08 - The Highland Fling Murders (5 page)

The sound of bagpipes filled the courtyard, and a kilted piper emerged from behind a column, the unwieldy instrument cradled in his arms.

It had been a happy journey on the bus. But now the excitement level surged as we prepared to exit the vehicle. I held back, and was the last of our group to descend the stairs and plant my feet on Sutherland Castle’s turf. Others in the party had greeted George and surrounded him. When he saw me, he left them, extended his arms to me, and said, “Welcome, fair lassie.”

I grinned, looked left and right, and said, “You were born and raised in
this?”

“Afraid so.”

“You certainly weren’t cramped for space.”

“No. But the winters were a wee bit chilly. Come, Jessica. Make yourself at home.”

Three men of varying ages came from behind the castle to unload our luggage as George led us inside. The entrance hall was the size of my living room in Cabot Cove. The floor was gray stone. Persian kilim rugs hung on the walls. The furniture was large and heavy; a Louis XV commode with an oyster veneer, a pair of splay-back chairs, and a huge pendulum clock.

“It’s breathtaking,” Susan Shevlin said, making notes. She always took notes wherever she traveled in order to provide firsthand information to her travel agency clients.

Mort Metzger and Seth Hazlitt went to the foot of the stairs leading to an upper level and looked up them. “What’s up there?” Mort asked.

“Your rooms,” George replied. “But we’ll get to them a little later. Your bags will be there and unpacked when we do. For now, cocktails await in the drawing room.”

As we walked through other rooms and down hallways to reach the drawing room, the splendor and magnitude of the castle became increasingly obvious—and awe-inspiring. There were suits of armor, tapestries depicting Scottish history, large shields with the Sutherland Clan crest emblazoned on them. The piper was now in the drawing room and “played us in.” A scarred table ran the length of one entire wall-twenty feet long. On it was a variety of food displayed on silver platters. On the opposite side of the room was an ornate Italian breakfront serving as a bar. Behind it stood a tall, stooped man wearing kilts and a black turtleneck sweater that had seen better days. He had a full head of greasy black hair that he’d slicked back, but its naturally unruly nature won out. His face was long and craggy, his eyes almost the color of his sweater. I glanced to where Jed and Alicia Richardson stood. Jed was beaming with delight at his surroundings; the look on his wife’s face said something else.

“Alicia,” I said softly, coming to her side and casually placing my arm over her shoulder. “Everything is fine.”

“That man,” she muttered. “The bartender.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like him.”

“He does look—well, menacing, I suppose. But I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice person. Remember, he works for George, who happens to be one of Scotland Yard’s top people. George would never hire anyone he didn’t implicitly trust.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’m being silly.” She managed a smile. “Don’t worry about me, Jess. Go on, get a drink and some food.”

Jed Richardson was already at the table putting salmon and trout, oysters with lemon, brown bread and wild game pâté on a plate. “Jed,” I said, “keep an eye on Alicia.”

He turned to me. “You noticed, huh?”

“Hard not to. She’s really shaken from your experience in London.”

“I know. But she’ll be okay. This place is so great, Jess. It’ll put her at ease. Your friend, George, is some guy. Must be richer than a king, huh?”

“Not at all,” I said. “He was left this castle, but that was all he was left. He has to run it as a hotel just to keep it up and pay the taxes.”

“Why doesn’t he sell it?”

“He says he’s considered that often, but can’t bring himself to do it. A lot of sentimental value, which I can understand. At any rate, keep tabs on Alicia. I want her to enjoy this.”

Ken Sassi joined us. “When do we fish?” he asked.

“I’ll ask George about that. In the meantime, you’ve found the food. Enjoy.”

I took a few items of food, and a soft drink from the scowling bartender, and managed to comer George away from the others.

“Enjoying yourself, Jess?” he asked.

“How could I not? I wish I’d taken you up on your invitation years ago, and that I had a few months to spend here. I’ve never been in a castle before. A real one, I mean. And it’s the first time I’ve seen your knees.”

His warm, gentle laugh made me feel good. “Not an especially inspiring sight, I’m afraid. I come from a long but proud family in which bow-legs prevail. You’re right about the castle. It is real, all right. And haunted, they say.”

“Stop it,” I said. I lowered my voice. “And please don’t say that to Alicia Richardson. She’s still trying to get over her experience with that crazy man.”

“I understand. Is the food to your liking?”

“It’s wonderful. Haunted?”

“According to some folks.”

“Your relative, the descendant of that witch, Isabell Gowdie? Is she this supposed ghost?”

“I think so.”

“Have
you
ever seen this ghost?”

“No.”

“What do others say she looks like?”

“A lovely lady dressed all in white. But with a cross carved into her throat. The blood sometimes runs from the slashes and down over the front of her white gown. Sometimes it doesn’t. She has orange eyes.”

“It’s cold in here,” I said.

“I’ll get you a sweater.”

“No thank you. No need. An internal chill.”

“I’m so glad you’re here, Jess. We must find some time together—alone. To talk.”

“I look forward to that, George. I think I’d better mingle with my friends. They consider me their tour guide.”

“I can’t think of a better one.”

“By the way, Ken Sassi—he’s the fishing guide—wants to know when he and I can find a day on the stream.”

“I’ll check with the gillie.”

“Gillie?”

“Fishing guide. We call them gillies. There’s a few good ones in town. I’ll check out where they’re biting, what sort of bait to use, that sort of thing.”

“We don’t use bait,” I said. “We use artificial flies.”

“Sorry, but I don’t fish. Excuse the inaccurate nomenclature. I’ll let you and Ken know first thing in the morning.”

Eventually, we went to our rooms. Mine was in the front of the castle overlooking the central courtyard. It was a magnificent suite, large and airy, with a fireplace already blazing, a canopied king-size bed, old original oil paintings on the walls, massive antique furniture, and a small mural stair leading up to a cramped room barely high enough to stand up straight.

The bathroom featured an enameled copper bath and one small continental commode, as well as a large French provincial armoire, and an English serpentine-fronted chest of drawers.

“Heavenly,” I said aloud as I took it all in. My bags had been unpacked, and everything was neatly hung in the armoire. A large basket of fruit and sweets and a bottle of champagne were tempting.

I spent a half hour gazing out the window. It was now dark; small exterior lamps cast tiny pools of light over the front door and along the gravel drive.

I freshened up and dressed for dinner. Pleased with the way I looked, I left my room and ventured down the long, wide hallway leading to the stairs. When I reached them, I stopped to admire a painting on the wall. As I did, a stream of very cold air touched my skin. I turned to see whether a window had suddenly been opened. That’s when I saw her, a tall, beautiful woman dressed all in white. She stood in the hallway staring at me with eyes the color of copper.

“Hello?” I said softly.

That’s when I saw the red stain growing on the bodice of her gown.

I gasped.

“Gie a heize.”
The voice was soft and low, ethereal.

“What?” I said.

She was gone.

“Wait,” I said.

I was alone in the hallway.

“Are you all right, Jessica?” Seth Hazlitt asked when I walked into the dining room. “You’re as pale as a sheet.”

“I’m—I’m all right, Seth. It’s just that—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I thought I saw something that obviously wasn’t there.”

“Seein’ things, are you?”

I smiled. “A sign of advancing age?” I looked around the huge dining room. “Looks like you and I are the first.”

“Ayuh.
Seems that way.”

The dining room defined splendor. It was paneled in cherry wood; an ornate Italian frieze ran the upper circumference, twenty feet above. Huge oil portraits of George’s ancestors dominated each wall. The floor was covered in thick Persian carpets. The table, set for seventeen, provided a dazzling display of silver, china, and linen.

A door opened, and George stepped into the room, followed by two couples. George looked splendid in his Sutherland clan kilt of greens, white, and red, and black waistcoat, fluted white shirt, black bow tie, and knee-high black socks. A crest on the jacket’s lapel showed two men in loincloths with crude clubs flanking a shield. George explained later in the evening that the motto on his clan shield, SANS PEUR, meant “Without fear.”

“Jessica, Dr. Hazlitt,” George said, “allow me to introduce our other guests at the castle. This is Mr. and Mrs. Brock Peterman. And this is Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Symington.”

Brock Peterman and his wife, Tammy, seemed. very out of place in this Scottish castle. Both had deep tans. Her hair was silver blond, and there was lots of it. His black hairpiece was obvious; it had a plastic look to it. She wore a skintight white dress that clung to every curve of her youthful, voluptuous body. He wore a yellow sport jacket over a black T-shirt, green slacks, and tasseled brown alligator loafers, no socks.

“Brock is a movie producer from Hollywood,” George said after we’d greeted each other.

“Oh? Might I have seen any of your films?” I asked.

“If you like quality horror flicks,” he said, flashing a mouthful of large, perfect white teeth.
“The Reptile’s Revenge?
That’s my latest”

“I’m afraid I missed it,” I said.

Dr. Geoffrey Symington was a short, thin man in his midforties, with a hawk’s nose and deeply set green eyes. His wife, Helen, was a few inches taller than her husband, and considerably wider. They were appropriately dressed for the occasion: a black tuxedo for him, a sequined floor-length gown for her.

“What sort a’ medicine do you practice, Dr. Symington?” Seth asked.

“Research,” he replied.

“What sort a’ research?”

“Basic. Excuse me. I left something in my room.”

As Seth raised his eyebrows at me, the door again opened and others from our group arrived. After introductions had been made, we took our assigned seats at the table.

Two people served us. One was the brooding, stooped black-eyed man who’d been. our bartender during the cocktail hour. The other was a young woman with a sweet, ruddy round face wearing an old-fashioned floor-length gray dress that buttoned tight around her neck. She struck me as one of those fortunate women who would always look the same, no matter how old she became.

The menu was elaborate: Nettle soup to start. Next, a wonderful salmon roe pâté, then a main course of stuffed trout caught that day on a local stream, and accompanied by “stovies,” a special seed potato cooked with onions. Dessert was “whipt syllabub,” a whipped concoction served with homemade macaroons. Charlene Sassi, Cabot Cove’s resident baking genius, pronounced them the best she’d ever tasted.

As the evening progressed, the conversation turned to rumors that Sutherland Castle was haunted.

“Is it?” Susan Shevlin asked George. “Is it really haunted?”

George laughed and told our waiter to refill everyone’s wineglass. “Perhaps we should ask Mr. Peterman that question,” he said. “He’s here researching his next movie.”

“A ghost story?” Charlene Sassi asked.

“A sci-fi horror flick with a ghost subplot,” Peterman said. “I figure it needs a castle setting, so when I read about this place being open to guests, I told Tammy to call the travel agent.”

“You’re going to shoot your new movie here, at this castle?” radio station owner Peter Walters asked.

“Depends,” Peterman said. “I keep telling Mr. Sutherland how much business my movie can generate for his hotel. But he—”

“Afraid this Scotsman is having trouble understanding why I should pay in order to have Mr. Peterman make his movie here,” George said, keeping his tone light. “I thought it worked the other way around.
You
pay
me
for using my castle as your set.”

“It’s marketing,” Peterman said. “You need to market this place. The movie would be great. Bring in lots of business. Right, Tammy?”

His wife, who hadn’t said much during dinner, appeared to be on the verge of dozing off. She snapped to attention and said, “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Have you found
real
ghosts here?” Susan Shevlin asked the moviemaker.

He shook his head and downed his wine. “Nah. No such thing. The only ghosts and ghouls are the ones my special effects people create.”

All the talk of ghosts and ghouls caused me to look to Alicia Richardson, who seemed to be in a trance, staring straight ahead, unblinking, her pretty face an expressionless mask.

“Jessica says she saw something on her way down to dinner,” Seth, who sat to my right, said. “Might have been a ghost.”

“Was it, Jess?” Roberta Walters asked. The array of wines served during and after dinner had obviously gone to her head. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

I looked again at Alicia, who didn’t seem to have heard what was being said.

“What
did
you see, Jess?” Susan Shevlin asked.

“I didn’t see anything,” I said. “I thought I did but—”