A Corpse at the Castle

by R B Marshall

  “Aye.” He nodded at the arched entrance. “Drive on in and you can unload inside.”

  I stopped the lorry near the top of the large, extremely tidy, stable yard. Guess the Queen likes things to be pristine. The cobbles were swept within an inch of their lives, so clean that I could probably eat my dinner off them. This was most likely thanks to a poker-thin man over in the corner who was wielding a broom like it was an Olympic discipline. Everything else in the yard was grey granite or wood, painted gloss black.

  Craig opened the passenger door and stepped down. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Izzy, I’ll leave you now. Me and Jet will carry on our walk from here.”

  “Are you sure? I can give you a lift back if you wait till I’ve sorted the girls.”

  “There’s no need—the woods are just up there.” He indicated a gap in the stable block ahead of us, then raised a hand in farewell. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Then I frowned. Why would I need luck? I stared at his retreating back, before jumping out of the cab myself. Maybe he’s just being polite.

  Turns out Craig wasn’t just being polite. Hamish Douglas was a piece of work.

  With wiry grey hair and a red-veined nose, he came bustling over as I walked Allegra down the ramp, his pudgy eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You can’t unload here!”

  I looked around me, perplexed. Where else was I supposed to unload the horses?

  Perhaps he thought I was making the place look untidy. What was that old joke? That the Queen thought everything smelled of new paint as everyone redecorated before she visited? It must make her staff somewhat OCD.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I gave him my best fake smile and raised a shoulder. “I’m sorry, someone told me to unload here, and the mares are off the lorry now. Surely you don’t want me to re-load them?” I added sweetly and held out a hand. Better try to get on his good side. “I’m Izzy Paterson. Lady Letham sent me with her two mares for Eagle.”

  Briefly, his eyes turned into slits, then he grunted and tilted his head to the right. “Over here,” he said, ignoring my hand, and marched off.

  Leading the two mares, I followed him through a gap on the right side of the yard and down a short laneway leading to fields where various horses grazed contentedly.

  Reaching an empty paddock, he opened the gate and jerked his chin. “Leave them here.”

  Giving the girls a pat, I let them loose in turn, and they trotted off to explore their surroundings. “The bay is Allegra,” I said, still trying to smooth the water, “and the grey is Daisy. They’re no bother,” I added, looping their head collars over the gate.

  That got me another grunt.

  Oh dear. Had he got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, or did he have chronic people issues? Then I remembered Craig’s ‘good luck’ comment, and my heart sank. It was probably the latter.

  Since I was likely to be dealing with him regularly, I needed for us to get along, or at least be civil. Except, I wasn’t exactly the best with people either. I wracked my brains. What would someone gregarious like Trinity do?

  Inspiration struck, and I turned my best smile on him, hoping a charm offensive would break down some of his barriers. “Might it be possible to meet Eagle, if you could spare a minute?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  Before he could find some way to refuse, I added, “I’ve a mare myself,” well, I would have in the future, if my plans worked out, “that I might put in foal. It would be good to meet him when he’s not—uh—working.”

  Boxed into a corner, he glowered, then turned and stomped off. “This way,” he threw over his shoulder.

  As we were crossing the cobbled yard, a green jeep came swinging through the entrance, driven by a guy wearing similar huntin’ shootin’ getup to Craig. In my experience, it tended to be a bit of a dress code with the country fraternity.

  To my surprise, Hamish MacGrumpy stopped in his tracks, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. Slowly, granted, like they needed oiled, but it was definitely a smile. Of sorts.

  The lanky figure that unfolded himself from the utilitarian vehicle reminded me of the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang—all nose and angles. “Douglas, my man,” he said with a tight smile, “just came to tell you we’ll be five for the shoot tomorrow. So two ponies perhaps?”

  “Aye, sir.” Hamish all but tugged his forelock. “I’ll get the boy to have them ready at nine o’clock sharp.”

  I had a hard time stopping my jaw from hitting the ground. Was this really the same guy who’d practically bitten my head off?

  “Excellent,” the tall man replied, then clambered back into his jeep and drove off in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  As soon as the other man disappeared, Hamish was back to Mr Congeniality mode. The lines on his forehead matched the horizontal line of his mouth as he jerked his chin at a stable ahead of us. “That’s ’im. Lochnagar Golden Eagle.” Briefly, his eyes softened; so briefly I thought I’d imagined it.

  Over the half-door, gentle brown eyes perused us. The stallion was a glorious fawn colour, glinting like gold in the sunlight. His mane and forelock were black, providing a stunning contrast with the metallic hue of his coat.

  “He’s gorgeous!” Offering my hand for him to sniff, I let him get used to my scent, then rubbed his noble nose. “Good boy,” I crooned.

  With a sniff, Hamish turned and shouted at the man with the brush. “Stan!”

  There was no reaction; Stan just kept on sweeping, hard and fast, like he was trying to guide a curling stone to the bullseye.

  “Deaf as a post,” Hamish muttered, and tried again. This time he positively hollered, “Stanley Fisher!”

  It did the trick, because Stan jumped in surprise, then leaned the broom on the wall and came across to join us. He had the most curious gait—he almost slid across the yard, with no appreciable bounce to his steps. His appearance was also very strange, with thin, light-coloured hair, pale skin, a long face, small eyes and thin nose. He had something of a ghostly air about him. Creepy.

  “Get Eagle out,” Hamish instructed, his voice a decibel or two above normal.

  No obvious emotion crossed Slytherin Stan’s face as he unhooked a head collar from the wall beside the stallion’s stable, fastened it on, then led the horse out into the yard. But there was a flicker of something in his pale eyes—resentment, maybe—and his gaze darted back to his brush in the corner of the yard. Perhaps Stan was the OCD one who kept the yard looking pristine, and we were messing up his pride and joy.

  Hamish spent a minute getting Eagle to stand with his feet parallel, so that he’d show himself to the best advantage, then gave him a quick pat on the neck. He obviously knew his stuff. No wonder the Queen had him on her staff. Even if he was a grumpy so and so.

  Walking a circle around the stallion, I checked out his well-muscled back and unblemished legs. “Very nice.” Straightening, I decided to push my luck. “Could I see him move?”

  That earned me some side-eye from the crotchety stud manager, but a flick of his finger was enough to have Stan lead the horse through the little corridor leading to the outdoor school.

  A few minutes later, after watching him walk and trot round the arena, I was even more impressed by the stallion. No wonder Lady Letham chose him. “Thank you. He would definitely make a very nice sire for my mare.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. My dream future mare.

  Nodding his acknowledgement, Hamish jerked his chin at Stan to put Eagle away again, then pointed at a black-painted door on the other side of the passageway leading to the outdoor arena. “Bring the mares’ passports,” he instructed, and stomped off without waiting for me.

  A couple of minutes later I was standing in front of his desk while he laboriously transcribed information from Allegra and Daisy’s horse passports into a large leather-bound ledger. It felt like being in the headmaster’s office at school, dreading the thought of detention.

  While I waited, I loo
ked about me. Hamish might be dour as a wet Wednesday, but he was obviously meticulous. Or ex-military. Everything had a place, and mostly that place was on a shelf or in a drawer or filing cabinet. His desk was empty apart from the paperwork in front of him, an old computer angled towards him on the left, and a wooden ‘in’ tray by the right-hand corner.

  The walls were covered with oak-framed photos of horse show successes, shooting parties, and middle-aged men in suits. In one of those, Hamish was standing proudly in the centre wearing a gold chain, a purple tartan sash and bonnet, and carrying a staff. I frowned. He didn’t strike me as enough of a people-person to be a councillor or mayor. Strange. People were surprising.

  Setting his pen down and pushing the passports towards me, Hamish glanced up. “Come back tomorrow at ten. Stan will be here to help, and Eagle will service them then.”

  Then he set the ledger aside, pulled a letter from the in-tray, and opened it with a letter-opener that looked remarkably like a jewelled dagger. Perhaps it had been a present from the Queen? Pulling a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his pocket, he started reading.

  After waiting a moment longer, I realised he had nothing else to say. Guess that’s me dismissed then. Picking up the passports and slipping them into their protective sleeve, I turned and made my way back to the lorry, shaking my head. Tomorrow was obviously going to be a barrel of laughs.

  Pulling the lorry—my only mode of transport—up outside of the B&B, I killed the engine and sat for a minute staring at the architectural marvel before me, and wondering what I’d got myself into.

  The website had said ‘the best B&B for Balmoral’. It had omitted to mention that it was the only guest house within fifteen miles of the castle which I guess also made it the worst…

  White stone cladding adorned the front wall of the bungalow, the rest of which was pebble-dashed in that fawn brown so loved by builders. All very well, but the local stone was grey granite, so it stood out like a sore thumb beside its neighbours.

  ‘Easy care’ probably defined the front ‘garden’, which was cobbled in red. White planters overflowed with garish flowers, and plastic dwarves did unmentionable things with fishing poles.

  Hefting my overnight bag, I sighed and stepped out of the cab. Beggars can’t be choosers. At least it looked clean.

  Throwing the front door wide, Mrs Beaton welcomed me, all lipstick and costume jewellery. “You’ll be Lady Letham’s groom.”

  “Her horse trainer, yes,” I corrected.

  “We’ve kept you the best room,” she gushed, heels tap-tapping as she led me along a corridor floored with orange-pine laminate. “Her ladyship must be so pleased to have someone reliable. The last girl…” she shivered, raising her palms, then gave me a sharp-eyed look. “Let’s just say, the less said the better.”

  At the end of the hall, the dining room door was open, showing an expanse of paisley-patterned carpet and a view through sliding French doors out to the rear garden. It was a mirror of the front, apart from the addition of a plastic pond with a stone frog in the centre, water jetting from its mouth into the air. Nice, I thought. Did I mention that irony is my middle name?

  By this time, Mrs Beaton had reached my room, and ushered me into a space that was a symphony of lace and froufrou. I arranged my mouth into a smile. “How lovely,” I lied.

  “I thought you’d like it.” The proprietress turned earnest eyes on me. “Now, if there’s anything I can do to help…?”

  Quickly, I scanned the room, looking for anything vaguely technical. The TV remote was all I came up with. “You could let me know the wi-fi password? I’ve some work to do before I go out.”

  Mrs Beaton reached for the dressing table, then handed me a chintzy flower ornament which held a little card with hieroglyphics printed on it. The password, presumably. “Out?” She raised her painted brows.

  “For dinner.”

  “Oh, of course. You’ll want The Queen’s Arms then.” She nudged my elbow. “Serves a delicious steak.”

  I sucked air through my teeth. “Unfortunately, I’m vegetarian.”

  She deflated, like someone had pricked her with a pin. “Oh. One of those,” she said, like it was a disease. Shrugging, she opened her palm. “I think they do salads.”

  Great. How original. I managed not to roll my eyes.

  “So,” she pinned me with a beady gaze reminiscent of a magpie with something shiny in its sights, “I hear you arrived at Glengowrie with a girl friend.” She emphasised the last word, then stopped talking, obviously waiting for me to clarify.

  For a moment, I considered leading her on, telling her that Trin and I were getting married next month, or some such nonsense. But I had a feeling that such a tactic would backfire, and that the gossip mongers would have such a glorious tidbit spread from Aberdeen to Aberdour before I’d had a chance to set the record straight.

  People tended to be more old-fashioned in the Highlands, so the truth seemed like a better idea than messing with her head. “Yeah, Trinity and I are good friends; we met in London at the stables where I kept my horse. She works as groom and looks after the horses while I get on with the training. I couldn’t run the business without her, she’s a great asset.” Hopefully that would be enough to squash any rumours.

  “Ah.” Mrs B looked unconvinced. “Yes.” She smoothed her skirt and changed the subject. “So, breakfast is any time from seven.”

  I nodded. “Seven will be good.”

  “And will you be having the full Scottish? Sausage, bacon, black pudding—”

  I raised a hand to interrupt her, refraining from reminding her about the no meat thing. “Just porridge. And maybe scrambled eggs if you have them?”

  “Of course.” She almost looked offended. “We aim to cater for all tastes at Riverside Guest House.”

  Putting my bag down, I gave her a sugary sweet smile. “Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.” Hoping she’d take the hint, I pulled out my laptop and set it on the bed.

  She turned for the door. “I’ll get you a key, in case you’re out after nine tonight.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” I waved a hand airily, switching my computer on, “I’ll not be late.”

  Famous last words.

  Chapter Four

  With the nosy landlady finally out of the way, I sat on the bed and pulled my laptop onto my knee.

  Piggy-backing on the B&B’s wi-fi, I put the computer into stealth mode, and created a private tunnel to the internet.

  It was time to switch my brain into work-mode. I flexed my fingers. Time for some hacking.

  So, I think I forgot to say. This is my other skill. I’m not the girl with the dragon tattoo—I’ve no ink—but my job at the bank wasn’t to do with finance, at least not directly.

  Instead, when I worked for BleuBank, I was in charge of website security. Or, more appropriately, website insecurity. My job was to probe for weaknesses and try to hack into our systems. Along the way, I picked up some useful skills, including how to search the hidden parts of the internet—the deep web—for facts people would rather keep secret.

  And, now that I’d left London, I hoped those skills would provide some useful part-time income, which I would salt away for a rainy day.

  I checked my watch. Good. I had a couple of hours until it’d be time to eat. Plenty of time for my latest assignment. Sinking back into the lace-edged pillows, I set to work.

  “Izzy!” said a male voice. “Blow me, I never thought to see you again so soon. Is there anyone sitting ’ere?”

  Surprise jerked my head up from the menu I’d been perusing. I’d come to The Queen’s Arms as Mrs B had said it was the best place to go for my evening meal. The fact that it was the only place serving dinner in the tiny village may have had something to do with that…

  The Arms had a homely feel, and, even as a woman on her own, I felt safe here. It might have been all the wood panelling, or the log fire flickering in the grate, or the subdued lighting. Whatever it was, it just seem
ed cozy. But being new to the area and miles away from Glengowrie, I hadn’t expected to meet anyone I knew.

  Without waiting for an answer, Richard Mortimer slid sideways onto the turned-wood bar stool beside me, like an oil tanker berthing at harbour. A waft of cheap aftershave almost made my eyes water, and this time he had added a black leather waistcoat and stetson to his black ensemble. “Oh, hello,” I said, innate politeness doing its thing.

  The man in black held up a finger to the barman. “Pint o’ Guinness, Zak, mate, when you’ve got a minute.” He turned to me. “And something for the lady?”

  Oh, I’m a lady now, not a girl? Perhaps the sliver of make-up I’d bothered to put on made a difference. Or maybe wearing civvies rather than jods made me look older. Who knows? The male brain was a mystery to me. It’d been years since I’d had the time—or the opportunity—for a relationship.

  I nodded at the almost-full glass of lemonade in front of me. “I’m fine thanks.”

  “Are you sure? What about a wine?”

  Resisting the temptation to roll my eyes, I shook my head. “I’ve some more work to do later. Need to keep a clear head.”

  Behind the highly polished wood of the counter, in one smooth move the Australian barman pulled a wide glass from a high shelf and angled it under the nozzle as he flicked the tap with the harp on it. Coffee-coloured beer flowed almost lazily, its creamy head growing steadily with every second.

  Richard turned his dark eyes on me. “Well, this is a regular turn up for the books, seeing you up ’ere, Izzy, darlin’.” He looked behind me, searching the dark corners of the bar. “Is your little friend wiv you?”

  “Nope, just me.”

  A momentary look of disappointment crossed his face. “So, how’s tricks? What brings you this far north?”