Death of a Gentle Lady

Bit of an eccentric, mind you. I knew she was going to be at the Rotary Club dinner so I wangled an invitation from my pal and took Aileen Drummond along – you know, the PC you promised to take to dinner and never did? Anyway, there’s the happy couple on either side of Daviot. Well, the first course was artichoke and Mary begins to eat the whole thing. Then she cries, “Bugger this stuff. It’s like trying to eat holly!” Mrs Daviot on the other side of Blair looks shocked. She says, “You’re not supposed to eat the whole thing, Mary. Just the bottoms of the leaves.” Blair rounds on her and hisses, “Stop showing me up.” Mrs Daviot springs to Mary’s defence. “Really,” she says, “Mary’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to eat it.” And sure enough, some of Strathbane’s finest are trying to chomp down the whole thing as well.
    ‘“There you are, darlin’,” says Mary, blowing Blair a kiss, and he looks as if he could murder her.’
    ‘Where did he meet her?’ asked Hamish, relishing every moment of the account.
    ‘She was working in one of the supermarkets and even doing voluntary work in one of the charity shops at the weekend. Mrs Daviot was most impressed. She’s organizing the wedding for them.’
    ‘And when is it to be?’
    ‘February the second at St Andrew’s kirk in Strathbane. Blair wanted a registry office wedding but Mrs Daviot wouldn’t hear of it.’
    ‘Any chance of an invite?’
    ‘I’ll see if I can wangle one for you. Now I’m off before the snow gets worse.’

    Hamish received an invitation to the wedding. Along with the invitation came details of the wedding present list and the website details of a shop in Strathbane. He got on to the site and ordered a soup tureen out of a dinner service list, putting in his credit card details and instructions for it to be sent off with the message, ‘Oh, Happy Day, from your friend and colleague, Hamish Macbeth.’

    At last the great day arrived. Hamish put on his only suit and travelled to Strathbane.
    It was a day full of blustery wind and yellow glaring sunlight. The church was full. Hamish chatted to people he knew and then found himself accosted by Aileen Drummond. ‘What about dinner?’ she asked.
    ‘All right. Come over to the station tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Do you want me to pick you up?’
    ‘No, I’ll drive over.’ She gave him a saucy look. ‘If I drink too much I can stay the night.’
    And why not? thought Hamish as he settled into a pew. The hell with romanticism. What I need is some healthy sex.
    The organ in the loft struck up, and Hamish twisted his head to get a look at the bride. Mary – he must forget that she was once Ruby – came sailing up the aisle in all the splendour of a white wedding dress and veil. Daviot was to give her away. Mrs Daviot was maid of honour, and Jimmy was best man.
    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