Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy hm-5 Page 4

Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, had a large antique Daimler which was usually hired only for weddings and funerals. “I’m getting him to take me down to Inverness,” went on Maggie. “I’ll do some shopping, have dinner, and take the sleeper.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Alison, beginning to brighten. Maggie was obviously not taking her car. She always left the keys in the ignition. Now, if she would only leave those keys behind, then…

  “I’m going to do a bit of work on myself,” said Maggie.

  “I’ve let myself go to seed. Makes two of us, hey? Although I used to be beautiful and you quite obviously never were.”

  All in that moment, Alison reflected that Maggie was indeed very like her sister, Alison’s late mother. Alison’s mother had been a colourless woman compared to Maggie, but she would say things just as Alison was preparing to go off to a school dance like, “I’ve done my best, but you’ll never be a beauty, dear.” People always said things about words not hurting you, thought Alison miserably, but they hurt like hell, the insults piling up until one’s self-esteem begins slowly to crumble under the sheer weight of them.

  She thought of Maggie’s mild heart attack, if that’s what it had been, the evening before. She thought of Maggie’s money. She, Alison, was Maggie’s only relative. Had Maggie made a will? What if Maggie should die and leave her the house and the car and the money? Alison half closed her eyes. She would redecorate the house and sweep away the brown and cream and the glass tables and make it a homey place.

  “Take that silly look off your face,” said Maggie. “Oh, here’s Mrs. Todd. Go off and get started on those tapes, Alison. I want the whole thing typed up by the time I get back.”

  Alison rose and went through to the room off the sitting room which Maggie called her study. It had a workmanlike desk, an electric typewriter, and there, sure enough, were the tapes and a recorder. Alison had never seen Maggie at work. Maggie must have dictated the tapes during the nights, Alison thought, or have done them some time in the past before she came north.

  She began to listen to the first tape, her eyes slowly widening in horror. It was pornography. But then Maggie’s life had obviously been pornographic. The first chapter dealt with Maggie’s loss of virginity. Alison did not yet know that it was mild stuff compared to what was to follow.

  Then above the sound of Maggie’s voice, she heard the Daimler arriving. She switched off the tapes and went outside. Only one small suitcase was being loaded into the car. Mrs. Todd was standing respectfully while Maggie rapped out last–minute instructions. “And take all my clothes from my bedroom and send them to Oxfam or the Salvation Army,” Maggie was saying. “I leave it to you. And see that Alison gets on with typing out that life story of mine and doesn’t moon around getting lazier and spottier.”

  Alison, whose clear skin was her one vanity, had found two small spots on her forehead that morning. Trust Maggie to have noticed them!

  And then Maggie suddenly threw her arms around Alison and gave her a warm hug. “Look after yourself, pet,” she said. “That nasty cancer isn’t going to come back. Just take care of yourself.” There were tears in her blue eyes.

  Alison hugged her back, startled and then moved.

  Maggie climbed into the old Daimler, waved her fat hand once, and the car drove off.

  Alison and Mrs. Todd returned to the house and sat and talked about nothing in particular and then Alison steeled herself to go back to her typing. The sudden burst of affection she had felt for Maggie after that hug was fast evaporating, to be replaced with the calculating thought, Why, the old bag’s fond of me. Will she leave me her money? Please God, she leaves me her money.

  Alison was a good typist. She finished the first chapter, part of her mind noting mechanically that the writing was so bad, it would surely never get published, and the other part thinking, Did she leave the car keys, and if she did, what could I do?

  At last she could not bear it any longer. She went out to the garage and looked in the window of the Renault. There were the keys. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She felt the crumpled piece of paper that was the notification for her driving test. But even if she learned to drive, the insurance might not cover her. Perhaps the insurance covered only Maggie’s driving.

  She ran back into the house and began to search through the jumble of papers in the desk drawer. There it was. She opened the form up and scanned it. The insurance would cover her.

  But who would teach her to drive?

  And then she thought of Hamish Macbeth.

  ∨ Death of a Hussy ∧

  3

  Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.

  —OSCAR WILDE

  The bell at the front door of the police station rang. Hamish sighed and put down the book he was reading. No one in the village ever rang the front doorbell. They always came to the kitchen door. The ring at the front usually meant some sort of official visit.

  He was not in uniform, but it was ten o’clock at night and he had every reason to be off duty. He paused for a moment, wondering whether to answer it. Memories of Strathbane were still sharp in his mind. What if that dreadful policewoman had decided to press charges for assault?

  The bell went again. He had a superstitious feeling he should not answer it. The wind howled outside. Giving himself a shake, he went slowly to the front of the police station and opened the door.

  Alison Kerr stood there, blinking up at him owlishly in the blue light from the police lamp over the door.

  “Come in,” said Hamish. “It’s a dreadful night. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” said Alison as he closed the door behind her. “I just wanted to ask you a favour.”

  “Then come through to the kitchen and I’ll make us a cup’ of tea. My! You’re soaked through. Give me your coat.”

  He helped Alison out of her wet raincoat and then ushered her into the long narrow kitchen at the back of the house.

  Alison sat down at the table and took off her glasses and wiped the raindrops from them with the edge of her skirt. The kitchen was warm and cheerful and Hamish, in a checked shirt and corduroys, reassuringly nonofficial.

  “Now,” said Hamish, “what’s all this about?”

  Alison clutched the mug of tea in both hands. “Maggie’s gone,” she said. “She says she will be away a few months and…” – Alison braced herself for the lie to come – “she says she doesn’t mind if I leam to drive and my test is in three weeks’ time and there isn’t an instructor in Lochdubh and I don’t know anyone and I wondered if you would…could…possibly…and…”

  She fell silent and a large tear rolled down her nose and plopped on the table.

  “You want me to teach you how to drive,” said Hamish amiably. “Och, I see no reason why not. You do have a provisional license, do you not?”

  “Yes,” said Alison shakily. “I’ve had it quite a long time. You see, Mr. Macbeth, I’ve always wanted to drive and…and…Maggie said she wouldn’t let me touch the car but she relented just before she left.”

  “Where has she gone?” asked Hamish while all the time he was thinking, Mrs. Baird never gave this wee lassie permission to use the car. She’s lying. But then I am not supposed to know that.

  “She’s gone to have herself done up,” said Alison, and then blushed furiously. “I mean, she’s going to become beautiful again, she says.”

  “There must be a gentleman in the picture.”

  “No…no…I don’t think so. I think she just decided to take herself in hand. But about the driving. When can we start? I’ve only got three weeks.”

  “Well, things here are awry quiet unless someone starts inventing crimes again. What about coming around here at six tomorrow evening?”

  “But it’s such a long way and I can’t drive,” bleated Alison.

  “Oh, I forgot. I’ll drive out then – at six.”

  “Thank you,” said Alison. “I’m sorry I’m so emotional about it all. But
you see, it’s my first step towards independence. I mean, I used to be awfully confident and brave before I got cancer.”

  And in that heady moment, Alison believed what she had just said, forgetting the years of rabbitlike scurrying to work as secretary to the boss of a small firm which manufactured electrical components. She had been bored out of her skull but had never had the courage to hand in her notice. The factory had been on a failing industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol, a wasteland of crumbling buildings and old beds, tyres, armchairs, and cookers, as the townspeople used it as a dump.

  Hamish watched her sympathetically, reflecting that Maggie was probably the present villain in Alison’s life. Timid people always had to have a villain around to maintain some shreds of self-respect. They always thought, If he or she, the husband or mother, or whoever, weren’t around, then we would become successful and bold and glamorous, and when the bullies were removed from the scene by divorce or death, the rabbits immediately set out on their quests to find replacements.

  “It’s so beautiful up here,” Alison was saying. “I feel in my bones that I am really a Highlander.”

  “It’s quiet for a lady like yourself used to town life,” commented Hamish, pouring more tea.

  “Oh, things always happen to me,” said Alison airily. “Adventure seems to follow me around.”

  The wind tore at the house and Hamish repressed a shudder. He was already regretting his generous impulse to give Alison driving lessons. He as uneasy about the whole thing, and it was not because he knew Alison was lying.

  “What’s the driving test like?” asked Alison.

  “Well, it’s not so bad here as in the towns,” said Hamish. “There are no roundabouts or traffic lights. But they’re very strict for all that. I don’t want to depress you, but the failure rate in the British driving test is fifty-three percent. You have to train your mind to pass as well as concentrating on your driving ability. Stop worrying too much about the test and work instead at becoming a skilled driver. At the test, before you even get in the car, before you can even slide behind the wheel, you must be able to read a car number plate at a distance of sixty-seven feet. So make sure your glasses are up to the mark. Then after your test, you will be given an oral exam on the Highway Code. Have you got a copy?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Alison. She sighed. “I wish I were more experienced.” She cast a sudden flirtatious look at Hamish and blushed and blew her nose on a rather grubby handkerchief to cover her confusion.

  “I’d better be running you back,” said Hamish.

  “That’s very kind of you.” Alison got to her feet and gazed up adoringly into Hamish’s hazel eyes, but the policeman’s eyes were a polite blank and he seemed to have retreated to somewhere inside of himself. Alison felt exactly as if she had made a bold pass and been ruthlessly snubbed.

  It’s all the fault of that Priscilla, thought Alison, she doesn’t want him for herself and yet she won’t let him go. By the time Hamish drove up to the bungalow – his police Land Rover having been returned to him by Strathbane headquarters – Alison had turned Priscilla in her mind into a scheming harpy.

  “Won’t you come in for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “No, I’d best be getting home,” replied Hamish. “See you tomorrow.”

  He smiled and Alison suddenly felt elated and light-hearted.

  “You asked who to teach ye to drive?” Mrs. Todd had been in the act of whipping up a bowl of batter when Alison told her on the following day about the proposed driving lessons. She stood with her mouth slightly open, the wire whisk posed over the bowl. No modern electrical methods for Mrs. Todd.

  “I asked Hamish Macbeth and he agreed. I mean the local bobby is surely the best – ”

  “Him!” Mrs. Todd put down bowl and spoon. “Let me tell you that man is a womaniser. The things I’ve heard! He’s lazy and incompetent and useless. Why, when my man died, he came around, poking his nose into everything.”

  “But…but…I mean, the village loves him,” wailed Alison. “You saw the reception.”

  “Aye, and a waste o’ tune and money.” Mrs. Todd was a formidable figure even in her early seventies; her hair was still brown and her back ramrod straight. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you sure Mrs. Baird gave ye permission to take that car of hers out?”

  “Yes,” said Alison in a shrill voice. “And now I had better get back to typing out Mrs. Baird’s autobiography.”

  “I’d like to read that,” said Mrs. Todd, momentarily diverted. “She’s a fine lady and has travelled a lot.”

  “You can ask her for a look at it when she gets back,” said Alison, wondering what on earth Mrs. Todd would think of Maggie’s explicitly described sexual adventures.

  But Alison did not type that day; she read and reread the Highway Code, occasionally looking up at the clock to check the time and to will it to pass more quickly.

  Promptly at six o’clock, Hamish drew up in the police Land Rover. To Alison’s relief, Mrs. Todd had left for the day.

  Alison had already opened the garage doors. Hamish stood looking at the Renault. “It’s a grand wee car,” he said. “But I think before the test, we’d better let Ian down at the garage have a look at it. If there’s anything at all up with your car, they won’t even let you start the test. Are you ready? Get in the driving seat. You’ll be starting right away.”

  Alison climbed in and Hamish doubled his lanky length into the passenger seat beside her.

  “Now,” he said, “check that your seat is the right distance from the pedals and that you don’t have to stretch. And then check your driving mirrors.”

  Alison shuffled about, jerking the car seat up too far forward and then sending it flying too far back in her excitement. Hamish got out again and took two Learner plates out of the Land Rover and fixed them to the front and back windows of the Renault.

  He climbed in again and then began to instruct Alison how to move off. “Mirror, signal, then manoeuvre,” he said. “You turn your head and take a quick look back before you move off. Just imagine you’re out on a busy road. Turn on the engine, put the gear into first, release the clutch slowly to the biting point, that is until you feel the car surge forward a bit, and then release the handbrake.”

  Alison stalled several times. How could she ever get the coordination right? Driving was an unnatural act.

  “I think we’ll change places for a bit,” said Hamish, “and I’ll take ye out on the road. Hardly anyone about at this time of night.”

  He patiently explained everything all over again once they were out on the road while Alison, once more in the driver’s seat, prayed to the God in whom she did not believe to send her wisdom.

  And then suddenly she was moving slowly along the cliff road while Hamish’s patient voice told her when to change gear – and then she was driving, the headlamps cutting a magic path through the night. Hamish decided to let her drive straight along for as long as possible to give her confidence. It was too early to teach her how to reverse or park. Alison, maintaining a nervous 30 mph, felt she was flying as free as the wind.

  At last Hamish suggested gently that he turn the car and take her home.

  To Alison, Hamish Macbeth had become a godlike figure. She was so grateful to him and so shy of him at the same time, she could hardly stammer out an offer of coffee. But Hamish Macbeth was cautious and old–fashioned and knew enough about village gossip to realise that even in this isolated spot, someone would somehow find out he had gone into the house with Miss Alison Kerr and so he refused.

  He was surprised the following night to find a much more confident Alison, but Alison explained she had been driving up and down the short driveway all day. And then just as she was cruising along the cliff road, the engine began to cough and then died completely. “It’s Maggie, that old bitch,” shouted Alison. “She’s been mistreating this car for years.”

  “Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “I’ll just hae a look under the bonnet.”


  Alison waited in an agony of suspense while he raised the bonnet and examined the engine under the light of a powerful torch.

  He came back shaking his head. “Ian’ll need to hae a look at it,” he said. “Wait here and I’ll walk back and get the Land Rover and we’ll tow it down to Lochdubh. Have you any money?”

  “I’ve been collecting my dole money,” said Alison, “and I’ve quite a bit.”

  “Fine. Repairs are expensive, although I’ll have a word wi’ Ian. He owes me a few favours.”

  Ian Chisholm, the garage owner-cum-repairman, was not pleased at having to work after hours, and grumbled at the filthy state of the engine. “I’ll dae ma best,” he said at last. “But it’ll cost ye. The points need cleaning and while ye’re at it, it needs a new clutch plate.”

  “A wee word with you, Ian,” said Hamish, leading him away from Alison.

  Alison waited anxiously while the two men put their heads together.

  Then they shook hands and Ian came back with a false sort of smile on his monkey face. “Aye, weel, Miss Kerr, it seems it won’t cost that much. Hamish’ll pick up yer car the morrow.”

  Later that night, Hamish got out his fishing tackle and set off in the driving rain to poach a salmon, praying that the water bailiffs wouldn’t catch him. The salmon was in part payment for the car repairs. He did not get home until three in the morning. He put an eighteen-pound salmon on the kitchen table and went thankfully to bed after giving Towser a good rubdown, for the dog had accompanied him on his poaching expedition.

  Damn Alison Kerr, was his last waking thought, that lassie fair gives me the creeps.

  ♦

  Colonel Halburton-Smythe rustled his morning paper and looked over it at his daughter’s calm face. She was reading letters that had arrived for her in that morning’s post.

  “Looks as if we’re about to have a marriage in Loch-dubh,” said the colonel.

  “Mmm?” said Priscilla absently.

  “Yes, that friend of yours, that Hamish Macbeth, has been courting Mrs. Baird’s niece, or we all hope that’s what he’s been doing. He’s been up at the bungalow every night.”