M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dentist

“It’s yersel, Hamish,” he said gloomily. “I thought you’d be along. It’s about thon dentist?”

“Aye, why did you cancel, Archie?”

“Och, the pain wasnae that bad after all.”

“Why Gilchrist, Archie? I mean, it seems the man doesn’t have that much of a reputation.”

“He’s cheap,” said the fisherman. “Man, the prices they charge these days. I can ‘member getting the lot of the National Health.”

Hamish took out his notebook and took down details of where Archie had been at the time of the murder. Archie, it transpired, had been in the Lochdubh bar with about fifty other locals to bear witness to the fact.

“They say someone drilled all o’ his teeth,” said Archie.

“How did you hear that? Was it on the news?”

“No, but Nessie Currie told Mrs. Wellington who was over shopping in Braikie and someone had told her.” The Highland tom-toms had been beating, thought Hamish.

“Had you been to Gilchrist before?”

“No, never had trouble for years. As I say, someone told me he was cheap.”

“Off you go, Archie. One more thing.”

“Aye?”

“Do you wear that collar and tie and suit all the time you’re out there?”

Archie grinned. “Take the damp things off as soon as I’m out o’ sight o’ the wife’s binoculars.”

Hamish grinned back and walked towards the police station. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. There was nothing in the police station larder but a few tins of things like salmon and beans. He decided to go to the Italian restaurant in the village, now managed by his once policeman, Willie Lament. When Hamish had been briefly promoted to sergeant, Willie had worked for him. Willie had married a relative of the owner and settled happily into the restaurant business. He was a fanatical cleaner and although the Napoli, as the restaurant was called, had excellent food, the restaurant was always permeated by a strong smell of disinfectant.

Hamish entered and took a table by the window, the table where he usually sat with Priscilla when they went out for dinner together. There were few customers. He felt that stab of loneliness again.

Willie came up. “What’s your pleasure, Hamish?”

“Just spaghetti and a salad, Willie. How’s Lucia?” Lucia was Willie’s beautiful wife.

“Doing just fine.”

The restaurant door opened and a girl entered with a backpack on her shoulders. Willie frowned. He did not like hikers; he thought they lowered the tone of the place. Hamish knew that and said hurriedly, “Don’t be hassling her, Willie. The place is quiet tonight.”

“Yes, miss?” demanded Willie. “Careful with that backpack of yours. I don’t want you knocking things off the tables. You’d best leave it outside.”

“What if someone steals it?” asked the girl.

“You’ve got the police in here.”

“But my rucksack would be outside,” she said reasonably.

“I am afraid all the tables are reserved,” said Willie.

Hamish stood up. “In that case, miss, you’re welcome to share my table.” He glared at Willie.

Reassured by the police uniform, she said, “Thanks.” He helped her off with her backpack and put it on the floor in the bay of the window. She was wearing a woolly hat which she pulled off. Glorious thick brown curly hair rumbled about her shoulders. “Is there a toilet here? I want to take this off. It’s pretty hot.” She indicated the one-piece scarlet ski suit she was wearing.

“Over in the corner,” said Hamish.

He waited until she had disappeared and then put his head round the kitchen door and shouted, “Willie!”

Willie came up wiping his hands on his apron.

“Cancel my order.”

“You leaving?”

“No, I want to see what she orders. I might buy her dinner.”

“And you that could have had Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, slumming wi’ a hiker.”

“Aw, shut up, Willie. You were neffer such a snob when you were a policeman.”

He retreated back to the table.

When the girl reappeared, her ski suit over her arm, Hamish got respectfully to his feet.

She had put makeup on her pretty face. She had wide grey eyes and all that beautiful hair. Her mouth was small, soft and well-shaped. She was now wearing a tailored white blouse and black, tight-fitting trousers. She had a gold watch on one wrist.

“You are very kind, officer,” she said in a beautiful, well modulated voice. “I am sure these tables are not reserved. That snobby waiter just doesn’t like hikers.”

“Pay no heed. Willie’s the local eccentric. You needn’t call me officer. I’m not on duty.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Hamish – Hamish Macbeth.”

She shook his hand. “I’m Sarah Hudson.”

“You’re obviously English, Miss Hudson.”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah. What brings you to the Highlands?”

“I felt like getting away from London – as far as possible. So I just took off.”

Willie appeared with menus. He looked taken aback at Sarah’s new appearance.

“As a matter of fact, miss,” he said, “I’ve just realised I do have a free table.”

“Miss Hudson is my guest,” said Hamish firmly.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said Sarah, “but I couldn’t possibly…”

“I insist,” said Hamish. They studied the menus. “I think we’ll have a bottle of wine, Willie. The Valpolicella, if that suits you, Sarah?”

“Lovely. Do you know I think I’ll just have a big plate of spaghetti bolognese and some garlic bread and a green salad.”

“The same for me, Willie,” said Hamish.

“May I smoke?” asked Sarah.

“Oh, yes,” said Willie. “I’ll get you an ashtray right away.” Just as if, thought Hamish amused, Willie had not tried to have smoking banned in the restaurant. But the Highlands of Scotland were like the Third World when it came to cigarette smokers and the owner had insisted on allowing smoking.

“How’s crime?” asked Sarah when Willie had left.

Her eyelashes were really ridiculously long, thought Hamish. He realised he was staring at her and said quickly, “Pretty bad.”

She laughed. “I thought this place would be famous for its lack of crime.”

“We had the murder today.”

“In the village?”

“No, but nearby. A town called Braikie about twenty miles north.”

“Who was murdered?”

“The dentist,” said Willie eagerly, who had reappeared with a bottle of wine. “Terrible it was.”

“Chust pour the wine, Willie,” said Hamish crossly, “and I’ll tell Miss Hudson about it. It iss not as if you are on the force anymore.”

“I am sure I did not mean to be obstructive,” said Willie huffily.

“Obtrusive, Willie.” Hamish sipped some of the wine. “Yes, that’ll do nicely.”

When Willie had left again after placing a large glass ashtray in front of Sarah, she lit a cigarette. Hamish fought down a sudden impulse to ask for one. “So go on,” she said. “Tell me about the dentist.”

So Hamish told her all about the pain in his tooth, the visit to the dentist, the discovery of the body, the drilled teeth, everything he knew.

“How bizarre!” she said when he had finished. “But surely it’s all very odd. Look here. Anyone could have walked in. And why did that receptionist stay away so long? It looks to me as if he expected a visit from someone he wanted to be private with and so he told the receptionist to take a long break.”

“But she would need to know who it was and why she was meant to stay away,” Hamish pointed out. “Otherwise why didn’t she say how unusual it all was? Yet, she just sticks to her story that it was a quiet day and she had a lot to do.”

“Oh, here’s our food.” She stubbed out her cigarette. They ate in silence for a bit.