Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [81]
“Have you still got any bad effects from the shooting?”
“When it’s cold, my shoulder hurts a bit.”
“I did think when you went off to Corsica with Elspeth that the pair of you might make a match of it.”
Hamish forced a laugh. “It wouldnae work. It would mean I would have to move to Glasgow. I’m still enjoying having my bachelor life back.”
Archie Maclean came up to join them. “Like to come out to the fishing tonight, Hamish?”
Hamish’s face lit up. “I’d like that fine.”
“Aye, see you at the harbour. Bring your beasties.”
Hamish said goodbye to Angela and strolled off. She saw him stop and say to his cat, “Think o’ it, Sonsie. Lots and lots o’ fish.”
Lugs put a paw on Hamish’s knee and he laughed and picked up the dog and hugged him.
Angela walked away, shaking her head. You might think, she reflected, that Hamish Macbeth was married already.
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 at the north-west of Scotland was rarely visited by outsiders. Not even the most romantic member of the lunatic tartan 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, temporally bringing in the outside world, but since then, it had settled back into its usual torpor.
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 temporary 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 on one giant monkey puzzle.
A few of the villagers had called when the English couple had first moved in four months ago 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. 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.
Captain Henry Davenport had retired from the army, slightly bitter at not having risen higher in the ranks, but determined to be still 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