Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Did you never dream of being something exciting: a pop star or a fighter pilot?’

  ‘I did, but I grew out of it.’

  ‘Campbell didn’t grow out of it.’

  ‘You mean he’s retarded?’

  ‘Only where his ambitions are concerned.’

  ‘It colours everything he does.’

  ‘You sound hostile.’

  ‘I’ll say I’m hostile. He scares me stiff! And all the other lads in the village. You never know what he’ll do next.’

  ‘Some of your friends have guilty consciences.’

  ‘No. Well, not exactly. But sometimes, just now and again, you know, someone’s old man might—I say might—have taken his lad on a fishing trip and maybe a fish was in the wrong place at the right time. I think that kind of thing might have happened.’ He eyed her anxiously.

  ‘Hamish, the occasional salmon doesn’t give Campbell a hold over anyone. Besides, how would he know?’

  ‘He’s supposed to have night glasses; he knows all the surveillance techniques. He keeps records. That’s why he’s unpopular.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was.’

  ‘My dad says he’s got files.’

  ‘If I was writing a book about this area, I’d keep files. Would that bother people?’

  He grinned. ‘Depends what was in ’em.’

  ‘Skeletons in the closet? People with guilty consciences have to live with them, but I’ll tell you this for what it’s worth: no one with a conscience will make a successful criminal, so poaching and practical jokes are counter-productive.’

  ‘I haven’t done any poaching.’ His eyes were guileless. ‘But talking about a conscience, I do feel bad about Alec’s dog.’

  ‘You’ll have to keep out of his way for a while. If that bowl had landed on your head, it could have meant a fractured skull.’

  ‘He’d kill me if he got a chance.’

  ‘Keep out of his way. You can’t afford another confrontation because he might have a stroke, and that could be fatal. Then you’d feel more guilty still.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’

  A form passed the kitchen window. A door opened and a thin dark woman hurried in, dropped her shopping bag, checked at sight of Miss Pink, and was mesmerised by the bandages on Hamish’s hands.

  ‘Are you all right, son?’

  ‘Mum! This lady’s Miss Pink. She bandaged my hands. I fell off my bike, that’s all.’

  Wide, strained eyes fastened on Miss Pink. ‘Sorry, miss. Did you bring him home? Thank you. Did you make tea for him? That was kind of you. Is there …’ She faltered, as if trying to think of the correct form of recompense.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Hamish cleaned his own—’

  ‘That Alec Millar!’ Mrs Knox wasn’t listening. ‘He could have killed you. Sir Ranald told me; I met him on his way back to the lodge. Said that Alec threw a pitcher and bowl out of the bedroom window.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t throw the potty, Mum.’

  ‘Hush! In front of this lady!’

  Miss Pink stood up, but she wasn’t allowed to slip away. Mrs Knox accompanied her out to the drive, reiterating her gratitude until she remembered her boy was alone and unattended in the kitchen and flew back to comfort him. Poor lad, Miss Pink thought, it’s fortunate he has a good father—and then wondered why she should think Gordon Knox good.

  As she turned into the street, she met Esme Dunlop carrying something in a paper bag.

  ‘ ’Morning. Anything broken?’ Esme’s eyes were on the police house.

  ‘No, only grazes. Where were you?’

  ‘In my living room. I heard a noise and there you were, all converging on Hamish. I’ve brought him some fruit.’

  ‘He won’t thank you for it.’ Miss Pink was grimly amused, then she softened. ‘I mean, there’s his mother about to wrap him in swaddling clothes. I think fruit from another woman might be salt in the wound. He has his dignity.’

  ‘Has he?’ It was tart. ‘You could be right.’ Esme turned and fell into step. After a moment she said, ‘I hear Campbell’s house caught fire.’

  ‘Just a small fire in the living room. I think Mr Knox has everything under control.’

  ‘I suppose Campbell did start it.’

  Miss Pink shrugged. ‘I’m a stranger in Paradise.’

  Esme looked at her sharply. ‘Oh, I see. Very neat, yes.’

  They came to the Post Office. Miss Pink kept walking. ‘I have to do my shopping,’ Esme said, and slipped inside. She was reluctant to talk—and that was out of character. The mail box, set in the window, reminded Miss Pink of that letter with its message composed of words cut from newspapers. That was yesterday morning. Twenty-four hours seemed a long time for a person like Esme to be subdued.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A crimson Mercedes swept up the street and stopped as Miss Pink reached her cottage. Coline stepped out, stylish in designer jeans and tooled Western boots.

  ‘Do you mind if we talk, Melinda—I can call you that? It’s by way of being important.’

  They went indoors, Miss Pink brought out the sherry and Coline came straight to the point. ‘What’s this about the business of the keeper’s cottage: the fire, so-called?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about it to reach a conclusion.’

  ‘Oh, come on! You were there this morning; Knox told me. And Campbell says you agreed that it was arsonists.’

  Miss Pink looked pained. ‘Campbell came here last night and talked. You don’t tell a man in his condition that the arsonists exist only in his imagination, and imply that he set the fire himself. I didn’t know that there was a fire, so I went up this morning to find out.’

  Coline nodded briskly. ‘He set some furniture alight. Two armchairs are a write-off, and the sofa; we can never clean the soot off. The rest of the room he’ll have to deal with himself. He’ll do it; I’ve had a heart-to-heart talk with him. I went along with the arsonist theory too; he wouldn’t have agreed to redecorate otherwise. We can replace the furniture easily enough—our attics are full of junk; but he’ll have to live in an unfurnished parlour for a while: teach him a lesson.’

  ‘I doubt that. You wouldn’t think therapy more appropriate?’

  ‘A psychiatrist? Who’s to persuade him? He’s all right this morning; he came up to the lodge early, very contrite. He said it was “them”, a kind of ritual accusation, you know? But he was really apologising for the mess. I hope Debbie comes back soon. It’s all her fault, silly woman.’

  Miss Pink looked doubtful. ‘So we all go along with the fantasies. Don’t you think it’s possible that our collusion could be making him worse—driving him to greater lengths in order to attract attention? I do feel that this kind of behaviour is a cry for help.’

  Coline regarded her with interest. ‘You’re more familiar with this kind of thing than I am. All right, I’ll have a word with his doctor when I get home. I might give Anne Wallace a ring too. I have to go to the shop now and ask after Alec. What a ridiculous thing to happen! It would be a poodle, wouldn’t it? Any dog with a grain of sense would have frozen when it saw a horse coming fast. Apparently this thing ran straight into the pony. This is a good fino—Tio Pepe? You must have brought your wines with you.’

  ‘I was in Inverness yesterday. I picked Flora up on the Lamentation Road.’

  ‘How you do roll that out—but it is an exquisite name. Kind of you to give her a lift.’

  ‘I took her as far as Inverness; she said she’d catch the train from there.’

  ‘I doubt if she did that, she’d rather have the money. Once you were out of sight she’d have continued hitching to Edinburgh.’

  ‘She told me she’s interested in writing.’

  Coline was mildly surprised. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘People tell strangers things they’d never mention to their families. We discussed writing as a career and she was intrigued by the idea of journalism.’

  ‘Was she now? And
you volunteered to test the water. Well, I see no reason why she shouldn’t go to some college of journalism, or whatever. How on earth does one teach people to write? I picked it up, as I assume you did. However, a college would keep her out of mischief until she marries. Oh, there’s Esme. Esme!’

  Esme Dunlop, hurrying past the open door, turned back at the call.

  ‘Come and have a glass of sherry,’ Miss Pink said, getting up for another glass. The woman entered carefully, like a nervous dog.

  ‘Can you come up this afternoon?’ Coline asked. ‘I had a call from Timothy—my agent,’ she explained to Miss Pink. ‘The ending of Orient is ambivalent, Esme; we have to tighten it. That means the last two chapters must be rewritten. Come back with me now and we’ll have a bite to eat and get stuck into it.’

  Esme plucked her lip. ‘Fine,’ she said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll do that.’ She accepted a sherry from Miss Pink and drank absently.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Coline asked, showing her annoyance. ‘You’ve made other plans?’

  Esme started. ‘Oh, no, it’s quite convenient. I’m not doing anything—’ She stopped short.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The tone was surly. Coline stared at her and the silence was intimidating. ‘I had a letter,’ Esme said.

  ‘What kind of letter?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? We all deal with fiction, don’t we?’ It was hurled at them.

  Coline looked bewildered. ‘Anonymous?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘You saw it,’ Esme said.

  ‘I glimpsed the type—I mean the format. The words were probably cut from newspaper headlines.’

  Now Coline was fascinated. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you. It was disgusting and it was a lie. No one is going to know—well, he knows, the one who sent it, but—’

  ‘ “He”?’ Coline and Miss Pink spoke together.

  ‘You know who sent it?’ Coline pressed.

  ‘I know.’ Her expression was defiant.

  After a moment Coline said, ‘I wouldn’t think you had an enemy in the village. Who’ve you been rubbing up the wrong way?’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s evil, that’s what it is—like random violence, only this is random torture.’

  Coline laughed. ‘Ignore it! You said it wasn’t true. I’ve been getting this kind of thing ever since I started to get my name in the papers. You know I do.’ She addressed Miss Pink: ‘She filters my mail, but occasionally she tells me she burns a letter.’ She turned back to Esme. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘It’s my job to monitor your fan mail—we discussed that when you interviewed me for the position. It makes a hell of a lot of difference when the message is intended for yourself.’

  ‘Was it a local postmark?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘This is my problem. I’m going to deal with it.’

  ‘Look,’ Coline was earnest, ‘you’re accused of some crime—or sin, or whatever some diseased mind thinks is a perversion, and you know it’s a lie, so the whole thing is ridiculous. Forget it. Or give the thing to me, and the name of the sender, and I promise you he’ll never send another poison pen letter after I’ve had a session with him.’

  ‘The same applies to me,’ Esme said coldly, ‘so let’s leave it, shall we? I assure you I can cope. I’ll nip over and lock my door and then I’ll come up to the lodge, right?’

  ‘How bizarre,’ Coline exclaimed, scarcely giving the woman time to get out of earshot. ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘She certainly had a letter. As for whether she knows the identity of the sender, that’s a different matter. She’s implying it’s a local person, of course.’

  ‘Sometimes people send letters to themselves,’ Coline said darkly.

  ‘You’ve known her for a long time. She’s insecure, but she hasn’t given me the impression of being that unbalanced. On the contrary, I’d say she’s got all her wits about her; she’s just short on judgement of other people’s feelings.’

  ‘Quite. Like I said, she’s rubbed someone up the wrong way. She rolls right over people, and she’s got a hide like a rhinoceros. She dominates Ranald, but then he wants to be dominated. Flora keeps out of her way for the most part, and as for me, I allow her to run the secretarial side—she’s good at that—but when it comes to my personal life, that’s a no-go area.’

  ‘And how do you draw the line?’

  ‘A broad hint that she’s being rather too masculine, dear.’

  ‘I think you’ve guessed what was in that letter.’

  Coline smiled thinly. ‘I’ve no sympathy for the woman. There’s nothing wrong with her; she’s just self-indulgent. She’s got plenty of control for most of the time; she has to learn to assert it all the time and stop trying to run other people’s lives.’

  When Coline left, Miss Pink closed her front door, not wanting more visitors as she prepared the meal she was to serve Beatrice. The afternoon was still and beautiful. Sunshine slanted across the loch and for a short time flooded the sitting room. The front window was open and she was vaguely conscious of sounds: of gulls and curlews, sandpipers and oystercatchers, and an outboard motor. A car passed occasionally. At one point there was shooting from the direction of the North Wood: different types of weapon; Beatrice must be firing her brother’s guns.

  By tea-time the kitchen was a confusion of dishes in different stages of preparation, of food scraps and spilled packets—and a sink so packed with dirty dishes that the surplus was stacked on the floor.

  With the oven going full blast, she opened the back window. The garden was in shade, but the escarpment and the trees were in brilliant sunlight. The rock glowed pink, grass was emerald, foliage was touched with garnet and gold. She sipped cooking burgundy from a measuring jug and contemplated the skyline which, unknown for a time, was now known. She hoped that the fact that she derived pleasure from having been on a cliff a few hundred feet high instead of a peak of several thousand feet was not a sign of decrepitude. She looked back at her kitchen, deploring its domesticity, never realising that it was as undomesticated as a gangland squat.

  Her eyes returned to the escarpment, but she caught a movement much closer at hand. The plots at the backs of the houses were bounded by an old stone wall. The park’s timber came right up to this so that, with the fruit trees in the paddocks and hawthorns along the wall, the cover extended almost to the houses. But here and there a section of the wall could be glimpsed, at this hour floodlit by the sinking sun. She had seen something move on the other side of the wall and now a figure appeared on top, jumped lightly to the ground and disappeared. She thought she recognised Hamish Knox, which wasn’t surprising; Mary MacLeod lived on the far side of the Post Office, then came the police house. Evidently Hamish had been up to the lodge, probably to exercise the ponies. He wouldn’t want to go along the street and up the lodge drive, because that would take him past the front of the Post Office. In any event, with his bicycle unusable this back way would be the quickest. She applauded his good sense—and was galvanised into activity as she realised that a second batch of cheese straws was burning.

  The smell was still hanging about when Beatrice arrived at seven o’clock. Miss Pink apologised and, with the sherry, served potato crisps hurriedly purchased at the Post Office. They discussed Alec, Beatrice having heard about the morning’s incident from Greg Sinclair, the widower from the old schoolhouse who kept bees and had brought her some honey. ‘That was the excuse,’ she said. ‘The real reason was to find out what I knew about the confrontation between Alec and Hamish. My not knowing it had taken place was a bonus for the old fellow. How is Hamish?’

  ‘He was a bit shaken up.’ Miss Pink threw a calculating glance towards the kitchen and relaxed enough to take a few sips of sherry. ‘I find it hard to believe that he had a hand in that trick with his father’s car. He appears a normal youth: innocent, naive … Why should he want to embarrass his father?’

  ‘Jealousy?’

  ‘O
f Anne Wallace?’

  ‘No. Of his father’s machismo. During the season young girls, particularly foreigners, flock round him. And then there’s the flouting of authority; in this case rebellious youth gets his father and the police in one fell swoop.’

  ‘You’ve given this some thought. Have you worked out who is writing the anonymous letters?’

  ‘Gracious! Who’s receiving them?’

  Miss Pink related Esme Dunlop’s experience and Beatrice looked grave. ‘I don’t like it; it’s disturbing. It’s not the same thing, is it? Like the unpleasant telephone calls, an anonymous letter’s in a different category from a practical joke with a car.’

  ‘An escalation of mischief?’ Miss Pink stood up and Beatrice followed her to the kitchen. She surveyed the clutter and said absently, ‘Campbell’s not himself either.’

  ‘I’m not sure what his natural self is, but how is he deviating?’

  ‘He’s tense—as if he were on drugs, but I don’t think he takes them. He’s been at the house this afternoon, getting the last of the logs under cover and helping me clean the guns.’

  ‘I heard the firing. Let’s hope the heavy breather did too. People know now that you’re not as vulnerable as you appear to be.’

  There seemed to be a tacit agreement to keep the conversation light while they were eating. So with the baked scallops Beatrice expounded on the magic of fishing for sea trout, and with the veal olives Miss Pink reciprocated with the joys of desert travel. They demolished an extravagent torta di noti, followed by a reasonable piece of Stilton and then, having cleared the table, they sat by the fire, coffee and brandy between them.

  At nine o’clock there was a sound of skidding tyres in the street and someone thudded on the front door. It was no knock but a hammering with the clenched fist. They stared at each other in astonishment. Miss Pink got to her feet. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘Campbell. Can I speak to you, miss?’