Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [0]
SWEEP
A Hamish Macbeth Murder Mystery
M. C. BEATON
To Georgie Askew and Dave Tapping and to the staff of the beautiful Cavendish Hotel on the Chatsworth Estate who sheltered us one whole winter’s afternoon, although we were not guests. Many thanks.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
By the Same Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
– WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The village of Drim in the county of Sutherland in the north-west of Scotland was rarely visited by outsiders. Not even the most romantic member of the tartan lunatic fringe of the lowland cities could claim it to be a place of either interest or beauty.
It was a small village situated at the end of the long arm of a sea loch where towering mountains dropped down sheer into the water so that the loch looked black and sinister even on a fine day. It consisted of a huddle of whitewashed cottages and one general store. There had been a murder committed there some time ago, temporarily bringing in the outside world, but since then Drim had settled back into its usual torpor.
There was no longer a resident minister, although the church was served every three Sundays by a visiting preacher. The old manse stood empty, and no one showed any signs of buying it. Furthermore, it was said to be haunted because the last minister had hanged himself after his wife had run off and left him.
The nearest policeman, Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth, was some miles away across mountain and moorland in the village of Lochdubh, and although Drim was on his beat, he rarely had any reason to visit the place.
There was, however, a brief burst of excitement when newcomers bought an old Georgian mansion up on the brae above the village. It had lain empty for some time, the previous owner having been an eccentric old lady. The house had been on the market for five years before it was bought by a Captain Henry Davenport and his wife, Milly.
It was a square three-storeyed building in red sandstone, as unprepossessing and as grim as the village. It would have commanded a good view of the surrounding landscape had not the house been surrounded by laurels, Douglas firs, stands of birch, and one giant monkey puzzle.
A few of the villagers had called on the English couple when they first moved in four months before with presents of cake but were repelled by the pompous manner of the captain and the faded timidity of his wife. They drove down to the nearest town, Strathbane, to do all their shopping, and so Milly Davenport did not even visit the local store.
Captain Henry Davenport had retired from the army, slightly bitter at not having risen higher in the ranks, but determined still to be addressed by his military title. Nowhere else in the country could he have afforded to buy such a large house, and it suited his grandiose ideas.
Milly, his wife, also English, still showed signs of having once been pretty. She would have liked to employ one of the women in the village to help her with the cleaning, but her husband said acidly that she had nothing else to do with her time and it would be a waste of money.
The captain had discovered that a peat bank belonged to the house, and so he employed a local man, Hugh Mackenzie, to keep him supplied with peat. But the fire smoked dreadfully. One evening, the captain received a rare phone call. He came back from the phone, which was still located in the draughty hall where it had stood since the days when it was first installed, his face flushed and worried.
‘Who was on the phone, dear?’ asked Milly.
‘Just an old army friend. Look, do something useful. I’m going out for a walk tomorrow. Get some exercise. Get the sweep in and get the damn chimney cleaned! If anyone calls, tell them I’ve gone abroad.’
In less remote parts of Scotland, people had their chimneys vacuum-cleaned.