By M.C. Beaton
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Extra info for [Fiction] Death of a Nag
I went on one of those last year,” said Maggie. “It was very good, and at least you know you‟ve got a chance of fine weather. Mind you, it seemed odd to be all the way down in the south of Spain and surrounded by British. ” “Well, that‟s no doubt why they want to see her. ” “I heard about Dermott. They‟re checking into his background. ” “I don‟t know. I haven‟t see all the newspapers. It‟s a shame,” he added. ” They drove the rest of the way in silence until she pulled up outside an Indian restaurant in Dungarton.
Her voice had a whining, grating edge. The room was small and stuffy and crowded with tables cluttered with photos and china ornaments. There were lace curtains at the windows which let in very little light. It all felt claustrophobic. He rose to go. “You‟ll stay for a cup of tea,” she said. Naked loneliness suddenly looked out of her eyes. Of course she was lonely, Hamish thought, nasty old bat. But he sat down again. One day he might be old and nasty, too. So he patiently listened to her complaints while he drank tea and agreed that her scones were the best in the world.
The address was Glebe Street, near the Church of Scotland. He made his way there and ended up outside one of the thatched cottages which crouched at the end of Glebe Street like old shaggy animals. Seagulls screamed and wheeled mournfully overhead. He rapped at the polished brass knocker and waited. After some moments, he heard shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened and an elderly woman with a toad-like face peered up at him. “What do you want? ” “I‟m not selling anything,” said Hamish amiably.