“Wouldnae that make ye sick,” said a harsh voice, and a shadow fell across him.
Hamish opened his eyes and struggled up. Blocking out the sun was the square bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Standing behind him were his two sidekicks, Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
Blair was in a bad temper. Daviot had said the prices at the Lochdubh Hotel were much too high and so Blair and his team must commute daily from Strathbane, a drive of an hour and a half over twisting Highland roads. The sight of Hamish lounging at his ease in the sun did nothing to help his temper.
“We’ve jist had the lab report,” said Blair. “Thon Thomas woman was poisoned wi’ arsenic.”
“Arsenic!” Hamish got to his feet. “What from? Rat poison?”
“Straight arsenic as far as I know,” said Blair.
“What were the contents of the stomach?”
“Curry, rice, bread, and cake. They think it was probably in the curry.”
Hamish hesitated. It was his duty to tell Blair about the odd behaviour of the doctor. He liked Dr Brodie and did not like to think of him being bullied by Blair. On the other hand, Dr Brodie was well able to take care of himself. Perhaps the best thing was to suggest that he, Hamish, should interview the doctor.
“I’d better tell you about this,” said Hamish. “When Dr Brodie first examined the body, he was going to sign a death certificate saying she had died of a heart attack. I stopped him doing that.”
“Whit!” Blair’s piggy eyes gleamed.
“So maybe I had better go along to the surgery and see him,” said Hamish.
“Listen, laddie, you jist go aboot your rural duties,” said Blair with a fat grin. “But I tell ye what – I’ll let ye in on the case. Go down to Inverness tomorrow and interview that dentist Paul Thomas went to see.”
“One phone call to Inverness police could get that done now,” said Hamish with surprise.
“Do as you’re told,” snapped Blair. He marched off, a squat figure, sweating in a heavy tweed suit, and followed by his two detectives.
Hamish sighed. He may as well just look forward to a pleasant day in Inverness. Let Blair solve this one. He did not care very much who had murdered Trixie.
But as he looked along the road, he could see the slumped figure of Paul Thomas, sitting on his garden wall. Calling to Towser, Hamish went along to talk to him.
But before he could reach him, he was waylaid by the Glasgow woman, Mrs Kennedy. “How long are we going to have to stay here?” she complained. “I want tae get the wee yins back to Glasgow.”
“Should be a few more days,” said Hamish.
“But this wis supposed to be a holiday and I’m having to dae all the cooking, and buy the food, for the polis took everything out of the kitchen. I telt Mr Thomas he wasnae getting any money from me.” She was a fat, sloppy woman wearing a print apron over a mud-coloured dress and carpet slippers on her swollen feet. The children all looked about six years old, but they could hardly all be the same age. They had white pinched faces and old, old eyes: three boys called Elvis, Clarke, and Gregory and a girl called Susan.
Hamish promised to see what he could do about letting them go and then went on to speak to Paul. Paul looked at him with dull eyes.
“Terrible business,” said Hamish gently.
Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “Who could have done such a thing? Everybody loved her.”
“This is a small village and we’ll soon find out who did it,” said Hamish soothingly.
Paul put his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. “You find out,” he said. “Don’t leave it to that fool, Blair.”
“I promise,” said Hamish gently. “Is anyone with you?”
“People have been very kind.” Tears ran down Paul’s cheeks and he wiped them away with his sleeve.
“I met Mrs Kennedy, but where’s your other boarder?”
“Oh, him? He’s about somewhere.”
“Staying a long time, isn’t he? What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a writer. Hammering at that typewriter of his day and night.”
“What’s his name? I’ve forgotten.”
“John Parker.”
“Ah, yes. Maybe I’ll have a word with him. Hadn’t you better go and lie down? You look awful.”
“I can’t lie down.” Paul’s face twisted with distress. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her dead face.”
“Well, maybe you’d better tire yourself out. You still doing the garden?”
“I was, but Trixie took over and she seemed to be better at it than me and so…”
“Well, let’s go around and have a look,” said Hamish.
The two men walked around to the back garden. “Hasn’t been touched for a bit,” said Hamish. “Look at the weeds. Why don’t you get started again?”
Paul nodded dumbly and started to weed between the rows of vegetables.
Hamish heard a car arriving and left him and walked around the front. John Parker, the writer, was just getting out.
“Bad business,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Has the CID asked you about your movements on the day of the murder yet?” asked Hamish.
“Not yet.”
“They’ll be along shortly. So you’re a writer, are you? I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen the name John Parker on the bookshelves.”
“Well, you won’t. I write under the name of Brett Saddler.”
“You’re Brett Saddler? The man who writes the Westerns?”
“That’s me,” said John with a faint smile.
“I always thought Brett Saddler was an American.”
“I’ve always liked Westerns,” said John. “Must have seen about every Western movie ever made. I give them the good old–fashioned stuff. As a matter of fact, Westerns have made a come-back. I sold the film rights of my last one, which is why I’m able to take this long holiday.”
“My! You must be a millionaire.”
“Far from it,” said John. “I got twenty-five thousand dollars, and by the time you take agent’s fees off that, and British tax, there isn’t all that much left. If you want to know where I was when Trixie died, I was off driving up in the hills. I like it up there. So quiet.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No, I didn’t meet a soul,” he said cheerfully.
“Do you know if anyone else had any of that curry she had been eating?”
“I shouldn’t think so. She must have had it for lunch. The Kennedys had sandwiches and Mrs Kennedy is of the opinion that curry is foreign muck. I wasn’t here and Paul was in Inverness.”
“Did the forensic boys find any pot that had been used to cook the curry?”
“No, everything in the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. Trixie was the perfect housewife.”
“Did you know her before?”
“No. Now I’ve got to get back to my writing.” He gave a lethargic wave of his hand and went into the house.
Hamish then thought of Archie Maclean, who had been seen holding hands with Trixie. It had been all over Lochdubh. Had Mrs Maclean known?
He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw Priscilla’s Volvo approaching at a slow pace. He felt in his bones that for some reason she was going to drive right past him so he stood in the middle of the road and held up his hand.
“What is it, copper?” asked Priscilla. “You can hardly accuse me of speeding.”
“Just wanted a chat.”
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Now, now, what is the matter? You have eyes like the North Sea.”
Priscilla stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the wheel. She was angry with Hamish over Trixie’s tale about that sweater. Although she knew Trixie must have been lying, she could not help remembering old stories about Hamish’s various flirtations. Priscilla was completely unaware that Hamish Macbeth was attracted to her. She knew he liked her but thought he looked on her sometimes as being rather young and silly.