by Carly Reid
Carly Reid
Death in Dalkinchie
Dalkinchie Mysteries Book 1
First published by Inkpot Books 2019
Copyright © 2019 by Carly Reid
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Carly Reid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
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Contents
Reporting for Duty
A Judging Calamity
News Travels Fast
A Walk in the Park
The Wrong Marmalade
McScunnered’s Trail
A Visit to Drummond
Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Tay
A Wild Dash
Shortbread at the Castle
Patricia and the Poison
An Awkward Encounter
A Bit Hingy
Margaret Mustard Speaks
The Drive and the Golf Club
The Picture of Guilt
A Few Weeks Later
Author's Note
About the Author
Also by Carly Reid
1
Reporting for Duty
“Remind me of your plans today, Jessica?”
Reenie Maguire ran her hand distractedly through her mop of auburn curls, held back with her customary blue bandana. She sat at the scrubbed wooden dining table in her cozy little cottage, in the village of Dalkinchie in Perthshire, Scotland. With her other hand she held the remnants of a soft squeaky toy fox, currently being enthusiastically worried by a young tan and white puppy with soft, floppy ears. Opposite sat Reenie’s niece Jessica Greer, a young woman in her 20s. Between them lay the remnants of their breakfast, but both women were still enjoying large mugs of tea – the first of many, as Jessica was becoming accustomed to after eight weeks in Scotland.
“I’m reporting on the Dalkinchie Craft Show! I’m sure I have mentioned it once or twice over the last couple of weeks.” Jessica teased her aunt.
“No, I remember that, of course. I was wondering what your timings were. Whether there was any wee break in the day for you to take little miss Willow here for a walk with me.”
Willow tugged away at the ragged toy, her eyes fixed on Reenie. Even at this early stage, her ears flickered slightly at the word “walk” and definitely turned upwards at the sound of her name. Jessica observed this, smiling at the pup’s antics as she finally bested Reenie and settled down with the toy fox between her paws, chewing determinedly on its knotted tail.
“Well, Grant wants me to observe the whole process, from the checking in of items through set up and judging, and then later on this evening the award ceremony. There will be a gap between registration and judging, and then judging and the show opening, but I think I’ll work in the newspaper offices – there’s a lot to write and a tight turnaround to get it in next week’s paper.
“Tomorrow the hall stays open and people can put up items for sale. The report will mostly be about the show, atmosphere and ambience and so on, and then an exhaustive list of all the winners, but he thinks I will be better able to understand how it all fits together if I observe from the start. He’s probably right. I think it’s quite a big deal,” Jessica finished, remembering conversations she had had with villagers over the past week, including her friend Ealisaid Robertson who owned and ran Lissa’s, the local café and coffee shop.
“So I hear,” remarked Reenie. She ran her own business, The Bloom Room, a small flower shop in Dalkinchie, but it was a recent enterprise and a big shift from her previous career as a corporate event florist in Edinburgh. Neither of them had yet witnessed a full yearly cycle in Dalkinchie, and it was the first Craft Show weekend for both of them. As she spoke, Willow discarded her toy and jumped up, barrelling over to Reenie and pawing at her knee. “Woof!”
Reenie reached into the pocket of her zipped fleece top and produced some small treats. She held the treat in the air, just above the puppy’s nose. “Willow, sit!”
Immediately Willow sat obediently, her eyes fixed on the treat which she soon received, along with a “Good dog!”
“So, I think there will be some coming and going, but I will be at the Village Hall for a lot of the day. I’ll try to pop in, but I also have to try and dodge Nicholas Pringle who is still after me about last week’s local community group meeting. I think he wants to have his say in what I’ll report, but I’ve already nearly finished it. Do you have a busy day in the shop?”
Reenie was only half paying attention, trying to get Willow to lie down for her treat. Failing to do so, she accomplished another successful ‘sit!’ command and followed up by placing a treat on the ground a few feet from the puppy and saying ‘stay!’ This was a miserable failure. Willow seemed to have no concept of waiting for her treat and scurried over as soon as the treat touched the floor. She’d gobbled it up before Reenie could remove it.
“Sorry, Jessica, what was it you said?”
“I just asked if you would be busy today.”
“Nicely busy. I have a couple of arrangements to be picked up, a few orders for gifts, and someone coming in to talk about flowers for a silver wedding in the afternoon. Plus the usual walk-ins, and perhaps there will be more of those if the village is busy for the Show.”
Reenie stood up, and looked towards the window.
“It’s looking like a lovely day and it would be nice if there were more visitors from out of town, happy to spread the word about the new, charming flower shop! I was wondering if you’d be able to join me for lunch and a walk, but it doesn’t sound likely. I won’t make it to the Show, although I might pop along tomorrow. I could make you a sandwich, and I was thinking of just picking up some fish and chips for dinner, would that suit you? You might be glad of it after a long day.”
“I’d like that, but I keep telling you Reenie, you don’t have to look after me. I can sort out my own lunch and dinner on days like this.”
Jessica had joined her aunt in Scotland earlier in the summer after a bad breakup with her long-term boyfriend had forced her to re-evaluate her post-college summer plans – and in fact, her entire life plans. Leaving her family and her secured place at journalism grad school in the U.S.A, she had committed to living in Scotland for a least a year, working as a part-time reporter for The Dalkinchie & Drummond Herald under the supervision of its editor, Grant Mack, and also working occasional shifts when either her aunt or Ealisaid needed another member of staff. This plan had so far worked extremely well, and Jessica found she enjoyed living with her aunt very much. Reenie and Jessica’s mom Bella were twins, and although outwardly quite different – Bella was a lawyer, and had the professional demeanour to match – their closeness meant that Jessica felt entirely comfortable as a member of Reenie’s hous
ehold. Plus, here she didn’t have to fight over the shower with her siblings, her two younger twin sisters Kyla and Lorna, and the baby of the family, their brother Alexander.
Her mom’s Scottish upbringing meant that Jessica hadn’t experienced too much of a culture shock, having visited Reenie in Edinburgh many times and even traveled around a little in the past. However, she was still learning every day – not just about life in Scotland, but about living in a close-knit village community. Having everyone know your business definitely took some getting used to. And now they had thrown dog-training into the mix as well. Reenie had planned to get a dog at some point after she moved to Dalkinchie, but events were precipitated when a springer spaniel puppy became available in a local litter. One look, and both Reenie and Jessica had been completely smitten. Willow was now a part of their family, and they were attempting to train her on some basic commands, with only mixed success. Although she had nailed ‘sit’ she had always struggled with ‘stay’, and as for ‘down’ - forget it!
“Och, I enjoy it, you know I do. Fish & chips it is then. I’ll pick them up after closing and I’ll keep yours warm in the oven. You can text if you are going to be very late.”
“Sure. I had better head off now. I want to be there for the jam and preserves registration, because Ealisaid is booking that one in and I know she’ll be patient about explaining the process to me. It seems extremely complicated!” said Jessica, thinking of the forms she had already seen, and the printed list of proceedings she had in her folder.
“Jams and preserves? Oh, maybe I’ll enter. I’m quite proud of my latest batch of blaeberry and bramble jam. Would you be able to take a jar up for me?” Although Reenie was addressing Jessica, she was distracted by the dog who had now curled up on her feet and closed her eyes.
“Too late Reenie! Registration for entrants closed two weeks ago. It’s just admittance that’s happening today, and you would need to already have an entrant number. I did give you the form…”
“Oh of course you did, I remember. Not to worry, there’s always next year. You can scope out the competition for me. Tell me who the real threats are! Anyway, I hope you have a good day. This is an exciting assignment Grant has given you. It’s a really popular show, and I’m sure you will learn a lot.”
“Thanks. I am excited. Grant says that he usually gives events like this four pages – including the centre double-page spread. That’s the most I’ll have written for the paper so far, but I’m sure I can do it, and it will be interesting to learn more about traditional Scottish crafts in the process.”
“I’ll see you when I see you, then. Enjoy it, and I hope there’s no controversy at the judging!”
Reenie was making a joke, but she couldn’t have known how prophetic her words would turn out to be.
* * *
The hustle and bustle was already evident by the time that Jessica got to the Village Hall. The normally sparsely-filled car park was completely full, and people were carefully making their way across the street into the large weathered stone building, ferrying bundles of textiles and carved wooden items such as chairs, footstools and small tables.
She knew that the show was divided into different classes by types of craft, and then within those classes there were subdivisions called categories. You could enter as many different classes as you wanted, but a maximum of three categories per class. At least, she thought that was the case. It might be an idea to check again.
Entrants were able to bring their goods to the show and officially register them on the morning of the Show, with half an hour allocated to this process per class. Once this was achieved, entrants were able to set up their crafts on the designated tables in the large hall, where they would then have to leave them for the judging to take place. By 11 o’clock, Jessica had been told, everyone would have left the Village Hall apart from the various sets of judges, who would move around, making notes, conferring and finally appointing the first, second and third prizes and marking them with coloured dots which would then be replaced by beautifully penned cards. Grant had secured permission for Jessica to be present in the hall at this point in order to make her notes with a clear view of all the exhibits without any people in the way. The same privilege had been bestowed upon Magnus Smith, a sometime freelance photographer for The D&D Herald, as it was known locally.
Jessica couldn’t deny that this was a pleasing turn of events. She had met the part-time farmer, part-time photographer socially as well as working with him a couple of times, and found him relaxed and easy-going company.
From 2.30pm to 5pm the Show would reopen to entrants, and to the general public as well. At 6pm there was an award ceremony, with several cups and trophies available for excellence in particular classes. Jessica looked forward to hearing the history of these, some of which had been donated by local organisations, and others set up in memory of village personalities. For now, however, she headed straight for one of the smaller side halls held within the building, where she knew Ealisaid was tasked with registering entries in all the categories within both the jams and preserves, and the cakes classes.
“Morning, Jessica!”
Ealisaid sat behind a small desk just inside the door, ticking people and entries off on a clipboard and directing them towards the correct section of the tables which were set up on three sides of the room. One was already covered with an assortment of cakes, while the one on the opposite wall under the window was beginning to fill up with jewel-colored jars, and the table at the back was bare save for a draped snowy-white tablecloth. Three chairs were evenly placed behind it. The judging table. Ealisaid had already explained that the edible classes were judged separately from the rest of the crafts, requiring tasting and independent verification by a panel of three, of which she was one.
Jessica was used to seeing her friend dealing with a line of people. Ealisaid had been the sole proprietor and manager of her café for nearly ten years, since she was 19. The two women had become friends immediately after Jessica arrived in Dalkinchie, and although Ealisaid did not have much free time, had got closer in the intervening months. Now Jessica was glad to see her, knowing that at least one person would be patient and happy to answer any questions she had.
She had not heard the same about the head judge and show convenor, Desmond Wilcott, who was reputed to be quite unbending and humorless, and was responsible for many of the rules and regulations that defined the day. Still, looking around, Jessica could appreciate the need for them. Everything was running in an orderly and logical fashion. Signs on the walls clearly laid out the timescales for the day and informed entrants of what they would need to bring. Signs beside the individual tables laid out the requirements for the classes, and Jessica knew that these were a repeat of the information contained in the original brochure and registration form. Small entry number slips were laid out on the tables, intended to prevent people from rearranging the entries so as to showcase their own.
It’s certainly exhaustive Jessica thought to herself as she read:
Rules for entries
Jars and lids should not show brand names.
Jars should be cylindrical with vertical sides (not hexagonal, octagonal, bulbous, etc.)
Jars must only be labelled with contents and detail the day, month and year made; labels should be half way up the jar and parallel to the base; they can be hand written or printed.
Contents must reach within 3mm of top of jar.
Polished external appearance with no finger marks.
Seals must be airtight; twist tops preferred but waxed circles and cellophane are acceptable; not screw thread tops like on honey jars.
‘Frilly hats’ make no difference to the judge’s decision which is based on flavour, texture and colour.
She turned around just as a tall man entered the room. He made an imposing figure, with a head of wavy dark brown hair, friendly green eyes and a full beard. He was wearing stout boots and a dark green tartan kilt, topped with a thick navy cable kn
it sweater. From the crook of his elbow swung a curved wicker basket lined with a bright red gingham, within which nestled three gleaming jars.
“Morning, Ealisaid! A fine job you’re doing here.”
Jessica recognized the man instantly as the MacNaughton of Castle Drummond. She had heard and read plenty about him since arriving in Dalkinchie. He was the Clan Chief of Clan MacNaughton as well as the Laird of Drummond, living in Castle Drummond in Dalkinchie’s neighbouring village. She knew that he managed a medium-sized estate, owning land in both Drummond and Dalkinchie, some of which was given over to tenancy smallholdings – crofts, as they were known in Scotland. He appeared in the local paper for one reason or another almost every week, but this was the first time she’d seen him in person, and she watched with frank curiosity as he registered the preserves in his basket.
“Good morning, Mr MacNaughton. This’ll be Margaret’s jams and marmalade?” Ealisaid had already begun to scan her list.
“Aye, that it is right enough. Name of Mustard, Margaret Mustard, her entry number will be on the list but I have it here somewhere too if you need it…” He began to unclip his sporran, the leather purse Scottish men wore on a chain around their hips when wearing the kilt, but Ealisaid waved him away.
“No, no, I have it here. One pot blaeberry jelly, one pot raspberry and rhubarb jam, and one pot of the famous orange and whisky marmalade.”
“All present and correct, Ealisaid! Usual place…right, right, I’ll just pop them over here and I’ve to head off, I’ve got to see a man about some sheep, and then I’ll be back at 11 for the woodwork judging.”
The big bearded man delicately placed the jars on the judging table, smiled at Jessica and Ealisaid and then left, nodding cheerfully to another man who had just entered the room carrying a cake and with a sturdy-looking woven cloth bag awkwardly slung over his arm. “Donald.”
The man nodded back. He matched the MacNaughton for height, but that was where the similarity ended. He was a portly man, wearing an ill-fitting pale grey suit, white shirt and tartan tie. Despite his relatively formal dress, the overall impression was of dishevelment – thinning grey flyaway hair, a florid face, shirt straining and escaping from the waistband of his trousers and splashes of mud on both his lower trouser legs and his shoes.
