Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy hm-5 Page 3

  “Here we are, Officer!” said Bert with forced joviality. “The Ardest turning.”

  Hamish thanked them and climbed out with suitcase and dog. He touched his cap as the Webbs drove off, the Webbs who were now full of indignant rage at having been forced to give a lift to what had turned out to be nothing more sinister than a scrounging copper.

  Towser turned slowly in the direction of Lochdubh, rather like an overstuffed armchair turning around on its castors. He sniffed the air and slowly his tail curved over his back.

  A shaft of sunlight struck through the grey clouds, a William Blake shaft of sunlight. All it lacked were the angels. The wind was from the west holding an underlying touch of warmth. Above the shaggy heath of Sutherland soared the mountains, rising up to heaven, away and beyond the antlike machinations of the police force.

  Hamish took the rope from around Towser’s neck and the dog surged forward down the road to Lochdubh, stopping every now and then to look back and make sure his master was following.

  Hoisting his suitcase up onto his shoulder, Hamish stepped out smartly and the sky above grew brighter and brighter and the wind in the heather sang a welcome home.

  ♦

  “Thank goodness the sun is shining,” said Priscilla. “Are you sure he said he would be here sometime this morning, Mr. Johnson?”

  “That’s what he said,” remarked the hotel manager. “Said he couldn’t wait and he would hitch a lift.”

  “Maybe he can’t get a lift,” worried Priscilla. “One of us should have gone and collected him.”

  “And spoil the surprise? No, better this way. Dougie, the gamekeeper, is posted up on the hill and he’ll wave a flag when he sees him coming.”

  Priscilla shook her head doubtfully, having visions of lazy Hamish stretched out asleep in the back seat of some limousine and unable to be spotted by even such an eagle eye as Dougie’s. “Everything’s ready anyway,” she said looking around.

  In the centre of the village stood a raised platform that was normally used for school prize-giving day. Already seated on it, furtively sipping something out of a silver flask, was Maggie Baird with the shadow that was Alison beside her. Mrs. Wellington sat on Maggie’s other side with her husband, the minister, and beside them were Priscilla’s mother and father.

  Over the street hung a banner saying, “Welcome Home, Hamish,” and the school choir was lined up in front of the platform, ready to burst into song. Beside them stood the small band – one accordionist, one fiddle player, and the schoolteacher, Miss Monson, seated at the battered upright piano which was usually housed in the school hall.

  Jessie and Nessie Currie, the village spinsters, were ready with their music, “My Heart and I.” They had never been known to sing anything else.

  And then from the hill above the village, Dougie frantically waved his huge St. Andrew’s flag in the air. Maggie Baird walked to the front of the platform, stood before the microphone, and took a speech out of her capacious handbag while Mrs. Wellington obviously bristled with outrage.

  The band struck up ‘Westering Home’ and the little schoolchildren sang the words in their clear Highland voices. Ragged cheering broke out from the far end of the village.

  Alison craned her head forwards and looked along the village street.

  Her first sight of Hamish Macbeth sent all her rosy fantasies crashing into ruins. He was tall and thin and gangling with fiery red hair showing under his peaked cap. He looked half delighted and half embarrassed, and as he drew near the platform he actually blushed.

  Hamish was trying very hard not to cry. He was making all sorts of grateful promises. No more laziness. No more lolling about. He would, in future, be hardworking and never, ever would he give the powers that be any excuse to send him away again.

  He looked up at the platform and his eyes sharpened. The band and the choir had fallen silent. A large woman, a stranger to him, was giving him a speech of welcome. He studied her curiously, his eyes taking in the too-new tweeds, the heavy face, and the autocratic manner. He was forcibly reminded of a competent actress playing the part of a gentlewoman.

  There was something about her that disturbed him and as she came to the end of her speech, she drooped one eyelid at him in a definite wink. In that moment, he had an odd feeling that inside that fat tweed-covered body was a slim beauty who had put on some sort of middle-aged disguise for a joke.

  And then he realised he was being asked to make a speech.

  He climbed up onto the platform, his eyes resting briefly on Alison Kerr and then turning to Priscilla, who had joined her parents. His face lit up and he gave Priscilla a singularly sweet smile.

  He’s not bad, thought Alison, not bad at all. He had, she noticed for the first time, hazel eyes fringed with thick lashes.

  “Thank you all,” said Hamish shyly. “You haff made me most welcome. I don’t know quite what to say. Och, just thank you all from the bottom o’ my heart.”

  Miss Monson began to play and Nessie and Jessie burst into their well-known rendering of ‘My Heart And I.’ When they had finished, Priscilla jumped to her feet. “Three cheers for Hamish,” she shouted. And Hamish blushed as the cheers rang out and felt that awful lump in his throat. He wanted to get away and be by himself, but there was a welcome buffet luncheon laid out in the Lochdubh Hotel and more speeches, and so he forced himself to talk to everyone and try not to feel he did not deserve any of it.

  Priscilla came up to nun and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Stick it out a bit longer, Hamish,” she whispered. “It’ll soon be over and then you can go home.” Hamish looked at her with quick gratitude and then found he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Well, copper,” said a throaty voice, “aren’t you going to thank me?”

  He looked down at Maggie Baird. He gave her a puzzled look and then his eyes began to dance with mischief. “Are you then the leader of the Lochdubh Mafia?” he asked. “All thae crimes had poor Sergeant MacGregor not knowing whether he was coming or going.”

  Maggie gave a jolly laugh. “Someone had to think of something,” she said. “You were very much missed and now I have met you, I can understand why.”

  “You are Mrs. Baird,” said Hamish. “You arrived after I left for Strathbane.”

  “Yes.” Maggie became aware that Alison was tugging furtively at her sleeve, obviously hoping for an introduction, and she swung her great bulk a little way around so that Alison was shielded from Hamish. “I don’t know if I’ll stay long,” went on Maggie airily, “but this little place amuses me for the moment.”

  “If you like peace and quiet, it’ll grow on you,” said Hamish amiably. “I do not think I haff been introduced to this young lady.” He looked over Maggie’s shoulder at Alison.

  “Oh, this is my niece, Alison Kerr. She’s just recovered from cancer which is why she looks a bit ratty.”

  Alison winced and Hamish said quickly, “You look chust fine to me, Miss Kerr. You must still be feeling awfy frightened. I mean, you must keep worrying that it might come back.”

  “Yes,” said Alison gratefully. “It’s made me an awful coward, the fear, I mean. I’m frightened of my own shadow.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any,” said Maggie nastily.

  “One o’ my cousins had an operation for cancer,” Hamish went on as if Maggie hadn’t spoken. “He’s fine now. The fear goes away after a bit. It’s a bit like getting over the death of someone you loved.”

  Maggie gave a musical laugh and her blue eyes looked flirtatiously up into Hamish’s own. “Is this evening going to turn into a therapy session, or are you going to pay some attention to your saviour?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Hamish with a grin. “I’m grateful to you, Mrs. Baird.”

  Maggie put her hand on his arm. “And how are you going to show that gratitude, Officer?”

  He was suddenly aware of her overpowering sexuality, of the expensive French perfume she wore, of being enclosed between walls of s
uffocating intimacy, and instinctively drew back. He thought, This is what a woman must feel like when a man is undressing her with his eyes.

  He hailed the arrival of Mrs. Todd, Maggie’s housekeeper, with relief. “Good evening, Mrs. Todd,” he said. “It’s a while since I’ve seen you.”

  Mrs. Todd was a small, sturdy woman dressed, despite the cold evening, in a black silk gown embroidered with jet that looked like an Edwardian relic. She ignored Hamish and Maggie and said to Alison, “Are you all right, Miss Ken? I hope the festivities aren’t too much for you.”

  Mrs. Todd’s normally hard features were softened by a maternal smile. “Thank you,” said Alison in a little girl voice. “I’m feeling fine.”

  “I’ve just been up to the house and put a hot water bottle in your bed and a thermos of milk on the table,” said Mrs. Todd. “You’re to drink every drop of that milk, mind!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Todd,” said Alison meekly. Normally she was grateful for the housekeeper’s maternal warmth but just at that moment, she wished Mrs. Todd would go away, that Maggie would go away, and leave her to talk to this odd policeman who was the first person who had ever guessed how she really felt.

  “You wouldn’t think I had good central heating,” said Maggie crossly.

  “There’s nothing mair comforting than a nice hot water bottle,” said Mrs. Todd firmly.

  Maggie saw Colonel Halburton-Smythe and decided to go flirt with him to liven up the evening and try her hand with the copper later on. Alison watched her go with relief but then found that Mrs. Todd was determined to stay. Hamish talked for a little to both Alison and Mrs. Todd and then was claimed by Priscilla.

  “The guests are thinning out,” said Priscilla. “Not long to go, Hamish. How’s Mrs. Todd enjoying her job as housekeeper?”

  “She’s fond of that niece, Alison,” said Hamish. “I suppose she enjoys the money. Mrs. Baird is supposed to be rich. Also, it gives Mrs. Todd an interest. She hasn’t done much since her husband died.”

  “When was that again?” asked Priscilla.

  “Two years? Three? Can’t quite remember myself.”

  “And what do you make of Mrs. Baird?”

  Hamish frowned. “She makes me uneasy,” he said. “She’s the sort of woman who creates violence. I think she’s a bad woman.”

  “Why, Hamish Macbeth! You old–fashioned thing!”

  “No, I didnae mean scarlet woman. She’s spiteful to that niece of hers. She likes to be the centre of attention. She likes excitement. She think she likes affairs and yet she’s too fat to have much hope at the moment.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Priscilla, watching her father’s flushed and excited face as he spoke to Maggie Baird.

  Maggie was enjoying herself. She was aware, out of the comer of her eye, of Mrs. Halburton-Smythe’s disapproval and that gave her a feeling of elation. A jealous woman acted on Maggie’s spirits like a shot of adrenalin. There was a long mirror beside her on the wall. She turned to look at herself.

  Robert Burns wrote:

  O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us,

  To see oursels as others see us,

  It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

  And foolish notion.

  But Maggie Baird saw herself for the first and last time in her life as she really was and instead of freeing her from foolish notions, it set in motion a catastrophic chain of events. To see oneself as one really is – if one is ever unlucky enough to have that experience – is quite shattering. The veil of illusions and little vanities is rudely ripped aside. Maggie saw clearly a fat tweedy woman with once beautiful eyes narrowed by fat cheeks. She saw all the pettiness and meanness of soul. She saw the iron grey hair. She looked not only her age but a good bit more. Her hand fluttered up to her cheek in a helpless motion and she turned the colour of mud. She gasped for breath and swayed and the colonel shouted with alarm and rushed to support her.

  Dr. Brodie, the village doctor, came bustling up. “Pills,” croaked Maggie. “Handbag.”

  The doctor called for a glass of water while he rummaged in Maggie’s handbag, stopping for an instant to look in dazed surprise at a packet of condoms before he found the pills.

  Maggie gulped down the pills and slowly her colour began to return. “I’d better phone for the ambulance,” said Dr. Brodie.

  “No,” said Maggie weakly. “I had a bit of a shock. I thought I saw someone I knew. I’ll be all right. Hate hospitals. Get me home.”

  The competent Mrs. Todd drove Maggie and Alison home. Maggie went straight to bed, but did not go to sleep. She lay awake a long time. She quickly forgot that insight into her soul and remembered only her physical appearance. She who had once been famous for her beauty had degenerated into a fat frump. And all because of one faithless greasy waiter. She must have been mad. She remembered looking across at Priscilla as the doctor had helped her from the room. Priscilla, tall and blond and groomed, seemed to Maggie to be everything that she herself had lost.

  She struck the bedclothes with her fat fist. “I’m not finished yet,” she said aloud. “Look at Joan Collins!”

  The little spark that the colonel’s kiss had kindled grew into a flame of ambition. She lay awake long into the night, making plans.

  Hamish walked slowly along the waterfront with Priscilla in the direction of the police station with Towser plodding along behind. The party was over. He was deeply grateful for his welcome and yet glad he no longer had to endure any of it. He did not like being the focus of attention and shrewdly judged all the celebration of his return would be followed by a backlash, the village wondering why they had gone to such lengths to get diffident and lazy Hamish back again.

  He opened the kitchen door to the police station. “You’d better take a look at your living room,” said Priscilla’s voice behind him. He pushed open the door of the living room and blinked at the array of flower arrangements. “It’s like a funeral,” he said, closing the door quickly. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “It was Mrs. Bisset and Mrs. Wellington. You know they do the flowers for the church,” said Priscilla, sitting down on a kitchen chair. She took off her coat and eased it onto the back of the chair. “Who on earth did Maggie Baird see at that party to give her such a shock?”

  Hamish shook his head. “She was looking in the mirror. Whoever it was certainly gave her a bad fright. Where does she come from?”

  “London, I believe. We had her and that niece over for dinner. Odd woman. Quite spiteful to the niece and quite repulsive looking, but Daddy was taken with her. I gather you guessed that the sudden outburst of crime in Lochdubh was to lure you back.”

  “I wisnae quite sure,” said Hamish with a slow smile, “until I saw the welcome I got. I was so low in spirits in Strathbane, I thought you had all forgotten about me.” He put two cups and saucers on the table. “Still unmarried?” he asked casually.

  “Yes, still unmarried. Still training in computers. Going to be a programmer. Think I’ll make a good yuppie?”

  “You look what everyone believes a female yuppie to look like,” said Hamish.

  “With all the yuppie-bashing around, I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”

  “It’s a compliment. You look awfy pretty – as usual.” The last was said in a matter-of-fact way. Hamish, thought Priscilla, was no longer shy in her company.

  ♦

  The following morning, before Maggie awoke, Alison went out to the garage and looked longingly at the little red Renault. In the post that morning, she had received a notification that her driving test was to be held in three weeks’ time in Lochdubh. When she had first arrived, she had written off for a test, confident that her benevolent aunt would surely allow her to learn to drive. That was when Maggie had been warm and kindly.

  To learn to drive had become an obsession with Alison. In her dreams at night, she soared up and down the Highland roads, competent behind the wheel.

  She should move to the nearest town, she l
ectured herself, get a job and get a car on the pay-up. Gutless, she raged at herself. But she was gutless. Her growing dislike of Maggie and her longing for freedom were not strong enough to enable her to face the world on her own.

  She pushed her lank hair out of her eyes and crunched across the gravel to the bungalow which every day seemed more like a prison.

  It was too warm, too characterless, decorated in interior designer’s brown and cream with glass-topped tables; glass dining table and glass coffee table on wrought iron legs and little glass side tables. The air always seemed to smell of window cleaner, for the efficient Mrs. Todd was always polishing and shining the glass. Despite the kindness of Mrs. Todd, the kitchen was hardly the refuge it should have been. With its looped-back red and white checked gingham curtains, red geraniums in bowls, and glittering white Formica work surfaces, it looked as sterile as a stage set.

  Mrs. Todd had not yet arrived. Alison made herself a cup of coffee and tried not to want a cigarette. Then she heard Maggie lumbering down the stairs, and her thin shoulders hunched as if to ward off the verbal blows about to descend on her.

  To her surprise, Maggie was dressed. Usually she spent the mornings wandering around in a nightdress and dressing gown.

  “I’m leaving today,” said Maggie abruptly.

  Alison felt a rush of relief. Maggie was abandoning her and so she would need to make a life for herself after all.

  “I want you to stay here and look after things,” said Maggie. “You can type, can’t you?”

  Alison nodded.

  “Well, on the desk in the study you’ll find a pile of tapes. I’ve been dictating my life story. I want you to type it out High time you earned your keep.”

  “If you had let me learn to drive,” said Alison defensively, “I could have taken a job in the village.”

  “What you would have earned in the village would barely have paid for the petrol,” snapped Maggie. “I’ll be away a few months.”

  “When are you leaving?” asked Alison.

  “Any moment now,” said Maggie, squinting at her wrist-watch. “The man from Chisholm’s is coming.”