by M C Beaton
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Marion Chesney
Excerpt from Death of a maid copyright © 2007 by Marion Chesney All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover art by Rob Sauber
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First eBook Edition: January 2007
ISBN: 978-0-446-55331-5
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
About the Author
A preview of "Death of a Maid"
PRAISE FOR DEATH OF A DREAMER and M. C. BEATON’S ACCLAIMED MYSTERIES FEATURING HAMISH MACBETH
“Engages the reader from the very first page to the complex conclusion…well-plotted…folksy good humor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Longing for escape? Tired of waiting for Brigadoon to materialize? Time for a trip to Lochdubh, the scenic, if somnolent, village in the Scottish Highlands where M. C. Beaton sets her beguiling whodunits featuring Constable Hamish Macbeth.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Fans of Hamish will love this combination of mystery and romantic escapades.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Engrossing, cozy mystery…with residents and a constable so authentic it won’t be long before tourists will be seeking Lochdubh and believing in the reality of Hanish Macbeth as surely as they believed in Sherlock Holmes.”
—Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Macbeth is the sort of character who slyly grows on you.”
—Chicago Sun-Tomes
“This series is pure bliss.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“For those who like their mysteries cozy—though with Beaton the rose-colored glasses are, as usual, tinged with noir.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“Macbeth’s charm continues to grow…Fun, silly, and as light as a well-made scone—I wouldn’t miss a single book.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“Beaton catches the beauty of the area’s natural geography and succinctly describes its distinct flavor.”
—Library Journal
“The detective novels of M. C. Beaton, a master of outrageous black comedy…have reached cult status in the United States.”
—The Times Magazine (LONDON)
“On a scale of one to ten, M. C. Beaton’s Constable Hamish Macbeth merits a ten plus.”
—Buffalo News
“Beaton’s plot and characters are as splendidly cast as the scenic backdrop she has chosen for Lochdubh.”
—Des Moines Sunday Register (IA)
Previous Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Dustman
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Gossip
Death of a Cad
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Glutton
Death of a Travelling Man
To Alice Boatwright and Jim Mullins, with affection
Chapter One
So, if I dream I have you, I have you,
For, all our joys are but fantastical.
—John Donne
It had been a particularly savage winter in the county of Sutherland at the very north of Scotland. Great blizzards had roared in off the Atlantic, burying roads and cottages in deep snowdrifts. Patel’s, the local grocery shop in the village of Lochdubh, sold out of nearly everything, and at one point it was necessary for rescue helicopters to drop supplies to the beleaguered inhabitants.
And then, at the end of March, the last of the storms roared away, to be followed by balmy breezes and blue skies. The air was full of the sound of rasping saws and the thump of hammers as the inhabitants of Lochdubh, as if they had awakened from a long sleep, got to work repairing storm damage.
The police station was comparatively sheltered below the brow of a hill and had escaped the worst of the ravages of winter. Police Constable Hamish Macbeth found that the only thing in need of repair was the roof of the hen house.
Archie Macleod, one of the local fishermen, went to call on Hamish and found the lanky policeman with the flaming red hair up on top of a ladder, busily hammering nails into the roof of the hen house.
“Fine day, Hamish,” he called.
Glad of any diversion from work, Hamish climbed down the ladder. “I was just about to put the kettle on, Archie. Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Aye, that would be grand.”
Archie followed Hamish into the kitchen and sat at the table while Hamish put an old blackened kettle on the wood-burning stove.
“Got much damage, Archie?”
“Tiles off the roof. But herself is up there doing the repairs.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes glinted with amusement. “Didn’t feel like helping her, did you?”
“Och, no. The womenfolk are best left on their own. How have you been doing?”
“Very quiet. There’s one thing about a bad winter,” said Hamish over his shoulder as he took a pair of mugs down from a cupboard. “It stops the villains driving up from the south to look for easy pickings in the cottages.”
“Aye, and it keeps folks sweet as well. Nothing like the blitz spirit. How did that newcomer survive the winter, or did herself take off for the south?”
The newcomer was Effie Garrard. Hamish had called on her last summer when she first arrived, and had been sure she would not stay long. He put her down as one of those romantic dreamers who sometimes relocate to the Highlands, looking for what they always describe as “the quality of life.”
“I sent gamekeeper Henry up to see her last month, and he said the place was all shut up.”
The kettle started to boil. As he filled the teapot, Hamish thought uneasily about Effie. He should really have called on her himself. What if the poor woman had been lying there dead inside when Henry called?
“Tell you what, Archie. I’ll take a run up there and chust see if the woman’s all right.” The sudden sibilance of Hamish’s highland accent betrayed that he was feeling guilty.
That afternoon, Hamish got into the police Land Rover, fighting off the attempts of his dog, Lugs, and his cat, Sonsie, to get into it as well. “I’ll take yo
u two out for a walk later,” he called.
He saw the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, standing on the road watching him. The car windows were down, and he clearly heard Nessie say, “That man’s gone dotty. Talking to the beasts as if they were the humans.”
Hamish flushed angrily as he drove off. His adoption of the cat, a wild cat, had caused a lot of comment in the village, people complaining that it was impossible to domesticate such an animal. But Sonsie appeared to have settled down and had showed no signs of leaving.
Effie Garrard had bought a small one-storey cottage up in the hills above Lochdubh. It had a roof of corrugated iron, stone floors, and a fireplace that smoked. When Hamish had first visited her, he found her to be a small woman in her forties, sturdy, with brown hair speckled with grey, a round red-cheeked face, and a small pursed mouth. She had gushed on about the majesty of the Highlands and how she planned to sell her “art works” in the local shops.
If she were still alive, and he hoped to God she was, he expected to find that she had packed up and gone, all her fantasies of a highland life shattered.
But as he approached her cottage, he saw smoke rising up from the chimney. Maybe she had sold it to someone else, he thought, and because of the rigours of the winter which had kept most people indoors, he hadn’t heard about it.
But it was Effie herself who answered the door to him. “You should really get the phone put in,” said Hamish. “Something could have happened to you during the winter, and we’d never have known if you needed help.”
“I’ve got a mobile.”
“Does it work up here? There still seem to be blank spots all over the Highlands.”
“Yes, it works fine. Are you coming in for tea?” “Thanks.” Hamish removed his cap and ducked his head to get through the low doorway.
The living room and kitchen combined had a long work table with a pottery wheel on it. On the table were a few vases and bowls glazed in beautiful colours.
“Yours?” asked Hamish, picking up a little bowl of sapphire blue and turning it around in his fingers.
“Yes. Mr. Patel has taken some, and the gift shop at the Tommel Castle Hotel has taken a good few more. I didn’t do any business during the winter because of the bad weather, but I’m hoping for sales when the visitors come back.”
There were paintings of birds and flowers hanging on the walls, each one an exquisite little gem. Hamish was beginning to revise his opinion of Effie. She was a talented artist.
“I’m surprised you survived the winter up here,” he said.
“I didn’t need to. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee would be grand. Just black. What do you mean, you didn’t have to?”
“I went to stay with my sister in Brighton, and so I escaped the worst of it. Do sit down and don’t loom over me.”
Hamish sat down on a hard chair at a corner of the work table while she prepared coffee. “Odd,” he said. “I thought the Highlands would have driven you out by now.”
“Why? This is the most beautiful place in the world.”
Yes, thought Hamish cynically, if you can afford to get out of the place for the winter.
Aloud, he said, “Oh, I put you down as one of those romantics.”
“There is nothing up with being romantic. Everyone needs dreams. Here’s your coffee.”
Hamish looked at the little blue bowl. “That bowl. Is it for sale?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds!” Hamish stared at her.
“It’s a work of art,” she said calmly. “Fifty pounds is cheap at the price.”
A hard businesswoman as well, thought Hamish. Still, it meant he had been wrong about her. Romantically minded newcomers had caused trouble in the past.
In April there was one last blizzard—the lambing blizzard, as the locals called it—and then the fine weather returned, and by June, one long sunny day followed another. Memories of the black winter receded. It stayed light even in the middle of the night. Amazingly, for Hamish, there was still no crime, not even petty theft.
He was strolling along the waterfront one fine morning when he was stopped by a tall man with an easel strapped on his back who said he was looking for accommodation.
“I don’t think there’s a place here with a studio available,” said Hamish.
The man laughed. “I’m a landscape painter. I work outside.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m Jock Fleming.”
“Hamish Macbeth. You could try Mrs. Dunne along at Sea View, just along the end there. You can’t miss it.”
Jock looked down at the dog and the cat, waiting patiently at Hamish’s heels. “That’s an odd pair of animals you've got there,” he said.
“They're company,” said Hamish dismissively. “Really? It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious, or I’d be crossing myself,” said Jock with an easy laugh. “A wild cat and a dog with blue eyes!”
Hamish grinned. He took an instant liking to the artist. He was a powerful man in, Hamish judged, his early forties with shaggy black hair streaked with grey. He had a comical, battered-looking face and seemed to find himself a bit of a joke.
“When you've got settled in,” said Hamish, “drop by the police station and we'll have a dram.”
“Great. See you.”
Hamish watched him go. “Well, Lugs,” he said. “That'll be one incomer who won’t be any trouble at all.”
Hamish was disappointed as two days passed and Jock did not call for that drink. But on the third day, as he walked along the waterfront in the morning, he saw Jock at his easel, surrounded by a little group of women.
Walking up to the group, Hamish said, “Move along, ladies. The man can’t do any work with you bothering him.”
“I don’t mind,” said Jock cheerfully. “I like the company of beautiful ladies.”
Freda, the schoolteacher, giggled and said, “He’s giving us lessons. Why don’t you run along, Hamish?”
“Yes,” agreed Nessie Currie. “Go and catch a criminal or something.”
“I’ll see you later for that dram, Hamish,” called Jock as Hamish walked off.
I hope that one isn’t going to turn out to be a heart-breaker, thought Hamish. He decided to visit Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.
The kitchen door was open, so he walked straight in. Angela was sitting at her kitchen table at her computer. She looked up when she saw Hamish and gave a sigh of relief, pushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
“I can’t get on with this book, Hamish,” she complained. “When the first one was published, I thought I was all set. But the words won’t come.”
“Maybe you're trying too hard.”
“Maybe. Let’s have coffee.”
Angela’s first novel had been published the previous autumn. Reviews were good, but sales were modest.
“The trouble is I am damned as a ‘literary writer,’” said Angela, “which usually means praise and no money.”
“Perhaps something in the village will spark your imagination,” said Hamish, covertly shooing two of her cats off the table where they were trying to drink the milk out of the jug.
“Like what?”
“Like this artist fellow. Seems to be a big hit with the ladies.”
“Oh, he jokes and teases them. But I can’t see anyone falling for him.”
“Why?”
“In a funny kind of way, there’s nothing about him that gives any of them the come-on. He’s just a thoroughly nice man.”
“Painting any good?”
“He’s just started, but I looked his name up on the Internet. He’s considered to be a very good landscape painter. He paints pictures in the old-fashioned way, and people are going for that. I think they're moving away from elephant dung and unmade beds or whatever the modern artist has been exhibiting at the Tate. I don’t think he’s going to cause any dramas. Where are your animals?”
“I left them playing in the
garden.”
“Don’t you find it odd that a dog and a wild cat should get on so well?”
“Not really. A relief, if you ask me. If Lugs hadn’t taken to the cat, I’d need to have got rid of it.”
“Be careful, Hamish. It is a wild cat, and they can be savage.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a pure wild cat any more. They've been interbreeding with the domestic ones for years. When I found Sonsie up on the moors with a broken leg, I didn’t think the beast would live. Someone had been mistreating that animal. I’d dearly like to find out who it was.”
“Maybe it just got caught in a trap.”
“I’ve a feeling Sonsie had been kept captive somewhere.”
“Here’s your coffee. Is Effie Garrard still around?”
“Yes. I visited her the other day and asked around about her. Patel is selling her stuff, and so is the gift shop up at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She does charge awfy high prices.”
“Are you going to the ceilidh on Saturday?”
“I might drop in.”
“You'll need a ticket. Five pounds.”
“Five pounds! What on earth for?”
“The church hall needs repainting.”
“I thought some of the locals would have done that for free.”
“Oh, they are. But it’s to raise money for repairs to the roof, paint, and new curtains.”
“And what would I be getting for five pounds?”
“A buffet supper. The Italian restaurant is doing the catering.”
“That’s decent of them. I’ll go.”
“You must be getting very bored,” said Angela, putting a mug of coffee in front of him. “No crime.”
“And that just suits me fine. No crime now and no crime on the horizon.”
Effie Garrard was a fantasist. Dreams were as essential to her as breathing. While Hamish sat in the doctor’s wife’s kitchen drinking coffee, Effie approached the village of Lochdubh, wrapped in a dream of attending her own funeral. Villagers wept, the piper played a lament, famous artists came from all over to give their eulogies. She had decided to walk instead of taking her car because the day was so fine. The twin mountains behind the village soared up to a clear blue sky. Little glassy waves on the sea loch made a pleasant plashing sound as they curled onto the shingly beach.
