A Corpse at the Castle

by R B Marshall

  “Maybe you’re just too polite, girl. Though he is a bit of a looker. But you’ll work it out. When you need to. And, till then, don’t be afraid to let yourself feel things. It ain’t a crime.” She picked up the TV remote control and pointed it at the screen. “Talking of which—CSI?”

  It was almost midnight before Craig texted me back. I’d been asleep for a couple of hours, but the buzzing of my phone on the bedside table woke me up. Groggily, I felt for the lamp and switched it on, then propped myself up on an elbow and tried to focus on the phone screen.

  Craig: Didn’t want to phone in case you were asleep. It’s been a difficult day. You okay?

  Collapsing back on the pillow, I groaned. The easy thing would be to pretend I hadn’t seen his message till the morning, or just text back. But even I, socially inept as I often was, could tell he needed to talk. I dialled his number.

  “Hey. Thanks for messaging back,” I said when he answered.

  “Oh, sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You sounded like you could do with a chat.”

  I could almost hear him run a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It’s been a long day.”

  “What happened?”

  “Questions, questions, and more questions. I spent all day stuck inside in that soul-less box of a police station and it about drove me demented. They seemed to think I might have something to do with the vet’s death since I obviously killed Hamish to get his job.”

  “But they’ve let you home now?”

  “Only because the forensic report came back and there’s no sign of me at the scene.” The phone crackled as if he was changing hands. “I think they might have found some other evidence, though.”

  It took a minute for that to sink in. “So they may have a lead on who the real killer was?”

  “Aye, or it could just be dog hairs, or from a previous client to the surgery. I suppose they’ll need to rule out his customers from that day.”

  “True.” Remembering why I’d wanted to speak to him, I changed the subject. “Craig, did you hear anything about one of the guys in the shooting party having a big argument with Hamish at the pub the night before he was killed? Something about not managing to kill any deer?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I think maybe that’s what they were talking about up the hill the next day. They were joshing with the guy. But it didn’t sound serious.”

  “Do you know the man’s name?”

  “Torquil something. I didn’t get a surname.”

  Would that be enough to track him down? Maybe he’d be on a Friends list on FaceBook, if I could find one of the others. “What about the others? Did you catch any of their full names?”

  “There was one they called ‘Slowhand’. When I asked why, they said his name was Eric Clarence. Like Eric Clapton. Hence the name.”

  “Thanks, that’s a good lead. If you remember any of the others, you could text me.”

  “Will do.” He yawned. “While I remember, your wee friend Trinity. Is she interested in that farrier?”

  “Mmmm. She’s supposed to be going out with him tomorrow.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Tell her to be careful. He’s already been out with two or three of the lassies here on the estate, and he’s left them in tears. Seems he’s a bit of a lothario.”

  That would’ve been my ideal opening to ask Craig what Pat McDade had meant about him having ‘another one on the go’. But I chickened out. In my defence, me being half asleep and him having had a hard day maybe wasn’t the best time to tackle it. “I’ll let her know. Thanks.”

  “Are you still coming up to get the mares tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Have a coffee with me when you get there. Then we can properly catch up.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.” He blew me a kiss, then severed the connection.

  I lay back on my pillow, almost fully awake now. Was he a lothario too, or did he really like me? And who was this Tristram person? Was he the killer?

  It would be hard to get to sleep again with all those questions buzzing around my brain, but the one that bothered me most of all was: what had they found at the murder scene?

  I decided to text Dean, since I was awake anyway and it was possible he was too, if he’d been interviewing Craig till now.

  Me: Hey, any more info on the vet’s murder that I should know about?

  He replied pretty much straight away.

  Dean: We found DNA evidence at the scene. But need to rule out his clients.

  Pretty much as I’d thought.

  Me: Okay. I’ve got my colleague working on the financial investigations, I’m still looking at the horseman’s guild angle.

  Dean: Let me know as soon as you find anything.

  Me: Will do. G’night.

  I had that dilemma about sending a kiss again, but decided against it since this was a work thing.

  Dean: Thanks. Night.

  Good call, Izzy. But thinking about the guild made me wonder how Gremlin was getting on, and, since I was awake, I thought I might as well check.

  Padding down to the lounge area as silently as I could, wrapped in a warm fleece, I sat down in front of my laptop. The blue light of the screen lit the room with a ghostly glow, augmented by the dying embers from the fire.

  Suddenly, something landed beside me on the couch, and I had to stifle a scream. Then I felt stupid. Jorja. My hand went reflexively to my chest as my heart-rate spiked, then started to settle again as she snuggled against me.

  Gremlin, it turned out, had uncovered the archive of meeting minutes from the horseman’s guild. I started reading them, but of course nobody was mentioned by name again, so it was all ‘member this’ and ‘deputy grand master that’ which wasn’t hugely helpful.

  In the most recent meetings they had one rejected membership application, one member who had passed (and one failed) the ‘Golden Horseshoe’ grading, three who had attained Silver Horseshoe, and a majority of the group (but not unanimous) had agreed to pay an amount of money to a local donkey sanctuary.

  None of that sounded like motive for murder, let alone double murder. But… I remembered the Hamish MacBeth audio books I used to listen to on the underground in London, where people seemed to be killed over the smallest thing. Maybe I should keep an open mind.

  Closing the laptop, I gave Jorja a pat, and headed back to bed. Maybe Dev would turn up something interesting in the victims’ financial records.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Saturday afternoon I spent half of my journey to Balmoral deciding that I needed to get Leo entered for some local dressage competitions, so that my name would start getting recognised, and people might be interested in using me as a rider—or trainer.

  The rest of the drive I spent mulling over the murder clues. It was the motive that was perplexing me. The thing that seemed to connect the two men was the Horseman’s Guild... Or could it be just horses in general?

  And, when I thought about it, the murder of the vet would surely rule out Mrs Douglas, and Torquil from the shooting party as well, since their issues were with Hamish, not Oliver.

  Then I remembered that I’d said to Trinity I’d let the police know about the arguments in the pub. Pulling off the road into a lay-by, I dialled Dean’s number, rehearsing a message in my head, since I expected to be answered by his voicemail.

  But, surprisingly, Dean answered after only one ring. Quickly, I told him what Trinity had discovered about the altercations at The Queen’s Arms, although I wasn’t sure if they would be relevant to Mr Seaforth’s murder.

  “Thanks,” he said, “we’ll check those out.” There was a pause. “We’ve got an urgent lead to follow up, so I’ll need to catch up with you later, if that’s okay. Can I pick you up, say, seven o’clock? We could go bowling.”

  Railroaded into a corner, I seemed to have no other option but to agree. “Can you make it seven thirty? I�
��m on my way to collect the mares, but I need to leave some contingency in case we get delayed.”

  “No problem. See you then.” He rang off.

  I stared at the road ahead for at least a minute before I started the lorry again and signalled to pull out. It looked like I had a date with Dean. But what about Craig?

  I found Craig looking perplexed in Hamish’s old office in Balmoral, hands stuffed in his pockets. A thin layer of dust lay over everything, but otherwise it looked much as it had the first time I’d visited.

  Jet scuffed across the wooden floor and put a paw on my foot, looking up at me with his soulful brown eyes. I put a hand on his head.

  “What do I do with all this stuff?” Craig asked, waving an arm around the room.

  “Maybe offer it to Mrs Douglas? Or is there an exhibition of estate history that might take some of it?” Flicking open the ledger on the desk, I added, “But some of this is stud information you’ll need.”

  “Aye, of course. Sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, “it’s just getting on top of me. I can’t be doing with all the police questions and trying to get my head around the new job whilst still doing my old one.”

  “There’s an easy answer to that. Advertise for a new Pony Boy.”

  “I couldnae be doing that.”

  “Why not? You’re the boss now.”

  His face cleared. “You’re right, you know. I’m sorry, I didnae sleep much last night and my head is mince.”

  The strengthening of his accent seemed to be a hint that Craig was feeling stressed. “How about us going for that coffee you suggested? This can wait.”

  “Aye. Just give me a minute to go wash my hands.”

  While I waited for him, I took the opportunity to examine Hamish’s photos more closely, in particular the ones showing guild members.

  Oliver Seaforth I quickly identified, standing proudly beside Hamish. Pat McDade was also there, and Will Thomson-Bond, our Glengowrie farrier. None of the other faces were ones I recognised. Pulling out my phone, I snapped a quick photo, just as Craig re-entered the room. He gave me a quizzical look.

  “I can’t help thinking that the Horseman’s Guild is something to do with this,” I explained. “Since both of them were members.” I pointed at the photo. “Do you know any of these others?”

  He pointed at a fat man in the back row. “Thon’s Angus Hawksley who breeds Clydesdales. And beside him is Quentin Philpott the horse dealer.” He indicated another. “I think that guy’s a gentleman farmer whose wife runs the pony club, but I don’t remember his name. And next to him is the back man.”

  “The Terminator?”

  He nodded. “The very same. And Pat McDade you already know.”

  “And Will the farrier.”

  “Aye.” He squinted at a man standing in shadow at the end of the row. “I think that’s George Reid the saddler, but it’s hard to tell.”

  “Any of them have much to do with Hamish? Outside of the guild, I mean.”

  His lips pressed together. “The farrier comes here every week or two. And the saddler once or twice a year. We get our feed delivered from McDades. But that’s about it.”

  “But you never heard any arguments or complaints?”

  Craig shook his head. “Not that I can think of, sorry.” He pointed at the door. “It’d be more comfortable to chat over coffee?”

  The Balmoral café was busy, it being the weekend, and we got what must’ve been the last free table. Placing his baseball cap beside him on the plastic tablecloth, Craig stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “I never got a chance to ask you,” he said after a minute, “what did thon policeman want with you yesterday morning?”

  “Oh,” I looked down at my own coffee, hoping my cheeks weren’t reddening, “they want me to investigate Hamish and Oliver’s financial dealings. With my IT security business. You remember?”

  “Aye. The dragon tattoo.”

  I made a face. “I call it Aye Spy Investigations.” From a pocket in my phone case, I pulled out a card and handed it to him, rather than explain the spelling.

  “IT security, digital forensics, social media vetting,” he read, then looked up. “I suppose you’ve checked me out by now?”

  My cheeks were definitely red this time. I shrugged. “It would’ve been silly of me not to. But I didn’t find anything to worry about.”

  He thought on that for a moment. “Aye, I suppose you’re right. Any lassie would be a fool not to check out some stranger she just met.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Did you check out thon farrier for Trinity? If he gets a clean report, I’ll eat my hat.”

  My heart sank. “I never thought… to be honest, I’ve been so busy with the murder investigation it didn’t cross my mind. But you’re right, I should do. She’s seeing him tonight.”

  He looked at me over the top of his Americano, then set it down again. “Why don’t you stay up here tonight? We can go for dinner again. You can take the mares home tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t, I’ve already made arrangements for this evening.” I checked the time on my watch. “Actually, I’ll need to get going soon, so I get back in time.”

  Craig sat back in his chair and stared at his coffee cup again. He seemed disappointed.

  “Maybe next weekend?” I offered.

  “Aye, okay.” He drained his cup and stood up. “Let’s go and get those mares loaded afore it gets too late.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The bowling alley that Dean took me to that evening was a huge American-themed building in a retail park on the outskirts of Dundee.

  Inside was noisy with the sound of skittles falling, balls bouncing in gutters and fruit machines pinging. Purple lights edged each lane with its highly polished wooden surface, and spotlights highlighted the triangular group of skittles at the end of each alley.

  “I haven’t played bowls for ages,” I shouted in Dean’s ear as we dropped our jackets over the seats in our lane.

  He rubbed his hands and grinned. “Drinks are on the loser, then.”

  “That’s okay,” I countered. “You’re driving and I’m not drinking. So that’ll be lemonade all round.”

  “Unless you’re a ringer, and you’re just having me on?”

  Suppressing a smile, I stepped over to the rack and selected a ball, testing it for weight. Seconds later it was rolling down the alley, off centre and slower than I’d have liked.

  “Six!” crowed Dean as my score flashed onto the screen above us.

  I rolled my shoulders and picked up my second ball. “Just getting my eye in.”

  Of course, Dean turned out to be a bit of an expert. If he didn’t get a strike, he’d knock all the pins down with his second shot. But once he saw how useless I was, he started giving me hints and help.

  At one point he put his arms round me from behind to show me how to aim. All I could smell was chocolate, and all I could feel was the warmth of his body behind me. It reminded me of that scene in the movie, Ghost, and my legs turned to jelly as his voice purred in my ear.

  Then I became aware of something buzzing in my pocket, and the spell was broken. “My phone,” I said apologetically, and fished it out.

  Craig, the screen said, and I sat down heavily, waving at Dean to go and take his shot. “Hi Craig,” I answered.

  “Hi. Sorry to be bothering you, but I just found something out that I thought you should know. Or pass on to Trinity, anyway.”

  My heart stuttered. “Uh-huh?”

  “That farrier, Richard Mortimer. He’s married.”

  “Married! What’s he doing asking Trinity out then?”

  “Aye. You might well ask.”

  In the background, Dean sent his ball spinning down the alley at a rate of knots.

  “Is that—are you at the bowling?” Craig asked in my ear.

  “Strike!” Dean cried and punched the air.

  “Wait, is that thon policeman?”

  “I—it�
��s just a work thing. He asked me here to discuss the murders.”

  “Work thing my elbow. He wants more than a discussion. I could see straight away he fancied you.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” I spluttered.

  “No wonder you couldnae do dinner wi’ me th’ night.”

  “I’m sorry, it was already—”

  “An’ you can forget dinner wi’ me next week an’ all.” He slammed the phone down.

  I sat back in my seat, momentarily stunned. My eyes stung, and my throat felt like it was burning, so I reached for my drink and took a gulp, then nearly spat it all out again when Dean sat down next to me.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  Pulling a tissue out of my pocket, I wiped my mouth to play for time while I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “Uh, I’m not sure. I—I need to phone Trinity. Sorry.”

  Quirking an eyebrow, he stood again. “Okay, I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, even as my fingers were punching her number.

  Dean sauntered off in the direction of the toilets.

  “Izzy!” Trinity answered. “You having a good time, girl?” I could almost hear her frown. “Or are you looking for an excuse to leave?”

  “No, it’s fine—”

  “Great. Look at this,” she turned video mode on, and something blurry flashed across the screen. “We went back to Richard’s. He’s got all these cool animals.” She pointed the screen, and the picture sharpened to show something that looked like a fish tank. “Well, reptiles. This one’s a python.” She zoomed in on the vivarium and the leopard-like markings of a large snake swam into view.

  I gasped, as some pennies began to drop. Snakes were long and thin. In his vision, Eagle saw something long and thin. More clues fell into place, like how he’d disappeared from the pub the night Hamish was killed, and how there were stepping stones from there, across the river, and into the Balmoral estate. “Trin, do you know, does he have any spiders?”