Death of a Laird Read online

  DEATH OF A LAIRD

  A Hamish Macbeth Short Story

  M. C. Beaton

  with R. W. Green

  New York Boston

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Marion Chesney

  Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First U.S. Ebook Edition: February 2022

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3910-5 (ebook)

  E3-20220204-NF-DA-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One: The Great Storm

  Part Two: The Laird’s Guests

  Part Three: The Aftermath

  Discover More

  About the Authors

  The Hamish Macbeth series

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  Part One

  The Great Storm

  The wintry west extends his blast,

  And hail and rain does blaw;

  Or, the stormy north sends driving forth

  The blinding sleet and snaw:

  While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

  And roars frae bank to brae;

  And bird and beast in covert rest,

  And pass the heartless day.

  Robert Burns, “Winter: A Dirge”

  It was the single worst thing that had happened all week, and the week had now tumbled into Friday morning. The situation was dire—he’d run out of coffee. Sergeant Hamish Macbeth knew he could function perfectly well without his morning coffee, but those he had to deal with generally liked it better if his mood was buoyed by a hearty breakfast and at least one mugful. A visit to the Patels’ supermarket was called for.

  “Fancy a wee walk?” he said, looking over his breakfast table to the corner of the kitchen where his mongrel dog, Lugs, was curled up in a large, cosey basket with Sonsie, his pet wild cat. Lugs was on his feet in an instant, his strangely colored eyes wide and bright, his ears standing to attention and his plume of a tail waving manically. Sonsie looked towards the window, looked back at Hamish, raised an eyebrow in an expression that could only mean “You’ve got to be joking,” then returned to the snooze he had so rudely interrupted.

  When Hamish opened the kitchen door and the whistling wind sent his wheelie bin racing past outside, Lugs’s ears and tail dropped like wet rags and he skulked back to the basket. “Aye, it’s blowing a hoolie out there, right enough,” Hamish admitted, listening to the screech of the wind and glancing over to where Lugs looked up at him with apologetic, guilty eyes. “Looks like it’s just me then,” he added, pulling on his police uniform sweater. He ran a hand through his shock of fiery red hair and reached for his cap, hanging on the back of the door, then suddenly visualised the wind snatching it from his head to send it sailing into the loch. He left it on the peg.

  Strolling along the pavement at the lochside with the wind at his back, Hamish dodged the occasional fountain of spray breaking over the sea wall where the wind drove the rising tide against the rocks. Out on the loch, the gale chased dancing whitecaps across the waves and leaden grey clouds across the dark face of the mountains. The slopes of the twin peaks known as “The Two Sisters” on the far shore were like steel engravings, every crevice and gulley precisely etched in stark relief, a sure sign that rain was on its way. In the white cottages that lined the main road through Lochdubh, villagers had already removed their window boxes and hanging baskets of spring flowers to save them from the destructive wind and the battering rain that was expected. Mild May weather had already serenaded Lochdubh, but winter had one last howling anthem to sing.

  He spotted fisherman Archie Maclean standing by the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring out over the water. The wind filled his voluminous woollen sweater like a sail and set the baggy legs of his corduroy trousers flapping like flags. He had once worn the most tight-fitting clothes Hamish had ever seen, all due to the fact that his wife used to boil the wash in a huge copper and shrink everything, even his jackets. When he came into a bit of money, Archie had bought her a high-tech washing machine and himself a whole new wardrobe.

  “Morning, Archie,” Hamish called.

  Archie took his cigarette out of his mouth to reply, and the wind whipped it out of his fingers, sending it streaking through the air into the loch.

  “It’s a sign,” said Hamish with a grin. “Time to give up.”

  “Aye, you might be right.” Archie sighed. “Mind you take care if you’re out on the road today, Hamish,” he added. “There’s a belter o’ a storm coming in.”

  “You’re no’ wrong there,” Hamish agreed, looking up at the racing clouds. “I’ll keep my wits about me, but it looks like this week’s going to end badly.’

  He reached the supermarket door just as the formidable Currie twins, Nessie and Jessie, were leaving. Beneath their identical, tightly knotted headscarves, they had identical, tightly permed grey hair, identical glasses, and identical beige raincoats, buttoned up to the neck. Each trailed a wheeled shopping basket, one of green tartan and one of red. Hamish could scarcely believe the bulging carts were not the same pattern.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them. The two small women stopped, craning their necks to look up at the lanky policeman.

  “You should be out patrolling the roads,” said Nessie, with an indignant nod. “This storm will cause absolute mayhem.’

  “Absolute mayhem!” Jessie agreed, exercising her lifelong habit of repeating the last of whatever her sister said.

  “Aye, I’ll have a busy day ahead, no doubt—fallen trees, floods and suchlike,” Hamish agreed. “Been stocking up, have we?” He looked down at their laden carts.

  “We’ll not be caught out if there’s nothing to be had in the shop,” Nessie said sagely. “We are always prepared.”

  “Always prepared!” echoed Jessie, and the twins set off towards their cottage, heads bowed into the wind and sensible brown shoes marching in unison.

  “What can I do for you, Hamish?” asked Mrs. Patel from behind the counter.

  “Just a jar of coffee, please,” said Hamish. “Is Mr. Patel no’ around this morning?’

  “He’s gone off to the cash-and-carry in Strathbane to pick up more stock. The locals have been buying everything up like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Aye, well, you know how it gets round here when there’s a big sto
rm coming in. Some will no’ leave their houses for days but they’ll have enough in their larders to last a month of Sundays.”

  “I’m awfy worried about him driving back, Hamish. Will the road be all right?”

  “The Strathbane Road will be fine, Mrs. Patel. It’s the smaller roads where we’ll have the odd problem.”

  “I hope you’re right, Hamish.”

  No sooner had he left the shop than Hamish spotted the unfamiliar figure of a woman in hill-walking gear approaching. With his hazel eyes narrowed against the wind, he could see she was slim, with boyishly short dark hair, and she was carrying a camera bag as well as a small rucksack. He gave her a friendly greeting, and she returned his smile.

  “I hope you’re no’ planning to go far,” he warned her. “They say this could turn into the worst spring storm we’ve ever seen—and we’ve seen a fair few.”

  “I’m taking this route.” She pulled a neatly folded map from her pocket and traced a path along the bank of the River Anstey. “I want to photograph the waterfall here, then follow the loop round to get some shots of the clouds passing over the village. All very atmospheric, with these fantastic tones and textures of grey.’

  “Mind you stick to that path on the low ground then,” said Hamish. He paused as she caught him off guard, looking up at him with big brown eyes. She was, he suddenly realised, really very attractive, tall enough to reach his shoulder and with an elfin beauty that was utterly captivating. “Aye, and…um…head back once the rain sets in.”

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant.” She smiled again. “I can look after myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, Miss.”

  He watched her striding confidently in the direction of the stone hump-backed bridge over the Anstey that led out of the village. He marvelled at how a morning so onerous, promising tough challenges for the working day ahead, could also conjure up such a delightful stranger. The thought of maybe bumping into her again put a spring in his step. Then he cursed himself for neglecting to ask either her name or where she was staying. That’s the sort of blunder, he told himself, that happens when you’ve not had your morning coffee!

  By mid-day, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Heavy clouds, black with rain, thundered in off the North Atlantic, turning day into night, and rain scoured the countryside, from time to time threatening to crack the pavements in Lochdubh when it fell as large pellets of hail. Hamish was called to one incident after another, helping local farmers to drag trees off roads and even breaking down part of a roadside stone wall to let a rising pool of floodwater drain into the adjacent field. He was behind the wheel of his trusty old Land Rover, battling through yet another barrage of hail on his way back into Lochdubh, when a call came through on his radio. The voice was not that of his usual despatcher in Strathbane.

  “Sergeant Macbeth, this is Chief Superintendent Daviot.”

  Hamish stopped the car. If the big boss was on the line, he needed to give the call his full attention. He responded to let his superior know that he could hear him clearly on the occasionally temperamental, and Peter Daviot’s voice took on an overly officious tone.

  “Macbeth, I need you to get up to Loch Naglar. Duncan Pringle, the new laird at Naglar House, has gone missing.”

  “How long has Mr. Pringle been missing, sir?”

  “Since the storm hit there earlier this afternoon.”

  “Should we no’ give him a wee bit longer to turn up, sir? I wouldn’t normally take a missing person report too seriously after only a couple of hours.”

  “Well, you’ll take this one seriously, Macbeth! There are some very important people at Naglar House, including the Earl of Strathbane. You are closest, so you are to head up there immediately. I will join you there as soon as I possibly can.”

  “Aye, don’t worry, sir. I’m on my way.”

  With a shake of his head, Hamish gunned the engine, carrying on into Lochdubh. If he had to go all the way up to Loch Naglar, he was unlikely to be back until late and he needed to feed Lugs and Sonsie. Just as he crossed the bridge, his headlights pierced the gloom of heavy rain to pick out a walker at the side of the road. It was the woman he’d met that morning. He pulled in alongside her and wound down his window.

  “Can I offer you a lift, miss?”

  “Oh…actually,” she said, looking at the rain sweeping the road ahead, “that would be great.”

  She climbed into the passenger seat and accepted the offer of a tissue from the box Hamish kept on the dashboard. Her rain-soaked hair was plastered to her head, and when she patted her face dry with the tissue, he could see dark stains from where mascara had run down her cheeks.

  “I couldn’t keep my hood up in this wind,” she said. “I must look an absolute sight.”

  “Och, no, nothing of the sort,” Hamish assured her. “You look lovely.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said, “and thank you for the lift. I’m Abigail.”

  “Hamish.” He nodded. “Hamish Macbeth. Did you get the pictures you were after?”

  They chatted as he drove her to the other end of Lochdubh, where she was staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. He parked by the main entrance and cut the engine.

  “Thanks again for the lift, Hamish. You’re my hero,” she said, laughing. “Maybe you’d like to join me for a drink once I get dried out and you’re off duty?”

  “Aye, that would be grand.” Hamish grinned, then suddenly remembered what he was meant to be doing. “Crivens! No…I mean, I’d love to, but I’m meant to be on my way up to Loch Naglar and I’ll no’ be back till very late. Will you still be here tomorrow evening?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, handing him a slip of paper before stepping out of the car. “Here’s my number. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  With one last smile and a wave, she dashed inside out of the rain, and Hamish headed for home to feed his pets before the long drive to Loch Naglar.

  Unlike Loch Dubh, which opened to the sea, Naglar was a freshwater loch, one of more than thirty thousand scattered across Scotland. It was by no means the largest, nor the deepest, of the country’s lochs, but it was set in spectacular scenery, running east to west and ringed by jagged mountain peaks whose slopes draped the shoreline with dense swathes of woodland. There was only one road up to Loch Naglar, deteriorating to little more than a track by the time it reached the loch, then skirting the five miles of the southern shore to Naglar House, a remote hunting lodge.

  It was early evening by the time he reached the loch, the dark day descending into a black night, banishing the enduring twilight that normally prevailed in Sutherland at this hour, and the rain falling harder than ever. The Land Rover’s windscreen wipers were working overtime, but visibility was restricted to just a few yards, with glare from the car’s lights bouncing back off what seemed like a solid wall of rain. He slowed to a crawl, dropping into a low gear to trundle along the track. Reaching a gap in the trees that lined the road, he could see the empty expanse of the loch to his right and then felt a disturbing rumble.

  “This,” he told the Land Rover, “would no’ be a good time for you to konk out, old girl.’

  Yet the car’s engine continued with its own steady throb while the rumbling sensation grew louder. It was coming from outside. Hamish glanced up the hill his left and saw the impossible—trees were slithering down the slope towards him. A shower of mud and stones clattered against the Land Rover. It was a landslide! Hamish immediately put his foot down, urging the car forward as fast as it would go. There was a powerful tearing noise and an immense crack as one of the trees toppled over, narrowly missing the car and crashing down across the road just a few feet behind. The noise then subsided until all he could hear once more was the burble of his engine and the staccato of rain drumming on the roof and bonnet.

  He stopped the car and switched on a spotlight at the rear of the vehicle, then got out, retrieving a powerful flashlight from behind his seat. With the scene on the road behind him now illuminated as well as it
could be in the torrential rain, he could see that, beyond the huge pine that had so nearly crushed his car, at least two other trees and a telegraph pole were now lying across where the road had been. The road itself no longer existed, swept away on a tide of mud and giant boulders all the way down to where the rain hissed on the surface of the loch. He’d been lucky. If he’d come along just a few seconds later, he’d either have been smashed down into the loch along with the other debris or crushed under the enormous pine. He trudged back to the car to radio headquarters and report the blocked road, but the radio was dead. Reception in this area was bad enough at the best of times, but in this storm he had no chance of making contact. Neither had he any signal on his mobile phone. He revved the engine and lurched along the final couple of miles to Naglar House.

  He was able pick out the lights of the main house from some distance, and as he drew closer, he could see lights atop the stone pillars at the bottom of the driveway and in the gatehouse. Clearly they had switched everything on to try to guide him in. He made his way up the driveway, and his headlights further illuminated the two-storey stone building.

  In the open front doorway, standing in the welcoming light of a storm porch, was a small, grey-haired woman whose stocky frame betrayed a lifetime of hard work and a life-long diet of honest, solid food as sturdy as her figure. Hamish parked the Land Rover beside a collection of other cars in front of the house and quickly crunched across the driveway’s gravel, pulling his waterproof jacket closed against the wind-driven rain and holding on to his cap lest the gale steal it from him.

  “Mrs. Patrick?” he said, as she waved him inside. “Hamish Macbeth. Strathbane ordered me up here about your missing person.”

  “I’m right glad to see you, Sergeant,” said the old lady. “Come away in. You can leave your wet coat there to dry.” She indicated a rack of coat hooks on the wall. “It’s the custom to leave car keys just here,” she added as they stepped into the reception hall, pointing to a pewter bowl on a hall stand, “in case any of the cars need to be moved for any reason.”