08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  I turned to see what Rufus Innes was doing. He stood on the bank using his long rod to cast across the stream, almost reaching the opposite shore, which we could do only by being halfway across it I now knew what he meant when he gently criticized our approach to fishing. For him, no waders, no boots, no cumbersome equipment. Just stand on the bank and cast.

  I put the differences between our fishing styles out of mind and began to cast, pleased with how after not having done it for quite a while I was able to lay my tiny artificial fly where I wanted it, in a swift channel running beneath an overhanging tree that would provide what trout like: shaded cover. I’d been at it for ten minutes when I saw Rufus hook a fish and skillfully bring it to shore. He lifted the plump sea trout from the water with his hand and examined it, lowered it back into the water, moved it back and forth to force water into its gills, and sent it on its way.

  I resumed casting.

  A half hour later, Innes had hooked and released two additional trout; Ken and I hadn’t had as much as a rise.

  “Want to move on?” our guide asked from the bank.

  I looked to Ken, who nodded. We waded out of the stream and stood next to Innes.

  “You did pretty good,” Ken said to Innes.

  “A little luck. I’ll take you to a special place where I know you’ll catch fish. Wouldn’t want to return you to George Sutherland without a few fat trout in your creel.”

  We got back in the truck and headed west, I think, until entering a low range of hills that gradually rose in elevation until we were granted a stunning view of Wick, the surrounding countryside and coastline, and Sutherland Castle standing lonely and forbidding. Innes stopped to allow us to drink in the view.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said.

  “Of God’s making,” Innes said.

  “Is there a stream up here?” Ken asked.

  “Oh, yes, there certainly is. A gem. I don’t take many clients up here. None of the guides do. We . try to keep it to ourselves.”

  “That sounds wise,” I said.

  “But for two a’ George’s guests, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Much appreciated,” Ken said. “Where’s this stream? Looks like we might get rained out before long.”

  We looked up into what had been a pristine blue sky, with more of the same in the forecast. An ominous line. of black clouds, twisting thousands of feet into the air, approached from the west.

  “Weather here is changeable,” said Innes. “Very changeable.”

  “So we’ve noticed,” Ken said.

  After another fifteen minutes of driving along a road so narrow the bushes on both sides scraped the truck, we came to the bank of a raging river about twenty feet wide, cascading down from the hills and picking up speed as it roared through the brush-laden gully in which we stood. The wind had now picked up; sudden gusts sent my hair flying.

  “Running pretty fast,” Ken observed. “Tough wading.”

  “Maybe we can do what Mr. Innes does, Ken, fish from the bank.”

  “No,” Ken said, getting ready to enter the stream. “See that pool? I can smell fish in there.”

  “Might be,” Innes said, “but too far to reach from here in this wind.”

  “Game?” Ken asked me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Ken entered the fast-moving water. As I was about to join him, the guide suggested I fish farther upstream. “Might be easier wading there,” he said. “I’ve pulled some nice fish from that pool.”

  I took his professional advice and followed the riverbank upstream to what appeared to be a gentler access to the water. As I walked, I took in my surroundings. Despite the now-overcast skies and the wind, which seemed to increase in velocity with each step, I was supremely happy. The world had disappeared, as it always did for me when I was in, or near, a fishing stream. It would be nice to land a trout or two, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to assure my continued happiness. Just being there was enough.

  I’d almost reached the spot I’d selected to enter the stream when I noticed a wooden bridge spanning the river. I hadn’t seen it before because its weathered wood had turned ash gray, melding into a pewter sky.

  I’d learned years ago that the water beneath bridges was often a prime spot for fish to congregate. I looked back; Ken was waist deep in the water and casting to the pool. I smiled; this was his favorite way to spend a day despite working as a Maine guide for others. If Ken Sassi were a shoemaker, he’d be making shoes for his children on his day off.

  I reached my spot and surveyed the water. I’d made a good choice. The riverbed sloped gradually into the deeper water, which would allow me to get farther out, hopefully within casting distance of a dark pool of water that spread from the shadow beneath the bridge into more open water.

  I had one initial reservation about stepping into the river. Good fishing sense dictates that you should always fish in pairs when in a strange stream, especially when conditions for wading are less than ideal. I would have preferred to be closer to Ken and the gillie, but the lure of that spot under the bridge, and the promise of the fish it held, were too compelling. I’d be careful, each step taken with care, my wading staff helping me remain upright, my eyes focused on the riverbed in search of rocks, or falloffs into which I might misstep.

  I entered the river and slowly, methodically headed for where I wanted to cast. The force of the water was stronger than I’d anticipated from the shore. Still, with my wading staff used to aid in counteracting the flow, I felt confident and secure.

  I reached, the spot and made sure my wading boots were solidly planted in the silty soil. I tossed my hare’s ear fly into the water, increasing the length of my cast with each forward motion of my arm. But at its maximum length, I fell short of my target, the relatively still water under the bridge.

  What to do?

  A rising trout caught my eye, breaking the water to gulp down an insect, leaving telltale circles on the surface. There was another fish rising. And another. A hatch of insects had formed on the river. I looked to my immediate left and right and saw what they were. They weren’t identical to my hare’s ear fly, but close enough to fool a few trout. The trick was to get closer to the feeding fish.

  Because the water was incredibly clear, I could see the ground beneath it. There appeared to be a path of sorts leading between large, slippery rocks to the pool under the bridge. If I took my time and stepped with care, I could bring myself within striking distance of the hungry fish.

  I looked back to where Ken was still in the water, Rufus on the bank observing him. They looked very small in the distance.

  I moved toward my next vantage point. I’d chosen a good path; I had little trouble navigating the current to get to where I wanted to be. I reached it and looked up. I was within twenty feet of the bridge, close enough to cast into the pool.

  I applied some floatant to my fly to help it stay on the surface of the water, and started to cast. I felt good, my back cast straightening out behind me in textbook fashion, then coming up and forward in a straight line despite the wind, the fly on the edge of the hair-thin tippet landing gently where I wanted it to.

  “Pow!”

  A fish broke the surface and clamped onto my fly and the hook. The line straightened out and started to run from the reel as the fish sought the freedom of more open water. I gave him plenty of line. Judging from the pull he exerted, it was a good-size fish, with plenty of energy and fight. I didn’t want to play him too long and exhaust him. Better to reel him in as soon as possible, and release him before he was dangerously tuckered out.

  I started to bring in line with, my right hand, my left holding the bending rod and catching the loops of line as I gathered them. My entire focus was on this task, a liberating experience. I was so devoted to properly and effectively bringing in this fish that I never really saw the man who suddenly appeared on the bridge. I mean, I saw him, but only for a split second, just long enough to see a six-foot-long log, about six inc
hes thick, come hurtling down at me from the bridge. I gasped, and twisted to avoid being hit by it. I was successful, but in the process I lost my footing. Simultaneously, the rod slipped from my hand. I didn’t know what was more important to me at that moment, keeping myself upright, or losing the rod, my favorite, given me as a birthday gift many years ago by my deceased husband, Frank.

  There really wasn’t a choice to be made. I was powerless on both counts. The rod disappeared, and I tumbled into the water. My head went under, but I forced it to the surface, spitting water all the way. The current grabbed me and headed me downstream, in the direction of Ken Sassi and Rufus Innes. I felt my waders begin to fill with water despite the belt around my waist.

  I fought against being swept away; I’d noticed a particularly deep section of the river between where I’d fallen and where the others were. My mind raced. If I reached that deeper area and my waders filled, I’d be dragged down for certain. Thoughts bombarded me.

  How many fly fishermen die in drowning accidents each year? A hundred? Two hundred?

  Where was my prized fishing rod? Would I ever see it again? Would I be alive to use it again?

  The water in my waders was sinking me fast. I grasped for rocks to keep from sliding down the river, but my fingers kept slipping from them, bruising my knuckles and elbows. My face hit a rock, sending a sharp pain from my cheekbone to my brain. I continued to fight to keep my head above water, but knew I was losing the battle.

  I tried to call for help; each time I did, water gurgled into my open mouth.

  What will they say in my obituary?

  Will I be missed back home in Cabot Cove?

  I’ll never see George Sutherland again! So much to have said, so much to say.

  I reached the deep center of the river, and started to sink. I flailed my arms, and managed a cry for help. I didn’t know whether anyone heard me. I closed my eyes and resigned myself to dying in this beautiful river in northern Scotland.

  Then strong hands grabbed me. I opened my eyes to see a blurry Ken Sassi wrapping his arm around my neck. Would he try to save me as life-guards do, swim with me in-tow to. the shore? A long, slender stick appeared above the water. A fishing rod. Ken grabbed it, and we were pulled from the deep pocket to shallower water nearer the shore. Now I could see Rufus Innes. hauling us in on the end of his fishing rod.

  Ken helped me to my feet. We were still in the river, but the water reached only my waist.

  “I fell,” I said, shaking water from my face and hair.

  “I didn’t think we’d make it,” he said. “Damn, good thing I looked for you. Wanted to see if you were having any luck. Bad luck, I’d say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lose your footing?”

  “Yes. I—”

  “Come on out of there,” Innes yelled from shore.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  We walked to the shore. For me, waddled is more accurate. My waders were like water balloons, making walking almost impossible. The minute we were on solid ground, I steadied myself on Ken as I slipped my suspenders off my shoulders, undid the belt, and slid down the waders, the water splashing all around me. I sat, removed my wading boots and the stocking waders, and breathed multiple sighs of relief.

  “Treacherous out there,” Innes said matter-of-factly.

  “What happened, Jess?” Ken asked.

  “I hooked a fish and was fighting him when—”

  “When what?”

  “When—when someone threw something at me from that small bridge.”

  “Threw something at you?” Mr. Innes said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would anybody throw something at you?”

  “I don’t know. To cause me to fall? To knock me down? To kill me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wanted to continue fishing, albeit in calmer surroundings. But Ken and Rufus Innes wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t argue too strenuously because I was soaked to the skin, and cold.

  We returned to Sutherland Castle, where George was snipping flowers in the front garden for that evening’s dinner table. Dr. and Mrs. Symington played croquet at one end of the lawn, while Jed and Alicia Richardson batted a badminton shuttlecock to each other across an imaginary net.

  “What happened to you?” George asked when I got out of the truck.

  “I fell in the stream.”

  He laughed.

  “I’d laugh, too,” I said, “if the reason for falling weren’t so upsetting.”

  His mood immediately turned sober. “Why did you fall?” he asked.

  Jed and Alicia joined us. I replied to George, “Let me get out of these wet clothes and into something warm. I’ll tell you then.”

  As I walked to the castle’s front door, I heard Ken Sassi say, “She claims somebody threw a log at her from a bridge above where she was fishing.”

  And I heard George say, “Another incident. Excuse me. I have a call to make.”

  An hour later, I sat in the room with the huge fireplace where I’d first met Malcolm James, the young helper who’d given me his manuscript. A roaring fire sent warmth into the room; I reveled in it now that I was in dry clothes. A steaming cup of tea cradled in both hands enhanced the feeling. The electrical power had returned to the castle, which was welcome news.

  With me were George Sutherland, Ken Sassi (his wife, Charlene, was off on an excursion into Wick), Jed and Alicia Richardson, Dr. Symington and his wife, Helen, our fishing guide, Rufus Innes, and Constable Horace McKay, who’d been summoned by George. I’d told my story of having fallen into the river, and how a log thrown at me from the bridge had caused it.

  “You didn’t get a good look at the chap who threw it?” McKay asked.

  “No. Just a fleeting glance.”

  The constable frowned and grunted. Dr. Symington, who’d said nothing as I recounted what had happened, now leaned forward in his chair. “Mrs. Fletcher, are you certain you saw someone on the bridge?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But only a ‘fleeting glance,’ as you put it.”

  “That’s right. A figure. Just for a moment.”

  “Like the lady in white?” he asked. He had the annoying habit of raising his voice at the end of every sentence, whether he was asking a question or not.

  “You aren’t suggesting that it was my imagination.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. But in my many years of research, these sort of—how shall I put it?—these sort of sightings often have a tangible explanation, generally having to do with light refraction and other natural phenomena that cause us to think we’ve seen something real that doesn’t actually exist.”

  I kept my annoyance in check as I said, “I’m sure your research is valid and useful, Dr. Symington. But in this case, there was someone on that bridge who threw the log at me.”

  “Did either of you see anyone throw the log?” Constable McKay asked Ken and Rufus.

  They shook their heads.

  “Did you see the log come floating by?”

  “No,” Ken said. “We were too busy trying to save Jessica from drowning.”

  McKay stood and stretched. “Well, I suppose I might as well go up there and take a look around. Won’t find anything, I’m sure, but it’s my job.”

  “While you’re there,” I said, “you might look for my rod. I lost it when I fell. It has sentimental value for me. My late husband gave it to me as a birthday gift.”

  “Bamboo?” McKay asked.

  “No. Fiberglass, an early model.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for it. Might have washed up on shore.”

  “Think I’ll come with you, Horace,” Rufus Innes said. “Two sets of eyes might be better ’an one.”

  George showed them out. When he returned, he said, “I considered joining them.”

  “I’d like to go back,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Ken.

  “May I accompany you?” Dr. Symington asked.

  “Why not?�
�� George said.

  “Do you know the spot?” I asked.

  “Ay. I’ve done my share of fishing there.”

  “I thought you didn’t fish,” I said.

  “Not any longer. But I did as a youth. You can’t grow up in Scotland and not fish. Then you become older and find better things to do.”

  “Like what?” Ken asked.

  “Catching criminals. Come.”

  As we left the castle and walked to the minibus parked outside, Mori and Maureen Metzger and Seth Hazlitt arrived in a car driven by Forbes. “Where are you headed? Mort asked.

  “A fishing stream,” I said.

  “Wearin’ that?” he said, referring to my sweat-suit and sneakers.

  “I fell in earlier,” I said.

  “How did you do that?”

  “It was easy,” I said. “We’re going back to try and find my rod. I lost it when I fell.”

  “We’ll come help,” Seth said.

  “I suggest we get going,” George said, a trace of pique in his voice.

  We all climbed into the bus, except for Maureen Metzger, who said she preferred to stay at the castle. Having Dr. Symington with us set me a little on edge. There was something about the man that was off-putting. Of course, I had to admit he’d angered me by questioning whether I’d actually seen someone on the bridge. As for the lady in white I’d seen my first night at Sutherland Castle, I suppose he had every right to doubt it. After all, I doubted it, too, chalking it up to my imagination.

  But had it been only that, my imagination? She’d spoken to me. Or was that imagination also, my ears playing tricks?

  We reached the river and parked next to Constable MrKay’s car. He and Rufus Innes were far downstream, almost out of sight.

  “I fell upstream,” I said. “Near that bridge.”

  “That’s where you saw the man?” George asked.

  “What man?” Mort asked.