Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [42]
‘I’ll be ready,’ he said gently.
Angela drove most of the way in silence, her knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. The last time Hamish had seen her in such a state was when she was determined to be the perfect wife because of the malign influence of an incomer to the village. But ever since she had got over that, she had been her old self, gentle and unassuming and the worst cook in Sutherland.
She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort of chiffon dress under her coat along with very thick make-up. Hamish was wearing a Savile Row suit which he had picked up in a thrift shop. The last time he had worn it was the last time he had met Priscilla for dinner. He had a sudden sharp longing to speak to her again.
As he had expected, they were too early by an hour so they went into the hotel bar. ‘Better keep to mineral water,’ cautioned Angela, ‘because there’ll be drinks at dinner and I want all my wits about me.’ She took a sheaf of notes out of her handbag and began to study them, her lips moving.
‘What’s that?’ asked Hamish.
‘It’s my acceptance speech.’
‘Angela! You’re taking all this too seriously.’
‘What would you know? You haven’t a single ambitious bone in your body.’
‘Aye, and I like it that way.’ Hamish suddenly wished the evening would be over.
At last, they went in for dinner. Angela and Hamish were seated at one of the round tables with her publisher, Henry Satherwaite, a thin female poet called Jemima Thirsk and her husband, and two Haggart executives and their wives.
The dinner was at last over and the chairman of Haggart took the podium. He droned on about the virtue of the firm’s cakes and then got down to the business of the evening.
‘We have five nominees: Jemima Thirsk for her poems, It Happened One Sunday, Simon Swallow for The Bastard of Bridgetown, Angela Brodie for The Bovary Factor, Sean Belfast for The End of Ulster, and Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.
‘Our distinguished panel of experts have chosen the prizewinner.’ With maddening slowness he opened an envelope. ‘Get on with it!’ muttered Angela, polishing off her after-dinner brandy in one gulp.
‘The winner is – Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.’
Angela turned chalk-white. Her publisher patted her hand. ‘Better luck next year,’ he whispered.
Harriet Wilson was a large woman wearing a beaded gown and with two feathers stuck in her elaborately dressed coils of grey hair. She fell over getting up to the platform, and it took two men to hoist her to her feet.
She blinked myopically at the audience and then vomited violently.
‘They’re always drunks,’ said Hamish.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Henry.
‘Because it’s always a Cherokee grandmother. Never the Sioux or the Mohawk or the Cree. Very fertile lady that grandmother.’
‘You mean, she might have made the whole thing up?’
‘Maybe,’ said Hamish. ‘Oh, Angela, don’t take on so.’ For Angela was crying quietly. He put an arm round her and gave her a hug.
‘Did you see that?’ hissed Nessie Currie, gazing avidly at the television set. ‘I knew it. That Hamish Macbeth should be locked up. No woman is safe from him. And there’s poor Dr Brodie at death’s door. Shame!’
‘Shame,’ echoed Jessie.
‘No wonder herself is crying. It’s the shame o’ adultery.’
‘Adultery,’ murmured Jessie.
Dr Brodie was lying on the sofa, feeling like death. His ancient television had broken down right before the screening of the Haggart awards. He heard knocking at the kitchen door but felt too ill to get up so he shouted weakly, ‘Come in. It isn’t locked.’
And in came some of the villagers bearing cakes and whisky and flowers and home remedies, which they put down on the kitchen table. Mrs Wellington, who had been banished from her duties as doctor-sitter, nonetheless came in and looked sympathetically at Dr Brodie.
‘Did she win?’ he whispered.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What’s everyone doing in the kitchen?’
‘Folk are bringing you some things to make you feel better. Have you … er … read your wife’s book?’
‘Not yet. Angela doesn’t like me reading