A mystery about a writer, a mediocre one. The titular bore's a writer, who talks only about himself. Delightful. The first of several murder attempts disguised as suicides—and not the only successful one. Set in northern Scotland, Sunderland, where I’ve not travelled, though I’ve seen Edinburgh, Stirling, Loch Lomond, and Rabbie Burns’ birthplace cottage in Alloway, Ayrshire, near the arched bridge he made famous. Like peasant cottages all over Europe (say, Rijas in Latvia) Burns’ housed animals at one end, whose heat gathered under the low ceilings better than in my grandfather’s hayloft barn on Crockett Ridge in Norway, Maine. We visited Burns’ cottage in ’68, when there were still fields in back. Beaton quotes Burns in epigraphs, as in her penultimate chapter, “Good Lord, what is man!…All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil”(196).
The writer charges for his class where he dumps on all the paying locals who would like to write, offering him their manuscripts. This poor writer has landed a TV episode because he had a childhood friend in Glasgow now the main director. TV newsmen and actors combine with the usual newspaper journalists like Hamish’s former girlfriend Elspeth. Still the book’s filled with M.C.’s (Marion Chesney’s) staple figures—1) Hamish MacBeth, the witty highland copper who does not take credit for his crime solving because he would be promoted to the city he abhors, 2) his associate detective Jimmy, and 3) his replacement CID, Heather Meikle, a female drunk driver as well as sexual abuser. Up-to-date for 2005.
There’s the Doctor’s wife Angela, a poor cook, but helpful with Hamish’s dog Lugs, and the Reverend Wellington’s wife, a better cook and entertainer. There’s Nessie and Jessie Currie, twin sisters and gossips. And several former girlfriends from Patricia, the former owner of the hotel when it was a private mansion, to Elspeth, now a Glasgow reporter. There’s the seer Angus who seems to know everybody, probably through gossip.
And in this novel only, Hamish’s dog is stolen. This provokes Hamish more than the thefts and murders do.
Wonderful details of daily life, like Angela’s offering Hamish some sherry they’d brought back from Cyprus some years back, “Ah, here it is, right behind the rat poison.”(147) Or the parsonage / manse has a large kitchen, “a relic of the days when ministers had large families”(86). I have seen several large Church of England parsonage-manses, and always assumed they reflected the social status of the Anglican reverend. For instance, George Herbert’s in Bemerton, north of Salisbury: his parsonage appears larger than his church. Of course, Scotland would feature Presbyterian ministers, perhaps slightly more men of the people.
Our copy, a dogeared paperback we've read three times. This time I aloudread to my wife in two days, 156 pp the first day. It’s that good. Years ago, she aloudread to me, dozens of mysteries. As in those mysteries, the good detective has bosses who do not appreciate him—here Chief Inspector Blair, whose boss Superintendent Daviot has more respect, but also knows the Lochdub cop less. Beaton, a woman writer, creates very credible, complex men; but she also has the stupid Blair replaced by a man-eating woman boss, Inspector Meikle.
Some personal connections. Our well depends on electricity, so without a generator, we lose water if a tree falls on power lines; contrast Dr. Wellington, who starts his generator when Hamish comes to get an injured wild cat repaired. At our home, we share a nightly hot chocolate with brandy; whereas the tall Hamish bringing the wild cat cries for the first time, though Angela, Mrs. Wellington, gives him a “stiff brandy” as a bracer—hoping he’s not in shock, where it would do damage. (230) Another vestige of the past I know is the wash basin with water delivered by pitcher every morning—this prior to running water, at the old Oceanic Hotel on Star Island off Portsmouth, N.H (150).
Hamish has a couple former girlfriends, both of whom show up in this novel, one throughout, now a reporter for the big Glasgow newspaper, Elspeth. She assesses him clearly, “That’s why you’ll never get married, you’re married to your dog [Lugs]”(205).
Up in rural Scotland some credit witches, and many feel hostility from a place, like Standing Stones Island or a cottage where a murder took place (187).
As with most of my reviews now, I find zinging insights into our US Liar-in-Chief, vain, unstable and like a kid. “What made some writers so dangerously vain and unstable? Maybe they were like actors, always craving attention, not quite grown up.”(224) The puzzle of our Baby Blimp Trumpty-Dumpty, oldest ever behaving like a child, excepting those truly demented with age.