by Gwen Moffat
Despite the proliferation of queries she felt that this piece of paper was more apposite than the one which Ivory had prepared, although the latter was also based on her information.
She dressed and went down to the kitchen where she found Euphemia blanching sorrel.
‘Where is Mrs Hamlyn?’
‘She’s at the boat, miss.’
‘Is she going fishing?’
Euphemia strained the sorrel through a sieve. ‘She might.’
‘How did she take the news of Madge’s death?’
There was a flicker in Euphemia’s eyes. ‘She—didna like it.’
‘She must be very worried.’
‘We all are.’ The woman turned her back and, lifting the lid of a fricandeau pan, interested herself in the contents, pushing steak around with a fork and mumbling.
‘Where is the colonel?’
‘He went upstairs a while back.’ Euphemia turned quickly and through the window they saw Vera Hamlyn cross the yard to the stables carrying a petrol can.
Miss Pink went out of the back door. In the stable Vera was wiping her hands on a piece of rag. She gasped as the other’s shadow fell across the doorway.
‘Sorry to startle you,’ Miss Pink apologised. ‘Going for a trip?’
‘Just filling her up.’ There was a pause. ‘Are they keeping an eye on me?’
‘Should they?’
‘They should watch everybody until the killer’s found.’ She seemed quite composed. ‘What are they doing now?’
‘They’re checking on people’s movements last evening. When did you know that Madge was murdered?’
‘Actually, the inspector started with Gordon: wanting to know where everyone else was, of course.’ She was coolly amused. They were still standing inside the stable, looking across the yard to the kitchen where Euphemia had been joined by Ida.
‘I’ve got no regrets,’ Vera said.
After a moment, Miss Pink asked, in the same companionable tone, ‘Not even about her child?’
‘Yes, I have there; but the grandmother is comparatively young. Madge would have made a bad mother; it’s better this way. She was unstable. All that cold dedicated manner, and the ruthless-mother bit: it wasn’t an act, but it was only one side of her. The other side was ruthless top; she was totally amoral. When Madge wanted a man, she took him without any thought at all for the consequences.’ Vera gave Miss Pink a quiet smile. ‘And no fear. That was her mistake. Madge was the classic victim. I’m only amazed it didn’t happen before; her child’s father was a married man, too.’
‘When did you go up there?’
‘Up where, dear?’
‘To the tent.’
‘My prints weren’t found there.’
‘What did you do with the water bottle?’
Vera’s face was a mask. ‘Water bottle?’
‘What’s wrong with your husband’s back?’
‘A slipped disc.’
‘Is he having treatment?’
‘No one knows he has a damaged spine, except me—and you. Presumably Betty Lindsay told you. I’m getting careless.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ The tone was dry. ‘What was the point of washing the billies at Largo?’
The leap to a different murder was followed without effort. ‘I assume: to confuse the issue?’
‘And who was the man in the burn?’
‘What man, dear? Washing the dishes? Willie only heard mumbling; he didn’t hear a woman and a man, but a high and a low mumbling: easy enough to imitate the low register.’
‘Terry was dead at that moment?’
‘Was she?’
‘A curious thing,’ Miss Pink said, ‘I would have thought the only woman in this community strong enough to carry a body was Betty Lindsay.’
‘Poor Betty; what a lot she’s had to take.’ Vera spread her fingers and studied the back of her hand. ‘I have to do all the heavy work round here because of Gordon’s back, and then I was in the Land Army during the war.’ She smiled. ‘No self-starters on tractors in those days, and no discrimination in favour of women. Sacks of corn weighed two hundredweight.’
‘How did you meet your husband?’
‘During the war.’
‘What is his background?’
Vera raised delicate eyebrows. ‘Just normal, dear; his father was a rector, nothing interesting.’ Nor, her tone implied, that concerned Miss Pink. ‘I must see to the dinner,’ she went on, then hesitated. ‘Mustn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ Miss Pink was grave. ‘Where is your husband?’
Vera stood still and eyed her carefully. ‘You mean, what has happened to him, don’t you? He was in our sitting room.’
Miss Pink followed her indoors, went upstairs, along the passage and pushed open the door of the Hamlyns’ sitting room. It was empty.
She went downstairs again and looked in the cocktail lounge. Maynard was behind the bar serving his wife and Betty Lindsay.
‘Where is the colonel?’
None of them knew and no one commented on the question. Maynard asked if she would take a sherry but she said not at that moment.
Down the hall a door opened and, looking out, she caught a glimpse of Ida going back to the kitchen. She went and knocked at the door of the writing room. Ivory opened it and Merrick said cheerfully, ‘Come in; have you got something for us?’
‘Vera Hamlyn has just implied that she killed Madge, and Terry as well.’
‘It’s a common occurrence in murder cases, ma’am, particularly where there’s ladies of a certain age. We’ve got a lot of those here; I’m not surprised that one of them should confess. Have you anything else?’
‘The colonel’s disappeared.’
‘Oh, I doubt it. He’s probably gone fishing. He was with me till six and then said he might go out for a while on the loch. He’s not looking at all well; damaged his back earlier this year when he was picking up a stretcher.’
‘Could he help you on people’s movements?’
‘He confirms your statement that all the residents were in the bar last evening until eleven. He was last up: about a quarter past. The house was locked but the back door key’s on a nail in the passage. Betty Lindsay says she was in bed at eleven. No alibi, of course. No one could have gone up to the tent in the afternoon according to Hamlyn; he was around all day and has a fair idea of everyone’s movements—including your own, incidentally. So far as the people here are concerned, Ida Hunt’s recollection agrees with his. As for the crofters themselves, after eight-thirty Euphemia was at Sletta with the Hunts and she slept there. The crofters are scared. We haven’t got to Irwin yet. We’ve discovered what happened to the MacNeills though. Hamlyn ran across them at lunch time today in one of the bars in Portree, so Ivory asked our people if the MacNeills had been seen last night. They had toured every bar in Portree and ended with Willie being forcibly ejected!’
‘Who could eject Willie?’
‘He was very drunk. His father was no better but more amenable. The MacNeills can’t be in the running for this murder. Now, have you got anything else for us, ma’am?’
A telephone was ringing as she returned to the cocktail lounge.
‘I’ll have that sherry now, Ken.’
‘Had a bad time, dear?’
‘Not really.’ She frowned at him. ‘Why “dear”?’
‘Just a mannerism.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not with it. Have they shaken you?’ He glanced at the other women. ‘We’re all friends here.’
Someone came quickly and heavily along the hall. A door slammed. They were silent, straining their ears.
‘Are there many police in the glen?’ Miss Pink asked, trying to make conversation. It would seem too contrived to talk about anything else.
‘There are several fresh cars on the camp site,’ Betty told her, ‘and Ivory said they can bring in a mobile murder control centre to make the investigation on the spot much more efficient. I want to get away. I’m
going to look for a croft tomorrow if Merrick will let me go.’
‘Couldn’t we climb?’ Maynard asked wistfully. ‘The police won’t let us leave the glen but they might let us go on the ridge.’ Lavender didn’t look at him. She was smoking thoughtfully.
‘Miss Pink!’
They all jumped. She looked across the hall and saw Merrick beckoning. Ivory was hurrying away. Merrick looked excited. He drew her into the writing room and closed the door.
‘Is Mrs Lindsay in the lounge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her husband and Watkins are at Coruisk. Will you show me?’
‘It’s on the other side of the Cuillin.’ She indicated the loch on the map.
‘That’s only five miles away!’
‘Well—’
‘There’s this climbers’ hut. Where is it?’
‘Where the outlet from the loch runs into the sea.’ She showed him. ‘How do you know they’re there?’
‘An Elgol man took them round yesterday in his boat. Apparently Elgol is the place where you get a boat for Coruisk? It’s them all right; they left Watkins’ van at the boatman’s croft. How long would it take to walk to Eas Mor from this hut?’
‘By the quickest way—’ She looked at the map and calculated, ‘Something like three to four hours over the Banachdich pass.’
He nodded. ‘Time enough to do it. Will you tell Mrs Lindsay her husband has been located, and where, and watch her reactions? I’m going round to Elgol by road now but I’m leaving a car at the head of the glen to make sure no one leaves until I give the word. I’ll send some people back to carry on the work here, and to give you moral support in case . . .’
‘In case it’s not Watkins or Lindsay?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Just keep them together tonight, that’s all I ask.’
Betty was neither surprised nor alarmed at the news. From their lack of reaction it was evident that none of the people in the cocktail lounge thought that Andrew Lindsay, nor even George Watkins, was a murderer.
Vera opened the door at the back of the bar to tell them that dinner was ready. She accepted a gin from Maynard and remained with them to drink it, smiling a little nervously, which was not like Vera. When Miss Pink caught her eye, she didn’t look away or blink, but her face was suddenly expressionless.
They went in to dinner, drew the tables together and re-laid the places. Ida entered and regarded the new arrangement without comment or surprise. Maynard ordered a Burgundy.
‘Where’s Gordon?’ Betty asked, fiddling with her glass. People murmured negatively.
‘You’re very quiet, dear.’ Maynard addressed his wife. ‘You’ve hardly said a word all evening.’ She looked at him without subterfuge, then at Miss Pink who said: ‘If you know something, you should tell us. It’s dangerous to hang on to knowledge.’
Maynard gave her a quick glance. ‘Is that what Madge did?’
Lavender bit her lip and said to Miss Pink, ‘It was someone she saw in the wood, wasn’t it?’
Ida came in with the steaks.
‘No starters,’ Maynard murmured. ‘So what?’
‘You can have as much steak as you like,’ Ida said tightly. ‘There’s enough and to spare.’
She went away and returned with the Burgundy, which was cold. Having filled their glasses, she retreated to the sideboard where she hovered like an uneasy ghost. They did not revert to the murder. The incongruities in the normally superlative service intimidated them as much as Ida’s unwonted presence. Maynard, as if in defiance of an atmosphere which teetered on the edge of an abyss, ordered a second bottle of Romanée-Conti.
So they were quite a while over their dinner but Ida, far from being resentful, seemed grateful for their company. When they returned to the cocktail lounge the two crofting women lingered after they’d served coffee and liqueurs.
‘Where is Mrs Hamlyn?’ Miss Pink asked, knowing it was a ritual question requiring a ritual answer—which was duly supplied by Euphemia: ‘Gone to their sitting room to rest.’
Miss Pink started to pour coffee. Ida, who had brought in the tray, lifted the flap of the counter, went behind the bar and stood mutely beside Euphemia. The door to the kitchen was closed. Miss Pink paused, took a banknote from her bag and handed it to Maynard.
‘Ask the women to take a dram with me.’
The coffee was handed silently.
‘Draw the curtains, Betty.’ She was wary of the dusk outside.
The telephone rang. Ida and Euphemia looked at each other.
‘Mr Maynard will go with one of you,’ Miss Pink said comfortably.
When they’d gone, Lavender murmured, ‘She was never jealous; I knew that. As if I wouldn’t know! She was just playing the part.’
‘If she wasn’t jealous,’ Miss Pink said, ‘what was her motive?’
‘She was mad. Did you see her eyes tonight? She killed Terry, Madge found out, so she had to be killed too. Gordon must know as well, because she could only have gone up to the tent after we’d gone to bed, and they share a room.’
Maynard and Ida came back. Maynard said, ‘It’s a professor; that would be the pathologist, wouldn’t it? He wants Merrick. Says he’ll speak to you.’
The voice at the other end of the line was pleasant and cultured. The professor (who climbed) knew about Miss Pink and was prepared to chat. At length he reverted to the purpose of his call and, hearing that Merrick was on his way to Coruisk, said he would leave his message with the police station but meanwhile would she relay the salient points should the inspector return direct to Glen Shira?
A moderate amount of alcohol had been found in the bloodstream, he continued conversationally, and it was a moment before she realised he was speaking of Madge Fraser—along with a significant quantity of a barbiturate. The specific figures were in his report.
‘A barbiturate,’ she repeated stupidly.
‘Sleeping pills.’
She said nothing.
‘Are you there?’ he asked with a twinge of petulance. ‘The whisky in the bottle was unadulterated. Yes, and another interesting point is the time of death. Merrick was eager to tie that down, wasn’t he? I believe you remarked on the flaccidity of the corpse. Not remarkable if she was killed late last night and the body in cold water throughout, but you’d expect rigidity to set in quickly. It’s now—what?—eight hours since she was taken out of the burn, but there’s no stiffening. In other words, rigor has come and gone; she’s been dead well over thirty-six hours. Makes a difference, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it makes a difference.’
She promised to pass on the message, put down the receiver and turned away to find Maynard and Ida regarding her with a kind of apathy and realised that this was their defence mechanism against a new shock. She led the way back to the cocktail lounge and told them. There were no police here as yet and she felt that these people had a right to know everything.
Maynard’s apathy evaporated and his face was keen and intelligent again. Betty, for the moment, was vacuous.
‘What does it mean?’
‘My sleeping capsules,’ Lavender said.
Maynard was staring at Miss Pink. ‘Dead over thirty-six hours? But that means she couldn’t have done the ridge! All the time we were waiting for her on Alasdair. . . . In fact, she must have been killed Wednesday night and when we went up Thursday morning she was lying at the foot of the waterfall. Her boots and pack were probably outside the tent at that moment just as she’d put them down when— Oh no, she didn’t put them there; the killer did, and threw her sandals and the saucepan in the burn . . . on Wednesday night.’
‘Who was absent?’ Lavender asked. ‘I was in our room; I wasn’t well.’
‘Apart from yourself,’ Betty said, unaware of the faux pas, ‘no one could have gone up; we were all here—except—’ She clapped a hand to her mouth.
‘Come off it!’ Maynard chided. ‘Andrew hadn’t the ghost of a motive.’
‘He wouldn’t have stayed o
n the island,’ she said wildly. ‘He wouldn’t have gone to Coruisk.’ She checked herself. ‘The police are watching the ferries,’ she added tonelessly. ‘That’s why they stayed; they couldn’t get away.’
Maynard had paid no attention. ‘The cache was robbed!’ he exclaimed.
‘Emptied by the killer,’ Miss Pink agreed, ‘to add colour to the presumption that she had done the ridge. It explains the absence of the water bottle. It couldn’t be put in her day sack because the scene at the tent had already been set and the tent couldn’t be visited again. The tent was closed for the same reason that the cache was rifled: to delay discovery and falsify the time of death, all designed to suggest she had been on the ridge and so couldn’t have been killed before Thursday evening. The implication was that an accident occurred not long after she came down off the ridge.’
‘Someone had a perfect alibi for Thursday,’ Maynard breathed.
‘And none for Wednesday.’
‘When was it done?’ he mused. ‘No one—’ he glanced at Betty apologetically, ‘but no one who matters, was absent Wednesday evening; it must have been done at night, like rifling the cache. No one’s been away for long enough to get up to the ridge in the daytime—surely?’
‘Night time would mean collusion,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘I mean, if it was someone from the house.’
‘I don’t see why.’ Betty was bewildered.
The door behind the bar opened slowly and Captain Hunt stood there, surveying the company. ‘They’s all here,’ he said over his shoulder. He moved forward, followed by Colin Irwin whose pale hair was restrained tonight by the red brow band. At Miss Pink’s invitation they came quietly into the lounge. The captain carried a shot gun.
‘That’s us all here,’ he repeated with satisfaction. ‘There’s lights coming down the glen. That’ll be the poliss.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Are they after taking guns?’
‘I havena looked.’
