RIGHT ROYAL REVENGE, A

by R B Marshall

  If this had been a video call, I’m almost sure Trinity would’ve been rubbing her hands together at this point. “Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle? Of course I will!”

  “Great. And could you do me a favour and look up the Glendoig Show and see when the closing date is? I kind of said we were entering Eagle to get her off my back. But now that I think about it, it’s probably a good idea as preparation for the Highland.”

  “I’ll do it right now, if you hang on…”

  There was silence for a minute, and, while I waited, through the windscreen, I spotted a bird of prey lazily spiralling above the slopes of a nearby mountain. I had no idea if it was an eagle or a buzzard—birdwatching was something that had never appealed to me—but it emphasised the grandeur of the landscape around me.

  “Saturday,” Trinity said. “Postal entries.”

  I checked the clock on the dashboard. I wouldn’t be back in time to make the last mail collection. “Is there a class suitable for Eagle? Ridden native or something?”

  “Er, wait a sec. Yes, native pony. But it’s in-hand, not ridden.”

  “Ugh. What ridden classes are there, then?”

  She made a little humming noise, presumably while she was scanning the schedule. “Hunter? Or riding horse?”

  “Riding horse would be better. Not my idea of fun and not ideal for him, but it’ll be practice. Talking of which—is there an in-hand class that would suit Allegra?”

  “Brood mare?”

  “Perfect! Can you do an entry for us and get it in the post tonight? It’ll be after five before I’m back.”

  “On it, boss.”

  “Don’t call—”

  “You realise I just say that to wind you up?”

  My lips twitched into a smile. “Not hard to do, is it? See you in a bit.”

  Chapter Twelve

  That was the last time I was going to leave Trinity in charge of a show schedule. “You entered us for what?”

  “I thought you meant both classes.” She pulled a tray with stuffed peppers on it from under the grill, and placed it on the counter.

  “So Eagle is both an in-hand native and a ridden riding horse?”

  Trinity wielded a serving spoon like it was a conductor’s baton. “Didn’t you said it was for practice? But he’ll be the business, he’s a cracking horse.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the jockey. I’ve never done an in-hand class. And I haven’t done a showing class since I was a kid.” Just the thought of it made my insides cramp up. “I don’t want to let the queen down.”

  “Girl, you’ll be alright. In-hand is just like walking them to the field, and you’ll get to practice with Allegra first. And tell me, what’s the difference between a showing class and dressage? You still go round in circles, right?” The tip of her tongue stuck out from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on serving our meal onto two plates.

  I lifted a shoulder. “I guess. There’s a bit more to dressage, but—”

  “But a horse that’s been trained well should be able to turn its hand—its hoof,” she corrected herself, “to anything. Yeah?” Taking a plate in each hand, she carried them through to the dining area.

  “You’re making a convincing argument.” I said through clenched teeth. “Okay, I’ll give it a go.”

  “Great. Now,” she jerked her chin at the colourful heap of food that was steaming gently on my plate, “eat up before it gets cold.”

  During dinner I had a smart idea, which had me searching on FaceBook when we were finished eating. “I’m sure I saw that Ruth had moved to Fife,” I said, “but I can’t remember her married name.”

  Trinity poked at the logs on the fire, trying to encourage them into life. The air was so still outside, it wasn’t doing much to draw the flames. “Why don’t you search under her maiden name, then?”

  I tried that, and had to hide my surprise when it worked. Obviously Trinity wasn’t so technophobic as she sometimes made out.

  Ruth Wilton (Spicer), the profile proclaimed, and her photo showed her holding a big bay cob who was sporting a red winner’s rosette.

  A childhood friend from pony club days, Ruth and I had lost touch when I went off to uni. But I’d heard on the grapevine that she was successful in the showing world, so she’d be the perfect person to ask for help—if she could spare the time.

  I fired off a quick private message, then looked up to find Trinity staring at me. “What?” I asked, my brow crinkling.

  “It’s just,” she motioned at us, “here we are, single and ready to mingle, it’s Friday night, and what are we doing?” She answered her own question. “Sitting at home like a pair of sad spinsters. I’ll bet Edie and Ina have a more exciting social life than us.”

  “Yeah, but you’re seeing Termie on Sunday for lunch, and we’ve got Salsa tomorrow evening and probably the pub after…”

  “But it’s Friday!” She jumped out of her chair and grabbed her phone. “Wonder what’s on at the flicks?”

  “That’s an idea.” I pulled my mobile out of my pocket. On the screen was a notification telling me that Ruth had replied.

  Ruth: Sure thing. Bring the horse down to me tomorrow, if you’d like. I’ve had a cancellation at 10.

  “Oh, that’s good. Ruth can do Eagle tomorrow at ten. We’ll have an early start, though, if we want to get the others sorted before that.”

  “Means we’ll get finished early too,” she said with a grin, and stabbed a finger at her screen. “What about this crime thriller? We could make a seven-thirty showing in Dundee if we got our skates on.”

  “Done!” I said, and hurried to my room to grab my things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Resting a leather-booted foot on the bottom rail of the fence surrounding her outdoor schooling arena, Ruth looked across at me, a strange glint in her eye. “I heard you was the one who found Pat dead in his office. Is it true he was butt naked?”

  “No! Where on earth did you hear that?” I finished adjusting Eagle’s girth and led him towards the mounting block. Ruth’s manège ran along one side of the big barn that contained her stables, and had a springy, crumbed rubber surface and a wooden fence on the other three sides.

  She lifted a palm. “Just—around. Wouldn’t have surprised me one jot. He always was a queer fish.”

  Something about the way she said this caught my attention. “Did you know him? Not just as a customer or whatever, I mean.”

  “Did you no’ know? Me and him used to be an item, back in the day.” I’d forgotten how broad Ruth’s accent was. It wasn’t as difficult to decipher as some, but she had a stronger brogue than me, even though we were both from East Lothian originally. Maybe mine had worn off when I worked in London.

  I paused with one foot half-way towards the stirrup. “You and Pat?” I couldn’t imagine them together. Ruth was taller than me—probably nearly six feet, and was solidly built. Not someone you’d mess with. Whereas Mr McDade had been average height, and would’ve been shorter than her. “Is he not a lot older than us?”

  She gave a coy smile. “Aye, but he was good for a laugh. And he sponsored a couple of my horses, so…” She trailed off, letting my imagination fill in the blanks.

  Beside her at the fence, Trinity’s mouth had fallen open. “So why did you ditch him? Sounds like he were the perfect man for a woman with an expensive equine habit.”

  She made a face. “That Francine got her claws into him.”

  By this time I had mounted and was walking Eagle in a circle at the end of the arena so I could still hear them. Ruth unlatched the gate and came into the arena to stand where I could ride around her. “Make sure he’s walking out properly, even when you’re warming up,” she said, switching to ‘instructor mode’ and effectively putting an end to our conversation about Pat.

  I caught Trinity’s eye as I passed her at the fence, and I could see from her face that she was thinking the same thing as me.

  Fortunately, Rut
h had her back to my friend, which was just as well. I didn’t think she’d appreciate it if she realised that we’d both moved her onto our list of suspects for the businessman’s murder.

  But she had prime motive—revenge—so what other conclusion could we come to?

  It was a shame that Ruth had to be a suspect. I really enjoyed my lesson with her, and felt Eagle was going much better at the end of it than I’d been able to manage on my own. And then she’d given me a quick primer on in-hand showing, which made me feel happier about next weekend’s show.

  The difference in Eagle’s ridden work was so dramatic that Trinity even commented on it, when we were safely in the cab of the lorry on the way back to Glengowrie. “Ain’t there a way you could buy him, Iz? I reckon he’d wipe the floor at dressage competitions.”

  I made a face. “I wish. But I used up most of my bonus from Bleubank buying Dancer. And my car.”

  “But your computer work—ain’t you due some dosh from that?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not expecting the police to pay their invoice in a hurry. That type of organisation usually takes at least thirty days to pay. And more likely ninety.”

  “You just need to get hold of some more customers. Shame Pat died when he did.”

  “At least Francine should still be paying for Darcy’s training. And the queen,” I added. “I guess she’ll settle up with me at some point, too.”

  Trinity gave me a cheeky look. “Tell you what, I’ve an idea how you could afford to buy Eagle.”

  I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like whatever she had to say, but I fed her the line she was looking for. “What’s that?”

  “If you just swear off coffee for a month. Kalista will probably go bankrupt, but at least you’ll have saved enough to buy the horse.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” I said mirthlessly. “Not going to happen. Anyway, you wouldn’t want to work with me every morning without my caffeine fix. Not a pretty sight.”

  Her lips twitched. “You said it, boss.”

  The rest of that day was a blur of activity, meaning we had very little chance to chat.

  It hadn’t helped that Leo came in from the field with a fat leg, and I’d spent ages cold-hosing it and fussing over him, hoping it was just a kick from over-exuberant playfulness, rather than something more sinister.

  I’d only had time to eat a banana and grab a cup of tea before it was time for us to go into the village for salsa class.

  Trinity had insisted on wearing her fluorescent outfit. “It’ll be easier for people to see what I’m doing,” she said, in justification.

  I was just glad I’d be hiding at the back of the class, so wouldn’t suffer from the full eye-watering glare. I insisted she wear a coat to cover it in the car.

  “So that’s another suspect,” she said as we turned onto the main road. “Ruth.”

  I’d been thinking about our list while I worked this afternoon, and realised my old friend had to be on it, however much I wanted to keep her as a riding instructor. “Yeah. It’s a shame, I like her.”

  “Me too. But she’s not the only one.”

  I nodded, slowing the car as we approached the outskirts of the village. “I’ll do a check on her later, when we get back.”

  “Gonna mention it to Dean?”

  Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I considered her question. “If the police are any good at detecting, they’ll know about her already, won’t they?”

  “I s’pose.”

  The village hall hove into view, and we both gasped at the sight of a line of people waiting to get in.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Looks like Neil’s article got you some new recruits.”

  “So it seems.” She rubbed her hands together. “Can’t wait!”

  “Well, at least I managed to stay on my feet this week,” I said to Dean as I waited for the publican, Harry, to pour my drink. After trying to persuade my feet to do ochos, cumbias and other Spanish words I couldn’t remember, let alone pronounce, I was a hot, sweaty mess.

  The policeman, however, managed to look cool as he leaned against the wooden counter, and hardly had a hair out of place.

  “Do you go to the gym?” I asked, wondering if that was how he was so fit. “You’re not even out of breath.”

  He rocked a hand in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ way. “We’ve got some kit at the station, so I use it when I can. But I did ballroom for years when I was younger. Salsa uses all the same muscle groups.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. “You were a dancer? Did you compete?” My drink appeared at my elbow, and I took a long pull from it, passing a tenner across to the barman.

  “Me and my sister were Scottish junior champions at tango, one year.”

  “Wow. Why did you give it up if you were that good?”

  He gave me one of those chocolate stares over the top of his glass. “For a boy from Paisley, joining the force was a better career move. I used to pretend I was going to football practice at weekends, not the dancing. But this one time, my dance shoes fell out of my backpack. I got beaten up so bad they broke a rib.”

  This was the most personal he’d ever got with me, and I hardly knew how to respond. It sounded like he’d had a hard time with a hobby like that. But would it be condescending of me to say so? Instead, I steered what I hoped was a middle road, as Harry handed me my change. “That must’ve been hard.”

  His mouth turned down. And then something caught his attention over my shoulder, and he frowned.

  “What is it?” I turned round to see what he was looking at, and spotted Constable Adamson, my speed-gun nemesis, standing at the far end of the bar. She was out of uniform, but her civvie look still involved too much make up, accompanied by skinny jeans and a low-cut top.

  Picking up his drink, Dean murmured to me, “Did you see her at class?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll need to go speak to her and find out what she’s doing here. I’m not supposed to be speaking to you at all,” he hissed, and took a step towards her.

  “Sorry.”

  Then he was gone, leaving me standing like a wallflower on my own. But not for long.

  I’d hardly had time to draw breath when the Large sisters descended on me in a sort of pincer movement that was so effective they must surely have practiced.

  “Evening, Miss Peterson.” Edie’s glasses glinted as she shuffled up beside me, crossing her arms over her large bosom.

  At my other elbow, her sister, Ina, quietly corrected her as usual. “Miss Paterson, aye, hello.”

  “Hello ladies.” I cast around for something uncontroversial—and un-gossip-worthy—to say to them. “Did you enjoy class this evening?”

  Edie’s mouth pursed. “This saucy dancing. I’m not sure the minister would approve.”

  “Aye, salsa dancing. Not good, not good.” Ina shook her head sadly.

  My hackles raised at their disparagement of my flatmate’s work. “But the minister is here. And his wife.” I pointed out where they stood in a group by the log fire.

  With a scornful look, Edie almost spat, “Och, he’s no’ a real minister. He’s one o’ they epistles.” She leaned in. “I hear they drink real wine at the communion.”

  “Episcopalians, aye. No’ Church of Scotland.” Her thinner sister stood ramrod straight, as if someone had taught her elocution as a child with a broom handle up her spine.

  I could see that this conversation was going nowhere. “Can I get you ladies something from the bar?” I asked, remembering that Trinity and I were supposed to be cultivating our sources in the district. Maybe I could find out what they knew about the McDades.

  “Oh we don’t drink alcohol,” Edie looked mortally offended. Then her face softened. “Perhaps a wee sweet sherry, though. Mother always used to say it’s one o’ the best soft drinks”

  “A wee sherry, aye. Good for the constitution.”

  Refraining from correcting them, I ordered them a couple of drinks.

  It was then
that Edie came out with what I’m sure had been the whole point of them joining me. “I hear tell you were the one that found Mr McDade dead in his orifice?”

  I just about spat out my drink at that malapropism, and had a hard job keeping a straight face.

  “Aye, in his office, was he no’?” Ina echoed, giving me time to collect myself.

  A quick glance across the room told me that Dean was making polite conversation with the policewoman—or at least that’s what his body language was saying. So he couldn’t intervene. But he would be a useful excuse.

  “I’m afraid it’s part of an ongoing police investigation and I’m not allowed to say anything,” I said. But perhaps I could pump them for more information. “Did you know Mr McDade well? Or his family?”

  That question lit the fuse. Taking a sip from her sherry, Edie settled back on her heels. “Well, I’m not one for gossip, but when we ran the post office, thon Francine used to come in quite regular. Posting parcels, she was. Returns from all the Catalans.”

  “Aye, dreadful catalogue shopper she was,” Ina chipped in.

  Edie leaned in closer. “Shopping edition, if you ask me.”

  “One of those shopaholics. Terrible thing to be.” Ina gave the clarification

  “But they could afford it, mark my words. When the colonel went out of business, they put all their prices up. Monogamy, don’t you know.”

  “Aye, had a monopoly in the area.”

  So Francine had a spending habit. Interesting. Evan Grainger the local postman was in the group by the fire with the minister. Maybe he would be able to tell me more—if I could get away from the sisters. But I had one more question to ask. “How did Colonel Roberts take it?”

  “Fair upset he was.” Edie’s thin lips pursed. “Went around with a face like thonder for about a month.”