Death of a Dreamer hm-22

by M C Beaton

  “Thanks, Archie. I’d better see the sister and the ex-wife again. I mean, for one thing, the sister was supposed to have arrived after Effie’s death. Surely it couldn’t have been her. The police contacted her in Brighton.”

  ♦

  After Archie had left, Hamish phoned Jimmy Anderson on his mobile. “Jimmy,” said Hamish, “could you do me a favour and find out if the police contacted Caro Garrard, Effie’s sister, or if she got in touch with them?”

  “Trying to turn a suicide into a murder?”

  “Just checking everything. Where are you?”

  “Walking into police headquarters. I’ll call you back.” After a quarter of an hour, Jimmy phoned. “Caro Garrard phoned the police at Strathbane and said she was Effie’s sister. That was after the death appeared in the newspapers. She said she was in Brighton and would be travelling up.”

  Hamish thanked him and then walked out of the police station and along to the schoolhouse, where Matdiew Campbell, the reporter, lived with his wife, Freda.

  Matthew and Freda gave him a warm welcome. “It’s a duty call,” said Hamish. “Did the story about Effie Garrard’s death get into the nationals?”

  “No,” said Matthew. “Well, there was a bit in the Glasgow editions, but nothing got south. Why?”

  “Can’t tell you at the moment, but I think I’m on to something.”

  “If it’s a good story, don’t keep me in the dark, Hamish.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  ♦

  Hamish drove up to Effie’s cottage, his brain in a turmoil. Jock had given the impression that he and Effie had parted amicably. And the sister, Caro? She could easily have phoned from somewhere near Lochdubh after visiting Effie and pretended she was still in Brighton. But if she were guilty of anything, why would she have pressed him to find out if her sister had been murdered?

  She answered the door to him. The room looked more welcoming in the glow of several oil lamps than when he had last visited it.

  Hamish was momentarily diverted. “Where did you get the lamps?” he asked. “I thought they were hard to come by now.”

  “I got them at an auction in Inverness. They didn’t cost much.”

  “You were lucky. When electricity came to the Highlands, the Hydro Electric Board led people to believe that electricity was going to be cheap. So they got rid of all the old oil lamps, and now collectors are looking for them. Isn’t the electricity working?”

  “It’s supplied here by a generator. I like the light from oil lamps.”

  She probably had antifreeze for the generator, thought Hamish. He removed his peaked cap, sat down at the table, and ran his long fingers through his fiery red hair. “I have a problem,” he said.

  Caro sat down next to him. She was wearing a long Indian gown of crushed velvet decorated with little pieces of sparkling mirror. Her perfume smelled like sandal-wood.

  “What problem?”

  “You were seen the evening afore Effie disappeared calling here at the cottage. Henry, the gamekeeper, was up on the hill scanning the area with a pair of binoculars looking for poachers, and he saw you arrive.”

  She bent her head. “I didn’t like to tell you.”

  “Why? If you want me to find out whether your sister was killed or not, I need every bit of information I can get. Now, let’s have the truth.”

  She gave a little sigh and then began to speak in a low voice. “I wanted to find out whether she had been murdered, but I feared that if you knew I had called on her that evening, it would look suspicious.”

  “Go on.”

  “My foster parents were good people. They died when I was twenty-eight. I had already graduated from Glasgow School of Art and moved down to Brighton.”

  Hamish’s hazel eyes sharpened. “Did you know Jock Fleming when you were at the college?”

  She shook her head. “In Brighton, I began to build up a reputation for myself as an artist. Vogue did an article on Brighton, and I was featured in the magazine. Two days later, Effie turned up. I was delighted to see her. She said she had no money and nowhere to go, and so I said she could live with me. I was dating another artist and hoped to become engaged to him. He told me Effie was bothering him, phoning him up, trying to see him. I didn’t want to believe him because I was so thrilled to have found my sister. Then one day he told me he had gone to the police to get an injunction taken out against her to stop her from stalking him. I confronted Effie, who burst into tears. She showed me letters from him, passionate love letters. I believed Effie. I refused to see the man again. The next thing I knew she was up in court for breaking the injunction. It all came out. She had forged the letters. I was going to throw her out, but she had a nervous breakdown.

  “When she recovered, she was so contrite and so miserable. She said she’d always wanted to go back to Scotland, and I saw a way of getting her out of my hair. I was well-off. My foster parents had left me a great deal of money in their will. I saw a way of still caring for Effie but getting her out of Brighton. I told her if she found a cheap place in Scotland, I would buy it for her. So she found this cottage, and I paid. Then she said she could sell some of my small paintings and pottery. I agreed because I thought it would give her something to do.

  “I was having an exhibition in Brighton. A visitor said he had seen similar work to mine in the Highlands but by Effie Garrard, not Caro. I pressed him for details, and that is how I found that Effie had been passing my work ofif as her own. As soon as the exhibition was over, I drove up here.”

  Hamish interrupted her. “But you told me twice that you did not know Effie was pretending that your work was hers!”

  “I lied. There was still something in me that wanted to protect her. I told her I was having nothing more to do with her, that she was on her own. She began to cry. But I was determined this time to get rid of her. I said I would come in the morning and pick up my stuff and then collect the rest from wherever she had tried to sell it.

  “Then I opened the door to leave. There was a bottle of wine on the step with a note attached to it. I yelled, ‘Message for you,’ and went to my car. She ran out of the house and read the note and then ran up to the car and hammered on the window. She said I could go to hell because some local artist, Jock Fleming, was in love with her and they were going to be married. She was elated, triumphant.

  “I said, “I don’t know how you did it, Effie, but you probably wrote that note yourself. You’re mad.” And then I drove off.”

  “What did you do then?” asked Hamish.

  “I felt sickened. I decided to motor down to Glasgow and see a few old friends and then come back up when I was feeling calmer. Then I read about her death. I immediately thought someone had murdered her. I didn’t want the police to know I’d been there. I panicked. I phoned them and said I was coming up from Brighton. I used my mobile phone. And that’s it. Everything I’d come to know about Effie made me think of murder. Then I learned about Jock Fleming and about how she had been lying about an engagement, a pregnancy, and how she had even gone as far as buying an engagement ring. I couldn’t suspect Jock because to me it was the Brighton business all over again. I went to see Jock just to be sure and showed him a signed photograph of him she’d had on her bedside table. He said the writing was a forgery and showed me samples of his own handwriting to prove it.”

  She fell silent.

  Hamish said, “But you must be glad she’s dead.”

  “In a way, yes, there’s relief there. But I don’t want to think there’s a murderer out there thinking he’s got away with it. Will you have to report what I’ve said?”

  “No, as far as the police are concerned, it’s suicide, and they don’t want to think about any other solution. I’ll keep in touch with you. Was Effie always a bit weird?”

  “No, at one time she seemed pretty normal – or as normal as we both could be with that father of ours. He would get drunk and beat us. He sexually abused me and had Effie watch. Effie went
numb and quiet. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I was twelve years old, and Effie was eleven. I walked into the police station in Oban and told them. They had me examined and found I was telling the truth. Effie and I were taken into care by the social services. They tried to find us a home together, but we had to be split up. I never saw her again until she walked into that gallery in Brighton. I was so sorry for her, remembering the abuse we had suffered.” Caro began to cry. “What a mess.”

  Hamish went over to the kitchen area, where he found a bottle of whisky. He poured her a shot and took it back to her. “Drink that down,” he said.

  She took a gulp of whisky and dried her eyes with a corner of her dress. Hamish took out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her. “Use this,” he said. “You’ll cut your eyes on those wee bits o’ glass on your frock.”

  Caro gave him a weak smile.

  “Did Effie say anything to you about an American who had been taking her out?” asked Hamish.

  “Not a word. Who is he?”

  “Some chap who lives up at the hotel. He only took her out a couple of times. I’d better be on my way. I’ve got someone else to see.”

  ♦

  Hamish drove down to the Sea View boarding house and asked Mrs. Dunne if Mrs. Fleming was in.

  “She is that,” said Mrs. Dunne, “but she’s up in her room, and no gentlemen are allowed to visit ladies in their rooms. This is a respectable house.”

  “Chust tell her I’m here,” said Hamish crossly, “and ask her to come down.”

  Mrs. Fleming came into the lounge, looking tired and sulky. “Whit now?” she demanded.

  Hamish took out his notebook. “Sit down,” he commanded. “Full name.”

  “Dora Fleming. Whit…?”

  “Maiden name.”

  “Harris.”

  Hamish sat down opposite her. “Where are your children?”

  “With ma mither.”

  “And what brought you to Lochdubh?”

  “I thocht it was time Jock was paying a bit mair.”

  “Right, now let’s get to it. On the evening Effie Garrard disappeared, you were seen calling at her cottage.”

  “I never did!”

  “Don’t lie. You were seen. What did you talk about?”

  She picked nervously at her nail varnish. “I telt her to stop bothering Jock. I told her she was right daft, making up all them stories.”

  “And what did she say to that?”

  “She hadn’t let me in. She slammed the door in my face.”

  The extreme Glasgow accent was leaving her voice. Did she speak in a coarse voice because of a sort of inverted snobbery? wondered Hamish.

  “And that was all that happened?”

  “Swear to God.”

  “So why did you say nothing of this to the police?”

  “I was feart they would suspect me. I thought it was murder at first, see, but when I heard it was the suicide, it was too late and the police werenae interested anyway.”

  “If you can think of anything eke, let me know,” said Hamish.

  “So she was murdered?”

  “Just making enquiries.”

  Now for Jock, thought Hamish.

  ∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

  6

  He had by nature a tarnishing eye that cast discolouration.

  —George Meredith

  Bessie Jamieson, the maid at the hotel who had served Hal and Hamish coffee, had stood a little way away from them, listening to every word. She told the hotel porter, Sammy, that Hamish had been trying to find out what Hal had written in his notebook. Sammy told his mother that Hal was some sort of government spy and he was taking notes of what everyone said or did. The gossip flew around Lochdubh.

  “Disgraceful,” said Nessie Currie to Mrs. Wellington. “He should be stopped.”

  “You can’t stop a man taking notes,” said Mrs. Wellington. “There’s probably an innocent explanation. Ask Hamish Macbeth.”

  But Hamish was not at the police station. He had asked to see Jock at Sea View after he had finished interviewing Dora Fleming, but was told by Mrs. Dunne that Jock had moved to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he was painting a portrait of Miss Halburton-Smythe.

  Hamish had a sudden jealous wish that Jock would turn out to be a murderer. At the hotel, he was told by the manager that Jock had been given an empty room at the top of the hotel as a temporary studio.

  He rapidly mounted the stairs. A lift had not yet been installed in the hotel, although one was scheduled. He had an awful dread that he would find Priscilla posing naked.

  But when he opened the door, it was to find the room deserted. An easel was set up with a cloth over it.

  He peered under the cloth. There was a preliminary sketch of Priscilla with all her clothes on.

  Hamish ran down the stairs again to find Jock walking into the hotel.

  “A word with you,” said Hamish grimly.

  “All right,” said Jock amiably. They walked into the lounge.

  Bessie, the maid, saw them and ran to the kitchen to get coffee and biscuits to serve to them in the hope of hearing some more gossip.

  “You were seen at Effie’s cottage the evening she disappeared,” began Hamish.

  “I told you that.”

  “What you didn’t tell me was that you had a shouting, screaming row.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You know,” said Jock, “in the city, no one ever knows what you’re doing, but up here you can be walking across deserted moorland with not a soul in sight and in the evening someone will say they saw you and did you have a good walk?”

  “So what really happened?”

  Bessie hurried in with a tray of coffee and biscuits and set it on the table in front of them. She retreated to a corner of the lounge and stood expectantly.

  “That’ll be all, Bessie,” said Hamish. “Thank you for the coffee. We’ll ring if we need you.”

  Bessie reluctantly went out. Hamish rose and closed the door behind her, then came back to join Jock.

  “When I thought it might be murder,” said Jock, “I knew it would look bad for me if I’d said we had a blazing row. Truth is she gave me a fair scunner, begging and pleading and trying to kiss me. Truth is I shouted at her that if she came near me again, I would kill her. I said she was mad. But I didn’t kill her.”

  “I’ll tell you this,” said Hamish, “but keep it to yourself for the moment. Later that evening, someone left a note for her with a bottle of wine supposed to have come from you and asking her to meet you at Geordie’s Cleft. Now, if you were so harsh with her, and mad as she was, what on earth would make her think you would want to see her?”

  Jock hung his head.

  “Come on, man,” snapped Hamish. “Out with it!”

  “When I got back,” said Jock, “I began to feel right sorry for her. I admired her work. Good artists are rare, and we’re all a bit mad. So I phoned her. She’d given me her mobile number a while ago. I thought she needed help, therapy of some sort. I told her I was sorry I had been harsh and we’d meet to talk things over. I said I wouldn’t be around the following day because I planned to go up to Geordie’s Cleft.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Her phone was switched off, so I left a message.”

  “So that’s why she believed the note.”

  “Is there any hope it might have been suicide?”

  “I really don’t think so,” said Hamish.

  “I mean, maybe when I didn’t turn up, she decided to take her own life.”

  “That would mean she would need to have carried antifreeze up the mountain with her. The antifreeze was in the wine bottle. There must have been something in that note to tell her to go ahead and take a drink before you arrived. She would have one and, as time dragged on, maybe another. Why did you and Dora get divorced?”

  “The usual story. Married in a rush and then found out it was a mistake. But when the
kids came along, I tried to stick it out. But things got worse and worse. Dora would never leave me alone when I was working. If I had an exhibition, she’d turn up and make a scene. I found out she had been having an affair behind my back. I said if she didn’t settle for an amicable divorce, it would all come out in court and the children would be taken away from her.”

  “So what’s she doing up here? Money?”

  “No, she likes haunting me. I don’t know how she found out I was up here. Don’t worry. She’ll soon get tired of the game.”

  “You’re painting a portrait of Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

  “Trying to. She’s a beautiful woman.” Jock looked sharply at Hamish. “And that’s all she is to me – a subject to paint.”

  Hamish eyed him cynically. “I thought you artists were always looking for interesting faces, craggy faces, things like that.”

  “Usually. But there’s a remoteness about her which goes along with this landscape that I would like to capture. Oh, here’s Betty.”

  Hamish brightened as Betty Barnard walked in. His official holiday was due the following week. He had planned to use the time trying to find out how Effie had been killed. He decided to cancel his holiday. That way he would not waste his leave, and he could maybe spend a few more pleasant days with Betty.

  “Hullo, Jock, Hamish.” She sat down. “No one drinking this coffee?” She poured herself a cup.

  “Hamish is interrogating me,” said Jock.

  Her eyes flew to Hamish. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “The death of Effie Garrard.”

  “Oh, that. But that’s a suicide.”

  “I think it might be murder,” said Hamish.

  “Why?”

  “On the evening Effie went missing, someone left a bottle of wine with a note supposed to be from Jock here asking Effie to meet him up at Geordie’s Cleft.”