by M C Beaton
Hamish and Priscilla kept up a gruelling pace as they climbed up the lower slopes of the mountain and then out onto the rock. It was easier going than they had expected, a path leading upwards for most of the way.
“People have been up here before,” said Hamish.
“There was a rumour a year ago that some of the village boys came up here to smoke pot,” said Priscilla.
“And you never told me!”
“Didn’t seem like a major crime, and at that time, you had a murder case on your hands.”
The sun beat down on their backs as they approached the cleft. Two buzzards sailed lazily overhead.
“There’s something there,” said Hamish, “unless someone’s dumped a bundle of old clothes.”
But as he got nearer, his heart sank. The small figure of a woman was lying on her face.
He went up and, putting on his gloves, turned the body over. It was Effie Garrard. There was no sign of life.
Priscilla followed him. “How did she die?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “Exposure, maybe.”
He took out his phone and called Mountain Rescue and then called police headquarters in Strathbane.
Priscilla went a little way away and sat down suddenly.
Hamish finished phoning. “Feeling sick?”
“Look at her hand, Hamish. The left hand.”
Hamish bent down and let out a sharp exclamation.
Effie’s ring finger had been sawn off.
Chapter Four
Father, O Father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far,
Above the light of the morning star.
—William Blake
Hamish told Priscilla to phone Mrs. Wellington to say that Effie had been found, but he ordered that no one except the police were to come near the site.
Priscilla moved a good bit away to sit down and stare blankly into space. Hamish began to check round about the body. Effie was lying on hard rock just outside the cleft, so he was not afraid of messing up any footprints.
He found a wine bottle not far from the body. He crouched down and sniffed. There was a sweetish smell, and squinting at the label, he could see it was a dessert wine.
Two helicopters landed down below the mountain, and he saw the figures of police and members of the Mountain Rescue Patrol climbing down onto the heather.
First on the scene was Detective Jimmy Anderson. “Where’s Blair?” asked Hamish.
“He’s too fat to climb. He’s sitting down there swigging whisky out of a flask. What have we got?”
“The dead woman is Effie Garrard, a local artist,” said Hamish. “She had gone missing, and we searched all yesterday and then started today to look for her. There’s a wine bottle over there.”
“The forensic boys'll be along soon. I’ll leave it for them. What on earth was she doing up here? Suicide? Took something with that wine?”
“Could be. She was obsessed with Jock Fleming, a painter who’s visiting here. She told everyone she was engaged to him and flashed a diamond ring around. He denies the whole thing. She may have bought the ring herself. Mind you, there’s a photo by her bedside signed, ‘To my darling Effie. Jock.’”
They both began to search in wider circles around the body. “There’s a plastic carrier bag over here with two glasses in it,” called Hamish. “They look clean. Don’t think anyone drank out of them.”
They were sweating in the full heat of the sun. There is practically no pollution in the far north of Scotland, and the sun that day was fierce.
“You’d think it would be cooler this far up,” complained Jimmy. “We’d better not mess up the scene. Let’s sit over there where your girlfriend is and get a bit of shade.”
They joined Priscilla. “Find anything?” she asked.
“No,” said Jimmy. “We can’t do anything until the experts arrive.”
A helicopter hovered overhead, and a ladder descended. Dr. Brodie scrambled down it.
“Where’s the pathologist?” asked Hamish.
“Coming along,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’m to do the preliminary examination.”
He turned Effie over. “We need a tent or something. The body’s cooking in this sun. It’s still damp underneath. She must have lain here since that awful rain. Maybe exposure. I can certify her dead, but that’s it.”
“No sign of poisoning?” asked Hamish. “There’s a wine bottle there. And that missing finger: Has it been sawn off, or did some animal bite it off?”
“I would say it had been hacked off with a penknife. That’s the finger she had the engagement ring on.”
“If she was suicidal,” said Jimmy, “then maybe she hacked it off herself.”
“So where is it?” asked Hamish. “I suppose it would be all right to look in her coat pockets in case there’s a suicide note.”
“I can see the forensic boys suiting up down below,” said Jimmy. “They're starting to get into the police helicopter. No climbing for them.”
Hamish went back to the body. “I’ll just take a peek.” Flies were buzzing around it, and he flapped at them angrily.
Effie was wearing a waxed coat with zip pockets. Hamish gently opened one and felt inside. “Yuk!” he exclaimed. “The finger’s in her coat pocket. No ring.”
“Man, don’t poke around any more,” said Jimmy, “or Blair'll have your guts for garters.”
Hamish searched in her other pocket. “There’s a piece of folded paper here.”
“Should you be opening that?” protested Dr. Brodie.
“I’m wearing gloves.” Hamish unfolded the sheet of A-4 paper. It had been protected from the rain by the heavy waxed coat.
“I cannot live any more,” he read. “I am going to lie out on the mountain until I die. Jock has killed me. Effie.”
“Well, that solves that,” called Jimmy. “She went daft and stayed out here until she died of exposure.”
Hamish replaced the letter. “The letter’s typewritten,” he said. “She may not have written it.”
“Come on, laddie. Don’t go looking for murder when you've got a nice clean case of suicide. Oh, look what’s dropping down from the heavens.”
A helicopter hovered overhead, and down the ladder, cursing and sweating, came Detective Chief Inspector Blair.
He was followed, one by one, by the members of the forensic team. He ignored Hamish and said to Jimmy, “What have we got here?”
“Local artist, sir. Looks like suicide. There’s a note in her pocket and in another pocket a finger—her ring finger. Looks like she hacked it off.”
“You shouldnae ha’ touched the body.”
“I did that,” said Hamish.
“I’ll see to you later,” snarled Blair. “Take yourself off and take that friend of yours with you. You can put in a report.”
Priscilla and Hamish moved off down the hill just as the forensic team were erecting a tent over the dead body.
“What do you think?” asked Priscilla.
“I think I want to get back to the police station, have a long cold drink, and think about this.”
For once, when they got to where their cars were parked, Hamish was glad that Priscilla did not offer to join him. He wanted to be alone and think hard.
The first person he saw as he drove along the waterfront was Jock. There was no sign of his easel or paints. He was leaning against the wall staring moodily out over the loch.
Hamish stopped the Land Rover and got out. Jock turned and glanced at him and then turned back to the loch. “They've found her?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. She’s dead.”
“How?”
“Maybe exposure. Have you any idea what she was doing up there?”
Jock turned back to face him. “That maybe was me. I went up to see her as soon as I got back. She tried to insist I had proposed marriage to her. I told her I had said no such thing. I then asked how
the hell she thought she’d got pregnant. She began to cry, but after a bit she apologised and we talked a bit about painting. I said I’d heard about that place called Geordie’s Cleft and that you could get a panoramic view of the area from there. I said I might climb up and have a look. She asked me why it was called Geordie’s Cleft, and I told her the story. I was right sorry for the wee woman at the end. I told her we could be friends and left it at that.”
“She had a photo of you beside her bed,” said Hamish. “It was signed, ‘To my darling Effie. Jock.’”
“Then she signed it herself. Leave me alone, Hamish. I’m feeling right bad about this.”
Hamish went back to the police station, where the cat and dog stared at him balefully. “I know,” said Hamish. “But it isnae my fault you've been on your own all day. Off you go. Take yourselves for a walk, and I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get back.”
They both slid out the door.
Hamish drank a large glass of water, went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it over. Then he went to Patel’s and bought a bottle of whisky in the hope that Jimmy would call on him.
As if smelling the food he had cooked for them, the dog and cat appeared back in the kitchen just as he was filling their bowls.
Hamish did not feel like eating. He kept turning facts over and over in his mind. He poured himself a small measure of whisky, added water, and went into his living room and sat down in an armchair.
He started and nearly spilled his drink when Sonsie jumped on his lap. “You're too heavy,” he grumbled. The cat stared at him with yellow eyes. Lugs tried to struggle up as well but then contented himself by lying on the floor with his chin on Hamish’s crossed ankles.
Hamish felt his eyes beginning to close. He set the glass down on the floor beside him. Soon he was asleep.
He awoke an hour later, roused by the hissing of the cat on his lap and the sound of someone calling, “Hamish!”
He saw Jimmy standing nervously in the doorway. “Call off that weird cat, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “It looks ready to spring.”
Hamish patted the cat and said, “Down you go. It’s all right. It’s only Jimmy. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“I need a dram,” said Jimmy, sitting down at the kitchen table. “That cat’s scary. I’m telling you, I’m surprised you've got a hen left in the coop.”
“Never mind the cat. What’s the verdict?”
“Seems like suicide. Professor Jane Forsythe, the pathologist, says she can’t be sure until she does an autopsy.”
“That note was typewritten,” said Hamish. “Anyone could have done it. And where’s the knife?”
“What knife?”
“The one used to saw the finger off. Was it anywhere around or in another pocket? And where’s the ring?”
“No, and no ring, and are you going to pour me a dram or keep it all to yourself?”
“Help yourself. The bottle’s on the table.”
“Look,” said Jimmy, “if by any chance it was murder, who would want to kill her?”
“I don’t know. Jock’s ex-wife is in town. I might be having a word with her.”
“Come on. Effie was mad. She was a fantasist.”
“But was she an artist?”
“What do you mean?”
Hamish told him about the dust on the pottery wheel and the stiff, dirty brushes.
“Still, I don’t see if that’s got anything to do with it,” said Jimmy.
“Unless she was ripping off some artist. Any news of the sister?”
“Yes, she’s called Caro Garrard, and she’s on her way up.”
“We might find out something from her. Maybe it’s someone from Effie’s past.”
“Who killed her? Come on, Hamish. It’s suicide pure and simple.”
Three more days crept past while Hamish fretted, trying to hear of any results. He had a good idea that Blair had blocked anyone from talking to him. At last, on the morning of the fourth day, he phoned Professor Jane Forsythe and reintroduced himself.
“Oh, the bright policeman from Lochdubh,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I wonder if you have completed the autopsy and found out how the woman died?”
“Effie Garrard died of a combination of ethylene glycol and exposure.”
“What’s ethylene glycol, and where can anyone get it?”
“Anywhere. It’s commonly known as antifreeze.”
“Wouldn’t it taste awful?”
“No, it tastes sweet. Some alcoholics even drink it when they can’t afford anything else. It was in that bottle of dessert wine that was found at the site.”
“Any fingerprints on the bottle?”
“No. I mean, just those of the deceased.”
“What about that sawn-off finger?”
“I can only assume she did it herself.”
“With what? Nothing was found in the way of a knife or razor.”
“She may have thrown it away. The procurator fiscal has decided on a verdict of suicide.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Well, your superiors are. Case closed. They say she was so mad and so disappointed in love that she killed herself.”
“What are the symptoms of antifreeze poisoning?”
“It’s changed in the body by the enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase into glycolic acid and oxalic acid, which are highly toxic compounds. There was widespread tissue injury to the brain, kidneys, liver, and blood vessels. After taking it, she would start to feel tired, disoriented, and may have fallen asleep.”
Hamish thanked her, put the receiver down, and stared into space. It was all so neat and tidy, and yet he had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He wondered if Jock’s wife was still in Lochdubh.
Cursing himself for not having tried to speak to her before, he hurried along to Sea View. Mrs. Dunne told him that Mrs. Fleming had gone out for a walk.
“Do you know which direction she took?” asked Hamish.
“I saw her go in the direction of the bridge.”
“When did she leave?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
Hamish set off in pursuit.
He saw a small blonde woman heading up the road on the other side of the humpback bridge.
He ran after her. “Mrs. Fleming?” he called.
She stopped and turned round. She was in her late thirties with dyed-blonde hair in a ponytail. She had small, discontented features and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse, brief khaki shorts, and sturdy boots.
“Yes?”
“Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, Mrs. Fleming. May I talk to you for a moment?”
“Go ahead, copper. But if it’s aboot that dead wumman, I cannae help ye.” Her voice was harsh with a Glaswegian accent.
“Did you know her?”
“Never heard o’ her till I come here.”
“Why did you and Jock divorce?”
“Away wi’ ye, ye nosy copper. That’s ma business.”
She stared at him defiantly, her thin arms folded across her chest. “I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye.”
“Well, if you think of anything…”
She continued to stare at him defiantly until he walked away.
Hamish went back to the station and put on his climbing boots. He was determined to go up to Geordie’s Cleft and look around.
First he phoned Angela and asked her if she would look after the dog and cat.
“Can’t,” she said. “Lugs is all right, but that wild cat of yours terrifies my cats. You'll need to find someone else.”
In desperation, Hamish phoned Priscilla and explained his problem. “I’ll come with you,” she said in her calm, even voice. “There are no police around any more. We can take your Land Rover, put the animals in the back. I’ll bring some food, and we'll drive up as far as we can. We can let them out for a run and then shut them up in the Land Rover while we climb up to Geordie’s Cleft.”
&nbs
p; Hamish said he would pick her up. As he drove to the hotel, he couldn’t help hoping that Betty had returned. He was still puzzled as to why she had left without phoning him.
Priscilla was waiting for him in the forecourt with a large picnic hamper.
“You were quick getting the food ready,” said Hamish.
“A family had ordered it and then decided they didn’t want it. They're being charged for it anyway, so it’s free food for all of us.”
Hamish drove as near Geordie’s Cleft as he could, the Land Rover bumping over the heather. He stopped, and they got out. Lugs and Sonsie ran off together.
“They won’t get lost, will they?” asked Priscilla anxiously.
“No, they always come back when I call. Anyway, if we eat before we climb, they'll smell the food and come running.”
“I hadn’t time to get animal food for them.”
“They're spoilt. They're used to people food.”
Sure enough, Priscilla was just lifting a whole roast chicken out of its container when Sonsie came loping up, followed by Lugs, the dog’s odd, large ears flapping as he tried to keep up with the cat.
Hamish watched Priscilla as she deftly carved the chicken and separated the pieces out onto paper plates. The sun was shining down on the golden bell of her hair. What did she think? wondered Hamish. What did she think of him? Did she ever think of their broken engagement?
“I don’t think your animals will like potato salad,” said Priscilla. She gave each animal a plate of chicken pieces. “There’s a bottle of wine here, or would you prefer coffee?”
“Coffee. There’s a long climb ahead, and I need all my wits about me.”
“So why are you still interested? It’s all around the village that the poor woman committed suicide.”
“There’s something wrong. The pathologist says she died of a combination of antifreeze and exposure.”
“The antifreeze having been in the wine bottle?”
“Yes. But evidently antifreeze tastes sweet, and it was a dessert wine.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just suppose someone really believes she’s pregnant and that she’s going to marry Jock. Jock calls on her and tells her he never meant to marry her and that she’s talking rubbish. She’s devastated. Yes, but what if she gets a message supposed to have come from Jock, saying something like, ‘I’m sorry, Effie. I really do love you’? Say the message is left outside her door with that bottle of wine. Say the message goes on asking her to bring the wine to Geordie’s Cleft so they can toast their engagement. ‘If I’m late, help yourself to a glass before I arrive.’”
