Death of a Valentine

Book 25: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery

by M.C. Beaton

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Amazing news has spread across the Scottish countryside. The most famous of highland bachelors, police sergeant Hamish Macbeth, will be married at last. Everyone in the village of Lochdubh adores Josie McSween, Macbeth’s newest constable and blushing bride-to-be.

While locals think Josie is quite a catch, Hamish has a case of prenuptial jitters. After all, if it weren't for the recent murder of a beautiful woman in a neighboring village, there wouldn’t be a wedding at all. For it was a mysterious Valentine’s Day package—delivered to the victim before her death—that initially drew Hamish and Josie together on the investigation.

As they work side by side, Hamish and Josie soon discover that the woman’s list of admirers was endless, confirming Hamish’s suspicion that love can be blind, deaf, and deadly.

A Blackstone Audio production.

Release date: January 12, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 272

Sample

Prologue




Over the heathery flanks of the mountains, over the lochs, over the vast tracts of land that make up the county of Sutherland
in the very north of Scotland, down to the fishing boats bobbing at anchor along the west coast, the amazing news spread.


That most famous of highland bachelors, Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth, was to be married at last. No, nothing like that mistake
he had made before when he had nearly married some Russian. This was love. And he was to be married, right and proper, with
a white wedding in the church in his home village of Lochdubh.


He was to marry his constable, Josie McSween, who had helped him solve the Valentine’s Day murder. Pretty little thing she
was, with glossy brown hair and big brown eyes. The whole village of Lochdubh adored Josie. And everyone could see she was
in love with Hamish.


On the great day, the church was full to bursting. Some wondered if the former love of Hamish’s life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,
would attend, but others whispered she was in Australia.


The added excitement was that Elspeth Grant, former reporter and now a star television news presenter, had promised to attend.
She had many fans, and some had brought along their autograph books.


Josie’s father was dead and she appeared not to have any male relatives. She was to be given away by Police Superintendent
Peter Daviot.


There was a rustle of excitement as the bride arrived. Hamish stood erect at the altar, flanked by his best man, Detective
Sergeant Jimmy Anderson. “Cheer up!” muttered Jimmy. “Man, you’re as white as a sheet.”


The service began. Then at one point, the minister, Mr. Wellington, addressed the congregation. “If any amongst you know of
any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace.” His
deep highland voice held a note of amusement. For who could protest such a love match?


Hamish Macbeth raised his eyes to the old beams of the church roof and murmured desperately the soldier’s prayer.

“Dear God, if there is a God, get me out of this!”

Chapter One




It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r.


Tae keep, at times, frae being sour.


—Robert Burns

A year earlier

Hamish Macbeth had been promoted to sergeant. Having been promoted before and then reduced to the ranks, he had not even had
to sit the necessary exams. Many a constable would have welcomed the promotion and the extra money that came with it, but
Hamish was dismayed for two reasons. He was not an ambitious man and saw every rise up the ranks as a move to get him transferred
to the city of Strathbane. All he wanted was to be left peacefully alone in his village police station.


He was also dismayed by being told that a constable would be coming to work with him and to clear out his spare room. The
spare room was very highland in that it was stuffed with all sorts of rusting odds and ends that Hamish had picked up from
time to time and had stored in the happy thought that they might come in useful one day.


At first he was confident that no one would want the job, but then he was told to expect a police constable, McSween.

He received a visit from his friend Detective Sergeant Jimmy Anderson. Jimmy walked in without knocking and found Hamish gloomily
studying the contents of the spare room.


“For heaven’s sakes, man,” exclaimed Jimmy. “Get a move on. The lassie’ll be here any minute.”

Hamish Macbeth, all six feet and five inches of him, turned slowly round. “What lassie?”

“Your new copper. Wee Josie McSween.”

Hamish’s hazel eyes looked blank with shock. “Nobody told me it was a woman.”

“I overheard that curse o’ your life, Blair, telling Daviot that the influence of a good woman was just what you need.”



Detective Chief Inspector Blair loathed Hamish and was always looking for ways to upset him.

“Come into the kitchen,” said Hamish. “She cannae be staying here.”

“Why not? Got any whisky?”

“Usual place. Help yourself. No, she’ll need to find lodgings.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Hamish. Nobody’ll think anything of it.”

Jimmy sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a drink. He was a smaller man than Hamish, with sandy hair and blue
eyes in a foxy face.


“The twenty-first century has not arrived in Lochdubh,” said Hamish. “Chust you sit there and enjoy your drink. I’ve got calls
to make.”


Jimmy smiled and lay back in his chair. Although the month was April, a blizzard was blowing outside, “the lambing blizzard”
as the crofters bitterly called it, that storm which always seemed to hit the Highlands just after the lambs were born. The
woodstove glowed with heat. Hamish’s dog, Lugs, snored in a corner and his wild cat, Sonsie, lay over Jimmy’s feet. He could
hear Hamish making urgent phone calls from the police office but could not hear what he was saying.


At last, Hamish came back into the kitchen, looking cheerful. “That’s settled,” he said. “All the women from the minister’s
wife down to the Currie sisters are phoning up headquarters to complain. Mrs. Wellington has a spare room at the manse, and
that’s where she’s going.”


“Josie’s quite a tasty wee thing,” said Jimmy. “What an old-fashioned dump this place is!”

“Better than that sink of a place, Strathbane,” said Hamish. “It’s snowing like hell. The road’ll be blocked.”

   

But in the fickle way of April blizzards, the snow abruptly stopped, the dark clouds rolled up the mountains, and soon a hot spring sun was rapidly melting the snow.



Josie set out, her heart beating with excitement. She was fairly small for a policewoman. She had masses of glossy brown hair
and wide brown eyes. Her figure was a little on the plump side. Josie had fallen in love with the now legendary Hamish Macbeth
some months before. She had read up on all the cases he had solved. The minute she had heard of the vacancy at Lochdubh, she
had promptly applied. In the boot of her car, along with her luggage, was a carton of cookery books. Her mother who lived
in Perth had always said that the way to a man’s heart was through the kitchen door.


The sun shone down on the melting snow in the road in front of her. Mountains soared up to a newly washed blue sky. Perth,
where Josie had been brought up, was just south of the highland line, and family visits had always been to the south—to Glasgow
or Edinburgh. She found the whole idea of the Highlands romantic.


As her little Toyota cruised down into Lochdubh, she gave a gasp of delight. Whitewashed eighteenth-century cottages fronted
the still waters of the sea loch. The pine forest on the other side of the loch was reflected in its waters. Melting snow
sparkled in the sunlight.


The police station had an old-fashioned blue lamp hanging outside. Josie drew up and parked her car. She could already imagine
herself cooking delicious meals for Hamish while he smiled at her fondly and said, “Whatever did I do without you?”


The front gate was difficult to open. She finally managed and went up the short path to the door and knocked loudly.

A muffled voice from the other side of the door reached her ears. “Go round to the side door.”

Back out and round the side of the police station went Josie. Hamish Macbeth was standing by the open kitchen door looking
down at her quizzically.


“I’m Josie McSween,” said Josie. “I’ll just get my things.”

“You can’t move in here,” said Hamish. “The villagers won’t have it. You’re to stay with Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”

“But—”

“There are no buts about it. The ladies of the village won’t thole a lassie living with me at the police station. I’ll get
my coat and walk ye up there. When you see where it is, you can come back for your car. Wait there, McSween, I’ll get my coat.”


McSween! In all her dreams he had called her Josie. Hamish emerged shortly and began to walk off with long strides in the
direction of the manse while Josie scurried behind him.


“Don’t I get a choice of where I want to live?” she panted.

“You’re a policewoman,” said Hamish over his shoulder. “You just go where you’re put.”

The manse was situated behind the church. It was a Georgian building. Georgian architecture usually conjures a vision of elegance,
but Scottish Georgian can be pretty functional and bleak. It was a square three-story sandstone building, unornamented, and
with several windows bricked up dating from the days of the window tax.


Hamish led the way round to the kitchen door where Mrs. Wellington was already waiting, the highland bush telegraph having
noticed and relayed every moment of Josie’s arrival.


Josie’s heart sank even lower. Mrs. Wellington was a vast tweedy woman with a booming voice.

“Where are your things?” she asked.

“I left them in my car at the police station,” said Josie.

“Shouldn’t you be in uniform?”

“It’s my day off.”

“Off you go, Mr. Macbeth,” said Mrs. Wellington. “I’ll just show Miss McSween her room and give her the rules of the house
and then she can bring her luggage.”


Josie followed Mrs. Wellington into the manse kitchen. It was vast, dating from the days when ministers had servants and large families. It was stone-flagged, and the double sinks
by the window were deep and made of stone with old-fashioned brass taps. A long dresser lining one wall contained blue and
white plates. The newest item was a scarlet fuel-burning Raeburn stove. High up in the ceiling by a wooden pulley burned a
dim single lightbulb. On the pulley hung a row of Mrs. Wellington’s knickers: large, cotton, and fastened at the knee with
elastic. Where on earth did one get knickers like that these days, wondered Josie. People didn’t often talk about knickers any more, preferring the American panties. But panties suggested something naughty and feminine. In one corner stood a large fridge and, wonder of wonders in this antique place,
a dishwasher.



“Come along,” ordered Mrs. Wellington. “The washing machine is in the laundry room over there to your left. Washing is on
Thursdays.”


Josie followed her out of the kitchen, which led into a dark hall where a few dim, badly painted portraits of previous ministers
stared down at her. There was a hallstand of the kind that looked like an altar and a Benares brass bowl full of dusty pampas
grass.


The staircase was of stone, the steps worn smooth and polished by the long years of feet pounding up and down. At the first
landing, Mrs. Wellington led the way along a corridor painted acid green on the top half, the bottom half being made of strips
of brown-painted wood.


The wind had risen, and it moaned about the old manse like a banshee. Mrs. Wellington pushed open a door at the end. “This
is where you’ll stay. The arrangement is for bed and breakfast. Any other meals you want you will cook yourself, but not between
five and six which is when I prepare tea for Mr. Wellington.”


To Josie’s relief the room was light and cheerful. The window looked out over the roofs of the waterfront houses to the loch.
There was a large double bed with a splendid patchwork quilt covering it. A peat fire was burning in the hearth.


“We are fortunate to have a large supply of the peat so you can burn as much as you like,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Now, once
you are settled in, you will have your tea with us, seeing as it is your first day, and in the evening I will take you to
a meeting of the Mothers’ Union in the church hall to introduce you to the other ladies of Lochdubh.”


“But Hamish—” began Josie weakly.

“I have told him of the arrangements and he has agreed. You are to report to the police station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.
When you drive up, you can leave your car outside the front door for easy access, but after that, use the kitchen door. Here
are the keys. The only one you need to use is the kitchen door key.”


The key was a large one, no doubt dating from when the manse had been built.

Josie thanked her and scurried off down the stairs. The mercurial weather had changed and a squall of sleet struck her in
the face. She had been to the hairdresser only that morning. On her road back to the police station, the malicious wind whipped
her hair this way and that, and gusts of icy sleet punched her in the face.


She knocked at the police station door but there was no answer. Josie got into her car and drove up to the manse.

She struggled up the stairs with two large suitcases. The manse was silent except for the moan of the wind.

In her room, there was a huge Victorian wardrobe straight out of Narnia. She hung away her clothes. Josie wanted a long hot
bath. She walked along the corridor, nervously pushing open door after door until she found a large bathroom at the end. There
was a claw-footed bath with a gas heater over it. The heater looked ancient but the metre down on the floor looked new. She
crouched down and read the instructions. “Place a one-pound coin in the metre and turn the dial to the left and then to the
right. Light the geyser and stand back.” On a shelf beside the bath was a box of long matches.


Josie returned to her room and changed into her dressing gown, found a pound coin, and went back to the bathroom. She put
the coin in the metre and twisted the dial, then turned on the water. There was a hiss of gas. She fumbled anxiously with
the box of matches, lit one, and poked it into the metre. There was a terrifying bang as the gas lit but the stream of water
became hot.


The bath was old and deep and took about half an hour to fill. At last, she sank into it and wondered what she was going to
do about Hamish Macbeth. Perhaps the village women at the church hall could fill her in with some details.


   

Hamish Macbeth crowed over the phone to Jimmy Anderson. “I’m telling you, I give that lassie two days at the most. By the
time Mrs. Wellington’s finished with her, she’ll be crying for a transfer back to Strathbane.”


   

Josie decided that evening to dress in her uniform to give herself a bit of gravitas. She still felt hungry. She was used
to dinner in the evening, not the high tea served in homes in Lochdubh. She had eaten a small piece of fish with a portion
of canned peas and one boiled potato followed by two very hard tea cakes.


To her relief, there were cakes, sandwiches, and tea on offer at the village hall. Mrs. Wellington introduced her all round.
Josie wondered if she would ever remember all the names. One woman with a gentle face and wispy hair stood out—Angela Brodie,
the doctor’s wife—and two fussy old twins called Nessie and Jessie Currie.


Over the teacups, Nessie and Jessie warned her that Hamish Macbeth was a philanderer and to stick to her job, but Angela rescued
her and said, mildly, that usually the trouble started because of women pursuing Hamish, not the other way around.


Josie tossed her newly washed hair. She had carried her cap under her arm so as not to spoil the hairstyle. She was angry
with Hamish for billeting her at the manse and spoiling her dreams. “I can’t see what anyone would see in the man,” said Josie.
“He’s just a long drip with that funny-looking red hair.”


“Hamish Macbeth is a friend of mine and, may I add, your boss,” said Angela, and she walked away.

Josie bit her lip in vexation. This was no way to go about making friends. She hurried after Angela. “Look here, that was
a stupid thing to say. The fact is I don’t really want to stay at the manse. It’s a bit like being in boarding school. I’m
angry with Hamish for not finding me somewhere a bit more conge. . .