A Trick of the Light

by Ali Carter

  Praise for

  A Brush with Death

  ‘Absorbing, charming and funny, A Brush with Death heralds a fresh and welcome new voice in crime writing. Susie Mahl is also a welcome new detective: witty, warm and very inquisitive.’

  Antonia Fraser

  ‘It’s a big fat BRILLIANT!!!!’

  Amanda Prowse

  ‘This is a crime novel for mystery fans sick of gore and sexual violence. Just curl up and lose yourself happily in this world of animals and toffs – closely observed by a beady-eyed artist turned amateur sleuth who realises all is not as innocent as it looks and is determined to do something about it.’

  Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘A delicious new voice in crime writing... Excellent on the English aristocracy and written in a fine, wry style, we will hear much more of Miss Mahl.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A riveting, charming and very funny new crime series from the fabulously talented Ali Carter.’

  Piers Morgan

  ‘The first book in a promising new series will remind you of Downton Abbey and Miss Marple, except that this Miss M is a pet portraitist with a penchant for rather expensive underwear, and it’s purely for her own pleasure.’

  The Bookbag

  ‘An entertaining read, and one that had me up to the wee small hours.’

  Crimesquad

  ‘Carter is a fresh and welcome new voice in crime writing and Susie Mahl a very different new detective.’

  Crimereview

  ‘Brilliantly enjoyable; coolly observed.’

  The Tablet

  ‘A Brush with Death is the first in a charming new series about pet portraitist and amateur sleuth Susie Mahl, and the debut novel from animal enthusiast Ali Carter.’

  Crimereads

  ‘A Brush with Death is a perfectly English mystery, with an abundance of all the right jokes, details and muddy dogs. Author Ali Carter’s first book is a lovely romp and shows promise for a wonderful tongue-in-cheek mystery series.’

  Foreword Reviews

  ‘Animal lovers, Anglophiles and fans of humorous, socially observant whodunits will look forward to the next Susie Mahl mystery.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Fans of country-house cozies will delight in this series debut.’

  Booklist

  ‘Its rich details on the British leisure class may interest fans of Downton Abbey and G.M. Malliet’s “Max Tudor” mysteries.’

  Library Journal

  ‘A fun read.’

  Sussex Life

  ‘A Brush with Death is a charming and amusing murder mystery. It contains great character observations and is written with humour. She brings to life the world of the aristocracy and everything which goes with it. A pleasant change from the dark Norwegian noir genre. It is definitely a book to take on holiday.’

  Country Wives

  Praise for

  The Colours of Murder

  ‘It’s a rare talent that creates a work that is both whip smart, fast paced and at the same time gloriously genteel. Carter is that talent.’

  Amanda Prowse

  ‘This is a well paced and exciting read. More please!’

  Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘Charming description of how “the other half live”. The characters come alive and are very entertaining... I loved it.’

  Promoting Crime

  ‘A Christie homage whose upper-crust humour targets readers who recognise the differences between a country house and a stately home.’

  Kirkus

  ‘The gentle pace of an episode of Midsomer Murders and the intrigue of an Agatha Christie novel.’

  Sussex Life

  ‘Whip-smart, pacey, yet effortlessly genteel... Susie is everything a cosy detective should be – absorbing, witty, warm, charming, funny and endlessly inquisitive. Carter has created a character Agatha Christie would be proud of – a sort of 21st century Jane Marple.’

  Crimereview

  For Geordie, Jack and Laura

  Lang may yer lum reek

  Far above the old walls of Auchen Laggan Tosh house, a full moon crept from beneath a heavy cloud. An owl hooted in the garden and pines swooshed in a gale. Laughing, swaying, the young Earl and Countess of Muchton and their friends stumbled into the hall. A grand wedding party on the neighbouring estate had finally petered out and now all were safely home.

  The guests, a couple, great friends, wished their child’s babysitter on her way and off she went into the night. It was late, and nothing was going to stop these four from heading straight to bed. Nevertheless Eliza, Countess of Muchton, popped the usual sleeping pill. ‘Darling,’ she told her husband, Robert, ‘I like to take one just to be sure.’ He grunted as he wobbled down onto their four-poster bed. Alcohol, not drugs, sent this man to sleep.

  Out went the lights and in no time Eliza exhaled an elegant snore. Robert shuffled under the covers as he drifted off. Once again, he couldn’t be bothered to remove his shirt, boxers and socks, not that this troubled his wife – she’d long given up trying to control him. Robert was an unreformed alcoholic, and Eliza had made her peace with the situation – alcoholism wasn’t something to be ‘cured’. She poured her energy into creating a loving home, one where the children could thrive. Mother Nature had not yet blessed her with any, but she had youth on her side and lived in hope.

  The Earl and Countess of Muchton’s marital bed was so huge neither ever disturbed the other in the night. Whenever Robert’s dreams took a turn for the worse he would break into an anxious sweat, unbeknown to his wife.

  Tonight, these dreams began full of glamour; the wedding had been up there with the best. Their neighbours, one of the oldest families in Britain, had spared no expense giving away their daughter. Eliza had sparkled amongst the other guests, she’d taken some of the best family jewels on an outing around her neck. Countless compliments had come her way, and those dazzling diamonds now lit up her husband’s drunken dreams. Robert’s mind indulged in rich and rare reflections and, as he wrestled under the covers, a subconscious smile appeared on his face.

  But soon the dreams darkened, and the worst of his nightmares encroached. His late father loomed above. No matter Robert had been only six when his father died, he could clearly make out those domineering words: ‘Make sure to keep hold of the family fortune.’ But Robert had always lived beyond his means. Relied on the diminishing family trust to keep afloat.

  Here now, fast asleep, he ruffled off the covers and slid out of his side of the bed. There must have been something particular in the alcohol tonight: he’d never actually sleepwalked before. But nothing was going to stop him now – this man was on a mission.

  Having grown up at Auchen Laggan Tosh, he knew its architecture inside out. So, when in stockinged feet he wandered from the room you could pretty much guarantee his friends in the opposite wing didn’t wake.

  But their young child was never at peace in a house that groaned and, as the wind whistled through a rotten sash window, the child lay in bed quivering, eyes shut… listening.

  Robert tiptoed around the landing, flicked on the light in a particularly dark corridor, and crept along the floorboards. He creaked open a bedroom door and a shaft of light followed him in. He was totally oblivious to the child in the corner whose heart beat terrified in a little chest.

  It’s a fact that when children are frightened very young they don’t tend to tell their mummies and daddies. Not a whisper of the night-time wanderer. Not a hint of the strange mission of this man in a trance, who didn’t have an inkling someone was watching. This only child fell straight into the trap: avoid at all costs being called a fool.

  Forty-five years on and what happened that night lies buried. Robert, 9th Earl of
Muchton, has passed away aged seventy-seven, leaving behind his wife and their twin sons – Fergus the heir and Ewen the younger.

  The house, Auchen Laggan Tosh, boasts the presence of a king…but behind the door the past lingers. Earls in succession have fought, lost and won. Lives have been taken early and others have lived long. Women have been widowed and children died. Money has been made and gambled. The life of a Muchton is a rollercoaster. Good luck, I say, to the current Earl.

  Over a humpback bridge I went, the river Trickle below. I knew the name from the ‘literature’ I’d been sent back in January, when the Earl and Countess of Muchton had first asked me to be resident tutor on their Life Drawing and Landscape Painting Course.

  Five-day tutored Life Drawing & Landscape Painting Course

  Monday 23–Friday 27 March

  Run in the wonderful setting of

  Auchen Laggan Tosh Estate,

  home of Fergus, 10th Earl of Muchton and his wife, Zoe. Standing amidst 12,000 acres of Highland Scotland with an abundance of wildlife, Auchen Laggan Tosh is a Palladian mansion, designed by the architect Robert Adam in 1761. It overlooks the river Trickle and is secluded but not remote, the town of Muchton merely four miles away.

  Woo hoo. This invitation could not have come at a better time. I’d been back at home in Sussex after yet another singleton London Christmas with my dear parents Joseph and Marion, and I’d needed something – anything – to put in my diary and perk up the dismal, short, wintry days.

  ‘You’ve been recommended by our great friend Suzannah Highbridge, you drew her Labrador last summer,’ is how it all began. ‘I’ve visited your website and your talent as a draughtsman and painter would, we feel, fit the concept of the course perfectly.’ The Countess of Muchton wanted me.

  A spot of Googling and I’d found a picture of the hosts, gleaned from last August’s Muchton Village Monthly. The Earl and Countess were nice-looking, so the camera reports in the scene of them cuddled up on the stone steps of their pile, liver cocker spaniel sitting at their feet. Fergus’s full head of salt-and-pepper hair and the look of self-assurance on Zoe’s face suggested to me this pair had left their twenties well behind; might even be fast approaching their forties. Now, seven months on, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a baby brewing: almost inevitable that the later a couple commit the quicker a little squealer pops out. Not to mention the enormous house in the background crying out for an heir – someone to continue the custodial chain and keep all those treasures within the family.

  I’m an oil painter and pet portraitist by profession, and although I’ve never tutored before, I’ve been to enough classes to know how it’s done. So, almost from the moment the Muchtons’ email pinged into my inbox – ‘We have a small class of eight signed up and we’d be delighted if you fancied making the trip north for the first of what we hope to be repeated courses’ – I was eager to accept. This residency would shake up my routine, introduce me to a new crowd and earn me some much-needed pennies, and – here’s hoping – if I make a success of it there may be further tutoring opportunities to come.

  Home, in Sussex, is a heck of a long way from the north of Scotland, and I let out a squeal of relief that I had reached the Muchtons’ drive at last. Bump, bump, bump my car went as I gripped the steering wheel and tried my best to negotiate the divots. It was so dark outside there was no way of seeing the Highland landscape and I could only imagine infinite moorland with a fresh dusting of snow. The flakes, delicate and beautiful in the car headlights, were landing softly on my windscreen and disintegrating before the wipers got their wicked way.

  Du-Dump, my car went through one final hole in the I’m-desperately-in-need-of-a-repair drive and I drew on to what felt like gravel. Several outdoor lights flooded the way and I swept in front of the imposing house. Oh jeepers – there’s an almighty drag on my steering wheel – I must have picked up a flat tyre. Never mind. I’ve made it here, no need to worry right now.

  I parked a respectful distance from the front steps next to an unbranded minibus and turned the ignition off. Brrrr it’s cold. Better not hang about. So, grabbing my suitcase from the back seat – my art materials could stay in the boot for the time being – I rushed towards two hefty external curved stone staircases. I’d never been to a house with an entrance like this – an upside-down horseshoe, good luck spilling out. With no obvious door on the rusticated ground floor, I scampered up the right-hand steps to find a way in. My hot breath in the cold air was one step ahead of me until we reached the smooth dressed stone of the first floor. Wow. This was some place. I stopped and looked up, the snow fell in my eyes and the sudden piercing shrill of a bird in the sky sent me lickety-split bursting through the Corinthian portico. No way was I going to hang about and ring a bell.

  Surely someone had heard me enter? But no one came, so I waited patiently in the cold, dilapidated neoclassical entrance hall. There was a dim electric wall sconce glowing, only just bright enough for my eyes to dart in and out of empty alcoves, rise up a fluted alabaster column, cling to the corner of the Corinthian capital whose broken leaf had dropped as if it were autumn, scoot along the high-coved cornice, paint peeling along the way, then spiral up, up, up the full height of the house into one big, black sinister dome. The silence was magnified in the empty void and as my gaze fell from the glass cupola down to the hall I felt myself break into a cold sweat. Pull yourself together, Susie, I said – if you’re going to be a good tutor you must muster more confidence than this. But there wasn’t a singly homely attribute in here. No flowers, no stray shoes, no junk mail, no coat hooks, no wafts from the kitchen and no chitter chatter. I wanted to curl up and magic myself back home. I suddenly missed the smell of my new pomegranate diffuser, the stripy tea cosy I’d knitted in a flash of way-beyond-one’s-years in December and the sheepskin slippers I splashed out on at New Year.

  I took in a deep breath and drew what sense of belonging I could from Robert Adam’s harmonious proportions. But that only went so far…where was everyone? I knew I’d got the right day – I’m so (some would say boringly) organised I could never get something like this wrong. But, as I waited and shivered and stood there feeling lonely, I picked up on a tinge of sadness in the atmosphere. Have I come to an unhappy place? Or does it just need a lick of paint?

  Straight ahead of me was an arch leading into the main body of the house where an imposing staircase came straight down from the second floor in one fell swoop. Opening its jaws in arrival to the newcomer. A welcome of sorts. All of a sudden, a liver cocker spaniel came rushing down it, doing his very best not to trip on his ears.

  Yes. A pet. There’s nothing like a dog to make a house a home. Perhaps this one has been longing for a friend?

  ‘Hello, poppet,’ I said as he approached me, wiggling his bottom on the black and white marble floor. Wiggle wiggle wiggle it went as his beady eyes glazed with excitement and I felt myself smile at last.

  My hand shot out to pat him, but this dog wasn’t going to let me cuddle him just yet. He paused a few feet away, looking up at me, now thumping his tail.

  Thump, thump, thump it went and the longer I waited for a human being to appear the more ominous the sound became. I felt a tension build between us – this pet was weighing me up.

  ‘Hello…’ I called out, and the dog began to whine. Then, following my second slightly louder, less quivery ‘Hello’, came a ‘Coo-ee, who’s there?’

  The spaniel turned to look and through the arch emerged the bright lustre of flame-red hair, tucked and tied above the shoulders of a woman dressed in a cosy long kilt. ‘Zoe Muchton,’ she said as her hand shot out, and with the same speed a smile appeared on her face. By no means a beautiful face, but one that wore expression well and left me in no doubt this woman was genuinely pleased to see me.

  ‘You must be Susie Mahl. Well done for finding your way here.’ (This meant everyone else had arrived.) ‘I do hope the snow didn’t cause you any problem. It’s only just begun falling. I rather
like it. A layering on the roof gives a little bit of insulation. It’ll make the bedrooms ever so slightly warmer. A good thing, wouldn’t you say?’ Her eyebrows rose with enthusiasm and her pupils swelled.

  ‘Yes. But,’ I told a slight fib, ‘your house doesn’t feel cold to me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Zoe looked down at the dog, which had come to heel. ‘You and me, Haggis, we know how cold it can get. Haggis, this is Susie; Susie, this is Haggis. I think you’re going to be the best of friends.’

  I bent down and ruffled his ears, craving some love in return. But no, Haggis’s eyes were fixed on his owner, worried she might bark if he dared share his affection.

  ‘Now, come, Susie.’ Zoe tapped me on the shoulder and I followed her through the arch. ‘Dump your luggage there at the bottom of the stairs. Haggis will guard it and we’ll go into the sitting room and get the introductions over with. The sooner we have the sooner we can all relax.’

  Her energetic arm stretched for the handle but a BANG to our left stopped her in her tracks. I turned, startled. A skin-headed man in a tweed waistcoat and hunting-stockinged feet stumbled his way through a door behind the stairs. The keeper I’ll bet.

  ‘Stuart?’ said Zoe with a sing-song in her voice.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ He was frantic.

  ‘Now’s not the time, I’m afraid, we have a house party, you know, for the painting week and they’ve only just arrived.’

  If Zoe isn’t flustered then neither am I. Well, at least I’m trying to convince myself of that.

  Stuart wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘I’ve been away this afternoon, yous sent me to pick up a roll of tweed fer the mill, but Donald just rang to say he saw lights doon by the river.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Maybe as much as an hour ago.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No idea. When he headed doon the drive he only just caught the tail lights of a car taking off.’

  ‘How odd.’ Zoe raised her hand to her chin. ‘We have had people coming and going so it must have been one of them.’