by R B Marshall
A Right Royal Revenge
The Highland Horse Whisperer Mysteries, Book 2
R B Marshall
For my friend Margaret, who was a huge help to me while I was writing this book
Contents
On language and spelling
About this book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
A note from the author
Also by R.B. Marshall
From the Author
About the Author
GLOSSARY
CHARACTERS
Recipe: Veggie burgers
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2020 R.B. Marshall
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. You must not circulate this book in any format.
The characters, places and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First published, 2020
Cover by Alba Covers
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at rozmarshall.co.uk/books
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On language and spelling
A NOTE TO MY AMERICAN READERS:
The characters in this book are British, and the heroine is Scottish, so it would seem strange if they spoke American English.
Because of that, the British spelling and grammar used here might appear like spelling errors.
For example: realise (British spelling), realize (American spelling); colour (British), color (American); panelled / paneled; dialogue / dialog and so on.
We also use some words differently (eg our leg wear is trousers, not pants) and have some colourful dialect phrases (‘argy bargy’, ‘lovely jubley’) so I’ve included a Glossary at the back which I hope will be helpful.
About this book
A prize from a princess. Is it worth murder?
When Izzy Paterson--horse trainer and computer geek--gets a last-minute entry to the prestigious Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh, she doesn't expect to be tripping over dead bodies. Literally.
But in the competitive world of show-jumping, it seems that someone is so determined to win a coveted prize, they'll resort to murder.
As the body count rises, suspicions grow exponentially and the show descends into chaos. Can Izzy track down the killer and halt them in their tracks--or will she be next in their cross-hairs?
Chapter One
From where I lay in a heap on the floor of Glengowrie Village Hall, I glowered at my housemate, Trinity Allen.
‘Join my dance class’, she’d said. ‘It’ll be fun’, she said.
She lied. This was so not fun.
It had been fine at the beginning when we were just doing the basic steps. Forward and back. I could almost manage that—it reminded me of the way I’d move with my pitchfork when mucking out a stable. Although, the hall we were in was nothing like a stable.
Painted a warm cream colour, with a wooden floor and frosted windows which let in plenty of light, it was an inviting space, currently filled with what seemed to be about half of the village residents, gamely trying Trinity’s new Salsa Sensation class.
Then I’d made the fatal mistake of thinking, I’m getting the hang of this, just as Trinity added some sort of twist at the same time as a turn… and my feet went from under me.
You know that bit in the film Bambi where he splats on the frozen lake and Thumper laughs at him? Yeah, that was me, Izzy C. Paterson. The C stands for ‘Clumsy’.
Standing at the front of the dance class in her form-fitting Lycra and swirly skirt, with short hair framing her heart-shaped face, Trinity looked more like a young Halle Berry than ever. And she was so graceful, she made the dance steps look effortless. It’s all right for her. She doesn’t have two left feet, I complained to myself as I rubbed my twisted ankle.
When she spotted the predicament I was in, Trinity took a step toward me, as if to help me up. And then she halted, foot in mid-air.
I was just trying to work out why, when I heard chocolate in my ear.
“Need a hand?” The hot cop. Great. A strong arm hooked under my elbow, and helped me back onto my feet.
“Uh, thanks, Dean,” I said, untangling my legs and brushing dust off my rear, ducking my head so he wouldn’t see my flaming cheeks.
Around me there were a few sniggers and I noticed some elbows digging into ribs. Rats. Now I’d be the subject of village gossip.
Again.
Last time had been Dean’s fault too, after he accidentally-on-purpose bumped into me this morning in the local coffee shop, and invited me to join him for afternoon tea at Scotland’s poshest hotel. Where, of course, I managed to spill jam all over my front, and ended up looking like a murder victim.
Which was rather ironic, since the reason he’d invited me in the first place was to show his gratitude for my help in solving a recent murder…
Our first few weeks in the village had been rather exciting, to say the least.
I’d met the Queen, been interviewed for the local paper, nearly drowned when the river burst its banks, and rescued a rather cute little Jack Russell Terrier called Jorja. Oh yes, and uncovered a killer.
That was partly down to luck, partly to my skills as a computer hacker, and partly thanks to a weird vision I’d had… but more of that later.
While I’d been ruminating, Sergeant Dean Lovell, aka Sergeant Lovely, had guided me to the back of the hall and stopped in front of a long trestle table, on which sat a simmering urn and ranks of tea cups.
This evening the policeman looked more like Jon Snow than ever, in black jeans and a black shirt. He’d probably be granted honorary membership of the Night’s Watch if he asked—all he needed was a big black coat to complete the ensemble. “How about this,” he said. “You’ll be out of the way back here, and not get so embarrassed.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Then shut it again. He was right. It was better, looking at everyone’s backs, and not worrying that they were gawping at me and laughing.
At the front, Trinity had already started on the next sequence. Side to side, this time. I shuffled my feet, taking small steps to minimise the chance of tripping myself.
Beside me, Dean was doing a good imitation of a Strictly Come Dancing professional. “Have you done this before?” I hissed.
A shoulder lifted. “A little.”
Other than the bits of gossip Trinity had picked up around the village, this was almost as much personal information as Dean had ever divulged to me. The term ‘tall, dark, handsome stranger’ might have been invented especially for him.
“Tell me more?” I said, determined to find out further details a
bout the man. If he didn’t tell me himself, I’d have to start digging around on the internet and see what I could unearth about him there.
He gave me a sideways glance. “How about in the pub, afterwards?” Then he concentrated on his dance steps again.
My eyes were drawn to my own feet, checking they weren’t getting tangled, while I mulled over the additional gossip we’d likely cause if we went to the pub, versus the chance to get to know the person behind the uniform a little better. “Okay,” I said. Maybe this time I’d finally get him to open up.
It’s never a bad thing to be optimistic. Is it?
My ideas of a quiet chat with Dean over a tall drink were quickly dispelled when it seemed like the entire membership of the salsa class had decanted straight into the village pub, which was conveniently next door to the hall.
The Gowrie Brae—known as ‘The Brae’ to the locals—was a converted seventeenth century coaching inn, a long, single-storey stone building with a bar at one end, and, at the other, a kitchen which served delicious pub meals. In the middle, a log fire glowed in a wide hearth, and it was round this that most people congregated once they’d been served at the bar.
While I waited for Dean to get our drinks, I spotted Kalista Dudek next to the mantlepiece, sipping on something clear in a short glass. Her usually pale face was flushed, presumably from the exercise. The Polish woman was, in my opinion, one of the best people in the village, since her café served what might be the most wonderful coffee in the world—coffee that kick-started my day on a regular basis. Beside her was a man I assumed must be her partner, short and stocky, with thin dark hair and a prominent nose.
Sitting at the table nearest the fire were the Large sisters, only one of whom lived up to their name. Ina and Edie were the biggest gossips in the village, and I groaned inwardly when they spotted Dean heading towards me holding two drinks, and immediately started whispering behind their hands. How they’d been able to dance in their clumpy shoes and all-encompassing tweed suits I wasn’t sure, but they hardly had a hair out of place, sitting there with large leather handbags balanced primly on their laps, and genteel glasses of ginger beer before them.
“Have you met the minister?” Dean handed me my lemonade, and motioned over his shoulder at a curly-haired man in his late forties, with a round face and rosy cheeks. Wearing jeans and a golfing sweater with no dog collar, I’d never have guessed he was a man of the cloth.
The reverend held out his hand. “Brian May. Pleased to meet you. You must be Miss Paterson. I’ve heard all about you.” He stopped, probably noticing that my mouth was hanging open as I looked him up and down. “No, not that Brian May. My parents named me before Queen made their first album. Anyway,” he waved a hand disparagingly, “the famous Brian May is a lot taller than me. And I don’t play the guitar anything near as well as he does.”
A blonde woman appeared at his shoulder and handed him a pint of beer. “Miss Paterson, have you met my wife, Martha?” he asked.
“No, pleased to meet you.”
“And you.” She didn’t fit my mental image of a minister’s wife, similar to how her husband didn’t look like a cleric. Dressed in a mixture of Lycra and fleece, she was slim and fit, like someone who could run a marathon at the drop of a hat.
“Please call me Izzy,” I said to both of them. “I feel like I’m in trouble if someone calls me Miss Paterson.”
“Cheers Izzy!” The reverend held up his glass, took a big gulp, and smacked his lips appreciatively. “I needed that! Dancing is hard work. I gather our instructor, Miss Allen, is your colleague?”
“Yes,” I said, glad to have something to distract my brain from the mental confusion caused by my first encounter with a beer-drinking, salsa-dancing member of the clergy. “She helps me look after Lady Letham’s horses. But obviously she’s qualified to teach dance as well.”
Over in the corner, Trinity was surrounded by a group—mostly male—none of whom I recognised, apart from Neil Etherington, the nerdy reporter from the local newspaper.
“And I gather horse training isn’t your only skill? I heard you’re a whiz with computers.” The pastor downed some more of his ale.
“Are you really?” Martha piped up, her voice higher-pitched than I expected. “Maybe you could help me fix my email. People keep telling me it goes into their spam.”
I puffed out a breath. Why did people always assume you could fix their email, just because you were good with technology? I mean, I might be able to, but computer support wasn’t my forte.
Fortunately, Dean came to my rescue. “Izzy is more of a computer detective than a computer repair person, I think.” He turned to me. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. I do things like tracking down old friends or hunting for hidden files. Digital investigations.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “So you’re like a computer hacker?”
I never knew how to reply to that. Technically, a lot of what I did was hacking. But I didn’t do it with malicious intent. “Sort of. They call us ‘white hat’ hackers. As opposed to ‘black hat’.”
She looked mystified.
“It comes from cowboy movies where the baddie always wore a black hat and the hero had a white Stetson.”
“Of course.” Brian had finished his beer, and joined in the conversation again. “I’m glad to hear you’re on the side of the light. Talking of which—might we see you at the service tomorrow?”
“Ah,” I said, taking a sip of my drink to get my excuse straight in case I’d do my usual socially awkward thing and alienate the reverend by putting my foot in it. “We’re having Sunday lunch with my parents tomorrow. In East Lothian,” I added, when I saw him draw breath, no doubt to suggest we could go to church first. “We’ll be leaving straight after we’ve checked the horses in the morning.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Then he seemed to realise what he’d said, “I mean—”
I held up a hand. “It’s okay.” Maybe the vicar was a little socially awkward too. “You never really get a day off with horses.”
Muttering something about catching up with his other parishioners, the minister and his wife shuffled over to the next group and were soon caught up in loud conversation.
“That’s a shame,” said Dean, giving me a wry smile. “I was hoping we could maybe do something tomorrow.”
I shrugged. “Sorry. Next Sunday, maybe. I’ll only be visiting them once a month.”
“Izzy!” Trinity appeared at my shoulder, followed by the bearded journalist, Neil, who I was convinced was a bit of a Clark Kent and was probably quite handsome under all that hair. But my flatmate didn’t seem to rate him. “Neil wants another interview with you.”
“I thought you were next in line?”
“Still am. But it seems you catching a killer is more worthy of the front page than my salsa classes.” She drew the back of her hand across her forehead like some Victorian damsel in distress. “It’s a hard world out there.”
Neil looked between us. “It’s not like that—”
“Don’t take it so serious!” Trinity graced him with a smile, and I thought he might faint. “We was just joshing with ya. Now, Izzy, he wants to hear all about how you worked out whoddunnit.”
Dean must’ve spotted the alarm on my face, and he glanced from side to side. “It’s a bit busy in here. Remember, it’s still part of an ongoing police investigation. How about you meet with Miss Paterson on Monday? The paper doesn’t come out till Thursday, does it?”
I swear Neil shrunk by about two inches. “T—that would be okay.” He turned to me. “I could come by at about ten o’clock?”
“Um, actually, could you make it the afternoon? I’ve a new client arriving in the morning and we’ll be too busy.”
“Of course.” The roving reporter pulled out a tablet and stylus and tapped on the screen several times. “Would two pm be better?”
I nodded. “Let’s try for that.” Then I had a bright idea. “Perhaps you could do Tri
nity’s interview after. Kill two birds with one…” I trailed off, spotting Dean’s raised eyebrow. “Bad choice of words?”
“Not your best.”
Chapter Two
The serving spoon stopped in mid-air. “You met the queen?” She sat down with a thump, her eyes as wide as her mouth.
It wasn’t often my mother was lost for words, so I took a moment to imprint the image on my brain, before replying. Brown carpet, cream walls, taupe curtains—a medley of beige, offset by a woman who wore colours like they were going extinct and she needed to save them. Even her hair was pink.
“Briefly, yes. She was really speaking to our boss.”
From the other side of the dining table, Trinity piped up. “But she did give Izzy her stallion for training.”
“You must have made an impression, then.” My dad—a man of few words, the opposite of my mum—picked up the platter and finished dishing out the potatoes.
“I can’t believe it! You’re training the queen’s stallion?” Mum was in full flow again, obviously recovered from her surprise. “Wait until I tell Auntie Cathy! Maybe that’ll finally stop her talking about cousin Duncan and his medical degree. She never would accept that you getting a masters was as good as him being a doctor.”