Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [76]
Blair, as he turned to watch his bride approach, looked white and strained.
The service was long. The address to the couple by the minister seemed to go on forever. The hymns were of the dirge variety.
Then it was over. The couple went into the vestry to sign the register.
The organ struck up Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ and down the aisle came a triumphant Mary. She had lost weight, and her face shone with happiness.
I’ve done a good thing for once in my life, thought Hamish. And after her experience on the streets, she should be able to handle Blair.
As Blair walked past Hamish, he looked at him, his eyes glittering with suspicion.
The reception at a hotel in Strathbane was a merry affair. The cake was cut, speeches were made, dinner was served, and then the dancing began, Blair and Mary taking the floor. Blair felt he had been sober for a hundred years. The Blair-God up in the sky who had sustained his sobriety was fading fast.
He had asked Mary time after time if Hamish Macbeth ever knew who was behind his kidnapping, but each time she had vehemently replied that he knew nothing.
He returned to his table after the dance. A large fresh bottle of mineral water was sitting beside his plate. He rose and went over to the bar. A bottle of malt whisky glittered in the lights. What was it the highlanders called it? Usquebaugh – the water of life. That was it.
‘May I help you?’ asked the barman.
‘I’ll help myself,’ said Blair. He opened the bottle, filled up a glass, and took a great swallow, feeling the blessed liquor course through his body right down to his toes.
People said later they had never seen Blair in such fine form. He danced the Eightsome Reel, the Gay Gordons, and the Dashing White Sergeant as if his feet had wings.
When he finally retired to the honeymoon suite in the hotel with his bride, Blair stumbled across to the bed, fell across it, and lay there snoring. Mary carefully hung away her wedding dress, had a bath, and put on not the honeymoon nightgown, but a serviceable flannelette one.
She undressed her snoring husband down to his underwear. With a contented little smile, she took her knitting out of her suitcase, turned on the television, and proceeded to knit.
Marriage was good.
The following evening, Aileen arrived exactly at seven o’clock. Unfortunately, Aileen was one of those women who look more attractive in uniform than out of it. When she shrugged off her coat in the restaurant, she showed she was wearing a pink boob tube decorated with sequins. Her navel was decorated with a fake ruby, very much in prominence as a roll of fat bulged over her tight Lycra trousers when she sat down. She had put pink streaks in her hair, and her eyelashes were so heavily mascaraed, it looked as if two large spiders had found a home in her face.
Oh, God, I wish something would happen to get me out of this, prayed Hamish, hiding his face behind a menu.
Willie’s face when he took the order was a tight mask of disapproval.
Aileen chipped in and said they’d have a bottle of Valpolicello to start. ‘Hear you’re quite a lad with the ladies,’ she said when Willie had left.
‘All lies,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m quite shy really.’
‘Come on, laddie. Shy men don’t get engaged to hookers.’
Her voice rang round the restaurant. The other diners listened avidly.
Hamish was just wondering if he could fake illness when to his amazement, Anna Krokovsky walked into the restaurant. He did not like her but in that moment he looked on her as his saviour.
She was out of uniform. ‘May I join you?’ Ignoring Aileen’s scowl, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘Aileen, do you know Inspector Krokovsky?’ asked Hamish.
‘I’ve seen you around,’ muttered Aileen.
‘I thought you had gone back to Russia,’ said Hamish.
‘I had, but I am here with a special invitation. You are invited to Moscow. We would like to study your methods.’
‘How long for?’
‘A few months. Mr Daviot says officers from Strathbane can cover your beat.’
This was worse than the