Introducing Hamish Macbeth: Mysteries #1-3

Death of a Gossip, Death of a Cad, and Death of an Outsider Omnibus


By M. C. Beaton

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From the author of the Agatha Raisin television series…
Discover M.C. Beaton’s New York Times bestselling Hamish Macbeth mystery series with this thrilling collection of the first three novels featuring the Scottish Highlands’ cleverest but most unambitious policeman:

Death of a Gossip
When society widow and gossip columnist Lady Jane Winters joined the fishing class, she wasted no time in ruffling the feathers–or was it the fins?–of those around her. Among the victims of her sharp tongue and unladylike manner was Lochdubh Constable Hamish Macbeth. Yet not even Hamish thought someone would permanently silence Lady Jane’s shrills–until her strangled body is fished out of the river. Now with the help of the lovely Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, Hamish must angle through the choppy waters of the tattler’s life to find the murderer. But with a school of suspects who aren’t ready to talk and dead women telling no tales, Hamish may be in over his head, for he knows that secrets are dangerous, knowledge is power, and killers usually do strike again.

Death of a Cad
When Priscilla Halburton-Smythe brings her London playwright fiance home to Lochdubh, everybody in town is delighted . . . except for love-smitten Constable Hamish Macbeth. Yet his affairs of the heart will have to wait. Vile, boorish Captain Bartlett, one of the guests at Priscilla’s engagement party, has just been found murdered-shot while on a grouse hunt. Now with many titled party guests as the prime suspects, each with a reason for snuffing out the despicable captain, Hamish must smooth ruffled feathers as he investigates the case. When the hidden culprit strikes again, Hamish will find himself trying to save Priscilla from a miserable marriage–and catch a killer before he flies the coop.

Death of an Outside
The most hated man in the most dour town in Scotland is sleeping with the fishes, or–more accurately–dumped into a tank filled with crustaceans. All that remain of the murdered victim are his bones. But after the lobsters are shipped off to Britain’s best restaurants, the whole affair quickly lands on the plate of Constable Hamish Macbeth. Exiled with his dog, Towser, to the dreary outpost of Cnothan, Macbeth sorely misses his beloved Lochdubh, his formerly beloved Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, and his days of doing nothing but staring at the sheep grazing in a nearby croft. Now the lawman has to contend with a detective chief inspector who wants the modus operandi hushed up, a dark-haired lass who has an ulterior motive to seduce him, and a killer who has made mincemeat of his victim-and without doubt will strike again . . .


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Death of a Gossip

Cast of Characters (in order of appearance)

John Cartwright: Owner of the Lochdubh School of Casting: Salmon and Trout Fishing

Heather Cartwright: His wife, and joint owner of the school

Marvin Roth: American businessman and budding congressman

Amy Roth: His wife

Lady Jane Winters: Society widow

Jeremy Blythe: Barrister from London

Alice Wilson: Secretary from London

Charlie Baxter: Twelve-year-old child from Manchester

Major Peter Frame: Ex-army, expert angler

Daphne Gore: Debutante from Oxford

Hamish Macbeth: Village constable

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe: Local landowner's daughter

Detective Chief Inspector Blair: Head of Strathbane CID

Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry McNab: Blair's assistants

John Harrington: Courting Priscilla Halburton-Smythe

Colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe: Priscilla's parents

Mr Johnson: Hotel manager

Angus MacGregor: Poacher

You came and quacked beside me in the wood,

You said: "The view from here is very good."

You said: "It's nice to be alone a bit."

And: "How the days are drawing out," you said.

By God—I wish—I wish that you were dead.


Day One

Angling: incessant expectation, and perpetual disappointment.

—Arthur Young

"I hate the start of the week," said John Cartwright fretfully. "Beginning with a new group. It's rather like going on stage. Then I always feel I have to apologize for being English. People who travel up here to the wilds of Scotland expect to be instructed by some great hairy Rob Roy, making jokes about sax-pence and saying it's a braw bricht moonlicht nicht and lang may your lum reek and ghastly things like that."

"Don't chatter," said his wife, Heather, placidly. "It always works out all right. We've been running this fishing school for three years and haven't had a dissatisfied customer yet."

She looked at her husband with affection. John Cartwright was small, thin, wiry, and nervous. He had sandy, wispy hair and rather prominent pale blue eyes. Heather had been one of his first pupils at the Lochdubh School of Casting: Salmon and Trout Fishing.

He had been seduced by the sight of her deft back cast and had only got around to discovering the other pleasures of her anatomy after they were married.

Heather was believed to be the better angler, although she tactfully hid her greater skill behind a pleasant motherly manner. Despite their vastly different temperaments, both Heather and John were dedicated, fanatical anglers.

Fishing was their hobby, their work, their obsession. Every week during the summer a new class would arrive at the Lochdubh Hotel. Rarely did they have a complete set of amateurs; experienced fishermen often joined the class, since they could fish excellent waters for reasonable rates. John would take care of the experts while Heather would mother the rank amateurs.

The class never consisted of more than ten. This week they had received two last-minute cancellations and so were expecting only eight.

"Now," muttered John, picking up a piece of paper, "I gather they all checked in at the hotel last night. There's an American couple from New York, Mr. and Mrs. Roth; a Lady Winters, widow of some Labour peer; Jeremy Blythe from London; Alice Wilson, also from London; Charlie Baxter, a twelve-year-old from Manchester—the kid's not living at the hotel, he's staying with an aunt in the village; Major Peter Frame. Oh dear, we had the galloping major before. These men who hang on to their army titles don't seem able to adapt to civilian life. Then there's Daphne Gore from Oxford. I'll send the major off on his own as soon as possible. Perhaps you'd better look after the kid."

John Cartwright glanced out of the hotel window and scowled. "Here comes our scrounging village constable. I told the hotel I needed coffee for eight people. But Hamish will just sit there like a dog until I give him some. Better phone down and tell them to set out an extra cup.

"What that policeman needs is a good, juicy murder. Keep him off our hands. All he's got to do all day is mooch around the village getting under everyone's feet. Jimmy, the water bailiff, told me the other day he thinks Hamish Macbeth poaches."

"I doubt it," said Heather. "He's too lazy. He ought to get married. He must be all of thirty-five at least. Most of the girls in the village have broken their hearts over him at one time or another. I can't see the attraction."

She joined her husband at the window, and he put an arm around her plump shoulders. Hamish, Lochdubh's village constable, was strolling along the pier that lay outside the hotel, his hat pushed on the back of his head, and his hands in his pockets. He was very tall and thin and gawky. His uniform hung on his lanky frame, showing an expanse of bony wrist where the sleeves did not reach far enough and a length of woolly Argyll sock above large regulation boots. He removed his peaked hat and scratched his fiery red hair. Then he reached inside his tunic and thoughtfully scratched one armpit.

The smell of hot coffee wafted up from the hotel lounge below the Cartwrights' bedroom window. It obviously reached the nostrils of the policeman, for Hamish suddenly sniffed the air like a dog and then started to lope eagerly towards the hotel.

The Lochdubh Hotel had been built in the last century by the Duke of Anstey as one of his many country residences. It was battlemented and turreted like a castle. It had formal gardens at the back and the clear, limpid waters of Lochdubh at the front. It had stags' heads in the lounge, armoury in the hall, peat fires, and one of the best chefs in Scotland. Prices were astronomical, but the tourists came in droves, partly because the main road ended abruptly in front of the hotel, making it the only haven in a wilderness of barren moorland and towering mountains.

The village of Lochdubh nestled at the foot of two great peaks called the Two Sisters. It was a huddle of houses built in the eighteenth century to promote the fishing industry in the Highlands. The population had been declining steadily ever since.

There was a general store-cum-post office, a bakery, a craft shop and four churches, each with a congregation of about five.

The police station was one of the few modern buildings. The old police station had been a sort of damp hut. Constable Hamish Macbeth had arrived to take up his duties a year before the fishing school was established. No one knew quite how he had managed it, but, in no time at all, he had a trim new house built for himself with a modern office adjoining it with one cell. The former policeman had made his rounds on a bicycle. Constable Macbeth had prised a brand-new Morris out of the authorities. He kept chickens and geese and a large, slavering guard dog of indeterminate breed called Towser.

Lochdubh was situated in the far northwest of Scotland. In winter it went into a long hibernation. In summer, the tourists brought it alive. The tourists were mostly English and were treated by the locals with outward Highland courtesy and inner Highland hate.

John Cartwright had been struggling for a month to make the fishing school pay when he had met Heather. It was Heather who had taken over the bookkeeping and put advertisements in the glossy magazines. It was Heather who had trebled John's low fees, pointing out shrewdly that people would pay up if they thought they were getting something exclusive and the rates were still reasonable considering the excellent salmon rivers they were allowed to fish. It was Heather who had made the whole thing work. She was plump, grey-haired, and motherly. Her marriage to John Cartwright was her second. John often thought he would never know what went on under his wife's placid brow, but he loved her as much as he loved angling, and sometimes, even uneasily, thought that the school would not have survived without her, although most of the time he prided himself on his business acumen and his wife comfortably did all she could to foster this belief.

He tugged on his old fishing jacket with its many pockets, picked up his notes, and looked nervously at his wife.

"Don't you think we should… well, meet them together?"

"You run along dear," said Heather. "Give me a shout when you're ready to show them the knots. Once you get started talking, you'll forget to be nervous."

John gave her a swift kiss on the cheek and made his way along to the main staircase. He prayed they would be a jolly crowd. At least he knew the major, although that was more a case of being comfortable with the evil he knew.

He pushed open the lounge door and blinked nervously at the eight people who were standing around eyeing each other warily. A bad sign. Usually by the time he put in his appearance, they had all introduced themselves.

Constable Hamish Macbeth was sitting in an armchair at the window, studying the Daily Telegraph crossword and whistling through his teeth in an irritating way.

John took a deep breath. Lights, camera, action. He was on.

"I think the first thing to do is to get acquainted," he said, smiling nervously at the silent group. "My name is John Cartwright, and I am your instructor. We find things go easier if we all get on a first-name basis. Now, who would like to start?"

"Start what?" demanded a heavyset woman imperiously.

"Hah, hah. Well, start introducing themselves."

"I'll be first," said an American voice. "My name is Marvin Roth, and this is my wife, Amy."

"I'm Daphne Gore," drawled a tall blonde, studying her fingernails.

"Jeremy Blythe." A handsome, stocky young man with a cheerful face, fair curly hair, and bright blue eyes.

"Charlie Baxter." The twelve-year-old. Chubby, beautiful skin, mop of black curls, remarkably cold and assessing eyes in one so young.

"Well, you know me. Major Peter Frame. Just call me Major. Everyone does." Small grey moustache in a thin, lined face; weak, petulant mouth; brand-new fishing clothes.

"Alice Wilson." Pretty, wholesome-looking girl; slight Liverpool accent, wrong clothes.

"I am Lady Jane Winters. You may call me Lady Jane. Everyone does." The heavyset woman. Heavy bust encased in silk blouse, heavy thighs bulging in knee breeches, fat calves in lovat wool stockings. Heavy fat face with large, heavy-lidded blue eyes. Small, sharp beak of a nose. Disappointed mouth.

"Now we've all got to know each other's names, we'll have some coffee," said John brightly.

Hamish uncoiled himself from the armchair and slouched forward.

Lady Jane eyed his approach with disfavour.

"Does the village constable take fishing lessons as well?" she demanded. Her voice was high and loud with a peculiarly grating edge to it.

"No, Mr. Macbeth often joins us on the first day for coffee."

"Why?" Lady Jane was standing with her hands on her hips between Hamish and the coffee table. The policeman craned his neck and looked over her fat shoulder at the coffee pot.

"Well," said John crossly, wishing Hamish would speak for himself. "We all like a cup of coffee and…"

"I do not pay taxes to entertain public servants," said Lady Jane. "Go about your business, Constable."

The policeman gazed down at her with a look of amiable stupidity in his hazel eyes. He made a move to step around her. Lady Jane blocked his path.

"Do you take your coffee regular, Officer?" asked Marvin Roth. He was a tall, pear-shaped man with a domed bald head and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He looked rather like the wealthy upper-eastside Americans portrayed in some New Yorker cartoons.

Hamish broke into speech for the first time. "I mostly take tea," he said in a soft Highland voice. "But I aye take the coffee when I get the chance."

"He means, do you take milk and sugar?" interposed John Cartwright, who had become used to translating Americanisms.

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Hamish. Lady Jane began to puff with outrage as Marvin poured a cup of coffee and handed it over her shoulder to the constable. Alice Wilson let out a nervous giggle and put her hand over her mouth to stifle it. Lady Jane gave her shoulders a massive shrug and sent the cup of coffee flying.

There was an awkward silence. Hamish picked up the cup from the floor and looked at it thoughtfully. He looked slowly and steadily at Lady Jane, who glared back at him triumphantly.

"Oh, pullease give the policeman his coffee," sighed Amy Roth. She was a well-preserved blonde with large, cow-like eyes, a heavy soft bosom, and surprisingly tough and wiry tennis-playing wrists.

"No," said Lady Jane stubbornly while John Cartwright flapped his notes and prayed for deliverance. Why wouldn't Hamish just go?

Lady Jane turned her back on Hamish and stared at Marvin as if defying him to pour any more coffee. Alice Wilson watched miserably. Why had she come on this awful holiday? It was costing so much, much more than she could afford.

But as she watched, she saw to her amazement the policeman had taken a sizeable chunk of Lady Jane's tightly clad bottom between thumb and forefinger and was giving it a hearty pinch.

"You pinched my bum!" screamed Lady Jane.

"Och, no," said the policeman equably, moving past the outraged lady and pouring himself another cup of coffee. "It will be them Hielan midges. Teeth on them like the pterodactyls."

He ambled back to his armchair by the window and sat down, nursing his coffee cup.

"I shall write to that man's superior officer," muttered Lady Jane. "Is anyone going to pour?"

"I reckon we'll just help ourselves, honey," said Amy Roth sweetly.

Seeing that there was going to be no pleasant chatter over the cups, John Cartwright decided to begin his lecture.

Warming to his subject as he always did, he told them of the waters they would fish, of the habits of the elusive salmon, of the dos and don'ts, and then he handed around small plastic packets of thin transparent nylon cord.

He was about to call Heather down to tell her it was time to show the class how to tie a leader, when he suddenly felt he could not bear to see his wife humiliated by the terrible Lady Jane. She had been remarkably quiet during his lecture, but he felt sure she was only getting her second wind. He decided to go ahead on his own.

"I am now going to tell you how to tie a leader," he began.

"What on earth's a leader?" snapped Lady Jane.

"A leader," explained John, "is the thin, tapering piece of nylon which you attach to your line. A properly tapered leader, properly cast, deposits the fly lightly on the surface. The butt section of the leader, which is attached to the line, is only a bit less in diameter than the line. The next section is a little lighter, and so on down to the tippet. Now you must learn to tie these sections of leader together to form the tapering whole. The knot we use for this is called a blood knot. If you haven't tied this thin nylon before, you'll find it very difficult. So I'll pass around lengths of string for you to practice on."

"I saw some of these leader things already tapered in a fishing shop," said Lady Jane crossly. "So why do we have to waste a perfectly good morning sitting indoors tying knots like a lot of Boy Scouts?"

Heather's calm voice sounded from the doorway, and John heaved a sigh of relief.

"I am Heather Cartwright. Good morning, everybody. You were asking about leaders.

"Commercially tied leaders are obtainable in knotless forms," said Heather, advancing into the room. "You can buy them in lengths of seven and a half to twelve feet. But you will find the leader often gets broken above the tippet and so you will have to learn to tie it anyway. Now, watch closely and I'll show you how to do it. You can go off and fish the Marag if you want, Major," added Heather. "No need for you to sit through all this again."

"No experts in fly fishing," said the major heartily. "Always something to learn. I'll stay for a bit."

Alice Wilson wrestled with the knot. She would get one side of it right only to discover that the other side had miraculously unravelled itself.

The child, Charlie, was neatly tying knots as if he had fallen out of his cradle doing so. "Can you help me?" she whispered. "You're awfully good."

"No, I think that's cheating," said the child severely. "If you don't do it yourself, you'll never learn."

Alice blushed miserably. "I'll show you," said a pleasant voice on her other side. Alice found Jeremy Blythe surveying her sympathetically. He took the string from her and began to demonstrate.

After the class had been struggling for several minutes, Heather said, "Have your leaders knotted by the time we set out tomorrow. Now if you will all go to your rooms and change, we'll meet back here in half an hour. John will take you up to the Marag and show you how to cast."

"Well, see you in half an hour," said Jeremy cheerfully. "Your name's Alice, isn't it?"

Alice nodded shyly. "And mine's Daphne," said a mocking voice at Jeremy's elbow, "or had you forgotten?"

"How could I?" said Jeremy. "We travelled up together on the same awful train."

They walked off arm in arm, and Alice felt even more miserable. For a moment she had hoped she would have a friend in Jeremy. But that fearfully sophisticated Daphne had quite obviously staked a claim on his attentions.

Lady Jane surveyed Alice's powder-blue Orlon trouser suit with pale, disapproving eyes. "I hope you've brought something suitable to wear," she said nastily. "You'll frighten the fish in that outfit."

Alice walked hurriedly away, not able to think of a suitable retort. Of course, she had thought of plenty by the time she reached the privacy of her bedroom, but then, that was always the way.

She looked at her reflection in the long glass in her hotel bedroom. The trouser suit had looked so bright and smart in London. Now it looked tawdry and cheap.

The stupid things one did for love, thought Alice miserably as she pulled out an old pair of corduroy trousers, an army sweater and Wellington boots, and prepared to change her clothes.

For Alice was secretary to Mr Thomas Patterson-James. Mr Patterson-James was chief accountant of Baxter and Berry, exporters and importers. He was forty-four, dark, and handsome—and married. And Alice loved him passionately.

He would tease her and ruffle her hair and call her "a little suburban miss," and Alice would smile adoringly back and wish she could become smart and fashionable.

Mr Patterson-James often let fall hints that his marriage was not a happy one. He had sighed over taking his annual vacation in Scotland but explained it was the done thing.

Everyone who was anyone, Alice gathered, went to Scotland in August to kill things. If you weren't slaughtering grouse, you were gaffing salmon.

So Alice had read an article about the fishing school in The Field and had promptly decided to go. She imagined the startled admiration on her boss's face when she casually described landing a twenty-pounder after a brutal fight.

Alice was nineteen years of age. She had fluffy fine brown hair and wide-spaced brown eyes. Her slim, almost boyish figure was her private despair.

She had once seen Mr. Patterson-James arm in arm with a busty blonde and wondered if the blonde were Mrs. Patterson-James.

It was not like being in the British Isles at all, thought Alice, looking out at the sun sparkling on the loch. The village was so tiny and the tracts of heather-covered moorland and weird twisted mountains so savage and primitive and vast.

Perhaps she would give it one more day and then go home. Would she get a refund? Alice's timid soul quailed at the idea of asking for money back. Surely only very common people did that.

Mr. Patterson-James was always describing people as common.

Suddenly she heard raised voices from the terrace below. Then loud and clear she heard Mr. Marvin Roth say savagely, "If she doesn't shut that goddamn mouth of hers, I'll shut it for her."

There was the sound of a door slamming and then silence.

Alice sat down on the bed, one leg in her trousers and one out. Her ideas of American men had been pretty much based on the works of P. G. Wodehouse. Men who looked like Marvin were supposed to be sweet and deferential to their wives, although they might belong to the class of Sing-Sing '45. Was everyone on this holiday going to be nasty? And whose mouth was going to be shut? Lady Jane's?

Jeremy Blythe seemed sweet. But the Daphnes of this world were always waiting around the corner to take away the nice men. Did Mrs. Patterson-James look like Daphne?

Alice gloomily surveyed her appearance in the glass when she had finished dressing. The corduroys fitted her slim hips snugly, and the bulky army sweater hid the deficiency of her bosom. Her Wellington boots were… well, just Wellington boots.

Carefully setting a brand-new fishing hat of brown wool on top of her fluffy brown hair, Alice stuck her tongue out at her reflection and went out of her room and down the stairs, muttering, "I won't stay if I can't stand it."

To her surprise, everyone was dressed much the same as she was, with the exception of Lady Jane, who had simply changed her brogues for Wellingtons and was still wearing the breeches and blouse she had worn at the morning lecture.

"We'll all walk up to the Marag," said John Cartwright. "Heather will go ahead in the estate car with the rods and packed lunches."

Loch Marag, or the Marag as it was called by the locals, was John's favorite training ground. It was a circular loch surrounded by pretty sylvan woodland. At one end it flowed out and down to the sea loch of Lochdubh in a series of waterfalls. It was amply stocked with trout and a fair number of salmon.

The major took himself cheerfully off to fish in the pool above the waterfall while the rest of the class gathered with their newly acquired rods at the shallow side of the loch to await instruction. Instead of a hook, a small piece of cotton wool was placed on the end of each leader.

It was then that the class discovered that Lady Jane was not only rude and aggressive, she was also incredibly clumsy.

Although the loch was only a short walk from the hotel, she had insisted on bringing her car and parking it at the edge of the loch. She backed it off the road onto the grass and right over the pile of packed lunches.

She refused to listen to John's careful instructions and whipped her line savagely back and forth, finally winding it around Marvin Roth's neck and nearly strangling him. She then strode into the water, failing to see small Charlie Baxter and sending him flying face down in the mud.

Charlie burst into tears and kicked Lady Jane in the shins before Heather could scoop him up and drag him off.

"I'll kill her," muttered John. "She's ruining the holiday for everyone."

"Now, now," said Heather. "I'll deal with her while you look after the others."

Alice listened carefully as John Cartwright's now slightly shaking voice repeated the instructions.

"With the line in front of you, take a foot or so of the line from the reel with your left hand. Raise the rod, holding the wrist at a slight down slant. Bring the line off the water with a smooth motion but with enough power to send it behind you, stopping the rod at the twelve o'clock position. Your left hand holding the line pulls downwards. When the line has straightened out behind you, bring the rod forward smartly. As the line comes forward, follow through to the ten o'clock position, letting the line fall gently to the water. Oh, very good, Alice."

Alice flushed with pleasure. Heather had said something to Lady Jane, and Lady Jane had stalked off. Without her overbearing presence, the day seemed to take on light and colour. Heather shouted she was returning to the hotel to bring back more packed lunches.

A buzzard sailed above in the light blue sky. Enormous clumps of purple heather studied their reflections in the mirror surface of the loch. The peaty water danced as Alice waded dreamily in the red and gold shallows, which sparkled and glittered like marcasite. She cast, and cast, and cast again until her arms ached. Heather came back with new lunches, and they all gathered around the estate car, with the exception of Lady Jane and the major.

Suddenly, it was a holiday. A damp and scrubbed Charlie had been brought back by Heather. He sat with his back against the estate car's wheel contentedly munching a sandwich.

All at once he said in his clear treble, "That is quite a frightful woman, you know."

No one said, "Who?"

Although no one added their criticism to Charlie's, they were all bonded together in a common resentment against Lady Jane and an equally common determination that she was not going to spoil things.

"Oh, there's Constable Macbeth," said Alice.

The lanky figure of the policeman had materialized behind the group.

"Those sandwiches look very good," he said, studying the sky.

"Help yourself," said Heather, rather crossly. "Packed lunches are not all that expensive, Mr Macbeth."

"Is that a fact," said the constable pleasantly. "I'm right glad to hear it. I would not want to be taking away food that cost a lot."

To Alice's amusement, he produced a small collapsible plastic cup from the inside of his tunic and held it out to Heather, who muttered something under her breath as she filled it up with tea.

"You obviously don't get much crime in this area, Officer," said Daphne caustically.

"I wouldnae say that," said Hamish between bites of ham sandwich. "People are awfy wicked. The drunkenness on a Saturday night is a fair disgrace."


On Sale
Oct 4, 2016
Page Count
624 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