Death of a Charming Man by MC Beaton

beginning to despair of getting any hard proof when one of the locals told him that Dolan had been seen earlier in the day prowling around Miss Tabbet’s. Miss Tabbet was the local schoolteacher who lived in a neat bungalow outside the village and whose home had so far appeared burglar-proof.
    Hamish visited her and suggested he spend the night in her front room. Miss Tabbet was one of those no-nonsense, brisk women who, despite excellent academic qualifications, was quite stupid.
    ‘Nonsense, Mr Macbeth,’ she said. ‘Any burglar would have more sense than to come here.’
    Hamish stifled a sigh. Why did he always have to be patient and restrained? He felt like taking hold of her by her scrawny neck and shaking her. He said aloud, ‘Well, I’ll type out a letter which says that I was sure Dolan would break into your premises this night and you refused our help. I’ll do two copies, one for headquarters at Strathbane and one for your insurance company …’
    ‘No need for that,’ she said, looking alarmed. ‘I’m sure I’ve done all I could to help the police when the occasion arose.’
    ‘This is the occasion.’
    ‘Oh, well,’ she said ungraciously, ‘you can wait in the living room, but make sure you wipe your feet. I’ve just shampooed that carpet. But don’t expect me to make cups of tea for you. I pay my taxes and that should be enough. You’re wasting your time. This house is burglar-proof.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Come here,’ she said, and Hamish thought for a moment that she was going to take hold of him by the ear and lead him by it like a bad child. She led the way to the front door and pointed triumphantly to an array of bolts, chains, and safety locks.
    ‘What about the back door?’ asked Hamish.
    She snorted and led the way through to the kitchen. The back door was similarly armed. Hamish stood back and looked at the kitchen window and a smile crossed his face. ‘All the man need do is smash a pane in your kitchen window, put an arm in and open the catch.’
    ‘But I’d hear the breaking glass,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I’m a very light sleeper.’
    ‘I could break thon glass without you hearing a thing,’ said Hamish. ‘Chust bear with me. I’ll be here at six o’clock.’
    ‘Why so early?’ she jeered. She was a very jeering sort of woman, made so by years of controlling pupils by sarcasm. ‘Is he coming for his tea?’
    ‘I want to get in here early, before he starts watching the house,’ said Hamish. He smiled down warmly into her eyes, and despite herself she smiled back and looked up at him in a dazed way.
    ‘You silly man,’ Hamish chided himself as he walked back down through the village. ‘You’re getting as bad as Peter Hynd.’ And with that thought, he once more had a mental picture of the dark village of Drim with all those passions seething and bubbling at the end of the loch. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost walked past Sophy Bisset, who hailed him enthusiastically. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Hamish in surprise.
    ‘It’s my day off and I’m playing tourist,’ said Sophy. ‘What are you doing here?’ She asked, just as if she had never overheard Priscilla telling Mr Johnston that Hamish was investigating crime in Carrask.
    ‘On duty,’ said Hamish.
    ‘Time for a cup of tea? There’s a place in the back of the craft shop at the end of the village.’
    ‘Aye, that’ll be grand,’ said Hamish. He felt a warm glow. He did not for a moment believe that Sophy had not known he was to be found in Carrask, and that meant she had come in search of him whereas Priscilla had not; Priscilla who, before their engagement, would have dropped over to see him. That Priscilla was badly frightened by any intimacy was becoming clearer and clearer, and Hamish was beginning to think that his hopes that it would ‘be all right on the night,’ namely on their honeymoon, were beginning to look naive in the extreme. Meanwhile, here was