08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “I will,” George said, his expression grave.

  After they left, I said to George, “I take it they didn’t come here just to tell you that the drunk in the pub wants to press charges.”

  “You’re right. The constable says he can no longer be responsible for the safety of anyone at Sutherland Castle. According to him, the townspeople are ready to take matters into their own hands.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know. If I buy what you said this afternoon, Jessica, I probably shouldn’t believe him. But I’m not sure.”

  We heard the warning beep beep beep trucks make when backing up.

  “What the devil is that?” George asked.

  “Mr. Peterman. He’s back, with a film crew and equipment.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he wants to make a documentary about the castle and what’s been going on.”

  “The bloody hell he will.”

  He stepped through the door to see the crew unloading huge black steamer trunks, dozens of lengths of pipe, lights, sound equipment, and other paraphernalia associated with moviemaking.

  “Hi, Inspector,” Peterman said. “Thought you’d never see me again?”

  I waited for George to substitute “hope” for “thought.” He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Move that truck.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me why, Mr. Peterman. Just pack your stuff and leave.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Peterman said. “I’m a paying guest here.”

  “Yes, you are. But they aren’t.”

  “They’re staying in that other hotel down the road. All I need is a place for the equipment Well keep out of your way, shoot most of it outdoors. Mrs. Fletcher, here, is going to be our first interview.”

  “Mr. Peterman, I’m sure you are, at heart, a very nice person, but—”

  “George,” I said, “maybe it won’t be so bad. At least hear him out.”

  “Right,” Peterman said. “Hear me out.”

  “You’ve agreed to be interviewed?” George asked me.

  “No. But that doesn’t matter. Come inside.” I said to Peterman, “Why don’t you leave the equipment in the truck and park it behind those outbuildings. I’m sure it will be safe there.”

  The three-man crew looked to Peterman for instructions. He looked to me. I nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You guys load it back up and move the truck over there. Walk down to your hotel and get some dinner. I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Be ready to go at seven.”

  I turned to say something to George, but he’d already left the steps and returned to his office. I suggested to Peterman that he stay out of George’s way until I’d had a chance to speak with him.

  “You’re going to help me get through to him?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  “I may want a favor from you.”

  He smiled. “Okay. You rub my back, I rub yours.”

  “I’d prefer another analogy,” I said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  I went to my room to get ready for what had been billed as a “special dinner.” After I’d freshened up in the pretty bathroom, and was changing clothes, my attention was drawn to the small mural stair leading to the tiny, low-ceilinged room I’d peeked into upon arriving. I tried to visualize its location in relationship to the long hallway outside the room. As I recalled, there was a door in the hallway that could lead to it. I stepped into the hall and went to the door, tried the handle. Locked. Either it led to another set of steps to that room, or was a closet of some sort.

  I returned to my room and slowly went up the mural stair. The room looked, of course, exactly as it had when I first peered into it. But that time, I’d only glanced about, and was there for no more than a few seconds.

  There wasn’t much to see. It was dark because there were no windows, and the space appeared to be empty. A storage area, I surmised.

  But as my eyes acclimated to the gloom, I noticed a small, vague shape in one corner. Hunched over, I went to it, got down on my knees, and touched it. It was a portable tape recorder. I checked for an electrical cord. There was none; it must have been battery powered.

  The bigger question, of course, was why would there be a tape recorder in that particular room?

  I returned to my room and from my purse took a tiny penlight flashlight I always carry when traveling in the event of hotel power failures. I went up the stairs again, trained the beam on the recorder, and pushed “PLAY.”

  “Gie a heize,” an ethereal, breathy woman’s voice said through the speakers.

  The lady in white.

  I pressed “REWIND” and listened again.

  And again.

  And then one final time.

  The special dinner that night was “Cullen Skink,” which George explained was a Scottish fish stew, usually based upon the use of haddock, and dating back centuries. “Skink” was an old Scottish word for stew; Cullen referred to the fishing village of Cullen, on the Moray Firth, where the stew was first introduced.

  Charlene Sassi, our cooking expert, told us gleefully that Mrs. Gower allowed her to be in the kitchen to observe the preparation of the evening’s fare. “She uses lots of bay leaf and leek, and has a heavy hand with the salt and pepper.”

  “Not good for my blood pressure,” Seth said.

  “Or your figure, either,” Charlene said. “Not with all the butter she uses.”

  We were a full table again. Everyone from the Cabot Cove contingent was there, along with Dr. and Mrs. Symington, and the Petermans. Naturally, talk turned to Fiona and her disappearance.

  As the others discussed it, George leaned to me and said, “I forgot to mention that Constable McKay had the cross from the bridge analyzed.”

  “I thought he had to send it away,” I said.

  “He can do basic blood testing. It was human blood.”

  “No doubt about it?”

  “Not according to him.”

  “What about Fiona’s shoes?”

  “He hasn’t gotten around to that yet, said he’d try to get it done in the morning if he can steal some of Doc Lord’s time. Lord is Wick’s coroner, among other things. He did the test on the cross.”

  “Why didn’t you call him when Seth was sick?”

  “Lord is a vet.”

  “Oh.”

  Despite its salty flavor, the fish stew was excellent, and filling. Apple pie with ice cream (how American), and coffee topped off the meal, sending us to the drawing room pounds heavier.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Dr. Symington said. “Please, a few minutes of your time.”

  “All right.”

  We moved to a rnrner of the room. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Answer a question for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “You said you saw the castle’s lady in white the first night you were here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Had you been told about her by anyone prior to your sighting?”

  “Let me think. Yes. George Sutherland told me about her earlier that evening. He said she was a descendant of the famous Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”

  “Yes. I am familiar with that history. But something strikes me as quite strange about your sighting, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Which is?”

  “I believe you said the lady in white spoke to you.”

  I laughed. “I thought I heard a few words. But looking back on the incident, I’m convinced I didn’t.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “No. That’s the point. I probably never even saw her, let alone heard her speak.”

  “It pleases me to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “Sightings of spiritual beings are never accompanied by spoken words.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. You see, Mrs. Fletcher, the prevailing school of thought among my fellow researchers is that when a spirit returns after ha
ving died a violent death, as Evelyn Gowdie did, its voice is deliberately muted by the mystical powers that allow it to return. This is especially true when someone is killed because of having practiced wifichcraft. The cross on the throat is not incidental. It assures that the witch will no longer be capable of verbally spreading her evil curses.”

  “Let me ask you something, Doctor.”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I did hear the lady in white say something? What would you and your colleagues say to that? How would you explain it?”

  “Hmmm. I would have to confer with them, were that the case. Of course, Mrs. Fletcher, sightings of so-called ghosts and spirits do not have verification in the scientific community. Have you noticed the unusual light patterns of the castle?”

  “Yes I have. The overall light in this entire area of northern Scotland is different. Because we’re so far north?”

  “That, and the tendency of the sky to combine varying and conflicting phenomena.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  “The light conditions your first night here at Sutherland Castle—the night you think you saw the alleged lady in white—are very much like they are tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ve been charting it on an hourly basis.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you saw her again this evening.”

  “I certainly hope you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t think I am, Mrs. Fletcher. It will be interesting to see whether my prediction proves to be correct. You will, of course, immediately report any sighting to me.”

  “I promise I will—if I see the lady again. I’d better get back to my friends, Doctor. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.”

  “All in the interest of science, Mrs. Fletcher. You are a very special person.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you are a writer. Writers possess a certain sensitivity. The chances of you seeing spirits is enhanced. And, you are a woman.”

  “What about male writers?”

  “Better than male bricklayers.” He giggled at his observation. “But the female has a built-in greater receptivity to such suggestion. Enjoy your friends, Mrs. Fletcher. And keep your eyes open.”

  I joined Mort and Maureen Metzger, Seth Hazlitt, and others, who were being served after-dinner drinks by Forbes and Malcolm James.

  “What was the good doctor talking to you about?” Seth asked.

  “Ghosts.”

  “The man’s a weirdo,” Mort said. “Must have escaped from some Scottish nuthouse.”

  “Actually, he’s very nice,” I said. “He says I might see the lady in white again tonight.”

  “Silliness,” Seth said.

  “Spoken like a man,” I said. “Dr. Symington says women have greater sensitivity for seeing spirits than men.”

  “That’s because women believe everything they hear and see,” said Mort.

  “That’s not true,” Maureen said. “You’re such a male chauvinist.”

  “Just speakin’ the truth. Right, Seth?”

  “Not an argument I wish to pursue,” Seth said.

  George Sutherland joined us. “What’s the entertainment tonight?” he asked.

  “Charades?” Maureen said eagerly.

  “I don’t like that game,” Mort said.

  “Because you’re not too good at it,” Seth said.

  “I was as good as you.”

  “No you aren’t. I’d like to play.”

  “I’ll see if I can interest the others,” Maureen said. “You’ll play, won’t you, Jess?”

  “Not tonight,” I answered.

  “Not feeling well?” she asked.

  “Feeling fine,” I said. “But Dr. Symington’s belief that I might see the lady in white again tonight intrigues me. I thought I’d conduct a little experiment.”

  “Oh?” Seth said. “What sort a’ experiment?”

  “Make myself available to her. Help the process along.”

  My friends looked at each other quizzically.

  I laughed. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if I actually could will her to appear for me?”

  “Something to drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” Malcolm asked.

  “Does alcohol enhance the ability to see spirits?” I asked the group.

  “Not likely,” Seth said. “When do you intend to conduct this so-called experiment, Jessica?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. In an hour. You’re free to join me.”

  “The lady in white might not like a crowd,” Robert Walters said.

  “I’ll take that chance,” I said. “Besides, there should be witnesses to any experiment. Maybe you’ll see her, too.”

  Malcolm was still waiting for my answer. “A soft drink,” I said. “Lemonade?”

  “Ay, ma’am. We have that.”

  After he delivered my drink, George and I walked out into the courtyard.

  “Lovely night,” he said.

  “Exquisite.”

  “So you’re going through with your plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t grasp the significance of the things you mentioned.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either, George. But if I’m right in my supposition, these disparate things support it. It’s worth a try.”

  “Peterman has agreed?”

  “Yes. He’s really not a bad sort. He’s just—well, he’s just Hollywood.”

  “Remind me to not vacation there. In Hollywood.”

  I laughed and touched his arm. “I’ll remind you at regular intervals. Can I make that call now?”

  “Of course. I left Lord’s number on my desk.”

  “Thanks, George. If it works, this nightmare you’ve been living might be over.”

  “If it is, Jessica Fletcher, I’ll be in your eternal debt.” He smiled. “A situation I would not find unpleasant.”

  “Are you playing charades?”

  “No. But I’ll watch until it’s time for your ghost-sighting adventure.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  Everyone had gathered in the living room, and sides had been chosen.

  “Where’s the Hollywood couple?” Mort asked. “They don’t want to play?”

  “No great loss,” Seth said.

  Dr. Symington appeared at the door.

  “Want to play charades, Doc?” Mort asked.

  Symington shook his head, motioned for me to join him outside the room.

  “I understand you intend to see her,” he said.

  “Yes. You inspired me.”

  “I would like to observe.”

  “By all means. I’ve invited my friends to watch, too.”

  “Not wise, Mrs. Fletcher. It might frighten her.”

  “Maybe they can stand with you out of sight.”

  “If you insist. When will you try?”

  “In an hour.”

  “I will be there.”

  George and I passed the hour watching a spirited game of charades. Seth’s challenge of Mort had inspired our sheriff. He played with surprising enthusiasm, and even skill on occasion.

  As though someone had planned a cue, the hour ended with Charlene’s team acting out the motion picture The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Seth guessed it, to applause from his teammates.

  Dr. Symington came up behind me. “It is time, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in his pinched, high voice.

  “Yes. I think it is,” I said.

  Everyone looked at me as I stood. “Ready?” I asked.

  They followed me from the room to the wide staircase leading upstairs. I paused, turned, and said, “Wish me luck.”

  We ascended the stairs and gathered in the hallway.

  “This where you saw her?” Mort asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I suggest everyone back off to over there.” I pointed to a spot a dozen feet away, and they moved to it, joining Dr. Symington, who stood holding a notebook.

  “How do y
ou intend to summon her?” George asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just ask her to appear. Lady in White. Are you there?”

  “See her?” Mort asked.

  “Quiet,” Dr. Symington said sternly.

  “Hello?” I said, speaking louder this time. “It’s me, Jessica Fletcher. We met a few evenings ago.”

  I turned, looked at my witnesses, and shrugged.

  “Maybe you should offer her food,” Mort said. “Like leavin’ somethin’ for Santa Claus.”

  “Please, be quiet,” Symington said.

  “Hey, don’t tell me to shut up,” Mort said.

  I looked at Mort and put my index finger to my lips.

  “Seems to me this is all a—”

  I interrupted Seth by saying, “I’m your friend, Lady in White. I just want to say hello.”

  There was total silence until Susan Shevlin whispered, “Try again, Jess.”

  “Lady in White,” I said. “If you can hear me, I’d really like to—”

  We were all distracted by sounds from outside the castle. I looked at George, whose expression said he was concerned. He held up his finger to indicate we should continue what we were doing, and went downstairs. The sounds grew louder; it sounded like a large group of people.

  “Lady in White, if you can hear me, I—”

  “Can you see her?” Dr. Symington asked.

  “Yes!” I shouted. “I see her. Hello. Thank you for coming.”

  The volume outside had now reached fever pitch. People were chanting—“Close the castle! Sutherland must go! Close the castle! Sutherland must go!” Flickering orange light from torches could be seen through the windows.

  “What is she wearing?” Dr. Symington asked, coming to my side.

  “She’s wearing—”

  “Gie a heize.”

  “What?” I said. “Would you repeat that?”

  But I knew it wouldn’t be repeated, and turned my attention to the commotion outside.

  “What’s goin’ on out there?” Seth asked.

  “Let’s go see,” Mort said.

  “No, wait,” I said.

  “For what?” Jim Shevlin asked.

  “For Mr. Peterman to confirm he got it all.”

  “What are you talking about?” Seth asked.

  “Mr. Peterman, come out.”

  Everyone watched as the flamboyant producer of horror films, accompanied by his cameraman carrying a portable camcorder, emerged from a door directly across the hall from where I’d stood. They’d been hidden from view of the others.