A ghostwriter plunges into danger as she unravels the dark secrets of a powerful Scottish family in a thrilling novel of romance and mystery by the bestselling author of Mrs. Endicott’s Splendid Adventure.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Castle in the Glen by Rhys Bowen, which is August 4th 2026.
Australian writer Emma Callander has been recruited to complete the final historical mystery in a series by celebrated author Iris Blackburn. It’s 1965, and Iris’s memory is fading. She’s certain that only Emma can do justice to her novel about a murder on the Isle of Skye. When Emma ventures to Scotland for research, she discovers the story is not fiction at all but rather a true crime, unsolved for more than fifty years.
It was 1904 when a couple’s suspicious drowning led to the disappearance of a mysterious young woman the locals called the Wild Girl. To this day the mystery is unforgettable, especially among the descendants of an aristocratic family who’ll do anything to keep their secrets buried. From the misty Highlands to a medieval castle, Emma and Tony Gordon, Iris’s handsome lawyer, work ever more closely to uncover them.
But while Iris may be known for her fiendishly clever twists, there’s one not even Emma could have seen coming.
Chapter 3
As Emma was getting out of the car the front door opened and a stout middle-aged woman came out. She looked, to Emma, like the classic British countrywoman, wearing a tweed skirt and a hand-knitted twin-set in a dark, muddy green that made her pale complexion look even more washed out. She wore a strand of pearls at her neck and sensible shoes. Her greying hair was cropped in a mannish bob and there was no hint of make-up on her face.
“Here you are,” she said in a throaty posh-accented voice. “And you’ve made good time, too. Iris is waiting for you in the conservatory. I expect you’re ready for a sherry.” She turned her attention to Emma. “And I take it you are the young Australian writer. Your book made quite a splash, so we heard. Iris did enjoy it. I’m afraid I didn’t read it. I’m not much of a reader, apart from Country Life and Horse and Hound, much to Iris’s dismay. I’m Cynthia. Cynthia Morton. I’m Iris’s secretary and general dogsbody.” She gave a hearty laugh and pumped Emma’s hand in greeting. “Come on then. In we go.”
Emma stepped into a square central hall. It had a slate floor and whitewashed walls. The only adornment was a mirror above a glass-topped table on which there was a bowl of fresh flowers. A maid in a black dress with a crisp white apron and cap stepped out to greet them. “Can I take your coat, miss?” she asked.
Emma was conscious that her mack was not up to the standard of the house. She handed it over quickly, then glanced at herself in the mirror. Why hadn’t she worn something different today? Her grey flannel pleated skirt, white silky blouse and navy cardigan were almost like a school uniform, making her look ridiculously young and unfashionable. Still, there was nothing she could do about it, but she wondered whether Mr Spencer asking her to accompany him had been a last minute idea or something he’d been asked to do because of her nationality. If it was the latter then he could at least have warned her ahead of time!
“This way,” Cynthia Morton said. “Do you need to spend a penny before we go through?”
“No, thank you,” Emma muttered.
“If you do later there’s a cloakroom off the hall here. That little passageway to the left. Right then. Come on. Let’s not keep Iris waiting.” Cynthia took off down a long hallway with doors on either side.
At the end she turned into a sitting room with a sofa and armchairs arranged around a marble fireplace. Where French doors should have been there was now the entrance to a magnificent conservatory. The sound of conversation floated through until someone said, “Ah, the visitors have arrived,” and all conversation stopped. Emma hung back, letting Cynthia and Mr Spencer go before her. The conservatory was delightfully warm and Emma noticed radiators around the walls. The furniture was white wicker and everywhere there were tropical plants. Orchids hung in baskets and in one corner was a huge palm tree. Beyond the glass walls was a terrace with a fountain. Further off a lawn led to an orchard and woodland. A huge property, Emma thought. Too much for one woman.
She glanced around quickly trying to take in the scene before her. On a wicker chaise, facing the view, was a frail-looking older woman. She must have had fine features once, with high cheekbones and a good jaw, but these now made her face look sunken. Her wrinkles betrayed too many years in the cruel Australian sunshine. Her hair must have once been reddish-blonde but was now streaked with grey and was set in immaculate curls. She wore a pale mauve cashmere jumper and a large opal brooch at her neck. She had a sheepskin rug over her knees, in spite of the warmth of the room. Emma recognized her instantly. There was a photo of her on the wall at Barlow and Barlow, receiving an MBE from the queen. Sitting in a rocking chair beside her was an older man with a shock of grey wiry hair and a round, pink and remarkably boyish face. He had a glass of sherry in his hand. Emma thought she recognized him, that he might have come to Barlow and Barlow on occasion. And on Iris’s other side Emma was surprised to see a slim young man in a blazer and slacks, his dark hair neatly parted. Nobody had mentioned him and Emma wondered who he could be. She had understood that Iris had no family.
“Here they are,” Cynthia said heartily.
Iris attempted to sit up and Cynthia immediately rushed to help her.
“I’m not a complete invalid yet,” Iris snapped. “Don’t fuss.” She held out her hand to Mr Spencer. “David, my dear. How lovely to see you. It’s been ages.” Her voice sounded more smooth upper-class English than Australian and Emma guessed that she had worked on it over the years. David Spencer took her hand and kissed it. Then Iris’s gaze moved from David and fastened on Emma. “So this is my young compatriot,” she said. “Come over here, dear, don’t be shy.” She held out her hand. Emma wondered if she too was supposed to kiss it, but instead Iris grasped Emma’s hand and pulled her forward. The hand was bony. It felt like being caught by a bird of prey.
“So you are Emma Callander,” she said. “Writer of The Blue Gum Murders.” The eyes that fastened on Emma were remarkably bright, in contrast to the old, greyish face.
“I am.” Emma smiled at the old woman. “And I am so honoured to meet you, Miss Blackburn.”
“Sit down, darling,” Iris said. “Pull up a chair for her, dear boy.”
The young man leapt out of his own chair, pulled it forward, placing it beside Iris’s chaise.
“Thank you, you’re a sweetheart,” Iris said, giving him a beaming smile. Emma wondered for a moment if he could possibly be a toy boy, but that was too ridiculous to contemplate. But the moment the thought had flashed into her mind Iris said, “I don’t think you’ve met Arthur Gordon, have you David?”
“I don’t believe I have,” David said. He broke off abruptly, realizing what he was saying and frowned. “Arthur Gordon? But he’s . . .”
The young man laughed. “Arthur is my father. I’m Tony Gordon.” He had a nice laugh, Emma thought. Until then he had looked serious, almost worried, but she noticed how his eyes sparkled when he smiled. Not bad, she thought.
“Arthur’s boy? All grown up?” David asked.
“That’s right, sir,” Tony said, still smiling. He glanced across at Emma and their eyes met for a second. “All grown up and qualified as a solicitor. My father is getting ready to retire so I’m taking over the reins of the business.”
“Heavens above. How time flies. Well, congratulations.” Mr Spencer turned to Emma. “Arthur Gordon was Iris’s solicitor for years. He made sure all her contracts were legal.”
“And favourable,” Iris said, giving a throaty laugh. “Thanks to Mr Gordon I have this house.” As the laughter faded Iris looked around the room. “That’s my wonderful agent, Jeremy Feathers. Now who are we still missing? Dr Harkness, of course. That man is always late. Probably delivering a baby again. They breed like rabbits around here.”
Cynthia leaned closer to her. “Remember Dr Harkness telephoned to say he couldn’t make it today?” she said in a low whisper. “He had to go up to town for a medical conference?”
“Oh. Oh yes. Of course. No Dr Harkness then.” Iris brushed it off. “That means we’re all complete. Shall we go through to lunch then?”
“You haven’t even offered us a sherry yet, dear lady,” Mr Spencer said. “We are parched after having driven all this way.”
“Oh dear me. How ungracious. I’m turning into a terrible hostess,” Iris said. “It comes from living out here in the country. Give them a drink, for God’s sake, Cynthia, while I talk to this delightful young lady.”
Iris turned to examine Emma so critically that Emma felt herself blushing. “So tell me all about yourself, darling,” Iris said. “I want to hear all about everything.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Emma said. “I had an idyllic childhood in many ways. My family ran a vineyard in the Hunter Valley.”
“Oh, the Hunter Valley. How glorious. Sauvignon blancs?”
“Exactly.” Emma smiled, feeling herself relax a little. “And there were no other children within reach so I spent a lot of time alone.
“Did you do any writing in those days?”
“Yes, I did.” Emma looked down at her hands. “Just silly little stories, but I was always pretending to be someone else.”
“Just like me,” Iris said. “My stories were my escape from what was a harsh reality. So go on. What else did you do?”
“I rode my pony, swam in the pond and read a lot of books, including your Miss Favershams, until I was sent off to boarding school when I was thirteen.”
“How was boarding school? I hear they can be pretty grim, although when I was a girl I longed to go to school.”
“Mine was quite nice,” Emma said. “There were some rich and snooty girls who looked down on me, but on the whole I enjoyed my time there. I was all set to go to university when my father died.”
“That’s so sad. What was it, heart attack?”
Emma shook her head. “A horrible accident. He was killed when a piece of farm equipment rolled onto him.”
“You poor little thing,” Iris said. She gripped Emma’s hand again. “So which university were you heading to, Newcastle or Sydney?” Iris asked.
“Actually I’d been offered a scholarship to Oxford.”
“To Oxford. My my. Impressive. But you didn’t take it?”
“I couldn’t,” Emma said. “My mother was a wreck. Someone had to look after her. And what’s more we lost our home. The vineyard was owned by the family trust and my father’s cousin came to run it. I suppose we could have stayed on, although it would have been really crowded with his family there. I had to find a job. So we moved down to Sydney and I worked in a bookshop.”
“Good training for a writer,” Iris said.
Cynthia put a glass of sherry into Emma’s hand, but she hesitated to take a sip while Iris was still grilling her.
“It was. The owner was a wonderful old man, and when my mother got married again he let me live above the shop so I didn’t have to pay rent.” She paused. “He even helped me polish my book.”
“Ah yes. The famous book,” Iris said. “I found it most interesting. That little Abo boy. What a character. Where did he come from?”
Emma tried not to wince at the derogative term, obviously quite accepted in Australia in Iris Blackburn’s day. “There was an aboriginal family who helped with the horses at our vineyard,” Emma said. “The young son was so bright and talented and should have had a great future. But the way most people spoke to him and his family . . . it was awful. They treated them like less than human. And once there was a minor theft in the neighbourhood and immediately his family was suspected. I remember thinking at the time if he was arrested he’d get no justice from a white jury.”
Iris was nodding while she spoke. “That’s what gripped me about this story,” Iris said. “Justice. You care about justice. You wanted to make things right. That’s exactly what I do with Inspector Melrose. He has to make sure justice is served in every case. It matters to me. I’ve been passionate about it. That’s why my books resonate with so many people. In real life there is often no justice.”
She broke off, looked around, then laughed. “Listen to me, preaching away again. Drink your sherry, darling, and have one of the cheese puffs. Mrs Fisk is a whiz at cheese puffs.”
Cynthia held out a plate and Emma took one. Before she could take a bite Iris asked, “So what is the next book about? Also set in Australia? Same characters?”
Emma hesitated. “I haven’t started on a next book yet. Frankly I’m finding it hard, feeling so much like a fish out of water here. I can’t write about London. I still don’t know enough about how people think and interact, and yet Australia seems so remote now. To be honest I’ve been feeling quite homesick lately. I’m thinking of going back home.”
“No, you can’t do that!” Iris said the words so forcefully that Emma almost spilled her sherry. Iris looked around the room. “We won’t let her go, will we, darlings?”
“Not until she’s written the next book,” Jeremy Feathers said quickly, and Emma watched him glance at Mr Spencer.
At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway. She was short and round with hair pinned back in a bun and wearing a flowery pinny. “If you don’t come in for your lunch soon the soufflé will have fallen!” she announced, hands on her hips.
As they walked through to lunch Tony fell into step beside Emma. “Well done,” he muttered moving closer to her. “You survived a cross-examination worse than being in court.”
Emma shot him a grateful smile and he returned it.
Excerpted from The Castle in the Glen, by Rhys Bowen. Lake Union Publishing, 2026. Reprinted with permission.
