From Barnes & Noble

The Barnes & Noble Review
Fans of the critically acclaimed Hamish Macbeth whodunits are in for a real treat with Death of a Poison Pen. Police constable Macbeth knows that, in most cases, the wild accusations and scandalous suppositions in poison-pen letters are an annoyance, not a genuine threat. But, from the first, Hamish suspects that what's going on in the remote village of Lochdubh is no ordinary case. When the village postmistress is found dead with a poison-pen letter at her feet, the coroner confirms Hamish's worst fears, that the woman's apparent suicide was in fact a carefully concealed murder. Now it's up to Hamish to trace the letters and the escalating violence to the source. His efforts are both aided and complicated by the arrival of Jenny Ogilvie, a lovely lady whose passion for Hamish is only equaled by her dangerous curiosity about the murderous poison pen who is her rival for Hamish's attention. Sue Stone

From the Publisher

Minor writer John Heppel has a problem—he's a consummate bore. When he's found dead in his cottage, there are plenty of suspects. But surely boredom shouldn't be cause for murder, or so thinks Constable Hamish Macbeth.

Publishers Weekly

Only established fans will enjoy M.C. Beaton's Death of a Bore: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery, this predictable series' soporific 21st installment (after 2004's Death of a Poisoned Pen), in which the contrary constable investigates the mysterious death of a self-styled "literary writer" and world-class bore in that Scottish Shangri-La, the village of Lochdubh. Should the U.K. TV series based on Beaton's Hamish Macbeth novels reach the U.S., expect more readers to wake up and pay attention. Agent, Barbara Lowenstein. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

After a writer moves to the Scottish village of Lochdubh and initiates a well-attended writing circle, then browbeats the participants, most of whom are friends of policeman Hamish Macbeth, one of them murders him. Hamish gets the case, but must tread carefully. And new female boss Heather comes to town and complicates matters by trying to get involved with Hamish. For most collections. Beaton lives in England. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

School Library Journal

Adult/High School-Poison pen letters have been appearing all over the Scottish Highlands town of Braikie-and then a spate of murders and suicides ensues. Hamish Macbeth, the local constable of a nearby village, must get to the bottom of things without drawing too much attention to himself. If he sorts out another local mystery, he risks being promoted, and that would take him away from all that he loves in sleepy Lochdubh. As the Highlands' weather veers wildly from one extreme to another, Hamish dodges pesky superior officers and follows his own paths among the people he understands better than any outsider can. The place has no shortage of eccentrics but most of Lochdubh's regulars take a back seat to several 20-somethings who become an integral part of the story as it develops. They include a vacationer from London with dangerously poor judgment; an enterprising local reporter as unconventional as Hamish himself; another reporter, a caddish but "charming Irishman"; a bullied young secretary at the local school; and away in London, but never far from Hamish's mind, his star-crossed soul mate. Readers unfamiliar with the series can easily begin with this volume, but if they do, they are likely to seek out the earlier novels. This fictional world-part cozy, part unsparing-can be highly addictive.-Christine C. Menefee, Fairfax County Public Library, VA Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Egotistical TV personalities, an obnoxious boss, and a tidal wave of villagers bent on marrying him off can't stop Constable Hamish Macbeth from finding out who murdered Lochdubh's writer-in-residence. John Heppel has written Tenement Dust, an account of growing up poor in Glasgow, and his script for the soap opera Down in the Glen is being filmed by Strathbane Television. No wonder the village hall is packed to the rafters for his writers' workshop. Unfortunately, his brutal critiques of their works prompt the villagers to pelt him with tomatoes, leaving Hamish (Death of a Village, 2002, etc.) a plethora of suspects when Heppel turns up dead in his crofter's cottage in nearby Cnothan. Detective Chief Inspector Blair wants Hamish to pound the pavement in Lochdubh and interview the likes of twin spinsters Jessie and Nessie Curran. But Hamish's eye is trained on Strathbane, where producer Harry Tarrant hectors secretary Alice Patty but is fiercely protective of the late scriptwriter, and prima donnas of both sexes, from actresses Ann King and Patricia Wheeler to director John Gibson, have tantrums on and off the set. Meanwhile, schoolteacher Freda Garrety has her eye trained on Hamish. So does reporter Elspeth Grant, Hamish's ex-girlfriend, who thinks maybe she made a mistake leaving the highlands for urban opportunity in Glasgow. Quirky but well-plotted: Hamish's 20th offers humor, intrigue, and local color galore. Agent: Barbara Lowenstein/Lowenstein-Yost Associates

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Death of a Bore

Mysterious Press

Chapter One

There used to be quite a lot going on in a highland village during the long, dark winter months. There was a ceilidh every week where the locals danced or performed, singing the old songs or reciting poetry. Often there was a sewing circle with its attendant gossip; the Mothers' Union meetings; the Girl Guides and Boy Scouts classes; and the weekly film show in the village hall. But with the advent of television and videos, people often preferred to stay cosily indoors, being amused by often violent films with heroines with high cheekbones, collagen-enhanced lips, and heels so high it made ankles comfortably ending in slippered feet just ache to look at them.

Therefore when Hamish Macbeth, police constable of Lochdubh, heard that a newcomer, John Heppel, was planning to hold a series of writers' classes in the village hall, he set out to dissuade him. As he said to his fisherman friend, Archie Maclean, "I don't want to see the poor wee man humiliated when nobody turns up."

Hamish had seen a poster in Patel's general store: DO YOU WANT TO BE A FAMOUS WRITER? FAMOUS WRITER JOHN HEPPEL WILL HELP YOU BECOME ONE.

The first meeting was scheduled for the following week on a Wednesday evening atseven-thirty. Hamish knew that on that evening Petticoat Cops was showing at just that time, a cop series set in LA with three leggy blondes with large lips, high busts, and an amazing skill with firearms and kung fu. He did not know anyone in Lochdubh who would risk missing the latest episode, except perhaps himself.

So on one wet black evening with a gusty gale blowing in from the Atlantic and ragged clouds ripping across the sky, Hamish got into the police Land Rover and set out for John's cottage, which was out on the moors above the village of Cnothan. Hamish was feeling lonely. His affair with the local reporter, Elspeth Grant, had come to an abrupt halt. She had been offered a job on a Glasgow newspaper and had asked him bluntly if he meant to marry her.

And Hamish had dithered, then he had said he'd think about it, and by the time he had got around to really considering the idea, Elspeth had accepted the job and left. He wondered gloomily whether he was cut out to live with anyone, for his first feeling on hearing the news that she had gone was one of relief.

He wondered at first why John had not decided to hold his classes in Cnothan but then reflected that Cnothan was a sour town and specialised in ostracising newcomers.

Sergeant MacGregor, who had policed Cnothan for years, had retired, and the village and surrounding area had been added on to Hamish's already extensive beat. Village police stations were being closed down all over the place, and Hamish had not felt strong enough to protest at the extra work in case he lost his beloved home in the police station in Lochdubh.

Hamish had never met John Heppel. Normally he would have made a courtesy call, but an irritating series of burglaries over in Braikie had to be solved, and somehow the man's arrival in the Highlands had gone out of his mind. Much as he loved Sutherland and could not consider living anywhere else, Hamish knew that newcomers often relocated to the far north of Scotland through misguided romanticism. Writers or painters imagined that the solitude and wild scenery would inspire them, but usually it was the very long dark winters that finally defeated them.

He drove through Cnothan, bleak and rain-swept under the orange glare of sodium lights, and up onto the moors. The heathery track leading to John's cottage had a poker-work sign pointing the way. It said, "Writer's Folly."

Hamish drove along the track and parked outside the low whitewashed cottage that was John's home.

Hamish chided himself for not phoning first. He rapped on the door and waited while the rising gale whipped at his oilskin coat.

A small man opened the door and stared up at the tall policeman. "I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh," said Hamish. "Might I be having a wee word with you?"

"Come in."

Hamish followed him into a living room lined with books. A computer stood on a table by the window. Peat smouldered on the open fire. Over the fireplace hung a large framed photograph of the author accepting a plaque.

"You have interrupted my muse," said John, and gave a great hee-haw sort of laugh.

He was only a little over five feet tall, bespectacled, with thinning grey hair, the strands combed over a balding scalp. His eyes were large and brown above a squashy, open-pored nose and fleshy mouth. He wore a roll-necked brown sweater and brown cords.

"Sit down," he said. "You're making my neck ache."

Hamish removed his cap and coiled his lanky length down into an armchair by the fire.

"Is that your own colour?" asked John, staring at Hamish's flaming-red hair.

"All my own. You don't seem to be surprised at getting a visit from the police."

"I'm not married, my parents are dead, and I have no close relatives. People are only frightened when they see a policeman at the door if they're worried about a loved one or have something to hide. So why have you come?"

"It's about your writing class."

"I'll be delighted to see you there. You can pay for the whole term or at each class."

"I wasn't thinking of attending. I don't think anyone will. They'll all be at home watching the telly."

John looked a trifle smug. "I have already had ten applications from the residents of Lochdubh."

"Who might they be?"

"Ah." John wagged a finger. "I suggest you come along and see."

"I might do that. Have you had much published?"

"I received the Tammerty Biscuit Award for Scottish literature." John pointed to the photograph. "That's me getting the award for my book Tenement Days. Have you read it?"

"No."

"Then let me give you a copy." John left the room. Hamish looked around. A small table over against the wall opposite from the computer held the remains of a meal. Apart from the books lining the low walls and the large photograph over the fireplace, there were no ornaments or family photographs.

John came back in and handed him a copy of Tenement Days. "I signed it," he said. Hamish flipped it open and looked at the inscription. It read, "To Hamish MacBeth. His first introduction to literature. John Heppel."

"I haff read other books," said Hamish crossly, the sudden sibilance of his highland accent showing he was annoyed. "And my name is spelled without a capital B. What else have you written?"

"Oh, lots," said John. "I've just finished a film script for Strathbane Television."

"What's it called?"

John looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, it's a script for Down in the Glen."

Hamish smiled. "That's a soap."

"But I have raised the tone, don't you see? To improve the public mind, even great authors such as myself must lower themselves to write for a popular series."

"Indeed? Good luck to you. I had better be going."

"Wait a bit. You asked about my work? I have been greatly influenced by the French authors such as Jean-Paul Sartre and François Mauriac. Even when I was at school, I became aware that I had a great gift. I was brought up in the mean streets of Glasgow, a hard environment for a sensitive boy. But I observed. I am a camera. I sometimes feel I have been sent down from another planet to observe."

"Quite a lot of highland drunks feel the same way," said Hamish, made malicious by boredom. "You know, they all think they're off another planet."

But John's eyes had taken on the self-obsessed glaze of the bore. "You are wondering why I never married?"

"Last thing I was wondering," muttered Hamish.

"There was one woman in my life, one great love. But she was married. We met in secret. Our passion soared like ... like ..."

"Buzzards?"

"The eagle," corrected John crossly. "She had raven hair and skin like milk."

"Aye, well," said Hamish, determinedly getting to his feet. "All verra interesting, but I've got to go."

"Oh, must you? Then I shall see you next Wednesday."

Hamish jammed on his cap. "Don't get up," he said. "I'll see myself out."

He noticed that a wax coat hanging by the door was wet.

He was just getting into the Land Rover when John ran out after him. "You've forgotten your book."

"Aye, thanks." Hamish took it from him and threw it onto the passenger seat and drove off at great speed.

He won't last the winter, he told himself, unaware at that time that John Heppel was to leave the Highlands but not in a way that Hamish Macbeth expected.

As Hamish drove along the waterfront in Lochdubh, he saw that one wire mesh waste bin had not yet been stolen by the fishermen to be used as a lobster pot. He stopped the Land Rover with a jerk, picked up John's book, opened the window, and hurled the book into the bin. The inscription had annoyed him.

He drove a little further and then noticed a small crowd outside Patel's general store. Mrs. Wellington, the minister's wife, was one of the group, and she waved to him.

Hamish stopped again and rolled down the window. "What's going on here?"

"It's dreadful," said Mrs. Wellington. "Come and look."

Hamish climbed down and walked over. The group parted to let him through. There on the whitewashed wall of the store by the door, someone had sprayed in red paint, "Paki Go Home."

"And he's not even Pakistani!" wailed Mrs. Wellington. "He's Indian."

The door of the shop, which had been closed for the night, opened, and Mr. Patel came out. "Hamish, what's happened?" he asked.

"Some maniac's been writing on your walls," said Hamish.

Mr. Patel looked at the wall. "Who would have done this?" he asked, looking round the little crowd.

"Do you sell spray paint?" asked Hamish.

"Yes, but never to children. I mean, I only sell it to people who're going to use it round the house."

Hamish addressed the group. "I want all of you to ask round the village and find out if anyone saw anyone near the shop. You closed half-day today, Mr. Patel. It gets dark after two in the afternoon. So it must have happened sometime between then and now. In the meantime let's get some turpentine and wash the stuff off."

"What about fingerprints?" asked Mrs. Wellington.

"No forensic team's going to turn out for this, and the kit I've got wouldn't be able to get one off that wall. Let's get to it. And tell that new schoolteacher, Miss Garrety, that I'll be along to speak to the pupils tomorrow first thing."

"You think it's children?" asked Angela Brodie, the doctor's wife, who had joined the group.

"I don't know," said Hamish. "I chust cannae think of anyone who would do this. Mr. Patel is one of us and has been for ages."

The group was getting larger, and everyone was desperate to take a hand at cleaning the wall. Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. "If it was 'English Go Home,' I could understand it," he said to Angela. "There's a lot of stupid English-bashing in Scotland these days."

"But not in Lochdubh," said Angela. "It must be someone from outside. Everyone in Lochdubh knows that Mr. Patel originally came from India."

The next day Hamish put his odd-looking dog, Lugs, on the leash and walked along to the village school. The school, like his police station, was under threat. The children were taught up to the age of eleven years, and then the older ones were bussed to the secondary school in Strathbane. There had been various moves to close down the school, but each time the well-organised villagers had mounted such a strong protest that they had succeeded in keeping it.

Miss Freda Garrety, the schoolteacher, was a tiny slip of a thing in her twenties. She barely came up to Hamish's shoulder. She had straight black hair cut in a bob and a white triangular face with large black eyes. She was dressed in a black T-shirt and black trousers. Hamish thought she looked like a harlequin.

"I'm here to speak to your pupils," said Hamish.

"About the graffiti?" She had a lowland accent. "Make it quick. Exams are coming up."

Hamish walked into the classroom, where the children still sat behind old-fashioned desks: the oldest at the back and the youngest at the front.

He walked to the front of the room. "I'm here to talk to you about the racist graffiti on the wall of the general store. This is a disgrace and should not be allowed to happen in Lochdubh. Do any of you know anything about this?"

Solemn faces stared back at him, but nobody spoke. "Now, some of you may know something but don't want to tell me in front of the others. If you do know anything at all, I want you to call at the police station with one of your parents."

A small boy put his hand up.

"Yes?"

"My faither says there's too many foreigners in this country. Maybe you should speak to him."

"You're Dermott Taggart, am I right?"

"Yes."

"Is your father at home?"

"He's down on a building site in Strathbane."

"Do you think he might have had something to do with this?" Dermott looked suddenly frightened. "Don't be telling him I said anything," he said, and burst into tears. Freda rushed forward to comfort him.

"Anyone else?" asked Hamish.

Silence.

"Well, listen carefully. Racism is a serious crime. The culprit will be punished, and mark my words, I'll find out who did this."

Hamish returned to the police station and went into his office, where he stared blankly at the computer. Who on earth would want to paint a racist slogan on Patel's shop?

There was a cry from the kitchen door. "Hamish, the telly's here. They're outside Patel's wi' that writer cheil."

Hamish rushed out. Archie Maclean stood there. "Ye wouldnae think they'd bother."

Hamish walked with him round to Patel's. John Heppel was standing outside the shop, facing a camera crew.

"... and that is all I have to say," he was declaring pompously. "I, John Heppel, will do my utmost to help the police find the perpetrator of this wicked crime. Thank you."

Hamish's hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. John Heppel was made up for the cameras, and yet he could not see a make-up girl anywhere around.

He pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered to where John was talking with the interviewer, a pretty girl called Jessma Gardener.

"How did you find out about this?" demanded Hamish of John.

"Ah, Constable. I just happened to be passing and saw the television crew."

Hamish leaned forward and drew a long finger down John's cheek and then studied the brown make-up on his finger.

"Do you usually wear make-up?" he asked.

John flushed angrily. "I am so used to television appearances," he said, "that I carry a kit in the car. I owe it to my readers to look my best at all times."

Hamish turned to Jessma. "How did you hear about this?"

"Someone phoned the news desk late last night."

Continues...

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Excerpted from Death of a Bore by M.C. Beaton Copyright © 2005 by Marion Chesney. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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DEATH OF A POISON PEN

Mysterious Press

Chapter One

Jenny Ogilvie was curled up on a sofa in her friend Priscilla Halburton-Smythe's London flat. They had been talking for most of the evening. Jenny was secretly jealous of Priscilla's cool blonde looks. Although an attractive girl herself with her mop of black curls and rosy cheeks, she longed to look as stylish and composed as her friend.

A desire to rattle her friend's calm prompted her to say, "You've talked an awful lot about this village policeman, Hamish Macbeth. I mean, you've barely mentioned your fiancé. Come on. What gives? I think you're still in love with this copper."

A faint tide of pink rose up Priscilla's face. "I was engaged to him once and we shared a lot of adventures. But that's all. What about your love life? You've been letting me do all the talking."

"Oh, you know me. I like to shop around," said Jenny. "I'm not prepared to settle down yet."

"What happened to Giles? You did seem frightfully keen on him."

"He bored me after a bit," lied Jenny, who had no intention of letting Priscilla know that Giles had broken off with her the minute she had hinted at marriage.

"You'll find someone. Don't worry," said Priscilla with all the calm assurance of someone about to be married.

Jenny returned to her own flat, feeling jealous and cross. It was a pity, she thought, that Priscilla's policeman should live in some remote Highland village or she would be tempted to have a go at him herself. He must be one hell of a man to occupy so much of Priscilla's thoughts. She went to her bookshelves and pulled down an atlas of the British Isles. Now, where had Priscilla said that village was? Lochdoo or something. She scanned the index. There was a Lochdubh. That must be it. Maybe like "skeandhu," the dagger Highlanders wore with full dress. She looked it up in the dictionary. That was pronounced skeandoo. Also spelt "skeandubh." So it followed that Lochdubh must be the place. She knew Priscilla's parents owned the Tommel Castle Hotel there. Just to be sure, she phoned directory enquiries and got the number of the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked for the exact location of Lochdubh. Got it! She replaced the receiver.

She put down the atlas and sat cross-legged on the floor. She had holiday owing. What if-just what if-she went to this village and romanced the copper? How would Priscilla like that?

Not a bit, she thought with a grin. She would ask for leave in the morning.

The subject of Jenny's plotting took a stroll along Lochdubh's waterfront the next morning with his dog, Lugs. PC Hamish Macbeth was preoccupied with a nasty case. The nearby town of Braikie had been subjected to a rash of poison-pen letters. At first people had ignored them because the accusations in some of them were so weird and wild and inaccurate that they hadn't been taken seriously. But as the letters continued to arrive, tempers were rising.

Mrs. Dunne, who owned a bed and breakfast on the waterfront called Sea View, hailed him. She was a fussy little woman who looked perpetually anxious and tired.

"Morning," said Mrs. Dunne. "Terrible business about those nasty letters."

"You havenae had one, have you?" asked Hamish.

"No, but I just heard that herself, Mrs. Wellington, got one this morning."

"I'd better go and see her. Business good?"

"Not a bad summer, but nobody really books in now it's autumn. I've got a couple of the forestry workers as regulars. Though mind you, a lassie from London is coming for a couple of weeks, a Miss Ogilvie. She phoned this morning."

Hamish touched his cap and walked off in the direction of the manse, for Mrs. Wellington, large, tweedy, and respectable, was the minister's wife.

Mrs. Wellington was pulling up weeds in her garden. She straightened up when she saw Hamish.

"I've just heard you've had one o' thae letters." Hamish fixed her with a gimlet stare to distract her from the sight of his dog urinating against the roots of one of her prize roses. "Why didn't you phone the police station?"

She looked flustered. "It was nothing but a spiteful piece of nonsense. I threw it on the fire."

"I can do with all the evidence I can get," said Hamish severely. "Now, you've got to tell me what was in that letter. Furthermore, I've never known you to light a fire before the end of October."

Mrs. Wellington capitulated. "Oh, very well. I'll get it. Wait there. And keep that dog of yours away from my flowers."

Hamish waited, wondering what could possibly be so bad as to make the upright minister's wife initially lie to him.

Mrs. Wellington came back and handed him a letter. On the envelope was her name and address in handwriting now familiar to Hamish from the other letters he had in a file back at the police station. He opened it and took out a piece of cheap stationery and began to read. Then he roared with laughter. For the poison-pen letter writer had accused Mrs. Wellington of having an adulterous affair with the Lochdubh policeman-Hamish Macbeth.

When he had recovered, he wiped his eyes and said, "This is so daft. Why didnae you want to show it to me?"

"I know your reputation as a womaniser, Hamish Macbeth, and I thought this letter might give you ideas."

Hamish's good humour left and his hazel eyes held a malicious gleam. "I am in my thirties and you are-what-in your fifties? Don't you think you are suffering from a wee bit o' vanity?"

Her face flamed. "There are winter-summer relationships, you know. I read about them in Cosmopolitan-at the dentist's. And when I was in the cinema with my husband the other week, a young man on the other side of me put a hand on my knee!"

"Michty me," said Hamish. "What happened when the lights went up?"

"He had left by that time," said Mrs. Wellington stiffly, not wanting to tell this jeering policeman that during a bright scene on the screen, the young man had leant forward and looked at her and fled.

"And I am not a womaniser," pursued Hamish.

"Ho, no? You broke off your engagement to poor Priscilla, and since then you've been playing fast and loose."

"I'll take this letter with me," said Hamish, suddenly weary. "But rest assured, I have not the designs on you, not now, not ever!"

Back at the police station, he added the letter to the others in the file. There was a knock at the kitchen door. He went to answer it and found Elspeth Grant, the local reporter and astrologer for the Highland Times, standing there. She was dressed in her usual mixture of thrift shop clothes: old baggy sweater, long Indian cotton skirt, and clumpy boots.

"What brings you?" asked Hamish. "I havenae seen you for a while."

"I've been showing the new reporter the ropes."

"Pat Mallone," said Hamish. "The attractive Irishman."

"Yes, him. And he is attractive. Are you going to ask me in?"

"Sure." He stood aside. Elspeth sat down at the kitchen table. The day was misty and drops of moisture hung like little pearls in her frizzy hair. Her large grey eyes, Gypsy eyes, surveyed him curiously. He felt a little pang of loss. At one time, Elspeth had shown him that she was attracted to him but he had rejected her and by the time he had changed his mind about her, she was no longer interested.

"So," began Elspeth, "I hear Mrs. Wellington got one of those letters."

"How did you learn that?"

"She told Nessie Currie, who told everyone in Patel's grocery. What on earth was in it?"

"Mind your own business."

"All right, copper. What are you doing about these letters? They're weird and wild in their accusations, but one day one's going to hit the mark and there'll be a death. Haven't you asked for a handwriting expert?"

"Oh, I've asked headquarters, right enough, but it is always the same thing. Handwriting experts cost money. The budget is tight. It's chust a village storm in a teacup and will soon blow over, that's what they say." Hamish's Highland accent always became more sibilant when he was excited or upset. "So I sit on my bum collecting nasty letters."

"There is something you could do and I'll tell you if you make me a cup of tea."

Hamish put the kettle on top of the stove and lifted down two mugs from the kitchen cabinet. "So what's your idea?"

"It's like this. Someone always knows something. You could call an emergency meeting at the community centre in Braikie and appeal to the people of Braikie to help you. I could run off flyers at the newspaper and we could post them up in shops and on lampposts. Someone knows something, I'm sure of that. Go on, Hamish. I feel in my bones that death is going to come and come quickly."

Hamish looked at her uneasily. He had experienced Elspeth's psychic powers and had learned that, at times, they were uncanny.

"All right," he said. "I'll do it. Let's see. This is Monday. We'll make it for next Saturday evening."

"No, make it around lunchtime, say one o'clock. There's a big bingo game on Saturday evening."

"Okay. I'll leave it to you."

Hamish made tea. "What sort of person would you say was behind these letters?"

"Someone living alone, no family. Maybe someone retired who once had some power over people. Probably a woman."

"There are an awful lot of widows and spinsters in Braikie."

"Never mind. Let's hope this meeting flushes something out."

After Elspeth had left, he noticed she had left him a copy of the Highland Times. Curiously, he turned to her astrology column and looked under "Libra." He read: "Romance is heading your way but it is a romance you will not want. You will suffer from headaches on Wednesday morning. You are not working hard enough. You are congenitally lazy, but remember always that mistakes caused by laziness can cause death."

Hamish scratched his fiery hair. What on earth was the lassie on about?

On Saturday morning, Jenny Ogilvie looked out of the window of the bus that was bearing her northwards and felt she was leaving civilisation behind. She had flown to Inverness and caught the Lochinver bus. She had been told, however, that the bus to take her on to Lochdubh from Lochinver would have left by the time she arrived, but a local taxi could take her the rest of the way. Moorland and mountain stretched on either side. Foaming waterfalls plunged down craggy slopes. Red deer stood as if posing for Landseer on the top of hills as the bus wound its way round twisting roads, breaking sharply to avoid the occasional suicidal sheep.

She had decided to book into a bed and breakfast in Lochdubh rather than stay at the Tommel Castle Hotel, in case Priscilla might learn from her parents of her arrival. The bus finally ground its way down into Lochinver and stopped on the waterfront. It was a fine day and sunlight was sparkling on the water.

Jenny climbed stiffly down from the bus and retrieved her luggage. She took out her mobile phone and dialled the number of a taxi service in Lochdubh she had tracked down by dint of phoning the Sutherland tourist board. Better to have someone from Lochdubh to collect her than get a cab from Lochinver.

A pleasant Highland voice on the other end of the line informed her that he would be with her in three-quarters of an hour and if she sat in the café on the waterfront, he would find her.

Jenny went into the café and ordered a coffee, forcing her eyes away from a tempting display of home-baked cakes. It was all right for Priscilla, she thought bitterly. Priscilla could eat anything and never even put on an ounce, whereas she, Jenny, could feel her waistband tightening by just looking at the things.

She was the only customer in the café. She noticed there was a large glass ashtray on the table in front of her. Jenny was trying to cut down on smoking, but she hadn't been able to have one all day. She lit one up and felt dizzy, but after two more, felt better. The sun was already disappearing and the water outside darkening to black when a man popped his head round the door. "Miss Ogilvie?"

Jenny rose and indicated her luggage. "The cab is outside," he said. "I would help you with your luggage, but my back's bad."

Hoisting her two large suitcases outside, Jenny stared in dismay at the "cab." It was a minibus painted bright red on the front, but because the owner, Iain Chisholm, had run out of paint, the rest was painted a sulphurous yellow. Inside, the seats were covered in brightly coloured chintz with flounces at the bottom of each seat.

Jenny heaved her luggage in the side door and then decided to sit up in the front with Iain and see if she could pump him for some information.

The engine coughed and spluttered to life and the bus started its journey out of Lochinver and headed up the Sutherland coast to Lochdubh. "I'm up from London," said Jenny.

"Is that a fact?" said Iain, negotiating a hairpin bend. Jenny glanced nervously down a cliff edge to where the Atlantic boiled against jagged rocks.

"What's Lochdubh like?" asked Jenny.

"Oh, it's the grand place. Nice and quiet."

"No crime?"

"Nothing much. Bit of a scare now, mind you. Some damp poison-pen letter writer's on the loose."

"How scary. Do you have a policeman?"

"Yes. Hamish Macbeth."

"What's he like?"

"A fine man. Solved a lot of crimes."

"What's such a clever copper doing being stuck up here?"

"He likes it and so do I," said Iain crossly.

Jenny was dying to ask what Hamish looked like, but she didn't dare show any more curiosity. Surely, someone who could attract such as Priscilla must be really handsome. He was probably tall and dark with a craggy Highland face and piercing green eyes. When not in uniform, he probably wore a kilt and played the bagpipes. Jenny clutched the side of the old minivan as it hurtled onwards towards Lochdubh, wrapped in rosy dreams.

Earlier that day, Hamish addressed the inhabitants of Braikie in the community hall. "Some of you must know something-have an idea who is sending out these poisonous letters," he said. He noticed uneasily that people were beginning to glare around the hall. "Now, don't go leaping to conclusions because you just don't like someone," he said quickly. "Maybe if you all go home and think hard, you might remember"-he held up an envelope-"someone posting one of these in a pillar box. Just on the chance that our letter writer is here in this hall, I would caution you that when you are caught-and you will be caught, mark my words-then you will be facing a prison sentence. I am going to engage the services of a handwriting expert-"

"What took ye so long?" demanded an angry voice from the front. "You should ha' done it afore this."

"I was told that because of cutbacks in the police budget, they were not prepared to let me hire one," said Hamish. "On your way out, you will see a petition on the table at the door requesting the services of a handwriting expert from police headquarters. I want you all to sign it."

Continues...

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Excerpted from DEATH OF A POISON PEN by M.C. Beaton Copyright © 2004 by Marion Chesney. Excerpted by permission.
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