08 - The Highland Fling Murders (6 page)

“An apparition?” Dr. Symington said in a low voice. He hadn’t spoken since sitting down for dinner.

I tried to change the subject out of deference to Alicia Richardson, but the others seemed determined to continue discussing ghosts.

“Do you know anything about the supernatural?” Seth Hazlitt asked Symington.

“A bit,” he replied.

“Is that your research?” Seth continued. “Into apparitions?”

“It is a particular interest of mine,” the doctor replied.

“Doesn’t sound like anything a medical doctor would get involved in,” said Seth. That he didn’t particularly like Dr. Symington had been evident all evening.

“A matter of opinion,” Symington said. “There is much medical science can learn from the unexplained.” His accent was clipped British. “Traditional medicine has operated with blinders on.” He turned to the young serving woman standing in a comer awaiting further orders. “More wine!” he commanded. His wife, Helen, who’d been a pleasant dinner companion, placed her hand on her husband’s arm and said, “Perhaps you shouldn’t, Geoff.” He scowled at her and held up his glass for the serving girl’s benefit.

Brock Peterman abruptly stood, and urged his wife to her feet. “Excuse us,” he said. “We need a walk, some fresh air.” Tammy Peterman walked unsteadily behind her husband, who seemed angry about something.

When they were gone, Mort Metzger said, “Strange pair.”

“From Hollywood,” George offered in way of explanation.

“What did you see, Mrs. Fletcher?” Dr. Symington asked in his characteristically low monotone.

“Pardon?”

“You said you saw something earlier this evening. I suggested it was an apparition. Was it?”

I looked past him to the young serving girl, who seemed upset by the conversation. George saw her, too, and said, “I think we’re finished here, Daisy. Forbes will take care of after-dinner drinks in the drawing room. You’re excused.”

Daisy didn’t hesitate to take George up on his offer to leave. She was gone instantly, leaving the stooped man named Forbes to continue serving us.

An elaborate array of after-dinner liqueurs had been set up in the drawing room. After Forbes had served me a glass of seltzer, I found myself cornered by Dr. Symington. “You were saying,” he said, managing what passed for a smile.

“Saying about what, Doctor?”

“What you saw. The apparition.”

“That’s your assumption,” I said sweetly. “I never said I saw an apparition.”

“But I gather you did. The lady in the white dress?”

My gasp was involuntary and audible. “You’ve seen her?” I said.

He sipped his green liqueur. “Then, you have seen her, Mrs. Fletcher.”

George suddenly appeared at my side. “Mind if I steal her away for a few minutes, Dr. Symington?” he asked.

“Of course not. This is your castle, Mr. Sutherland. You do what you wish.”

“A little air?” George said in my ear. “You look pale.”

“I’d love a little air.”

Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, chatting and drinking. George’s hand on my elbow guided me from the room, down the hallway, and out a small door leading to the outdoors. The sweet night air filled my nostrils. Above, a full moon came and went behind fast-moving clouds.

“What a pretty courtyard,” I said. We were in a small area enclosed on four sides by stone walls. We sat on a stone bench.

“My favorite respite,” George said. “When I need to think about something, I usually come out here.”

“I can see why. It must be lovely in the daytime.”

“Yes, it is. Jess, what was this thing you saw before coming down for dinner?”

“The lady in white.”

“Oh.”

“I would have dismissed it as nothing more than the result of travel fatigue. I didn’t even want to mention it. But then Dr. Symington asked whether I’d seen a woman in white. I did. And you say there is such a woman.”

“Not that I can personally attest to. Others claim to have seen her. That doesn’t mean she exists.”

“But Dr. Symington just told me he’s seen her. And I have. That’s got to be more than sheer coincidence, George.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Nor do L You’re the chief inspector. How do you explain so many witnesses having seen her?”

“I have no explanation for it, Jessica. The power of suggestion perhaps. Tell me not to think of purple elephants, and that’s all I’ll think of. I do know one thing.”

“Which is?”

“That whoever—whatever this strange female creature in white is, she’s becoming a bloody pyne in my neck.”

“I take it you mean ‘pain.’ ”

“Exactly. Ever since she started making her appearances, I keep losing staff. Having the right people here is crucial, Jessica, because I’m so seldom here. I depend upon the staff to keep things running smoothly, satisfy the guests, maintain the property. But I’ve lost my best people recently and have had to settle.”

I thought of Alicia Richardson’s apprehension about Forbes, the bartender, and my assurances to her that George would never hire anyone in whom he didn’t have the utmost faith. Maybe I was wrong.

We sat in silence for a minute, each of us occupied with our own thoughts. I broke the silence. “George, has anyone who claims to have seen the woman in white reported her having spoken to them?”

He frowned. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

“She spoke to me.”

He turned on the bench so that we faced each other. “She did? What did she say?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t remember. I didn’t recognize the words, couldn’t even begin to repeat them to you.”

“Words? More than one?”

“Yes. A phrase, a sentence. Short, but definitely more than a single word.”

“Interesting.”

“I was probably just hearing things.”

“Yes. That’s undoubtedly what happened.”

“We should get back to the others,” I said, standing.

“I suppose so,” he said, also getting up from the bench. “I trust you know that this brief conversation will not count toward our spending some time alone. I don’t intend to squander those moments discussing nonsense like ghosts.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“I thought perhaps we could steal off for a day while the others sightsee. I’ll take you on a personal tour of Wick and its surroundings. We’ll have lunch in my favorite pub. Just the two of us. Time alone.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “Come. They’ll be wondering where we’ve gone.”

Dr. Symington tried to engage me in more conversation about the woman in white, but I managed to deflect his questions and surround myself with friends from Cabot Cove. The after-dinner gathering eventually broke up, and we headed for our rooms.

“Sleep tight, Mrs. F.,” Mort Metzger said. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“It is?” I said.

“Didn’t get the itinerary? Goin’ to get to see lots a’ the countryside. Early breakfast. Seven.”

“I’ll be up and ready,” I said.

George walked me to the head of the stairs. “Everything all right, Jessica?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, and will continue to be as long as I don’t bump into the lady in white again.”

“Chances are slim that will happen. People who’ve reported seeing her say it’s a onetime event.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. Well, good night, George. Thanks for a wonderful welcome to Sutherland Castle. See you at breakfast?”

“Absolutely. Go on, run along. I have some paperwork to do before getting to bed. I’m happy you’re here, Jessica. Very happy indeed.”

He walked away and disappeared through a door. I looked up the wide, carpeted staircase but didn’t take my first step. Instead, I narrowed my eyes to better pierce the shadowed upstairs landing. Silly, I thought, starting up. George said you only see her once. Besides, I never even saw her the first time. He was right: It was all a matter of our power of suggestion. Purple elephants. I saw them as I continued to ascend the staircase, and smiled.

I reached the top, paused, and said in a whisper, “Hello? Are you there?”

No reply.

“Hello?” I repeated. “If you decide to show yourself again, I suggest—”

“You all right, Jessica?”

I turned to face Seth Hazlitt, who stood in the door of his room.

“Of course.”

“Who are you talkin’ to?”

“Talking to? I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“Thought I heard you talkin’ to someone. Must’ve been my imagination.”

“Must have been. Good night, Seth.”

It took a long time to fall asleep. I heard every sound in the castle, and outside noises, too. A wind came up and rattled the windows. A dock chimed the hour from somewhere in the castle. An occasional door slammed shut. Female voices, loud at first, then fading away.

Ghosts, indeed!

The last thing I heard before drifting, off were the voices of two men outside and below my window. They sounded angry. Then they faded away, too.

And so did I.

According to my
American Heritage Dictionary,
the term “dour” means marked by sternness or harshness; forbidding; silently ill-humored; gloomy; sternly obstinate; unyielding.

Those descriptive words and others accurately described Mary Gower, Sutherland Castle’s cook. A short, solidly constructed woman, she served us a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grilled tomato, fried bread, and kippers—herring from Loch Fyne, split open and cooked over oak chips—with grinding efficiency, plates set down with conviction, and taken away the moment the last morsel had been consumed. Throughout, never a smile was cracked or a word spoken.

“Wouldn’t want to get on her bad side,” Seth Hazlitt muttered to George Sutherland.

George laughed. “Yes, Mrs. Gower does tend to fall on the dour side,” he said.

Which caused me to laugh. “A Scottish understatement,” I said.

“A good woman,” George said. “A hard life. Her husband was one of Wick’s last herring fishermen.” He pronounced Wick “Week,” a throw-back to the days when the Vikings occupied it. “The Scandinavians came back in the sixties with their big, modem boats and scooped up all the herring. Set the town on hard times. Wick was once the herring capital of the world. Mr. Gower died at sea, like so many of the village’s citizens over the years.”

“She cooks good,” Mort Metzger said.

“Which is why I put up with her lack of—what shall I say?—her lack of charm?” George said.

After breakfast, we gathered in the central courtyard, where a small bus waited to take those of us who wished to go on a tour of the area. Forbes, the castle’s brooding jack-of-all-trades, was the driver.

“Not coming with us?” Jed Richardson asked me as he and Alicia were about to board.

“No. I think I’ll spend the day relaxing,” I said.

“Us, too,” said Jim Shevlin, Cabot Cove’s newly elected mayor. “I thought I’d wander down to town hall, see how government works here.”

The Petermans hadn’t come to breakfast; Peter and Roberta Walters had left word they were skipping breakfast and sleeping late.

I watched the bus pull away, went inside, and settled in an oversize, overstuffed chair in front of a massive fireplace in which thin logs piled against each other vertically sent a welcome warmth into the room. Although it was springtime, there was a distinct chill in the air, as well as in the castle. A young man wearing a kilt, whom I’d seen only when he had helped bring our luggage into the castle upon our arrival appeared and asked if I wanted tea.

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Hot tea and a warm fire. Perfect.”

When he delivered the tea, he lingered, as though wanting to say something.

“How long have you worked at Sutherland Castle?” I asked to break the silence.

“Just a month, ma’am.”

“It must be an interesting place to work.”

“That it is. Mr. Sutherland is a good boss. When he’s here.”

“Who’s in charge when he isn’t here?” I asked.

“Mrs. Gower sometimes. Forbes. Depends. I don’t wish to seem bold, ma’am, but I understand you write murder mysteries.”

“Yes, I do.”

“So do I.”

“Really? How many have you written?”

“Only one. Been working on it for a year, on and off you might say. When I have the time.”

“Is it set here, in Wick? Week, I mean.”

His youthful smile was pleasant. “Yes, ma’am. It’s about a real murder that happened here twenty years ago, right in the village.”

“Twenty years ago. That wouldn’t be the relative of Isabell Gowdie, would it?”

“You know about that?” His voice went up in pitch to mirror his surprise.

“Yes. Mr. Sutherland told me about it.”

“I was only three years old at the time,” he said. “But my mother talked about it a great deal. Kept all the newspaper stories and the like.”

“Fascinating. Could I read it while I’m here?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you to do, ma’am, only I thought it might be rude, considering you’re a famous writer and all.”

“I’d be delighted to read your book.”

He left, returning moments later carrying a small leather backpack from which he withdrew a tattered, dog-eared one-hundred-page manuscript. The title was
Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie?
Right to the point.

“Did they ever find out who murdered this Evelyn Gowdie?” I asked, thumbing through the pages.

“No, ma’am. That’s the murder mystery part of my book. I have my detective solve the real murder.”

“An interesting approach,” I said, “combining fact and fiction.”

I was about to ask other questions when Mrs. Gower appeared in the doorway and said sternly, “Get back to your chores, Malcolm, and stop botherin’ the guests.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

She ignored me. “Come on, now, get to work. You’re the laziest boy I’ve ever seen. Dreamin’ all day about foolish books, and Daisy not showin’ up, just as lazy as you. Can’t rely on any young person these days.”