Wealthy bachelor Hugh Barribault, best-selling author, and owner of the castle known as Cullen House, has long been in a quandary about what to do with his wealth after he is gone.

He has decided to establish a Trust and publishing company to which he will leave his fortune. To inaugurate the effort, he sponsors a writing contest.

Its eight winners will receive a sizeable cash price, and be the first eight authors published by the new publishing venture. The highly publicized contest will bring the eight together with Barribault for a week at Cullen House.

A major storm blows in, cutting the castle off from the outside world. The next morning Barribault is found dead. Only the eight contest winners are on the premises.

From the opening of Murder By Quill:

The Scottish coastal village of Cullen along the temperate Moray Firth offered the ideal seaside holiday. The town and its environs was a relaxed old-fashioned place where visitors came to forget the pace of modern life. Its three busiest shops sold ice cream, fish and chips, and antiques. The setting hardly seemed likely for murder.

It might have been different centuries ago perhaps, during days of swords and ghosts and the betrayal of ever-shifting clan loyalties. Macbeth, after all, was a Scot, and had carried out his mischief only sixty miles from there. Murder made sense back in Scotland’s glory days when, if you didn’t kill someone every year or two, you were hardly worthy of being called a man. But surely not in this civilized age. Not in Cullen.

A tall and imposing figure strode briskly between rows of gray stone houses. With the crisp gait of the Germanic branch of his ancient Celtic ancestry, he turned into a narrow lane and made his way toward the noisy main thoroughfare through town.

A moment later he entered the cramped quarters of Abra Bits & Collectables. “Good morning, John!” he said, greeting the proprietor. “How goes the trade?” “Lots of tourists, but no one’s buying,” replied the shopkeeper. “And you, Hugh—today’s your big day! The arrival of your new colleagues…it’s all anyone around here’s talking about. You and your famous eight are on the front pages of every newspaper in Scotland.”

“Impossible to keep something this big secret, I suppose.” “A juicy setup,” Thompson went on, “—famous author sponsors writer’s contest…winners secluded away in a castle. It’s straight out of Agatha Christie.” Barribault roared. “Hardly so sinister as what would interest Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple!”

Hugh Barribault had recognized several years before that he was aging. He was alone in the world. He had therefore devoted much thought to what ought to become of the estate and his fortune when he was gone. The four men and four women arriving in Cullen on this day represented the cornerstone of his plan.

For the past two years he had been engaged in the legalities of setting up a literary foundation—to which Cullen House and the Barribault estate would be given at his death. It was his intent for Barribault House to publish new authors every year subsequent to this year’s initial highly publicized launch. Each year’s writers would be selected from among entries in a massively publicized writing contest, not the least of whose details included an advance cheque in the amount of £100,000.

The winners would be invited to Cullen House every September, all expenses paid. To announce the guidelines for this first year’s contest, Barribault took out full page ads in both the London Times and the New York Times, and sent press releases to another hundred newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic. Within days, hopeful authors and authoresses by the thousands were scurrying to their word processors with dreams of fame and fortune dancing in their heads.

The twenty-four months following the Barribault announcement in the two Times passed as time always does, quickly for some, slowly for others, but with steady inexorability whether one was bored or busy. Eight winners were eventually chosen who would represent the first authors to be published in the new line. These eight were scheduled to come to Cullen for their week’s literary retreat with Barribault.

The first of The Eight arrived by taxi and was altogether a disappointment. Word had leaked out the day before that Cullen Taxis had been hired to collect Dame Jennifer Meyerson at the Aberdeen airport at 12:30. Village watchers began clustering in the square long before that. At 1:47, punctual as fate, the familiar green taxi rounded the bend at the top of the street and sped toward them. Shouts and exclamations went up.

Everyone edged close to the street for a look as the carroty-orange mop of their own Spunky Cruickshank behind the wheel came into view. But Spunky wheeled onto Grant and up toward Cullen House almost without slowing, and disappeared through the gate into the trees without fanfare. Other than a passing glimpse of the elegant lady’s gray hair where she sat erect in the back seat, there hadn’t been much to see. The crowd in Cullen’s village square did not have long to wait for the second of Barribault’s guests.

This time their patience was rewarded with something to talk about. A bright yellow Mini convertible came into sight moving down the hill in the wake of Spunky’s taxi. At the wheel sat an uncommonly beautiful young woman in her late twenties, auburn-red hair flying in the breeze. The moment she became visible, shouts and waves went up. The young men who had been following the photographs in the news all knew who this was. Immediately two dozen eager gawkers swarmed forward as she slowed and stopped. She flashed a bewitching smile. “Would this by any chance…” she began with feigned innocence, making no attempt to disguise her American accent, “be Cullen?” “That it is, ma’am!” replied a young man in his early twenties.

He pushed his way to the driver’s side of the car and leaned down. “Anything you need, ma’am…the name’s George Hay.” “Get back, Geordie!’ shouted a voice behind him. “She ain’t aboot t’ luik at the likes o’ yersel’.” The young woman, however, leaned forward, then stared straight up into young Hay’s face. “And who are you, George,” she said with a flirtatious gleam in her deep blue eyes, “—the mayor?” She reached up, to the delight of the onlookers, grabbed the bill of his cap and yanked it over his eyes.

A good-natured laugh followed as she shoved him back, opened the door of the car, and stepped out. The enlivened crowd was instantly in the palm of her hand. Everyone clustered up for a closer look. Continuing to work them like a skilled politician, young Miss Franks walked about smiling and laughing, then slowly made the way back to her car and climbed in. As she inched forward, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Gently she accelerated, then, when the way was clear, sped away up Grant Street toward the entrance to the castle, casting one last wave behind her, followed by a peel of happy laughter echoing in the breeze.