Death of a Maid
Authors: M.C. Beaton
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
Death of a Valentine
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 Hatchette Book Group USA, Inc.
This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
Copyright © M. C. Beaton 2007, 2010
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: 978-1-84901-088-7
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Bengy Wiggin, with love
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I would any day as soon kill a pig as write a letter.
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The letter lay on the doormat just inside the kitchen door of the police station in Lochdubh.
Police Constable Hamish Macbeth picked it up and turned it over. From the address on the back, he saw it was from Elspeth Grant. Elspeth worked as a reporter on a Glasgow newspaper, and he had
once considered proposing marriage to her but had dithered and left it too late.
He carried the letter into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His cat, Sonsie, stared at him curiously, and his dog, Lugs, put his paw on his master’s knee and looked up at him with
his odd blue eyes.
‘What’s she writing to me about?’ wondered Hamish aloud. Personal letters were rare and curious things nowadays when most people used e-mails or text messages. He opened it
reluctantly. Elspeth always made him feel guilty. She had once jeered at him that he was married to his dog and cat.
‘Dear Hamish,’ he read, ‘I have a few weeks holiday owing and would like to come back to Lochdubh. As I can now afford it, I shall be staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel.
Knowing your vanity, I am sure you will think that I am pursuing you. That is not the case. I am not interested in you or your weird animals any more.
‘This letter is just to clear matters up. Yours, Elspeth.’
‘Now, there wass no need to write such a thing,’ said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. ‘No need at all.’ The sibilance of his accent showed he was upset. ‘Herself
can chust keep out of my way, and that’ll suit me chust fine.’
But he was hurt and he felt guilty. He had treated her badly, blowing hot and cold, and the last frost had been caused by the news that his ex-fiancée, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, was
returning to work at the Tommel Castle Hotel, owned by her parents. He could never quite rid himself of the attraction Priscilla held for him. But she had come, seen him infrequently, and then
after a month had left again for London. He crumpled up the letter and left it on the table just as someone knocked at the door.
When he opened it, he looked down at the squat figure of Mrs Mavis Gillespie. Mrs Gillespie was a charwoman, although in these politically correct days, she was referred to as ‘my
maid’. She was considered an amazingly good cleaner. Hamish remembered with a sinking feeling that he had won her services in a church raffle.
She bustled past him into the kitchen and took off her coat. Mrs Gillespie was a round little woman in her fifties with rigidly permed grey hair, ruddy cheeks, and a long mean mouth. She was
carrying a metal bucket and an old-fashioned mop.
Hamish did not like her. ‘I’ve decided you don’t need to do anything,’ he said. ‘The place is clean enough.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She glared around. ‘This place needs a good scrub, and what would Mrs Wellington say?’
Mrs Wellington was the formidable wife of the minister.
‘All right,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be off for a walk.’
‘And take your beasties wi’ you,’ she called to his retreating back. ‘They fair gie me the creeps.’
‘Women!’ muttered Hamish as he strolled along the waterfront, followed by his dog and cat. He knew that the households Mrs Gillespie worked for probably all had
buckets and mops, but she carried her own around with her like weapons. He had once called on Mrs Wellington when Mrs Gillespie was cleaning and had winced at the clatter and banging as she slammed
her bucket against the furniture and knocked out cables from the back of the television set with her mop.
Why the redoubtable Mrs Wellington should put up with such behaviour was beyond him. Then he realized that he himself had shown cowardice.
He knew Mrs Gillespie to be a gossip. Everyone in the north of Scotland gossiped, but Mrs Gillespie was malicious. If there was anything bad to say about anyone, she would say it. He felt he
should go back and order her out, but as he gazed out over the still sea loch to the forest on the other side, a feeling of tranquillity overcame him. He watched seagulls squabbling over the
harbour.
Behind him, peat smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of the little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront. Lugs lay across his boots, and Sonsie leaned against his uniformed trouser leg.
The great thing about the peace of Lochdubh, thought Hamish dreamily, was that it acted like a balm on the soul. The guilt and worry about that letter from Elspeth faded away. As for Mrs
Gillespie, let her get on with it. There wasn’t much at the police station that she could break.
It was autumn in the Highlands of Scotland, and the rowan trees were heavy with scarlet berries. The locals still planted rowan trees outside their houses to keep the witches and goblins at bay.
People said, as they said every year, that the berries were a sign of a hard winter to come, and therefore they occasionally got it right.
Pale sunlight glinted on the water of the loch. A seal surfaced and swam lazily past.
Hamish felt suddenly hungry. He decided to put his animals in the police Land Rover and motor up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if he could cadge a sandwich from the kitchen.
Hamish was met in the foyer of the hotel by the manager, Mr Johnson. ‘What brings you?’ asked Mr Johnson. ‘The only murders here now are the fake ones on
these murder weekends where everyone gets to play Poirot.’
Hamish did not want to say outright that he would like something to eat, so he asked instead for news of Priscilla.
‘Still down in London.’ Mr Johnson eyed the tall, gangly figure of the red-haired policeman suspiciously. ‘I suppose you want a cup of coffee.’
‘Aye, that would be grand,’ said Hamish, ‘and maybe a wee something to go with it.’
‘Like a dram?’
‘Like a sandwich.’
‘You’re a terrible moocher, Hamish, but come into my office and I’ll send for something.’
Soon Hamish was happily demolishing a plate of ham sandwiches while surreptitiously feeding some of them to his dog and cat.
‘Did you come up here for a free feed?’ asked the manager.
‘I’ve been driven out of my station,’ said Hamish. ‘I won the services of that Gillespie woman in a raffle.’
‘Oh, my. Couldn’t you get rid of her?’
‘Too scared,’ mumbled Hamish through a sandwich.
‘The trouble is,’ said Mr Johnson, ‘that nobody wants to go out cleaning these days. Now that the big new supermarkets have opened in Strathbane, they prefer to work there. The
staff here has mostly changed. Most of them are from eastern Europe. Mind you, they’re good. But those names! All consonants.’
‘Who does the Gillespie woman work for these days?’
‘Let me see, there’s old Professor Sander at Braikie. Also in Braikie, Mrs Fleming and Mrs Styles, then Mrs Wellington here, and a Mrs Barret-Wilkinson at Styre.’
Styre was a village to the south of Lochdubh. ‘I havenae been in Styre in ages,’ said Hamish.
‘Why not? It’s on your beat.’
‘I’m thinking the whole of damned Sutherland is on my beat these days. Besides, there’s never any crime in Styre.’
‘By the way,’ said the manager, looking slyly at Hamish, ‘we’ve a booking for Miss Grant.’
Hamish pretended indifference, although he could feel his tranquillity seeping away. ‘Herself must be earning a fair whack to be staying here,’ he said.
The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the private residence of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, but faced with bankruptcy, the colonel had turned his home into a hotel because of Hamish’s
suggestion, although he still claimed the bright idea had been all his own. The hotel was one of those pseudo-Gothic castles built in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had made living in
Scotland fashionable.
‘Not bothered about her coming up?’ asked Mr Johnson.
‘Not a bit,’ lied Hamish. ‘I’ll be off. Thanks for the sandwiches.’
He hung around the village until he saw Mrs Gillespie leaving. She drove off in her old battered Ford. Filthy smoke was exiting from the exhaust. Hamish stepped out on to the
road and held up his hand.
