Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [1]
“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.
“I’m Josie McSween,” said Josie. “I’ll just get my things.”
“You can’t move in here,” said Hamish. “The villagers won’t have it. You’re to stay with Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”
“But—”
“There are no buts about it. The ladies of the village won’t thole a lassie living with me at the police station. I’ll get my coat and walk ye up there. When you see where it is, you can come