A Corpse at the Castle

by R B Marshall

  Hmmm. It seemed that wanting a better house wasn’t his reason for murder. Then something snagged at my brain. “You live near the stables? But…” I visualised the route from the B&B, through the main gate and on to the stables, “it must’ve taken you ages to walk home the other night after the pub?”

  “No’ really.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Only the locals know this, but, not far from the pub, there’s a set of stepping stones across the river. It’s a back way into the estate, and it’s a short-cut home for me.”

  “That’s handy.” My mind whirred. What other motives might he have? “The new job must mean you’ll get paid more? Especially if they’re not giving you a better house.”

  Pulling the baseball cap off his head, Craig set it on the table and mussed his curls with his right hand. “Aye, I suppose I might. I never thought to ask. Maybe I should find myself an expensive hobby.” I got another sideways look at this point. “Right now, most of my salary goes to savings, what with accommodation being provided by the estate. All I’ve got left to pay for is diesel for the landy, food, and clothes. And my sister gets me a discount on those at the department store where she works.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Aye, she’s a personal shopper over in Glasgow.”

  Personal shopper. That would explain his good taste in clothes. But if it wasn’t for more money or a bigger house, why on earth would Craig have murdered Hamish?

  Prestige maybe? “I suppose it’ll be similar for me, in my new job, although I have to buy feed for my own horses and pay vet bills and show entries as well. I’ve not been here long enough to get a real handle on my budget. Down in London everything was so expensive. And I had Leo on full livery, which cost a fortune.”

  “Maybes I should get a horse.” Craig’s face took on a far-away look.

  I chuckled. “That would certainly count as an expensive hobby.” Tilting my head to the side, I asked, “What kind of horse would you get?”

  “Och, one for hacking I suppose. I like getting out and about for a ramble in the countryside. Maybe a bit of jumping, if I had time.”

  “D’you not get to ride the horses here, though? The garrons?”

  His finger traced the outline of one of the squares on the tartan tablecloth. “Aye, you’re right. We have to keep them trained and exercised for the royals and their friends, when they visit. If I think about it like that, I dinnae really need a horse.”

  “With your new job you’ll have more to do with the stud horses like Eagle, won’t you?” I watched his face for any flicker of guilt.

  “True.” He remained distracted, but there was no trace of bad conscience.

  “Will you get to represent the stud in public? Shows maybe? Or trade fairs?” Perhaps prestige was a motive.

  Craig’s hand stilled and his eyes widened. “The Highland!” He almost looked shocked. “You’ve just reminded me. Hamish always enters…” he corrected himself, “entered the ponies for the Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh in June.”

  “That’s good. Isn’t it?” I added, noticing that his face had paled, making his freckles more obvious.

  “Aye. No. Maybe. Y’see, it’ll fall to me to do the showing now.” He grimaced. “I could be doing wi’out it.”

  I took a long pull from my coffee to give me breathing space to think, surveying Craig from under my eyelashes.

  None of my ideas for motive were panning out here. So either Craig was innocent and I’d interpreted Eagle’s vision wrongly, or he was guilty but I just hadn’t worked out the reason why. I was starting to lean towards the former, but I was worried it was my heart, not my head, that was leading the way.

  What is it they always say in crime shows? Innocent until proven guilty? So perhaps I should treat him as innocent for now. I sat back in my chair. “I can help you. Groom for you or whatever. I think Lady L has entered some of her horses, and she was talking about me getting a late entry for Leo. So we’ll be there anyway.”

  Relief washed over Craig’s features. “That would be magic! I’ll be fine with just a little more experience. It’s the thought of exhibiting on behalf of the Queen that worries me. I wouldnae want to let her down.”

  Definitely not prestige as a motive then. “We can have some practice beforehand. At home. Or you can take some of our horses to a smaller show where it’s not so high-powered and you’re not representing the Queen.”

  He smiled his big smile again and held out a hand. “That’s a deal!”

  Driving back to Glengowrie, the grey landscape flashing by my windows reflected my mood. Outside, the clouds had got heavier and the air darker, almost buzzing with anger, so much so that it felt like the gloom of a winter evening, even though it was only late afternoon in May.

  But the long drive gave me time to mull over the mystery of Hamish’s death some more. On the way from the café to the car I’d finally remembered to get Craig to give me a list of suspects from the estate. Unfortunately, his input didn’t add much to the list I’d already concocted on my own.

  I didn’t tell him, but Craig was still my number one suspect, lack of motive notwithstanding. Mrs D had to be a suspect too, although if she did it, she should get an Oscar for her acting abilities. Stan was on the list, since he would have had opportunity, but I hadn’t yet found a motive. Craig suggested adding the child catcher gamekeeper, who similarly had opportunity but no obvious motive. In fact, anyone on the estate could have had opportunity, in theory. So maybe I needed to hunt harder for motive.

  Was there more to find out about Hamish, which might provide clues to a reason he’d been killed? Perhaps I could’ve questioned his wife, pumped her for information. But it would have been rather insensitive at this time. If only Hamish had a biography or something…

  In a flash of inspiration, I remembered my great-uncle’s funeral some years ago, and all the things I’d discovered about him during the eulogy: that he’d been crew on one of the ships at Dunkirk during the war, and later had been Harbour Master at Newcastle before retiring to tend his large vegetable garden.

  I need to attend Hamish’s funeral. And check out the newspaper for an obituary—as a military man and senior employee of the Queen, he would likely be commemorated in print.

  But… At the funeral and in an obituary, people would only say positive things about the man, no matter how unpopular he was.

  What I really needed was to find someone at Balmoral who was more of a gossip, so I’d find out who might have a grudge against Hamish. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so keen to avoid Mrs Beaton at the B&B. No doubt she’d have lots of stories, if I could just stop her from picking on me and Craig. But it was hard for me to spend long with an intense person like her, being more of an introvert.

  Perhaps I could get Trinity involved? She was so good with people. Could she be like Watson to my Sherlock? My side-kick who would interview suspects while I checked out their alibis on the computer?

  With a sudden metallic drumming that almost made me jump out of my skin, the heavens opened like a sluice, and rain poured down from the heavy sky, hammering against the windscreen of my car so hard that the window wipers could hardly keep up. Slowing to a crawl, I had to divert all my attention to peering through the curtain of rain bouncing off the road ahead.

  Hamish’s murderer would have to wait.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time I reached the southern edge of Glengowrie, it was still raining—hard—and I’d had to concentrate so hard on the driving that a headache was brewing. But when I turned the last corner to approach the main street of the little town, I was met by flashing blue lights and men in fluorescent yellow jackets who were diverting the traffic.

  “Canny get into the centre, Miss,” said a policeman when I rolled my window down. “The river’s burst its banks and there’s a foot of water on the road. Ye’ll need tae go round the long way.” He pointed an arm up the road round the back of the town.

  My throat constricted. “Do you know if
Kirk Wynd is affected? We live there.”

  Bushy grey eyebrows drew together. “Give me a minute to check.” Pulling open the collar of his high-vis jacket, he spoke into his radio, which replied with a buzz of static and unintelligible sentences. Then he turned back to me. “Not quite yet, but the water’s rising quickly so it won’t be long before it’s evacuated. If you want to get your stuff out, you’d better be quick. You’ll get in from Riverside Way on the west side. And you’ll need somewhere to go afterwards.”

  I grimaced. I had an idea about that, but it wouldn’t be ideal. “D’you think I’ve time to collect my flatmate first? She’s at Glengowrie House.”

  He glanced up at the sky, then checked his watch. “I reckon twenty minutes, half-hour max before they close off Kirk Street. So you’d better be quick.”

  With a screech of tyres and a spray of gravel, I arrived back at Glengowrie House some minutes later, parked my car, and scooted into the stable yard, holding a jacket over my head.

  I almost bumped into Trinity, who was ushering a rather bedraggled Dancer into his stable. Dancer was the young skewbald Warmblood gelding I’d bought with my final bonus from Bleubank, and I thought he had the talent to become a great dressage horse. All the other stables appeared to be full, and a couple of long noses poked over half-doors to check on the new arrival.

  “We need to get away to the flat, Trin.” I said, clutching the stable door. “There’s flooding in the town, apparently the river’s burst its banks and Kirk Street will be closed any minute.” I started shrugging my arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “Let’s go, so we can get some of our things.”

  Trinity’s face turned white. “The river?” She fumbled the head collar off Dancer’s head with fingers that appeared to have turned to ice. “But…”

  Her legs started to buckle, so I grabbed a bucket and opened the door just in time to turn the bucket upside down and give her something to sit on. “What’s wrong?” I asked. In the months I’d known her, I’d never seen Trinity looking anything but competent and together.

  Crouched on the feed bucket, she had her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. She shook her head then looked at me with sudden hope in her expression. “Maybe it’s not that bad?”

  I grimaced. “The policeman said a foot of water.”

  Her face crumpled again. “Oh my,” she wailed, scrunching her eyes closed.

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” I said, checking my watch, “but if we don’t leave now, we won’t be able to get anything, and we’ll be stranded here in what we’re wearing.” I waved a hand at my damp jeans, soggy jacket and muddy boots.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just… I can’t swim. I’m terrified of water. This is like all my worst nightmares come true.”

  Scrunching my nose, I puffed out a breath. “You’ll be all right. I can swim, and I got lifesaving badges at school. We’ll be fine.”

  Brown eyes gazed up at me. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.” I released the latch on the stable door, hoping she’d take the hint.

  With a burst of energy, she stood, and almost knocked me over in her rush to get out. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Grabbing the bucket and giving Dancer an apologetic look, I hurried after her. “Wait!” I shouted. “We’ll go in my car. It’ll be better than yours in this weather.”

  Almost at her car, Trinity stopped, with the Mini Cooper key fob in her outstretched hand. She looked from her low-slung green coupe to my four-wheel-drive with its good ground clearance and meaty tyres, like someone assessing livestock at an auction. “Okay,” she said, spinning on her heel and hurrying to the passenger side of my Volkswagen—another purchase from my Bleubank bonus.

  Rain spattered on my head and drips from the end of my pony tail were making their icy way down the back of my neck like wraiths at Halloween. I beeped my car open and rummaged in the back for a baseball cap, before jumping into the driver’s seat and racing off like the hounds of hell were after us.

  We’d only travelled about a quarter of a mile when a glimpse of something white by the side of the road had me diving for the brake pedal. Like a learner driver practicing emergency braking, I screeched the car to a stop, my heart suddenly in my mouth.

  “What is it?” Trinity asked, scanning the road ahead. There were no old ladies waiting to cross, or fallen branches blocking the carriageway.

  I didn’t take the time to answer. Instead, I flicked the hazard lights on, scrambled to undo my seatbelt, then cautiously opened the door and stepped out into the downpour, arm outstretched.

  The white and brown terrier that I’d seen on the railway path the other day sat hunched and miserable at the side of the road, sheltering under some overhanging trees.

  It took some patience—and me getting soaked to the skin—but a few minutes later I finally had the dog in my arms and was back in the car, emanating triumph. “Can you take him?” I asked Trinity as a car overtook us, headlamps glaring through the rain.

  I handed the bedraggled beast to her, then started the engine. But a glance in the rearview mirror showed an empty road behind, so I took a moment to give the dog’s head a quick rub. Big brown eyes turned to look up to me, then a pink tongue popped out and gave me a lick on the hand.

  “Aww, he’s saying thanks for getting him out of the rain.” Trinity’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Or is it a she?” She took a quick look. “Girl.”

  Got that wrong.

  Using her fingers to press carefully all over the dog’s body, Trinity checked for cuts or breaks. “Seems to be okay, just a bit thin. And wet.” She looked across at me and frowned. “Maybe she’s just lost. Although…” she almost muttered to herself, “she’s not got a collar on.”

  “I saw her a few days ago when I was riding, but I couldn’t catch her. It was the same day that farrier, Richard, arrived at the yard to see us, so I forgot to tell you. Which means she’s been missing for a while now. We should take her to the vet’s surgery, check if anyone’s reported a dog missing.”

  Glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard of the car, Trinity shook her head. “They’ll be shut by the time we finish at the flat. It’s after five.”

  “Okay.” I put the car into gear. “Let’s take her with us for now, and we can check with the vet in the morning.” I ruffled the dog’s ears before switching off the hazard lights and pulling away. “Whoever owns such a little sweetie should be tearing their hair out worrying where she’s got to.”

  It was only a short distance from there to the town, and soon we were approaching Riverside Way. My heart sank at the sight that greeted us. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped for the dog. But one glance at her cute little face dispelled that thought.

  To the right of the road, and dangerously close to the kerb, muddy brown water swirled past and on towards the grey stone buildings of the town, litter and tree branches sailing along like ships at a regatta. Listing at a drunken angle, a litter bin bobbed slowly in from the right, then picked up speed as it joined the main confluence. In the passenger seat, Trinity whimpered, and drew her knees up towards her chest.

  There was no river any more, no banks or roads. Just a field of water with a hump-backed bridge poking forlornly above the tumult, white-capped standing waves rolling against its upstream pillars. With every flick of the windscreen wipers the water level seemed to rise a centimetre.

  A different policeman barred the way at this end of town, his yellow jacked flaring in the headlights.

  I glanced across at Trinity. Her eyes were bright with tears. Puffing out a heavy breath, I drew the car alongside the policeman and buzzed down the window. “Evening, officer. We,” I inclined my head towards Trinity, “live on Kirk Wynd. The policeman at the other side of town said we should be able to get in to pick up some stuff if we were quick? My car is four-wheel-drive.”

  The black-bearded policeman pressed his lips together, causing his moustache to bristle like a living thing. He glanced over his s
houlder, then back at us. “Ye’ll need tae be quick, lassie. We’ve evacuated all the houses within two streets of the river and those roads are closed. Kirk Street will be next.” He tapped a finger on the radio handset attached at collarbone height to his yellow jacket. “What’s your names and address so I can radio it to the guys in the centre.”

  Trinity leaned across and gave him our details.

  Her tear-streaked face earned a sympathetic look from the copper. “Okay. Check in wi’ me on your way out so we know you’re safe.” He glanced at me. “Have ye somewhere ye can stay tonight? There’s some emergency beds at the school gym if ye need it.”

  “I think so,” I answered. I hadn’t had time to fill Trinity in on my idea. “We work for Lady Letham, and there’s accommodation almost ready above the stables. We’ll camp there. Will someone let us know when we can get into the flat again?”

  “We can rightly. So where’s that you’ll be staying?” He pulled a grubby notebook out of his pocket.

  “Glengowrie Stables Cottage,” I told him.

  “Oh, aye.” He scribbled it down, then gave us a nod. Fat drops of water splashed to the ground from the peak of his cap. “Off ye get now, ladies. ’Tis not the weather to be driving around. Ten minutes max, then I want ye out of there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It felt like we were aid workers at some natural disaster when we arrived at our flat, settled the dog onto the back seat of the car, then rushed up the stairs, two steps at a time. “I’ll get my stuff from the bathroom while you get your things from the bedroom, then we can swap,” I suggested, propping the front door open with a heavy boot and grabbing a plastic bag from a hook in the hallway as I passed.

  Trinity nodded and whirled off.

  With more expediency than science, I swept things off the bathroom shelf, grabbed my shampoo from the shower, then stuffed my sponge bag and a couple of clean towels on top, before heading for the bedroom. “That’s the bathroom free,” I shouted as I passed through the hall.