Death of a Village

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 2003, 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: 978-1-84901-276-8

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

Chapter 10

To my friend David Lloyd of

Lower Oddington, Gloucestershire,

with affection

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.’

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www.constablerobinson.com

The way propaganda works, as every schoolboy knows, is that if you say the same thing over and over again, lie or not, people begin to believe it.

Hamish Macbeth, police constable of the village of Lochdubh and its surroundings, had been until recently a happy, contented, unambitious man. This was always regarded, by even the housebound
and unsuccessful, as a sort of mental aberration. And he had been under fire for a number of years and from a number of people to pull his socks up, get a life, move on, get a promotion, and
forsake his lazy ways. Until lately, all comments had slid off him. That was, until Elspeth Grant, local reporter, joined the chorus. It was the way she laughed at him with a sort of affectionate
contempt as he mooched around the village that got under his skin. Her mild amazement that he did not want to ‘better himself’, added on to all the other years of similar comments,
finally worked on him like the end result of a propaganda war and he began to feel restless and discontented.

Had he had any work to do apart from filing sheep-dip papers and ticking off the occasional poacher, Elspeth’s comments might not have troubled him. And Elspeth was attractive, although he
would not admit it to himself. He felt he had endured enough trouble from women to last him a lifetime.

He began to watch travel shows on television and to imagine himself walking on coral beaches or on high mountains in the Himalayas. He fretted over the fact that he had even taken all his
holidays in Scotland.

One sunny morning, he decided it was time he got back on his beat, which covered a large area of Sutherland. He decided to visit the village of Stoyre up on the west coast. It was more of a
hamlet than a village. No crime ever happened there. But, he reminded himself, a good copper ought to check up on the place from time to time.

After a winter of driving rain and a miserable spring, a rare period of idyllic weather had arrived in the Highlands. Tall twisted mountains swam in a heat haze. The air through the open window
of the police Land Rover was redolent with smells of wild thyme, salt, bell heather, and peat smoke. He took a deep breath and felt all his black discontentment ebb away. Damn Elspeth! This was the
life. He drove steadily down a winding single-track road to Stoyre.

Tourists hardly ever visited Stoyre. This seemed amazing on such a perfect day, when the village’s cluster of whitewashed houses lay beside the deep blue waters of the Atlantic. There was
a little stone harbour where three fishing boats bobbed lazily at anchor. Hamish parked in front of the pub, called the Fisherman’s Arms. He stepped down from the Land Rover. His odd-looking
dog, Lugs, scrambled down as well.

Hamish looked to right and left. The village seemed deserted. It was very still, unnaturally so. No children cried, no snatches of radio music drifted out from the cottages, no one came or went
from the small general stores next to the pub.

Lugs bristled and let out a low growl. ‘Easy, boy,’ said Hamish. He looked up the hill beyond the village to where the graveyard lay behind a small stone church. Perhaps there was a
funeral. But he could see no sign of anyone moving about.

‘Come on, boy,’ he said to his dog. He pushed open the door of the pub and went inside. The pub consisted of a small whitewashed room with low beams on the ceiling. A few wooden
tables scarred with cigarette burns were dotted about. There was no one behind the bar.

‘Anyone home?’ called Hamish loudly.

To his relief there came the sound of someone moving in the back premises. A thickset man entered through a door at the back of the bar. Hamish recognized Andy Crummack, the landlord and
owner.

‘How’s it going, Andy?’ asked Hamish. ‘Everybody dead?’

‘It iss yourself, Hamish. What will you be having?’

‘Just a tonic water.’ Hamish looked round the deserted bar. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘It’s aye quiet this time o’ day.’ Andy poured a bottle of tonic water into a glass.

‘Slainte!’ said Hamish. ‘Are you having one?’

‘Too early. If ye don’t mind, I’ve got stock to check.’ Andy made for the door behind the bar.

‘Hey, wait a minute, Andy. I havenae been in Stoyre for a while but I’ve never seen the place so dead.’

‘We’re quiet folks, Hamish.’

‘And nothing’s going on?’

‘Nothing. Now, if ye don’t mind . . .’

The landlord disappeared through the door.

Hamish drank the tonic water and then pushed back his peaked cap and scratched his fiery hair. Maybe he was imagining things. He hadn’t visited Stoyre for months. The last time had been in
March when he’d made a routine call. He remembered people chatting on the waterfront and this pub full of locals.

He put his glass on the bar and went out into the sunlight. The houses shone white in the glare and the gently heaving blue water had an oily surface.

He went into the general store. ‘Morning, Mrs MacBean,’ he said to the elderly woman behind the counter. ‘Quiet today. Where is everyone?’

‘They’ll maybe be up at the kirk.’

‘What! On a Monday? Is it someone’s funeral?’

‘No. Can I get you anything, Mr Macbeth?’

Hamish leaned on the counter. ‘Come on. You can tell me,’ he coaxed. ‘What’s everyone doing at the church on a Monday?’

‘We are God-fearing folk in Stoyre,’ she said primly, ‘and I’ll ask you to remember that.’

Baffled, Hamish walked out of the shop and was starting to set off up the hill when the church doors opened and people started streaming out. Most were dressed in black as if for a funeral.

He stood in the centre of the path as they walked down towards him. He hailed people he knew. ‘Morning, Jock . . . grand day, Mrs Nisbett,’ and so on. But the crowd
parted as they reached him and silently continued on their way until he was left standing alone.

He walked on towards the church and round to the manse at the side with Lugs at his heels. The minister had just reached his front door. He was a new appointment, Hamish noticed, a thin nervous
man with a prominent Adam’s apple, and his black robes were worn and dusty. He had sparse ginger hair, weak eyes and a small pursed mouth.

‘Morning,’ said Hamish. ‘I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh. You are new to here?’

The minister reluctantly faced him. ‘I am Fergus Mackenzie,’ he said in a lilting Highland voice.

‘You seem to be doing well,’ remarked Hamish. ‘Church full on a Monday morning.’

‘There is a strong religious revival here,’ said Fergus. ‘Now, if you don’t mind . . .’

‘I do mind,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘This village has changed.’

‘It has changed for the better. A more God-fearing community does not exist anywhere else in the Highlands.’ And with that the minister went into the manse and slammed the door in
Hamish’s face.

Becoming increasingly irritated, Hamish retreated back to the waterfront. It was deserted again. He thought of knocking on some doors to find out if there was any other answer to this strange
behaviour apart from a religious revival and then decided against it. He looked back up the hill to where a cottage stood near the top. It was the holiday home of a retired army man, Major
Jennings, an Englishman. Perhaps he might be more forthcoming. He plodded back up the hill, past the church, and knocked on the major’s door. Silence greeted him. He knew the major lived most
of the year in the south of England. Probably not arrived yet. Hamish remembered he usually came north for a part of the summer.

When he came back down from the hill, he saw that people were once more moving about. There were villagers in the shop and villagers on the waterfront. This time they gave him a polite greeting.
He stopped one of them, Mrs Lyle. ‘Is anything funny going on here?’ he asked.

She was a small, round woman with tight grey curls and glasses perched on the end of her nose. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘There’s an odd atmosphere and then you’ve all been at the kirk and it isn’t even Sunday.’

‘It is difficult to explain to such as you, Hamish Macbeth,’ she said. ‘But in this village we take our worship of the Lord seriously and don’t keep it for just the one
day.’

I’m a cynic, thought Hamish as he drove off. Why should I find it all so odd? He knew that in some of the remote villages a good preacher was still a bigger draw than anything on
television. Mr Mackenzie must be a powerful speaker.

When he returned to Lochdubh, Hamish found all the same that the trip to Stoyre had cheered him up. The restlessness that had plagued him had gone. He whistled as he prepared
food for himself and his dog, and then carried his meal on a tray out to the front garden, where he had placed a table with an umbrella over it. Why dream of cafés in France when he had
everything here in Lochdubh?

He had just finished a meal of fried haggis, sausage and eggs when a voice hailed him. ‘Lazing around again, Hamish?’

The gate to the front garden opened and Elspeth Grant came in. She was wearing a brief tube top which showed her midriff, a small pair of denim shorts, and her hair had been tinted aubergine.
She pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.

‘The trouble with aubergine,’ said Hamish, ‘is that it chust doesnae do.’

‘Doesn’t do what?’ demanded Elspeth.

‘Anything for anyone. It’s like the purple lipstick or the black nail varnish. Anything that’s far from an original colour isn’t sexy.’

‘And what would you know about anything sexy?’

‘I am a man and I assume you mean to attract the opposite sex.’

‘Women dress and do their hair for themselves these days.’

‘Havers.’