08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  George emerged from the castle wearing a houndstooth check jacket with leather at the elbows, tan slacks with razor-sharp creases, white shirt, red tie, red V-neck sweater, and boots polished to a high gloss. A pair of binoculars hung from a strap around his neck.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes. Just give me a minute to grab a sweater.”

  I ran into the castle and was about to go up the stairs to my room when my eye went to a pile of mail on a small table. I’m not a person who looks at other people’s mail, but the envelope on top of the pile caused me to step closer to read to whom it was addressed, and who’d sent it. The number ten envelope was addressed to Malcolm James, in-care-of Sutherland Castle, Wick, Scotland. The return address read: “Flemming Publishing, Ltd.”

  As I ascended the stairs, I wondered why Malcolm would be receiving mail-here, at his place of employment. As far as I knew, he lived in town with his mother. Maybe he gave this publishing company the castle address in order to impress. Was this the publisher Fiona said had expressed interest in his novel? Probably so.

  I didn’t give it another thought as I took my sweater from the closet and returned to the courtyard, where George had rolled out a vintage Mercedes I hadn’t seen before from a four-car garage. It obviously wasn’t driven much. Its black finish glowed from a recent waxing, and the engine purred.

  “Care to drive?” George asked.

  I laughed. “You know I don’t drive.”

  “Ay, and I still wonder why you don’t.”

  “Just never got around to it.”

  “I could teach you.”

  “Oh, no. Even if I wanted to learn, it wouldn’t be here, where everyone drives on the wrong side of the road.”

  “That’s presumptuous of you, Jessica. I think it’s you Americans who use the wrong side.”

  “An argument that will never be resolved.”

  The interior of the car was as luxurious as the exterior was polished. We left the castle grounds and headed directly for the coastline. The sky was active: brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds whisked along on stiff winds, then the sudden appearance of towering black thunderclouds. Rain could be seen falling from them in the distance, black streaks reaching the ground.

  George stopped on the edge of a sheer granite bluff, got out, and opened the door for me. We stood on the precipice and looked out over the North Sea. The wind felt gale force, although I suppose it wasn’t. I do know it was cold, and I pulled my cable-knit sweater closer around me. George noticed I was shivering, and added his arm to the sweater’s warmth. We stood silently, the wind carrying seawater to sting our faces, eyes narrowed against it, smiles on our lips at the majesty of the moment.

  “Being born here must mean carrying this remarkable place with you always,” I said.

  “Ay. It does get in your bones and soul.”

  “So beautiful. It’s awe-inspiring.”

  “I’m glad you can see the beauty in it, Jessica, through the ugliness of the other things that have happened.”

  “I can,” I said. “This is the way I want to remember Wick. This is the way I will remember it. This moment, this spot.”

  “And so shall I. Jessica, I—”

  “I’m cold,” I said.

  “Let’s get in the car. We’ll go for lunch.”

  I knew George wanted to resume a conversation about his feelings for me, but I found it too painful to continue. It might have been selfish, but I wanted to enjoy the rest of my stay in northern Scotland in a simple way, unencumbered by the turmoil of deep personal feelings.

  The pub George took us to was on the docks, near where Seth and I had had our confrontation with Evan Lochbuie. It was called the Birks of Aberfeldy.

  “What an unusual name,” I said.

  “From a Burns poem, ‘The Birks of Aberfeldy.’ The birches of Aberfeldy, a Scottish town.”

  Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting. The long bar was two deep, and most of the tables were occupied. But there was a recently vacated one by the front window, which we took.

  A waitress came to the table. “Good day, Inspector Sutherland,” she said. She was a pretty, middle-aged woman with long black hair worn loose down her back, and sported an abundance of makeup. She wore black jeans and a yellow sweater beneath a large apron bearing the pub’s name.

  “Good day, Joan. This is Mrs. Fletcher, a good friend and my guest for a week or so.”

  I extended my hand. As she took it, Joan said, “I know all about you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh?” I assumed she referred to my books.

  “Not much to do here in Wick,” she said. “Everybody’s talking about you.”

  “Talking about—?”

  “You and Inspector Sutherland.” Her smile was knowing, with a trace of wickedness added.

  I looked down at the table. George sensed my discomfort and quickly said, “We’ll be looking at menus, Joan, if you don’t mind. And hearing about today’s specials.”

  She returned moments later and handed us each a handwritten menu. “Two specials today,” she said. “Tripe and onions, and toad-in-the-hole. We’ve got beef and Yorkshire pudding, though the beef’s a bit on the tough side, if you know what I mean.”

  “We’ll need a few minutes,” George said. “In the meantime, a drink, Jessica?”

  “I suppose I should at least taste a beer.”

  “Two ales, please.”

  We perused the menu until Joan brought our beers. George lifted his glass: “To finally finding a few peaceful hours together.”

  “That’s worth drinking to,” I said, touching the rim of my glass to his. I tasted the ale. It was slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. I put it down and asked, “So, George, what is toad-in-the-hole?”

  His laugh was a low rumble. “Sausages in batter. Quite good, actually. I’d take Joan’s advice about the beef.”

  “Mad cow disease?”

  “No. Tough-cut-of-beef disease. Like jellied eels?”

  “No.”

  “Nor do I. There’s always the plowman—chunk of cheese, crusty brown bread, butter, a few pickled onions.”

  “Dover sole and spinach sounds just fine,” I said.

  “We’ll make it two.”

  We talked about many things as we waited for our lunch to be served. George finished his ale and ordered another. I allowed mine to sit.

  After we were served—the sole was superb, as was the simple salad accompanying it—the conversation at the bar grew louder. It was impossible to ignore it. A large, heavyset man in workman’s clothing seemed to be holding court with other gentlemen surrounding him. It soon became evident that he intended us to hear his words.

  “... Brought terrible things to this fine village. A curse, that’s what Sutherland Castle is. We should bum it down, rid ourselves of it.”

  His friends loudly agreed, slapping him on the back.

  “Maybe we’d better leave,” I said to George.

  “We haven’t had dessert,” he said, his eyes trained on the big man at the bar. “They make very good sweets here.”

  “I’m sure they do. But—”

  George called for Joan, our waitress. “What sweets are you serving up today?”

  “Trifle. Gooseberry fool. Flitting dumpling.”

  “Translation needed,” I said, smiling but keeping my eye on the bar, where the conversation about Sutherland Castle was increasing in fervor and volume.

  “A ‘fool’ is a light, creamy sweet,” George said. “Gooseberries are in season. A flitting dumpling is a stout pudding. We can slice it and take it along when we ‘flit’ to another place.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’ll have the gooseberry fool.”

  “Trifle for me,” said George.

  Joan leaned dose to us. “Sorry about the boys, Inspector. They’ve had a wee bit too much ale.”

  “Not a problem,” George said. “Coffee, J sica?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Two
coffees. And a check.”

  Dessert was excellent, although my enjoyment of it was tempered by the rising tension in the Birks of Aberfeldy. Joan handed George the check. He placed money on it, got up, came around, and held out my chair for me to stand. As he did, the big man pushed away from the bar and walked unsteadily toward us. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, his mouth twisted with drunken anger.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” George said as he helped me on with my coat

  “You’ve got nerve, Sutherland, comin’ down here into the village.”

  “And why might that be?” George asked.

  The big man seemed unsure how to answer. He ran his tongue over his lips and blinked.

  “Good day, everyone,” George said, touching my elbow and guiding me in the direction of the door. I was aware that conversation had ceased in the pub, and that all eyes were on us.

  The big man stepped into our path.

  “Can I be of help to you?” George asked, locking eyes.

  “Ay. You can sell that bloody castle and get yourself out of Wick.” Some of his friends moved closer to the confrontation.

  “I’ll do what I wish, and do it when I wish,” George said. “In the meantime, you’re blocking our way. The lady doesn’t appreciate it.”

  Now the big man’s watery eyes turned to me. “ ‘The lady,’ is she? Your lady, you mean.”

  “Get out of the way,” George said. To me: “Go on, Jessica. Wait for me outside.”

  “I’ll leave with you,” I said.

  George took my hand and made a move for the door, but the big man continued to step in our way, causing George to bump up against him.

  It happened so fast. In one motion, George pushed me away, then shoved his fist into our antagonist’s chest. The big man growled and raised his arm to strike. But George was too fast. This time, his fist made contact with the big man’s nose, sending him stumbling back into the arms of his friends, blood trickling down over his lip.

  I retreated farther into a corner, anticipating a larger fight to break out. George stood firm, eyes trained on his opponent, fists clenched. The big man wiped blood from his face and muttered, “You broke my nose.”

  “You asked for it,” George said. “Are we finished here?”

  This was the moment of truth. Would the big man charge, or would he back off?

  “Lunch was excellent, Joan,” George said to our waitress, who stood with the bartender at the end of the bar. I noticed the bartender held a stout wooden shaft, just in case it was needed.

  It wasn’t. The big man cursed under his breath, turned, and leaned on the bar, his friends following suit.

  Once outside, George drew a deep breath and rubbed his right hand with his left.

  “You’re hurt,” I said.

  “Nothing serious. No broken bones, except for his nose. Bloody fool. I hate fights, will walk miles to avoid one. I feel black affrontit, Jessica. Quite ashamed, subjecting you to violence.”

  “You could have arrested him.”

  “Ay. Any member of the Yard has jurisdiction throughout the U.K. Even here in Wick, as far north as you can get in Scotland except for John o’ Groat’s. But it wasn’t a police matter. Stupid bloke is drunk. He’s cocked the wee finger too many times.”

  I smiled, as I usually did when George slipped into his Scottish idiomatic speech. “Don’t be ashamed,” I said. “You did what you had to do.”

  “Feel like a walk, Jessica?”

  “Yes. It’s a nice day for it.”

  We strolled the dock area, breathing in the bracing salt air and reveling in the sun’s warmth on our faces. George suddenly stopped, raised his binoculars to his eyes, and trained them on something in the distance.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A reed bunting. Not many of them around these days.”

  I saw what held his interest, a bird resting on a piling.

  “I wondered why you were carrying those binoculars,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a bird-watcher.”

  “Strictly amateur, but I do enjoy spotting them.” As he handed the binoculars to me, the bird flew away.

  I put them to my eyes anyway and slowly scanned the open water, where boats of varying sizes moved slowly in and out of the large harbor. I focused on one boat, went past it, then returned. It was Evan Lochbuie, the madman who’d caused Seth to fall overboard.

  “Mr. Lochbuie is out there in his boat,” I said, handing the binoculars to George. He trained them on the area I indicated with my finger. “That’s interesting,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “The fellow with him. Look.”

  I did, and saw a man in a business suit I hadn’t seen the first time, standing next to Lochbuie at the boat’s console. “Who is he?” I asked.

  “One of the buyers from London I had breakfast with this morning.”

  “Oh? Why would he be out on a boat with someone like Evan Lochbuie?”

  “I haven’t an answer, Jessica. Maybe you can come up with one.”

  “Maybe I can. Still feel like walking?”

  “I feel like doing anything except returning to the castle.”

  “Then, let’s walk. While we do, I’ll tell you what I think might be going on. More important, what we might do about it. I think it’s time to bring this to a head.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Despite the beauty of the day, Fiona’s disappearance, and the discovery of her clothing, took the edge off the pleasure of being together. Conversation inevitably returned to that unpleasant subject, and so we headed back to the castle sooner than originally planned. Constable McKay and his deputy, Bob, were there waiting for George.

  “Hello, Horace,” George said.

  “Hello, George. Spare us a minute?”

  “Of course. I’ll catch up with you later, Jessica.”

  George escorted McKay and Bob to his office, and I went to my room. Malcolm James was just leaving it; he’d brought me ice, fruit, and a bottle of water.

  My first question was, “Any word on Fiona?”

  “No, ma’am. Everyone’s searching for her. Constable McKay’s here.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s downstairs with Inspector Sutherland. You must be worried to death.”

  “Ay, that I am, Mrs. Fletcher. Sick over it.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off helping look for her, instead of working?”

  “I’d rather be busy. Helps keep my mind off it.”

  “I understand. By the way, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “For what?”

  “An inopportune time to bring it up, I suppose, but I think it’s wonderful news that you’ve found a publisher for your novel.”

  “What?”

  “A publisher for Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie? Fiona told me about it last night.”

  “She did?” His expression was a combination of shock and concern.

  “It isn’t true?”

  He smiled. “Oh, Fiona tends to exaggerate a wee bit. There’s a publisher who’s expressed some interest, that’s all.”

  “That’s certainly a fine start. I finished reading your manuscript, Malcolm. It’s quite—it’s very good, although I must admit I was disappointed that it lacks an ending.”

  “Just want to see how things turn out in real life,” he said, poised to leave.

  “But it’s fiction,” I said. “There’s really no need to—”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher. Mrs. Gower’ll be looking for me, mad as a hen.”

  I picked up Mickey Spillane’s novel, which I hadn’t finished, and went downstairs to find a chair outside, where I could continue reading it. I’d noticed a small wrought-iron bench behind a thick growth of bushes at the rear of the castle, and decided it would provide me the solitude I sought.

  But as I circumvented the castle and came close to the spot, I heard a man and a woman’s voice coming from it. It sounded like Malcolm to me, but I couldn’t be sure. I took a few steps closer, but my attention was
diverted by the sound of a truck’s throaty engine, and tires on gravel.

  The source of it came through an open rear gate. It was a big truck, followed by a car. As they passed me in the direction of the front courtyard, I read on the truck’s side SPERLING VIDEO RENTALS. The car came abreast, driven by the Hollywood film producer, Brock Peterman. Tammy sat next to him.

  I decided Mickey’s book could wait, and followed the vehicles to where Brock Peterman stood with three young men, who’d climbed down from the truck’s cab.

  “Hello,” I said, waving.

  “What ’a you say?” Peterman said. He turned to the others: “This is the famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher.”

  Their blank faces said they hadn’t heard of me, and didn’t care that they hadn’t.

  “I picked up this crew in Edinburgh,” Peterman said.

  “Are you planning to make a movie here?”

  “A documentary. This place is stranger than fiction. How about an interview with you in an hour? Hey, it just came to me. How about you hosting the show? Like they do on British TV Yeah, that’s it!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Peterman, but I wouldn’t want to do that. Does Inspector Sutherland know of your plans?”

  He shrugged.

  “I think you should get his permission before unloading your equipment.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will.” He leaned into the open car window. “Hey, Tam, come on. You can’t sit there all day.”

  “I’m almost finished,” she said, continuing to buff her nails.

  I went inside, where George, Constable McKay, and Deputy Bob had just come from the office and stood together in the foyer.

  “Excuse me,” I said, starting past them.

  “You might want to hear this, Jessica,” George said.

  “Hear what?”

  “The big bloke in the pub today wants to press charges against me for assault.”

  “That’s preposterous,” I blurted. “He went to hit you first.”

  “That’s what I told the constable. But our fat friend says otherwise.”

  “Well, I assure you I’ll be a witness if it ever comes to that. I’ll fly here to testify from wherever I am.”

  “Probably won’t come to that, Mrs. Fletcher,” McKay said. “Think over what I said, George. Think hard and fast about it.”