M.C. Beaton: Death of a Charming Man

“But surely Strathbane didn’t take the complaint seriously?”

“Relax, they didn’t, Blair was all for sobering Hendry up and presenting him to the super, but Hendry had a half bottle in his pocket and showed no signs of wanting to sober op. So what are you going to do with yourself now?”

“Same as I did before,” said Hamish. “Police Lochdubh and stay as far away from Strathbane as possible. Is Annie Duncan still talking?”

“Aye, and the more she talks, the weirder she gets. Now she’s over the shock o’ being caught, she seems almost proud of what she’s done.”

“It’s odd,” said Hamish. “When the estate agents reported that Peter Hynd had had a bad cold and was muffled up to the eyebrows, I thought that must be someone impersonating him. But that was him. It was her that signed the final papers. It’s come out that he did have a bad cold. And now they tell me happily about the night of the film show. If they had told me before and I had learned that Peter wasn’t there, then I would have known that was the ideal time to get rid of him. Did the minister know about his wife’s affair while it was going on?”

“Annie says he didn’t know a thing,” said Jimmy. “In fact, she says the one great thing about going to prison is that she’ll get away from him. Makes ye think hanging a good idea.”

Anderson drained the last Scotch from the bottle into his glass, tossed it off and got to his feet.

“I’d better be off, Hamish. Can’t be caught socializing wi’ the enemy. See you around at the next murder.”

Hamish sat with his feet up on the desk after Anderson had left. He had a sudden impulse to go to Drim and see how they were all settling down. He could not drive because he had drunk well over the limit, and so he got up and went out to the shed at the back and wheeled out a rusty bike and set off up the hill on it.

It was a steel-grey day and the air was heavy with the metallic smell of approaching snow. He almost wished he had not decided on this trip as he weaved his way down the winding road which led into Drim and saw the black waters of the loch and the stark bleakness of the surrounding mountains. He went straight to Harry Baxter’s. It was a Sunday, and so he knew the fisherman would be at home. Harry was watching television.

“Where’s Heather?” asked Hamish.

“She’s out playing wi’ her friends.”

“That’s grand,” said Hamish.

“Aye, she doesnae need to worry about me anymore. Can you imagine,” said Harry in awe, “that she thocht I’d done it?”

“Well, it’s over now. No more rows, I hope?”

Hairy grinned. “I don’t know about that. We’re getting the new minister and he’s a young man and no’ married, so Alice’s shop is busy again and Edie’s started the exercise classes.”

“Oh, dear. What about the pantomime?”

They stopped that and sent the costumes back. “I thocht Heather would be disappointed not to play the cat but she didnae seem to mind.”

Hamish dug into his pockets and took out a handful of paperbacks. “I brought some books for Heather. Though she won’t be needing them so much now.” He put them on the table.

“Thanks,” said Harry, his eyes straying back to the television set, where one furry puppet was savagely hitting another.

Hamish went down towards the community hall. The old familiar sound of music reached his ears. He had a pang of dread that rivalry over this minister would start the old feuds. He looked towards the manse and saw there was a furniture-delivery van outside.

He cycled up. He called to one of the workmen, “Is the minister in?”

The man jerked his head towards the kitchen door.

Hamish walked in. The new minister turned to meet him.

He was a small fat man with thinning hair. He had very thick pebble glasses. He looked like a toad.

Hamish stepped forward with a smile of pure relief and gladness on his face and wrung the minister’s hand. “Welcome to Drim,” he said.

♦

When he returned to Lochdubh, he saw Phil Jameson, a young man who did odd jobs about the village, and called to him. “Got a job for you, Phil.”

“Whit’s that?” asked Phil, padding over and wiping his hands on his overalls.

“Come with me,” said Hamish. He led Phil to the shed at the back and pointed to the wood-burning stove. “I want that put back in the kitchen and the new electric taken out.”

“Can do,” said Phil laconically. “Selling the electric?”

“No, put that on your truck and take it to Tommel Castle Hotel and give it to Miss Halburton-Smythe with my compliments.”

“That’s finished, I hear,” said Phil.

“Aye, well, mind your own business. I’m off to Rogart to get my dog.”

The phone from the police station rang shrilly. He went in to answer it. It was Edie Aubrey. “Hamish,” she said, “I’ve found out who tripped Nancy on the stairs.”

“Who was it?”

“It was Ailsa. She told Nancy and asked her to forgive her.”

“And does Nancy forgive her?”

“Oh, yes, they’re as thick as thieves, but I don’t see why Ailsa should get away with it. You should – ”

“Edie,” interrupted Hamish, “have you seen the new minister?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s at the manse. Go and have a look and then ask yourself whether you want Ailsa charged with anything.”

And one look at that ugly minister, thought Hamish, as he put the phone down, will be enough to cool their fevered dreams. They were probably expecting another Adonis.

The next phone call was from his cousin Rory in London, very angry because Hamish had not given him an advance story on the murder. “If you’d got me up there,” said Rory, “I could have stopped you making such a fool of yourself by accusing someone of murdering a man out of a peatbog who’d been dead for centuries.”

“Leave’it be,” said Hamish. “I found the murderer and the real body. I’ve had enough criticism and been demoted, and I don’t want any more complaints.”

But there was more to come. For when he went to his parents in Rogart, he had to listen to his mother’s gentle complaints about ‘losing’ Priscilla.

He was in a filthy mood by the time he returned to the police station. Snow was beginning to fall heavily. In the kitchen, the wood-burning stove once more stood in the corner. He felt petty and mean at having sent back the stove to Priscilla. He wanted to phone her and apologize but could not bear the thought of hearing her voice.

He piled up the stove with logs. The stove drew even better than it had ever done before. He fed Towser and made dinner for himself.

What had he left in life? he thought. Demoted back to constable, no more Priscilla, back to his old life. The wind howled outside and snow whispered against the window-panes. The stove roared and glowed red, steak sizzled in the pan, and suddenly the police station seemed a refuge against a naughty world outside.

“Yes, I’m ‘back to where I was,” said Hamish to Towser. He turned the steak in the pan and began to whistle.