Mistletoe and Murder Read online

  MISTLETOE AND MURDER

  LAURA STEWART

  Copyright © 2022 Laura Stewart

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  The right of Laura Stewart to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.

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  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8013-2

  CONTENTS

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by Laura Stewart

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  You will also enjoy:

  A note from the publisher

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  ALSO BY LAURA STEWART

  The Murderous Affair at Stone Manor

  To Lindsey, who always thought a book dedication would be cool. This one’s for you, lovely X

  PROLOGUE

  NOVEMBER

  ‘Now then, Sadie, have you got everything this time?’ Lorcan Flynn asked the elderly lady as he walked her to the waiting taxi.

  Sadie smiled sweetly and nodded, her silvery white hair slipping loose of the kirby grips. ‘You know what they say; if you leave something behind, it’s your subconscious letting you know you want to return,’ she said, then gave a small chuckle, ‘or it could be dementia setting in.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ He chastised her fondly. ‘You’re more on the ball than I am.’ Lorcan held the taxi door open for her, giving the local driver a friendly greeting.

  Once she was safely seat-belted up in the front seat she wound down the window. ‘Can you put my name down for the next course you’ll be teaching? I feel I’m ready to work on facial features now.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll forward on the details. Now, you take care of yourself.’ He patted the car roof and watched as it drove down the dirt track. Sadie was the last to leave the Lorcan Flynn Residential Art School and, much as he loved tutoring, he was glad to have the time to himself again.

  He loosened the red spotted handkerchief which tied back his dark blond dreadlocks and turned to go back inside, feeling the bite of late autumn in the air. He stood for a moment taking in the view; the clouds skimming past the watery sun creating rolling shadows on the gold, green and browns of the patchwork fields. On a clear day like today Lorcan could see down towards the village of Glencarlach, with little glinting patches of the North Atlantic. Although still daylight, the moon was high in the sky, as if impatient for the day to end.

  Lorcan hoped for a dazzling array of stars tonight. His telescope was always within easy reach in case the universe put on a show. With uninterrupted views all around him and no street lights around, Lorcan was constantly reminded of how remote this place was. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Although originally from rural Northern Ireland, Lorcan had spent most of his twenties in Glasgow, at first studying at Glasgow School of Art then working in the same city, making a name for himself from the highly coveted paintings with equally high price tags. Yet, it seemed, the more successful he became, the more disillusioned he felt. Suffering from an ‘is this it?’ moment not long after his thirty-fourth birthday, he wondered if a change of scene was what he needed. He’d moved briefly to London, then even more briefly to New York, tried Berlin too, but despite the bigger and more vibrant art scenes, Lorcan felt emptier than ever before.

  He moved back to the West End of Glasgow, reconnecting with his fellow artistic souls but by that point ennui had set in and he soon felt out of step with his contemporaries. He knew he’d become stuck in a rut, a little of his artistic spirit disappearing daily as he moved further away from the man he’d been in art college. A victim of his own success he found himself craving a simpler life.

  His painting style developed into a more untamed free form, he returned to the world of sculpture; to the art which no one really wanted or understood, that he’d put aside when fame and fortune came knocking. But those were the pieces that made him feel alive again. And although he knew it was desperately cheesy, he had an urge to give something back; he wanted to ignite the spark of art appreciation in others. After much hand-wringing and indecision, he’d spent a weekend holed up in his beautiful Glasgow townhouse watching reruns of Grand Designs and George Clarke’s Amazing Spaces and, feeling inspired, first thing Monday morning he took a leap and bought a smallholding in the north of Scotland. He hired an architect and together they created a working art studio where he offered week-long, tutored, residential courses.

  First, he’d converted the stable into a glorious art studio. He then transformed the scrub yard and derelict outbuildings into an oasis of calm, planting wildflowers to attract local wildlife and erecting cosy en suite eco-pods so he could have up to eight people staying at a time. Then he’d extended his own living quarters, turning it into a sprawling, spacious home, with glass down one side of the building, capitalising on the views of the surrounding dramatic glen.

  There was plenty of living space but he always seemed to gravitate to the heart and soul of the house – the kitchen – with the log-burning fire and Aga cooker, where he could sit for hours watching the changing colours of the sky over the Torridon Hills in the distance. The kitchen seemed to be his guests’ favourite place too, he’d noticed, as most evenings he had to practically stick dynamite under them to make them head off to bed in the wee small hours of the morning. But secretly he was delighted; as well as providing first-class tuition, the food and ambi
ence had become as much of a crowd-pleaser thanks to the local chef he hired to cook the breakfasts, lunches and dinners for those on the course (allowing Lorcan to pick up some culinary skills at the same time). And his well-stocked cellar of rather nice wine and single malts played its own part in the attraction too.

  The majority attending his courses were middle-aged couples searching out an alternative to a fortnight in Lanzarote, but Lorcan didn’t mind, he loved witnessing the joy on their faces when they produced their first ever landscape or still life. He made enough money from the handful of courses he ran throughout the year to keep him going through the other months, allowing him to focus on his own work. He’d even started evening classes in the Glencarlach Village Community Hall and he helped out once a week at the local primary school. He finally felt fulfilled; life was good.

  Lorcan went through each of the eco-pods to make sure no one had left anything and, finding them empty, turned the beds back, ready for his cleaner, Ruby, who was due first thing the next morning. He checked his watch – almost four – perfect time to head off into the village to the Whistling Haggis for that day’s special and a quick pint. Or four.

  Tutoring season was well and truly over and it was high time Lorcan joined the Glencarlach social whirl once more.

  As he was heading back to the main house, his mobile started to ring. He was surprised at the name that flashed up on the caller ID.

  ‘Hello! Long time no hear, how are you?’

  ‘I’m well, Mr Flynn. Yourself?’

  ‘Aye, I can’t complain.’

  ‘Is this a suitable time to call?’ the voice down the other end of the phone said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lorcan let himself back into his house, closing the door over to keep the warmth in.

  ‘Good. I do hope you recall the matter you assisted me on previously.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good, that’s very good. I fear something has come to my attention which would indicate a similar scenario and I may need to enlist your help again.’

  Lorcan sat at his kitchen table, all thoughts of pints and a pie vanishing, and listened carefully to the man on the other end of the line.

  CHAPTER 1

  18TH DECEMBER

  Amelia Adams lowered her brush and took a step back from her easel to critique her work. If she squinted just a little bit more, it vaguely resembled the assorted elements of the still life before her.

  One thing was certain; she was no natural artist.

  ‘Okay, everyone, that’s enough for tonight. And this year!’ Lorcan Flynn announced from the front of the class. ‘I hope everyone has a merry Christmas and I’ll see you back here the second week of January. Oh, and please remember to drop off your submissions for the art exhibition and let me know if you want to put them into the auction,’ he added, shouting over the noise of chairs being scraped back and the other class members chatting as they gathered their belongings together.

  Amelia started to pack up her paints and brushes as people streamed out from the village hall.

  Lorcan came over and surveyed her painting and Amelia felt acutely awkward under his intense scrutiny. ‘You can be as rude as you like about it,’ she said.

  Lorcan looked taken aback. ‘Why would I be rude about it?’

  ‘Because I have all the artistic ability of a blindfolded three-toed sloth.’

  Lorcan pulled a face. ‘I hear they’re very skilled watercolourists. But seriously, don’t be so hard on yourself, your proportions are good, the shapes are fine. If I was being super-critical, I’d say it’s possibly a little flat, so yeah, you could work on your depth…’

  ‘Are you trying to say I’m shallow?’ Amelia joked.

  Lorcan laughed. ‘We just need to focus on light and shade to really bring out the dimensions. We’ll focus on that next term.’

  ‘So, have you got anything planned over Christmas?’ Amelia asked as she slipped her canvas into her art folio and zipped it up.

  ‘You mean apart from being the chief organiser of the Glencarlach art exhibition and auction?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘No, nothing else. Just a couple of weeks of bingeing Netflix and eating and drinking. Speaking of, we need to get a night planned.’

  ‘Yes!’ Amelia agreed heartily.

  Lorcan had arrived in the village not long after Amelia and as ‘new-comers’ together, had formed a strong friendship. It wasn’t long before Lorcan’s easy-going friendly manner and Northern Irish charm had won over the residents of Glencarlach.

  ‘In fact, Toby mentioned having a drink in the Whistling Haggis tonight,’ Amelia said

  ‘Ah, your brother can always be relied on for a quick half in the local! That sounds good!’

  ‘As long as I can get away,’ Amelia said, mentally going through her to-do list. She’d even swithered about making it along to the art class that afternoon, but despite not being very accomplished at art, Amelia did enjoy the two hours she spent clearing her mind and focusing on a charcoal drawing or a painting.

  ‘You busy?’

  Amelia nodded as they headed out the village hall together, Lorcan switching off the lights as they went.

  ‘We’ve got a wedding planned, with the guests arriving from tomorrow and they’re staying for the next ten days.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  Amelia wasn’t so sure. What had started out as a low-key event was morphing into quite a full-on affair! As the owner and manager of the luxury boutique Stone Manor Hotel, this was the first major wedding Amelia had been in charge of since opening. In fact, it was the first of any kind of wedding Amelia had been in charge of since opening.

  When Carlo Todero and Lucy Carvalho had first got in touch a couple of months previously, they’d loved the idea of a simple, rustic wedding in the naturally beautiful spot of Glencarlach in the north-west of Scotland. They’d been enchanted by Stone Manor itself; an impressively grand Georgian mansion Amelia had inherited from her beloved godmother, complete with hidden passageways, priest holes and a folly. And there was the legend of the hidden treasure – a rare and priceless ruby that sent many of the previous inhabitants insane and murderous in their desire to find it. As a mystery fiction fan, it had become a dream come true for Amelia to star in her very own mystery, and she had indeed ‘starred’ thanks to a documentary crew filming her journey as she renovated her new home into a luxury boutique hotel.

  Although the treasure had now been found and returned to the Cairo Museum and the saboteur that had almost killed Amelia in his desire to discover the treasure for himself had been caught and imprisoned, the mysterious Stone Manor had lost none of its allure for Amelia and she was determined to turn it into a successful hotel and wedding venue no matter the demands of the betrothed couple.

  ‘Well, fingers crossed I see you and your brother tonight,’ Lorcan said as he took out a big bunch of keys and locked the front door of the hall. ‘And what about that boyfriend of yours? Is he back from his book signing tour yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Amelia said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She checked her watch. ‘Although he should probably have touched down in London by now.’ Jack Temple had been gone a couple of weeks, touring the States, and Amelia couldn’t believe how much she’d missed him. Being busy at work helped pass the time but as soon as she finished her shift and headed back to the Gatehouse they shared on the hotel grounds, her loneliness was palpable.

  The Gatehouse was on the compact side of bijou and Jack frequently drove Amelia to distraction by spreading his work out over every available surface, while his discarded boots tripped her up in the hall. His muscular six-foot-two frame took up most of the small double bed and when he’d left, Amelia had at first loved all the extra space and not having him cursing every couple of minutes as he bashed his head on the low beams. But now, over two weeks on, the novelty of having the bed to herself and the peaceful evenings had lost their appeal. The Gatehouse now seemed cavernous and void of life. Amelia had even worn
one of his oversize woollen jumpers to bed, pretending it was for warmth but knowing deep down she really wanted to get a whiff of that familiar fresh air, outdoorsy smell of him. She feared she was at risk of turning into a soppy and simpering female from a romance novel.