M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

—Oscar Wilde

Christmas was over, the New Year’s celebrations were over, and a fine drizzle of snow was falling: tiny little flakes that spiralled upwards in the freezing air.

Hamish was coming back down to the station from the field at the back after giving his sheep their winter feed when he saw Jimmy standing on the doorstep.

“Let me in out o’ this cold, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “You’ll never believe what I have to tell you!”

They walked into the kitchen. Hamish took down the bottle of whisky and warned, “One dram only, Jimmy. The roads are bad. You could’ve phoned.”

“Not wi’ news like this. Brace yourself, Bridget, as the Irishman said to his missus by way of foreplay.”

They sat down at the table. Jimmy took a sip of whisky and said, “Blair’s getting married!”

“Michty me!” exclaimed Hamish, affecting surprise. “Who to?”

“Decent enough body called Mary Ashford. Bit of an eccentric, mind you. I knew she was going to be at the Rotary Club dinner so I wangled an invitation from my pal and took Aileen Drummond along – you know, the PC you promised to take to dinner and never did? Anyway, there’s the happy couple on either side of Daviot. Well, the first course was artichoke and Mary begins to eat the whole thing. Then she cries, “Bugger this stuff. It’s like trying to eat holly!” Mrs. Daviot on the other side of Blair looks shocked. She says, “You’re not supposed to eat the whole thing, Mary. Just the bottoms of the leaves.” Blair rounds on her and hisses, “Stop showing me up.” Mrs. Daviot springs to Mary’s defence. “Really,” she says, “Mary’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to eat it.” And sure enough, some of Strathbane’s finest are trying to chomp down the whole thing as well.

“There you are, darlin’,” says Mary, blowing Blair a kiss, and he looks as if he could murder her.”

“Where did he meet her?” asked Hamish, relishing every moment of the account.

“She was working in one of the supermarkets and even doing volunteer work in one of the charity shops at the weekend. Mrs. Daviot was most impressed. She’s organising the wedding for them.”

“And when is it to be?”

“February the second at St. Andrew’s kirk in Strathbane. Blair wanted a registry office wedding but Mrs. Daviot wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Any chance of an invite?”

“I’ll see if I can wangle one for you. Now I’m off before the snow gets worse.”

♦

Hamish received an invitation to the wedding. Along with the invitation came details of the wedding present list and the Web site details of a shop in Strathbane. He got onto the site and ordered a soup tureen out of a dinner service list, putting in his credit card details and instructions for it to be sent off with the message, “Oh, Happy Day, from your friend and colleague, Hamish Macbeth.”

♦

At last the great day arrived. Hamish put on his only suit and travelled to Strathbane.

It was a day full of blustery wind and yellow glaring sunlight. The church was full. Hamish chatted to people he knew and then found himself accosted by Aileen Drummond. “What about dinner?” she asked.

“All right. Come over to the station tomorrow evening at seven o’ clock. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll drive over.” She gave him a saucy look. “If I drink too much I can stay the night.”

And why not? thought Hamish as he settled into a pew. The hell with romanticism. What I need is some healthy sex.

The organ in the loft struck up, and Hamish twisted his head to get a look at the bride. Mary – he must forget that she was once Ruby – came sailing up the aisle in all the splendour of a white wedding dress and veil. Daviot was to give her away. Mrs. Daviot was maid of honour, and Jimmy was best man.

Blair, as he turned to watch his bride approach, looked white and strained.

The service was long. The address to the couple by the minister seemed to go on forever. The hymns were of the dirge variety.

Then it was over. The couple went into the vestry to sign the register.

The organ struck up Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ and down the aisle came a triumphant Mary. She had lost weight, and her face shone with happiness.

I’ve done a good thing for once in my life, thought Hamish. And after her experience on the streets, she should be able to handle Blair.

As Blair walked past Hamish, he looked at him, his eyes glittering with suspicion.

♦

The reception at a hotel in Strathbane was a merry affair. The cake was cut, speeches were made, dinner was served, and then the dancing began, Blair and Mary taking the floor. Blair felt he had been sober for a hundred years. The Blair-God up in the sky who had sustained his sobriety was fading fast.

He had asked Mary time after time if Hamish Macbeth ever knew who was behind his kidnapping, but each time she had vehemently replied that he knew nothing.

He returned to his table after the dance. A large fresh bottle of mineral water was sitting beside his plate. He rose and went over to the bar. A bottle of malt whisky glittered in the lights. What was it the Highlanders called it? Usquebaugh – the water of life. That was it.

“May I help you?” asked the barman.

“I’ll help myself,” said Blair. He opened the bottle, filled up a glass, and took a great swallow, feeling the blessed liquor course through his body right down to his toes.

People said later they had never seen Blair in such fine form. He danced the Eightsome Reel, the Gay Gordons, and the Dashing White Sergeant as if his feet had wings.

When he finally retired to the honeymoon suite in the hotel with his bride, Blair stumbled across to the bed, fell across it, and lay there snoring. Mary carefully hung away her wedding dress, had a bath, and put on not the honeymoon nightgown, but a serviceable flannelette one.

She undressed her snoring husband down to his underwear. With a contented little smile, she took her knitting out of her suitcase, turned on the television, and proceeded to knit.

Marriage was good.

♦

The following evening, Aileen arrived exactly at seven o’clock. Unfortunately, Aileen was one of those women who look more attractive in uniform than out of it. When she shrugged off her coat in the restaurant, she showed she was wearing a pink boob tube decorated with sequins. Her navel was decorated with a fake ruby, very much in prominence as a roll of fat bulged over her tight Lycra trousers when she sat down. She had put pink streaks in her hair, and her eyelashes were so heavily mascaraed, it looked as if two large spiders had found a home in her face.

Oh, God, I wish something would happen to get me out of this, prayed Hamish, hiding his face behind a menu.

Willie’s face when he took the order was a tight mask of disapproval.

Aileen chipped in and said they’d have a bottle of Valpolicello to start. “Hear you’re quite a lad with the ladies,” she said when Willie had left.

“All lies,” said Hamish. “I’m quite shy really.”

“Come on, laddie. Shy men don’t get engaged to hookers.”

Her voice rang round the restaurant. The other diners listened avidly.

Hamish was just wondering if he could fake illness when to his amazement, Anna Krokovsky walked into the restaurant. He did not like her but in that moment he looked on her as his saviour.

She was out of uniform. “May I join you?” Ignoring Aileen’s scowl, she pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Aileen, do you know Inspector Krokovsky?” asked Hamish.

“I’ve seen you around,” muttered Aileen.

“I thought you had gone back to Russia,” said Hamish.

“I had, but I am here with a special invitation. You are invited to Moscow. We would like to study your methods.”