Death of a Scriptwriter

The Hamish Macbeth series

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

Death of a Charming Man

Death of a Nag

Death of a Macho Man

Death of a Dentist

Death of a Scriptwriter

Death of an Addict

A Highland Christmas

Death of a Dustman

Death of a Celebrity

Death of a Village

Death of a Poison Pen

Death of a Bore

Death of a Dreamer

Death of a Maid

Death of a Gentle Lady

Death of a Witch

A Hamish Macbeth Murder Mystery

ROBINSON

London

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the USA by Grand Central Publishing,
a division of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.

This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009

Copyright © M. C. Beaton 1998, 2009

The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-909-5

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

For Mary Devery of Cheltenham

With love.

Hamish Macbeth fans share their reviews . . .

‘Treat yourself to an adventure in the Highlands; remember your coffee and scones – for you’ll want to stay a while!’

‘I do believe I am in love with Hamish.’

‘M. C. Beaton’s stories are absolutely excellent . . . Hamish is a pure delight!’

‘A highly entertaining read that will have me hunting out the others in the series.’

‘A new Hamish Macbeth novel is always a treat.’

‘Once I read the first mystery I was hooked . . . I love her characters.’

Share your own reviews and comments at www.constablerobinson.com

Patricia Martyn-Broyd had not written a detective story in years.

In her early seventies she had retired to the Highlands of Sutherland on the east side of the village of Cnothan, to a trim, low, whitewashed croft house. She had now been living in the
outskirts of Cnothan for five years. She had hoped that the wild isolation of her surroundings would inspire her to write again, but every time she sat down in front of her battered old Remington
typewriter, she would feel a great weight of failure settling on her shoulders and the words would not come. For the past fifteen years her books had been out of print. Yet her last detective
story, published in 1965,
The Case of the Rising Tides
, featuring her Scottish aristocrat detective, Lady Harriet Vere, had been a modest success.

Patricia looked remarkable for her age. She had a head of plentiful snow-white hair, a thin, muscular, upright figure and square ‘hunting’ shoulders. Her nose was thin and curved
like a beak, her pale blue eyes hooded by heavy lids. She was the daughter of a land agent, dead many years now, as was her mother. Patricia had been head girl in her youth at a school more famed
for the titles of its pupils than for educational standards. A crush on her English teacher had introduced her to reading detective stories, and then, after an unsuccessful spell on the London
scene as a debutante, she had decided to write.

She had never forgotten the thrill of having her first book published. Her plots were complicated and thoroughly researched. She was fond of plots involving railway timetables, the times of high
and low tides and London bus routes. Her main character, Lady Harriet Vere, had grown up, as Patricia herself had grown up, in a world where everyone knew their place in society and what was due to
their betters. Light relief was provided by a cast of humorous servants or sinister butlers and gardeners and clod-hopping policemen who were always left open-mouthed by the expertise of Lady
Harriet.

But as the world changed, Patricia stayed the same, as did her characters. Sales of her books dwindled. She had a private income from a family trust and did not need to find other work. She had
at last persuaded herself that a move to the far north of Scotland would inspire her. Although her character, Lady Harriet, was Scottish, Patricia had never been to Scotland before her move north.
There was a stubborn streak in Patricia which would not let her admit to herself that she had made a terrible mistake and added the burden of loneliness to the burden of failure.

She had recently returned from a holiday in Athens. The weather in Greece had been bright and sunny and, in the evenings, the streets of Athens were well lit and bustling with people. But all
too soon it was back to London, to catch the plane to Inverness. The plane had descended through banks of cloud into Heathrow. How dark and dismal everything had seemed. How cold and rainy. How
grim and sour the people. Then the flight to Inverness and down into more rain and darkness, and then the long drive home.

The county of Sutherland is the largest, most under populated area in western Europe, with its lochs and mountains and vast expanses of bleak moorland. As she had unlocked the door of her
cottage, the wind had been howling around the low building with a mad, keening sound. A brief thought of suicide flicked through Patricia’s weary brain, to be quickly dismissed. Such as the
Martyn-Broyds did not commit suicide.

Patricia attended the local Church of Scotland, although she was an Anglican, for the nearest Episcopal church involved too long and weary a drive. She could have made friends, but the ones she
considered of her own caste did not want to know her, and the ones who did, she considered beneath her. She was not particularly cold or snobbish, and she was lonely, but it was the way she had
been brought up. She did have acquaintances in the village, the local people she stopped to chat to, but no close friends at all.

A week after her return from Athens, she still felt restless and so decided to treat herself to dinner at the Tommel Castle Hotel. The hotel had been the home of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, who
had turned it into a successful hotel after he had fallen on hard times. Although a hotel, it still had all the air of a comfortable Highland country house, and Patricia felt at home there.

She began to feel better as she sat down in the dining room and looked around. The month was June, and after a grim winter and icy spring, when Siberian winds had blown from the east, bringing
blizzards and chilblains, the wind had suddenly shifted to the west, carrying the foretaste of better weather to come.

The dining room was quite full. A noisy fishing party dominated the main table in the centre of the room, Patricia’s kind of people but oblivious to one lonely spinster in the corner.

Then waitresses came in and began to bustle about, putting the remaining tables together to form one large one. A coach party entered, noisy and flushed, and took places round this table.
Patricia frowned. Who would have thought that the Tommel Castle Hotel would allow a coach party?

The fact was that the colonel was away with his wife visiting friends, his daughter was in London and the manager, Mr Johnson, had decided that a party of middle-aged tourists could do no
harm.

Patricia had just finished her soup and was wishing she had the courage to cancel the rest of her order when a tall, lanky man came into the dining room and stood looking around. He had flaming
red hair and intelligent hazel eyes. His suit was well cut and he wore a snowy-white shirt and silk tie. But with it, he was wearing a large pair of ugly boots.

The maître d’ went up to him and Patricia heard him say sourly, ‘We have no tables left, Macbeth.’

‘Mr Macbeth to you, Jenkins,’ she heard the man with the red hair say in a light, amused voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a table soon.’

They had both moved into the dining room and were standing beside Patricia’s table.

‘No, not for a long time,’ said the maître d’.

The man called Macbeth suddenly saw Patricia watching him and gave her a smile.

Patricia could not quite believe the sound of her own voice, but she heard herself saying stiffly, ‘The gentleman can share my table if he wishes.’

‘That will not be necessary . . .’ began Jenkins, but the red-haired man promptly sat down opposite her.

‘Run along, Jenkins,’ he said, ‘and glare at someone else.’

Hamish Macbeth turned to Patricia. ‘This is verra kind of you.’

She regretted her invitation and wished she had brought a book with her.

‘I am Hamish Macbeth,’ he said with another of those charming smiles. ‘I am the village policeman in Lochdubh, and you are Miss Patricia Martyn-Broyd and you live over by
Cnothan.’

‘I did not think we had met,’ said Patricia.

‘We haven’t,’ said Hamish. ‘But you know what the Highlands are like. Everyone knows everyone else. I heard you had been away.’ He took the menu from a hovering
waitress as he spoke. He scanned it quickly. ‘I’ll have the soup and the trout,’ he said.

‘I have just come back from Greece,’ said Patricia. ‘Do you know Greece?’

‘I don’t know much of anywhere except the Highlands of Scotland,’ said Hamish ruefully. ‘I’m an armchair traveller. I am surprised you stayed up here so
long.’

‘Why?’ asked Patricia.

‘It can be a lonely place. Usually the English we get are drunks or romantics, and I would say you do not fall into either category.’

‘Hardly,’ said Patricia with a fluting, humorless laugh. ‘I am a writer.’

‘Of what?’

‘Detective stories.’

‘I read a lot o’ those,’ said Hamish. ‘You must write under another name.’

‘I regret to say my books have been out of print for some time.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Hamish awkwardly. ‘I am sure you will find the inspiration up here.’

‘I hardly think the county of Sutherland is overrun with criminals.’

‘I meant, it’s a funny landscape which can produce the weird fancies.’

‘My last detective story was set in Scotland, but the others, mainly in the south, were village mysteries.’

‘Like Agatha Christie?’

‘A little better crafted, if I may say so,’ said Patricia, again with that irritating laugh of hers.

‘Then it iss the miracle that yours are out o’ print,’ said Hamish maliciously.

‘It is not my fault. I had a useless publisher, who would not promote them properly, and a worse agent,’ snapped Patricia, and then, to her horror, she began to cry.

‘There, now,’ said Hamish. ‘Don’t greet. You havenae settled down after all the travel, and it’s been a grim winter. I would like to read one o’ your
books.’

Patricia produced a small, white, starched handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

‘I think I am too out of touch with the modern world to write a detective story again,’ she said, all the time wondering why she was confiding in a village policeman.

‘I could help you wi’ a wee bit of information, if you like.’

‘That’s very kind of you. But I do not think it would do much good. I’ve tried to write another one with a Highland background, but my mind seems set in England.’

‘Perhaps you should get to know a few of us better,’ said Hamish, ‘and then it might come easier.’

‘Perhaps,’ she echoed sadly.

‘Although, if I may point out,’ said Hamish cautiously, ‘Cnothan is not the friendliest village in the place. In fact, I would say it’s a sour little dump.’

She gave him a watery smile. ‘Not like Lochdubh?’

‘There’s nowhere like Lochdubh,’ said Hamish stoutly. ‘Maybe if you stopped writing for a bit, it would all come back. Do you fish?’