M.C. Beaton - Death of a Charming Man

M.C. Beaton

Death of a Charming Man

Hamish Macbeth #10

1994, EN

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

1

The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women.

—John Knox

Hamish Macbeth opened the curtains of his bedroom window, scratched his chest lazily and looked out at the loch. It was a bleached sort of day, the high milky-white cloud with the sun behind it draining colour from the loch, from the surrounding hills, as if the village of Lochdubh were in some art film, changing from colour to black and white. He opened the window and a gust of warm damp air blew in along with a cloud of stinging midges, those Highland mosquitoes. He slammed the window again and turned and looked at his rumpled bed. There had been no crime for months, no villains to engage the attentions of Police Sergeant Macbeth. There was, therefore, no reason why he could not crawl back into that bed and dream another hour away.

And then he heard it…faint sounds of scrubbing from the kitchen.

Priscilla!

The sweetness of his unofficial engagement to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of a local hotelier and landowner, was fast fading. Cool Priscilla would never deliver herself of such a trite saying as “I am making a man of you, Hamish Macbeth,” but that, thought Hamish gloomily, was what she was trying to do. He did not want to be made a man of, he wanted to slouch around the village, gossiping, poaching, and free-loading as he had always done in the tranquil days before his engagement.

There came a grinding of wheels outside, the slamming of doors, and then Priscilla’s voice, “Oh, good. Bring it right in here.”

Bring what?

He opened the bedroom door and ambled into the kitchen. Where his wood-burning stove had stood, there was a blank space. Two men in uniforms of the Hydro-Electric Board were carrying in a gleaming new electric cooker.

“Whit’s this?” demanded Hamish sharply.

Priscilla flashed him a smile. “Oh, Hamish, you lazy thing. It was to be a surprise. I’ve got rid of that nasty old cooker of yours and bought a new electric one. Surprise!”

Hampered by Highland politeness, Hamish stifled his cry that he wanted his old stove back and mumbled, “Thank you. You shouldnae hae done it.”

“Miss Halburton-Smythe!” boomed a voice from the doorway and in lumbered the tweedy figure of Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife. “I came to see the new cooker,” she said. “My, isn’t that grand. You’re a lucky man, Hamish Macbeth.”

Hamish gave a smile which was more like a rictus and backed off. “Aye, chust grand. If you ladies will excuse me, I’ll wash and shave.”

He went into the newly painted bathroom and looked bleakly at the shower unit over the bath. “Much more hygenic, Hamish. You spend too much time wallowing in the bath,” echoed Priscilla’s voice in his head.

He washed and shaved at the handbasin, taking a childish pleasure in deciding to have neither shower nor bath. He went back to the bedroom and put on his regulation shirt and trousers and cap. Then he opened the bedroom window and climbed out, feeling a guilty sense of freedom. Towser, his mongrel dog, came bounding around the side of the house to join him. He set off along the waterfront with the dog at his heels. He had forgotten his stick of repellent but was reluctant to go back and fetch it, so he went into Patel’s, the general store, and bought a stick. Jessie and Nessie Currie, the spinster sisters, were buying groceries.

“I heard you had the new cooker,” said Jessie. “The new cooker.” She had an irritating habit of repeating everything.

“You’re the lucky man,” said Nessie. “We wass just saying the other day, a fine young woman like Miss Halburton-Smythe is mair than you deserve.”

“Be the making of you, the making of you,” said Jessie.

Hamish smiled weakly and retreated.

He went along and sat on the harbour wall and watched the fishing boats bobbing at anchor. There was something about him, he decided, pushing back his cap and scratching his red hair, which brought out the cleaning beast in people. He had successfully rid himself of Willie Lament, his police constable, now working at the Italian restaurant, after Willie had nearly driven him mad with his cleaning. The first few heady days of his unofficial engagement to Priscilla had not lasted very long. At first it seemed right that she should start to reorganize the police station, considering she was going to live there. It had to be admitted that the station did need a good clean. But every day? And then she had decided he was not eating properly, and to Hamish’s mind nourishing meals meant boring meals, and the more nourishing meals he received from Priscilla’s fair hands, the more he thought of going down to Inverness for the day and stuffing himself with junk food. He felt disloyal, but he could not also help feeling rather wistful as he remembered the days when his life had been his own. He remembered reading a letter in an agony column from a ‘distressed’ housewife in which she had complained her husband did not give her enough ‘space’ and he had thought then, cynically, that the woman had little to complain about. Now he knew what she felt. For not only was Priscilla always underfoot, banging pots and pans, but the ladies of the village had taken to calling, and the police station was full of the sound of female voices, all praising Priscilla’s improvements. He was sure the police station would be full of them for the rest of the day. A new electric cooker in Lochdubh was the equivalent of a guest appearance by Madonna anywhere else.

He slid down off the wall and headed back along the waterfront and up out of the village, with Towser loping at his heels. Hamish had decided to go to the Tommel Castle Hotel, now run by Priscilla’s father, to see if Mr. Johnston, the manager, would give him a cup of coffee. Priscilla’s home seemed to be the one place these days where he was sure he would not run into her.

Mr. Johnston was in his office. He smiled when he saw Hamish and nodded towards the coffee percolator in the corner. “Help yourself, Hamish. It’s a long time since you’ve come mooching around. Where’s Priscilla?”

“Herself has chust bought me the new cooker,” said Hamish over his shoulder as he poured a mug of coffee.

Mr. Johnston knew of old that Hamish’s accent became more sibilant when the police sergeant was upset.

“Oh, aye,” said the hotel manager, eyeing the rigidity of Hamish’s thin back. “Well, that’s marriage for ye. Nothing like the ladies for getting life sorted out.”

“I’m a lucky man,” said Hamish repressively. He never discussed Priscilla with anyone. He often wondered if there was anyone he could discuss her with, even if he had wanted to. Everyone, particularly his own mother, kept telling him how lucky he was.

“You might not be seeing so much of her in the next week or two,” said Mr. Johnston.

“And why is that?” Hamish sat down on the opposite side of the desk and sipped his coffee.

“Hotel’s going to be full up. The maids keep going off work with one excuse or the other. So you won’t be seeing much of her, like I said. You need a crime to keep you going.”

“I don’t get bored,” said Hamish mildly. “I am not looking for the crime to keep me amused.”

The hotel manager looked at the tall gangling policeman with affection. “I often wonder why you ever bothered to join the police force, Hamish. Why not jist be a Highland layabout, draw the dole, poach a bit?”