Death of a Laird

Book 0: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery

by M.C. Beaton

Genres: Traditional Mysteries; General Fiction

Synopsis

A wealthy laird’s guests are trapped in his estate during a furious storm—but when the laird turns up dead, Scotland’s most quick-witted but unambitious policeman, Hamish Macbeth, is on the case, in this delightful new short story in M. C. Beaton’s New York Times bestselling series.

When Sergeant Hamish Macbeth is sent to investigate reports that the wealthy new laird of the remote Naglar House has disappeared, northwest Scotland is hit by the worst storm in living memory. The road is washed away, phone lines are down, mobile reception is dead, and his police radio is out of order. He is trapped with the laird’s high-class house guests. Then he discovers the laird’s body.

Forced to remain overnight at the house, Hamish interviews each of the guests and pieces together an alarming picture of clandestine infidelity, vicious jealousy, deadly revenge, lust, greed, and fear. It begins to look like all of the guests had good reason to want the laird dead, but which one of them actually did the deed?

Release date: February 15, 2022

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 32

Sample

 

It was the single worst thing that had happened all week, and the week had now tumbled into Friday morning. The situation was dire—he’d run out of coffee. Sergeant Hamish Macbeth knew he could function perfectly well without his morning coffee, but those he had to deal with generally liked it better if his mood was buoyed by a hearty breakfast and at least one mugful. A visit to the Patels’ supermarket was called for.

“Fancy a wee walk?” he said, looking over his breakfast table to the corner of the kitchen where his mongrel dog, Lugs, was curled up in a large, cosey basket with Sonsie, his pet wild cat. Lugs was on his feet in an instant, his strangely colored eyes wide and bright, his ears standing to attention and his plume of a tail waving manically. Sonsie looked towards the window, looked back at Hamish, raised an eyebrow in an expression that could only mean “You’ve got to be joking,” then returned to the snooze he had so rudely interrupted.

When Hamish opened the kitchen door and the whistling wind sent his wheelie bin racing past outside, Lugs’s ears and tail dropped like wet rags and he skulked back to the basket. “Aye, it’s blowing a hoolie out there, right enough,” Hamish admitted, listening to the screech of the wind and glancing over to where Lugs looked up at him with apologetic, guilty eyes. “Looks like it’s just me then,” he added, pulling on his police uniform sweater. He ran a hand through his shock of fiery red hair and reached for his cap, hanging on the back of the door, then suddenly visualised the wind snatching it from his head to send it sailing into the loch. He left it on the peg.

Strolling along the pavement at the lochside with the wind at his back, Hamish dodged the occasional fountain of spray breaking over the sea wall where the wind drove the rising tide against the rocks. Out on the loch, the gale chased dancing whitecaps across the waves and leaden grey clouds across the dark face of the mountains. The slopes of the twin peaks known as “The Two Sisters” on the far shore were like steel engravings, every crevice and gulley precisely etched in stark relief, a sure sign that rain was on its way. In the white cottages that lined the main road through Lochdubh, villagers had already removed their window boxes and hanging baskets of spring flowers to save them from the destructive wind and the battering rain that was expected. Mild May weather had already serenaded Lochdubh, but winter had one last howling anthem to sing.

He spotted fisherman Archie Maclean standing by the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring out over the water. The wind filled his voluminous woollen sweater like a sail and set the baggy legs of his corduroy trousers flapping like flags. He had once worn the most tight-fitting clothes Hamish had ever seen, all due to the fact that his wife used to boil the wash in a huge copper and shrink everything, even his jackets. When he came into a bit of money, Archie had bought her a high-tech washing machine and himself a whole new wardrobe.

“Morning, Archie,” Hamish called.

Archie took his cigarette out of his mouth to reply, and the wind whipped it out of his fingers, sending it streaking through the air into the loch.

“It’s a sign,” said Hamish with a grin. “Time to give up.”

“Aye, you might be right.” Archie sighed. “Mind you take care if you’re out on the road today, Hamish,” he added. “There’s a belter o’ a storm coming in.”

“You’re no’ wrong there,” Hamish agreed, looking up at the racing clouds. “I’ll keep my wits about me, but it looks like this week’s going to end badly.’

He reached the supermarket door just as the formidable Currie twins, Nessie and Jessie, were leaving. Beneath their identical, tightly knotted headscarves, they had identical, tightly permed grey hair, identical glas. . .