Hamish MacBeth 04 (1989) - Death of a Perfect Wife by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Format: epub, mobi

SIX

I am silent in the club,

I am silent in the pub,

I am silent on a bally peak in Darien;

For I stuff away for life.

Shoving peas in with a knife,

Because I am at heart a Vegetarian.

No more the milk of cows.

Shall pollute my private house.

Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian;

I will stick to port and sherry,

For they are so very, very.

So very, very, very Vegetarian.

—G. K. Chesterton.

It was the detective Jimmy Anderson who arrived at the police station first thing in the morning with the expected orders from Blair to search the village for rat poison. “Anything left in that bottle?” he said hopefully. “At eight o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Hamish. “Come back later. Is Blair all ready to meet the press?”

“He’s blinding and blasting but he’s got his Sunday suit on and his hair all slicked down aboot his horrible ears,” said Anderson with a grin.

Hamish shut Towser out in the garden and set off. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, was his first call. She was in her kitchen. Her husband was poking distastefully at a bowl of muesli with his spoon. “Sit down,” ordered Mrs Wellington when she saw Hamish, “and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”

Hamish sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s a good, healthy breakfast,” said Hamish to the minister. Mr Wellington put down his spoon with a sigh. “I cannot think starvation is good for anyone,” he said. “I feel like a child again—if you don’t eat it, you won’t get anything else.”

“Well, that’s the road to the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Hamish cheerfully. “You know, become like a little child again.”

“Don’t quote the scriptures to me, Macbeth,” said the minister testily. “Why are you here?”

Mrs Wellington put a mug of coffee in front of Hamish. He took a sip and coughed. “I am here to look for a rat poison called Dead-O. What is this coffee, Mrs Wellington?”

“It’s dandelion coffee. Mrs Thomas showed me how to make it.”

Hamish sadly pushed his mug away.

“You see what I mean?” said the minister. “Why not stay for lunch? We’re having nettle soup.”

Hamish ignored him. “The rat poison,” he said. “You bought some from Patel about a year ago. You had the mice.”

“So we did,” called Mrs Wellington over one large tweed shoulder. She was scrubbing dishes in the sink with ferocious energy. “Not very good. I think the mice just left of their own accord.”

“Have you any of the stuff left?” asked Hamish patiently.

“No, I threw it out months ago.”

“You are sure?”

Mrs Wellington turned around and put her soapy hands on her hips. “I am not in the habit of lying, Mr Macbeth.”

“I’d better go and try somewhere else,” said Hamish, getting to his feet.

“Oh, but you haven’t had your coffee,” said the minister sweetly.

“It’s all rush.” Hamish picked up his hat and headed for the kitchen door. The minister followed him outside. “When is it all going to end?” he asked mournfully. “I dream of large T-bone steaks and mounds of fried potatoes.

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