Death of a Valentine
Read Death of a Valentine Online
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 2010 by Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group USA
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
This edition published by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2010
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 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 being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84901-020-7
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 79 10 8 6 4 2
For my husband, Harry Scott Gibbons.
And my agent, Barbara Lowenstein.
With love.
To Minerva
My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I’m sick of Song and Ode and Ballad –
So, Thyrisis, take the Midnight Oil
And pour it on a lobster salad.
My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse or read –
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a lark instead.
– Thomas Hood
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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 at such a love match?
Hamish Macbeth raised his eyes to the old beams on the church roof and murmured desperately the soldier’s prayer.
‘Dear God, if there is a God, get me out of this!’
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.
