Death of a Perfect Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

would be better if we just stuck to first names,’ said Mrs Daviot eagerly. ‘I’m Mary and my husband is Peter.’
    ‘Very well then,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s Priscilla and Hamish.’
    Hamish cursed the impulse that had led him to waste a whole evening, when he could have been alone with Priscilla, in spiting Blair. Mary Daviot was a small, fat, fussily dressed woman whose Scottish accent was distorted by a perpetual effort to sound English. Her husband was small and thin with grey hair, grey eyes, and a grey face. ‘So you’re Macbeth,’ he said surveying Hamish.
    ‘Do call me Hamish, Peter,’ said Hamish sweetly.
    There was a silence while they all decided what to have to eat. ‘The prices are ridiculous here,’ said Mr Daviot finally. He turned to the waiter, ‘We’ll all have the set menu.’
    ‘Perhaps you would care for something else,’ said Hamish to Priscilla.
    ‘No, darling,’ said Priscilla meekly.
    Hamish knew she was angry with him for having used her in order to introduce himself to the superintendent and his heart sank.
    ‘All ready for the Glorious?’ Mrs Daviot asked Priscilla.
    Priscilla raised her eyebrows.
    ‘I mean The Glorious Twelfth,’ explained Mrs Daviot.
    ‘I suppose my father is,’ said Priscilla. ‘I don’t shoot anymore. Few enough birds as it is.’
    Hamish ordered a good bottle of claret. ‘We’ll just have a glass of yours,’ said Mr Daviot when Hamish offered him the wine list.
    ‘You were involved in that murder case where that chap was shot on the grouse moor, weren’t you?’ the superintendent asked Hamish.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Tell me about it. I wasn’t in Strathbane then.’
    As Hamish talked, Priscilla endured the coy and vulgar conversation of Mrs Daviot.
    The first course arrived. It was salmon mousse. A tiny portion moulded into the shape of a fish with a green caper for an eye stared up at Hamish.
    ‘I gether the chef is famous for his novel kweezin,’ said Mrs Daviot.
    ‘I’m not a fan of nouvelle cuisine,’ said Priscilla. ‘They never give you enough to eat.’
    She glanced at Hamish who seemed to be enjoying himself talking to the superintendent. Hamish did not like Mr Daviot much but found him an intelligent policeman.
    Priscilla realized with a shock that she had not thought about John Burlington in recent days. But now she wished with all her heart that he would miraculously turn up and take her out of the dining room and away from Mrs Daviot’s greedy eyes that seemed to be pricing her gown, her earrings, and her necklace.
    The next course was Tournedos Bonnie Prince Charlie. A small piece of fillet steak rested on a small round of toast. Two mushrooms and two radishes cut in the shape of flowers decorated the plate. A kidney-shaped side dish contained a small portion of sliced carrots and an even smaller portion of mange tout. Hamish mentally cut down the supply of free-range eggs by two-thirds and cast a hurt look at Mr Johnson who came hurrying up.
    ‘Everything all right?’ he asked. There was a crash behind him and he swung round. Dr Brodie had upset his chair and was storming from the dining room.
    ‘Excuse me,’ muttered Mr Johnson and went after the doctor.
    ‘So it looks as if they’ll be no more murders in Lochdubh?’ said Mr Daviot.
    ‘I hope so,’ said Hamish. ‘But we have a creator of violence in our midst.’
    ‘What’s thet?’ asked Mrs Daviot.
    ‘It’s someone who sets up situations and animosities in people that often lead to murder.’
    ‘I don’t believe in that sort of thing,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Murderers are usually on booze or drugs or both. Or there’s the ones that are born bad. No one makes another person murder them.’
    ‘I think they do,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s often a way of committing suicide. You don’t do it yourself but you drive someone else into doing it for you.’
    ‘I never let popular psychology interfere with police work,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nothing beats a