“That’ll bring the press in droves,” said Hamish gloomily. “Good story. I Saw My Own Death, Says Seer. So what’s Blair up to?”
“He’s threatening to arrest Angus Macdonald tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Impeding the polis. He says the auld gnaff put the stuff in the whisky hisself so as to get the press to write about him.”
“Could be.”
“Now Daviot’s breathing fire and vengeance. Says if Blair doesn’t wrap up the case fast, he’ll put someone else on it.”
Hamish shook his head sadly. “It’s a daft thing to say to a man like Blair. He’ll now arrest the first person he thinks of.”
“Well, let’s have that drink.”
They sat talking about the case until Anderson realized that Blair would be anxious to get back to Strathbane and would be looking for him.
After he had left, Hamish phoned Tommel Castle and asked to speak to Priscilla.
“Miss Halburton-Smythe is not at home,” said Jenkins.
“Look, get her to the phone, you horrible snob, and do it fast or I’ll come up there and knock your teeth in,” said Hamish pleasantly.
When Priscilla answered the phone, she said, “What did you say to Jenkins? He was cringing and creeping and saying he didn’t know I was in the castle and yet he’d just served me a drink before you called.”
“Never mind. I want you to do something for me.” Hamish told her about John Parker and asked her to keep him at the castle for an hour at least.
“Oh, very well,” said Priscilla. “What about having dinner with me at the hotel tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know if I’ll manage to be free by that time,” said Hamish. “I feel I’m getting on to something on this case.”
There was a short silence and then Priscilla said, “All right. Another time, maybe.”
Hamish thanked her and put the phone down. Priscilla stood by the phone, looking thoughtfully at the receiver before she replaced it. Hamish Macbeth would never have turned down an invitation to dinner before. Perhaps he had a girlfriend. Priscilla suddenly felt very bad-tempered indeed and went off to give the butler a lecture about lying to friends who tried to get her on the telephone.
Hamish picked up his cap, called to Towser, and went out on his rounds. It was Friday night and he would need to go to the pub to make sure no-one was thinking of drinking and driving.
As he was passing the Maclean’s cottage, he heard angry voices and then a woman screamed loudly. He ran to their door, opened it, and walked in.
Archie and his wife were standing on either side of the kitchen table. She was holding her cheek as if she had just been struck.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Hamish.
“You interferin’ bastard,” howled Archie. He came round the table towards Hamish with his fists raised. Towser crept under the kitchen table and lay down. Hamish stretched out a long arm and seized Archie by the wrist and then deftly twisted his arm up his back. “Tell me what’s going on, Archie, or I’ll break your arm.”
“Leave my man alone,” screeched Mrs Maclean. “We were having a wee bit row, that’s all.” Hamish’s quick eye noticed she was standing, holding something behind her back, and he was sure that if she had not been so determined to conceal that something then she would have leapt to her husband’s defence.
“Aye, leave us be,” growled Archie.
Hamish released him and shoved him into a kitchen chair. He took out his notebook and pencil. “Begin at the beginning,” he ordered. “What happened?”
“Whit are you taking notes fur?” raged Archie. “I’ll have you fur this, MacBeth. Have you a search warrant? Whit right have you to walk into a man’s home?”
One minute it seemed to the Macleans as if Hamish was standing at his ease, looking down at his notebook; the next, he had moved like a flash around the back of Mrs Maclean and wrested what she was holding from her hand. She shouted something and tried to claw his face, but he jumped back. Under the table Towser whimpered dismally.
Hamish looked at the can in his hand. Dead-O Rat Poison.
“Well, now,” he said quietly, looking at their stricken faces. “Well, now.”
“It’s naethin’s to dae with this,” said Mrs Maclean. “We hae the rats. I got that frae the grocers the other dav.”
“You realize I shall question Mr Patel and find out exactly when you bought it,” said Hamish.
There was a long silence. “She didnae get it from him,” said Archie at last. “I got it myself from Iain Gunn over at Coyle.” He rounded on his wife. “If you had kept your mouth shut…”
“Me!” she said furiously. “Then whit was it doing at the back o’ your drawer o’ underpants?” She put her hands up to her mouth and stared at Hamish with frightened eyes.
“Well, Archie?” asked Hamish, and when he did not reply, “It’s tell me or come with me to Strathbane and tell Blair.”
“I’ll tell ye,” said Archie wearily. He looked at his wife. “I found it at the back o’ the kitchen cupboard, hidden in that old tin marked flour. I took it tae ma room for safekeeping.”
“You silly wee man,” said his wife. “Did you no’ remember our Jean and the weans were coming for tea? Wee Rory’s only two year,” she explained to Hamish, “and he’s aye under the kitchen sink, taking out things. I hid it so the child wouldnae find it. I’ve had it for a year. We had rats in the shed in the garden.” Hamish ran over in his mind what he knew of the Maclean family. Jean was their daughter and she had three small children, the ferreting two-year-old, Rory, being one of them.
“So,” said Hamish, “you thought, Archie, that your wife might have poisoned Mrs Thomas, and you, Mrs Maclean, thought your husband might have done it. My, my, Trixie Thomas must have caused some rare rows. I’ll need to take this. Where did you get it?”
“I got it from Patel a year ago,” mumbled Mrs Maclean. “Ye cannae blame me. Holding hands wi’ that wumman. He never held hands wi’ me, not even when we was courting.” She put out a red hand towards Hamish with an oddly pathetic, pleading movement. It was almost deformed with years of being immersed in boiling water, bleach, and ammonia. Her wedding ring was embedded in the swollen flesh below the red shiny knuckles.
“I’ll need to report this to Blair the morrow,” said Hamish sadly. “I’ll take this can with me.”
As Hamish looked at the couple, he thought viciously that had Trixie Thomas still been alive, he might have murdered her himself. The Macleans’ marriage, which had plodded along for years quite happily, would never be the same again.
He whistled to Towser and walked outside. It was a clear night, the rain had lifted, and great stars burned in the heavens. Towser slunk behind his master. “You,” said Hamish looking down at the animal, “are a coward.” Towser licked Hamish’s hand and slowly wagged his tail. “But you’re a decent dog and I’d rather have you a coward than savaging the sheep,” said Hamish. He stooped and scratched the doe behind his ears and leapt up and down in an ecstasy of joy at being forgiven.
The Patels’ shop was in darkness, but Hamish went around the side and mounted the stairs that led to the flat over the shop. After some time, Mrs Patel, wearing a bright red sari, answered the door.
“Och, Mr Macbeth,” she said impatiently, “whit d’ye want at this time o’ night?”
It always surprised Hamish to hear a Scottish accent emitting from such exotic features. He said he wanted to speak to her husband and Mrs Patel reluctantly let him in. Their living-room was bright and gaudy with a three–piece plush suite in bright red, still covered with the plastic casing it had been delivered in. A huge display of plastic tulips in a woven gilt basket sat on a carved table top, which was supported by four carved elephants. Everything smelled strongly of curry. Mr Patel came in. He was a small brown man with liquid brown eyes and a beak of a nose.