08 - The Highland Fling Murders (16 page)

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?”

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.

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.”