“I put him in his place good and proper. Come on, Jessica. The fella’s waitin’ with his car. And I need a brandy. Maybe even two. Wind’s got me chilled to the bone.”
Chapter Twelve
“I can’t believe you did it, Jess.”
“Why? It seemed a natural thing to do.”
“Do you realize the difficulties you’ll face?”
“Is it that hard?”
“So I’m told. I can’t speak from personal experience, but I’ve known many pipers in my time. They all testify to the difficulty in learning to play the bagpipes.”
I’d delivered Seth Hazlitt to his room for a warm bath and change of clothes. Now George Sutherland and I sat in his comfortable office discussing my purchase that morning. In the rush to get Seth back to the castle, I’d forgotten about having left the pipes at the shop where I’d bought them, but George dispatched Forbes to fetch them. They now sat on the floor next to me.
“Will you be giving a concert after dinner?” George asked, laughing.
“Heavens, no. I’m not even sure I want to try and play them in the privacy of my room. The castle’s walls may be thick, but—”
“I think you should play them to your heart’s content. Now, tell me again about this unfortunate incident with Evan Lochbuie and Dr. Hazlitt.”
“I didn’t, realize you knew Mr. Lochbuie, George.”
“Everyone knows old Evan. Sort of the town character.”
“A fair assessment. A little scary, too.”
“How so?”
“When he started uttering his so-called curse at us, I found myself frightened. I didn’t let on for Seth’s sake, but it was there.”
“A curse? Turn you to stone, will he? Old Evan really has gone off the deep end.”
“Seems like it. I think I’ll go up and check on Seth. I hope he doesn’t catch cold. He shivered and shook all the way back to the castle. Lovely man drove us. After spending time with Mr. Lochbuie, I was beginning to wonder whether everyone in Wick was—well, was a little daft.”
“I admit that same thought has crossed my mind on occasion, Jessica, especially when they’re railing against the castle and the ‘spell’ it’s supposed to have cast over Wick.” He stood and extended his hands to me. I took them, and we faced each other. “Go check on your wet, cold friend. Practice these bagpipes until you’re ready for your debut at Royal Albert Hall. I have some annoying paperwork to catch up on. See you at dinner?”
“Yes. Thanks for sending Forbes to get this.”
George picked up the bagpipes and handed them to me. “Heavy.”
“And unwieldy. See you later, George.”
I took the bagpipes to my room, then knocked on Seth’s door. He opened it wearing his robe over pajamas, and slippers.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“Some. Still have the chills. Thought I’d take a nap before dinner.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Want me to wake you?”
“Ayuh. Much appreciated.”
He shut the door, leaving me concerned. Seth didn’t look good. His face was an unhealthy gray. He’d been in his wet clothes for too long, and I hoped he wouldn’t become ill.
I went to my room and gazed out the window. The sky was now overcast, and rain had begun to fall, whipped by the wind into that infamous horizontal rain pattern I’d been told about before coming to northern Scotland. It splattered off the windowpanes; trees bent, leaves flew. I saw a brilliant streak of lightning, heard the resulting boom of thunder. And then the room’s lights went out, leaving me in virtual darkness.
I took candles from the fireplace mantel, lit them, and placed them on a table by the window. Their glow was warm and comforting as the storm intensified. I considered going downstairs to see whether someone was trying to restore power to the castle, but knew my intrusion wouldn’t help solve the problem. Power failures were undoubtedly a common occurrence at the castle, probably in the entire area. Back home, a simple call to the power company usually resulted in fast action, unless a storm was of sufficient proportions to kill power to thousands of homes. I somehow doubted whether that sort of service existed in Wick.
I picked up the bagpipes and was poised to exhale into the blowpipe when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said.
The door opened, and the young man in kilts who’d given me his manuscript stood holding a flickering candle. I’d completely forgotten about his manuscript. It was on a table along with some magazines and guidebooks.
“Oh,” I said. “Come in.”
“Don’t wish to disturb you, ma’am, but Mr. Sutherland asked me to check on your needs.”
“I’m fine. Will the power be out long?”
“Hard to say. Happens all the time. Mr. Sutherland called the electric company. It’s the storm. The castle’s not the only one going without.”
“I’m sure not. I must apologize for not having read your manuscript. I started it but became distracted. I read the first chapter. It’s quite good.”
He looked disappointed.
“But I will get to it soon. Maybe tonight.”
“You found the first chapter only quite good?”
“Yes. What I meant was it was—quite good, in my judgment.”
His face brightened. “Sorry, ma’am. Here in Scotland, saying something is ‘quite good’ means it’s only so-so.”
“Oh. A problem of semantics. In America, when something is quite good, it’s—quite good. Very good.”
“I see. Sorry.”
His eyes went to my bagpipes and opened wide. “Are those yours?” he asked.
I laughed. “Yes. I bought them today in town. I intend to learn to play them.”
“I play the pipes.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes. My daddy taught me when I was very young.”
“Would you teach me?”
“I’d be pleased, ma’am, provided Mr. Sutherland doesn’t think it inappropriate.”
“I’ll talk to him. Will the power outage delay dinner?”
“I think not, ma’am. Mrs. Gower has a wood-stove to cook on, and we’ve ample candles.”
“That’s good to hear.”
He continued to stand there as though having something else to say, perhaps on a difficult subject.
“Is there something else?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked up and down the dark hall.
“Would you like to come in?”
He hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Yes?” I said.
“Mrs. Fletcher, may I speak privately with you?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, without it leaving this room.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, it’s about my girlfriend.”
I didn’t expect to hear that. If he was looking for some motherly advice from me, I wished he hadn’t. I’m always uncomfortable being drawn into conversations about other people’s personal dilemmas. But I’d opened the door, so to speak, so said, “I’m listening.”
“I’m worried about her, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“In what way? Her physical safety?”
“Exactly, ma’am.”
“What causes you to think she might be in some sort of physical danger?”
He made a few false starts before blurting out, “This place, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s Sutherland Castle that has me worried.”
“Oh?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue with this line of conversation, but didn’t seem to have much of a choice. I invited him to go on.
“I thought I was doing the right thing by Fiona in asking Mrs. Gower if she could come to work here. Replace poor Daisy, you know.”
“Fiona is your girlfriend?”
“Ay.”
“She’s lovely. I met her at breakfast this morning for the first time.”
“Ay. She’s a fair lass. I’m smitten with her.”
“As I c
an well understand. But why do you think she’s in danger working here?”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, you know what’s been happening. Daisy Wemyss. The bloody woman in white prowling the hallways. This is a strange and forbidding place, Mrs. Fletcher. Cursed, they say.”
“Now, wait a minute, Malcolm. It is Malcolm, isn’t it?”
“Ay. Malcolm James.”
“Well, Malcolm James, you don’t really believe that this castle is cursed, do you?”
“I don’t know what to believe, and that’s the truth. I know one thing for certain.”
“What’s that?”
“Fiona’s mother believes it. Yes, she does. And she’s blaming me for bringing her daughter up here to take Daisy’s place. Vehement, she is.”
“I don’t think she has anything to worry about.”
“My father, too, always talking about how Sutherland Castle ruined Wick.”
“It seems the myth has become reality to a lot of people. Malcolm, you’re a writer, and from what I read, you’re a good one. Good writers don’t fall victim to these sorts of outlandish rumors. Good writers evaluate what they see and experience with a clear eye and a reasoned response.”
“I do that, Mrs. Fletcher. I do. But sometimes it’s hard when everyone around you is filling you with such tales and beliefs.”
“I imagine it is. What would you like me to do?”
“I was thinking you might be willing to talk to Fiona, maybe even talk to her mother. You’re respected in the world as a writer. They’d listen to you.”
“Talk to Fiona? Does she believe these rumors?”
“Oh, no. She thinks it’s all funny, laughs about it all the time. But her mum is another matter. No giggles from her, for sure.”
“Let me think about it, Malcolm. Maybe I can come up with something to help appease your—will Fiona’s mother become your mother-in-law one day?”
“I pray for that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right.” He backed toward the door. “And about those bagpipe lessons. Anytime, Mrs. Fletcher. Anytime. Be my pleasure.”
Power hadn’t been restored when it was time to go downstairs for dinner. I carried one of the candles from my room, and shielding it with one hand, descended the staircase and walked into the drawing room, where others had gathered for cocktails. A dozen candles cast a warm golden glow over the handsome room. Forbes tended the bar, as usual, his face set in an unexpressive mask. Fiona passed a silver tray holding hors d’oeuvres. I could see why Malcolm was “smitten” with her. She was a beautiful, vivacious young woman, filled with life and possessing a bubbly laugh that lit up the otherwise shadowy room.
“How’s Seth?” Jim Shevlin asked.
“I’m glad you mentioned him,” I said. “I promised to wake him for dinner. Excuse me.”
“I’ll do it,” Shevlin said. “I can use the exercise.”
He left, and I plucked a few items from Fiona’s tray. George Sutherland appeared at my side holding two glasses of white wine. “Sorry about the dimness,” he said. “The folks at the power company say we might not have it restored until sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’ll survive,” I said. “Actually, the candle-light is—”
“Romantic? If so, I might suggest they drag their feet fixing the lines.”
“I hope Seth is all right,” I said. “Jim Shevlin went to wake him. I forgot.”
“A good stiff brandy will fix him up, I suspect.” He handed me one of the glasses, and we touched rims. “To a more pleasant stay,” he said.
“That sounds good. By the way, Malcolm James stopped by my room.”
“I know. I sent him.”
“He’s a nice young man. He gave me his manuscript to read.”
“Manuscript. I didn’t know he was a writer.”
“He’s written a novel based upon the murder of Evelyn Gowdie twenty years ago. I’ve read the first chapter. It’s quite good.” I laughed. “When I told him I thought it was quite good, he was disappointed. I didn’t realize that saying ‘quite good’ means only so-so in Great Britain.”
“Ah, yes, we speak the same language, yet we don’t.”
I looked to the door. “Jim hasn’t come back,” I said. “I think I’ll go check on Seth.”
“I’ll go with you.”
We bumped into Jim on our way upstairs. “I was coming to get you, Jess,” he said. “Seth is sick.”
“I was afraid this would happen,” I said.
Seth was in bed, the covers pulled up tight to his neck, his shaking visible beneath them. A single candle burned brightly on the night table.
I sat on the edge of the bed and touched his forehead. “You have a fever, Seth.”
“Ayuh. I’m burning up.”
“That crazy old man,” I muttered, referring to Evan Lochbuie.
“My fault,” said Seth. “Lost my balance, that’s all. Should have known better.”
“Well, be that as it may, you need a doctor.”
“I’ll fetch Dr. Symington,” George said.
Seth sat up. “Keep that man away from me,” he said. “He’s no doctor, no matter what degrees he claims. He’s a quack, researchin’ into ghosts and that sort a’ nonsense.”
I looked up at George: “Can we call a doctor from town?”
“Ay. But the electrical outage might make it difficult to get one up here. I’ll try.”
George left the room, and I continued to sit with Seth. “Can I get you anything, Seth? A glass of water? Some brandy?”
“No. Can’t believe I didn’t pack medicines when we left home. Always do. Just plain forgot.”
“It doesn’t matter. George will have a good doctor here, and you’ll be on your way to recovery.”
The wind hadn’t abated; an especially strong gust battered the window. “Like a real nor’easter,” I said.
“That it is.”
I could tell he was fighting to keep his eyes open, and decided the best thing was to let him rest until the doctor arrived. I patted his arm. “I’ll be downstairs, Seth, but I’ll check in often until George gets a doctor here. In the meantime, you rest.”
“Ayuh, Jess. Thank you. You’d make a good nurse. Pleasin’ bedside manner.”
I no sooner had returned to the drawing room, where people were getting ready to go to dinner, when Jed Richardson, Cabot Cove’s resident pilot, came into the room. “Has anyone seen Alicia?” he asked in a loud voice.
“Alicia?” I said. “No. Isn’t she with you?”
“She was. About a half hour ago she said she was coming downstairs to check on the electrical failure. She never returned to the room.”
“Probably got sidetracked with something,” Charlene Sassi suggested. “Maybe ran across an interesting book.”
“And read it in this light?” Alicia’s husband said gruffly. “I’m worried.”
George Sutherland, who was listening, said, “I suggest we fan out and look for her. I’m sure she hasn’t ventured outside, not in this blow.” He assigned us to various areas of the castle, and we set out in search of her. As George and I were about to head out as a. team, he looked to the bar: “Where’s Forbes?” he asked aloud. “Always disappearing at the wrong time.”
“Like Alicia,” I said to myself.
We searched the area by his office, and rooms near it “Where could she have gone?” I asked as we moved swiftly down a hall. As George was about to open a door to a storage closet, a man’s voice from another recess of Sutherland Castle shouted, “Help!”
“That way,” I said, leading us in the direction from which I thought the call had come. The man repeated his cry for aid, and we followed the voice until reaching its source—Forbes, the castle’s jack-of-all-trades. With him was Dr. Symington, who bent over Alicia Richardson. She sat with her back against the wall behind a large suif of armor, its wicked-looking ax resting on the floor next to her.
“Alicia,” I said, kneeling at Sym
ingion’s side. “What happened?”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. I noticed a slight cut, and a widening green-and-dack bruise on her left cheek.
I repeated my Question.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was walking here and—” She began to sob.
Dr. Symington helped her to her feet, and I steadied her until she was sufficiently recovered to stand alone.
I turned to Dr. Symington. “Did you find her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I looked for Forbes, but he was gone. “Was Forbes here when you found her, Doctor?”
“He arrived right after I called for help.”
“Right after?” I said. “He must have been dose by.”
“I think we’d better get Mrs. Richardson to her room,” George suggested.
“A good idea,” I said. “Where’s Jed?”
“Still looking for his wife,” Symington said. “I’ll go get him.”
We settled Alicia on the bed in her room. Jed arrived and came to her side. “What in hell happened?” he asked.
“Looks like someone hit her,” George replied.
“No,” Alicia said, holding a towel filled with ice to her cheek. “I think I tripped.”
“Over what?” George asked. “The ax?”
“Yes. Maybe. I just remember something hitting me in the face, and falling down. I grabbed at the suit of armor to keep from falling. Maybe I grabbed the ax.”
George’s expression said he didn’t buy it
“I’m just glad you weren’t more seriously injured,” I said.
Mort Metzger entered the room. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Jed Richardson filled him in.
“I should have put my security plan into effect,” Mort said. He asked me, “How’s Seth?”
“Sick.”
I asked George about summoning a doctor from the village.
“I’ll get to it straight away,” he said. “Forgot to do it in the events of the evening. Dinner is ready. Provided, of course, you’re still hungry after what has happened to Mrs. Richardson.”
“No sense skipping dinner,” said Mort.
“I’ll check on Seth,” I said.
“Mrs. Gower will send dinner to your room, Mrs. Richardson,” George said.
08 - The Highland Fling Murders Page 10
