The Death of the Dowager

By Nancy Mangan

Life isn't going so well for ex-actress Portia Redvers, in her new role as a temporary chef to the rich and snooty. Not only has her current employer, the Dowager Duchess of Cauldron—the late Duke's second wife—been pushed to her death down Cauldron Manor's dungeon steps, but the senior investigating officer, DI James McCulloch, is the man she lost her heart to after he arrested her on suspicion of murder in a previous investigation.  Portia never imagined she'd see him again, and yet, here he is, in her Highland hideout, with an abrasive sidekick, DS Robbie Burns (Raspy), who has the looks of Scarlett Johansson if not the personality.

Portia, when she needs help navigating the minefield of real life, hides her feelings behind her carefully crafted dim persona and resurrects characters from her past acting roles—she has a character for every situation. Anything to prevent revealing the real Portia. 

Now Portia has one thing on her mind. Can she, using her acting experience and calling on past roles as a sleuth, uncover who killed the Dowager and, by doing so, impress James? She knows her love for him is hopeless, he's married, and she has morals, but she can't resist the desire to please him. As an actor, reading body language gives her an edge. Can she spot a liar? Not always, but she can spot a fake. Something James is aware of because he requests her help when interviewing suspects. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Mangan
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215504888

Nancy Mangan

Originally from New Zealand, Nancy now lives in a remote part of the Scottish Highlands. Before she started writing full-time, she experimented with various occupations: cafe owner, cake baker, domestic cleaner, historian, archivist... But her favourite job is the one she’s now doing full time — writing

Book preview

Chapter 1

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR James McCulloch.

What was he doing in the Highlands? It had been over a year since I’d seen him, and I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I’d ever see him again. Yet here he was, his expression grim, staring down into the dungeon at the body lying sprawled at the bottom of the worn stone steps.

Could I slip away before he did? After all, I didn’t work at the Manor. I didn’t, in reality, work for the dowager, but I was trying to calm Davina, the dowager’s housekeeper, who’d discovered the body. Fortunately, she’d stopped screaming, which was a relief, but now she was sobbing loudly.

Over her head, I espied James turning in our direction. Then Ivo, the CEO of the Cauldron Manor Tourist Trust, the clan seat of the Scottish Cauldron family, rushed up to him and did that ‘short man’ dancing thing around him. You know, bobbing up and down, trying to look taller and more important than he was.

‘Can you confirm that is the Duchess of Cauldron?’ I heard James asking him.

Ivo stopped dancing, removed his glasses, and polished them with a hankie he pulled from his pocket.

‘Dowager duchess,’ he corrected. ‘The widow of the late duke. We refer to her as the dowager to ensure no one confuses her with the current duchess, the wife of the dowager’s stepson, Malcolm, the eighth Duke of Cauldron,’ he added, puffing out his little chest.

‘You are all right now,’ I whispered insistently to Davina. Hopefully, she’d believe me and stop sobbing. I wasn’t good with emotions – real ones. Acting ones were fine.

‘Oh, the puir dowager,’ she cried and clutched at my jacket, ruining any chance I had of evading the sharp-eyed gaze of DI McCulloch.

‘Davina, have you finished dusting the drawing room?’ Ivo, hearing her cries, ducked in front of James, and danced over to us to glare crossly at her.

Davina’s jaw dropped as she stared wide-eyed at him. Thankfully, I stopped my mouth from falling open. Instead, I pulled myself up, readjusted my pince-nez, and glared balefully at him.

Not actual pince-nez, of course, but those Lady Bracknell wore in The Importance of Being Earnest. I thanked the god of actors for the season I’d understudied Maggie Smith playing her.

‘Excuse me. Sir,’ I heard James say. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, but I recognised his tone.

Deadly.

It was one he was good at.

‘We can talk in my office,’ Ivo informed him brusquely over his shoulder before turning back to Davina. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he snapped, giving her arm a shake. ‘We’re opening in half an hour, and the drawing room still needs dusting.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Sir.’ James told him in a firm tone.

My toes curled. They’d have abandoned my feet and slunk away if they could. I knew how they felt.

‘Not possible? What do you mean?’ Ivo, to his credit, appeared genuinely surprised.

Crumbs, I wasn’t the brightest, but even I could work out why.

His employer, the Dowager Duchess of Cauldron, lay dead at the bottom of the dungeon steps. It might or might not be an accident, but until DI McCulloch said one way or another, the Manor stayed closed for business. As James was patiently explaining this to him, Ivo shook his head and tutted. ‘Those silly shoes she wore. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slipped on the dungeon steps.’

True, but possibly, under the circumstances, a little heartless to say aloud.

While James’s attention was focused on Ivo, I edged stealthily towards the front door, carefully sidestepping the Information Leaflet stand, and hoping the dim lighting in the entrance hall would cover my movements.

‘Aye, and where do ye think ye’re going?’ A woman wearing unflattering black polyester trousers demanded in harsh and, frankly, unattractive tones. Twenty a day at least, I calculated.

‘Um, nowhere,’ I squeaked, then cleared my throat. ‘Nowhere,’ I repeated in an accent I hoped sounded vaguely Scottish.

‘She’s the dowager’s cook,’ Ivo said dismissively. ‘Her temporary cook. She’s not important. Off you go.’ He flapped his hand to shoo me away.

I hesitated, caught between outrage and indignation, which, for a few short seconds, superseded my desire to escape. A few too many.

‘Portia?’ I heard James say. ‘Portia Redvers?’ he repeated, sounding as if he couldn’t believe it.

My stomach sank. Taking a breath, I turned slowly and reluctantly to face the man who’d broken my heart.

HE RECOVERED QUICKLY – much quicker than I, which meant there wasn't time for me to find the right character.

A year out of acting had slowed me.

'Wait for me outside, Portia,' he instructed in a tone that spoke volumes. I wasn't sure what the volumes were saying, but I wasn't about to hang around to find out.

Outside in the garden, I lifted my face to the sun, which was warm for a change, and took a few deep, calming breaths. Hopefully, there’d be time for me to dredge up a character. Experience had taught me it wouldn’t be wise to meet DI McCulloch on my own. Who knew what ignominious, idiotic, injudicious, or imprudent nonsense would sneak out of my mouth when I was distracted, as I always was by him?

I’d met him the previous year when he’d arrested me on suspicion of murdering Helena Hillman, the lead role in a soap opera I’d been starring in. Thankfully, he saw sense, realised there was more to me than met the eye, and released me. 

'Come on,' I muttered impatiently. Where was a character when I needed one?

My acting career had spanned some twenty-five or so years, and I had a large and varied collection of characters I could call upon to help me out of tricky situations. Yet, as I waited for DI McCulloch, my mind was blank. Admittedly, it was for a lot of the time, but this was a different blank brought on by crippling embarrassment.

Had I made a fool of myself over DI James McCulloch?

'I'm more than a little surprised to see you here, Portia.'

I jumped. He was standing beside me. I hadn't heard him approaching.

'As am I to see you,' I replied, relieved that my voice sounded normal.

He quirked an eyebrow and stared at me, blinking slowly, his dark eyes unreadable.

'Am I speaking to Portia today?' he asked, running his hand through his cropped black hair, which had more flecks of grey than I remembered.

I stared at him. 'Er... um.’

He regarded me in silence for a few seconds, then looked down at his notebook and flicked through the pages.

'Mr– er– Whitlock,' he began, reverting to a blank-faced detective while he consulted his notes, and added, 'Ivo,’ before looking at me again, 'referred to you as the dowager's cook. Cook?' he repeated, sounding incredulous, eyeing my chef's jacket, and frowning. 'Are you researching for a role?'

I swallowed and shook my head. 'No, I am a cook, a chef,’ I said, ‘her permanent chef is on holiday somewhere in New Zealand.’ I explained though no doubt a real chef would dispute it.

My mother, to my astonishment, had paid for me to attend one of those hideously expensive cooking courses. Oddly enough, it had done a decent job. I can bone a chicken, pluck a pheasant, dress a crab, and, if push came to shove, make pastry, though frankly, I couldn’t see the point when you could buy it from a supermarket.

'You,' he exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up somewhere near his hairline. ‘A chef? You mean you can cook?’

Did he have to sound so incredulous?

I swallowed my indignation and thrust out my chin.

'Yes, and I'm exceptional,' I lied. Frankly, I was passable, occasionally all right, and sometimes relatively good. But I knew that, at 37, I'd come to this new career a little late in life.

He stared unwaveringly at me for a few more seconds, shook his head, consulted his notebook, and muttered something that sounded like: 'Not sure if I have time for this.'

'What are you doing in the Highlands?' I asked.

'Transferred,' he replied without looking at me as he continued flicking through his notebook until he found a blank page. 'Now,’ he said, clicking his pen, ‘what can you tell me about the dowager?'

'Is her death suspicious?' I asked, hoping I didn't sound eager. I wasn't. Merely curious. 'Murder?'

'Too early to tell,' he murmured evasively.

Yes, but do you think it’s suspicious? I desperately wanted to ask, but cooking had taught me circumspection. If you rushed, you were likely to burn something – usually, I'd discovered, my hands, fingers, tongue, the inside of my wrist, and occasionally, my lips.

'What can you tell me about the dowager?' He repeated, making it clear he wasn't going to give anything away.

I shrugged. 'Nothing really. I've worked here for barely a month. Well, not exactly in the Manor because she lived elsewhere...’ I petered out. He was busy taking notes.

'Aye,’ he said encouragingly and, looking up nodded, regarded me thoughtfully through narrowed eyes. ‘Somewhere else? Are you saying she didn’t reside at the Manor?'

I nodded. 'Not during the summer because the Manor is open to the public. She stays in another house on the far side of the estate. Cauldron House. At the end of the season, she would have moved back into the Manor.'

‘Any idea what she was doing here this morning?' he asked, tapping his notebook on the palm of his hand.

I glanced down and saw his wedding ring. And he saw me see it. His hand went still. I felt the colour flood into my face. Short of fainting or running away, neither of which I could carry off with any aplomb, I took a breath, steadied myself, and looked him straight in the eye. His jaw had gone tight.

'She usually comes in the morning to work in her office,' I answered, squaring my shoulders, ‘but I know she came last evening. And I’d say she’d been here all night.’

His eyes widened a fraction, but he said nothing and made a note in his book.

‘Are you sure?’

'Positive. She went out last night, saying she'd be back for supper. She wasn't, and as my shift had finished, I left — '

'You left?' he interrupted. ‘What do you mean?’

Was I missing something?

‘I opened the door and walked out of the house, thereby leaving it,’ I explained carefully. Was there any other meaning?

He stared at me.

Did his lip twitch?

Contempt?

Amusement?

I felt my heart sink. Had I said something stupid? It was difficult to tell with DI McCulloch, who’d perfected his blank, unreadable expression.

‘You left,’ he repeated. ‘You don’t live in–’ he consulted his notes. ‘Cauldron House?’

'Bothy next door,’ I replied crisply, hoping I sounded impersonal and not stupid. 

‘Aye? In that case, how can you be certain she didn't return last night? After you left?’

'She didn’t come down for breakfast this morning.'

'Which is at what time?' he interrupted; pen poised.

'Ten usually, but yesterday she asked me to have it ready this morning at nine because she had a staff meeting at ten.’

'And when she didn’t appear for breakfast, what did you do?’

'I went to her bedroom. She wasn’t there. That’s when I realised, she’d been out all night,’ I explained.

‘How can you be certain? He started speaking but was interrupted.

'Aye, perhaps she decidit she didn't want her braakfist an’ cam here tae the Manor earlier.'

It was the woman in the ill-fitting trousers who'd joined us.

'DS Burns,' James introduced her with a brisk nod.

'Her bed was made,' I replied automatically, trying not to stare at her.

In the clear morning sun, I saw she had a look of Scarlett Johansson. Except for her lips, they were a bit thin, which was a relief. There was something intimidating about perfect women. Not something I was, perfect I mean, as my mother frequently pointed out. Suddenly, I felt defensive. I couldn’t help myself.

‘Aye? And?’ she asked impatiently.

Her bed was made,’ I repeated curtly. Possibly sharply, but it was all in the interpretation.

She raised her eyebrows and gave a short, snuffly snort. ‘I get ye’re winting tae make a point bit we’re busy so can ye jis stop wasting time, cut tae the chase an’ tell us fits relevant.’

I stared at her, trying to work out what she’d said.

‘Sorry, I missed some of that. Could you repeat it, please?’ I asked politely.

You can accuse me of being many things – plenty had – but being impolite was not one. Except when I was acting and being paid, of course; or if someone was insulting me; or when I didn’t like someone. Okay, I was impolite occasionally, but only when necessary.

She didn't bat an eyelid. Maybe she was used to it. She repeated her question slowly and emphatically, except I wasn’t so dim that I couldn’t tell she hadn't repeated every word of her original statement.

‘How. Is. That. Relevant?’ she said.

See, much shorter.

'She never made her bed,' I explained. 'I doubt she knows... knew how. Davina made it for her. And ironed the pillowcases and the duvet. While on the bed. Every morning. And as I know for a fact, the dowager had no idea where the iron was kept. I can tell you categorically and with a great deal of confidence, she had not slept in her bed.'

DS WhatsHerName frowned at me. 'Why are ye spiking like that? Like someone fae EastEnders'? She asked in her raspy voice.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. No point, no words waited to pop out.

DI McCulloch sighed. ‘Anyone's guess,' he said, glancing at her. 'Portia is an actress.’

'Not anymore,' I snapped.

He looked hard at me then.

'Possibly,' he murmured, lowering his gaze.

A COUPLE OF VANS DROVE up, wheels crunching on the gravel covering the circular driveway. I turned to watch them.

Ivo wouldn’t be happy. The dowager was particular about vehicles driving to the Manor entrance and ruining the evenness of the gravel. Every morning, a couple of gardeners raked it. Mostly, though, it was only the dowager who drove over it. Visitors had to park in a car park down by the entrance.

Then I remembered.

The dowager would never drive over it again.

Several people, looking authoritative and serious, carrying boxes, cables, lights, and other paraphernalia, emerged from the vans. I guessed they were forensic crime scene analysts, though I didn’t know what they were called in Scotland.

'You do think her death is suspicious,' I blurted out, but when I turned back, DI McCulloch had disappeared, leaving me alone with DS WhatsHerName.

‘Where's he gone?' I asked, glancing around. I heard the disappointment in my voice.

She gave me a slow smile, as if to imply she knew why I was disappointed and was enjoying my discomfort.

It was then that I recognised her. Not her specifically. Her type. She’d have been one of the mean girls at boarding school. The snarky, sneering, smirking ones who'd lock you in the broom cupboard overnight and get away with it because they were teachers' pets, and their fathers were important people somewhere.

‘I know aboot ye,’ she said, eyeing me coldly.

‘Know about me?’ I echoed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

What was there to know? I tried to think. Some old scandal from my past? Nope. I’d remained scandal-free. Her stony gaze felt intimidating, which wasn’t familiar; it took me a couple of seconds to identify what I was feeling.

She didn’t reply and narrowed her eyes at me.

Huh, beautiful, but flawed. Her thin-lipped mouth was mean-looking.

'Aye well, we in the polis tend tae treat every death as suspicious until we know otherwise,' she said patronisingly, referring to my original question. Then she smirked. It was quick – a flash – but there, nonetheless.

I gaped at her.

How had she risen to the rank of Detective Sergeant? It seemed to me that she was missing a crucial attribute necessary for any police officer: the ability to hide her feelings. Now, James was excellent at that; I’d say beyond excellent. His face gave nothing away. And while I admired it as a feature of his police detective-ness, it was annoying when trying to work out what he was thinking. Particularly about me.

I drew myself up and channelled Maggie Smith, playing Violet Crawley, dowager Countess of Grantham in Downton Abbey.

'Very well. Off you trot. Better get back to it and stop wasting time standing here gossiping,' I said dismissively to her. Ivo's pathetic attempt to shoo me away earlier was nothing compared to mine. For a minute, she looked flummoxed. I enjoyed it while it lasted. Then she looked mean again.

'Don't go far. I’ll need tae interview ye,' she snapped, before turning smartly on her heel and striding purposefully back inside.

'She's a nasty one,' Davina said, coming up behind me. ‘No change there.’

‘You know her?’ I asked, surprised.

Davina shook her head. ‘Noo really, but she has a reputation.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, but Davina just looked away.

I liked Davina. True, she enjoyed gossiping, which was fine when I was on the hearing-about-it side, but I was careful because I suspected she carried things back to her supervisor, the dowager's personal maid, Callis.

Maid wasn't, strictly speaking, Callis' job title. Officially, she was the Manor's conservator. But I figured anyone who washed the dowager's clothes by hand, selected the underwear she was to wear each day, and darned her clothes – to name a tiny selection of her menial chores – could surely be considered, by anyone’s standards, nothing more nor less than a personal maid.

Daily, Callis would head to Cauldron House and hunker down in her lair to lurk menacingly, shrouded in a miasma of bad temper, steam, and cigarette smoke, while ironing damp linen that she hung to dry on wooden racks dangling from the ceiling. She had another lair at the Manor, which was the same but bigger, damper, and more depressing. It felt so Victorian that I’d occasionally pop something in the microwave to check if I was still in the twenty-first century.

'Yes, nasty,' I agreed as we watched the raspy-voiced detective’s departing back.

Better not underestimate her, though, I told myself.

I glanced sideways at Davina, wanting to ask how she was, but would it set her off again? Apart from her red-rimmed eyes, she looked like her usual self.

'The Idiot ordered me to finish the dusting,' she said, curling her lip, 'but the polis told him everyone must leave while they carry out a forensic investigation. He then asked if visitors could still come into the garden. Whit a bampot.’

Davina never disguised her disdain for Ivo. Not even to his face. Strictly speaking, he wasn't her boss, Callis was, but as Ivo was CEO, he was everyone’s boss. But according to rumour, he was terrified of Callis.

I stared at her. 'Does Ivo realise it’s the dowager dead, down in the dim, damp dungeon?'

Davina frowned and looked at me from under her furrowed brows. ‘Aye, we know where she’s lying deid. As for Ivo,’ she turned away and pursed her lips. 'His head is so far up his ego, he probably hasnae noticed yet.’ She stopped and looked over my shoulder. ‘Oh hell, the vultures have arrived.’

I turned to see a large, late-model Range Rover pulling up in a self-important, gravel-spraying stop behind the vans. The driver got out, looked the vans up and down, and curled his lip.

'To whom do these vehicles belong?' he barked pompously at me.

'I'm off,' Davina muttered.

'Don't leave me,' I begged pathetically, grabbing her arm.

'You there, yes, you. I'm talking to you.'

It was the dowager's stepson, the current duke, rudely pointing his finger at me.

Oddly enough, while he sounded like the stereotypical rude, self-important aristocrat, he didn't look it. He was good-looking – I’d go so far as to say handsome – with his golden hair, chiselled chin, and striking blue eyes. True, his ruddy face ruined the overall effect a little, no doubt from all the stalking and deer killing he did. Exactly the type of man my mother, by sending me to the Posh Girls' Cookery School, had hoped I'd latch on to. Fat chance. They overacted all the time. All that blustering and talking down to the peasants. I'd eventually have found it wearing.

Lord Alexander, his younger brother, joined him.

'What's going on?' I heard him ask the duke.

'Let's escape noo,' Davina murmured, 'while he's distracted.'

'Do you think they know?' I asked as we trotted smartly around the corner towards the door leading into what had once been the servants’ quarters but were now part of the café kitchens. 'About the dowager being dead?'

'Nay chance,' Davina asserted, pushing the door open and heading to the freezer. 'We need something sweet. Fer the shock,' she added, lifting the lid and grabbing a couple of ice-creams.’

'Why are they here? I thought they were estranged from the dowager?'

I removed the ice-cream wrapper. Vanilla smothered in dark chocolate. Ten in the morning was possibly a little early for ice-cream, but we'd suffered a shock. Well, Davina had, and I was suffering in sympathy. I took a bite.

'Eh? Estr... whit?' she frowned.

'Not speaking to each other,' I clarified.

She shrugged again. 'Aye well, it'll be that banquet hall she was after building, and they’d be against anything she wanted to do,' she added, stopping as her eyes filled with tears.

To my relief, her brother, one of the gardeners, dashed in and gasped breathlessly: 'Knew I'd find you here. They're bringing her up.' He sounded both excited and shocked.

I stared at him. It had become clear to me over the last month working for the dowager, there wasn't a lot of love lost between her and her staff.

Chapter 2

I HADN’T WAITED TO watch the dowager’s body being carried out to the hearse. I may be selfish, shallow, and superficial, but I have limits. Instead, I headed back to the little rust-bucket staff car I’d left in the car park and drove to Cauldron House, pulling up outside the nearly derelict bothy, which had been my home for the past month. I parked next to the dowager’s new and shiny top-of-the-range Range Rover, which glistened and shone with expense.

For a few minutes, I sat gazing at Cauldron House. It was modern compared to the medieval Cauldron Manor. Mid-seventeenth century. The rear wing, the servants’ area, had been built later. It was Victorian and bleak. It was all right during the summer, but I imagined it’d be a miserable place to work in the winter. The Victorians cared little about keeping their servants happy. Or warm.

On reflection, it hadn’t been a bad place to work. I’d mostly ignored the cantankerous dowager’s fits of rage – she had nothing on one of my step-grandmothers – but her death meant I was now out of a job.

I wouldn't have admitted it to DI McCulloch, but my new career as a private chef to the posh and snooty hadn't exactly been a raging success. Luckily, I worked for a temp agency run by a couple of my mother's friends. They sent me for jobs no one else would take because the client had, like the dowager, a reputation for being difficult. My background in acting allowed me to call on past characters who would suit a specific situationrole. It meant I never took insults personally, as it wasn't the real me getting shouted at. I could always find a character to help me cope with most situations, except the one where I had to deal with DI James McCulloch.

What the hell was he doing in Scotland?

Transferred? What did that mean? Downgraded? Disgraced? I shrugged. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was here and, worse, clearly married. Why was I wasting my time hankering after him?

I stepped out of the car, carefully shutting the door because if you slammed it, the damn thing would fall