Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  Back on the strand he said he would like a word with her and they started to stroll along the water line. MacPhee fell in step on her other side.

  “What do you know of Rita Washburn?” Bell asked.

  “I don’t know much about her.”

  “You knew she smoked cannabis?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s admitted to us that she got it from Stark. He wouldn’t let her have any more after last Tuesday, said he’d none left. That may have been true; there doesn’t appear to be any in his effects, nor in the Mini which is where you’d expect him to keep it. What was in Miss West’s car might have been the last of it. You saw Rita Wednesday evening. How did she seem?”

  “Alternately sulky and defiant.”

  “Nervy?”

  “Not particularly; she was smoking — Players.”

  “Could she get down that climb?”

  “Tangleblock?” She was startled; that Rita had a place in the drama tended to be forgotten. She turned to stare back at Farrid Head. In her mind’s eye she saw the rift plunging for three hundred feet below the jammed boulder: a slit of moonlit sea with the rock in deep shadow. A head torch? No rope if you fell — but Rita, she thought, wouldn’t have been afraid. She shrugged. “She could have done it.” Bell nodded. “But then,” she went on, “she had to swim across the mouth of the cave and out to Pincher’s body, then swim and climb back again — after the shock of finding Pincher dead. The previous night she’d have had the same journey, without Pincher’s death but with the strain of climbing the stack and descending it solo. It adds up to such a series of physical and psychological stresses that I can’t believe a girl so recently on drugs could have accomplished it.”

  “How did she seem on Wednesday morning?”

  “I didn’t see her — except as a distant shape in the Mini — until the evening.”

  “And she was alternately sulky and defiant, but not necessarily nervy. She could have slept all day instead of driving around after dropping the men.” His tone sharpened. “Is Sadie MacKay nervy?”

  “No.”

  “I understood she wasn’t normal.”

  “I wouldn’t say that; after all, who is?”

  He nodded, but she couldn’t tell whether it was a gesture of acceptance or one of dismissal.

  “So, there’s Sadie MacKay’s cat and her affair with Stark.”

  “Hardly that,” she protested, guessing that they had got this from Rita. “The girl was on the cliffs with him one evening.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps we’ll learn more about it from herself.”

  They had been walking towards the rock in the middle of the bay. Now he turned and they strolled back. There was no smoke rising from Catacol’s chimney. Miss Pink felt unhappy.

  “You won’t find Sadie at home at this time of the day,” she told them.

  “We’ll find her, ma’am.”

  They found her in the corner of a field by the wood. Bales of straw made a pen and she was watching a ewe suckling two lambs. She looked up as they approached and stared at the police stonily. Miss Pink took the bull by the horns and, ignoring the conventions, said: “Mr Bell wants to ask you some questions, Sadie, and I’ve come to see you don’t bully him.”

  The girl was startled. “I won’t bully him. Why should I?” She looked at Bell loftily. “Well, what do you want?”

  Miss Pink and MacPhee sat down on a bale. Sadie followed suit a little uncertainly and Bell, feeling himself at a disadvantage standing, sat too. Miss Pink beamed at everyone. Bell, being intelligent, knew his limitations, so he said with an air of helplessness which wasn’t entirely feigned: “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  Miss Pink picked up the ball. “Everyone is being asked where they were on Tuesday night, Sadie. Where were you?”

  “In my bed. Where else?”

  “You go walking sometimes.”

  “Well,” sulkily, “I was in bed on Tuesday.”

  “And Wednesday night?”

  “Then too.”

  “What about the lambs?”

  “I went to bed after.”

  “At what time?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t wear a watch.”

  “Can you fix it by something?” Bell put in, looking at Miss Pink.

  “If you were lambing on Wednesday, Sadie,” she suggested: “Do you remember seeing lights go out in the houses, or Miss West and I going home to Soutra from the House?”

  “I don’t remember Tuesday, but Wednesday: that was the day he — the moor went on fire; yes, I saw you goin’ home. I didn’t call goodnight because I’d have startled the sheep. I didn’t go to bed till after you because I saw your lights go out. And later I came back to the sheep again.”

  “Why?” Bell asked.

  “I couldna sleep.”

  “Rita told you that evening.” There was no compassion about him — and Sadie’s eyes matched his.

  “I won’t talk about that.”

  “But she told you Wednesday.”

  The girl looked at the lambs thoughtfully, then her lips relaxed in a smile and Miss Pink thought that the young animals, being alive, were stronger than old dead things, until she saw Sadie’s eyes — and realised why Bell showed no pity. Sadie stood up.

  “Someone else got to him first,” she explained to Bell. “I’m sorry about that. It meant he died quick in the fall. I saw him, and all his bones was smashed and splintered like the sheeps is after they go over the cliff, so you know they didna suffer. You wouldn’t like to think of a sheep lying there with a broken leg and the tide comin’ in, would you? But it would have been best if he’d been Pincher and him bein’ alive when he went in the water — and floatin’, but not able to get back to the rocks. Then the killers would have started on him slowly like crows on a sheep: goin’ round him first and just nudgin’ him now and again, and then startin’ to take bits out of him.” She sighed. “But the killers didna get him and he died quick. He was lucky I didna get to him first.”

  She walked away: slowly and loosely like a poorly animated rag doll.

  “No!” Miss Pink exclaimed as Bell made to follow her. “She can’t help you at all. She didn’t do it.”

  “She could have done it.”

  “That’s the point: she’s overcome with regret — and a kind of shock, but she didn’t do it or she would have told you. She doesn’t care, don’t you see? And another thing: if she had attempted to kill Stark, it wouldn’t have been by loosening a piton and waiting.”

  “But she did wait.”

  “No. Rita told her Wednesday evening. By then the piton had been loosened and Pincher was dead.”

  “Stark wasn’t.”

  “If she went up to the cliffs and untied that knot, you’re postulating two killers — which you’ve already implied was too much of a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps the piton came out by accident.”

  She frowned at him and he was embarrassed. It had been a silly remark.

  *

  “Thank you for telling me.” Hector was obviously sincere. “She may be better now it’s out.”

  She had found him building up a wall which MacQuarrie had broken down. She’d been forced to listen to a panegyric on the bull before she could tell him about the recent interview with Sadie.

  “I did wonder,” she remarked. “Has she been very unhappy?”

  “Yes, but quiet; she always keeps it inside of herself. Aye, but Elspeth has a fine wee kit in three colours: red and white and black. She’s savin’ it and I’ll bring it to Catacol and I’ll be after tellin’ Sadie we must have a cat for the mice. And if we’ve got no mice, I’ll get Ian to trap me some in his wee traps that don’t harm the beasties.” He looked at her searchingly. “I should thank you too, ma’am, for goin’ along in my place when they asked her questions. Did they treat her right?”

  “They were quite correct.”

  “What were they askin’ her?”

  “They wanted to know where she was on Tue
sday and Wednesday nights. They’re asking everyone.”

  He laughed loudly. “And is everyone tellin’?” His face sobered suddenly. “What did she say?”

  “Tuesday she couldn’t remember. Wednesday she was with the sheep but she couldn’t give times. She says she was out most of the night.”

  “Bridget gave her a watch but she only wears it up at the House. She’s afraid of breakin’ it. Several people were out round the sheep Wednesday night — Tuesday too. They were good nights before the storm — but no one knows the time on the west coast. I saw you go home Wednesday. When was that?”

  “About nine-thirty. Miss West and I were very tired.”

  “Aye. The MacLeods was in bed. MacKenzie was tinkerin’ with his engine a whiles. We had nine lambs that night.”

  Miss Pink said unwillingly: “And if anyone had gone up the cliff path you’d have seen them in the moonlight.”

  Hector looked across the fields towards the path. They were upstream of the settlement and the rock band was over a mile away. He pursed his lips judiciously. “The lambin’ fields is half the distance. Yes, I’d have seen anyone if there’d been anythin’ to see. There wasn’t.” He looked at her seriously. “Who do the police think did it?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “They didn’t think it was Sadie?”

  “I hope I put them right. It wouldn’t have been Sadie’s way, loosening the piton and untying the knot.”

  “Is that how it was done?”

  “It appears to have been the way. Pitons don’t come out on their own, nor knots untie themselves.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She explained the mechanics, but he didn’t appear interested after all. When she stopped, he asked: “Did someone climb the stack?”

  “To loosen the piton? Someone must have done.”

  “How could they get there? They didn’t take my boat.”

  “He went down Tangleblock.”

  “What’s that, ma’am?”

  “The climb: Tangleblock.”

  “I don’t know — tangle —?”

  “Don’t they tell you how they’ve named their climbs?”

  “I forget. There’s so many. There’s the Pagoda and the Old Man and Whoofling Hole — now that’s nice: it’s the noise the sea makes through a wee passage “Tangleblock is in a corner beyond the great cave; you can’t see it from the Old Man.”

  “There is a place . . . So you think he went down there.”

  “It’s very unpleasant,” she confessed. “It doesn’t have to be a ‘he’. The police will question Miss West and Bridget besides Sadie.”

  He stared at her, then grinned. “And Jessie and Elspeth?”

  She held his eye. “No, not Jessie and Elspeth.”

  His face fell at her seriousness. “But all the men: Mr Perry and Mr Bowles, and Ian?”

  “Yes. It was someone in Scamadale, Hector, because the person who did it knew that the piton had been put there, on the stack, and how it would be used.”

  “But why should any of them want to kill Stark?”

  “After the fire?”

  “It only took a bit of moor.”

  “He made himself extremely unpleasant to everybody,” she said sternly. “I think everyone in the glen, except perhaps the MacLeods and the MacKenzies, had a reason for killing Stark, and people have been killed for what appeared to be most trivial reasons before now.”

  “Then why was Pincher killed?”

  “In mistake for Stark. The murderer thought Stark would be out in front at that point but they changed places.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not important.”

  He frowned. “Mr Perry and Mr Bowles had reason for wantin’ Stark dead?”

  She repeated, surprised at his obtuseness: “There was the fire.” If he didn’t know about the film, and Bridget’s connection with Stark, she wouldn’t tell him.

  “Oh yes, the fire. But what had that got to do with Mr Bowles?”

  “He had a reason too.”

  He glanced at her but her face told him nothing. Suddenly she remembered that the piton must have been loosened before the fire and before they knew about the film.

  “And Ian?” he asked.

  “Ian is fond of Sadie,” she said carefully.

  He shook his head. “That’s no good; she’s not keen on him.”

  “Does that make any difference?”

  “Oh yes, it’s no good, you see. If he took her away from the glen, she’d pine.”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “There’s no need to because she doesn’t see anythin’ in him.”

  “Suppose he decided to stay here and work for Mr Perry?”

  Plainly he hadn’t thought of this. He did so now, his expression changing with his emotions: surprise, pleasure, doubt.

  “Would she make him a good wife?” he asked.

  “Well now, that would be up to him and Sadie, wouldn’t it? One doesn’t usually ask that kind of question for someone else.”

  “For Sadie you have to.”

  She checked, aware of the reproof, but then she went on: “You’re sure, Hector?”

  “People take advantage of her. Bridget’s the same age but she can take care of herself. Sadie’s different.”

  She nodded. “It’s the same difficulty that parents have in wondering how far to help their children.”

  “You’re right; she’s still a child in some ways. She trusts people too much.”

  “Yes, trust is fine, but excess is bad. One must have judgement.”

  “It’s just with people; she’s all right with the beasts and anyway, it’s not all people; just the bad ones. She hasn’t met many bad ones. Do you think,” he asked diffidently, “will she get over it?”

  Her mind made one of those neat jumps to which, it seemed, a mind must become accustomed when in association with Hector’s. “It’s happened, my dear. When something’s broken, all you can do is pick up the pieces. I think you’ll find that what wounded Sadie so deeply was the death of the cat. Stark’s death was the best thing that could have happened for her. Life’s much more simple for some people than others and while he was alive she might have remained very disturbed — to say the least. Now the situation is resolved — finished, and she can stop grieving after a while and she won’t be torturing herself with thoughts of Stark because Stark doesn’t exist. To her mind the price of the cat’s death is paid, more or less.” He nodded eagerly. She went on; “Sadie isn’t damaged, only wounded — and wounds heal with a healthy mind.”

  He regarded her steadily, his bright eyes candid and so penetrating that she felt uncomfortable, then he smiled his big broad smile. “Aye, that MacQuarrie,” he said fondly, picking up a sandstone block and turning it gently in his brown hands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The door was open to the early evening sun and, in response to her call, Clive appeared at the end of the passage.

  “Come in, come in! I’m all alone. No one’s come back yet. Marcus and Bridget went to look at the Pagoda after lunch and Leila’s trawling for prawns with MacKenzie. I’d have been out myself but I was trapped by the Law.”

  He had ushered her to the drawing room while he was speaking and as they settled themselves in the window bay she saw that the muscles of his face had sagged, and there were lines in his cheeks which hadn’t been obvious when she arrived in Scamadale. He must have felt her sympathy because he dropped his pose.

  “Yes,” he said heavily: “They’ve been here for some time. With all their disadvantages, they’re making astonishing progress.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course, they’ve had a lot of assistance — oh no, my dear —” as she made to interrupt, — it was far better they should appeal to you for expert advice than to send for a guide, who might have been hostile to us from the start. I daresay that the Scottish guides — there are only one or two — would expect to be employed by the film
people, but also, being in the trade as it were, they’d know my attitude to that kind of exploitation. So one might assume a guide to be on the other side. There is a feeling of a trap closing on Scamadale. I confess I find the situation getting beyond control.”

  “In what way?” She was watching his hands where they rested loosely on his thighs: relaxed, strong hands, and well in control.

  “They’re pressing the questions with more insistence than I would expect considering my position. Does that sound pompous? I know it’s a case of murder — double-murder — but they’re probing hard.”

  “They’re conscious of their disadvantages; it was you who said that where climbing accidents were concerned, the police think we get away with murder.”

  “Rather too timely a remark, wasn’t it? Did you repeat it to them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “No. We can trust you, Melinda.” He paused, looked out at the sculpted cliffs, then said slowly: “They’ve grasped all the salient points now; they’re pushing us on the times.”

  “You mean when Stark was killed, and the piton loosened the night before.”

  “And the crossing to the stack on Wednesday night.”

  “Why are they so sure the murderer did that?”

  “You haven’t grasped the significance of Pincher’s body being unroped. He didn’t unclip himself; remember his hand gripping the sling: that was cadaveric spasm. He was dead when he hit the water. Someone swam out and brought the body in.”

  “Why?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “For my money I would hazard a guess that the killer arrived on Farrid Head, fully expecting that Stark had been killed in the fall from the Old Man, and that Pincher would be unharmed and stranded on the stack, because he hadn’t come down to Scamadale. Let’s say the killer got up there and saw the survivor waiting to cross the channel. He’d know that it was Stark who’d survived because of the colour of the helmet. Pincher’s was red and would show dark in the moonlight; Stark’s was white and could look nothing else but white. He’d see a body in the water and realise that, by some crazy mischance, the wrong man had been killed, so he waited for Stark to cross to the cliffs and then what else could he do but finish the job? He untied the knot and waited until Stark was within a few feet of the top of the cliff.”