Horror in the Highlands Read online

  HORROR IN THE HIGHLANDS

  Alison Golden

  Jamie Vougeot

  Contents

  FREE PREQUELS

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  GLOSSARY

  MAP OF BLODRAIGH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  REVERENTIAL RECIPES

  WONDERFUL WHISKY MARMALADE PUDDING

  SACRED SCOTTISH PANCAKES

  DEVILISHLY DELICIOUS DUNDEE CAKE

  OMNIPOTENT OATCAKES

  SPECIAL OFFER

  THANK YOU

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON SERIES

  ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HORROR IN THE HIGHLANDS

  To get your free copy of Death at the Café, the prequel to the Reverend Annabelle Dixon series, plus two more books, updates about new releases, exclusive promotions, and other insider information, sign up for the Cozy Mysteries Insider mailing list at:

  http://cozymysteries.com/annabelle

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  “I read it that night, and it was GREAT!”

  “I couldn't put it down!”

  “Grab it and read it, my friends.”

  “A real page turner and a perfect cozy mystery.”

  “As a former village vicar this ticks the box for me.”

  “I enjoyed this book from the first line to the last page.”

  “Annabelle, with her great intuition, caring personality, yet imperfect judgment, is a wonderful main character.”

  “It's fun to grab a cup of tea and pretend I'm sitting in the vicarage discussing the latest mysteries with Annabelle while she polishes off the last of the cupcakes.”

  “Great book - love Reverend Annabelle Dixon and can't wait to read more of her books.”

  “Annabelle reminds me of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.”

  “A perfect weekend read”

  “Terrific cozy mystery!”

  “A wonderful read, delightful characters and if that's not enough the sinfully delicious recipes will have you coming back for more.”

  “Love the characters, the locations and the plots get twistier with each book.”

  “My own pastoral career has been pretty exciting, but I confess Annabelle has me beat!”

  “This new book rocks.”

  “Writer has such an imagination!”

  “Believable and quirky characters make it fun.”

  “This cozy series is a riot!”

  GLOSSARY

  cèilidh: a social event at which there is Scottish or Irish folk music and singing, traditional dancing, and storytelling.

  cèilidhean: plural of cèilidh

  eejit: idiot

  kirk: church

  wheesht: shush

  fair reekin’: furious

  Haud yer wheesht: Be quiet

  How ye daein?: How are you doing?

  A dinnae ken: I don’t know

  Och, away wi’ ye: Never mind

  Click or tap on map to see a larger version or go to http://cozymysteries.com/map

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday

  A SHORT, SHARP jolt woke Annabelle up, followed immediately by the queasy sensation of being gently rocked on her back. She found herself grasping wildly for something to steady herself, but succeeded only in banging her hand against the solid, cloth-covered wall next to which she lay. After opening her eyes, she went stiff with surprise, struck by the realization that this was not, indeed, her cozy bed in her cozy cottage in her cozy adopted parish of Upton St. Mary.

  Her confusion only lasted a few moments, before the gentle chug of railway tracks and the sparse, old-fashioned decoration of the sleeper cabin reminded her of where she was.

  Suddenly feeling entirely awake, Annabelle threw aside her sheet and leaped out of the narrow cabin bed, quickly turning to the window. She furiously rubbed at the light mist that covered the glass and gazed through it intently. Her breath stopped, her eyes widened, and her heart began to sing as soon as she saw what lay on the other side of the inch-thick glass. The beautiful Scottish Highlands!

  Annabelle was on the Caledonian sleeper train on her way from London to Inverness. She discovered the source of the rocky motions of her carriage when she saw that the train was winding itself along the crest of a riverbank, affording her an almost overwhelming view of the land that was unfurling ahead of her.

  “Oh my!” gasped Annabelle, as magnificent, dark-green hills tumbled elegantly among the thick mists of the spring morning. Faint traces of winter snow graced their highest points. Silver-clear water glistened as it made its way over the craggy rocks that lay nestled on the riverbed. Even the gray clouds above, dense and heavy, that threatened to burst forth at any moment, somehow seemed joyous to her. It had been over a year since she last visited Scotland, and though she remembered well enough how impressed she always was by the Highland landscape, memories alone could not capture such magnificence.

  She had grown rather accustomed to the quiet, natural beauty of her parish in Upton St. Mary. It was delicate and garden-like. Down there, spring was a time of blossoming color and light breezes that made the budding, sprouting, emerging flora dance cheerfully. Here, however, there was no light breeze. Thistles and nettles stood defiantly, sturdy and proud against the strong winds and heavy rains. One need only look at their surroundings to see why the Scots had a reputation for being a tough bunch. Demonstrations of courage and fortitude were all around them.

  While Annabelle was basking in the glorious scenery, she said a quiet, humble prayer, and set about getting dressed. She still had rather a long way to go; yet another train journey, and two ferries to catch before she reached her journey’s end.

  Once ready, she picked up her heavy sports bag and made her way to the lounge car where she quickly secured herself a cup of hot tea and a comfortable seat from which to contemplate the view some more. It was an intimate carriage, and there were already a few early-risers enjoying their breakfasts. Annabelle glanced around and was greeted with quiet smiles and deferential nods, attracting instinctive respect despite wearing her regular clothes instead of her customary cassock or her black and white clerical collar.

  It struck her that only a very particular type of traveler still took the train. A garishly-colored plane could take one most of the way in a tenth of the time for the same price. A leisurely drive while enjoying frequent pit stops and the company of friends or family, even unswerving solitude, was another alternative. As she sat at her table, it seemed to Annabelle that only those with a very contemplative, appreciative, and patient disposition would choose the train as their preferred mode of transport. It was th
is type of group that Annabelle was happiest to place herself among.

  She sipped from her teacup and reached down into her sports bag for the oatcakes Philippa had prepared for her. As she pulled the foil-wrapped package out of her bag, she could almost hear the voice of her church secretary fussing.

  “I don’t care if they do serve food on the train! It’ll be far too expensive and five days old anyway!”

  Annabelle smiled as she nibbled delicately before furtively pushing an entire oatcake into her mouth and munching away. She brushed the crumbs from her fingers and sipped the last of her tea. Reaching once more into her bag, Annabelle pulled out the gifts she had procured for the two people who were the reason for this long journey; the two people she loved most in the world, her older brother, Roger, and his daughter, Bonnie.

  The first gift was a hand-knitted scarf in red and white. These were the colors of Arsenal football club, her brother’s singular passion during the time they had grown up together in the East of London. The scarf had been knitted by Mrs. Chamberlain, who lived just around the corner from St. Mary’s Church, and who seemed to Annabelle to possess hands imbued with the dexterity of a concert pianist and the flight of a hummingbird. A computer analyst who worked from home, Roger still kept himself abreast of every fixture and transfer dealing that his beloved team were involved in. Annabelle knew the gift would be appreciated, especially on the blustery moors of Blodraigh, the outer Scottish island where he and Bonnie lived.

  Roger was a single dad, a widower. His daughter was seven years old. Annabelle had visited her niece almost every spring since the death of her mother when Bonnie was a baby. Now, as Annabelle watched the young girl grow ever more confident, energetic, and tall, the trips had become one of the highlights of the year for both of them. Annabelle adored her niece, finding in her a kindred spirit who loved sweets and laughter as much as she did, while Bonnie, growing up in the rather barren and isolated confines of the island, thought of her aunt as terribly exotic. Bonnie longed to hear tale after tale of what, to her, were the peculiar and far-off people and events of Upton St. Mary.

  To the young girl, almost anything beyond the coastline of the island that she had grown up on was the source of mystery, excitement, and intense curiosity. She bombarded her aunt with question after question on the smallest of details. She asked about the types of plants and flowers that surrounded St. Mary’s church, the shops that people frequented, and the fashions and foibles particular to those who lived on the south coast. Annabelle indulged her niece’s inquisitions, finding Bonnie a rapt audience for her accounts of life as an English country vicar.

  Though Annabelle did her best to temper the wide-eyed wonder that accompanied her answers to Bonnie’s questions, it often seemed that Bonnie envisioned Upton St. Mary as a bustling metropolis of action and momentum; a place in which the people were determined and always in a hurry; where there was drama and excitement on a regular basis. Whenever Annabelle was tempted to dissuade Bonnie of these notions and convince her that Upton St. Mary was only slightly larger and busier than Blodraigh, she saw her stories through the young girl’s eyes and quickly realized that her own life as the Vicar of the village was indeed rather hectic and often full of surprises.

  Bonnie loved nothing more than adventure, and she thought constantly of escape from her narrow existence. It was for that reason (as well as a rather obvious hint in one of her letters) that Annabelle had brought with her a special, limited-edition copy of the latest and hottest children’s fantasy series, Celestius Prophesy and the Circle of Doom. It had been released only a few days prior, and Annabelle had reserved it long in advance, already cherishing the moment she would hand it to her niece.

  Annabelle set about wrapping the presents in the paper she had bought during her stopover in London. As she did so, she glanced at the passing lochs and mountains, a sense of satisfaction warming her insides like a glowing hearth. Upton St. Mary may not be a hive of activity and drama, but the persistent requests and quirks of her congregation still kept her busy. It was appealing, exciting, essential even, to squirrel oneself away from those demands every so often. As she always did, she had agreed to give a sermon at the church during her stay on the island, but it would be her only duty. For the rest of her week-long visit, she was determined to enjoy the rest and tranquility that her trip would afford. What could possibly be more pleasing than spending time with her much-loved brother and his daughter amid the serene and beautiful landscape of a Scottish island?

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEVEN HOURS LATER, much of Annabelle’s cheerful spirit had ebbed away. She had virtually skipped off the sleeper when it arrived in Inverness, but another three-hour train journey, in a far less comfortable carriage, tested her patience. By the time she trudged off the ferry she had taken to the island of Fenbarra, not even the splendor of the Atlantic Ocean stretching out in front of her could raise her spirits. She stood, somewhat forlornly, in the small hut that served as the ferry station.

  Her hips and legs were sore from the combination of sitting in one place or walking briskly to the next. Her shoulder was aching from the increasingly heavy sports bag hanging off it. The oatcakes were long scoffed. Even though the wind couldn’t be felt in the rudimentary hut, there was no heating, and Annabelle shifted from foot to foot as she tried to circulate her blood to guard against the cold. Even this felt like a huge exertion. It was not even six o’clock in the evening, yet she already felt that climbing into a warm bed would be the only thing that she could manage.

  The ferry ride from the main island of Fenbarra to the smaller one of Blodraigh was to be the final leg of her journey. Unlike the previous ferry, which had been as big and as busy as a cruise liner, the seafaring vessel that she could see chugging its way toward her was the size of a fishing boat. It was just about big enough for a car and a dozen or so people. As it neared the jetty, the skipper killed the engines and floated it into dock. Annabelle gratefully boarded along with seven others and made her way to the front of the ferry so that she would have first sight of land where she knew her brother and niece would be waiting. She settled herself down on a small bench situated against a railing that ran around the perimeter of the boat and that, most importantly, stopped her from falling into the sea. Only then did she allow herself the opportunity to look over her fellow passengers.

  Across from her, on the other side of the boat, a young couple cooed and clapped their hands to entertain a pair of tots in baby carriers. It was behavior Annabelle was quite sure they wouldn’t have anticipated or contemplated before they became parents, which by the look of it, was about six months ago. A little way behind her, the ferryman stood at the wheel, steady and comfortable on his sea legs, exchanging the occasional grunted word with an elderly passenger who seemed just as much at home. A middle-aged woman sat toward the back of the boat, adjusting her large, tortoiseshell glasses every few moments, while nearby a sullen youth draped himself nonchalantly over the railing, his eyes fixed upon the sea spray. All the passengers were thickly-clad in heavy raincoats, tightly-wrapped scarves, and various types of headgear, the colors of which seemed to camouflage them as they reflected the greens, browns, blues, greys, and purples of the landscape around them.

  By now, all the passengers had claimed their spots for the duration of the journey. All, that is, except an excitable couple who were pacing about the boat, looking around as if it were a small museum. As they drew closer to Annabelle, she made out their distinct, American accents.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” the woman said.

  “‘Och aye’,” her husband replied, mimicking a terrible Scottish accent. “Grander than the pictures. Look at that.” With his hiking pole, he pointed to a crate of glass bottles full of milk, his face full of wonder.

  “Let’s sit down. I’m feeling all woozy with excitement.” The woman flutter-patted her chest.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind if we sat here?” the man asked politely.

  Realizing
that they were talking to her, Annabelle turned her head and took in the strikingly colorful figures of the American couple. They looked to be in their early sixties. The man was tall and broad-shouldered. He would have been intimidating were it not for his sparkling blue eyes. Beside him stood a small, blond, endearingly freckled woman who clutched a map in one hand and a large camera in the other. In their unnaturally bright clothes and with their loud exclamations of pleasure, they seemed larger than life, very different from their subdued and hard-to-spot fellow travelers. Both beamed at Annabelle with teeth so immaculate they seemed to emit their own light.

  “Of course,” remarked Annabelle, smiling as she shifted along the bench.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said the man in his booming voice.

  The Americans flashed wide grins as they sat beside Annabelle, and she smiled back at them, in spite of her fatigue.

  “Heck of a view, ain’t it?” the big American said.

  “It most certainly is,” Annabelle replied.

  “Where are you from? I haven’t heard a Scottish accent like yours before,” his wife asked.