Malcolm—I now knew his first name—grabbed his backpack and scurried from the room, Mrs. Gower’s harsh stare following him all the way. I started to say something in his defense, but all I saw was the broad back of our cook as she turned away and lumbered down the hall, her heavy footsteps ringing off the stone floor.
I sipped my tea and read Malcolm’s first chapter, which succinctly laid out for the reader the bare facts of Evelyn Gowdie’s murder twenty years ago. She was the woman who George claimed was a descendant of the famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie, put to death in 1622 by a pitchfork through her heart, and a cross slashed into the flesh of her throat. According to Malcolm’s manuscript, Evelyn Gowdie’s body had been found behind a small office building on Bridge Street, Wick’s main thoroughfare.
I decided to put off reading more of the manuscript until later in the day, and went to my room, where I changed into new sneakers and a green-and-white jogging suit over another layer of clothing. Confident I’d dressed appropriately for whatever weather I might encounter—George said the weather in northern Scotland could change within minutes—I left the castle and walked in the direction of the village.
It took me longer than I’d planned to reach Bridge Street because I kept stopping to admire the rugged natural beauty of the area. The sun shone brightly, providing its warm rays to the crisp morning. There were spectacular rock formations along the tops of the cliffs that George had said were called “Grey Bools”; a soaring natural arch in those same cliffs, “Brig o Trams,” made a bold, awe-inspiring statement against the cobalt blue sky.
I eventually reached the center of town and paused on a comer to get my bearings. Not that Wick was large enough for a tourist to become lost. What struck me as I stood on the corner was the absence of people. There were a few men and women walking down Bridge Street, going in and out of shops. But there weren’t many shops to enter, at least from my vantage point. Some were boarded up, others had CLOSED signs on their doors. Overall, the impression was of a village that had not only fallen on hard times in the past, those hard times prevailed to this day. That impression was enhanced when the sun ceased to shine, as though someone had thrown a switch, and a cold rain started to fall. I’d heard about “horizontal rain” in northern Scotland; now I experienced it. A wind that suddenly began to howl down Bridge Street flung the raindrops in a horizontal direction, stinging my face and sending me in search of shelter. I found it in a small shop selling sporting goods, guns and ammunition, fishing rods and artificial lures. An older man was behind the counter as I entered, causing a tiny bell attached to the door to sound.
“Guid
morning,” he said.
“Good morning. Goodness, that rain came up fast.”
He laughed. “Another few minutes, the sun will be shining brightly again.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Something I can help you with?”
“I only came in to stay dry. But now that I’m here, maybe you would give me some advice on what dry flies to use, what the fish are rising to.”
The shopkeeper spent the next fifteen minutes showing me various dry flies, which, he proudly proclaimed, he’d tied himself. I bought a few. By the time I’d paid, the sun was out and the rain had stopped.
I left the store and slowly walked up Bridge Street, pausing to peer into shop windows, and observing the few people sharing the street with me. It didn’t take long to reach the end, where the village just seemed to fade into a country road.
I turned back and headed in the direction from which I’d come. As I started back down Bridge Street, a small sign on an office building caught my eye. I moved closer to read it. It was a plaque that had been placed on the building by the Wick Historical Society. It read:
“Site of the murder of Evelyn Gowdie, Feb. 11, 1976, descendant of famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”
A strange thing to commemorate.
I stepped away from the building, but something caused me to go back and read the plaque again. Well, I thought, since the leaders of the Wick Historical Society felt a woman’s murder was worth a plaque, I might as well see where it actually happened.
There was a dirt driveway running from the street to the rear of the building. I walked along it until reaching a backyard area strewn with bottles and other trash. Weeds grew with abandon. I looked at the building’s rear windows; no one looked back. I wondered whether a second plaque had been installed, pinpointing precisely where the body was discovered. I didn’t see one.
I was poised to leave when my attention was drawn to a large cardboard box in a comer of the small yard. To be more precise, it was what protruded from the end of the box closest to me that was of interest
I went to it, and my initial reaction was validated. It was a foot, a female foot wearing a high black laced-up shoe. A few inches of ankle showed between the shoe’s top and the hem of a gray dress. I hesitated; I wanted to push the box aside but had difficulty mustering the courage.
Then, after a few deep breaths, I used my foot to partially slide the box off the body, enough to see the face belonging to the foot and leg. Looking up at me was the round, ruddy face of Daisy—I didn’t know her last name—the young woman who’d served us dinner the night before at Sutherland Castle.
My fist went to my mouth to stifle an anguished cry about to erupt. A pitchfork rose from Daisy’s chest. The handle had been broken off just above the metal tines. Brown dried blood surrounded each tooth.
I crouched lower. I hadn’t seen it at first glance. Carved into her throat was a small, bloody cross.
I quickly retraced my steps to the street and looked up and down. I wanted to scream, but held that impulse in check. Instead, I went to the sporting goods shop.
“Forget something?” the owner asked.
“No. There’s been a murder up the street. Behind the office building where Evelyn Gowdie was killed twenty years ago.”
He looked at me skeptically.
“It’s a young girl named Daisy. She works—worked at Sutherland Castle.”
“Daisy Wemyss?”
“I don’t know her last name. All I know is that—”
“Come with me,” he said, leading me from the store. “She’s my brother’s daughter.”
Chapter Seven
The shop owner led me to a small building in which Wick’s government offices were housed. We stepped into a room marked CONSTABLE, where a young man sat reading a newspaper, his feet propped on the edge of the desk.
“Bob,” the shop owner said. “We’ve got a big problem down the street.”
Bob looked up. “Oh?”
“There’s been a murder. Daisy, my brother’s girl.”
Bob dropped the newspaper to the desk, his feet to the floor.
“Where’s Horace?”
“Down to the river fishing.”
“Well, go get the man. Fast.” The shop owner turned to me. “Where did you find her body?”
I explained.
“Who’s she?” Bob asked.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m a guest at Sutherland Castle. I found her.”
“Go on, Bob, get Horace.” To me: “Horace is our constable.”
Bob ran from the office.
“I take it your name is Mr. Wemyss,” I said to the shop owner.
“Ay.”
“What do we do now? Wait for the constable to return from fishing?”
“Best thing to do.”
“Isn’t there someone else we can talk to?”
“Best to wait for Horace.”
Another dour Scotsman, I thought. I’d better get used to it.
Horace, whose last name turned out to be McKay, arrived ten minutes later carrying the longest fishing rod I’d ever seen. He wore “Wellies,” green rubber boots seen everywhere in Great Britain, and had with him a creel containing two large trout After I’d been introduced to him, he said, “Now, lady, what’s this about Daisy Wemyss?”
“She’s been murdered.” I told him where I’d discovered the body.
“Back where Evelyn Gowdie was killed,” he said in a low, gruff voice, heavy with Scottish burr.
“That’s right,” I said. “I suggest we go there—now!” I was running out of patience with their cavalier approach to murder. Mr. Wemyss’s niece had been brutally killed. Constable McKay had a murder on his hands. But here they were standing around as though we were discussing the fish he’d caught.
“Let’s go,” said McKay. He carefully placed the rod on wall hooks behind his desk, took off his wide-brimmed hat and patted his hair flat in front of a tiny mirror, put his hat back on, and led us from the office.
We stood in a circle over the lifeless body of Daisy Wemyss. Constable McKay knelt next to the body and touched his fingertips to her neck. He looked up at us: “She’s been dead for some time,” he said. “Ten, twelve hours.”
“The pitchfork,” I said. “And the cross on her neck. The same as Evelyn Gowdie.”
Constable McKay stood, stretched, and grimaced against a pain somewhere in his body. “You know about that,” he said to me.
“Yes, I do.”
McKay turned to Mr. Wemyss and said, “You’d better inform your brother.”
“Ay. Not a pleasant task.”
“If it’s all right,” I said, “I’d like to go back to Sutherland Castle.”
“By all means,” McKay said. “How long will you be staying there?”
“Another week.”
“Good. I’ll be wanting to speak with you again.”
“I look forward to it, Constable. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Wemyss.”
“Nothing guaranteed in this life, Mrs. Fletcher. Dying is the price we pay for living.”
“I’ll inform George Sutherland and the others at the castle about Ms. Wemyss’s death.”
“Do that,” said Constable McKay.
I went to the street and slowly made my way back to Sutherland Castle, looming on the horizon, a bleak stone bastion of the ages rising imposingly over the modest village of Wick, Scotland.
I quickened my pace, legs aching as I climbed the steep incline leading to my home for the next week. George was on the lawn pruning a bush.
“Pleasant walk?” he asked, placing the pruning shears in the jacket of a tan vest.
“No.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jessica. Why?”
I told him about Daisy Wemyss.
His face turned hard and ashen.
“George. What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know, Jessica, but it’s obvious there’s a madman out there.”
“The same one who killed Evelyn Gowdie twenty years ago?”
“ ‘And from his wallet drew a human hand, shriveled and dry and black....’ ”
“What?”
“ ‘And fitting, as he spoke, a taper in his hold ... pursued a murderer on this stake had died....’ ”
“George.”
“Southey. He wrote it in
Thalabra.
A popular belief centuries ago that the hand of a man executed for murder, if prepared properly, could cast a perpetual spell over future generations.”
George Sutherland was fond of quoting ancient passages, and had a remarkable memory for them.
“You don’t believe in such things, do you, George?”
“I believe in good and evil, Jessica. Come. If spells can be cast over evil doers, I intend to try my best to cast one myself. This was
not
what I intended when inviting you and your friends to my family home.”
Chapter Eight
George and I sat in front of the fireplace where I’d enjoyed tea that morning. When he informed the cook, Mrs. Gower, of Daisy Wemyss’s death, the shocking news didn’t appear to shock her. She muttered something about young people asking for trouble these days before flouncing off to fetch us tea and scones.
After serving us, George said, “I’m so sorry about this, Jessica.”
“Please, George, don’t be. It wasn’t anything you could have prevented.”
“I’m not certain that’s true.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s hard to explain, Jessica. There’s really nothing tangible to account for it, just a lot of Scottish lore involving my family, this castle, and Wick itself.”
“I’ll do my best to understand,” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure you will.”
He tasted his tea. I offered the plate of scones to him, but he shook his head.
“Let me see where to begin,” he said thoughtfully. “It started centuries ago, when this castle was built by my ancestors. They were a staunch, fearless people. ‘Without fear’ is our clan motto.”
“I saw that on the shield.”
“A proud clan, Jessica. A proud people. But from the beginning, the existence of this castle was viewed by some with skepticism, even outright hostility.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Rumor. Superstition. Fear. Envy. Hatred.”
“Directed toward your family?”
“Yes.”
“Again, I ask why?”
“Because it has been believed since the day my family built this remarkable place that it’s been occupied not only by members of the Sutherland Clan, but by—well, by ghosts.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Like the lady in white?” I asked.
“Were it only about her, Jessica. No, over the centuries the people of Wick have blamed the castle and its occupants for almost every violent act occurring in the village.” He drew a deep breath. “I should have told you all of this before inviting you and your friends.”
“Don’t be silly. Some people in Wick might think there’s some brand of witchcraft being practiced at Sutherland Castle, but I’m certainly not one of them. Nor are any of my friends.”
“Mrs. Richardson?”
“Alicia? I can understand why she’s still upset. That incident at the Tower of London would leave anyone shaken.”
“Of course. But I can’t help but wonder whether that incident wasn’t preordained in some way. After all, the man who held her and her husband wanted to salvage the name of a distant relative accused of practicing witchcraft.”
“Sheer coincidence,” I said, putting a dollop of clotted cream on my scone and taking a bite.