a lucky guess. Anvway, is he still in love with her? Did Paul Thomas know he was her ex? He must have known when he married her. Told me he didn’t, but surely he did.”

“No, he says Trixie reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.”

“Still, he must have known. She’d need to have her divorce papers, surely.”

Anderson grinned. “Seems the managing Trixie arranged everything and all he can remember is standing in the registrar’s office saying yes.”

“And when did all this take place?”

“This year.”

“And when did she divorce Parker?”

“Ten years ago.”

“Any children?”

“No, she couldn’t have any. What about some more whisky?”

Hamish poured him another glass. “So how did Parker know where to find her?” he asked.

“She wrote to him. She’d heard about him selling the film rights. Must have been in some magazine. She said she needed boarders and he owed her something because she never had asked him for alimony, and she didn’t want Paul to know, but it would be a nice way of paying her back for the start she had given him in life and all that crap. So the wimp comes up. He was paying her two hundred pounds a week. Paul didn’t know. She collected the money…cash. No income tax, no VAT.”

“Leave a will?” asked Hamish.

“Aye, left everything to Paul. He owns the house already but she left twenty thousand pounds.”

“Not bad for someone who was aye pleading poverty,” said Hamish. “But not enough to kill for. Look, maybe you can help me out of a jam.” He told Anderson about Iain Gunn and the bats.

“I’ll tell Blair,” said Anderson. “He’s so hell bent on proving Parker did it, he’ll hardly listen.”

“Look,” said Hamish urgently. “I’m going along to have a word with Parker. If the results of that bottle of whisky come through, let me know.”

“OK,” said Anderson, draining his glass. “Keep the bottle handy.”

John Parker was typing in his room when Hamish called.

“Now, Mr Parker,” said Hamish severely, “what I want to know is why you told an outright lie when you said that you hadn’t known Trixie Thomas before?”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” said John. “I didn’t murder her and I didn’t want to be the subject of a police inquiry. You’ve probably heard I used to be on drugs and I’ve been on the wrong side of the law several times in the past. I have no great liking for policemen.”

“And I have no great liking for liars,” said Hamish coldly.

“Sorry about that, copper, but that’s the way it is.”

“So tell me about your marriage.”

“There’s nothing much to tell. I was a right mess when Trixie found me. She got me into a drug clinic, paid for it herself, found my manuscripts when I was in there, and when I came out, she took me around agents and publishers. She corrected my manuscripts and typed them. She did everything but go to the toilet for me,” he said with sudden savagery. “Look, it’s hard when you have to be perpetually grateful to someone. When she said she was divorcing me, I could hardly believe my luck.”

Hamish raised his eyebrows. “Then why did you come back?”

He sighed, a little thin sigh. “I suppose I still felt grateful to her – really grateful. I wanted to see her again.”

“And when you saw her?”

“It was all right.” His voice held a note of amazement. “She not only had Paul, she had the village women in her control. The lodgings were comfortable and the place is pretty. I’ve got a lot of work done.”

Hamish looked at the typewriter. The author was beginning chapter ten of a book, witness to the fact he spoke the truth. “Luke Mulligan,” Hamish read, “smiled down at Lola who was holding on to his stirrup and an odd look of tenderness flitted across his craggy features.”

Beside him on the desk lay a pile of manuscript with the title page on the top. It read, “The Amazon Women of Zar.”

Hamish pointed to it. “Doesn’t sound like a Western.”

John Parker’s grey, neat features took on an even more closed look. “It’s science fiction,” he said curtly. He rose and picked up the manuscript and opened a battered suitcase and popped it inside. All at once Hamish longed to see what it was about.

“What were the relations between Mr and Mrs Thomas?” he asked.

“Fair enough,” said John. “Regular marriage. She fussed over him like a mother hen, but he seemed to like it.”

Hamish stood up. “I suppose you have been told not to leave the village.”

“Yes. That man, Blair, is determined to accuse me of the murder. In fact, he would have done so if I hadn’t threatened to sue him for wrongful arrest.” Hamish stood up to leave. His eyes roamed around the room. Whatever antique furniture Trixie had managed to get from the locals, she must have taken it all down to the auction rooms. John’s room furnishings were white and modern, the sort of units bought in Inverness and assembled at home.

“I believe from the village gossip that you’re a friend of the Halburton-Smythes,” said John Parker.

Hamish looked surprised. “I am by way of being a friend of the daughter,” he said. “Colonel Halburton-Smythe does not have much time for me. Why do you ask?”

“I would like a look around the castle.”

“It’s not very old,” said Hamish. “It’s one of those Gothic monstrosities built in Victorian times.”

“Nonetheless, I might be able to use it in a book.”

Hamish thought quickly. If he could be sure John Parker was up at the castle, then he might be able to get a look at that manuscript he had been so anxious to hide.

“I think I could fix that for you,” said Hamish. “What about tomorrow?”

“Suits me.”

“I’ll phone Miss Halburton-Smythe and then come back and tell you what she says.”

Hamish went back to the police station just as the detective, Jimmy Anderson, was arriving.

“Let’s have another drink,” pleaded Anderson. “Blair’s fuming and shouting. It was arsenic, all right, in that old fortune-teller’s bottle.”

“That’ll bring the press in droves,” said Hamish gloomily. “Good story. I Saw My Own Death, Says Seer. So what’s Blair up to?”

“He’s threatening to arrest Angus Macdonald tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Impeding the polis. He says the auld gnaff put the stuff in the whisky hisself so as to get the press to write about him.”

“Could be.”

“Now Daviot’s breathing fire and vengeance. Says if Blair doesn’t wrap up the case fast, he’ll put someone else on it.”

Hamish shook his head sadly. “It’s a daft thing to say to a man like Blair. He’ll now arrest the first person he thinks of.”

“Well, let’s have that drink.”

They sat talking about the case until Anderson realized that Blair would be anxious to get back to Strathbane and would be looking for him.

After he had left, Hamish phoned Tommel Castle and asked to speak to Priscilla.

“Miss Halburton-Smythe is not at home,” said Jenkins.

“Look, get her to the phone, you horrible snob, and do it fast or I’ll come up there and knock your teeth in,” said Hamish pleasantly.

When Priscilla answered the phone, she said, “What did you say to Jenkins? He was cringing and creeping and saying he didn’t know I was in the castle and yet he’d just served me a drink before you called.”

“Never mind. I want you to do something for me.” Hamish told her about John Parker and asked her to keep him at the castle for an hour at least.

“Oh, very well,” said Priscilla. “What about having dinner with me at the hotel tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know if I’ll manage to be free by that time,” said Hamish. “I feel I’m getting on to something on this case.”

There was a short silence and then Priscilla said, “All right. Another time, maybe.”

Hamish thanked her and put the phone down. Priscilla stood by the phone, looking thoughtfully at the receiver before she replaced it. Hamish Macbeth would never have turned down an invitation to dinner before. Perhaps he had a girlfriend. Priscilla suddenly felt very bad-tempered indeed and went off to give the butler a lecture about lying to friends who tried to get her on the telephone.

Hamish picked up his cap, called to Towser, and went out on his rounds. It was Friday night and he would need to go to the pub to make sure no-one was thinking of drinking and driving.

As he was passing the Maclean’s cottage, he heard angry voices and then a woman screamed loudly. He ran to their door, opened it, and walked in.

Archie and his wife were standing on either side of the kitchen table. She was holding her cheek as if she had just been struck.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Hamish.

“You interferin’ bastard,” howled Archie. He came round the table towards Hamish with his fists raised. Towser crept under the kitchen table and lay down. Hamish stretched out a long arm and seized Archie by the wrist and then deftly twisted his arm up his back. “Tell me what’s going on, Archie, or I’ll break your arm.”

“Leave my man alone,” screeched Mrs Maclean. “We were having a wee bit row, that’s all.” Hamish’s quick eye noticed she was standing, holding something behind her back, and he was sure that if she had not been so determined to conceal that something then she would have leapt to her husband’s defence.

“Aye, leave us be,” growled Archie.

Hamish released him and shoved him into a kitchen chair. He took out his notebook and pencil. “Begin at the beginning,” he ordered. “What happened?”

“Whit are you taking notes fur?” raged Archie. “I’ll have you fur this, MacBeth. Have you a search warrant? Whit right have you to walk into a man’s home?”

One minute it seemed to the Macleans as if Hamish was standing at his ease, looking down at his notebook; the next, he had moved like a flash around the back of Mrs Maclean and wrested what she was holding from her hand. She shouted something and tried to claw his face, but he jumped back. Under the table Towser whimpered dismally.

Hamish looked at the can in his hand. Dead-O Rat Poison.

“Well, now,” he said quietly, looking at their stricken faces. “Well, now.”

“It’s naethin’s to dae with this,” said Mrs Maclean. “We hae the rats. I got that frae the grocers the other dav.”

“You realize I shall question Mr Patel and find out exactly when you bought it,” said Hamish.

There was a long silence. “She didnae get it from him,” said Archie at last. “I got it myself from Iain Gunn over at Coyle.” He rounded on his wife. “If you had kept your mouth shut…”

“Me!” she said furiously. “Then whit was it doing at the back o’ your drawer o’ underpants?” She put her hands up to her mouth and stared at Hamish with frightened eyes.

“Well, Archie?” asked Hamish, and when he did not reply, “It’s tell me or come with me to Strathbane and tell Blair.”

“I’ll tell ye,” said Archie wearily. He looked at his wife. “I found it at the back o’ the kitchen cupboard, hidden in that old tin marked flour. I took it tae ma room for safekeeping.”

“You silly wee man,” said his wife. “Did you no’ remember our Jean and the weans were coming for tea? Wee Rory’s only two year,” she explained to Hamish, “and he’s aye under the kitchen sink, taking out things. I hid it so the child wouldnae find it. I’ve had it for a year. We had rats in the shed in the garden.” Hamish ran over in his mind what he knew of the Maclean family. Jean was their daughter and she had three small children, the ferreting two-year-old, Rory, being one of them.

“So,” said Hamish, “you thought, Archie, that your wife might have poisoned Mrs Thomas, and you, Mrs Maclean, thought your husband might have done it. My, my, Trixie Thomas must have caused some rare rows. I’ll need to take this. Where did you get it?”

“I got it from Patel a year ago,” mumbled Mrs Maclean. “Ye cannae blame me. Holding hands wi’ that wumman. He never held hands wi’ me, not even when we was courting.” She put out a red hand towards Hamish with an oddly pathetic, pleading movement. It was almost deformed with years of being immersed in boiling water, bleach, and ammonia. Her wedding ring was embedded in the swollen flesh below the red shiny knuckles.

“I’ll need to report this to Blair the morrow,” said Hamish sadly. “I’ll take this can with me.”

As Hamish looked at the couple, he thought viciously that had Trixie Thomas still been alive, he might have murdered her himself. The Macleans’ marriage, which had plodded along for years quite happily, would never be the same again.

He whistled to Towser and walked outside. It was a clear night, the rain had lifted, and great stars burned in the heavens. Towser slunk behind his master. “You,” said Hamish looking down at the animal, “are a coward.” Towser licked Hamish’s hand and slowly wagged his tail. “But you’re a decent dog and I’d rather have you a coward than savaging the sheep,” said Hamish. He stooped and scratched the doe behind his ears and leapt up and down in an ecstasy of joy at being forgiven.

The Patels’ shop was in darkness, but Hamish went around the side and mounted the stairs that led to the flat over the shop. After some time, Mrs Patel, wearing a bright red sari, answered the door.

“Och, Mr Macbeth,” she said impatiently, “whit d’ye want at this time o’ night?”

It always surprised Hamish to hear a Scottish accent emitting from such exotic features. He said he wanted to speak to her husband and Mrs Patel reluctantly let him in. Their living-room was bright and gaudy with a three–piece plush suite in bright red, still covered with the plastic casing it had been delivered in. A huge display of plastic tulips in a woven gilt basket sat on a carved table top, which was supported by four carved elephants. Everything smelled strongly of curry. Mr Patel came in. He was a small brown man with liquid brown eyes and a beak of a nose.

“Evening, Mr Macbeth,” he said. “Will ye be havin’ a wee dram?”

“Not tonight. Mr Patel, you were asked if you had sold any rat poison and you said you hadn’t and yet Mrs Maclean told me she had bought some here a year ago. It’s called Dead-O.”

“I thought you meant recently! Aye, I got about two dozen frae a wholesaler in Strathbane a year ago. Used it myself. No’ very good. Didnae even slow them up.”

“You realize what this means?” said Hamish gloomily. “Blair will want me to go around every house in the village tomorrow collecting cans of rat poison.”

“Keep ye out o’ trouble,” said Mr Patel with a grin. “Why bother yer heid about Blair anyways? That man’s a pillock.”

“A pillock who is senior to me in rank. Now, Mr Patel, I don’t suppose you can remember who bought it?”

“I can remember Mrs Wellington had a can for the mice in the church. I hadn’t any mouse poison and she didn’t want traps so she said she’d try the rat stuff. Then there was Mrs Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Mice, too.”

“Anyone else?”

“Let me see. Oh, I ken. The estate agent for the Willets, them that used to own the Thomases’ place. It had been standing empty for so long that they were getting rats in, or so they thought.”

Hamish thanked him and then phoned and left a message for Blair about the rat poison. Then he went to see John Parker, who told him that Miss Halburton-Smythe had phoned and had invited him up to the castle at ten in the morning. Hamish knew Blair would have him searching for all those other cans of poison, but that would give him a good excuse to read that manuscript John Parker had been so anxious to hide.

He said good night and then made his way back along the waterfront to the pub. An ordinary common or garden Scottish Highland drunk would come as a relief.