When Priscilla did not reply, Hamish said, “Someone has been saying something to put your back up. It cannot be your father, for he’s said about everything there is to say. So who could it be?”
“I feel you made a bit of a fool of yourself over Trixie.”
“And me the only person in Lochdubh who couldn’t stand the female,” said Hamish, “apart from Brodie, that is.”
“I met her wearing one of your old sweaters,” said Priscilla. “She said you gave it to her and made a pass at her or something.”
“I neffer gave her anything,” said Hamish in amazement. He frowned and then said, “I have it. She went out driving with your father and your father must have told her about his worries that you might run off with the local bobby. She came round to me and said she was going to the toilet and she was away for a long time and then she left by the front. She must have picked up my sweater just to annoy you.” He leaned on the car. “I am very flattered it did annoy you.”
“It only annoyed me because I would not like to see any friend of mine making a fool of himself over such a woman,” said Priscilla. “I’ve got to go, Hamish. I’m exoected at home.”
“What about dropping in tomorrow for a chat?” asked Hamish.
“I can’t. I’m taking this car over to Golspie for its annual Ministry of Transport check tomorrow – I don’t trust any other garage – and then taking the train to Inverness to do some shopping for mother.”
“I’m going to Inverness myself,” said Hamish. “What time will your train get in?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“What if I meet you at the station and then we can go for lunch and I’ll drive you back.” Hamish waited anxiously.
“All right,” said Priscilla. “Now do get out of the way.”
Hamish stood back and watched her go with a grin on his face.
Then he decided to go and call on Mrs Maclean. Mrs Maclean had not been one of the women at the bat demonstration. Trixie’s hold had been on the middle–class and lower-middle–class women who had kitchens full of labour-saving devices and therefore more time on their hands.
Mrs Maclean was down on her knees, scrubbing her stone-flagged kitchen floor with ammonia. Not for her the easy road with mop and up-to-date cleanser.
The radio was blaring out Scottish country dance music. He called to her, but she didn’t hear him so he switched off the radio and she looked up.
“What do you want, you glaiket loon?” she said, wringing the floor cloth savagely and throwing it into the bucket.
Hamish sighed. The trouble with being a policeman in a small, normally law-abiding village was that you did not strike fear or terror into the heart of anyone.
“I’m making inquiries into the death of Trixie Thomas,” he said.
“Why?” Mrs Maclean sat back on her heels. “That wumman’s better off dead.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But since yourself had no reason to like her, you are one of my suspects.” He looked at her sternly, but she gave a contemptuous snort.
“She made a fool o’ that silly man o’ mine. He thought she fancied him when all that moodier wanted was a bit o’ free fish. Take the sugar out o’ your tea, that one would. It’s my opinion the Thomases had money enough, but they was always talking about being hard up and scrounging everything they could get. The minister’s wife goes around saying Mrs Thomas was the perfect housewife. She was perfect when it came to getting other people to do the work for her. Thae women like Mrs Wellington and that Mrs Brodie haven’t enough to do. Microwaves and washing machines. A disgrace I call it.”
A strong smell of bleach rose from a huge copper pot of sheets on the wood burning stove. Mrs Maclean was famous for her ‘whites,’ boiling everything and hanging it over the bushes in the garden to bleach further on a sunny day. Perhaps that was why Archie Maclean’s clothes always looked too tight for him, reflected Hamish. She probably boiled his suits.
“Well, you’ll have the detectives around soon asking you questions as well,” said Hamish. “They’ll want to know where you were when she was murdered.”
Mrs Maclean picked up the scrubbing brush again and scrubbed an area of already clean floor. “They can ask away,” she said, “for I was right here all day, and my neighbours all saw me coming and going between the house and the garden.”
“And Archie?”
“Himself was down at the nets.”
Hamish all at once remembered Dr Brodie singing about Trixie being dead and felt cold. That was something he should have told Blair as well. Damn Blair.
“Anyway,” said Mrs Maclean, picking out the floor cloth and wringing it out and wiping the wet floor, “you’ll probably find it was that husband o’ hers what did it.”
“He was in Inverness at the dentist.”
Mrs Maclean sniffed. “So he says.”
When Hamish left by the garden gate, he heard a burst of music. Mrs Maclean had turned on the radio again.
He remembered his promise to Paul. Somewhere in Lochdubh, there was a murderer. But it was hard to think such a thing had happened. The sun beat down on a perfect scene. The eighteenth-century cottages along the waterfront gleamed white. Roses scented the air and the still waters of the loch reflected the hills and woods and the gaily painted hulls of the fishing boats.
Trixie had gone and something nasty in the atmosphere had gone with her. And yet she had not been an evil woman. And the women of Lochdubh would have got wise to her in time.
He saw Blair and his two detectives driving out of the village and made his way to the doctor’s surgery.
Dr Brodie said he would see Hamish. “Quiet day,” he said when Hamish walked into the consulting room. “Monday’s the busy day when they all come in with their bad backs. It’s the Highland disease. Every Monday morning, a bad back strikes them and they want a line so they do not have to go to work.”
“How did you get on with Blair?” asked Hamish.
“He tried to bully me. Threatened to arrest me. You told him about me diagnosing a heart attack.”
“I had to,” said Hamish quietly. “Why did you do that?”
“As I told that fat lump, it looked like a heart attack to me.”
“Oh, come on, John,” said Hamish, exasperated. “It looked like nothing of the kind. Spit out the truth, man. It looked bad. You had been drunk out your skull the night before and singing about how you had killed Trixie. Did you know her real name was Alexandra?”
“Yes. But she’s the sort of woman – she was the sort of woman – who would think a name like Trixie cute. Well, Hamish, I’ll tell you but don’t tell Blair unless you think it necessary. I knew she had been poisoned. You had told me Paul Thomas was in Inverness but it went right out of my head. I thought maybe he had done it. I was glad she was dead. I didn’t want anyone to get the blame. I lost my head. Can you blame me? My wife’s a changed woman. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in a skirt and heels. I’ve been living with a carbon copy of Trixie – smocks and jeans and those bloody sneakers squeaking over the floorboards.”
“She should be all right now,” said Hamish awkwardly.
“Oh, no, Trixie’s memory must not die. Angela’s taken over the bird thing and the smoking thing and the clean up Lochdubh rubbish. Either I eat salads or eat out. She’s hard as nails.”
“Shock, maybe. Look, women of your wife’s age don’t change for life. You’ll have her back soon. Just go along with it for a bit.”
“She thinks I murdered Trixie.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“It’s a fact. I see her watching me with those hard, hard eyes. She’s moved her bed into the spare room. If you find out who did it, let me know first, Hamish. I want to shake that man by the hand.”