Death of a Maid


By M. C. Beaton

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Travel to the Scotland Highlands with this classic Hamish Macbeth cozy mystery from the author of the Agatha Raisin series.

Death of a Maid: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery

Mrs. Gillespie is famous around the northwest of Sutherland for being the best charwoman ever. Of course, if anyone has any social pretensions one does not say charwoman, one talks about "my maid". Hamish Macbeth wins Mrs. Gillespie's services in a church raffle but spends most of the day trying to avoid her. She is a malicious gossip and she bangs around the furniture and clanks pots–he wonders how on earth she managed to get such a good reputation.

Then she is found dead in a large house belonging to a retired professor who was out the day she was killed. She has been struck down by a metal bucket of water. Remembering Mrs. Gillespie's malicious gossip, Hamish is sure she delighted in finding out secrets and probably searched through the drawers of the houses she cleaned, which means everyone whose home she cleaned could be a suspect.




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

First published in the USA by Grand Central Publishing,
a division of Hatchette Book Group USA, Inc.

This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010

Copyright © M. C. Beaton 2007, 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 including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978-1-84901-088-7

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11



For Bengy Wiggin, with love


Hamish Macbeth fans share their reviews . . .

‘Treat yourself to an adventure in the Highlands; remember your coffee and scones – for you’ll want to stay a while!’

‘I do believe I am in love with Hamish.’

‘M. C. Beaton’s stories are absolutely excellent . . . Hamish is a pure delight!’

‘A highly entertaining read that will have me hunting out the others in the series.’

‘A new Hamish Macbeth novel is always a treat.’

‘Once I read the first mystery I was hooked . . . I love her characters.’

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Chapter One

I would any day as soon kill a pig as write a letter.

– Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The letter lay on the doormat just inside the kitchen door of the police station in Lochdubh.

Police Constable Hamish Macbeth picked it up and turned it over. From the address on the back, he saw it was from Elspeth Grant. Elspeth worked as a reporter on a Glasgow newspaper, and he had once considered proposing marriage to her but had dithered and left it too late.

He carried the letter into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His cat, Sonsie, stared at him curiously, and his dog, Lugs, put his paw on his master’s knee and looked up at him with his odd blue eyes.

‘What’s she writing to me about?’ wondered Hamish aloud. Personal letters were rare and curious things nowadays when most people used e-mails or text messages. He opened it reluctantly. Elspeth always made him feel guilty. She had once jeered at him that he was married to his dog and cat.

‘Dear Hamish,’ he read, ‘I have a few weeks holiday owing and would like to come back to Lochdubh. As I can now afford it, I shall be staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Knowing your vanity, I am sure you will think that I am pursuing you. That is not the case. I am not interested in you or your weird animals any more.

‘This letter is just to clear matters up. Yours, Elspeth.’

‘Now, there wass no need to write such a thing,’ said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. ‘No need at all.’ The sibilance of his accent showed he was upset. ‘Herself can chust keep out of my way, and that’ll suit me chust fine.’

But he was hurt and he felt guilty. He had treated her badly, blowing hot and cold, and the last frost had been caused by the news that his ex-fiancée, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, was returning to work at the Tommel Castle Hotel, owned by her parents. He could never quite rid himself of the attraction Priscilla held for him. But she had come, seen him infrequently, and then after a month had left again for London. He crumpled up the letter and left it on the table just as someone knocked at the door.

When he opened it, he looked down at the squat figure of Mrs Mavis Gillespie. Mrs Gillespie was a charwoman, although in these politically correct days, she was referred to as ‘my maid’. She was considered an amazingly good cleaner. Hamish remembered with a sinking feeling that he had won her services in a church raffle.

She bustled past him into the kitchen and took off her coat. Mrs Gillespie was a round little woman in her fifties with rigidly permed grey hair, ruddy cheeks, and a long mean mouth. She was carrying a metal bucket and an old-fashioned mop.

Hamish did not like her. ‘I’ve decided you don’t need to do anything,’ he said. ‘The place is clean enough.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ She glared around. ‘This place needs a good scrub, and what would Mrs Wellington say?’

Mrs Wellington was the formidable wife of the minister.

‘All right,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be off for a walk.’

‘And take your beasties wi’ you,’ she called to his retreating back. ‘They fair gie me the creeps.’

‘Women!’ muttered Hamish as he strolled along the waterfront, followed by his dog and cat. He knew that the households Mrs Gillespie worked for probably all had buckets and mops, but she carried her own around with her like weapons. He had once called on Mrs Wellington when Mrs Gillespie was cleaning and had winced at the clatter and banging as she slammed her bucket against the furniture and knocked out cables from the back of the television set with her mop.

Why the redoubtable Mrs Wellington should put up with such behaviour was beyond him. Then he realized that he himself had shown cowardice.

He knew Mrs Gillespie to be a gossip. Everyone in the north of Scotland gossiped, but Mrs Gillespie was malicious. If there was anything bad to say about anyone, she would say it. He felt he should go back and order her out, but as he gazed out over the still sea loch to the forest on the other side, a feeling of tranquillity overcame him. He watched seagulls squabbling over the harbour.

Behind him, peat smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of the little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront. Lugs lay across his boots, and Sonsie leaned against his uniformed trouser leg.

The great thing about the peace of Lochdubh, thought Hamish dreamily, was that it acted like a balm on the soul. The guilt and worry about that letter from Elspeth faded away. As for Mrs Gillespie, let her get on with it. There wasn’t much at the police station that she could break.

It was autumn in the Highlands of Scotland, and the rowan trees were heavy with scarlet berries. The locals still planted rowan trees outside their houses to keep the witches and goblins at bay. People said, as they said every year, that the berries were a sign of a hard winter to come, and therefore they occasionally got it right.

Pale sunlight glinted on the water of the loch. A seal surfaced and swam lazily past.

Hamish felt suddenly hungry. He decided to put his animals in the police Land Rover and motor up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if he could cadge a sandwich from the kitchen.

Hamish was met in the foyer of the hotel by the manager, Mr Johnson. ‘What brings you?’ asked Mr Johnson. ‘The only murders here now are the fake ones on these murder weekends where everyone gets to play Poirot.’

Hamish did not want to say outright that he would like something to eat, so he asked instead for news of Priscilla.

‘Still down in London.’ Mr Johnson eyed the tall, gangly figure of the red-haired policeman suspiciously. ‘I suppose you want a cup of coffee.’

‘Aye, that would be grand,’ said Hamish, ‘and maybe a wee something to go with it.’

‘Like a dram?’

‘Like a sandwich.’

‘You’re a terrible moocher, Hamish, but come into my office and I’ll send for something.’

Soon Hamish was happily demolishing a plate of ham sandwiches while surreptitiously feeding some of them to his dog and cat.

‘Did you come up here for a free feed?’ asked the manager.

‘I’ve been driven out of my station,’ said Hamish. ‘I won the services of that Gillespie woman in a raffle.’

‘Oh, my. Couldn’t you get rid of her?’

‘Too scared,’ mumbled Hamish through a sandwich.

‘The trouble is,’ said Mr Johnson, ‘that nobody wants to go out cleaning these days. Now that the big new supermarkets have opened in Strathbane, they prefer to work there. The staff here has mostly changed. Most of them are from eastern Europe. Mind you, they’re good. But those names! All consonants.’

‘Who does the Gillespie woman work for these days?’

‘Let me see, there’s old Professor Sander at Braikie. Also in Braikie, Mrs Fleming and Mrs Styles, then Mrs Wellington here, and a Mrs Barret-Wilkinson at Styre.’

Styre was a village to the south of Lochdubh. ‘I havenae been in Styre in ages,’ said Hamish.

‘Why not? It’s on your beat.’

‘I’m thinking the whole of damned Sutherland is on my beat these days. Besides, there’s never any crime in Styre.’

‘By the way,’ said the manager, looking slyly at Hamish, ‘we’ve a booking for Miss Grant.’

Hamish pretended indifference, although he could feel his tranquillity seeping away. ‘Herself must be earning a fair whack to be staying here,’ he said.

The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the private residence of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, but faced with bankruptcy, the colonel had turned his home into a hotel because of Hamish’s suggestion, although he still claimed the bright idea had been all his own. The hotel was one of those pseudo-Gothic castles built in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had made living in Scotland fashionable.

‘Not bothered about her coming up?’ asked Mr Johnson.

‘Not a bit,’ lied Hamish. ‘I’ll be off. Thanks for the sandwiches.’

He hung around the village until he saw Mrs Gillespie leaving. She drove off in her old battered Ford. Filthy smoke was exiting from the exhaust. Hamish stepped out on to the road and held up his hand.

She screeched to a halt and rolled down the window.


‘Your exhaust is filthy. Get to a garage immediately and get it fixed, or I’ll have to book you.’

By way of reply, she let in the clutch and stamped on the accelerator. Hamish jumped back as she roared off.

Back inside the police station, he looked gloomily around. The kitchen floor was gleaming with water which should have been mopped up. The air stank of disinfectant. Then he looked at the kitchen table. The letter from Elspeth, which he had crumpled up and left there, had gone.

He searched the rubbish bin, but it had been already emptied. He had heard stories that Mrs Gillespie was a snoop.

He decided to drive over to Braikie, where she lived, on the following day and confront her. He guessed she would protest that it was a crumpled piece of paper and she had just been clearing up, but he thought that he and others had been cowardly long enough.

Then Hamish swore under his breath. He had forgotten to lock the police station office. He went in. The cables had been detached from the computer. He replugged them and then looked around the office, glad that he had at least locked the filing cabinet.

He went back to the kitchen, got out his own mop, and cleaned up the water from the kitchen floor. The work made him relax and count his blessings. With police stations closing down all over the place, he had still managed to survive.

But down in a bar in Strathbane, Detective Chief Inspector Blair was wondering again how he could winkle Hamish Macbeth out of that police station of his and get him moved to the anonymity of Strathbane, where he would just be another copper among many. As he sipped his first double Scotch of the day, Blair dreamed of getting Hamish put on traffic duty.

‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic,’ said a hearty voice beside him. A man had just come up to the bar. Blair squinted sideways and looked at him. He was balding on the front, with the remainder of his grey hair tied back in a pony-tail. He had a thin face, black-rimmed glasses, and a small beard. He was dressed in a blue donkey jacket and jeans, but he was wearing a collar and tie.

‘Are you from the television station?’ asked Blair.

‘Aye. Who are you?’

Blair held out a fat mottled hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Phil McTavish, head of documentaries.’

Blair thought quickly, the whisky-fuelled cogs of his brain spinning at a great rate. In the past, Hamish Macbeth had always side-stepped promotion, knowing that promotion would mean a transfer to Strathbane. But what if there were to be a flattering documentary about Hamish? The top brass would feel they really had to do something, and he could swear they had a party every time another village police station was closed down, sending more money into their coffers.

‘It’s funny meeting you like this,’ said Blair, giving Phil his best oily smile. ‘I’ve got a great idea for a documentary.’

The following day Hamish had to postpone his trip to Braikie. He had been summoned by his boss, Superintendent Peter Daviot, to police headquarters for an interview.

The day suited his mood. The brief spell of good weather had changed to a damp drizzle. Wraiths of mist crawled down the flanks of the mountains.

Strathbane had once been a busy fishing port, but new European fishing quotas had destroyed business. Then, under a scheme to regenerate the Highlands, new businesses were set up, but drugs had arrived before them and the town became a depressed area of rotting factories, vandalized high-rises and dangerous, violent youths.

Hamish’s spirits were low as he parked in front of police headquarters and made his way up to Daviot’s office, where the secretary, Helen, who loathed him, gave him a wintry smile and told him to go in.

Daviot was not alone. There were two other people there: a middle-aged man with a pony-tail and a small eager-looking girl.

‘Ah, Hamish,’ said Daviot. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Mr Peter McTavish, head of Strathbane Television’s documentary programmes.’

Hamish shook hands with him and then looked inquiringly at the girl. ‘And here is one of his researchers, Shona Fraser.’ Shona, although white, had her hair in dreadlocks. Her small face was dominated by a pair of very large brown eyes. She was dressed in a denim jacket over a faded black T-shirt, jeans ripped at the knee and a pair of large, clumpy boots.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair has told Mr McTavish that your colourful character and exploits would make a very good documentary. Miss Fraser here will go around with you initially to take notes and report back to Mr McTavish.’

Daviot beamed all around, his white hair carefully barbered and his suit a miracle of good tailoring.

Shona looked curiously at the tall policeman. He was standing very still, his cap under his arm. He seemed to have gone into a trance.

What Hamish was thinking was: I bet that bastard hopes to make me famous so they’ll feel obliged to give me a promotion and get me out of Lochdubh. He knew it would be useless to protest.

Instead, he gave himself a little shake, smiled, and said, ‘Perhaps it might be a good idea if I took Mr McTavish and Miss Fraser to the pub to discuss this informally.’

‘Good idea,’ said Daviot. ‘Put any hospitality on your expenses.’

Once they were settled over their drinks in the pub, Hamish said solemnly, ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Phil.

‘You see, Blair is a verra modest man. Let me tell you about him.’ Hamish outlined several famous murder cases which he himself had solved but had let Blair take the credit for. He ended up by saying, ‘I’m just a local bobby. There’s no colour for you there. But Blair! Man, he’ll take you to the worst parts of Strathbane. You’ll be witnesses to drug raids and violence.’

Their eyes gleamed with the excitement of the naïve who have never really been exposed to anything nasty.

When Blair was told later that he was to be the subject of the documentary, rage warred with vanity in his fat breast, but vanity won.

Hamish whistled cheerfully as he drove back to Lochdubh. Mrs Gillespie could wait until the next morning.

Elspeth Grant was having lunch with Luke Teviot, another reporter. She found Luke attractive. Although a good reporter, he cultivated an easy-going manner. He had thick fair hair and a rather dissipated face. He was very tall.

‘So you’re off on your holidays,’ said Luke. ‘Where?’

‘Back to Lochdubh.’

‘You got a good story out of there last time.’

‘It’s normally the sleepiest, most laid-back place in the world,’ said Elspeth. ‘Just what I need.’

‘I’ve never been to the Highlands,’ said Luke.

‘What! You’re a Scot, a Glaswegian.’

‘You know how it is, Elspeth. I mean the real Highlands. The furthest I ever get was covering people stranded in Glencoe in the winter. I’ve never been further north than Perth. When the holidays come along, I head abroad for the sun. I’ve got holidays owing. Mind if I come with you?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Not a bit of it.’

‘But why? It’s not as if we’re an item.’

‘Don’t have to be. I hate taking holidays on my own.’

‘Never been married?’

‘Twice. Didn’t work out. Mind you, I was lucky. Both women were rich and were so glad to get rid of me, they didn’t want any money.’

‘Why were they glad to get rid of you?’

‘You know what reporting’s like, Elspeth. I was hardly ever home. Come on. Let’s go together. It would be fun. I could do with some clean air to fumigate my lungs.’

‘How many do you smoke?’

‘Sixty a day.’

‘You could stop, stay in Glasgow, and get clean lungs that way.’

‘Think about it. You could at least have company on that long drive.’

Elspeth thought about Hamish. It would be rather pleasant to turn up accompanied by Luke and show him she really didn’t care.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’

Hamish set out for Braikie the following morning. Braikie was not Hamish’s favourite town, although it was miles better than Strathbane, and much smaller. The posher locals referred to it as ‘the village’. It had some fine Victorian villas at the north end, a depressing housing estate of grey houses all looking the same at the south end, and a main street of small dark shops with flats above them stretching out on either side of the town hall and library. A few brave souls lived in bungalows on the shore road facing the Atlantic. They often had to be rescued when November gales sent giant waves crashing into their homes. The main town, however, was huddled several damp fields away, out of the sight and sound of the sea.

Mrs Gillespie lived in the housing estate. When Hamish called at her home, he noticed to his surprise that she had bought her house. He could see this because she had had picture windows installed, and householders who rented their homes from the council were not allowed to change the buildings. House prices, even this far north, were rising steeply, and he wondered how she could have afforded the purchase price.

Now that he was actually on her doorstep, he could feel his courage waning. He reminded himself sharply that it was high time someone put Mrs Gillespie in her place.

He rang the bell. The door was answered by a little gnome of a man wearing a cardigan. He had a bald, freckled scalp. ‘Mr Gillespie?’ ventured Hamish. He had always assumed Mrs Gillespie to be a widow.

‘Aye, that’s me.’

‘Is your wife at home?’

‘No, she’s up at the professor’s. What’s up?’

‘Nothing important. I just want a wee word with her. I’ll be off to the professor’s.’

Professor Sander was retired. He lived in a large Victorian villa in the better part of town. It was isolated from its neighbours at the end of a cul-de-sac. Hamish could see Mrs Gillespie’s car parked on the road outside. He parked as well and walked to the garden entrance, which was flanked on one side by a magnificent rowan tree, weighed down with red berries, and on the other by an old-fashioned pump.

He was about to walk up the short drive when he stopped. There had been something he had seen out of the corner of his eye.

He turned and looked.

Mavis Gillespie lay huddled at the foot of the pump. He went up to her and bent down and felt for a pulse. There was none. Her bucket and mop lay beside her. Blood flowed from a wound on her head, and he noticed a stain of blood on the bucket.

He stood up and took out his mobile phone and called police headquarters. Then he went to his Land Rover and found a pair of latex gloves and put them on. Mrs Gillespie’s handbag was lying beside her on the ground. It looked as if she had been struck down just as she was leaving.

He opened the handbag and looked inside.

The first thing he saw was that crumpled letter from Elspeth. He gingerly took it out and put it in his pocket.

Then he waited for reinforcements to arrive.

Chapter Two

That bucket down, and full of tears am I.

– William Shakespeare

A fussy little man came down the drive. He had a shock of white hair and was dressed in a Harris tweed suit. He was wearing a blue and white polka-dot bow tie. Hamish guessed he was probably in his late seventies. He had a chubby face with a small pursed mouth. He looked like an elderly baby.

‘Why are the police here?’ he said, then saw the crumpled body on the ground. In death, Mrs Gillespie seemed much smaller, more a heap of clothes than what had so recently been a living person.

‘There appears to have been an accident,’ said Hamish. ‘Are you Professor Sander?’

‘Yes, yes. How unfortunate. If you want me, I’ll be up at the house.’

He turned away.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Hamish, ‘did you see anyone outside your house this morning?’

‘No, why? It’s not as if it’s murder, is it?’

‘I’ll need to wait and see. There’s blood on the bucket. Someone may have hit her over the head. Was she leaving, and when?’

‘About half an hour ago. Really, Officer, I don’t notice the comings and goings of the home help.’

‘But you couldn’t avoid hearing the comings and goings of Mrs Gillespie,’ Hamish pointed out. ‘She made one hell of a noise.’

‘I am writing a history of Napoleon’s Russian campaign, and when this brain of mine is absorbed in writing, I am not aware of anything else.’

‘There must already be an awful lot of books about Napoleon in Russia,’ commented Hamish.

‘What would you know about history, young man?’

With relief, Hamish heard the approaching sirens. He was beginning to dislike the professor.


On Sale
Jan 1, 2008
Page Count
272 pages

M. C. Beaton

About the Author

M. C. Beaton, hailed as the "Queen of Crime" by the Globe and Mail, was the author of the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Agatha Raisin novels—the basis for the hit series on Acorn TV and public television—as well as the Hamish Macbeth series. Born in Scotland, Beaton started her career writing historical romances under several pseudonyms as well as her maiden name, Marion Chesney. Her books have sold more than twenty-two million copies worldwide.

A long-time friend of M. C. Beaton, R. W. Green has written numerous works of fiction and non-fiction. He lives in Surrey with his family and a black Labrador called Flynn.

Learn more about this author