Page 1 of A Very Bookish Murder
ONE
Snow might still have been lingering on the mountaintops in the Western Highlands of Scotland, but further down the valley in the sleepy village of Locharran, the earth had sprung to life once more, with wildflowers blooming in the warm sunshine, and, best of all as far as Ally McKinley was concerned,guests! The great British public were on the move again after the soggy, unsettled Easter weather, and Ally had reopened The Auld Malthouse B&B, where she hoped to welcome visitors into her newly spring-cleaned, polished premises, with its three en-suite double bedrooms.
Her last guests had been back in November when she had welcomed some hardy hillwalkers into the old malthouse, but from now until October was the time when she must make her money. And prove to her doubting offspring that this was truly a great venture. As well as it being a wonderfuladventure.Jamie and Carol, her adult children, had ridiculed her idea of escaping the rat race at her late age, a retired widow, then sixty-six. It was a crazy idea, they said, not least because she’d fallen in love with such an old building but had also spent all of her money converting it. What wasthatall about athertime of life? Andwhy would you want to leave Edinburgh? they asked. And your cosy little flat?
Ally had been on a holiday, recently retired from her hectic life as a television researcher in Edinburgh, when she first saw and fell in love with the old building in its magical setting on the heather-covered hillside in the shadow of the magnificent turreted Locharran Castle, home of the earls of Locharran. The current earl, Hamish Sinclair, owned most of the surrounding area, including the village, the moorlands and several lochs.
Yes, it was for sale, everyone said, but there was no ‘For Sale’ board up to advertise the fact, and so she’d had to do her first bit of sleuthing to find out who owned it. That took time, as did the conversion, and it also took a great deal of money.
A couple of years later, her sleuthing and investment had paid off and she was really beginning to feel settled in her new home. There was her relationship with Ross Patterson, the handsome (supposedly) retired vet, who’d just happened to be on duty when she took her Labrador puppy, Flora, in for her jabs. What a lovely man he was, and what a wonderful, and very unexpected, relationship they had at their late ages! There was her friendship with Linda, who lived in the village; her friendship with Magda, the earl’s wife; and, not least, her friendship with the earl himself, Hamish Sinclair.
Ally and her old malthouse had done well last year, and she was determined to build on that and make it the best little B&B in the Highlands. And so, when another of her neighbours, the rather eccentric artist Desdemona Morton, called in to ask if she could accommodate a group of ladies on a writers’ retreat at the beginning of May, Ally was delighted.
‘How many ladies?’ Ally asked.
‘Five,’ Desdemona confirmed. ‘They’re from the Literary Ladies Writing Retreat group. It’s organised by an old friend of mine, Penelope Fortescue-Rawlins. They go somewheredifferent every year. Last year it was Greece; this year it’s Locharran. They have lectures, writing exercises, et cetera, with the ultimate aim of becoming published authors. You know the sort of thing?’
‘Not really,’ Ally admitted.
‘It’s an excuse to join up with other like-minded women and have a holiday at the same time. Every year they invite a published author to join them to lead the workshops and share their wisdom, and the star of the show this year is Jodi Jones.’
‘I know Jodi Jones’s books! I’ve read several,’ Ally exclaimed. ‘And I love them – they’reveryracy.’ She paused. ‘I have one double and two twin-bedded rooms. Will that do, do you think?’
Desdemona nodded. ‘Jodi’ll need a room to herself, of course, and the other four will share the other two rooms.’
‘Where do you come into all of this?’ Ally asked, looking at Desdemona quizzically.
‘Jodi and I knew each other at university, along with Penelope,’ Desdemona replied. ‘Jodi went on to study literature and became a successful writer, while I concentrated on my art. Penelope read history, but it was always horses and rich, aristocratic men that really interested her! But we’ve all stayed in touch. There are thirteen in the group altogether, and the others will be staying at the Craigmonie Hotel, where the writing retreat will be taking place, but they didn’t have enough rooms for them all.’
‘Thirteen?’ Ally raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope that’s not going to be an unlucky number!’
‘Nonsense!’ said Desdemona. ‘Of course not.’
The ladies had duly arrived on the Sunday evening.
Jodi Jones, the well-known writer, was a tall, attractive woman in her sixties, with a long scarf draped artfully aroundher neck. The leader of the group, Penelope Fortescue-Rawlins, was a hearty woman with a very loud voice and a very upper-crust accent. Then there was Joyce Williams, also tall, white-haired and intense; along with Millie Day, fiftyish, small and mousy in appearance; plus Brigitte Atkins, who was French, married to an Englishman and, in her forties, considerably younger than the others.
Prompted by Jodi and encouraged by the others, it was this little group that invited Ally, on their first evening together, to join them at the Craigmonie Hotel the following afternoon to see what their group was all about and to listen to Jodi’s first talk.
And so, at precisely five minutes to three that following afternoon, Ally found herself amidst thirteen women of various shapes and sizes, only five of whom she knew slightly. Callum Dalrymple, the manager of the Craigmonie, had allocated them the Garden Room, which was a comfortable size for a dozen or so people and had a wall of glass doors looking out onto the garden, towards the river. She’d picked up a leaflet which listed all the ladies, where they came from and what they wrote.
Her own five had proved to be ideal guests so far, all having settled for continental breakfast and leaving tidy rooms, much to the relief of Morag McConnachie, Ally’s cleaner. Morag lived in the village with her husband, Murdo, who was the postman, and between them, they knew all the gossip and goings-on in Locharran.
Before Ally had time to study the list in detail, Jodi arrived with clipboard and notes, calling out, ‘As Ally McKinley is our honoured guest, she must sit in the front row.’ There followed some applause, although eight of these women hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
Ally, having hoped to remain inconspicuous at the back, was now persuaded to move forward and found herself next to a slim, pretty woman with red hair and an Irish accent.
‘You’re goin’ to enjoy this,’ the woman prophesied.
Jodi was attired in a blue linen maxi dress, with a very beautiful long, blue-and-green silk scarf around her neck. What was it about this woman and her scarves? Ally wondered. It must obviously be her signature look, she decided.
‘We’d also particularly like to welcome Della Moran,’ Jodi continued, ‘who is new to our group and has come all the way from Northern Ireland.’ She indicated the red-haired woman next to Ally. More applause.
Everyone had pens, notebooks and eager expressions. Ally had never thought about writing and wondered if this experience might possibly convert her.
‘God, I’d kill for that scarf!’ murmured Della Moran.
‘Me too!’ agreed Ally. ‘It’s really beautiful.’ She looked sideways at Della. ‘And it would look great on you with your red hair.’
