top of page
N. N. Light
Jul 156 min read

Christmas at Corbie Hall by Jo A. Hiestand is a Christmas in July Fete pick #britishmystery #holidaymystery #mystery #christmasinjuly #giveaway



Title: Christmas at Corbie Hall

 

Author: Jo A. Hiestand

 

Genre: British mystery

 

Book Blurb:

 

Former police detective Michael McLaren is looking forward to spending Christmas at his grandfather's ancient Hall with his grandfather, uncle, and his lady love, Melanie. But McLaren’s holiday plan gets snowed under when a dead man is discovered outside his grandfather’s house--in circumstances similar to an older murder. And it’s not long before McLaren is asked to look into the previous death.

 

Both men played in Scottish pipe bands and worked at the same bank. Are the two murders connected? Can McLaren wrap up the cases in time to unwrap Christmas gifts with Melanie? It’s a race against the calendar and weather if he wants the Day—and his future with her—to be merry and bright.

 

Excerpt:

 

“We’ve tried all this time to go on holiday, Grandfather.” Michael McLaren swirled the whisky around in his glass. The annoyance dulled his hazel eyes, and a vein in his neck throbbed, but his voice was steady. He gave his grandfather, Neill, what might pass for a smile, hoping it made up for what could be perceived as criticism. “Tried to get away since we were here this past September, in fact. And it’s taken until today to make it a reality.”

 

If Neill was perceptive, he might notice the fatigue—or perhaps it was frustration—clouding McLaren’s face. He drew his knobby finger across his chin and nodded. “I’m tha’ sorry ye’ve had sich a poor time o’ it, lad, but ye’re here now. I hope yer stay will make up fer the wait an’ any disappointment ye’ve had.” His Scottish accent was as thick as the sheepskin slippers he wore, and as much a part of him as were the hills, moors and glens of his village. McLaren always had the impression his grandfather would bleed plaid blood if he were cut.

 

“I can’t see that anything will ruin Christmas, Grandfather. Melanie and I are here. The Hall looks splendid, all decorated for the season. We’ll have a fine holiday.” McLaren stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles and visibly relaxing before the warmth of the fire. They were in the great front room of the McLaren ancestral home, Corbie Hall. A massive two-story T-shaped stone structure, it dominated the outskirts of the small village of Auchtubh, Scotland. The home hadn’t changed much since its birth in the 1700s. Ivy still embraced the crenelated tower and the house. Both the boughs of holly snuggling within the ivy and a large pine wreath claiming the front door gave nods to the festive season.

 

The wood-paneled great room in which they sat was awash in clan relics, the clan and relics for which his grandfather, Neill McLaren, lived and breathed. He had been reared in McLaren clan history and seemed to carry it with him wherever he went, or embody it no matter what he was doing. Now in his nineties, he was one of the last of his ilk, a proud head of his family branch and its business.

 

The room was also awash in the Christmas spirit. An ornamented fir sat in one of the corners and nearly touched the twelve-foot-tall plaster ceiling, while a long garland of evergreen, holly, and red bows looped along the mantle. All welcoming and adding to the wintry cheer.

 

McLaren glanced at the leaded front window. Snowflakes drifted lazily past the glass, briefly illuminated as they floated into the lamplight before falling into the mask of early twilight settling over the land. He stretched again, settling his six-foot three-inch frame against the sofa back in a surrender that silently stated he was ready for his holiday. “This is nice. An entire week to celebrate Christmas and no murders to investigate. Happy Christmas to me.”

 

Neill opened his mouth and leaned forward slightly, but his son, Brandon, rushed to fill the pause in the conversation. “As I said at dinner, Michael, I’m so glad you and Melanie could make it. One never knows about the weather in Scotland this time o’ year. And since our village is off the main road, Stirling Council has not designated us a priority with the snow removal.”

 

“Ach, if we’re snowed in, tha’ll make it more festive,” Neill said, smoothing a wrinkle from the front of his tartan waistcoat. “An’ Father Christmas will nae mind, but ‘tis a concern for others...like the polis.” He added the last of the sentence slowly as he eyed McLaren and took a breath.

 

Brandon—a distinguished looking man with a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair liberally peppered with grey—sighed heavily, sounding tired and exasperated. In his mid-fifties, he was nearly the same height and nearly twenty years senior to McLaren, with crow’s feet only discernable in strong light which, at the moment, came from the fire. He repositioned himself in his chair and mouthed something to Neill before he barged on. “Just so you don’t try tae dig us out like you did two years ago, Dad.”

 

Melanie Travers glanced out the window. “Such a lovely snowfall we’re having, though I hope it won’t be bad. I’m certain some people still have shopping to do for Christmas.” As if to underline the wintry weather, a breath of wind rushed down the chimney, stirring the fire’s flames. She pulled the neck of her cranberry-hued pullover up to her chin. “It’s a perfect night to sit around the fire and gaze at the Christmas tree, don’t you think?”

 

McLaren set his glass on the little side table and settled himself in the corner of the sofa so he could see Melanie better and brushed his hand over his gray flannel shirt. “It is. Let’s hope all stays well. I’ll have a difficult time moving if the house catches fire.”

 

A sound like dull thuds wound into the room, startlingly obtrusive in the tranquility. Brandon turned his head toward the hallway. “What was that?”

 

Neill dismissed the question with a quick wave of his hand. “’Tis nothin’ but tha’ bough o’ the massive yew by the front door. It needs tae be trimmed.”

 

The noise was repeated, and Brandon stood up. “The tree might need tae be trimmed but that’s no bough. And it’s coming from the door. Whatever it is, that thudding doesn’t sound good. I’ll see tae it. Let the staff be,” he said as Neill made to call one of the housemen. “I’m closer.” He walked into the hallway and seconds later his voice rocketed into the room. “There’s a man on the ground here. I think he...he might be dead.”

 

Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub):

 

Audiobook – Narrated by Callum Hale

 

 

 

Hard Cover – https://rb.gy/0vi8z

 

Trade Paper – https://rb.gy/xpf69

 

Ebook –

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I love most about the holiday season:

 

Baking is a favorite thing, followed by decorating the tree and the house.  I love the sense of anticipation leading up to Christmas. But I think the thing I absolutely love the most is the feeling late at night on Christmas Eve.  There is magic in the air, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for peace and love to descend.

 

Why is your featured book a must-read to get you in the holiday mood?

 

Christmas, a murder mystery, a snowy Scotland setting, and romance intertwine to give the reader elements that will hopefully bring on the seasonal feeling.  I think there are good doses of all these things in “Christmas at Corbie Hall”.

 

Giveaway –

 

One lucky reader will win a $100 Amazon gift card.

 

 

Open internationally.

 

Runs July 1 – 31, 2024

 

Drawing will be held on August 1, 2024.

 

Author Biography:

 

Jo A. Hiestand grew up on regular doses of music, books, and Girl Scout camping. She gravitated toward writing in her post-high school years and finally did something sensible about it, graduating from Webster University with a BA degree in English and departmental honors. She writes a British mystery series that stems from living and vacationing in England, and a Missouri-based cozy series that is grounded in places associated with her camping haunts. The camping is a thing of the past, for the most part, but the music stayed with her in the form of playing guitar and harpsichord and singing in a folk group. Jo carves jack o’ lanterns badly; sings loudly; and loves barbecue sauce and ice cream (separately, not together), kilts (especially if men wear them), clouds and stormy skies, and the music of G.F. Handel. You can usually find her pulling mystery plots out of scenery—whether from photographs or the real thing.

 

Social Media Links:

 

Tags:

bottom of page