08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “No need,” Alicia said, dangling her legs off the bed and standing. “Just clumsy ol’ me, tripping like that. I’d like to eat with the others.”

  Seth was asleep when I peeked into his room, and I didn’t disturb him. As I walked into the dining room, George whispered in my ear that a doctor would be at the castle within the hour.

  “That’s good news,” I said. “Funny, but I am hungry.”

  Fiona and Mrs. Gower served. I couldn’t take my eyes from Fiona after what Malcolm James had told me that afternoon. Was she really in some sort of physical danger? I didn’t want to accept that, but considering what had already happened—Daisy Wemyss’s murder in Wick, and Alicia’s “accident” that evening, to say nothing of women in white floating about the castle—I certainly wasn’t about to bet my house on it Maybe Mort was right; we needed some sort of a security plan.

  Alicia’s fall had taken the edge off the group’s usual ebullient dinner mood. There was conversation, of course, but it was markedly subdued compared to other evenings.

  A simple dessert of sherbet and oatmeal cookies topped off the meal. By then, the mood had loosened a little, and Pete Walters began telling jokes. I remember laughing at the punch line of one, and enjoying the dialect he assumed for telling the second. But that’s all I remember of it.

  “Jess?”

  I heard my name, but it didn’t register.

  “Jess? Are you all right?” It was George Sutherland’s voice.

  I heard the scrape of chairs, and was suddenly aware of people hovering about me. Someone placed hands on my shoulders and gently shook.

  “Gorry,” Mort Metzger said. “You look like a stone statue.”

  “What?”

  I looked up into each person’s face and eyes. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “You seemed to have fallen into a spontaneous trance,” Dr. Symington said.

  “Trance? Me?” I laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

  “You sure looked strange,” Susan Shevlin said.

  “Like a stone statue,” Mort repeated.

  I looked to the head of the table, where George Sutherland sat. “Stone?” I said to him. “I looked like stone?”

  “Easily explained, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Dr. Symington. “You see, we are each capable of—”

  “Stone,” I muttered.

  And the words of the crazy old man at the dock, Evan Lochbuie, filled my head, blotting out everything else being said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The young physician summoned to Sutherland Castle, Dr. Hamish Dawson, was a pleasant young man, bursting with zeal for his professional calling. He examined Seth at length. When he was finished, he came downstairs and sat with George and me in George’s office.

  “No question about it,” he said, “Dr. Hazlitt is ill. His fever is real. So are his shakes. But I can find nothing to cause it. All vital signs are strong. There’s no hint of infection in his throat or ears. My suggestion is that we get him to the hospital in the morning and draw some blood, do other tests.”

  “Is that really necessary?” I asked. “It sounds to me like a good old-fashioned case of the flu.” I added what Dr. Dawson was probably thinking: “Of course, I’m not a doctor.”

  “The man spent time in the water,” George offered. “Got a chill from the air, was in his wet clothes for a period of time.”

  Dawson smiled. “I really don’t think Dr. Hazlitt fell ill because of that,” he said. “Shall I call the hospital and arrange to admit him in the morning? They’re struggling because of the electrical problem, but the generators are working.”

  “Perhaps we’d better ask Dr. Hazlitt,” George suggested.

  “I will,” I said. “Only be a minute.”

  As I anticipated, Seth wanted no part of any hospital. “A good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine,” he told me. “Thank the nice young doctor for caring, but I’ll do without his hospital.”

  I reported Seth’s decision to Dr. Dawson and George.

  “Fair enough,” Dawson said. “After all, the patient is also a physician.”

  “I wonder if you’d examine Mrs. Fletcher while you’re here,” George said.

  “Me?” I said, surprised. “I’m not sick.”

  The doctor looked at me. “Not feeling well, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I feel fine. I wasn’t the one who fell in the water.”

  “Jess,” George said, his voice low and soothing. “We all saw what happened to you at dinner tonight It wasn’t natural. You went into a trance. Dr. Symington recognized it.”

  “A trance?” Dawson said.

  “That’s silly,” I said. “I was—daydreaming, that’s all.”

  “Looked like more than that to me,” George said.

  “Well, George, you’re wrong. I’ve never felt better in my life.”

  “You looked as though you turned to stone, Jessica,” George said.

  I stood, went to a window overlooking a small garden, drew a deep breath, and said, “I can’t believe you said that, George. ‘Turned to stone,’ indeed.” I forced a laugh. “Maybe you’d better tell Dr. Dawson about the curse placed upon me.”

  Now Dr. Dawson stood. “Curse? Someone placed a curse on you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Supposedly.” I told him in a mocking tone about the incident at the dock with Evan Lochbuie.

  It was the doctor’s turn to laugh. “Evan? Lochbuie? He’s always putting curses on people. The man is certifiably insane. Belongs in an institution.”

  “Exactly,” said George, coming to me and placing his large hands on my shoulders. “But you must admit, Jessica, that you did act strangely at dinner.”

  “All I did was to drift off into a sort of reverie. No, I don’t need a doctor. But thank you anyway.”

  We walked Dr. Dawson to the front door. He’d parked his small red sports car directly in front of the castle.

  “Safe home, Hamish,” George said.

  “Ay, that I will, George. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Call again if your friend doesn’t improve by morning. Hopefully, we’ll have the power back on, and he’ll be feeling tip-top.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, Mrs. Fletcher, put Evan Lochbuie out of your mind. He’s hae a want. Mentally defective, poor devil.”

  George and I watched him drive off, his headlights piercing the gloom, now compounded by a dense fog that had settled over the coast.

  Back inside, I asked George, “Why did you bring up my little dinner episode, George? I felt foolish having Dr. Dawson hear that.”

  “Because I care about you, Jessica. When I saw you at the table, I was worried. I don’t know. Maybe having you and your friends here was a bad idea. All these unfortunate things happening to you. I hae nae brou o this, Jessica. I have no liking for what’s been happening.”

  “I know that, George, but it’s not your fault.”

  “Mrs. Richardson falling tonight and hurting herself. I’ve never seen the like in aa my born days. Bloody curses. Ladies in white with orange eyes. Young women killed with a pitchfork, like witches in olden days. I’m sorry I asked you here under these circumstances, Jess. I always wanted you to visit and share this place with me. Please accept my apology.”

  “And I’ve told you that no apologies are necessary. Tell you what Let’s consider everything that’s happened to be far in the past. In the morning, we’ll start our real vacation at Sutherland Castle. Ken Sassi and I have a lovely day of fishing planned. What’s the gillie’s name?”

  “Rufus Innes. The best fishing guide in northern Scotland. A little eccentric but—”

  “Another eccentric?”

  “Pleasantly so. You were saying?”

  “I was saying that tomorrow begins our official vacation. No more ghosts or curses or accidents. Just fun. A day on the stream for Ken and me. Tours of this spectacular countryside for others. Good wine and food, and good conversation. The way it should be.”

  George nodded and smiled. �
��Is the glass always half full for Jessica Fletcher? Never half empty?”

  “Oh, it empties from time to time, George. When I allow it to. But I don’t intend to allow it to for the duration of my stay in Wick.”

  “You lift my spirits,” he said.

  “Exactly what I meant to do. Now, let’s join the others. They said they were going to play charades. Should be fun. Ever play?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re about to. I suspect you’ll be very good at it.”

  I was right George threw himself into the game, and after getting over his initial reserve and stiffness, helped the team led by Roberta Waiters to victory. I was on Susan Shevlin’s team, which also included Mort and Maureen Metzger. Mort is a better sheriff than charade player, much to his wife’s overt chagrin; they fought for most of the game.

  The film producer, Brock Peterman, and his wife, Tammy, declined to participate, as did Dr. and Mrs. Symington. Peterman took me aside before we started playing to ask whether I’d met up with Evan Lochbuie.

  “I certainly did,” I said.

  “What do you think?”

  “To use an old Scottish expression, I think he’s hae a want.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Crazy! I’ll pass on your movie idea.”

  “Suit yourself. But you’re missing out on a megaproject. Megabucks.”

  “I’ll just have to live with it. Excuse me. Charades awaits.”

  I found myself yawning by the time ten o’clock rolled around. I wasn’t alone. Others also seemed ready to call it a night.

  “A quiet brandy or sherry, Jessica?” George asked.

  “Afraid not. This lady is tired. And as you know, the fishing’s always better early in the morning. You said the gillie would meet us here at five?”

  “Ay. And ol’ Rufus is prompt.”

  “So are we. Enjoy charades? You played well.”

  “Quite a lot of fun. We must do it again”

  “I agree. Good night, George. I’ll peek in on Seth before I go to bed.”

  “All right I was thinking that the day after tomorrow might be a good day for us to get away together—alone. A private tour, lunch in my favorite pub, a relaxing time. The weather forecast is favorable, and I’ll have caught up on my paperwork. Good with you?”

  “Good with me. Good night, George. Thanks for everything.” I kissed him on the cheek and went upstairs.

  I tiptoed into Seth’s room and stood at the side of his bed. For a moment, I wondered whether he was alive. He was on his back, and his breathing was barely discernible. I leaned closer. His shaking had stopped, but his usually pleasant round face was fixed in a stem, severe expression, mouth turned down at the corners, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He looked to me like—like a statue.

  A stone statue.

  I quickly left his room and went to mine, where I sat at the window staring into the darkness. The wind moved the fog in angry swirls, creating grotesque shapes that came and went, suddenly attacking me, then twisting away to be replaced by another burst.

  I drew the drapes, prepared for bed, and lay awake for a very long time. My mind was filled with unpleasant images, which I fought to dispel. I was finally able to do that by focusing on the next day’s fishing with Ken Sassi and our Scottish guide. That contemplation is always so pleasant for me that I was eventually able to close my eyes and drift off.

  Unfortunately, it was not a peaceful, regenerating sleep. I awoke at four to my travel alarm’s tiny bell, feeling as though I’d been drugged. I forced myself from the bed and went to the bathroom, where my mirror image projected a very tired woman.

  Maybe George was right.

  This had not turned into the pleasant and relaxing vacation I’d hoped for.

  Chapter Fourteen

  George had arranged for Forbes to cook us breakfast before setting out with our gillie-our fishing guide—Mr. Rufus Innes. Our host joined us at the ungodly hour of four-thirty as we enjoyed pancakes, bacon, and steaming hot coffee under the flickering glow of candles. To my surprise, Seth Hazlitt showed up, too.

  “What are you doing up?” I asked.

  “All slept out,” he replied.

  “But how are you feeling?”

  “Tip-top, Jessica. That’s all I needed, a good night’s sleep. I’m rarin’ to go.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “But don’t overdo it.”

  “Listen to her,” Seth said with a chuckle. “You’d think she was the doctor.”

  After Seth returned to his room, and armed with a thermos of coffee for each of us and picnic lunches in wicker baskets, Ken Sassi and I went with George to the front of the castle, where Mr. Innes sat waiting in a battered Ford truck.

  “Rufus, meet Jessica Fletcher and Ken Sassi.”

  Innes got out of the truck and extended his hand to me, then to Ken. He was short and chubby, with red cheeks and bright blue eyes. I was surprised at his lack of stature. For some reason, I expected Scottish fishing guides to be big, gruff, raw-boned men.

  Back in Maine, our guides often display a certain disdain for those they guide, viewing them as necessary evils from whom they earn a living during the fishing season. To hear their tales could lead one to share that cynicism. Inexperienced, demanding, too often wealthy people who decide to take a fling at fly-fishing, look down on their guides as servants. In those cases, the guides get through it with clenched teeth and forced smiles until the day on the stream ends, and they can swap stories with fellow guides about the “sports” they put up with, an unflattering term in Maine for fishing clients.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Innes said. He wore tan lace-up boots, heavy tan pants I assumed were lined, a dark green cable-knit sweater, and a black windbreaker that had been through many fishing seasons.

  “We’re so happy to have you guide us,” I said. “George says you know where the big ones are waiting.”

  Innes laughed. “If I could be sure of that, Mrs. Fletcher, I’d be a rich man. Might even own a castle myself.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t,” George said. “Better off being a gillie.”

  “See you at dinner,”. I said.

  “Many thanks for setting this up,” Ken Sassi said.

  “Fish good. And stay away from rabbits,” said George.

  “What?” Ken and I said in unison.

  “Rufus will explain. Have a splendid day.”

  We loaded our gear in the back of the truck, and squeezed in the cab with Mr. Innes. There was a distinct chill in the air at that early hour, a harbinger of what was forecast to be a crisp, clear, and sunny day, perfect fishing weather unless you subscribe to the belief that fish rise more readily under overcast skies. I don’t.

  We bounced along over rutted roads, passing through dense forests, saying little to each other except the occasional comment about the gradually emerging sunrise, birds winging from tree to tree, and the fine day it promised to be.

  Ken eventually brought up what George had said about “rabbits.”

  Innes laughed. “Old superstition among fishermen in these parts,” he said. “Have a rabbit come near you when getting set to go out for a day of herring fishing, you’ll have terrible luck. Anybody even mentions rabbits near fishermen puts a curse on them.”

  Another curse. Wick’s most popular pastime.

  By the time we reached a one-lane dirt road that ran past widely spaced farmhouses, the sun was fully up, working to burn away the last wisps of ground fog. Innes pulled onto a strip of grass and shut off the engine.

  Ken got out and looked around. “Where’s the stream?” he asked.

  “Over there,” Innes said, pointing to a meadow beyond the closest house.

  “How do we get to it?” I asked, not seeing any path from the road to where Innes had pointed.

  “Walk” was his answer.

  Ken and I retrieved our gear from the truck and followed our guide, who started out across the property on which the house was situa
ted. I was uncomfortable walking there, feeling like a trespasser. Maybe our guide had some sort of arrangement with the farm’s owner. I asked.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. No need for that. It’s understood that any fisherman can cross anybody’s property to get to a stream, as long as we close gates and don’t destroy nothing.”

  “That’s certainly an enlightened view,” I said.

  “Not like back home,” Ken Sassi said.

  “No, it’s not,” I said, continuing to keep pace with Ken and our gillie.

  We crossed a large cow pasture, climbed a couple of low fences, passed through a decaying wooden gate, and eventually reached the fishing stream, fifty feet wide and fast-flowing.

  “We’ll start you out here,” Innes said. “Should be some nice hungry brown trout in these parts.”

  Ken and I went through the ritual of putting on our equipment—multi-pocketed vest, chest-high Neoprene wading stockings held up with suspenders, over which we put our felt-sole lace-up wading boots. We attached each other’s nets to rings on the back of the vests, secured wading belts about our waists to keep water from gushing into the waders in the event of a fall, and hooked fold-up wading staffs to the belts.

  As we went through these preliminaries, I saw Mr. Innes watching us closely, a bemused smile on his face.

  “Like going to war,” I said lightly.

  “Ay. The way you do it.”

  “What’s wrong with the way we do it?” Ken asked.

  “Nothing. Except it takes a lot of work, doesn’t it?”

  “Ready?” Ken asked me, ignoring Innes’s comment.

  “All set.”

  Rufus Innes had brought with him a fishing rod as long as the one I’d seen Constable McKay carry. “Mind if I fish, too?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Ken said.

  “What works in this river?” I asked, referring to the type of. artificial fly to use.

  “I like emergers this time of year,” he said. “Hare’s ear. Ants work pretty good, ‘specially if you cast ’em under overhanging trees. Might try a streamer, too.”

  I chose a pretty little hare’s ear emerger, which I attached to my hook, pleased I hadn’t forgotten how to tie the required knot. Ken went with a long, brightly colored streamer. We used our wading staffs to check the floor of the stream, and carefully entered it. I loved the feel of cold water against my ankles, calves, and finally hips as I waded to where I felt comfortable. Ken did the same twenty yards upstream.