A Lively Midwinter Murder

Book 4: Three Dahlias Mysteries

by Katy Watson

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Thrillers

Synopsis

'The perfect mix of cosy, festive, and twisty . . . the best kind of book to curl up with on a cold night by a roaring fire' KRISTEN PERRIN, author of How to Solve Your Own Murder

'Once again Katy Watson delivers the perfect cosy: atmospheric, ingenious and fun!' IAN MOORE, author of Death and Croissants

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Planning the perfect Christmas wedding can be murder . . .

A high society Christmas Eve wedding at a remote Scottish castle sounds like the perfect winter getaway for the three Dahlias and their partners - until a snowstorm hits, cutting them off from the mainland, and civilisation.

Which, of course, is when the dead body of one of the other guests turns up in the snow outside the family chapel. A dead body wearing a wedding dress and a stolen diamond necklace...

The Dahlias were ready for mulled wine, roaring fires, and romance this Christmas. Now, they're on the hunt for another murderer. And if their suspicions are right, it looks like the wedding may be off ...

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'Cosy crime with a glitzy, glamorous, seasonal glow!' LANCASHIRE POST

'An unputdownable read' WOMAN'S OWN

'Pure festive fun, perfectly set in the midst of a snowstorm in remote Scottish castle . . . I couldn't put this latest instalment of the Dahlias series down!' C L MILLER, author of The Antique Hunter's Guide to Murder

'Writing as crisp and gorgeous as the snow' ALEX HAY, author of The Housekeepers

'It's about as fun as a murder can get . . . ticks all the boxes for a perfect festive mystery' JO JAKEMAN, author of One Bad Apple

'A cracking Christmas mystery with all the spine tingling trappings of a Scottish castle by the sea. What more can you ask for?' S J BENNETT, author of The Windsor Knot

'This great story glitters and shines like the most beguiling Christmas ornament' J M HALL, author of A Spoonful of Murder

'A glorious winter read, perfect for snowy afternoons by the fire with a mulled wine and a couple of mince pies. The three Dahlias are enchanting' LIZA NORTH, author of The Weekend Guests

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 80000

Sample

Bonnie Blackwell leaned over the stone balcony and looked out at the sea loch and the hills beyond. Here at Dunwick Castle they were surrounded by water – this place where two lochs met, one from inland sweeping around the other side of the castle, and this second, tidal loch that let out eventually to the sea. Separated only by the narrow stone bridge that connected them to the mainland, it was easy to feel isolated here – but Bonnie had never felt it more than now.

Snowflakes drifted down, light and insubstantial, more of a mist than a flurry. But the tops of the hills were white, and the grey skies promised there was more weather ahead.

She knew how to read the clouds here. Those waters and those hills had been her home growing up, but she wasn’t used to seeing them from this vantage point. Or this side of the loch.

If she squinted, she could make out the grey stone walls of her childhood home, Kinley House, on the other bank of the loch. Smaller, less grand than Dunwick Castle for sure, but no less ancient or proud. At this distance, the scaffolding and mechanics holding up the East Wing were invisible, the builder’s vans and men all hidden around the other side of the house, and she could almost pretend nothing had changed at all. That she was eighteen again, that magical summer before she met Allen and everything changed, looking back at Kinley from Dunwick and knowing for sure where she belonged.

Halfway up the west coast of Scotland, inlets and islands, lochs and land all merged together in places, an uncertain edge between earth and water. But there was one firm dividing line Bonnie had been aware of her whole life – the one between the land that belonged to her family, stretching north, and the land that belonged to Dunwick Castle, and Duncan’s family – the Alexanders. Growing up, she knew that Blackwells and Alexanders did not mix, ever. And so that line became a border, invisible but inviolable.

She’d crossed it, though. More often than anyone knew, back when she was a teenager. And now again, twenty years later, this time with her husband and brother, all of them guests here at Dunwick Castle as the Christmas and wedding preparations happened around them.

It wasn’t exactly a comfortable situation, but given that last week’s storm had knocked out part of Kinley House’s roof and allowed water into the electrics. . . well, it was certainly a fortuitous one. They’d have been here soon enough for the wedding anyway; her brother, Jamie, would be acting as best man to Duncan and her own husband, Allen, would be what he, as an American, called a ‘groomsman’. These days, the two families were close. Closer than they’d ever been at any point in history, as far as Bonnie could tell from the stories.

Although her parents were still staying at the Castle Hotel on the mainland, rather than joining them, so maybe not that close, yet.

From the edge of the balcony, she looked down – at the beach below the cliff the castle stood on, and the buzz of activity on the sand. Police tape blew in the wind, one pole already sinking into the incoming tide. Officers hurried around taking photos and searching for clues, before the waves swept them all away. Already the body that had washed up there that morning had been removed, carted away for a post-mortem, Bonnie assumed. The boat that had washed up with him, though, remained for now, carefully cordoned off.

The beach was Alexander land, so of course they’d all been asked to speak with the police, even though it was obviously a tragic accident. Someone trying to cross the usually calm loch on a wild night. The little rowing boat must have capsized and he’d hit his head and drowned. She was sure that was what the post-mortem would say. Even though no one who knew the tidal sea loch well would risk such a journey in the depths of a winter night.

Bonnie had grown up on tales of smugglers who used the labyrinth of inlets and caves along the coast to bring in their wares. It was almost comforting to believe the man might have been one of them.

Nobody had recognised him. Everyone at Dunwick Castle – family and guests – had looked blankly at the horrible photos – the swollen face, the blackened eyes. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t belong here.

Nobody had recognised him. That was what they’d all said.

Even though Bonnie was certain that wasn’t true.

She stepped away from the balcony, into the suite’s sitting room area, and glanced through the open door into the bedroom. It wasn’t a room she’d visited before taking refuge from the storm damage at Kinley House that week, but since she’d stumbled across it on arrival she’d already visited it often. Something she really should stop doing. Someone would find her soon, and how could she explain what she was doing there?

This wasn’t her room. This wasn’t her place. But still, Bonnie felt like she belonged here.

She gazed at the long, white satin dress hanging from the antique wardrobe in the corner of the room. Once, a long, long time ago, Bonnie had daydreamed that she might be the one dressing for her wedding here at Dunwick Castle.

Instead, she’d been married from a hotel in upstate New York, followed by a honeymoon across the loch visiting her parents. But after fourteen years chasing their dreams together, most of them in the States after Allen’s dreams started to supersede her own, they were back in Scotland for good now. Or, at least, Bonnie was. As for Allen. . . well. She was the last person he’d tell his plans to, these days.

The castle was quiet. Where was everybody? Elsbeth would be skulking around somewhere, treating the castle like her own, just like her mother had done when she was the housekeeper at Dunwick Castle. Bonnie had been surprised to find her old friend back in Dunwick after so many years, but it seemed that Bonnie wasn’t the only one who felt the need to return to lick her wounds after too many years of failed dreams. Oh, Elsbeth said she’d only come back to nurse her sick mother in her final months, but the funeral was over long before Bonnie and Allen had arrived, and yet, here she still was, serving the Alexander family the way generations of her family had done.

Yes, Elsbeth would be around somewhere, even if she kept to the shadows, unheard and unseen seeing and hearing everything.

But what about the family? Duncan’s and hers, for that matter. Where was the happy bride-to-be? Here Bonnie was, in the rooms Libby never seemed to use, but no sign of the bride herself.

Come to that, where was Allen? She’d barely seen her husband since they arrived from Kinley House. She supposed he was reliving his university days with Duncan and Jamie. Pretending they were still the carefree boys they’d once been, instead of men in their mid-thirties with responsibilities and, in Allen’s case at least, a rapidly receding hairline.

And really, did she care where her husband was? She should just enjoy the quiet of this room she didn’t belong in. And then leave before anyone caught her here.

Soon, she knew, the castle would be bustling with wedding guests. Libby’s family – or rather, the friends she called family – would be arriving later that afternoon, and Duncan’s godmother would be there soon, too. But right now everyone was occupied somewhere else, and she was alone. She could breathe cold, fresh air from the balcony, and away from everyone else she could think at last.

Bonnie had a lot to think about.

Some of those thoughts raced through her mind as she imagined running her hands down the satin of that wedding dress, smoothing it over her own body. She had decisions to make, the sort of decisions that would change not just her future, but other people’s too. People she cared about – and people she hated.

She had to think about what was best. What she would do.

But instead, her mind kept tripping back to the idea that this week, this wedding, was something that had been stolen from her. That, if she’d known back then everything she knew now, it would be her wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe.

That, perhaps, it still could be. If she chose right.

In the encroaching gloom of the late afternoon, she saw car headlights gleaming as they took the bend around the loch, towards the narrow stone bridge that forded the water to reach the small island that surrounded Dunwick Castle. She returned to the balcony to watch them approach. Not long now.

She frowned as something caught her attention below, on the narrow strip of land that separated this side of the castle from the sharp cliffs and then the stony stretch of beach below. Something white, moving in the half-light. A person? But who would be out in this weather if they didn’t have to be? More likely a plastic bag caught in the wind, or one of those protective suits the scene of crime officers were wearing down on the beach.

But it didn’t seem to move quite like a person. Gliding across the whitening grass, almost invisible, disappearing when the light changed then reappearing further along the ledge.

Maybe it was the famous Dunwick Castle ghost. Bonnie had always wondered if she’d finally get to see her. If she was real. Allen had gobbled up the tale when he’d first heard it, but she knew he didn’t believe it. Neither did she, really. But some days, she wanted to. Wanted to believe that some part of her might linger here, too, once she was gone.

But no. Not a ghost. Perhaps one of the police officers had come up to look for further clues. Except— wait. Was that—?

A blast of snow blew in from the open balcony doors and she stepped backwards, her skin stinging with cold. Still, she didn’t shut the doors. Being so close to that border between stone and air made everything feel less real.

Made everything feel possible.

But when she looked back out over the balcony, whoever, whatever it was she had seen had gone. Disappeared into the landscape, perhaps.

She turned back to the wedding dress again, stepping through the door towards it and, this time, she gave in to the impulse to touch it. The dress started to slide from its hanger, as if it were eager to be in her hands, and she righted it. It was a simple, chic dress with long, open-ended sleeves and exquisitely stitched empire waistband under the deep V of the neckline.

Really, it could have been made for her.

A banging door outside caught her attention and Bonnie let the fabric fall, stepping away from the dress as she hurried out of the room.

She’d be back, she knew. But not tonight.

Tonight, she had a decision to make.

‘One must always be very careful who one chooses to spend Christmas with, Bess.’

Dahlia Lively in A Very Lively Christmas

By Lettice Davenport, 1943

Rosalind King had to admit, it was hard to beat the Scottish Highlands for sheer drama.

On one side, she had the towering mountains and looming hills, on the other the wild waters of the inlets, lochs and rivers that led to the islands hidden in the mists over the Atlantic Ocean. And she had plenty of time to admire both, since Jack was crawling along the winding road at approximately the same pace as a tortoise.

Rosalind crunched another sherbet lemon and made a point of commenting on the scenery rather than their speed. There was enough not said between them already that one more thing wouldn’t matter, and she really wasn’t in the mood for a fight.

Jack grunted, hunched over the wheel of his sturdy, dark grey estate car as he studied the road ahead, windscreen wipers flicking away the occasional snowflake that dared to darken his vision. ‘Not as good as Wales,’ he said.

Rosalind didn’t bother disagreeing with him. The cushion pressed into the small of her back could only do so much after so many hours of driving, and she knew just getting out of the car when they reached their destination would be difficult enough. Hopefully Jack would be in a good enough mood to help her up by then.

Rosalind had always believed that with age came wisdom – the wisdom to know oneself, at the very least. She just wished that wisdom didn’t also come with so many aches and pains.

Eventually, the hills and roads began to look familiar, at last, and she straightened in her seat. ‘Not far now. The village of Dunwick should be just around the next bend. From there, it’s not far to the castle.’

The area around Dunwick Castle had been stunning in the summer sun – and still beautiful even in the inevitable Scottish summer rain, too. In the icy cold of deep December, with the clouds gathering overhead, it felt more mysterious, maybe even exciting. Still, Rosalind was glad she’d packed her favourite cashmere wrap for the chilly evenings. She’d bought one each for Caro and Posy, too – a practical but beautiful Christmas present. And if Jack’s eyes had widened at the sight of the price tags, well. It wasn’t his money, was it?

And despite his suggestion, she was not going to buy them both a fleece-lined onesie in a festive print instead from the site he’d found online.

Last Christmas, their first Christmas as a sort of couple, had been easy. Nothing had really been concrete between them then – after everything that had happened in Wales, and then the filming again in Scotland, it had been a busy year. They’d taken the odd weekend to get to know each other again after so long, and exchanged gifts the week before Christmas Day in a rather lovely hotel somewhere on the coast, but she’d spent Christmas itself with Posy at Caro and Annie’s house.

This year, everything was different. There was no denying they were in a proper relationship now, and had been probably ever since they spent New Year together at her place in London. The fact that her first thought, when Libby had mentioned a Christmas wedding, was to wonder how Jack would feel about spending Christmas in Scotland, spoke to that.

Somehow, despite vowing to herself after the events at Aldermere two years prior that she would enjoy her twilight years alone, or with friends, doing whatever the hell she liked, thank you very much. . . somehow, she’d found herself in another relationship. A serious one.

And she liked that, she did. She enjoyed spending her time with Jack, valued his company, and honestly, having great sex into her sixties wasn’t something to be sniffed at either. It was just. . . an adjustment. That was all.

Jack followed the road around the bend and then, suddenly, there was the village of Dunwick laid out before them. The bunting and brightly coloured awnings of the summer had been replaced by twinkling lights and a large fir tree by the cross. And as they passed the village square, Rosalind spotted wooden cabins with signs for spiced wine and gingerbread.

‘A Christmas market! We’ll have to get Libby to bring us back here before the wedding. Maybe we can even find them a present. . .’

‘I thought they said no gifts on the invitation,’ Jack said. ‘Else you’d have bought one by now. God knows the boot is half full of Christmas presents.’

‘They did,’ Rosalind admitted. ‘It just doesn’t feel right to show up to a wedding without at least a small gift.’ What was the point of making all this money if she couldn’t spend at least some of it on those she cared about? Besides, wedding gifts were traditional. They were standing as Libby’s family for this wedding – how would it look if they didn’t give them anything?

‘They’re going to be living in a castle,’ Jack pointed out. ‘He’s a laird, whatever that means these days. I think they’ve probably got all they really need, don’t you?’

‘I suppose.’ Rosalind settled back in her seat as they turned out of the village and onto the road that led between the waterways towards Dunwick Castle.

She’d last seen Libby and her fiancé, Duncan, that summer at the premiere for The Lady Detective, the movie they’d filmed – eventually – at Dunwick Castle eighteen months earlier. They’d certainly seemed happy and content with their lot then – a giant diamond sparkling on Libby’s ring finger, and matching smiles on both their faces.

But then they’d moved up to the castle full time, and by the time Rosalind, Caro and Posy had received their wedding invitations, all hadn’t seemed quite so sparkling.

Ever since I moved in here at the castle, after we got engaged, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something. . . wrong. More than that. . . well. I’ll tell you when you get here.

That was what Libby had written in the note that accompanied the invite. And it was enough to get all three Dahlias packed and up to Scotland a few days ahead of the wedding, just in case they were needed.

Two and a half years after they first met, the three Dahlias – Rosalind King, Caro Hooper and Posy Starling – had solved three murder cases, and become family. Most importantly, they’d learned that when things felt wrong, they usually were.

If Rosalind and her friends were famous for playing the fictional lady detective, Dahlia Lively, on screen, Libby McKinley was famous, too, in film circles, at least. She was the screenwriter who’d saved the movie of The Lady Detective. She’d also been too close to murder before, at Aldermere, and the Dahlias trusted her instincts.

One final bend, and Dunwick Castle came into view. Crenellations, turrets, balconies and all. The whole building was a mishmash of styles and structures that looked as if generations of the Alexander family who owned it had simply added whatever they fancied to the building, without any concern for what was already there. Which, now she thought about it, was probably what had happened.

The bizarre collection of building stages and the sloped ground of the island meant the inside of the castle was filled with small staircases and odd mezzanine levels. It had looked charming and quirky on the big screen, Rosalind reflected. Now she just hoped that her and Jack’s room wasn’t on one of the upper floors. Her back would be certain to protest, if it was.

‘Blimey O’Reilly.’ Coming from Jack, Rosalind took that to mean he was impressed.

‘It’s certainly something, all right,’ she agreed. But she couldn’t help frowning at the sight of the castle, looming up high on its isolated island between the inlet from the sea and the inland loch that joined it. Its only link to the mainland was a long, stone bridge, barely wide enough for a single car. They’d ended up bringing much of the larger filming equipment around by boat, she recalled, which had proved something of a palaver.

It had still been easier than the original film set in Wales, though.

But while in summer, Dunwick Castle had been a relief, a retreat, a cool and welcoming place to film after the horrors of the original shoot, now it looked foreboding. Frightening, even.

And that was before she spotted the police presence on the beach below the castle.

A shiver ran down Rosalind’s spine, and Jack reached over to turn the heater up on her side of the car. She smiled her thanks, unable to find the words to explain that it wasn’t the cold that had made her quiver.

Libby. Her first thought hit without reason or consideration. Libby was scared and now there were police and the terror Rosalind felt for her friend pulsed through her veins.

But no. Libby had texted her, not half an hour ago, when she’d messaged to update their planned arrival time. There were no sirens here, and they hadn’t passed any on the road. Whatever had happened here had happened long before then, surely?

So why didn’t she feel reassured?

‘What do you think that’s all about?’ She pointed through the windscreen, down to the beach, and Jack frowned, his knuckles turning a little white on the wheel.

‘I’m not sure.’ But she could tell from his voice that he intended to find out.

Good. She needed the reminder, right now, of why she fell in love with him. And she did always love it when he pulled out his old detective inspector swagger and found things out for her.

The gates at the end of the bridge were already open, and Jack pulled around to the small parking area beside the castle. There was no sign of Caro’s red sports car, so Rosalind assumed she and Annie hadn’t arrived yet. Posy and Kit were flying in to Glasgow, then getting a car to bring them to the castle. Annie had wanted to take the train, Caro had told them, but in the end Caro had won that argument. Looking up at the stone of the castle walls, forbidding against the winter sky, Rosalind wondered if they wouldn’t be glad of having two cars between them, to explore elsewhere while they visited.

Maybe that was what was getting to Libby. Being cooped up here in winter would surely be enough to turn anyone paranoid. Beautiful though it was, Dunwick Castle was frightfully isolated, in a way that hadn’t seemed clear when it was being used as a bustling film set, with the fields surrounding the village over the bridge filled with trailers and vans, an extra community sprung up among the heather, just a short walk away through the woods.

There was no one waiting to meet them, so it was easy enough to slip down the steps that led to the beach below – and the police officers – without being stopped. Jack went first, holding out a hand for Rosalind to take to steady her own descent. The steps – all thirteen of them, she counted – were slick with half-melted snowflakes and moss, and she was glad of the assistance, not that she’d admit it. The wind whipped past them, icy cold and threatening more snow, and Rosalind wished she’d thought to get her hat and gloves from the back seat before venturing down. Not to mention her specially purchased waterproof and windproof wax jacket. Her wool coat wasn’t doing much for keeping her warm, as lovely as it looked.

On the beach itself, they were stopped almost instantly by a uniformed officer guarding the perimeter. ‘I’m sorry, sir, madam, I can’t let you go any further. I’m afraid this beach is out of bounds for the time being.’ She managed to look serious, firm and also kind in one go, which Rosalind admired.

‘Of course, of course,’ Jack said, pleasantly. ‘Only. . . I’m an ex-DI myself, and I still help out my local force from time to time. I was wondering if I could have a quick word with whoever’s in charge here. . .’

Rosalind hung back while Jack played the ex-copper card, and took in the scene instead. Police tape flapped in the wind, and a small rowing boat sat, overturned, within the boundaries it marked out. Scene of crime officers were tagging and photographing everything, but there was no sign of any other people involved in the case.

So. Drug smuggling? Missing person? Or. . . no. There, just beyond the boat, she saw officers removing one of those tents they used to cover a body.

Suspicious death, then, she’d bet. But the body itself was already gone, which suggested it had been found some hours ago. Not something Libby had mentioned in her excited wedding texts.

It wasn’t long before Jack rejoined her, nodding a last thank you to the female officer as he led Rosalind back to the steps.

‘Well?’ She raised her voice a little over the wind.

‘A body washed up here this morning, along with the rowing boat,’ Jack said. ‘Nobody up at the castle recognised him, so they’re asking around the village now. Looks like he bashed his head on something – probably the boat – then drowned. But they’re doing a post-mortem now to be sure. Apparently this coastline is ripe with smugglers – of all kinds – so I imagine that’s the way their investigation will lean if nobody claims him.’

‘Hmm.’ Rosalind glanced back down the steps, wondering. Maybe they could ask some questions in the village, too – her, Caro and Posy, she meant. It did seem a little too coincidental, a body washing up right below the castle on the day they arrived, after Libby’s concern that something strange was going on there. It wouldn’t hurt to just look into it a little.

She had come to realise that she far preferred a good investigation to wedding preparations, anyway. Part of that with-age-comes-wisdom thing. A satisfactorily solved mystery was a joy forever. These days, marriages were lucky if they managed a year or two, in her experience.

Well, apart from Caro and Annie. And that was only because Annie was an angel in human form. She had to be, to put up with Caro for so long.

She wondered what Caro would make of the body on the beach. And Posy, for that matter. They should be there soon and they could—

‘Stop it,’ Jack said, as they reached the top of the steps. When she gave him her best innocent look, he only rolled his eyes. ‘I know what you’re doing, and you can stop it now. The police have this one all in hand, and he’s nothing to do with the castle or your friends, anyway.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rosalind lied.

‘Oh yes you do.’ He reached out for her arm and tugged her closer, the warmth of his body a welcome break from the chill of the wind. ‘This is a trip for romance, not murder, okay? We’re here for a wedding, to celebrate true love, and Christmas – that’s all. So forget all about the body on the beach, please. Besides, you’ve got a much more important question to ponder, haven’t you?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Have I?’ As if she could forget.

‘Mmm-hmm.’ He pressed a kiss against her cold lips, then let her go, walking backwards along the path to where the car was parked. ‘Don’t forget, you promised me an answer on Christmas Day. It’s the only present I want this year!’

Rosalind smiled weakly, as he turned away to unload the car.

If only she was certain it was a gift that she could give.

‘Okay, well this definitely isn’t Dunwick Castle.’ Caro stared up at the hotel sign hanging over the revolving doors.

At her side, Annie peered up through the late afternoon gloom, too. ‘No. Apparently this is the Castle Hotel, Dunwick. So. . . close?’

‘The satnav must have got confused.’ Far easier to blame the technology than admit she’d probably put. . .