It happened so fast. In one motion, George pushed me away, then shoved his fist into our antagonist’s chest. The big man growled and raised his arm to strike. But George was too fast. This time, his fist made contact with the big man’s nose, sending him stumbling back into the arms of his friends, blood trickling down over his lip.
I retreated farther into a corner, anticipating a larger fight to break out. George stood firm, eyes trained on his opponent, fists clenched. The big man wiped blood from his face and muttered, “You broke my nose.”
“You asked for it,” George said. “Are we finished here?”
This was the moment of truth. Would the big man charge, or would he back off?
“Lunch was excellent, Joan,” George said to our waitress, who stood with the bartender at the end of the bar. I noticed the bartender held a stout wooden shaft, just in case it was needed.
It wasn’t. The big man cursed under his breath, turned, and leaned on the bar, his friends following suit.
Once outside, George drew a deep breath and rubbed his right hand with his left.
“You’re hurt,” I said.
“Nothing serious. No broken bones, except for his nose. Bloody fool. I hate fights, will walk miles to avoid one. I feel
black affrontit
, Jessica. Quite ashamed, subjecting you to violence.”
“You could have arrested him.”
“Ay.
Any member of the Yard has jurisdiction throughout the U.K. Even here in Wick, as far north as you can get in Scotland except for John o’ Groat’s. But it wasn’t a police matter. Stupid bloke is drunk. He’s cocked the wee finger too many times.”
I smiled, as I usually did when George slipped into his Scottish idiomatic speech. “Don’t be ashamed,” I said. “You did what you had to do.”
“Feel like a walk, Jessica?”
“Yes. It’s a nice day for it.”
We strolled the dock area, breathing in the bracing salt air and reveling in the sun’s warmth on our faces. George suddenly stopped, raised his binoculars to his eyes, and trained them on something in the distance.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A reed bunting. Not many of them around these days.”
I saw what held his interest, a bird resting on a piling.
“I wondered why you were carrying those binoculars,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a bird-watcher.”
“Strictly amateur, but I do enjoy spotting them.” As he handed the binoculars to me, the bird flew away.
I put them to my eyes anyway and slowly scanned the open water, where boats of varying sizes moved slowly in and out of the large harbor. I focused on one boat, went past it, then returned. It was Evan Lochbuie, the madman who’d caused Seth to fall overboard.
“Mr. Lochbuie is out there in his boat,” I said, handing the binoculars to George. He trained them on the area I indicated with my finger. “That’s interesting,” he said.
“What is?”
“The fellow with him. Look.”
I did, and saw a man in a business suit I hadn’t seen the first time, standing next to Lochbuie at the boat’s console. “Who is he?” I asked.
“One of the buyers from London I had breakfast with this morning.”
“Oh? Why would he be out on a boat with someone like Evan Lochbuie?”
“I haven’t an answer, Jessica. Maybe you can come up with one.”
“Maybe I can. Still feel like walking?”
“I feel like doing anything except returning to the castle.”
“Then, let’s walk. While we do, I’ll tell you what I think might be going on. More important, what we might do about it. I think it’s time to bring this to a head.”
Chapter Nineteen
Despite the beauty of the day, Fiona’s disappearance, and the discovery of her clothing, took the edge off the pleasure of being together. Conversation inevitably returned to that unpleasant subject, and so we headed back to the castle sooner than originally planned. Constable McKay and his deputy, Bob, were there waiting for George.
“Hello, Horace,” George said.
“Hello, George. Spare us a minute?”
“Of course. I’ll catch up with you later, Jessica.”
George escorted McKay and Bob to his office, and I went to my room. Malcolm James was just leaving it; he’d brought me ice, fruit, and a bottle of water.
My first question was, “Any word on Fiona?”
“No, ma’am. Everyone’s searching for her. Constable McKay’s here.”
“Yes, I know. He’s downstairs with Inspector Sutherland. You must be worried to death.”
“Ay, that I am, Mrs. Fletcher. Sick over it.”
“Wouldn’t you be better off helping look for her, instead of working?”
“I’d rather be busy. Helps keep my mind off it.”
“I understand. By the way, I hear congratulations are in order.”
“For what?”
“An inopportune time to bring it up, I suppose, but I think it’s wonderful news that you’ve found a publisher for your novel.”
“What?”
“A publisher for
Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie
? Fiona told me about it last night.”
“She did?” His expression was a combination of shock and concern.
“It isn’t true?”
He smiled. “Oh, Fiona tends to exaggerate a wee bit. There’s a publisher who’s expressed some interest, that’s all.”
“That’s certainly a fine start. I finished reading your manuscript, Malcolm. It’s quite—it’s very good, although I must admit I was disappointed that it lacks an ending.”
“Just want to see how things turn out in real life,” he said, poised to leave.
“But it’s fiction,” I said. “There’s really no need to—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher. Mrs. Gower’ll be looking for me, mad as a hen.”
I picked up Mickey Spillane’s novel, which I hadn’t finished, and went downstairs to find a chair outside, where I could continue reading it. I’d noticed a small wrought-iron bench behind a thick growth of bushes at the rear of the castle, and decided it would provide me the solitude I sought.
But as I circumvented the castle and came close to the spot, I heard a man and a woman’s voice coming from it. It sounded like Malcolm to me, but I couldn’t be sure. I took a few steps closer, but my attention was diverted by the sound of a truck’s throaty engine, and tires on gravel.
The source of it came through an open rear gate. It was a big truck, followed by a car. As they passed me in the direction of the front courtyard, I read on the truck’s side SPERLING VIDEO RENTALS. The car came abreast, driven by the Hollywood film producer, Brock Peterman. Tammy sat next to him.
I decided Mickey’s book could wait, and followed the vehicles to where Brock Peterman stood with three young men, who’d climbed down from the truck’s cab.
“Hello,” I said, waving.
“What ’a you say?” Peterman said. He turned to the others: “This is the famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher.”
Their blank faces said they hadn’t heard of me, and didn’t care that they hadn’t.
“I picked up this crew in Edinburgh,” Peterman said.
“Are you planning to make a movie here?”
“A documentary. This place is stranger than fiction. How about an interview with you in an hour? Hey, it just came to me. How about you hosting the show? Like they do on British TV Yeah, that’s it!”
“Sorry, Mr. Peterman, but I wouldn’t want to do that. Does Inspector Sutherland know of your plans?”
He shrugged.
“I think you should get his permission before unloading your equipment.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will.” He leaned into the open car window. “Hey, Tam, come on. You can’t sit there all day.”
“I’m almost finished,” she said, continuing to buff her nails.
I went inside, where George, Constable McKay, and Deputy Bob had just come from the office and stood together in the foyer.
“Excuse me,” I said, starting past them.
“You might want to hear this, Jessica,” George said.
“Hear what?”
“The big bloke in the pub today wants to press charges against me for assault.”
“That’s preposterous,” I blurted. “He went to hit you first.”
“That’s what I told the constable. But our fat friend says otherwise.”
“Well, I assure you I’ll be a witness if it ever comes to that. I’ll fly here to testify from wherever I am.”
“Probably won’t come to that, Mrs. Fletcher,” McKay said. “Think over what I said, George. Think hard and fast about it.”
“I will,” George said, his expression grave.
After they left, I said to George, “I take it they didn’t come here just to tell you that the drunk in the pub wants to press charges.”
“You’re right. The constable says he can no longer be responsible for the safety of anyone at Sutherland Castle. According to him, the townspeople are ready to take matters into their own hands.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. If I buy what you said this afternoon, Jessica, I probably shouldn’t believe him. But I’m not sure.”
We heard the warning
beep beep beep
trucks make when backing up.
“What the devil is that?” George asked.
“Mr. Peterman. He’s back, with a film crew and equipment.”
“Why?”
“He says he wants to make a documentary about the castle and what’s been going on.”
“The bloody hell he will.”
He stepped through the door to see the crew unloading huge black steamer trunks, dozens of lengths of pipe, lights, sound equipment, and other paraphernalia associated with moviemaking.
“Hi, Inspector,” Peterman said. “Thought you’d never see me again?”
I waited for George to substitute “hope” for “thought.” He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Move that truck.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me why, Mr. Peterman. Just pack your stuff and leave.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Peterman said. “I’m a paying guest here.”
“Yes,
you
are. But
they
aren’t.”
“They’re staying in that other hotel down the road. All I need is a place for the equipment Well keep out of your way, shoot most of it outdoors. Mrs. Fletcher, here, is going to be our first interview.”
“Mr. Peterman, I’m sure you are, at heart, a very nice person, but—”
“George,” I said, “maybe it won’t be so bad. At least hear him out.”
“Right,” Peterman said. “Hear me out.”
“You’ve agreed to be interviewed?” George asked me.
“No. But that doesn’t matter. Come inside.” I said to Peterman, “Why don’t you leave the equipment in the truck and park it behind those outbuildings. I’m sure it will be safe there.”
The three-man crew looked to Peterman for instructions. He looked to me. I nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You guys load it back up and move the truck over there. Walk down to your hotel and get some dinner. I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Be ready to go at seven.”
I turned to say something to George, but he’d already left the steps and returned to his office. I suggested to Peterman that he stay out of George’s way until I’d had a chance to speak with him.
“You’re going to help me get through to him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“I may want a favor from you.”
He smiled. “Okay. You rub my back, I rub yours.”
“I’d prefer another analogy,” I said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
I went to my room to get ready for what had been billed as a “special dinner.” After I’d freshened up in the pretty bathroom, and was changing clothes, my attention was drawn to the small mural stair leading to the tiny, low-ceilinged room I’d peeked into upon arriving. I tried to visualize its location in relationship to the long hallway outside the room. As I recalled, there was a door in the hallway that could lead to it. I stepped into the hall and went to the door, tried the handle. Locked. Either it led to another set of steps to that room, or was a closet of some sort.
I returned to my room and slowly went up the mural stair. The room looked, of course, exactly as it had when I first peered into it. But that time, I’d only glanced about, and was there for no more than a few seconds.
There wasn’t much to see. It was dark because there were no windows, and the space appeared to be empty. A storage area, I surmised.
But as my eyes acclimated to the gloom, I noticed a small, vague shape in one corner. Hunched over, I went to it, got down on my knees, and touched it. It was a portable tape recorder. I checked for an electrical cord. There was none; it must have been battery powered.
The bigger question, of course, was why would there be a tape recorder in that particular room?
I returned to my room and from my purse took a tiny penlight flashlight I always carry when traveling in the event of hotel power failures. I went up the stairs again, trained the beam on the recorder, and pushed “PLAY.”
“Gie a heize,”
an ethereal, breathy woman’s voice said through the speakers.
The lady in white.
I pressed “REWIND” and listened again.
And again.
And then one final time.
The special dinner that night was “Cullen Skink,” which George explained was a Scottish fish stew, usually based upon the use of haddock, and dating back centuries. “Skink” was an old Scottish word for stew; Cullen referred to the fishing village of Cullen, on the Moray Firth, where the stew was first introduced.
Charlene Sassi, our cooking expert, told us gleefully that Mrs. Gower allowed her to be in the kitchen to observe the preparation of the evening’s fare. “She uses lots of bay leaf and leek, and has a heavy hand with the salt and pepper.”
“Not good for my blood pressure,” Seth said.
“Or your figure, either,” Charlene said. “Not with all the butter she uses.”
We were a full table again. Everyone from the Cabot Cove contingent was there, along with Dr. and Mrs. Symington, and the Petermans. Naturally, talk turned to Fiona and her disappearance.