“The pitchfork,” I said. “And the cross on her neck. The same as Evelyn Gowdie.”
Constable McKay stood, stretched, and grimaced against a pain somewhere in his body. “You know about that,” he said to me.
“Yes, I do.”
McKay turned to Mr. Wemyss and said, “You’d better inform your brother.”
“Ay. Not a pleasant task.”
“If it’s all right,” I said, “I’d like to go back to Sutherland Castle.”
“By all means,” McKay said. “How long will you be staying there?”
“Another week.”
“Good. I’ll be wanting to speak with you again.”
“I look forward to it, Constable. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Wemyss.”
“Nothing guaranteed in this life, Mrs. Fletcher. Dying is the price we pay for living.”
“I’ll inform George Sutherland and the others at the castle about Ms. Wemyss’s death.”
“Do that,” said Constable McKay.
I went to the street and slowly made my way back to Sutherland Castle, looming on the horizon, a bleak stone bastion of the ages rising imposingly over the modest village of Wick, Scotland.
I quickened my pace, legs aching as I climbed the steep incline leading to my home for the next week. George was on the lawn pruning a bush.
“Pleasant walk?” he asked, placing the pruning shears in the jacket of a tan vest.
“No.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jessica. Why?”
I told him about Daisy Wemyss.
His face turned hard and ashen.
“George. What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know, Jessica, but it’s obvious there’s a madman out there.”
“The same one who killed Evelyn Gowdie twenty years ago?”
“ ‘And from his wallet drew a human hand, shriveled and dry and black....’ ”
“What?”
“ ‘And fitting, as he spoke, a taper in his hold ... pursued a murderer on this stake had died....’ ”
“George.”
“Southey. He wrote it in Thalabra. A popular belief centuries ago that the hand of a man executed for murder, if prepared properly, could cast a perpetual spell over future generations.”
George Sutherland was fond of quoting ancient passages, and had a remarkable memory for them.
“You don’t believe in such things, do you, George?”
“I believe in good and evil, Jessica. Come. If spells can be cast over evil doers, I intend to try my best to cast one myself. This was not what I intended when inviting you and your friends to my family home.”
Chapter Eight
George and I sat in front of the fireplace where I’d enjoyed tea that morning. When he informed the cook, Mrs. Gower, of Daisy Wemyss’s death, the shocking news didn’t appear to shock her. She muttered something about young people asking for trouble these days before flouncing off to fetch us tea and scones.
After serving us, George said, “I’m so sorry about this, Jessica.”
“Please, George, don’t be. It wasn’t anything you could have prevented.”
“I’m not certain that’s true.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s hard to explain, Jessica. There’s really nothing tangible to account for it, just a lot of Scottish lore involving my family, this castle, and Wick itself.”
“I’ll do my best to understand,” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure you will.”
He tasted his tea. I offered the plate of scones to him, but he shook his head.
“Let me see where to begin,” he said thoughtfully. “It started centuries ago, when this castle was built by my ancestors. They were a staunch, fearless people. ‘Without fear’ is our clan motto.”
“I saw that on the shield.”
“A proud clan, Jessica. A proud people. But from the beginning, the existence of this castle was viewed by some with skepticism, even outright hostility.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Rumor. Superstition. Fear. Envy. Hatred.”
“Directed toward your family?”
“Yes.”
“Again, I ask why?”
“Because it has been believed since the day my family built this remarkable place that it’s been occupied not only by members of the Sutherland Clan, but by—well, by ghosts.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Like the lady in white?” I asked.
“Were it only about her, Jessica. No, over the centuries the people of Wick have blamed the castle and its occupants for almost every violent act occurring in the village.” He drew a deep breath. “I should have told you all of this before inviting you and your friends.”
“Don’t be silly. Some people in Wick might think there’s some brand of witchcraft being practiced at Sutherland Castle, but I’m certainly not one of them. Nor are any of my friends.”
“Mrs. Richardson?”
“Alicia? I can understand why she’s still upset. That incident at the Tower of London would leave anyone shaken.”
“Of course. But I can’t help but wonder whether that incident wasn’t preordained in some way. After all, the man who held her and her husband wanted to salvage the name of a distant relative accused of practicing witchcraft.”
“Sheer coincidence,” I said, putting a dollop of clotted cream on my scone and taking a bite.
“Yes. But then we have Isabell Gowdie being murdered over three hundred years ago, put to death as a witch by a pitchfork in the chest, and a cross carved in her throat. Flash-forward to twenty years ago. Evelyn Gowdie killed the same way. And now, twenty years later, Daisy Wemyss. Sheer coincidence?”
“No. Of course not. But it has nothing to do with you or this castle.”
“Intellect versus emotion, Jessica. Intellectually, you’re right. No connection at all. But emotionally? Well, it’s hard to not wonder whether there’s some sort of mystical link, no matter how vague or tangential.”
“I suggest you stick with your keenly honed intellect, George. You wear it well.”
“You’re right, of course, as usual. You mentioned earlier that Constable McKay seemed angry when he mentioned my name.”
“Yes, I sensed that.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why?”
“He’s a good man, Jessica. But he’s between, as the saying goes, a rock and a hard place. Whenever something violent happens in Wick, he’s buffeted between two forces—the reasonable citizens of the village, and another group that has carried forward this distrust of the Sutherland clan and Sutherland Castle. This latter group is very superstitious, steeped in old mythology and metaphor. In their eyes, every problem will be solved when and if I sell this castle.”
“How would that help anything?”
“It wouldn’t, at least not in the eyes of rational people. But the others believe that the only way to break the curse this castle supposedly casts over Wick is for the last surviving member of my family, namely me, to shed any connection to this place and leave.”
“Are you considering that, George?”
“Yes, although not for that reason. I’ve mentioned to you how difficult it is to hang on to this castle. It costs a bloody fortune, and finding the right help to keep it going as a hotel has become increasingly difficult.”
“So you said.”
“I should. Sell it, that is. I visit here only a few weeks a year. London is my home and has been ever since I joined the Yard. But each time I come dose to putting it on the market, there’s a bond with my ancestors that keeps me from going through with it.”
“I can certainly understand that. Is there a market for such a place?”
He smiled, his first since settling in front of the fireplace. “It’s hardly a place a family of four would want to buy as a home. But its value as a hotel is considerable. There have been two investor groups that have made offers over the past few years. Sizable offers, Jessica. They see this terr
ibly depressed area of Scotland as having tourist potential far beyond what it enjoys today.”
“But you’ve resisted all offers.”
“Yes. Foolish?”
“I don’t know. Such a personal decision to make. Pragmatism versus the heart.”
“Well put. I suppose I should go down to the village and pay my respects to Daisy’s family. I know her father. A decent sort.”
I told him about having met Daisy’s uncle, the shop owner.
“I know him, too. It’s a small place, although that doesn’t necessarily translate into everyone knowing everyone else. We Scots tend to stay to ourselves, especially in the smaller towns and villages.”
“George, before you go, can you conceive of anyone in Wick who would have so brutally murdered Daisy Wemyss?”
“No. But after all my years with the Yard, I’ve come to learn that there are people—too many people—capable of such horrific acts.”
We were interrupted when Malcolm entered the room. “There’s someone to see you, sir.”
“Who?”
“Constable McKay.”
George looked at me and drew a deep breath.
“I’ll be in my room,” I said.
“No. Stay with me, Jessica.”
Malcolm had shown the constable to a small sitting room I hadn’t seen before. Another door from it led to George’s office.
“Horace,” George said, shaking McKay’s hand. “You’ve met Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Ay. And under unpleasant circumstances, I’m afraid.”
“Extremely unpleasant,” George said. “Please, sit down. Tea? Whiskey?”
“Whiskey. Two fingers.”
George rang for Malcolm, who delivered the whiskey to Constable McKay. He drank alone.
“Well, Horace, this news about Daisy Wemyss has provided quite a shock. How is her father?”
“Unhappy.”
Another Scottish understatement.
“Any leads?”
“No. George, might we have a word alone?”
“Why?”
“To discuss some of the other ramifications of this dastardly event.”
“Mrs. Fletcher is aware of those other ‘ramifications,’ Horace. There’s no need for her to leave.”
“As you wish. People are beginning to hear about Daisy Wemyss, George. Some of them are threatening to take action.”
“What sort of action?” I asked.
McKay gave me a hard, scolding look. I held his gaze and repeated my question.
“What they’ve threatened before,” was McKay’s answer.
I looked at George.
“They’ve threatened to come up here and destroy the castle,” George said solemnly.
“That’s terrible,” I said. “But as long as they only threaten—”
“Could be they’ll go further this time, miss. They’re in the black mood. Daisy was a good girl, liked by everyone. Might be different if she was killed by some angry young fella who hit her, maybe even shot her. But this is the Devil speaking, George, Satan himself. Pitchfork to the chest, bloody cross carved in her young neck. Like Evelyn Gowdie before her. And the witch, Isabell.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you are the constable.”
McKay looked quizzically at me.
“Surely, as Wick’s top law enforcement official, you don’t buy into this notion of witchcraft and Satan.”
He said nothing.
“Do you?” I said.
“I can’t ignore half the citizens, miss.”
“Half? Half feel this way?”
“There’s a core that do,” he said. “And they’re very influential. Very influential, indeed. They don’t want trouble in Wick. There’s been enough trouble and hard times to last everybody’s lifetime.”
I couldn’t resist: “But you’re paid to uphold the law, to keep people like this from reacting with violence.”
He showed a small, sour smile, painful for him to exhibit. “Easier said than done, miss. Easier said than done.”
“What are you suggesting, Horace?” asked George.
“Same thing I’ve suggested before, George. Sell this castle. Give it up. If you do, everything will settle down and Wick can grow. This sort of publidty, pretty young girl killed in a Devil-worship fashion, can’t do the town no good. No good at all. Unless you do—I can’t promise your safety, or anybody else’s safety up here.”
Constable McKay stood and went to the door. “No need to show me out, George. But you think about what I just said. Just announcing to the people that you plan to sell Sutherland Castle will do wonders for this town’s spirits. Do wonders. Good-bye, miss.”
Chapter Nine
I spent the afternoon in my room reading Mickey Spillane’s new novel, Black Alley. I know Mickey, and am always amazed how anyone with such a sweet disposition can write best-selling tough-guy books with such authority. I’ve been his fan ever since his controversial first book, I, The Jury, was published many years ago.
At four, those who went on the tour with Forbes arrived back at the castle, and I went downstairs to greet them. They were in a jubilant mood, gushing about the natural beauty they’d seen and the lunch they’d enjoyed at an inn on the outskirts of Wick.
George had arranged for Mrs. Gower to put out a spread of salmon, caviar, and pâté to go with drinks poured by Forbes, who’d quickly traded in his bus driver’s cap for a bartender’s apron. Once we were gathered in the drawing room, George asked for our attention.
“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news to report,” he said. “Daisy Wemyss, the young lady who worked here and served dinner last night, has been murdered.”
There were the expected questions and comments.
“Jessica discovered her body this morning while walking in Wick,” George said. “A tragedy, to be sure.”
Now all the questions were directed at me. Where did I find her? How was she killed? Who killed her?
“Please,” I said, “I really don’t know any more than George has told you.” I didn’t want to have to go into the grisly details.
But they pressed, especially Mort Metzger, his law enforcement training coming to the fore.
“She was killed in the same fashion as the witch George wrote about in his letter to me, Isabell Gowdie. Someone rammed a pitchfork into her chest, and cut a cross on her neck.”
I immediately looked to Alicia Richardson, who went pale and sat on a nearby chair. Jed stood over her, a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Obviously, the local authorities are investigating,” said George. “As dampening as this might be, we mustn’t let it ruin your short stay at Sutherland Castle. I’ll do everything I can to isolate you from this unpleasant and unfortunate situation. There’s no reason for it to directly impact upon your vacation.”
“Easy for you to say,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Wick is a small village. Could have been anyone killed the poor girl—includin’ somebody workin’ right here for you, Inspector Sutherland.”
We all turned to the bar; Forbes was gone.
“I rather doubt that,” George said. “The citizens of Wick are good and decent people, hard-working and honorable. This is the perverted work of a madman, a single individual. Don’t judge all of Wick by this incident.”
“Hard not to,” Jim Shevlin said. “What kind of town is this? Women branded as witches, pitchforks in their chests, crosses carved in their throats. How many now? Three? That alleged witch, Isabell. Then what? Twenty years ago another woman dies that way because she’s related to Isabell? And now that pretty young woman who served us dinner last night.”
Shevlin addressed us: “What do all of you think? We come from Cabot Cove, a good and decent place. We bring up our kids there in peace. I ran for mayor because I wanted to keep Cabot Cove a safe place for all of us. I don’t know, folks, but there’s something in the air here. Something sinister. I say we pack up and leave.”
I looked to George, who’d retreated to a far corner
during the debate. I felt sorry for him. Obviously, none of this was his fault. He’d opened up his family home to me and my friends, and didn’t deserve to be viewed as part of some wicked scheme in which women were brutally murdered.
“What do you think, Mort?” Shevlin asked our sheriff. “And you, Seth?”
Seth Hazlitt said, “Well, I think you’re rushin’ to judgment, Jim. I agree that this is plenty upsettin’. But just because this Miss Daisy Wemyss has been killed by a nut doesn’t mean we should be packin’ our bags and scurryin’ out a’ here.”
Mort Metzger cleared his throat before saying, “I think Seth talks sense, somethin’ I don’t always say. But I do think that since this murder has happened right under our noses, we should keep our guard up. If you agree, I’ll put together a security plan for while we’re staying here at the castle.”
“Security plan?” Ken Sassi said. “If we need a ‘security plan,’ we shouldn’t be here.”
An argument erupted in which everyone voiced their opinions. When their voices died down, they turned to me. “What about you, Jess?” Seth Haz litt asked. “You’re the one who suffered the shock of discoverin’ the body. You’re the one who invited us to come along with you to Sutherland Castle. How do you feel about stayin’?”
I glanced at George before replying. He gave me a slight shrug of his shoulders; translation—do what I thought was best without regard for him.
I said, “We’re all shocked and upset at what has happened to Daisy. That’s only natural and right. But to turn tail and run away from this beautiful place would be, in my judgment, an overreaction. We’ve had murders in Cabot Cove. That didn’t cause us to run away from there.”
“Because that’s our home,” Jed Richardson said from where he still hovered over Alicia.
“And this is our home for the next week,” I said. “I can’t decide for you whether to leave or not. That’s up to each individual in this room. I’m sure George will be happy to arrange flights and transportation to the nearest airport for anyone who wants that. But I intend to stay. That’s my individual decision.”
08 - The Highland Fling Murders Page 6
