Inspector Henry Peckover has cheerfully accompanied his wife Miriam to Inverballoch and the 170th Robbie Burns celebration in this wee corner of the Scottish Highlands. Little does he know wheat he gotten himself into.

Sir Gilbert Potter, Britains most eminent archaeologist, has invited Miriam Peckover to be guest chef, and Henry predicts a night of wine, women, and song. At first, all goes smoothly. Miriam's haggis is delicious, the Scotch flows freely and Peckover even manages to understand some of Burns' poetry before going to bed a contented man. But his slumbers are rudely interrupted by the news that Sir Gilbert Potter has been murdered.

Granted Potter was pompous bore, but who could have wanted him dead? Might the killing be connected with the dig Sir Gilbert was leading up at Dundrummy Castle? Surely the excavations could achieve nothing but good -- especially for the poverty-stricken Laird of Dundrummy, who is hoping for a lucrative discovery on his land.

Sir Gilbert's ambitious young assistant Posy Cork decides to continue with the dig. Her dedication is unexpectedly rewarded with the discovery of a body. But is it the body of an ancient bog man, or that of Sir Wilfred Cuff-Bingley, another eminent archaeologist who disappeared from the very same site fifty years ago? Assisted by his fashion impaired constable, Jason, Twitty Peckover rolls us his sleeves to do digging of his own.

What happens is a perplexing. Just when you think you know what is going to happen the story takes another twist and you are baffled. But, the strongest asset of this book is the humor. This is a delightfully funny mystery. Let me give you an example:

"To the din of one beribboned bagpipe, into the dining-room Indian file slow-marched five staff, stately as a funeral. Mrs. McSporran brought her hands together in a clap, then another clap. All the members of the Inverballoch Burns Club clapped unison with the pipes and the stepping procession. The archaeologists, the two-hundred-pound boyfriend, Peckover, and Sir Gilbert Potter joined in the clapping. At least there were no fifes and drums to wreak further havoc on the Ram's foundations and the brains of the seated company.

Leading the procession marched a self-conscious woman, the Ram's housekeeper. She might have been less self-conscious had she known what to do with her hands, but they were empty, unlike those of the rest of the procession. Unable to decide whether swing her arms or hold them at her side, she did first one, the other.

Second came the caterwauling, black-bearded piper, his ballooning cheeks crimson from blowing and booze. His naked knees were bony between the top of his socks and the hem of his kilt; The tasselled sporran hung and swung like a whiskery beastie shot dead in the heather, switching to left, to right, with each of piper's stiff-legged strides.

After the piper, the chef to whom Peckover resisted calling out, 'Halloo Iuv!' Miriam Peckover was grinning like a child who has perpetrated a mischief, which in a sense she had, having cooked dinner's piece de resistance. Her cheeks rosily glowed, she had on lipstick, and she looked altogether smashing in her butcher apron. She was embarrassed, delighted, and playing her part like a trouper. She bore theatrically high a silver salver on which three cannonballs.

Next, out of step, came an assistant cook with a platter that held a misshapen object cloaked in canvas, perhaps tarpaul anyway a sinister material concealing possibly - Peckover Consulted the menu - bashed neeps and chappit tatties.

Last, a waiter with a bottle of what could only be usquebaugh, this being Burns Night in Scotland.

Hnnnng unnnng meeownnng nnnng, howled the bagpipe. 'The company clapped rhythmically and emitted Highland whoops random and barbarous. The lament was of a relentless tunelessness, at least to Peckover's ear. He wondered if the piper had ever played a bagpipe before. Was there a chance he might leave the wailing and break into something jolly like 'I Love a Lass' or 'Stop Your Tickling, Jock'?

The procession having completed a circuit of the dining-room the housekeeper led it to a muddled halt at the top table. She positioned with gestures her unrehearsed troupe. She motioned to the cook to set down the steaming cannonballs in front of the chairman, and to the assistant cook to do similarly with the cloak object. She claimed the water of life from the waiter and placed it with the cannonballs and mystery item. 'Splendid, here's to the Scotties, what?' exclaimed Sir Gilbert Potter above the moaning of the pipes. Andrew Dinwiddie, beaming chairman, visited mute curses upon the head of the guest honour, and for good measure on his doubtless equally unspeakable forebears.

The housekeeper shook her head at the piper. He skirled oblivious, transported to a private world of mists and loch. She had to pinch him to stop. The pipes painfully expired. She bow to the chairman. 'Jolly good!' pronounced Sir Gilbert, applauded. Taking the assistant cook and waiter with her, the housekeeper scurried from stage centre, leaving Miriam and the piper standing at the top table.

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