08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  I thought of Alicia Richardson’s apprehension about Forbes, the bartender, and my assurances to her that George would never hire anyone in whom he didn’t have the utmost faith. Maybe I was wrong.

  We sat in silence for a minute, each of us occupied with our own thoughts. I broke the silence. “George, has anyone who claims to have seen the woman in white reported her having spoken to them?”

  He frowned. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

  “She spoke to me.”

  He turned on the bench so that we faced each other. “She did? What did she say?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t remember. I didn’t recognize the words, couldn’t even begin to repeat them to you.”

  “Words? More than one?”

  “Yes. A phrase, a sentence. Short, but definitely more than a single word.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I was probably just hearing things.”

  “Yes. That’s undoubtedly what happened.”

  “We should get back to the others,” I said, standing.

  “I suppose so,” he said, also getting up from the bench. “I trust you know that this brief conversation will not count toward our spending some time alone. I don’t intend to squander those moments discussing nonsense like ghosts.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “I thought perhaps we could steal off for a day while the others sightsee. I’ll take you on a personal tour of Wick and its surroundings. We’ll have lunch in my favorite pub. Just the two of us. Time alone.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “Come. They’ll be wondering where we’ve gone.”

  Dr. Symington tried to engage me in more conversation about the woman in white, but I managed to deflect his questions and surround myself with friends from Cabot Cove. The after-dinner gathering eventually broke up, and we headed for our rooms.

  “Sleep tight, Mrs. F.,” Mort Metzger said. “Busy day tomorrow.”

  “It is?” I said.

  “Didn’t get the itinerary? Goin’ to get to see lots a’ the countryside. Early breakfast. Seven.”

  “I’ll be up and ready,” I said.

  George walked me to the head of the stairs. “Everything all right, Jessica?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, and will continue to be as long as I don’t bump into the lady in white again.”

  “Chances are slim that will happen. People who’ve reported seeing her say it’s a onetime event.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. Well, good night, George. Thanks for a wonderful welcome to Sutherland Castle. See you at breakfast?”

  “Absolutely. Go on, run along. I have some paperwork to do before getting to bed. I’m happy you’re here, Jessica. Very happy indeed.”

  He walked away and disappeared through a door. I looked up the wide, carpeted staircase but didn’t take my first step. Instead, I narrowed my eyes to better pierce the shadowed upstairs landing. Silly, I thought, starting up. George said you only see her once. Besides, I never even saw her the first time. He was right: It was all a matter of our power of suggestion. Purple elephants. I saw them as I continued to ascend the staircase, and smiled.

  I reached the top, paused, and said in a whisper, “Hello? Are you there?”

  No reply.

  “Hello?” I repeated. “If you decide to show yourself again, I suggest—”

  “You all right, Jessica?”

  I turned to face Seth Hazlitt, who stood in the door of his room.

  “Of course.”

  “Who are you talkin’ to?”

  “Talking to? I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

  “Thought I heard you talkin’ to someone. Must’ve been my imagination.”

  “Must have been. Good night, Seth.”

  It took a long time to fall asleep. I heard every sound in the castle, and outside noises, too. A wind came up and rattled the windows. A dock chimed the hour from somewhere in the castle. An occasional door slammed shut. Female voices, loud at first, then fading away.

  Ghosts, indeed!

  The last thing I heard before drifting, off were the voices of two men outside and below my window. They sounded angry. Then they faded away, too.

  And so did I.

  Chapter Six

  According to my American Heritage Dictionary, the term “dour” means marked by sternness or harshness; forbidding; silently ill-humored; gloomy; sternly obstinate; unyielding.

  Those descriptive words and others accurately described Mary Gower, Sutherland Castle’s cook. A short, solidly constructed woman, she served us a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grilled tomato, fried bread, and kippers—herring from Loch Fyne, split open and cooked over oak chips—with grinding efficiency, plates set down with conviction, and taken away the moment the last morsel had been consumed. Throughout, never a smile was cracked or a word spoken.

  “Wouldn’t want to get on her bad side,” Seth Hazlitt muttered to George Sutherland.

  George laughed. “Yes, Mrs. Gower does tend to fall on the dour side,” he said.

  Which caused me to laugh. “A Scottish understatement,” I said.

  “A good woman,” George said. “A hard life. Her husband was one of Wick’s last herring fishermen.” He pronounced Wick “Week,” a throw-back to the days when the Vikings occupied it. “The Scandinavians came back in the sixties with their big, modem boats and scooped up all the herring. Set the town on hard times. Wick was once the herring capital of the world. Mr. Gower died at sea, like so many of the village’s citizens over the years.”

  “She cooks good,” Mort Metzger said.

  “Which is why I put up with her lack of—what shall I say?—her lack of charm?” George said.

  After breakfast, we gathered in the central courtyard, where a small bus waited to take those of us who wished to go on a tour of the area. Forbes, the castle’s brooding jack-of-all-trades, was the driver.

  “Not coming with us?” Jed Richardson asked me as he and Alicia were about to board.

  “No. I think I’ll spend the day relaxing,” I said.

  “Us, too,” said Jim Shevlin, Cabot Cove’s newly elected mayor. “I thought I’d wander down to town hall, see how government works here.”

  The Petermans hadn’t come to breakfast; Peter and Roberta Walters had left word they were skipping breakfast and sleeping late.

  I watched the bus pull away, went inside, and settled in an oversize, overstuffed chair in front of a massive fireplace in which thin logs piled against each other vertically sent a welcome warmth into the room. Although it was springtime, there was a distinct chill in the air, as well as in the castle. A young man wearing a kilt, whom I’d seen only when he had helped bring our luggage into the castle upon our arrival appeared and asked if I wanted tea.

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. “Hot tea and a warm fire. Perfect.”

  When he delivered the tea, he lingered, as though wanting to say something.

  “How long have you worked at Sutherland Castle?” I asked to break the silence.

  “Just a month, ma’am.”

  “It must be an interesting place to work.”

  “That it is. Mr. Sutherland is a good boss. When he’s here.”

  “Who’s in charge when he isn’t here?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Gower sometimes. Forbes. Depends. I don’t wish to seem bold, ma’am, but I understand you write murder mysteries.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So do I.”

  “Really? How many have you written?”

  “Only one. Been working on it for a year, on and off you might say. When I have the time.”

  “Is it set here, in Wick? Week, I mean.”

  His youthful smile was pleasant. “Yes, ma’am. It’s about a real murder that happened here twenty years ago, right in the village.”

  “Twenty years ago. That wouldn’t be the relative of Isabell Gowdie, would it?”

  “You know about that?” His voice went up in pitch to mirror his surprise.

&
nbsp; “Yes. Mr. Sutherland told me about it.”

  “I was only three years old at the time,” he said. “But my mother talked about it a great deal. Kept all the newspaper stories and the like.”

  “Fascinating. Could I read it while I’m here?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you to do, ma’am, only I thought it might be rude, considering you’re a famous writer and all.”

  “I’d be delighted to read your book.”

  He left, returning moments later carrying a small leather backpack from which he withdrew a tattered, dog-eared one-hundred-page manuscript. The title was Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie? Right to the point.

  “Did they ever find out who murdered this Evelyn Gowdie?” I asked, thumbing through the pages.

  “No, ma’am. That’s the murder mystery part of my book. I have my detective solve the real murder.”

  “An interesting approach,” I said, “combining fact and fiction.”

  I was about to ask other questions when Mrs. Gower appeared in the doorway and said sternly, “Get back to your chores, Malcolm, and stop botherin’ the guests.”

  “That’s all right,” I said.

  She ignored me. “Come on, now, get to work. You’re the laziest boy I’ve ever seen. Dreamin’ all day about foolish books, and Daisy not showin’ up, just as lazy as you. Can’t rely on any young person these days.”

  Malcolm—I now knew his first name—grabbed his backpack and scurried from the room, Mrs. Gower’s harsh stare following him all the way. I started to say something in his defense, but all I saw was the broad back of our cook as she turned away and lumbered down the hall, her heavy footsteps ringing off the stone floor.

  I sipped my tea and read Malcolm’s first chapter, which succinctly laid out for the reader the bare facts of Evelyn Gowdie’s murder twenty years ago. She was the woman who George claimed was a descendant of the famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie, put to death in 1622 by a pitchfork through her heart, and a cross slashed into the flesh of her throat. According to Malcolm’s manuscript, Evelyn Gowdie’s body had been found behind a small office building on Bridge Street, Wick’s main thoroughfare.

  I decided to put off reading more of the manuscript until later in the day, and went to my room, where I changed into new sneakers and a green-and-white jogging suit over another layer of clothing. Confident I’d dressed appropriately for whatever weather I might encounter—George said the weather in northern Scotland could change within minutes—I left the castle and walked in the direction of the village.

  It took me longer than I’d planned to reach Bridge Street because I kept stopping to admire the rugged natural beauty of the area. The sun shone brightly, providing its warm rays to the crisp morning. There were spectacular rock formations along the tops of the cliffs that George had said were called “Grey Bools”; a soaring natural arch in those same cliffs, “Brig o Trams,” made a bold, awe-inspiring statement against the cobalt blue sky.

  I eventually reached the center of town and paused on a comer to get my bearings. Not that Wick was large enough for a tourist to become lost. What struck me as I stood on the corner was the absence of people. There were a few men and women walking down Bridge Street, going in and out of shops. But there weren’t many shops to enter, at least from my vantage point. Some were boarded up, others had CLOSED signs on their doors. Overall, the impression was of a village that had not only fallen on hard times in the past, those hard times prevailed to this day. That impression was enhanced when the sun ceased to shine, as though someone had thrown a switch, and a cold rain started to fall. I’d heard about “horizontal rain” in northern Scotland; now I experienced it. A wind that suddenly began to howl down Bridge Street flung the raindrops in a horizontal direction, stinging my face and sending me in search of shelter. I found it in a small shop selling sporting goods, guns and ammunition, fishing rods and artificial lures. An older man was behind the counter as I entered, causing a tiny bell attached to the door to sound.

  “Guid morning,” he said.

  “Good morning. Goodness, that rain came up fast.”

  He laughed. “Another few minutes, the sun will be shining brightly again.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Something I can help you with?”

  “I only came in to stay dry. But now that I’m here, maybe you would give me some advice on what dry flies to use, what the fish are rising to.”

  The shopkeeper spent the next fifteen minutes showing me various dry flies, which, he proudly proclaimed, he’d tied himself. I bought a few. By the time I’d paid, the sun was out and the rain had stopped.

  I left the store and slowly walked up Bridge Street, pausing to peer into shop windows, and observing the few people sharing the street with me. It didn’t take long to reach the end, where the village just seemed to fade into a country road.

  I turned back and headed in the direction from which I’d come. As I started back down Bridge Street, a small sign on an office building caught my eye. I moved closer to read it. It was a plaque that had been placed on the building by the Wick Historical Society. It read: “Site of the murder of Evelyn Gowdie, Feb. 11, 1976, descendant of famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”

  A strange thing to commemorate.

  I stepped away from the building, but something caused me to go back and read the plaque again. Well, I thought, since the leaders of the Wick Historical Society felt a woman’s murder was worth a plaque, I might as well see where it actually happened.

  There was a dirt driveway running from the street to the rear of the building. I walked along it until reaching a backyard area strewn with bottles and other trash. Weeds grew with abandon. I looked at the building’s rear windows; no one looked back. I wondered whether a second plaque had been installed, pinpointing precisely where the body was discovered. I didn’t see one.

  I was poised to leave when my attention was drawn to a large cardboard box in a comer of the small yard. To be more precise, it was what protruded from the end of the box closest to me that was of interest

  I went to it, and my initial reaction was validated. It was a foot, a female foot wearing a high black laced-up shoe. A few inches of ankle showed between the shoe’s top and the hem of a gray dress. I hesitated; I wanted to push the box aside but had difficulty mustering the courage.

  Then, after a few deep breaths, I used my foot to partially slide the box off the body, enough to see the face belonging to the foot and leg. Looking up at me was the round, ruddy face of Daisy—I didn’t know her last name—the young woman who’d served us dinner the night before at Sutherland Castle.

  My fist went to my mouth to stifle an anguished cry about to erupt. A pitchfork rose from Daisy’s chest. The handle had been broken off just above the metal tines. Brown dried blood surrounded each tooth.

  I crouched lower. I hadn’t seen it at first glance. Carved into her throat was a small, bloody cross.

  I quickly retraced my steps to the street and looked up and down. I wanted to scream, but held that impulse in check. Instead, I went to the sporting goods shop.

  “Forget something?” the owner asked.

  “No. There’s been a murder up the street. Behind the office building where Evelyn Gowdie was killed twenty years ago.”

  He looked at me skeptically.

  “It’s a young girl named Daisy. She works—worked at Sutherland Castle.”

  “Daisy Wemyss?”

  “I don’t know her last name. All I know is that—”

  “Come with me,” he said, leading me from the store. “She’s my brother’s daughter.”

  Chapter Seven

  The shop owner led me to a small building in which Wick’s government offices were housed. We stepped into a room marked CONSTABLE, where a young man sat reading a newspaper, his feet propped on the edge of the desk.

  “Bob,” the shop owner said. “We’ve got a big problem down the street.”

  Bob looked up. “Oh?”

  “There
’s been a murder. Daisy, my brother’s girl.”

  Bob dropped the newspaper to the desk, his feet to the floor.

  “Where’s Horace?”

  “Down to the river fishing.”

  “Well, go get the man. Fast.” The shop owner turned to me. “Where did you find her body?”

  I explained.

  “Who’s she?” Bob asked.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m a guest at Sutherland Castle. I found her.”

  “Go on, Bob, get Horace.” To me: “Horace is our constable.”

  Bob ran from the office.

  “I take it your name is Mr. Wemyss,” I said to the shop owner.

  “Ay.”

  “What do we do now? Wait for the constable to return from fishing?”

  “Best thing to do.”

  “Isn’t there someone else we can talk to?”

  “Best to wait for Horace.”

  Another dour Scotsman, I thought. I’d better get used to it.

  Horace, whose last name turned out to be McKay, arrived ten minutes later carrying the longest fishing rod I’d ever seen. He wore “Wellies,” green rubber boots seen everywhere in Great Britain, and had with him a creel containing two large trout After I’d been introduced to him, he said, “Now, lady, what’s this about Daisy Wemyss?”

  “She’s been murdered.” I told him where I’d discovered the body.

  “Back where Evelyn Gowdie was killed,” he said in a low, gruff voice, heavy with Scottish burr.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I suggest we go there—now!” I was running out of patience with their cavalier approach to murder. Mr. Wemyss’s niece had been brutally killed. Constable McKay had a murder on his hands. But here they were standing around as though we were discussing the fish he’d caught.

  “Let’s go,” said McKay. He carefully placed the rod on wall hooks behind his desk, took off his wide-brimmed hat and patted his hair flat in front of a tiny mirror, put his hat back on, and led us from the office.

  We stood in a circle over the lifeless body of Daisy Wemyss. Constable McKay knelt next to the body and touched his fingertips to her neck. He looked up at us: “She’s been dead for some time,” he said. “Ten, twelve hours.”