Excerpt of Death of a Dreamer by M.C. Beaton
(Page 1 of 8)
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Chapter One
So, if I dream I have you, I have you,
For, all our joys are but fantastical.
—John Donne
It had been a particularly savage winter in the county of Sutherland
at the very north of Scotland. Great blizzards had roared in off the
Atlantic, burying roads and cottages in deep snowdrifts. Patel's, the
local grocery shop in the village of Lochdubh, sold out of nearly
everything, and at one point it was necessary for rescue helicopters to
drop supplies to the beleaguered inhabitants.
And then, at the end of March, the last of the storms roared away, to
be followed by balmy breezes and blue skies. The air was full of the
sound of rasping saws and the thump of hammers as the inhabitants of
Lochdubh, as if they had awakened from a long sleep, got to work
repairing storm damage.
The police station was comparatively sheltered below the brow of a
hill and had escaped the worst of the ravages of winter. Police
Constable Hamish Macbeth found that the only thing in need of repair was
the roof of the hen house.
Archie Macleod, one of the local fishermen, went to call on Hamish
and found the lanky policeman with the flaming red hair up on top of a
ladder, busily hammering nails into the roof of the hen house.
"Fine day, Hamish," he called.
Glad of any diversion from work, Hamish climbed down the ladder. "I
was just about to put the kettle on, Archie. Fancy a cup of tea?"
"Aye, that would be grand."
Archie followed Hamish into the kitchen and sat at the table while
Hamish put an old blackened kettle on the wood-burning stove.
"Got much damage, Archie?"
"Tiles off the roof. But herself is up there doing the repairs."
Hamish's hazel eyes glinted with amusement. "Didn't feel like helping
her, did you?"
"Och, no. The womenfolk are best left on their own. How have you been
doing?"
"Very quiet. There's one thing about a bad winter," said Hamish over
his shoulder as he took a pair of mugs down from a cupboard. "It stops
the villains driving up from the south to look for easy pickings in the
cottages."
"Aye, and it keeps folks sweet as well. Nothing like the blitz
spirit. How did that newcomer survive the winter, or did herself take
off for the south?"
The newcomer was Effie Garrard. Hamish had called on her last summer
when she first arrived, and had been sure she would not stay long. He
put her down as one of those romantic dreamers who sometimes relocate to
the Highlands, looking for what they always describe as "the quality of
life."
"I sent gamekeeper Henry up to see her last month, and he said the
place was all shut up."
The kettle started to boil. As he filled the teapot, Hamish thought
uneasily about Effie. He should really have called on her himself. What
if the poor woman had been lying there dead inside when Henry called?
"Tell you what, Archie. I'll take a run up there and chust see if the
woman's all right." The sudden sibilance of Hamish's highland accent
betrayed that he was feeling guilty.
That afternoon, Hamish got into the police Land Rover, fighting off the
attempts of his dog, Lugs, and his cat, Sonsie, to get into it as well.
"I'll take you two out for a walk later," he called.
Copyright © 2006 by Marion Chesney
