I repeated to him what had happened to me.
“Somebody tried to kill you, Mrs. F.?”
“I don’t know what the motive was, but yes, someone did throw a log at me while I was in the water.”
“This is a police matter,” Mort said.
“That’s why Constable McKay was called,” George said.
“If this guy threw the log at you from this here bridge, why are they all the way down there?” Mort asked.
“Probably looking for my rod.”
“Uh-huh,” Mort said. “Let’s take a look up on that bridge.”
I glanced at George, whose face said nothing. But I knew what he was thinking. Mort obviously forgets that George is one of Scotland Yard’s top inspectors. His restraint in reminding Cabot Cove’s sheriff of that has always struck me as admirable.
The wooden bridge was wide enough for a vehicle to cross the river, but only barely. As we stepped onto it, its rickety structure was evident.
“Maybe we all shouldn’t go on it at once,” Seth Hazlitt suggested.
I was already onit, and continued to center span. George and Mort accompanied me; Dr. Symington, Ken Sassi, and Seth remained onshore.
“Where did you fall?” George asked.
I went to the shaky railing and pointed to the spot in the water where I’d been when the log was thrown.
“How close did it come to hitting you?” George asked.
“Close” was my response. “I had to twist my body to avoid it. That’s why I fell.”
“And you say it was quite large. Six feet long? A half a foot wide?”
“I think so. It happened so fast.”
“Would take a person of considerable strength to throw such an object that distance,” George said. He turned to Mort, who was examining the opposite railing. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sheriff Metzger?”
“What?”
“It would take a strong person to throw a large log to where Jessica was fishing.”
“Ayuh. I suppose it would. Look here, Mrs. F.”
George and I went to where Mort stood at the opposite railing and leaned forward to see what he was pointing at. It was a cross carved into the wood. A pinkish brown stain defined the interior grooves of the symbol.
George touched his pinky to one of the cross’s lines, withdrew it, and examined it. Nothing.
“Looks like dried blood,” Mort said.
“Yes, I suspect it is,” George said. “No telling how long it’s been here, although it doesn’t look terribly old to me.”
“Looks like fresh cuts in the wood, though,” Mort said.
“It does appear that way. I suggest we wait until Constable McKay examines it.”
“Does Wick have a forensic lab?” I asked.
“No. But he can send it to Inverness, or Glasgow.”
“Do you think it was carved by the person who threw the log at me?” I asked.
“A distinct possibility.”
We felt the bridge move as Dr. Symington joined us. He looked at the carved cross and shook his head. “I was afraid of this,” he said solemnly.
“Why do you say that, Doc?” Mort asked.
“Its symbolism,” he said, running his index finger over the cross.
“I wouldn’t touch that, Doc,” Mort said. “It’s evidence.”
“Yes,” Symington said. “Evidence of what is really going on here.”
“Which is?” George asked. “What, in your opinion, Doctor, is really going on here?”
Symington looked up at George and gave him a tight smile. “Witchcraft, of course.”
“What’s the cross got to do with witchcraft?” Mort asked.
“It’s been carved here to ward off a spell.”
Seth now started across the bridge in our direction, causing it to creak and moan and sway.
“Let’s get off before we all end up in the water,” Mort said.
As we stood on the riverbank, Constable McKay and Rufus Innes approached. My heart tripped when I saw Rufus carrying my fishing rod. “You found it,” I said, my voice mirroring my pleasure.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rufus said, handing it to me. “Got itself wedged between some rocks. Doesn’t look the worse for wear.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It means a lot to me.”
“Been on the bridge, Horace?” George asked the constable.
“Not yet.”
“Let me show you something.”
Mort quickly said, “I found it, Constable. I’ll show it to you.”
George sighed and leaned against a tree as Mort led McKay to the middle of the bridge. They returned a minute later.
“Think you want to cut it out and send it off for analysis?” George asked.
“Nothing to be gained by that,” McKay said. “Won’t tell us anything we don’t already know.”
“It will confirm whether it’s blood,” George said. “And how long it’s been there.”
McKay’s face said he didn’t enjoy being told what to do when it came to police work.
“Mrs. Fletcher almost died here today because someone threw a log at her from that bridge,” George said. “Whoever did that might have carved that cross as a signature of sorts. Dr. Symington says it could be an attempt to ward off a curse, or some other such thing. Not that I believe in such nonsense, but—”
“All right,” McKay said. “I’ll send Bob up here in the morning with a saw, cut it out a’ the railing, send it to Inverness. Anything else you want me to do?” His words were fat with sarcasm.
“Not at the moment,” George said. To Rufus Innes: “Much obliged, Rufus, for finding Mrs. Fletcher’s rod.”
“Just sorry a good day of fishing turned out like it did,” the gillie said. “Happy to take you out another day.”
“How about tomorrow?” Ken Sassi asked.
Innes looked at me for a reaction.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Fletcher is committed all day tomorrow,” George said.
I smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Perhaps another day before we go home.”
“Give me a call. Been slow lately. I have some days available.”
We arrived back at the castle in time for the cocktail hour in the drawing room. Naturally, everyone asked about my mishap on the stream that day. I tried to pass it off as just a silly slip, but they’d all been told about the log, and wanted to know whether I thought the person who threw it had deliberately tried to hit me with it.
“I really don’t know,” I replied. “I prefer to think not.”
I didn’t want to talk about it, and sought the solace of a far comer where I could sip my white wine in peace. But Dr. Symington came up to me. “I hope I didn’t upset you, Mrs. Fletcher, pointing out that the cross was probably carved there to ward off a witch’s curse.”
“No, you didn’t, Dr. Symington. But I’d be interested in hearing more about your theory.”
“Happy to, Mrs. Fletcher. You see, there are three basic classifications of witches. White, gray, and black. The white witch is helpful to mankind, always wanting to provide some positive force. The gray witch is what one might term self-centered. Gray witches indulge themselves in magic and ritual, but have little interest one way or the other in helping or hurting men and women not possessed. But then there is the black witch.”
His eyes opened wide as he sipped his drink and smiled knowingly.
“Ah, yes, the black witch. Black witches make their covenant with the Devil himself. Satan. They agree to inject evil into everything they can, to hurt and destroy all that is good. They sign what might be considered a legal agreement with Satan—sign it in their own blood—and surrender their body and souls to him. This occurs when Satan comes to earth as an ordinary man dressed in black. The witch signs her agreement with him, and he gives her a coin to seal the deal, as it were. The witch is also given a living symbol of her newfound power, usually a black cat, whose function is to aid her in spreading evil on earth. The cat’s basic nourishment is to draw and drink
blood from its mistress.”
I forced a laugh to cover my increasing nervousness. “An interesting fable,” I said.
“Fable? Hardly, Mrs. Fletcher. Witchcraft is not a fable. No, far from it. It is as real as you and I standing here talking. Do you know what I think?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“I think the cross was carved, and outlined in blood, by someone who thought you were a witch whose powers had to be curtailed.”
I looked for George, who wasn’t there at the time. The others were engaged in happy conversation in other parts of the large room.
“Dr. Symington, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I do not disbelieve it, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well, I can assure you that I have never cut a deal with the Devil, nor do I own a black cat.”
“Never?”
“Well—years ago. A stray black cat I rescued and kept. But if you think that means—”
“Mrs. Fletcher, as with vampires, the Christian cross, especially when traced with blood, has always been considered an effective way of warding off a witch’s curse.”
“Excuse me, Doctor. I have to tell—something to—someone—over there.”
I went to where Pete Walters and Seth Hazlitt were engaged in a spirited political debate. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.
“ ‘Course not, Jessica,” Seth said. “Feelin’ okay? You look white as a ghost.”
“A witch, according to Dr. Symington. But a good witch.”
“What are you talking about?” Pete said.
“A lecture on witches I just received from Dr. Symington.”
Pete Walters leaned close to me and said, “The guy’s nutty as a fruitcake. So’s his wife. A pair of whackos.”
“Speakin’ of folks tetched in the head, where’s that Peterman couple?” Seth asked. “Haven’t seen them around.”
“Oh, Inspector Sutherland told me just a little while ago that they’ve gone to Glasgow. On business, he said.”
“Don’t miss ‘em in the least,” said Seth. “Disagreeable chap. Feel a little sorry for his wife. Hate to be married to someone like that.”
“Don’t worry about it, Seth,” Pete said. “Unlikely you ever will be.”
They slipped back into their debate—it turned out to be a running argument they’d been having for years over whether Cabot Cove should establish a commission to bring industry to the town; our new mayor, Jim Shevlin, was all for it, as was Pete Walters. Seth didn’t like change of any sort—and I left the room in search of George.
I found him in his office, feet up on his desk, attention focused on the window and what lay beyond it
“Mind if I interrupt your reverie?” I asked.
“Not at all, Jessica.” He removed his feet from the desk and leaned his elbows on it.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He laughed as though he’d just been asked the most ludicrous question in the world: “Wouldn’t you say something was wrong?”
“Because I fell in the stream?”
“Because someone coused you to fall. I just got off the phone with a man in London who’s been trying to buy Sutherland Castle for the past few years.”
“You told me there were interested buyers.”
“And he’s one of the most interested. Heads a business consortium with millions of pounds to spend. I think much of it comes from foreign investors. Arabs. The Japanese.”
“Why are you telling me this, George?”
“Because I mink I’ll take him up on his offer.”
“That’s quite a serious decision to make. Sure you aren’t overreacting to what happened today?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to make such a decision based upon emotion. And I’m sure you can understand why I’m not keen on having foreigners buy the castle. I’d like to see it, and Wick, remain in Scottish hands. But—”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“You know you can always do that.”
“Sleep on it. Give it a few days. Don’t act impetuously.”
“A good thought, Jessica, but—”
“For me, George. I would hate to see you give up something so dear to you because of a series of silly mishaps to me and my friends. Wait until we’re gone. You’ll be able to think more clearly then.”
“Sage advice, as might be expected from you.”
“If it’s sage advice, take it. I think dinner is ready. You are joining us?”
“Yes. Of course. Don’t mind me, Jess. Just a momentary lapse in confidence. Come. Mrs. Gower has cooked up haggis -for us. She makes the best in Wick.”
Haggis? I thought as we went to announce to the others that dinner was about to be served. That traditional Scottish concoction whose ingredients, coupled with how it’s prepared, strikes fear in the hearts of almost everyone visiting Scotland.
I stopped him just before we entered the drawing room. “George,” I said, “I’m sure Mrs. Gower makes the best haggis in the world. But I’m afraid my friends from Maine might not—no, let me be honest—I’m afraid I might not like it.”
It was the biggest laugh of the day from him, and I loved hearing it “Jessica,” he said, “I learned years ago that haggis is not to the liking of most visitors. Mrs. Gower serves it up once a week for those adventurous enough to want to taste our national culinary treasure. But I always insist that she have ready plenty of plain roasted chicken. Just in case.”
Chapter Sixteen
Robert Bums, the revered Scottish poet, once called haggis “great chieftain o’ the pudding race.”
I’m not sure I would wax as poetic about Scotland’s national dish as Mr. Bums. It’s an off-putting culinary concoction (unless you were brought up with it as Mr. Bums was), falling into the pudding category but like no other pudding I’ve ever experienced.
Our gourmet chef, Charlene Sassi, told us at dinner that there were many different variations on the basic theme. But, in general, haggis consists of the liver, heart, and tongue of a sheep, combined with suet, onions, and lots of oatmeal, wrapped in the sheep’s paunch, its stomach lining. It’s boiled for about three hours and served whole on the plate, usually accompanied by mashed potatoes and vegetables.
Mrs. Gower personally, and with pride, served her version of haggis, plopping down each plate before us with conviction. After the last of us had been served, she departed the dining room, leaving us to look at our meal, and at each other.
“It’s really very good,” Charlene said. “Don’t let appearances deceive you.”
“It’s not the appearance,” Seth Hazlitt said. “It’s knowin’ what I’m lookin’ at that matters.”
George sat at the head of the long table, a bemused smile on his lips.
“Do you like haggis, Inspector?” Susan Shevlin asked.
“Ay. I don’t make a habit of it, but I enjoy a hearty haggis on occasion.”
“Well, I’m not going to let it get cold,” Charlene said. With that, she cut into the paunch, allowing the juices to burst forth onto her plate. She raised her fork, said, “Bon appétit,” and put the food in her mouth.
We watched her the way people fixate on a sword swallower, or fire-eater. She chiewed, swallowed, smiled, and said, “Excellent. My compliments to the chef.”
Jim Shevlin said, “I think I’ll try it. Hate to be accused of not being adventurous when it comes to food.” He took his first bite and closed his eyes while swallowing.
“How is it?” his wife, Susan, asked.
“Different. Obviously an acquired taste.”
“Jess?” Roberta Walters said. “.Are you going to try it?”
Mort Metzger saved me from having to answer. “Anything else on the menu tonight?” he asked George Sutherland.
“Roast chicken.”
“Sounds good to me,” Seth said. “Maybe heat this haggis up and have it another day.”
“Mrs. Gower will be disappointed,” said Charlene as she continued to di
g in.
“She’ll understand,” George said. “You’re not the first group to request chicken.” He went to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Gower to heat up chicken for all except himself, Charlene Sassi, and Jim Shevlin.
We enjoyed salad until the chicken was served by an especially dour Mrs. Gower, who said nothing in response to our feeble attempts to explain away our decision.
Unlike previous evenings, we didn’t retire en masse to the drawing room for after-dinner cocktails. Everyone seemed to have other things to do, including me. I decided to use the evening to finish reading Malcolm James’s manuscript, Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie?, and to try to sort out the events of that day on the river. That I’d almost drowned had been pushed to the back of my mind by the ensuing activities. But now, as I excused myself and went to my room, its impact seeped back into my consciousness. It wasn’t an especially welcome feeling.
George Sutherland asked whether I wanted anything brought to my room. Tea sounded appealing; he said he’d have Fiona bring it to me after she’d finished helping Mrs. Gower clean the kitchen.
I opened one of the windows and looked down onto the front courtyard. The weather had changed again, no surprise, based upon northern Scotland’s reputation. It felt as though a blanket of warm, humid air had settled in over Wick and the castle, a summerlike evening back home. I didn’t especially like it. I was getting used to brisk, wet weather, and preferred that it stay that way for the duration of our visit to Sutherland Castle.
Any apprehension I experienced was mitigated by the pleasant contemplation of spending the next day alone with George. It seemed that the only periods of calm were when he was around, his large presence and low-key manner a welcome contrast to the series of upsetting incidents occurring since our arrival.
It was good to have electricity again. I pulled up a small stuffed chair next to a floor lamp by the open window, opened Malcolm James’s manuscript on my lap, and started reading Chapter Two. While the first chapter had been a straightforward exposition of the bare facts of Evelyn Gowdie’s death by pitchfork twenty years ago, the book now shifted into a fiction mode, in which Malcolm’s detective character comes on the scene and begins investigating the murder.
I found myself engrossed as I read. Malcolm showed considerable promise as a novelist. He drew his characters with care into three-dimensional people. He set scenes nicely, giving just enough detail to place the reader in the action without abusing his descriptive powers.
08 - The Highland Fling Murders Page 13
