Death of a Perfect Wife

∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

7

The common cormorant or shag Lays eggs inside a paper bag.

The reason you will see no doubt.

It is to keep the lightning out.

But what these unobservant birds.

Have never noticed is that herds.

Of wandering bears may come with buns.

And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

—Anon

Look,” said Hamish awkwardly, “I know you haff had the hard time, but couldn’t you wait a bit?”

“No,” said the doctor, “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on Mrs Brodie? Have you ever considered she might be suffering from the menopause? Women go a bit odd then.”

Dr Brodie snorted. “That’s all a lot of cobblers. It’s all in the mind. Women have been told they go odd at the menopause and use it as an excuse.”

“Well, you’re the doctor, but there’s been an awful lot about it in the newspapers lately,” said Hamish. “And there’s been an awful lot about lazy National Health doctors who don’t keep up wi’ the latest research. I know Mrs Thomas was an awful woman, but the trouble with her was a lot of the things she said were right. You know smoking’s bad for people and high cholesterol food’s bad for people…”

“I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life,” snapped the doctor. “It was being treated like a child that I couldn’t bear. Eat your greens, pah! No sudden rush into vegetarianism. Coax the child with smaller and smaller portions of meat and larger and larger bowls of salad, until it’s only salad with the occasional nut cutlet thrown in for comic relief. She even served me dandelion coffee but I took the lot and threw it in the loch. Don’t interfere in my life. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”

The television screen above the bar flickered into life. Angus Macdonald’s face beamed down on them. He began to tell a highly embroidered account of his vision.

“I didn’t think they’d bother with Angus, considering he got the election results wrong,” said Hamish.

“Too good a story,” said Dr Brodie, “They were all up at the hotel today and then they went on up to Angus’s cottage. He’ll be drunk for a month.”

Angus’s image faded, to be replaced by the strong features of Mrs Wellington. “Mrs Thomas was the perfect wife,” said Mrs Wellington. “She brought new life into the village. No-one here wished her ill. It must have been some maniac from outside.”

“Join me for dinner,” offered Dr Brodie, draining his glass.

Hamish shook his head. “Why don’t you take your wife? You used to do that. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to sit down and discuss this divorce like a couple of grownups?”

Dr Brodie sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll see.”

Hamish looked around the bar. Bert Hook, the crofter, was getting very drunk. Hamish went over and removed his car keys and told him to collect them at the police station in the morning.

He went outside and walked along the waterfront, wishing with all his heart that the murderer could be found and that the village could return to its normal quiet. He loved his peaceful, uneventful life in a way that Priscilla, say, could never understand. In fact, this was not the age when anyone could understand an unambitious man. The night was calm and still and a full moon floated through the clouds.

“Hamish?”

Hamish stopped and looked down at the man in front of him. Hamish had been so engrossed in his thoughts the man had not seen him approach. He was small and dapper, wearing a good tweed jacket and flannels, collar and tie. He had neat, clever features and thin hair.

“Good evening,” said Hamish cautiously.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

Hamish slowly shook his head.

“It’s me. Harry. Harry Drummond!”

“Neffer!” Hamish turned Harry round so that the light on the harbour wall fell full on his face. “Harry Drummond,” he marvelled.

For Harry had been the village drunk before he left to go to Inverness to get treatment. He had been a swollen, hairy bundle of evil-smelling rags when Hamish had seen him last.

“You’ve changed beyond recognition,” said Hamish. “Are you back here again?”

“No, I’ve got a good job as a bricklayer in Inverness.”

“You’ll be taking the wife down there to live with you, then?”

“No, Hamish. The fact is, she wants a divorce.”

Hamish stared at him in amazement. Phyllis Drummond’s devotion to her drunken husband had been the talk of the village. She stood by him through thick and thin, taking on cleaning jobs to keep food on the table, suffering the occasional beating with never a word of complaint.

“But why?” asked Hamish. “Is the whole of Lochdubh going in for divorce? Man, she should be delighted with you the way you are now, and you with a good job and all.”

“No, she ups and says she cannae stand me, that I was better when I was on the drink. Women! I’ve been up here trying to get her to change her mind but she willnae listen.”

They both turned as Dr Brodie came running up. “She’s gone,” he panted. “Angela’s gone.”

“Mrs Brodie’s probably up at the church hall at one of her meetings,” said Hamish soothingly.

“No, I’m telling you, she’s gone. She’s smashed up the kitchen and she’s gone.”

“I’ll phone for reinforcements and then I’ll look for her,” said Hamish. “Harry, go round and get all the men in the village.”

He ran back to the police station and phoned Strathbane. Then he got in his Land Rover with Towser beside him and drove off. Clouds had covered the moon and the night was pitch black. Where on earth should he begin to look for her? In the loch? On the moors? In the sea?

He searched all night, unwilling to give up although reinforcements had arrived from Strath-bane and policemen were combing the lochside and policemen and villagers were fanned out over the moors and a police helicopter hummed overhead. The next morning was sunny although the air was still heavy and damp and the sunlight had that threatening, glaring look which heralded bad weather to come.

He finally stopped the Land Rover and stared bleakly through the windscreen. If Angela Brodie were suicidal, then where would she go? Or if she were merely badly distressed, where would she go to put a distance between herself and her husband? He looked up at the twisting, soaring peaks of the Two Sisters, the giant mountains above Lochdubh. He left Towser fast asleep in the car and began to climb.

Bees droned in the heather and heather flies danced in the sleepy air. Up he went through the heather and bracken. He took off his jersey and laid it down on a rock and put his cap on top of it. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt and set off again. Once, when he had been very upset by Priscilla – how long ago and far away that seemed now! – he had climbed high above the village to a ledge of rock to sit and be alone with his misery. It was a chance, a slim chance, that Angela Brodie might have chosen the same route. The ground rose steeply and he sweated in the warm air. Midges stung his face as his sweat washed the repellent from it. For an hour he toiled upwards towards where he remembered the ledge to be. His disappointment was sharp when he at last reached it and found no-one there. He sat down, unshaven and exhausted. Below him he could see the small figures of the searching police on the moors and then, as he watched, a van drove up to the harbour and frogmen got out. He was so very tired. His head swam and he longed to lie down and sleep. But somewhere in all the miles of mountain and moor and loch was Angela Brodie.

And then his eyes sharpened. A tiny figure was struggling down far below the ledge. He leapt to his feet and tumbled down from the ledge and began to run. His feet went from under him and he slithered down, grabbing at heather roots to break his fall. At last he stopped and stood up, panting, and looked wildly around. There was the figure still below him and staggering on from side to side like a drunk.

His long legs bore him towards that fleeing figure until with a feeling of pure gladness he saw that it was Angela Brodie. A final burst of speed brought him up to her and he flung himself on her and brought her down onto the heather.

He sat up and turned her over. Her face was swollen with crying.

“Come along,” he said gently. “You’re in a bad way.”

“Can’t go back,” she said drearily.

“We all have to go back to it sometime,” he said. “Come along. I’ve got a flask of brandy in the Rover.”

He helped her to her feet. She made an effort to pull herself away and then collapsed in a heap at his feet. He picked her up in his arms and carried her down towards where the Land Rover was parked. He laid her down in the shade of it and got the flask of brandy from the glove compartment and forced it between her lips. She spluttered and her eyes opened.

“That’s better,” said Hamish. “Now, you’ll soon be home.”

“I don’t w-want to go home,” she said. Tears spilled down her cheeks. He took out a handkerchief and wiped them away.

He gathered her in his arms and stroked her hair. “There, there,” he said. “Tell Hamish all about it.”

“John wants a divorce.”

“That’s what he says, but men often say things in a temper they don’t mean.”

“He meant it. John never says anything he doesn’t mean.”

“Maybe not before. But you gave the man every reason to lose his temper. He wasnae divorcing you, but Trixie. He wasnae living with you, but Trixie. You even tried to look like the woman.”

She shivered despite the heat. “I feel so lost and empty,” she wailed.

“That’s maybe a good sign. You feel a bit empty when an obsession’s left ye,” said Hamish, thinking of Priscilla.

“You see, Trixie seemed to have all the answers,” said Angela mournfully. “I’ve felt so useless for years. I go down to Glasgow or Edinburgh or even Inverness and people say, what do you do, and I say, I’m a housewife, and they say, is that all? Trixie said that housewifery was a noble art and if it were done properly then it could be very satisfying. I got a high from all the work and all the committees. It was like being drunk. She praised me and no-one had done that in ages. She told me John was killing himself with his cigarettes and cheap wine and greasy meals. I Move John.”

“He seemed awfy happy with you the way you were,” said Hamish, still gently stroking her hair. “Come on back wi’ me.”

She twisted away from him. “I can’t.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. There was more up with Angela Brodie than the sudden loss of her adopted personality.

“You think your husband killed Trixie,” he said flatly.

She went very still.

“Look, I felt like killing her myself,” said Hamish. “But I didn’t do it.”

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves”, quoted Angela drearily.

He looked at her oddly. “You’re really in a bad way. Home and bed for you.”

“But there’s a meeting of the bird society tonight. Lord Glenbader, the Duke of Anstey’s son, is bringing over some specimens from the castle collection!”

“I’ll see to it myself.”

Hamish rose and snapped his fingers and Towser leapt into the back. He helped Angela into the Land Rover. He ran back up the hillside and collected his jersey and cap. Clouds were covering the sky and the wind had a chill edge to it now. He took a flare gun out of the back of the Land Rover and fired it into the sky and watched for a moment while one green star hung against the tumbling black clouds to tell the searchers below that Angela Brodie had been found.

Mrs Wellington and two of the village women arrived at Dr Brodie’s and silently began to clean up the shattered mess of the kitchen, sweeping up shards of crockery and glass, wiping up the mess of flour and coffee grounds and broken jars of jam from the floor.

Hamish helped them, putting the broken glass and china into cartons, taping it up and driving it off to the council tip. When he returned, Mrs Wellington was taking mugs out of a box and hanging them up on the hooks. “Poor Mrs Brodie didn’t leave anything to drink out of,” she said, “and I had these put by for the church sale. Put on the kettle, Mr Macbeth, and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

“Is it just the kitchen she wrecked?” asked Hamish. He opened a cupboard and took out a can of cat food and two cans of dog food to feed the family pets.

“No, come and look in the living room.”

Hamish put down the can opener and followed her into the other room. The mirror above the fireplace had been smashed.

“Couldnae stand the sight of herself,” he said mournfully.

“Havers,” said the minister’s wife, who had no time for psychology, “she was probably drunk.”

They returned to the kitchen. Hamish fed the spaniels and the cat and put the kettle on. Dr Brodie came downstairs from the bedroom. “How is she?” asked Hamish.

“Sleeping,” he said wearily. “Will this misery never end?”

“Be very kind to her when she wakes,” said Hamish anxiously. “If she’s still in a bad way, you might consider taking her down to Strathbane for some therapy or something like that.”

“I don’t believe in all that rubbish. If everyone just pulled themselves together and got on with life, there would be no time for crackpot psychiatrists.”

“For a village doctor, you’re a walking disaster,” said Hamish crossly. “I am glad I am never ill. What would you prescribe? Eye of newt?”

“Leave the doctor alone,” ordered Mrs Wellington. “Have you no feelings?”

Hamish went out and left them to it. He headed for the police station, dying for sleep. Then he saw the press standing outside it, interviewing Blair.

He swore under his breath and drove straight past. Blair saw him and shouted something but Hamish was too tired to care. He drove up to Tommel Castle. As he swung in at the gates, he saw one of the gamekeepers and stopped and rolled down the window. “Colonel at home?” he asked.

“No,” said the gamekeeper. “Himself and the wife has gone to Inverness.”

“Good,” said Hamish and drove on to the castle entrance.

Jenkins would dearly have loved to tell him that Priscilla was not at home but the young lady had given him such a ribbing about lying to Hamish that he did not dare. Priscilla came running down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of Hamish. “You look awful,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

“It’s Angela Brodie,” said Hamish, stifling a yawn. “She’s cracked. But she’s back home in bed now.”

“Oh, you found her. I heard she had gone missing. How is she?”

“Physically, she’s all right. I hope her mind’s in better shape when she wakes up. I need sleep, Priscilla, and Blair’s at the police station. Can you spare me a bed for an hour?”

“Yes, I’ll take you up to one of the guest rooms. Where’s Towser?”

“In the car.”

“Wait here. I’ll fetch him.”

Soon Towser came lolloping in at her heels. She led master and dog up the shadowy staircase and into a guest room and turned down the blankets. “There’s a bathroom through there, Hamish, and you’ll find disposable razors in the cabinet. There are clean towels and everything. John was hoping to fly up. He’s got his own helicopter now. But he couldn’t make it. Put your shirt and underwear outside the door and I’ll have them washed for you. When do you want up?”

“Give me two hours,” said Hamish. “Oh, Priscilla, there’s that damn bird society tonight. I told Mrs Brodie I’d run it for her, Lord Glenbader’s coming to give a talk.”

“You amaze me, Hamish. He doesn’t preserve birds except under aspic.”

“I know, he’s a pill. But I have a feeling there won’t be much of an audience. People are losing interest in all these societies and committees. Could you round up a few people?”

“Certainly. I’ll get on the phone right away. Now, go to bed.”

She went out and closed the door. Hamish removed his clothes and put his underwear and shirt outside the door and then climbed into bed. Towser leapt on the bed and stretched out across his feet. “Get down,” ordered Hamish sleepily. Towser rolled his eyes and stayed where he was.

Two hours later, Priscilla came in carrying his clean clothes over her arm. Constable Hamish Macbeth was lying fast asleep, his ridiculously long eyelashes fanned out over his thin cheeks. Towser opened one eye and lazily wagged his tail.

The bedclothes were down around Hamish’s waist. It was amazing how muscular Hamish was, thought Priscilla, looking at his naked chest and arms. His red hair flamed against the whiteness of the pillowcases and he looked young and vulnerable in sleep.

He opened his hazel eyes suddenly and looked straight at her. A look of pure happiness shone in his eyes and then it slowly died, like a light being turned down.

“Two hours up already,” groaned Hamish. “I could have slept all day.”

“Here are your clothes,” said Priscilla briskly, “and I’ve got some people to go to the bird meeting. Come downstairs when you’re ready and we’ll have tea.”

It was a black day in the life of Jenkins, the butler. To have to serve Hamish Macbeth tea in the drawing-room hurt his very soul.

When Hamish returned to the police station it was to find the detective, Jimmy Anderson, waiting for him.

“So you’re back,” said Anderson. “I’ve been left here to give you a row for sloping off.”

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” said Hamish. Anderson was sitting in the police station office with his feet on the desk and a glass of whisky in his hand.

“Aye, thanks. Blair’s right sore at ye for finding that Brodie woman. Daviot turned up to see how the search was going on and Blair told the super that it was thanks to his brilliant detective work that Mrs Brodie had been found. He was well launched on his story when my friend and colleague, Detective MacNab, who had been insulted earlier by Blair pipes up and says, “Oh, but it was Macbeth what found her. Brought her down from the hill himself. We was all looking in the wrong direction.” Blair looks fit to kill. The super accuses him of trying to take credit away from you, and Blair says he was simply describing how the operation had worked, and that he had sent you up the mountain himself. “That cannae be true,” says MacNab, “Weren’t you just saying you hadn’t seen Macbeth?” You should hae seen Blair’s face. I couldnae bear it any longer and walked away, but it wouldnae surprise me if Blair doesn’t get MacNab back walking the beat before a month is up. Blair’s gone off to grill Parker again, just for the hell o’ it.”

“How did you get on with Halburton-Smythe?” asked Hamish.

Anderson groaned. “Whit a bad-tempered wee man! How dare you waste my time when you could be out looking for the murderer. That sort o’ thing. Asked him what Mrs Thomas had taken from the cottage and he looked sulky and said it was some old china and glass and bits of furniture and odds and ends in a box. She was a sterling woman, according to his nibs. She certainly seemed to have a way with her. Was she all that attractive?”

“Not strictly speaking,” said Hamish. “But she had a very forceful personality. Type of person you love or loathe.”

“Well, I’d better be toddling along,” said Anderson. “Consider yourself reprimanded. What are ye going to do now?”

“I think I’ll jist go along to The Laurels and see how Paul Thomas is getting on,” said Hamish. “I like that man. I think when he gets over his wife’s death, he’ll settle down here all right.”

Paul Thomas was sawing up a dead tree at the back of the house.

“Feeling better?” asked Hamish.

“Still a bit shattered,” said Paul. “But I find work helps. I’ll be glad to see the back of that Kennedy woman and her rotten kids. Trixie could cope with that sort of person and pointed out we had to take anyone while we were getting started, but she whines the whole time and the only reason she stayed on was because I couldn’t bring myself to charge her rent, because that would have meant shopping for her and cooking for her.”

“How do you get on with Parker, now that you know he’s her ex?”

“We’ve become pretty friendly. In fact, he’s been a great help. I want to talk about her, you know, and he’s prepared to listen.”

“You know we found Mrs Brodie?”

“Yes, it was all over the village.”

“I’m running that bird society for her tonight. Want to come?”

“No, thanks. I’ll stay here and get on with my work. Truth is, I don’t know anything about birds.”

He should have come, thought Hamish that evening as Lord Glenbader started his lecture. It would have made two of them. Lord Glenbader obviously didn’t know much about birds either. He was also very drunk. The coloured slides of birds had got mixed up with his recent holiday in India, a fact of which he seemed quite unaware since he talked down his nose and with his eyes closed.

“And this,” he said, operating the switch, “is a great barn owl.” His audience solemnly studied a slide of his lordship on an elephant.

“Wrong slide,” said Hamish.

His lordship raised his heavy eyelids. “Is it? Dear me. Find the right one, constable. There’s a good chap.”

Hamish looked despairingly at the great pile of slides. “It would take all night to look through these,” he complained.

“Then stop interrupting.” Lord Glenbader’s eyelids drooped again. “And this ish a houshe martin,” he slurred. A smiling Indian beggar appeared, holding out a hand for baksheesh.

Priscilla came in carrying a pot of coffee, poured a cup of it, and handed it to Lord Glenbader. “Thanks,” he said. “And here’s a lot of tits.” He peered down Priscilla’s low-necked blouse and Hamish sniggered. But the slide did show three blue tits and two coal tits. It was hit and miss from then on, Lord Glenbader only occasionally describing the right slide. The audience sat, numb with boredom.

Priscilla steadily poured coffee. Lord Glenbader’s lids gradually rose. “What a bore all this is,” he said crossly after the hundredth slide. “What I need is a good drink.”

“What are all these plastic bags?” asked Priscilla.

“Oh, them. They’re Victorian specimens of stuffed birds from my great grandfather’s collection. I’ll pass them round. Don’t take them out of the bags. Just peer inside. You’ll get arsenic poisoning if you handle them.”

“Why arsenic?” asked Hamish sharply.

“That’s the way the Victorians kept the bugs at bay,” said Lord Glenbader. “It was their sort of DDT. The fellow who arranged these things in the glass cases ten years ago got a chesty cough and running at the eyes and jelly limbs. Brodie diagnosed flu. Went to hospital in Strathbane, not believing Brodie and found he’d got arsenic poisoning from handling the birds. Brodie’s a fool.”

The Highland audience of men, women, and children politely peered inside the bags and then showed the first signs of interest that evening as Priscilla started laying out plates of cakes and biscuits beside an enormous pot of tea. “Least I could do,” whispered Priscilla to Hamish. “Rodney Glenbader is a crashing bore.”

Lord Glenbader was now obviously in a very bad mood indeed, made worse by the fact that there was nothing stronger to drink than tea and by the knowledge that he was not being paid for his services. There is nothing more outraged than a British aristocrat who finds he has performed a service for nothing. Lord Glenbader came from a long line of grasping ancestors. He snatched up his birds and stuffed them in a sack and went out, slamming the door behind him.

“Help me with the tea, Hamish,” said Priscilla. “You’re off in a dream. What are you thinking of?”

“I’m thinking of arsenic,” said Hamish. He joined her nonetheless and took the heavy teapot from her hands.

Mr Daviot, the police superintendent, came in. “I’m going back to Strathbane,” he said to Hamish. “Congratulations on finding Mrs Brodie.”

“I had luck on my side,” said Hamish.

“We could do with a few able men like you on the force in Strathbane,” said Mr Daviot.

Hamish opened his mouth but Priscilla said eagerly, “You couldn’t have a better man, Mr Daviot. He’s a genius at solving crime.”

“Well, I wish he would solve this one,” said Mr Daviot. He waved his hand in farewell.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak for me, Priscilla,” said Hamish crossly. “I have no mind to leave Lochdubh.”

“But you must have, Hamish. You can’t want to remain an ordinary copper for the rest of your life.”

Hamish sighed. “When will you get it through your head that it’s not clod-hopping stupidity or shyness that keeps me here. I love Lochdubh, I like the people, I’m happy. Why should I go and get a rank and money to please society’s accepted idea of success? I am successful, Priscilla. Very few folk are contented these days.”

“I made a mistake about that Macbeth fellow,” said Mr Daviot as he undressed for bed that night. “I think he’s very bright.”

“Are you sure?” His wife adjusted a hair net over her rollers. “The colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe didn’t seem to like him at all.”

“But the daughter does, and I think there might be a marriage in the offing.”

“Oh.” His wife digested this piece of intelligence. “Wheh don’t we esk them for dinner?”

“Wait till this case is solved, if it ever is solved,” said her husband, climbing into bed.

Hamish went to The Laurels after the meeting was over. Paul Thomas answered the door himself. “Come in,” he said. “I was watching television.”

Hamish went in to the sitting-room. The Kennedy family were lined up in front of the set. In front of them was a coffee table with a plate of sticky cakes. From the electric light above their heads, a fly paper hung, brown and flyless.

From upstairs sounded the busy rattle of John Parker’s typewriter.

“What can I do for vou?” asked Paul, nicking uo a cake and stuffing it whole into his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the television screen. LA Law was showing.

“Wondered if there was anything I could do for you?” said Hamish.

Paul did not reply. He picked up another cake and sat down on a chair beside the Kennedys, his eyes still on the screen.

Hamish decided if the man was that interested in watching television, he must have made a good recovery from his breakdown at the funeral.

No-one in the room noticed Hamish leaving.

♦

Hamish drove over to inspect the ruin on Iain Gunn’s farm. Three quarters of the building had collapsed, leaving one end standing up, the two floors still showing scraps of coloured wallpaper on the cracked plaster.

He puttered among the ruins, shining his torch. If there was any proof that Iain had done the job himself then that proof was buried under the rubble.

And then he heard a faint squeak. He shone his torch up to the rafters of the bit of the house which was still left standing. Small furry bodies hung in rows upside down.

Bats.

He heard the noise of an engine and switched off his torch and walked outside on to the field.

Iain Gunn was approaching in a bulldozer.