08 - The Highland Fling Murders (20 page)

“What else could it mean?” he said. “Excuse me. I’d best see if Mrs. Gower
gie a heize
.”

“What did he say?” I asked when he was gone.

“Odd expression. Archaic Gaelic. Lend her a hand, I think. I have a few things to tend to before we set off for lunch. I want to gather all the paperwork on the castle, deeds and such, for the London buyers.”

“I suppose you should. I’ll freshen up in my room. Meet you down here in an hour?”

“Ay. That’ll be enough time.”

“George.”

“Yes.”

“Whatever you decide to do, just know I’m proud to stand with you.”

“You’ll never know how much that means to this stubborn Scotsman, Jessica.”

“Then, stay stubborn, George. Don’t be too quick to give in. Stubborn becomes you.”

I didn’t need an hour to get ready for lunch, but I did want some time alone to attempt to factor in that morning’s discoveries with everything else that had gone on in Wick and at Sutherland Castle.

I sat in a chair and tried to sort it out, but my attention kept shifting to the bagpipes I’d placed in a comer of the room. I considered blowing into them as a way of venting all the negative thoughts out of my body, but it loomed as too daunting a task.

Outside, Forbes tended one of the flower gardens, bent over, each stroke of the hoe slowly and steadily digging into the black earth. As I watched him, I realized how the events of the past few days had clouded my knowledge of, and appreciation for this spectacularly beautiful place in which I’d found myself. Circumstances had led me to come in contact only with the more bizarre elements of Wick and the castle. We didn’t have that many days left, and I made a silent pledge to spend those days meeting the good and decent people of Wick, and drinking in the countryside in sufficient gulps to create lifetime memories.

Thinking positively has always buoyed my spirits when they’ve been low. It’s like how the act of writing forces my mind to organize its thoughts. External actions influencing mood and spirit. I believe in it because it works, just as many of my actor and actress friends believe in costumes and makeup generating an internal sense of character.

Feeling better, I ventured downstairs. A peek into George’s office showed him immersed in paperwork. I didn’t disturb him. Instead, I wandered out into the courtyard, where Seth Hazlitt was now talking—attempting to talk is more accurate—with Forbes, who continued to hoe the garden.

“Jessica,” Seth said. “How’s the hand?”

“I’d forgotten about it,” I said. “Fine.”

“Got to watch for infection.”

“I will.”

“The man knows how to wield a hoe,” Seth said, nodding at Forbes.

“You should know,” I said. “You keep a nice garden.”

“Gettin’ tougher, though, as I get older.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Seth stepped close to Forbes. “Say, Forbes, what sort a’ plants do best up here in Scotland?”

He stopped digging, straightened up, and said, “Hearty ones. Excuse me. I have chores inside to tend to.”

We watched him walk away and disappear around the side of the castle.

“That fella defines brooder,” Seth said. “Sour sort.”

“The Scots prefer dour.”

“Doesn’t matter what they prefer. I call him a brooder. What are you doin’ here, Jessica? Thought you were heading off for the day with our host.”

“We’re leaving soon. You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

“About finding Fiona’s dress and shoes.”

“Can’t say that I have. The young man said she hadn’t come home, but you know young people. What about her dress and shoes?”

I filled him in.

“Doesn’t sound too promising, does it?”

“No. But the fact it’s only her clothing, and not
her,
causes me to say it’s premature to expect the worst”

“Jessica’s famous jelly glass always bein’ half full.”

“If you prefer to view it that way. I have to catch up with George. What are you up to today?”

“Thought I’d just wander around, stroll into town. If I see the young woman Fiona, I’ll let everybody know.”

I smiled. “I hope you do see her, Seth. Enjoy yourself. I understand we’re having a special dinner tonight.”

“So I heard. What I’m really looking forward to is those Highland Games day after tomorrow. Always wanted to see them.”

“I almost forgot about that. Sounds like fun.”

“
Ayuh
, that it does. See you at supper.”

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.