“Not really that hungry,” he said. “Mind if I tag along to see this Lochbuie fella?”
“Of course not. I’m not even sure we’ll find him. He supposedly hangs out on the docks. Operates a boat of some sort.”
The others went to the pub, and Seth and I headed for Wick’s harbor, only a few minutes’ walk from Bridge Street. While Wick’s “downtown” area was relatively deserted; the dock and harbor was a busy place. Dozens of ships and boats of every size and shape were docked, and men worked on them. A vessel with many years of wear on it had just arrived, and its cargo—vats of scallops—was being unloaded. A stiff breeze off the water was refreshing, the smell of fish adding to it a pungent tang.
“Know where this fella is?” Seth asked.
“No. We’d better ask.”
Seth turned to the nearest person, a wizened older man repairing a net. “Excuse me, sir, but we’re looking for Mr. Lochbuie.” Seth turned to me: “Evan is it?” I nodded. “Mr. Evan Lochbuie.”
The fisherman looked up from his task and grinned, exposing a set of large yellow teeth. “He’ll be over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite end of the dock. “Why would you want to see
him?”
“My friend here wishes to speak with him.”
The fisherman squinted at me, shook his head, and resumed his net mending.
We walked to where Evan Lochbuie smoked a curved pipe in his bobbing boat. “Mr. Lochbuie?” Seth asked from the dock.
He looked at his feet as though deciding whether he was, indeed, Evan Lochbuie. Then he slowly looked up, scowled, and asked, “And who might be looking for him?”
“I’m Dr. Seth Hazlitt. This is Ms. Jessica Fletcher.”
“Doctor, you say. What kind of doctor?”
“General practice. I take it you are a fisherman.”
“Among other things.”
“Pretty village you have here,” said Seth.
“Cursed village, you mean.”
“Cursed?”
He laughed and drew deeply on his pipe.
While Seth and Even Lochbuie chatted, I took the opportunity to closely scrutinize the man Brock Peterman claimed had special knowledge not only of witchcraft in Wick, but of what had happened to Daisy Wemyss. He looked old, although I suspected he was younger than his appearance indicated. Like most men we passed on the dock, his face was weather-beaten, old shoe leather molded into plains and valleys, the skin sunburned to its depth. He was a small man with a large head on which a grease-stained baseball cap bearing the word “Yankees” sat at a jaunty angle. Although it was a relatively warm day, he wore a heavy black-and-red-plaid jacket over a tan shirt, overalls, and bulky brown boots.
“Got a minute?” Seth asked.
Again, a gaze at his boot tops before answering. “Might have. Depends.”
“Depends upon what?” Seth asked, his annoyance level audibly rising.
“Depends on whether I want to or not.”
“Let’s go,” Seth said to me.
“In a minute. Mr. Lochbuie, I’m a writer. Mystery stories. I might want to write a book about witches. No, actually, I’m considering writing a movie with someone you’ve met, Brock Peterman. He’s a Hollywood producer.”
Lochbuie nodded. “I’ve met him. Funny-looking fella.”
“He tends to dress different,” I said.
A cackle.
“Mr. Lochbuie, I understand from Mr. Peterman that you’re the local expert on witches and witchcraft. Is that true?”
A nod.
“I’ve also been told that you know something about the murder of the young woman, Daisy Wemyss.”
His head slowly went up and down.
“Well, since that’s the case, would you share some of your knowledge with me?”
“Him, too?” Lochbuie said, nodding at Seth.
“Him, too.”
“What do you want to know?”
“May we join you in your boat?”
“Ay.”
“Sure you want to, Jess?” Seth whispered.
“Absolutely. If you’d prefer to go back to the pub, I can—”
“And leave you alone with this nut? Not on your life.”
Lochbuie’s boat was about twenty feet long. it had a small forward cabin, behind which was the control console. Seth took my hand and helped me step down into it. He followed awkwardly, almost losing his balance. We sat in weathered wooden chairs facing our “host.”
We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Lochbuie said after puffing on his pipe, “You’re Sutherland’s lady, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re George Sutherland’s lady.”
“I’m afraid you have some bad information, Mr. Lochbuie. I am no one’s lady’!”
His smile was crooked. “Not what I hear,” he said.
“You heard wrong. Let’s talk about witches, Wick-style,” I said.
“Not without talking about Mr. George Sutherland.”
“What does he have to do with witchcraft?”
“Everything. You want to know why strange things are afoot here in Wick? Look to the damn castle. Strange doings been going on here ever since it was built. Haunted, it is. Full a’ ghosts. You ever see the lady in white who lives there?”
I looked at Seth. “Just imagination,” he said.
“Is it now?” Lochbuie said. “And what about the Wemyss girl? Imagination?”
“What do you think?” I asked. “Do you know who killed her?”
“Fairly obvious.”
“It is?”
“Can’t have another witch growing up in Wick. Have to get rid of them if Wick is ever to get on its feet. They destroyed the herring fishing.”
“Witches did that?”
“ ‘Course. Any fool knows that.”
“I don’t know that,” I said. “I heard that your herring fishing industry fell on hard times because other countries came in with large ships and depleted the herring supply.”
Lochbuie puffed, then said, “Once had more than a thousand ships catchin’ herring from here. Biggest herring fishing port in the world.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
“Couldn’t last, not with the curse of the damn castle Sutherland Clan built. Everybody knows that. Evelyn Gowdie got herself killed ‘cause of the curse she put on the village. Daisy Wemyss, too. Caught the curse while working up there serving people, carried it down here like she had the plague. That’s what it is, a plague.”
Seth, who hadn’t spoken since climbing into the boat, said, “You’re talkin’ a lot of damn nonsense. Know what we call people like you back home in Cabot Cove, Maine? We’d call you
some
ugly, ill-tempered old man spreadin’ stories like this to get people all riled up.”
I winced at the directness of Seth’s words. Evan Lochbuie reacted to them, too. His face twisted into anger. He stood, stepped closer, and extended his finger at us. It was a long and misshapen finger, with a black fingernail at its tip. Now, as he spoke, his voice rose in pitch and was singsong:
“Rise up stick, and stand still stone,
For King of England thou shalt be none,
Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be
And I myself an elden tree.”
“What in hell does
that
mean?” Seth asked.
“You will turn into stone!”
Seth stood. “What did you do, put some sort a’ damn fool curse on us?”
Lochbuie cackled. “But you don’t believe in curses.”
“Bet your life we don’t.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on, Jess. Let’s get away from this nut.”
“And you shall live as stone for all eternity, unless—”
Seth had me on my feet now. Our movements caused the boat to dip and sway. Lochbuie said in an even higher-pitched voice, “Unless the pitchfork puts you out of your misery before spreading the Sutherland curse to others.”
As he said it, he stepped even closer to me and jabbed his finger inches from my nose. “And with a cross carved into your heathen neck!”
Seth twisted to place himself between me and Lochbuie. As he did, he lost his balance. “Oh, oh, oh,” he said, extending his arm in an attempt to right himself. But he couldn’t do it. He went over the side with a loud splash into the harbor’s black water.
“Seth!”
I yelled. “Help him,” I said to Lochbuie.
But all he did was laugh and turn in circles, his hands raised to the sky.
“Help!” I shouted to those on the dock. “Please, he’ll drown.”
Two burly young men extended a long boat hook to Seth. He grabbed it and was pulled to safety, his rescuers hauling him up onto the dock.
I climbed from the boat and went to Seth. “Are you all right
?
” ’ I asked.
He spit water and shook it from his ears. “Look at me,” he gasped. “Soaking wet. Ruined my suit.”
“Come. We’ll get you back to the castle and into dry clothes.” I looked around. “Is there a taxi?” I asked no one in particular.
“I’ll take ye,” a man said. “Got my automobile right over there.”
As we headed for it, the rest of the Cabot Cove crew suddenly appeared on the dock. “What happened?” Jim Shevlin asked, looking strangely at Seth.
“An accident,” I said. “Seth fell in.”
“How?” Pete Walters asked.
“A long story,” I said. “I have to get him back to the castle before he catches cold. See you there.”
“Remember what I said!”
Everyone looked down into the boat where Evan Lochbuie was still ranting and raving about the curse he’d placed on us.
“Who the hell is
he?”
Jim Shevlin asked.
“A crazy old man,” Seth said through chattering teeth. “That’s all. Just a crazy old man.” Then, without notice, he went to the edge of the dock, extended his finger at Lochbuie, and said, “You want curses, you old fool? I’ll give you curses. May your bunions grow and your brain shrink.”
He looked to me for approval. I smiled and nodded. “That’s telling him,” I said.
“I put him in his place good and proper. Come on, Jessica. The fella’s waitin’ with his car. And I need a brandy. Maybe even two. Wind’s got me chilled to the bone.”
Chapter Twelve
“I can’t believe you did it, Jess.”
“Why? It seemed a natural thing to do.”
“Do you realize the difficulties you’ll face?”
“Is it that hard?”
“So I’m told. I can’t speak from personal experience, but I’ve known many pipers in my time. They all testify to the difficulty in learning to play the bagpipes.”
I’d delivered Seth Hazlitt to his room for a warm bath and change of clothes. Now George Sutherland and I sat in his comfortable office discussing my purchase that morning. In the rush to get Seth back to the castle, I’d forgotten about having left the pipes at the shop where I’d bought them, but George dispatched Forbes to fetch them. They now sat on the floor next to me.
“Will you be giving a concert after dinner?” George asked, laughing.
“Heavens, no. I’m not even sure I want to try and play them in the privacy of my room. The castle’s walls may be thick, but—”
“I think you should play them to your heart’s content. Now, tell me again about this unfortunate incident with Evan Lochbuie and Dr. Hazlitt.”
“I didn’t, realize you knew Mr. Lochbuie, George.”
“Everyone knows old Evan. Sort of the town character.”
“A fair assessment. A little scary, too.”
“How so?”
“When he started uttering his so-called curse at us, I found myself frightened. I didn’t let on for Seth’s sake, but it was there.”
“A curse? Turn you to stone, will he? Old Evan really has gone off the deep end.”
“Seems like it. I think I’ll go up and check on Seth. I hope he doesn’t catch cold. He shivered and shook all the way back to the castle. Lovely man drove us. After spending time with Mr. Lochbuie, I was beginning to wonder whether everyone in Wick was—well, was a little daft.”
“I admit that same thought has crossed my mind on occasion, Jessica, especially when they’re railing against the castle and the ‘spell’ it’s supposed to have cast over Wick.” He stood and extended his hands to me. I took them, and we faced each other. “Go check on your wet, cold friend. Practice these bagpipes until you’re ready for your debut at Royal Albert Hall. I have some annoying paperwork to catch up on. See you at dinner?”
“Yes. Thanks for sending Forbes to get this.”
George picked up the bagpipes and handed them to me. “Heavy.”
“And unwieldy. See you later, George.”
I took the bagpipes to my room, then knocked on Seth’s door. He opened it wearing his robe over pajamas, and slippers.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“Some. Still have the chills. Thought I’d take a nap before dinner.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Want me to wake you?”
“Ayuh.
Much appreciated.”
He shut the door, leaving me concerned. Seth didn’t look good. His face was an unhealthy gray. He’d been in his wet clothes for too long, and I hoped he wouldn’t become ill.
I went to my room and gazed out the window. The sky was now overcast, and rain had begun to fall, whipped by the wind into that infamous horizontal rain pattern I’d been told about before coming to northern Scotland. It splattered off the windowpanes; trees bent, leaves flew. I saw a brilliant streak of lightning, heard the resulting boom of thunder. And then the room’s lights went out, leaving me in virtual darkness.
I took candles from the fireplace mantel, lit them, and placed them on a table by the window. Their glow was warm and comforting as the storm intensified. I considered going downstairs to see whether someone was trying to restore power to the castle, but knew my intrusion wouldn’t help solve the problem. Power failures were undoubtedly a common occurrence at the castle, probably in the entire area. Back home, a simple call to the power company usually resulted in fast action, unless a storm was of sufficient proportions to kill power to thousands of homes. I somehow doubted whether that sort of service existed in Wick.