08 - The Highland Fling Murders (8 page)

“Yes. But then we have Isabell Gowdie being murdered over three hundred years ago, put to death as a witch by a pitchfork in the chest, and a cross carved in her throat. Flash-forward to twenty years ago. Evelyn Gowdie killed the same way. And now, twenty years later, Daisy Wemyss. Sheer coincidence?”

“No. Of course not. But it has nothing to do with you or this castle.”

“Intellect versus emotion, Jessica. Intellectually, you’re right. No connection at all. But emotionally? Well, it’s hard to not wonder whether there’s some sort of mystical link, no matter how vague or tangential.”

“I suggest you stick with your keenly honed intellect, George. You wear it well.”

“You’re right, of course, as usual. You mentioned earlier that Constable McKay seemed angry when he mentioned my name.”

“Yes, I sensed that.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why?”

“He’s a good man, Jessica. But he’s between, as the saying goes, a rock and a hard place. Whenever something violent happens in Wick, he’s buffeted between two forces—the reasonable citizens of the village, and another group that has carried forward this distrust of the Sutherland clan and Sutherland Castle. This latter group is very superstitious, steeped in old mythology and metaphor. In their eyes, every problem will be solved when and if I sell this castle.”

“How would that help anything?”

“It wouldn’t, at least not in the eyes of rational people. But the others believe that the only way to break the curse this castle supposedly casts over Wick is for the last surviving member of my family, namely me, to shed any connection to this place and leave.”

“Are you considering that, George?”

“Yes, although not for that reason. I’ve mentioned to you how difficult it is to hang on to this castle. It costs a bloody fortune, and finding the right help to keep it going as a hotel has become increasingly difficult.”

“So you said.”

“I should. Sell it, that is. I visit here only a few weeks a year. London is my home and has been ever since I joined the Yard. But each time I come dose to putting it on the market, there’s a bond with my ancestors that keeps me from going through with it.”

“I can certainly understand that. Is there a market for such a place?”

He smiled, his first since settling in front of the fireplace. “It’s hardly a place a family of four would want to buy as a home. But its value as a hotel is considerable. There have been two investor groups that have made offers over the past few years. Sizable offers, Jessica. They see this terribly depressed area of Scotland as having tourist potential far beyond what it enjoys today.”

“But you’ve resisted all offers.”

“Yes. Foolish?”

“I don’t know. Such a personal decision to make. Pragmatism versus the heart.”

“Well put. I suppose I should go down to the village and pay my respects to Daisy’s family. I know her father. A decent sort.”

I told him about having met Daisy’s uncle, the shop owner.

“I know him, too. It’s a small place, although that doesn’t necessarily translate into everyone knowing everyone else. We Scots tend to stay to ourselves, especially in the smaller towns and villages.”

“George, before you go, can you conceive of anyone in Wick who would have so brutally murdered Daisy Wemyss?”

“No. But after all my years with the Yard, I’ve come to learn that there are people—too many people—capable of such horrific acts.”

We were interrupted when Malcolm entered the room. “There’s someone to see you, sir.”

“Who?”

“Constable McKay.”

George looked at me and drew a deep breath.

“I’ll be in my room,” I said.

“No. Stay with me, Jessica.”

Malcolm had shown the constable to a small sitting room I hadn’t seen before. Another door from it led to George’s office.

“Horace,” George said, shaking McKay’s hand. “You’ve met Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Ay. And under unpleasant circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“Extremely unpleasant,” George said. “Please, sit down. Tea? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey. Two fingers.”

George rang for Malcolm, who delivered the whiskey to Constable McKay. He drank alone.

“Well, Horace, this news about Daisy Wemyss has provided quite a shock. How is her father?”

“Unhappy.”

“Any leads?”

“No. George, might we have a word alone?”

“Why?”

“To discuss some of the other ramifications of this dastardly event.”

“Mrs. Fletcher is aware of those other ‘ramifications,’ Horace. There’s no need for her to leave.”

“As you wish. People are beginning to hear about Daisy Wemyss, George. Some of them are threatening to take action.”

“What sort of action?” I asked.

McKay gave me a hard, scolding look. I held his gaze and repeated my question.

“What they’ve threatened before,” was McKay’s answer.

I looked at George.

“They’ve threatened to come up here and destroy the castle,” George said solemnly.

“That’s terrible,” I said. “But as long as they only threaten—”

“Could be they’ll go further this time, miss. They’re in the black mood. Daisy was a good girl, liked by everyone. Might be different if she was killed by some angry young fella who hit her, maybe even shot her. But this is the Devil speaking, George, Satan himself. Pitchfork to the chest, bloody cross carved in her young neck. Like Evelyn Gowdie before her. And the witch, Isabell.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but you are the constable.”

McKay looked quizzically at me.

“Surely, as Wick’s top law enforcement official, you don’t buy into this notion of witchcraft and Satan.”

He said nothing.

“Do you?” I said.

“I can’t ignore half the citizens, miss.”

“Half? Half feel this way?”

“There’s a core that do,” he said. “And they’re very influential. Very influential, indeed. They don’t want trouble in Wick. There’s been enough trouble and hard times to last everybody’s lifetime.”

I couldn’t resist: “But you’re paid to uphold the law, to keep people like this from reacting with violence.”

He showed a small, sour smile, painful for him to exhibit. “Easier said than done, miss. Easier said than done.”

“What are you suggesting, Horace?” asked George.

“Same thing I’ve suggested before, George. Sell this castle. Give it up. If you do, everything will settle down and Wick can grow. This sort of publidty, pretty young girl killed in a Devil-worship fashion, can’t do the town no good. No good at all. Unless you do—I can’t promise your safety, or anybody else’s safety up here.”

Constable McKay stood and went to the door. “No need to show me out, George. But you think about what I just said. Just announcing to the people that you plan to sell Sutherland Castle will do wonders for this town’s spirits. Do wonders. Good-bye, miss.”

I spent the afternoon in my room reading Mickey Spillane’s new novel,
Black Alley.
I know Mickey, and am always amazed how anyone with such a sweet disposition can write best-selling tough-guy books with such authority. I’ve been his fan ever since his controversial first book,
I, The Jury,
was published many years ago.

At four, those who went on the tour with Forbes arrived back at the castle, and I went downstairs to greet them. They were in a jubilant mood, gushing about the natural beauty they’d seen and the lunch they’d enjoyed at an inn on the outskirts of Wick.

George had arranged for Mrs. Gower to put out a spread of salmon, caviar, and pâté to go with drinks poured by Forbes, who’d quickly traded in his bus driver’s cap for a bartender’s apron. Once we were gathered in the drawing room, George asked for our attention.

“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news to report,” he said. “Daisy Wemyss, the young lady who worked here and served dinner last night, has been murdered.”

There were the expected questions and comments.

“Jessica discovered her body this morning while walking in Wick,” George said. “A tragedy, to be sure.”

Now all the questions were directed at me. Where did I find her? How was she killed? Who killed her?

“Please,” I said, “I really don’t know any more than George has told you.” I didn’t want to have to go into the grisly details.

But they pressed, especially Mort Metzger, his law enforcement training coming to the fore.

“She was killed in the same fashion as the witch George wrote about in his letter to me, Isabell Gowdie. Someone rammed a pitchfork into her chest, and cut a cross on her neck.”

I immediately looked to Alicia Richardson, who went pale and sat on a nearby chair. Jed stood over her, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Obviously, the local authorities are investigating,” said George. “As dampening as this might be, we mustn’t let it ruin your short stay at Sutherland Castle. I’ll do everything I can to isolate you from this unpleasant and unfortunate situation. There’s no reason for it to directly impact upon your vacation.”

“Easy for you to say,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Wick is a small village. Could have been anyone killed the poor girl—includin’ somebody workin’ right here for you, Inspector Sutherland.”

We all turned to the bar; Forbes was gone.

“I rather doubt that,” George said. “The citizens of Wick are good and decent people, hard-working and honorable. This is the perverted work of a madman, a single individual. Don’t judge all of Wick by this incident.”

“Hard not to,” Jim Shevlin said. “What kind of town is this? Women branded as witches, pitchforks in their chests, crosses carved in their throats. How many now? Three? That alleged witch, Isabell. Then what? Twenty years ago another woman dies that way because she’s related to Isabell? And now that pretty young woman who served us dinner last night.”

Shevlin addressed us: “What do all of you think? We come from Cabot Cove, a good and decent place. We bring up our kids there in peace. I ran for mayor because I wanted to keep Cabot Cove a safe place for all of us. I don’t know, folks, but there’s something in the air here. Something sinister. I say we pack up and leave.”

I looked to George, who’d retreated to a far corner during the debate. I felt sorry for him. Obviously, none of this was his fault. He’d opened up his family home to me and my friends, and didn’t deserve to be viewed as part of some wicked scheme in which women were brutally murdered.

“What do you think, Mort?” Shevlin asked our sheriff. “And you, Seth?”

Seth Hazlitt said, “Well, I think you’re rushin’ to judgment, Jim. I agree that this is plenty upsettin’. But just because this Miss Daisy Wemyss has been killed by a nut doesn’t mean we should be packin’ our bags and scurryin’ out a’ here.”

Mort Metzger cleared his throat before saying, “I think Seth talks sense, somethin’ I don’t always say. But I do think that since this murder has happened right under our noses, we should keep our guard up. If you agree, I’ll put together a security plan for while we’re staying here at the castle.”

“Security plan?” Ken Sassi said. “If we need a ‘security plan,’ we shouldn’t be here.”

An argument erupted in which everyone voiced their opinions. When their voices died down, they turned to me. “What about you, Jess?” Seth Haz litt asked. “You’re the one who suffered the shock of discoverin’ the body. You’re the one who invited us to come along with you to Sutherland Castle. How do you feel about stayin’?”

I glanced at George before replying. He gave me a slight shrug of his shoulders; translation—do what I thought was best without regard for him.

I said, “We’re all shocked and upset at what has happened to Daisy. That’s only natural and right. But to turn tail and run away from this beautiful place would be, in my judgment, an overreaction. We’ve had murders in Cabot Cove. That didn’t cause us to run away from there.”

“Because that’s our home,” Jed Richardson said from where he still hovered over Alicia.

“And this is our home for the next week,” I said. “I can’t decide for you whether to leave or not. That’s up to each individual in this room. I’m sure George will be happy to arrange flights and transportation to the nearest airport for anyone who wants that. But I intend to stay. That’s my individual decision.”

No one said anything. Finally, Seth Hazlitt spoke up. “I agree with Jessica. I’m stayin’, too.”

“I’ll get to work on a security plan right away,” Mort said.

“Forget your security plan,” Ken Sassi said. “I suggest we all try to put the murder out of our minds and get on with our vacation. This is a beautiful place, blessed by nature. I didn’t bring all my fishing gear for nothing. Right, Jess? You and I have a date on a river.”

I smiled. “We certainly do, Ken.”

George asked, “Will anyone be leaving? If so, I’ll start making travel arrangements straight away.”

The only person who responded to George’s offer was Jed Richardson, who said, “I’m sure you all agree that Alicia and I had a pretty big scare back in London. I’m over it, but I think Alicia here might not be.” He looked down at her. “If you want to leave, honey, I’m with you.”

She looked up with moist eyes and said, “No, Jed, I’d like to stay.” To us: “We’ll have a good time, won’t we?”

“We sure will,” Susan Shevlin said. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“Let’s eat,” Mort said. “That salmon looks right good. Don’t it, Seth?”

“Ayuh. That it does.”

Forbes reappeared behind the bar, and we relaxed as we ate and drank.

“Where’s Pete and Roberta?” Seth asked.

“In their room, I believe,” George said. “They slept in this morning, and pretty much stayed there all day.”

“They’re missing the food,” Mort said. “I’ll go rouse them.”

Realizing that Cabot Cove’s radio station owner and his wife weren’t there caused me to wonder where the other two couples were, the producer of horror films, Brock Peterman and his wife, Tammy, and Dr. Geoffrey Symington and his wife, Helen. I asked George.