Braikie was one of those small Scottish towns where Calvinism seems to seep out of the very walls of the dark grey houses. There was one main street with a hotel at one end and a grim-looking church at the other. Small shops selling limp dresses and food of the frozen fish fingers variety were dotted here and there. The police station had been closed down, Braikie having some time ago been considered near enough for Hamish Macbeth to patrol.
But he hardly ever went there and had no reason to.
Braikie might be a dismal place, but he could not rememher a crime ever being committed there.
He asked a local where the dentist’s surgery was and was told it was next to the church. It was situated above a dress shop where dowdy frocks at outrageous prices were displayed in the window, which was covered in yellow cellophane to protect the precious goods from sunlight, even though the dreary day was becoming blacker by the minute. The entrance to the dentist’s surgery was a stone staircase by the side of the shop. He mounted; slowly, holding his jaw although the pain had suddenly ceased in that mysterious way that toothache has of disappearing the minute you are heading for the dentist’s chair.
He stopped on the landing and cocked his head to one side. It was quiet. No sound seemed to filter from inside.
A frosted-glass door with Gilchrist’s name on it faced him. It was the only door on the landing.
With a little sigh, he pushed it open. The waiting room was empty, the receptionist’s desk was empty. The silence was absolute. A tank of fish ornamented one comer, but the fish were dead and floating belly up. A table with very, old copies of Scottish Field was in the centre of the room. Hard upright chairs lined the walls.
His tooth gave another sharp wrench of pain, and stifling a moan, he pushed open the surgery door.
A man was sitting in the dentist’s chair, his back to Hamish. “Hullo,” said Hamish tentatively. “Where’s the dentist?”
Silence.
He strode around the front of the chair.
From the white hair and white coat, he realised he was looking at Mr. Gilchrist.
But his face was not white. It was horribly discoloured and distorted.
Hamish felt for a pulse at the wrist and then at the neck.
Mr. Gilchrist was dead.
∨ Death of a Dentist ∧
2
My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
—Robert Soutfiey
Hamish stood for a moment, shocked. And then the heavy stillness was broken, almost as if the whole of the small town had been waiting for him to find the body.
A dog barked in the street below, its master called it in an angry voice, an old car coughed and spluttered its way, and high heels sounded on the stone staircase outside.
He heard the outside door opening as the high heels clacked their way in. He opened the door of the surgery. A beautiful girl was hanging her coat on a hatstand in the corner. She had glossy jet black hair, a white clear complexion and large blue eyes. She was of medium height with a curvaceous figure and excellent legs. “What do you want?” she snapped, and, oh, the voice did not match the face or figure. But the voice was undoubtedly that of the receptionist, Maggie Bane.
“Who are you?” she went on. Hamish was not in uniform.
“Hamish Macbeth.”
“Well, Mr. Macbeth, Mr. Gilchrist has his coffee at this time in the morning and does not like to be disturbed.”
“He’s dead.”
She did not seem to hear him. She detached a white coat from the coat rack and put it on. “In any case,” she went; on, “your appointment is for three o’clock this afternoon. Not eleven o’clock this morning.”
“He’s dead!” howled Hamish. “Mr. Gilchrist is dead and it looks like poison to me.”
Those wide blue eyes dilated. She suddenly ran past him into the surgery. She stared down at the dead body of the dentist. She stood there in silence. She looked as if she might never move again. “Miss Bane!” said Hamish sharply. “I am a police officer. Do not touch anything. I’ll need to phone police headquarters.”
He walked forward and took her by the shoulders and guided her back to her desk. “Sit down and don’t move,” he ordered.
She sat down numbly and stared straight ahead. He dialled the Strathbane number and got through to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who listened while Hamish quickly outlined the finding of the body. “I’ll be over right away,” said Blair in his heavy Glaswegian accent. “Trust you to find another body. If ah hadnae enough on ma hands as it is.” Hamish put down the receiver and turned to Maggie Bane. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions, Miss Bane?”
She sat motionless.
“Miss Bane?”
Those beautiful eyes finally focused on him. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I took him in his morning coffee and went out to the shops. Oh, here’s his next patient coming.”
Hamish went quickly to the door. A woman stood there, holding a small child by the hand. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” he said. “I am a police officer. Give me your name and address and we will be in touch with you.”
He coped with her startled questions as best he could, noted down her name, address and telephone number, and then went quickly into the surgery, where the dead body lay in the chair, to look for the coffee cup. He found it over by a stainless steel sink. Cup and saucer had been washed.
He went back to Maggie. “Did he usually wash his own cup and saucer after drinking his coffee?”
“No,” she said in a shaky voice. “He just usually left it and I washed it for him and put it away in the cupboard.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Five years.”
“I’ll need your home address and telephone number, Miss Bane. I do not want to distress you now with too many questions. When did Mr. Gilchrist start work?”
“At nine o’clock.”
“And you?”
“The same.”
“And was he in a good mood? No signs of depression or distress?”
“What? Oh, do you mean would he have committed suicide? No. He was the same as ever.”
Hamish crossed to the outside door, opened it and hung a CLOSED sign which had been hanging on the doorknob on the inside of the door on the outside doorknob. “What I need at the moment before the contingent from Strathbane arrives is your appointment book. Who had the first appointment?”
“Someone from Lochdubh.” She pulled forward the book. She seemed unnaturally calm now. “Mr. Archibald Macleod.”
Archie, the fisherman, thought Hamish.
“And how long was he with the dentist?”
“He wasn’t. He didn’t turn up.”
“Who did Mr. Gilchrist see before his coffee break?”
“A Mrs. Harrison.”
“Mrs. Harrison from outside Lochdubh on the Braikie road?”
“Yes, her.”
“But she was spreading scandal that Mr. Gilchrist had sexually interfered with her.”
“She’s a nut case. She was always hanging around him.”
Hamish scratched his head in perplexity.
“Mr. Gilchrist must have known what she had been saying about him. Why on earth was he treating her?”
“She was a good-paying customer.”
“Now, let’s go over your own movements. When you came in at nine o’clock, Mr. Gilchrist was the same as ever. Mr. Macleod did not turn up. The next was Mrs, Harrison. What did she have done?”