M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dreamer

M.C. Beaton

Death of a Dreamer

Hamish Macbeth #22

2006, EN

∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

1

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.

He saw the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, standing on the road watching him. The car windows were down, and he clearly heard Nessie say, “That man’s gone dotty. Talking to the beasts as if they were the humans.”

Hamish flushed angrily as he drove off. His adoption of the cat, a wild cat, had caused a lot of comment in the village, people complaining that it was impossible to domesticate such an animal. But Sonsie appeared to have settled down and had showed no signs of leaving.

Effie Garrard had bought a small one-storey cottage up in the hills above Lochdubh. It had a roof of corrugated iron, stone floors, and a fireplace that smoked. When Hamish had first visited her, he found her to be a small woman in her forties, sturdy, with brown hair speckled with grey, a round red-cheeked face, and a small pursed mouth. She had gushed on about the majesty of the Highlands and how she planned to sell her ‘art works’ in the local shops.

If she were still alive, and he hoped to God she was, he expected to find that she had packed up and gone, all her fantasies of a highland life shattered.

But as he approached her cottage, he saw smoke rising up from the chimney. Maybe she had sold it to someone else, he thought, and because of the rigours of the winter which had kept most people indoors, he hadn’t heard about it.

But it was Effie herself who answered the door to him. “You should really get the phone put in,” said Hamish. “Something could have happened to you during the winter, and we’d never have known if you needed help.”

“I’ve got a mobile.”

“Does it work up here? There still seem to be blank spots all over the Highlands.”

“Yes, it works fine. Are you coming in for tea?”

“Thanks.” Hamish removed his cap and ducked his head to get through the low doorway.

The living room and kitchen combined had a long work table with a pottery wheel on it. On the table were a few vases and bowls glazed in beautiful colours.

“Yours?” asked Hamish, picking up a little bowl of sapphire blue and turning it around in his fingers.

“Yes. Mr. Patel has taken some, and the gift shop at the Tommel Castle Hotel has taken a good few more. I didn’t do any business during the winter because of the bad weather, but I’m hoping for sales when the visitors come back.”

There were paintings of birds and flowers hanging on the walls, each one an exquisite little gem. Hamish was beginning to revise his opinion of Effie. She was a talented artist.

“I’m surprised you survived the winter up here,” he said.

“I didn’t need to. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be grand. Just black. What do you mean, you didn’t have to?”

“I went to stay with my sister in Brighton, and so I escaped the worst of it. Do sit down and don’t loom over me.”

Hamish sat down on a hard chair at a corner of the work table while she prepared coffee. “Odd,” he said. “I thought the Highlands would have driven you out by now.”

“Why? This is the most beautiful place in the world.”

Yes, thought Hamish cynically, if you can afford to get out of the place for the winter.

Aloud, he said, “Oh, I put you down as one of those romantics.”

“There is nothing up with being romantic. Everyone needs dreams. Here’s your coffee.”

Hamish looked at the little blue bowl. “That bowl. Is it for sale?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“Fifty pounds!” Hamish stared at her.

“It’s a work of art,” she said calmly. “Fifty pounds is cheap at the price.”

A hard businesswoman as well, thought Hamish. Still, it meant he had been wrong about her. Romantically minded newcomers had caused trouble in the past.

♦

In April there was one last blizzard – the lambing blizzard, as the locals called it – and then the fine weather returned, and by June, one long sunny day followed another. Memories of the black winter receded. It stayed light even in the middle of the night. Amazingly, for Hamish, there was still no crime, not even petty theft.

He was strolling along the waterfront one fine morning when he was stopped by a tall man with an easel strapped on his back who said he was looking for accommodation.