LC07 - Mistletoes, page 1
part #7 of Losers Club Series
MISTLETOES
_________________________
LOSERS CLUB MURDER MYSTERY BOOK SEVEN
YVONNE VINCENT
Copyright © 2023 Yvonne Vincent
All rights reserved.
By Yvonne Vincent:
The Big Blue Jobbie
The Big Blue Jobbie #2
The Wee Hairy Anthology
Frock In Hell
Losers Club (Losers Club Book 1)
The Laird’s Ladle (Losers Club Book 2)
The Angels’ Share (Losers Club Book 3)
Sleighed! (Losers Club Book 4)
The Juniper Key (Losers Club Book 5)
Beacon Brodie (Losers Club Book 6)
CONTENTS
Foreword
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
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Yvonne Vincent
For good friends who just get it.
The First Word
I grew up on a diet of Enid Blyton and then later, Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes. After a dalliance with the likes of John Grisham, I found historical fiction, and pass me my fainting couch, I love it. There was also the great Mills & Boon period around age sixteen. I apologise to all the spotty hopefuls at the disco, standing there in your only “going out” shirt, slathered in your dad’s aftershave, asking a girl to dance. I was brainwashed.
Some of the books I read when I was younger have not stood the test of these more enlightened times, yet I wanted to capture the spirit and intrigue which so captivated me. In this Christmas story, I have tried to blend lashings of adventure, a ladleful of history and a large dollop of whodunnit. It’s a lighthearted caper to warm your cockles. I also popped in an Easter egg – let’s see if anyone notices.
Setting the book in Scotland’s capital city allowed me to delve into the history books and apply a little imagination. The place positively reeks of the past, so I’d be doing it a disservice if I didn’t take you on a wee segue back in time. The Jacobites did use codes and Lady Anne Farquharson-Mackintosh, known as Colonel Anne, was a Jacobite leader.
Although Thistlecrest House Hotel doesn’t exist, other places mentioned in the book are real, and to anyone who has been to the Palace of Holyroodhouse and Holyrood Abbey – yes, I may have let my imagination run a little wild.
Of course, no introduction is complete without thanking the Angels (Dawn, Louise, Vicky, Heather, Dianne and Fiona), my sister Anette and the Legend in Tartan Lounge Pants that is Mr V, all of whom read the books as I write them. And I must mention Corinna Power, who created the amazing cover art. Yet this time, I also want to thank the Losers Club Facebook group - a fantabulous bunch of real-life characters who make me laugh every day. Your support is hugely appreciated.
PROLOGUE
Edinburgh, December 1745
Robert Macpherson slid off the horse, his knees buckling as his feet met the cobbles. He held tight to the saddle, giving his legs a moment to recover while he cast his gaze around the courtyard, looking for any sign of a groom to take the poor, sweating beast that had barely consented to carry him for the last two miles.
The sound of running feet caused him to straighten and turn, his body immediately stiffening and his hand instinctively reaching for the sword concealed beneath the layers of woollen cloth that had kept him from freezing to death during the hard ride this day. His stiff, cold fingers fumbled in the greasy folds, and he cursed himself for a fool. He had put warmth above safety. Knowing that the government forces had taken the city almost as soon as Charlie’s army left, he should have been more cautious.
Robert had disagreed with the decision to march on England. Aye, it had been a grand march south, leaving Edinburgh with victory beneath their wings, but Cumberland’s men were closing in, and as the promise of Jacobite support in England revealed itself to be empty, the bickering had started. In Derby, the decision was made to turn back, and Lord George Murray had taken Robert to one side.
‘Ride hard for Edinburgh,’ Murray had said. ‘Seek out Anne Farquharson at the Toll Cross Inn. Tell her I fear we are at the beginning of the end and that she must make plans for the future. Tell her the final card may have to be played soon. Keep it close and keep it secret. She will know what to do.’
Murray handed him a pocket watch and bade him make good time.
Just before he’d slapped the arse of the horse and sent Robert on his way, Murray gave him a letter, freshly sealed with wax bearing the Atholl crest. On the other side, the name James-Alec Macrae had been thickly scrawled in black ink that was barely dry.
‘When you get there, give the timepiece to Anne. When she returns it to you, find James-Alec Macrae from Vik and deliver the letter and pocket watch to him. Make sure he goes back to the island to await further orders.’
Robert had barely slept in a week. His journey back to Edinburgh had been beset by difficulties; snow, vagabonds and the risk of running into government soldiers had all conspired to make the road long and hazardous. Slipping into Auld Reekie herself without being spotted had been the easy part. Now, wet and frozen, he barely had the energy to face another challenge, yet in these dangerous times, he could not trust whether the holder of the approaching lantern was friend or foe.
At first, the figure was a dark outline against the light from the door of the inn. The dim glow from the lantern did little to illuminate its owner, and it was only as it drew closer that he noted the height of the figure. He relaxed slightly. A woman or a boy. Unlikely to be a threat, surely. However, the face that appeared in the gloom was that of a wizened old man.
‘Conall!’ the man shouted. ‘Get your lazy backside out here!’
From the stable behind him, Robert heard a groan, then a clang as a foot caught a metal bucket and sent it spinning out into the courtyard.
‘He’s an indolent lump, but he’ll take good care of your horse,’ the old man assured him. ‘Will you be after a bed for the night?’
Robert didn’t reply. He was handing the reins to the twelve-year-old bundle of rags that had stumbled from the stable in the wake of the bucket. The boy was thin and dressed in breeks far too large for him that were held up by a length of rope wrapped three times around his middle. A pale, pinched face peered out from a voluminous swathe of filthy tartan cloth wrapped around his head and shoulders.
‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you arrive.’
Conall’s voice was yet thick with sleep, and he rubbed a hand across a bleary eye as if to emphasise that he had every right to be abed at this late hour. Then he looked up at the man before him and took a step back.
Robert tossed the lad a few coins and apologised for disturbing him. He knew that he made for an intimidating figure. He was far taller than your average man, made larger still by the layers of cloth he wore to dispel the winter chill. His hair and beard had grown wild these six weeks since he’d left the city. He must look like one of those Highlanders the English told stories of to scare their children.
‘See to it that she’s fed and watered straight away,’ he said to the boy before turning back to the old man. ‘A bed will be most welcome, but first I need to speak with Anne Farquharson. Is she here?’
He pressed a coin into the man’s palm and received a toothless grin in return.
‘We’ll go in by the back door, Highlander. Too many eyes and ears. There’s a private room behind the main bar.’
Robert allowed himself to be guided into the building, stumbling slightly as the wave of warmth hit him. It was only once the old man had left him alone in a small room, the flicker of flames from the hearth setting eerie shadows dancing across its whitewashed walls, that he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. The minutes ticked by, and it became more difficult to push down the rising fear that this was a ruse. Perhaps they would turn him over to the government men or steal his money. He cast his eyes around the room, searching for a place to hide the watch and letter, but it was bare except for a plain wooden table and four chairs.
He went to the door, determined to make his escape before they came for him, then he immediately withdrew. Footsteps outside. He could hear them, feet clattering on bare floorboards. Heavy treads? No. Much lighter than a man. His hand went to his sword, fingers now loosened by the warmth of the fire and far surer of finding the hilt. Pulling it slowly from the folds of his cloak, Robert set his legs apart and bent at the knees, ready to spring. Prepared to ward off any attack.
The door slowly opened. Light from a candle spilled into the room, and Robert caught his breath at the sight before him.
She was beautiful. No, that was doing beauty a disservice. She was incomparable. Long, dark hair was piled in elaborate twists above an elfin face with eyes in which he could swim forever if he only knew how to swim. Her gown, he could see, was of the finest red silk, and a ruby as large as a pigeon’s egg glittered at her throat.
‘Not what you were expecting in a lowly tavern,’ she suggested, tilting her head towards the sword. ‘You won’t
Robert, all business forgotten, stammered, ‘I…I thought you’d be a tavern girl, not a…a…’
The woman regarded him for a moment, a small smile playing about her lips.
‘Lady? Aye, there are some who have made the mistake of assuming me a gentlewoman. I may come from noble stock, but you must never judge a book by its cover. You met my father’s old steward, Iain, I believe. Growing up, I spent much time in this inn, so I’m more than capable of handling myself should you have a notion to come at me with that sword.’
She turned her hand to allow him a glimpse of the dagger she held before she tucked it away deep within the silken swags of her dress. Robert lowered his sword and did the same, although his cloak was far grimier than her finery.
‘Anne Farquharson?’ he asked.
‘As was. Anne Mackintosh now that I am married to the clan chief. I’m George Murray’s cousin and would I be correct in thinking that he has sent you with a message? He used my maiden name and directed you here, so I can only assume that this is some clandestine assignment.’
‘Aye, I would say that it is. I’m his man, Robert Macpherson. Rabbie. He has asked me to tell you that we are at the beginning of the end. You must make plans for the future, and the final card may have to be played soon. Keep it close and keep it secret.’
Anne’s smile disappeared and she swiftly stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Hush, man. Nowhere in Edinburgh is safe from government spies. Did he say anything else? Give you something perhaps?’
Robert took the pocket watch from a pouch on his belt and handed it to her, saying, ‘I was told to give you this, and when you return it, I’m to find James-Alec Macrae from Vik and make sure he goes back to the island to await orders.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, gazing avidly at the silver case. ‘I’ll return it in a few days. I need it for…something. You can stay here but please keep out of sight.’
She left him then, and the old man returned to show him up to his room.
If he’d expected luxury, he would have been sore disappointed, for although the room was large and the hearth lit, it contained only a decrepit wooden bed, a chamber pot and a washstand. In the event, he was sequestered there for nearly a week, and by the time Anne returned, he had read every scrap that old Iain could rustle up from the news sellers and pamphleteers that filled the High Street with their raucous cries. Had there been a carpet to pace, his feet would have worn a path between bed and window. It is as well that they didn’t turn me over to the English, he thought wryly, for I would have made a poor prisoner.
His joy at finally seeing Anne again was unseemly in that they had met only once before. However, the knowledge that he would soon be freed filled him with such gladness that he briefly entertained the idea of picking her up and dancing her around the room. As it was, he made do with grasping her hand and heartily kissing it. Over-familiar perhaps, but he noticed that she did not withdraw from him. Instead, she smiled playfully and handed him the pocket watch.
‘Guard this with your life for it holds a secret. It can only be opened with the key, which I have sent ahead by separate messenger, should one of you come to harm. James-Alec is in Montrose where the French ships have landed supplies and gold, so you have a long ride ahead of you.’
She handed Robert a purse full of coins, and he weighed it in his hand, concluding that this would more than cover the expenses of his journey.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘When you say secret…’
‘Information that could bring down King George and assure the future of Scotland. All will be revealed when the time is right. A horse will be ready for you in the morning. Godspeed you to Montrose, Rabbie Macpherson.’
So it was that Robert found himself riding north once more. With the government forces occupied further south, he was on safer territory this time. Nevertheless, the weather was not on his side, and it took him the best part of four days to reach Montrose and another to locate James-Alec Macrae.
He found the man holed up in a tavern to the north of the town. Where the Toll Cross Inn had been plain but clean and warm, this place was little more than a byre with beer. As soon as he entered, a woman approached him.
‘Warm your bed tonight?’ she offered, leering at him and pulling his hand towards a breast that felt flaccid beneath its stays.
She smelled like she’d slept in a midden.
‘I’m here to see James-Alec Macrae,’ said Robert, roughly pushing her away.
Her pockmarked face creased into an angry sneer, but she gestured to a table in the corner.
‘If that’s your preference, you’ll find him over there.’
Macrae seemed distracted but stood up from the table and greeted Robert warmly when he introduced himself. The man still had all his teeth, Robert noted with some chagrin. He’d lost his own back tooth to decay in October, leaving yet another gap in a mouth that welcomed porridge but could no longer comfortably chew meat.
‘Anne said there would be a second messenger,’ James-Alec explained. ‘In fact, it’s fortunate that I’m still here. I’ve finished my business and was about to head up to Aberdeen to rally some fresh troops when the first messenger arrived. Anne sent a note asking me to wait for a stranger. She instructed that you have something for me. This is all very cryptic, I must say.’
Robert relayed that he was to ensure James-Alec’s return to Vik and handed over the pocket watch and Lord Murray’s letter.
‘All I know is that the timepiece contains a secret. Anne asked me to guard it with my life.’
From the pocket of his brown woollen waistcoat, James-Alec extracted a pair of spectacles. From the other pocket, he took a small knife, slipped it beneath the edge of the letter and slid it sideways to break the wax seal. As he read, his expression, which had been open and good-natured until that moment, darkened, and by the time he set the document upon the table, his mouth was a grim line.
‘It seems that we have been entrusted with the future of Scotland,’ he said. ‘Rest well tonight, sir, because tomorrow we head for Vik.’
James-Alec had a room in a respectable boarding house in the town and offered to ask the landlady, Mrs Trussle, if she could accommodate an additional gentleman. Robert had to part with more coins than anticipated in order to persuade the sour-faced wifie to give him a room for only one night. She carped about the extra work, the cost of lighting the fire, the washing of bed covers for the sake of a single night’s sleep. Robert suspected that the bedding was unlikely to see a lick of soap once he’d gone, but agreed to pay her exorbitant price and promised another shilling if she would arrange for whatever newspapers were available to be brought to him. He had come to enjoy the Edinburgh Courant during his week in the city, although he did not expect it to have reached these parts.
The newspapers arrived early the next morning. Mrs Trussle sent a boy to his room at dawn, the lad laden with so many pamphlets and broadsheets that Robert feared he would collapse before he could lay them on the table.
Breakfast was ready, the boy informed him. Would sir wish to take it downstairs or in his room? Robert gave him tuppence for his trouble and requested that he fetch a bowl of porridge. Then he settled down to read.
The boy was gone so long that by the time sustenance arrived, it was a cold, gelatinous gloop. Nevertheless, Robert ate it with relish while he perused the news. Some of the publications were old and others he had already read, but a recent Courant had somehow made its way north ahead of him, and it was to this that Robert now turned his attention.
His eyes scanned the tightly printed words, greedy for updates on the progress of the Prince’s army. He saw with mounting dismay that there had been further skirmishes and vainly tried to suppress a sensation of dreadful premonition as he read the list of the dead and missing. There it was. His master’s name – Lord George Murray. It could not be! Surely, it was a mistake.
