Death of a Nag (A Hamish Macbeth Mystery)

Death of a Nag (A Hamish Macbeth Mystery)

M. C. Beaton

Language: English

Pages: 304

ISBN: 1455572306

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

From the author of the Agatha Raisin television series...
DEATH OF A NAG: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery
Lochdubh constable Hamish Macbeth is more dour than ever after losing both his promotion and his girl, the loyal Priscilla Halbourton-Smythe. A trip to a charming seaside inn with his dog Towser is meant to raise his sagging spirits. Instead, he arrives at "Friendly House" to find the ambiance chilling, the food inedible, and his fellow guests less than neighborly. There's an amorous spinster, two tarty girls, a retired military man, a secretive London family, and Bob Harris, who so nags his wife, Doris, that everyone wants to kill him. Then somebody does. Soon Macbeth is called upon to act -- to dig into the past and deep into the heart to deliver something more daunting than merely the culprit: Justice.















directed her to the police station and told her to park at the side. He was just tenderly lifting Towser’s dead body out the back of the car when Mrs. Wellington came bustling up. “So you’re back,” remarked the minister’s wife. Maggie saw a large tweedy woman with a heavy face, a heavy bust, and an efficient air about her. “I’ve come to bury my dog,” said Hamish flatly. “Oh, Hamish,” said Mrs. Wellington weakly. “What happened?” “Chust died. Chust like that,” said Hamish. “I’m going to bury

such a woman would be prepared to let a husband go. “You didn’t much care one way or the other,” said Hamish, “you having a new man of your own.” “I’ll kill that Dibb woman,” she shouted. “Some friend. Can’t she keep her bloody mouth shut?” “Who is this man?” asked Deacon. Her eyes flashed hatred in the direction of Hamish Macbeth. “A Mr. John Trant. He lives in Greys. He’s a builder.” Deacon settled down then to take her over all her movements since receiving the letter from June. She no

said primly, looking down her nose. The tetchiness that had been in him for months rose to the surface again. “So you prefer that high-class muck we had for tea?” There was an edge of contempt to his light Highland voice and Miss Gunnery flushed. ”I’m being silly,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’d enjoy the walk.” Hamish went up to get Towser, but when he descended to the hall again it was to find not only Miss Gunnery waiting for him but the rest of the party, with the exception of the

where yachts were moored in a small basin, the rising wind humming and thrumming in the shrouds. There was a sleazy café overlooking the yacht basin, still open but empty of customers, the lights of a fruit machine winking in the gloom inside. A path led round the back of the café, past rusting abandoned cars and fridges, old sofas and broken tables, to a rise of shingle and then down to where the shingle ended and the long white beach began. “You spoil that dog,” said Miss Gunnery as Hamish

light the stove. Priscilla had presented him with a brand-new electric cooker, but he had childishly sent it back. He fed Towser and stood on one leg, irresolute, looking like a heron brooding over a pond. Depression was new to him. He had to take action, to do something to lift it. He could start by typing that report. On the other hand, Towser needed a walk. The phone began to ring again and so he quickly left the police station with Towser at his heels and set out along the waterfront in the

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