Death of a Valentine

by M C Beaton

  She gave him her mobile phone number and set out, deciding to try some of the faraway addresses first. Josie drove along, up and down the one-track roads of Sutherland, lost in a happy dream.

  The hard fact was that she should never have joined the police force. But a television drama, The Bill, had fired her imagination. By fantasising herself into the character of a strong and competent policewoman, she had passed through her training fairly easily. Her sunny nature made her popular. She had not been in Strathbane long enough for any really nasty cases to wake her up to the realities of her job. She baked cakes for the other constables, asked about their wives and families, and generally made herself well liked. She was given easy assignments.

  Then one day after she had been in Strathbane only a few weeks, Hamish Macbeth strolled into police headquarters. Josie took one look at his tall figure, flaming red hair, and hazel eyes and decided she was in love. And since she was already in love with some sort of Brigadoon idea of the Highlands, she felt that Hamish Macbeth was a romantic figure.

  Hamish Macbeth began to receive telephone calls from people in the outlying crofts praising Josie McSween. She was described as “a ray of sunshine,” “a ministering angel,” and “a fine wee lassie.”

  As there was no crime on his beat and Josie was covering what would normally be his duties, Hamish found himself at liberty to mooch around the village and go fishing.

  During the late afternoon, with his dog and cat at his heels, he strolled around to see his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. Angela was a writer, always in the throes of trying to produce another book. She typed on her laptop at the kitchen table where the cats prowled amongst the lunch debris which Angela had forgotten to clear away.

  “You’ll need to lock your beasts in the living room,” said Angela. “Sonsie frightens my cats.”

  “I’ll let them run outside,” said Hamish, shooing his pets out the door. “They’ll be fine. How’s it going?”

  “Not very well. I had a visit from a French writer. One of my books has been translated into French. She spoke excellent English, which is just as well because I have only school French. I think I upset her.”

  “How?”

  “Pour yourself some coffee. It’s like this. She talked about the glories of being a writer. She said it was a spiritual experience. She said this must be a marvellous place for inspiration. Well, you know, writers who wait for inspiration get mental block. One just slogs on. I said so. She got very high and mighty and said I could not be a real writer. She said, ‘Pouf!’ ”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s that sort of sound that escapes the French mouth when they make a moue of contempt.”

  “I haven’t seen a tourist here in ages,” said Hamish, sitting down opposite her. “The Americans can’t afford to come this far and the French are tied up in the credit crunch.”

  “By the way she was dressed, she had private means. I bet she published her books herself,” said Angela. “How’s your new copper?”

  “Rapidly on her way to becoming the saint o’ Sutherland. I sent her off to check on the isolated folks and they’ve been phoning me up to say how marvellous she is. Every time I go back to the police station, there’s another one ringing in wi’ an accolade.”

  Angela leaned back in her chair. “What’s she after?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A pretty little girl like that doesn’t want to be buried up here in the wilds unless she has some sort of agenda.”

  “I don’t think she has. I think she was simply told to go. Jimmy said she had volunteered but I find that hard to believe.”

  “Had she met you before?”

  “No. First I saw of her was when she landed on my doorstep.” Hamish had not even noticed Josie that time when she had first seen him at police headquarters. “Anyway, as long as she keeps out o’ ma hair, we’ll get along just fine.”

  By the time the days dragged on until the end of June, Josie was bored. There was no way of getting to him. She could not tempt him with beautiful meals because Mrs. Wellington had decided not to let her use the kitchen, saying if she wanted an evening meal she would cook it and bill headquarters for the extra expense, and when, one evening, Josie plucked up courage and suggested to Hamish that she would cook a meal for them both, he had said, “Don’t worry, McSween. I’m going out.”

  It wasn’t that Hamish did not like his constable, it was simply that he valued his privacy and thought that letting any woman work in his kitchen was a bad idea. Look what had happened when he had been briefly engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Without consulting him, she’d had his beloved stove removed and a nasty electric cooker put in instead. No, you just couldn’t let a woman in the kitchen.

  Josie had three weeks’ holiday owing. She decided to spend it with her mother in Perth. Her mother always knew what to do.

  Josie was an only child, and Mrs. Flora McSween had brought her daughter up on a diet of romantic fiction. Just before she arrived, Flora had been absorbed in the latest issue of The People’s Friend. The People’s Friend magazine had grown and prospered by sticking to the same formula of publishing romantic stories. While other women’s magazines had stopped publishing fiction and preferred hard-hitting articles such as “I Had My Father’s Baby” and other exposés, People’s Friend went its own sweet way, adding more and more stories as its circulation rose. It also contained articles on Scotland, recipes, poetry, knitting patterns, notes from a minister, and advice from an agony aunt.

  The arrival of her copy was the highlight of Flora’s week. When her daughter burst in the door, saying, “It’s no good, Ma. He’s barely aware of my existence,” Flora knew exactly who she was talking about, her daughter having shared her romantic dreams about Hamish over the phone.

  “Now, pet,” said Flora, “sit down and take your coat off and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. Faint heart never won a gentleman. Maybe you’ve been trying too hard.”

  “He calls me McSween, he send me off hundreds of miles to check on boring old people and make sure they’re all right. I’m so tired of smiling and drinking tea and eating scones, I could scream.”

  “You know what would bring you together? A nice juicy crime.”

  “So what if there isn’t one in that backwater? What do I do? Murder someone?”

  Chapter Two

  *

  The woman is so hard

  Upon the woman.

  – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Hamish barely thought about Josie. He was cynically sure that she would not last very long.

  Now that she was away on holiday, he could put her right out of his mind. He was not very surprised, however, that on the day Josie was supposed to be back at work, her mother phoned to say her daughter had come down with a severe summer cold. She said a doctor’s certificate had been sent to Strathbane.

  Hamish said that Josie was to take as long as she liked and sent his regards.

  “What exactly did he say?” demanded Josie when her mother put down the phone.

  “He sent you his very warmest wishes,” said Flora, exaggerating wildly.

  Josie glowed. “I told you, Ma, absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

  One of the real reasons Josie was delaying her return by claiming to have a cold was that, although she would not admit it to herself, she preferred dreams to reality. Just so long as she was away from Hamish, she could dream about him gathering her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings. He said all the things she wanted him to say.

  But that message about “warmest wishes” buoyed her up so much that she decided to return in two days’ time. “You don’t think Strathbane will phone the doctor to check up?” she asked anxiously. Flora had stolen one of the certificates from the doctor’s pad when he was not looking.

  “Och, no. You’ll be just fine.”

  So Josie eventually set out with a head full of dreams-dreams which crashed down to her feet when Hamish opened the kitchen d
oor and said, “Hullo, McSween. Are you fit for work?”

  Work turned out to be a case of shoplifting over in Cnothan. Rain was drumming down and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in clouds, undeterred by the downpour.

  The job was very easy. The shopkeeper had a video security camera and had identified the thief. “I’ll go right now and arrest him,” said Josie eagerly.

  “Now, I wouldn’t be doing that, lassie,” said the shopkeeper. “It’s just some poor auld drunk who took a bottle o’ cider. I won’t be pressing charges.”

  “So why did you drag the police all the way here?” demanded Josie angrily.

  “I didnae know it was him until I looked at the video fillum.”

  The rain had stopped when Josie left the shop. She pulled out her phone to call Hamish and then decided against it. If she called at the police station to deliver her report, surely he would have to ask her in.

  Sure enough, Hamish did invite her into the kitchen, but there was a woman there, sitting at the kitchen table. She was a cool blonde in expensive clothes. Hamish introduced her as Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Josie knew from headquarters gossip that this was the woman Hamish had once been engaged to.

  She delivered her report, saying angrily that she should have been allowed to make an arrest.

  “Oh, we don’t arrest anyone up here if we can possibly avoid it,” said Hamish. “Take the rest of the day off.”

  Josie stood there, hopefully. There was a pot of tea on the table and cakes.

  “Run along,” said Hamish.

  “You could have given her some tea,” said Priscilla.

  “I’m keeping her right out,” said Hamish. “If she gets a foot in the door, before you know it she’ll be rearranging the furniture.”

  “Where’s she staying?”

  “Up at the manse.”

  “How gloomy! She must be feeling very lonely.”

  “Priscilla, she’s a grown-up policewoman! She’ll need to make friends here just like anyone else. How long are you staying?”

  “Just a couple more days.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “All right. The Italian’s?”

  “Yes, I’ll meet you there at eight.”

  Unfortunately for Hamish, Josie decided to have dinner out that night. She stood hesitating in the door of the restaurant. To Hamish’s annoyance, Priscilla called her over and said, “Do join us.”

  Hamish behaved badly during the meal, sitting in scowling silence as Priscilla politely asked Josie about her work and her home in Perth. She seemed completely unaware of Hamish’s bad mood. Josie translated Hamish’s discourtesy into a sort of Heathcliff brooding silence. Such were her fantasies about him that at one point, Josie thought perhaps he wanted to be alone with her and wished Priscilla would leave.

  The awkward meal finally finished. Priscilla insisted on paying. Hamish thanked her curtly outside the restaurant and then strode off in the direction of the police station without a backward look.

  Back in her room at the manse, common sense finally entered Josie’s brain and she had reluctantly to admit to herself that it was not Priscilla that Hamish had wanted to leave but herself. She dismally remembered Priscilla’s glowing beauty.

  She decided to give the job just two more months and then request a transfer back to Strathbane.

  * * *

  The third of the Scottish Quarter Days, Lammas, the first of August, marks the start of autumn and the harvest season. Lammas perhaps had begun as a celebration of the Celtic goddess Lugh, and was absorbed into the church calendar as Loaf Mass Day. Lammas takes its name from the Old English half, meaning “loaf.” The first cut of the harvest was made on Lammas Day in the south, but in Braikie in Sutherland-a county hardly famous for its corn-it was an annual fair day to celebrate the third quarter.

  For the first time, Josie was to work with Hamish, policing the fair. “There’s never any trouble,” he said as he drove Josie there in the police Land Rover. “The Gypsies have to be watched. Make sure the coconuts are not glued down and that the rifle sights at the shooting range aren’t bent. It’s a grand day for it.”

  There was not a cloud in the sky. It was Josie’s first visit to Braikie, her other trips having, apart from Cnothan, only been to the remote areas. The town was gaily decorated with flags.

  A peculiar sight met Josie’s eyes as they cruised along the main street. A man covered in flannel and stuck all over with a thick matting of spiky burrs was making his way along the street.

  “That’s the Burryman,” said Hamish.

  “What on earth is a Burryman?” asked Josie.

  “Some folks say he is carrying off all the town’s shame and guilt, and others say it’s good luck for the fishermen, because all the burrs are supposed to represent fish caught in their nets.”

  He drove to a field north of the town where the fair was being held. Hamish strolled around the various booths with Josie, stopping here and there to introduce her to towns-people.

  There was all the fun of the fair, from a Ferris wheel and roundabouts to candy floss, hot dogs, and venison burgers.

  The Gypsies, having spotted the arrival of Hamish, made sure he had nothing to complain about.

  Josie walked along with Hamish in a happy dream as the sun shone down and the air was full of jaunty raucous music and the smells of frying food and sugary candy floss.

  “We’re walking along here like an old married couple,” said Josie.

  Hamish stopped abruptly. “You’re quite right,” he said. “It’s a waste of manpower. You patrol the left and I’ll patrol the right,” and with that he walked off.

  Josie sadly watched him go. Then she saw a fortune-teller’s caravan. She shrugged. May as well get her fortune told.

  She entered the caravan. There was a disappointingly ordinary-looking middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa. She had grey permed hair and was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and sensible brogues.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Five pounds, please.”

  Feeling very let down, Josie handed over five pounds. Where were the tarot cards, the crystal ball, and the kabbalistic signs?

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Josie held out her small, plump hands.

  “You’ll live long,” said the fortune-teller, “and have two children.”

  “My husband? Who’s my husband?” asked Josie eagerly.

  “I cannae see one. There’s darkness and danger up ahead. Let go of your dreams and you’ll be fine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You’re a fraud,” said Josie angrily.

  The Gypsy’s light grey eyes flashed with dislike and then suddenly seemed to look through her. “Bang and flames,” she said.

  “What?”

  “There’s danger up ahead. Look out for bombs.”

  “Glad to know the Taliban are going to pay a visit to this dead-alive dump, this arsehole of the British Isles. It might liven things up,” said Josie furiously. She walked down the steps of the caravan and stood blinking in the sunlight.

  What a waste of five pounds, thought Josie crossly. Then she saw that the crowds were beginning to move towards the far side of the field, where a decorated platform had been erected. “What’s going on?” she asked a woman.

  “It’s the crowning o’ the Lammas queen.”

  Josie followed the crowd. It was very hot. She could feel the sun burning down right through her cap. This far north, she thought, there was no pollution to block any of the sun’s rays.

  In the distance she could hear the skirl of the pipes. Using her authority, Josie pushed her way to the front. The provost, the Scottish equivalent of the English mayor with his gold chain, was already on the platform surrounded by various town worthies. Hamish was there as well, standing to one side of the platform. She went to join him. A wide gate at the side of the field was being held open.

  First came the pipe band, playing “ Scotlan
d the Brave.” Behind came a decorated float with the queen seated on a throne with two handmaidens. The Lammas queen was a true highland beauty with black glossy hair and wide blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes.

  The float was decorated with sheaves of corn. “Where did they get the corn?” asked Josie.

  “Plastic,” said Hamish.

  The queen was helped down from the float, and two men in kilts carried her throne up onto the platform. The pipes fell silent. “What’s her name?” asked Josie.

  “That’s Annie Fleming,” said Hamish. “She works as a secretary ower in Strathbane. Her parents are right strict. I’m surprised they let her be queen.”

  Annie was wearing a white gown covered with a red robe trimmed in rabbit fur.

  She sat down on the throne. To Josie’s surprise, the crown, which was carried to the platform by a nervous little girl bearing it on a red cushion, looked like a real diamond tiara. The gems blazed in the sunlight, sending out prisms of colour.

  “Is that real?” Josie asked.

  “Aye,” said Hamish. “It once belonged to a Lady Etherington, English she was, and right fond of the Highlands. She lent it out once and her family have got it out o’ the bank every Lammas Day since then.”

  “Do the family live in Braikie?”

  “No. Lady Etherington’s grandson who owns the tiara lives in London but he’s got a shooting box up outside Crask and he aye comes up for the grouse shooting.”

  Gareth Tarry, the provost, made a long boring speech. It was mostly about defending the council’s decision to stop building the seawall on the road to Braikie where, in previous years, the houses had been flooded at high tide.

  It was only when an infuriated man from the audience shouted out, “You wouldnae be broke, ye numptie, if ye hadnae pit all your money in an Iceland bank.”

  Anyone who had invested their savings in Iceland banks during the credit crunch was currently left in doubt as to whether they would get their money back.

  The provost pretended not to hear but decided to get on with the crowning. He raised the glittering tiara and announced solemnly, “I now crown Miss Annie Fleming the Lammas queen.”