M. C. Beaton - A Highland Christmas

Hamish Macbeth 16 (1999) - A Hig

Hamish Macbeth 16 (1999) - A Highland Christmas

by M.C. Beaton

Title:

A Highland Christmas

Series:

Book 16 in the Hamish MacBeth series

Author:

by M.C. Beaton

Year:

1999

Synopsis:

M.C. Beaton is the queen of the cozy mystery with her series (called pure bliss by the Atlanta Journal-Constitution) featuring irascible Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, who roams the windswept terrain of Lochdubh, Scotland, with an intuitive eye for trouble and clues. In his newest caper, the lanky lawman must use all his Highland charm and detective skills not only to solve some mysteries, but also to bring Yuletide cheer to a town long dampened by religious piety.

In the dark, wintry highlands of Lochdubh, Scotland, the spirit of Old St. Nick is about as welcome as a flat tire on a deserted road. The Calvinist element in Lochdubh has always resisted what they view as the secular trimmings of the holiday, so for most of the townspeople, theres no pudding, carols, banquets, gifts, or even whisky for Christmas.

Nor is crime taking a holiday, as Hamish soon finds himself looking for a missing cat belonging to a lonely spinster. Confrontational and curt, the unfriendly woman insists her pet was stolen. Looking into her eyes behind her heavily bolted door, Hamish can see her true problemshe lives in great fearbut what is she afraid of?

Then some thieves make off with a Christmas tree and lights in nearby Cnothan and Hamish must investigate. As if that isnt enough on his holiday plate, Hamishs romance of the new schoolteacher is going fine, until she mentions a perfect little girl whose family abhors Christmasand whose behavior has recently become very imperfect.

Now its up to Hamish to make things right. He has to protect an unhappy girl, unlock the secrets of a frightened old woman, and retrieve some stolen holiday goods. And he had better do it quickly, for the church bells will soon toll, and all of Lochdubh will be forced to face another dreary winter without the warm embrace of A Highland Christmas.

ONE

More and more people each year are going abroad for Christmas. To celebrate the season of goodwill towards men, British Airways slams an extra one hundred and four pounds on each air ticket. But the airports are still jammed.

For so many people are fleeing Christmas.

Fed up with the fact that commercial Christmas starts in October. Fed up with carols. Dreading the arrival of Christmas cards from people they have forgotten to send a card to. Unable to bear yet another family get-together with Auntie Mary puking up in the corner after sampling too much of the punch. You see at the airports the triumphant glitter in the eyes of people who are leaving it all behind, including the hundredth rerun of Miracle on 34th Street.

But in Lochdubh, in Sutherland, in the very far north of Scotland, there is nothing to flee from. Christmas, thought Hamish Macbeth gloomily, as he walked along the waterfront, his shoulders hunched against a tearing wind, was not coming to Lochdubh this year any more than it had come the previous years.

There was a strong Calvinist element in Lochdubh which frowned on Christmas. Christmas had nothing to do with the birth of Christ, they said, but was really the old Roman Saturnalia which the early Christians had taken over. And as for Santa Clausforget it.

So there were no Christmas lights, no tree, nothing to sparkle in the dark winter.

P.C. Hamish Macbeth was feeling particularly sour, for his family had taken off for Florida for a winter vacation. His mother had won a family holiday for thinking up a slogan for a new soap powderWhiter Than The Mountain Snowand Hamish could not go with them. Sergeant Macgregor over at Cnothan was ill in hospital with a grumbling appendix and Hamish had been instructed to take over the sergeants beat as well as do his own.

Hamishs family were unusual in that they had always celebrated Christmastree, turkey, presents and all. In parts of the Highlands, like Lochdubh, the old spirit of John Knox still wandered, blasting anyone with hell-fire should they dare to celebrate this heathen festival.

Hamish had often pointed out that none other than Luther was credited with the idea of the Christmas tree, having been struck by the sight of stars shining through the branches of an evergreen. But to no avail. Lochdubh lay silent and dark beside the black waters of the loch.

He turned back towards the police station. The wind was becoming even more ferocious. The wind of Sutherland can sound frightening as it moves up from ordinary tumult to a high-pitched screech and then a deep booming roar.

Hamish decided to settle down with a glass of whisky in front of the television. He was just reaching up for the whisky bottle in one of the kitchen cupboards when he realized he had not checked the answering machine. He went through to the police office. There was one message, and it was Mrs. Gallagher saying she wanted him to call on her immediately as she wished to report a burglary.

Hamish groaned. This is all I need, he said to the dingy, uncaring walls of the police office. He loathed Mrs. Gallagher. She was a tough, wiry old lady who ran her small croft single-handed. She lived out on the Cnothan road and was generally detested. She was described as crabbit, meaning sourpuss. Mrs. Gallagher never had a good word to say for anybody. She had a genius for sniffing out the vulnerable points in anyones character and going in for the kill.

In the far north of Scotland in winter, there are only a few hours of daylight. Hamish glanced at his watch. Three oclock and black as hell already, he muttered.

The wind cut like a knife as he climbed into the police Land Rover. As he held the wheel tightly against the buffeting of the wind and drove along the curving road out of the village, he realized that he had never questioned Mrs. Gallaghers bitterness. It had simply been one of those unpleasant facts of his existence since he had started policing in Lochdubh.

At last he bumped up the rutted track leading to the low croft house where Mrs. Gallagher lived. Bending his head against the ferocity of the wind, he rapped at the door. He waited as he heard her fumbling with locks and bolts. What was she afraid of? Most crofters didnt bother locking their doors.

Then he saw the gleam of an eye through the door, which she opened on a chain. She had always had all those locks. How on earth could anyone manage to get in and burgle her?

Police, he said.

The chain dropped and the door opened wide. Come ben, she said curtly.

He ducked his head and followed her in.

As in most croft houses, the kitchen was used as a living room with the parlour being kept for best. That meant the parlour was usually only used for weddings and funerals. Mrs. Gallaghers kitchen was cosy and cheerful, belying the permanently sour expression on her face. She had a mass of thick crinkly pepper-and-salt hair. The skin of her face was like old leather, beaten into a permanent tan by working outdoors. Her eyes were that peculiar light grey, almost silver, you still see in the Highlands. Emotions flitted over the surface of such eyes like cloud shadows on the sea and yet rarely gave anything away.

Whats been taken? asked Hamish.

Sit down and stop looming over me, she snapped. Hamish obediently sat down. My cat, Smokys been stolen. Hamish had started to tug out his notebook, then left it alone.

How longs the cat been gone?

Twenty-four hours.

Look here, Mrs. Gallagher, its probably strayed, gone wild or been killed by the fox. Like the devil, it was always the fox in the Highlands of Scotland, where crofters had no sentimentality about an animal they damned as the worst piece of vermin in the countryside.