Mrs. Gillespie, the regions most famous maid, is violently struck down by a metal bucket. Knowing Mrs. Gillespies penchant for gossip, Hamish Macbeth is sure she delighted in finding out her clients secrets--which means that everyone whose home she cleaned is a suspect. The laid-back Hamish Macbeth police procedurals, set in the remote reaches of the Scottish Highlands, almost define the British cozy. The Atlantic rages at the borders of the tiny village of Lochdubh, while unseemly passions rage within the town's picturesque cottages, reliably spilling over into murder. Macbeth, the local constable, is responsible for cleaning up the messes. A conflict running through the series, which gives a bit of contemporary zest to the plots, is Macbeth's struggles to fight against promotion, which would entail leaving the trout streams and Highland paths of Lochdubh for the crime-ridden streets of Strathbane. In this twenty-second entry in the much-loved series, a mean-spirited local housecleaner is brained with her own bucket. Local feeling runs so high against the nasty, gossiping shrew that Macbeth's suspect card is overfull. Macbeth's investigation uncovers, as usual, secrets seemingly worth defending with murder. As usual, Beaton delivers a delightfully old-fashioned, absorbing village mystery. Connie Fletcher Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved M.C. BEATON lives in the Cotswolds in England with her husband. Death of a Maid A Hamish Macbeth Mystery By M.C. Beaton Mysterious Press Copyright © 2007 Marion Chesney All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-892-96010-1 Chapter One I would any day as soon kill a pig as write a letter. -Alfred, Lord Tennyson The letter lay on the doormat just inside the kitchen door of the police station in Lochdubh. Police Constable Hamish Macbeth picked it up and turned it over. From the address on the back, he saw it was from Elspeth Grant. Elspeth worked as a reporter on a Glasgow newspaper, and he had once considered proposing marriage to her but had dithered and left it too late. He carried the letter into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His cat, Sonsie, stared at him curiously, and his dog, Lugs, put his paw on his master's knee and looked up at him with his odd blue eyes. "What's she writing to me about?" wondered Hamish aloud. Personal letters were rare and curious things nowadays when most people used e-mails or text messages. He opened it reluctantly. Elspeth always made him feel guilty. She had once jeered at him that he was married to his dog and cat. "Dear Hamish," he read, "I have a few weeks holiday owing and would like to come back to Lochdubh. As I can now afford it, I shall be staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Knowing your vanity, I am sure you will think that I am pursuing you. That is not the case. I am not interested in you or your weird animals any more. "This letter is just to clear matters up. Yours, Elspeth." "Now, there wass no need to write such a thing," said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. "No need at all." The sibilance of his accent showed he was upset. "Herself can chust keep out of my way, and that'll suit me chust fine." But he was hurt and he felt guilty. He had treated her badly, blowing hot and cold, and the last frost had been caused by the news that his ex-fiance, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, was returning to work at the Tommel Castle Hotel, owned by her parents. He could never quite rid himself of the attraction Priscilla held for him. But she had come, seen him infrequently, and then after a month had left again for London. He crumpled up the letter and left it on the table just as someone knocked at the door. When he opened it, he looked down at the squat figure of Mrs. Mavis Gillespie. Mrs. Gillespie was a charwoman, although in these politically correct days, she was referred to as "my maid." She was considered an amazingly good cleaner. Hamish remembered with a sinking feeling that he had won her services in a church raffle. She bustled past him into the kitchen and took off her coat. Mrs. Gillespie was a round little woman in her fifties with rigidly permed grey hair, ruddy cheeks, and a long mean mouth. She was carrying a metal bucket and an old-fashioned mop. Hamish did not like her. "I've decided you don't need to do anything," he said. "The place is clean enough." "Don't be daft." She glared around. "This place needs a good scrub, and what would Mrs. Wellington say?" Mrs. Wellington was the formidable wife of the minister. "All right," said Hamish. "I'll be off for a walk." "And take your beasties wi' you," she called to his retreating back. "They fair gie me the creeps." "Women!" muttered Hamish as he strolled along the waterfront, followed by his dog and cat. He knew that the households Mrs. Gillespie worked for probably all had buckets and mops, but she carried her own around with her like weapons. He had once called on Mrs. Wellington when Mrs. Gi