Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

  “But how would she even know where Geordie’s Cleft was?”

  “Jock had told her he planned to go up there painting to get a panoramic view. He maybe told other people. So she sets off and climbs up and waits and waits. Decides to have a glass.”

  “Find the corkscrew?”

  “Damn. That’s another thing I’ve got to look for. So she feels disoriented and drowsy, maybe falls asleep. The killer’s been waiting nearby. She pops that typewritten suicide note into Effie’s pocket.”

  “She?”

  “The ring finger, cut off. Could be a jealous rage.”

  “Or some man from her past.”

  “Could be.” Hamish stood up. “I won’t eat any more at the moment. The food’s making me feel lazy. I’ll shut up the animals, and we'll be on our way.”

  They set out on the long climb. The air was full of the scents of bell heather and thyme. Down below them lay the fishing village of Lochdubh with its neat rows of whitewashed Georgian houses.

  A yacht cut a white trail through the calm blue waters of the loch. Smoke rose straight up from chimneys; a lot of the villagers, like Hamish, used the old-fashioned method of heating water.

  Hamish suddenly wanted it to be suicide so they could all go on with their safe lives far from the murder, drugs, and mayhem of the cities.

  “I’m beginning to dread newcomers,” he said as they approached the cleft.

  “There may be more in the future.”

  “Why?”

  “With the European Union savagely cutting fishing quotas, a lot of the fishermen are thinking of turning their boats into tourist pleasure craft.”

  “I’m beginning to think no one in the village tells me anything any more,” said Hamish. “First I’ve heard of it. I wonder what else they haven’t been telling me.”

  They walked up to the cleft, then split up and began to search around. Although it was mostly rocky, there were a few stunted gorse bushes.

  After an hour, Hamish said, “Nothing here. Let’s try further afield. Now, if someone threw something, where would it land?”

  “Maybe right down the slope and into those gorse bushes. Mind you, they're pretty far below.”

  They slithered down. Hamish lost his footing and went straight into the gorse bushes. “Ouch,” he yelled. “Help me out of here. I’m all prickles.”

  Priscilla took his hand and helped him out. Hamish plucked gorse prickles out of his hair and his clothes.

  “There’s something glinting down in there,” said Priscilla, peering into the shade of the bushes.

  “Let me try,” said Hamish. “A few more prickles won’t matter.”

  She pointed. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, bent down, and eased a long arm into the bushes. “Got it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a corkscrew.”

  “That solves one problem.”

  “It’s brand new.”

  “Maybe she bought it for the occasion.”

  “I wonder why the forensic boys didn’t find it,” said Hamish. “Mind you, that lot are more interested in drinking and rugby than in finding anything. The lot of them turn up on jobs with hangovers. Unless it was put there afterwards.”

  “I doubt it,” said Priscilla. “No one would want to be seen near the scene.”

  They searched further without finding anything else.

  “I’d like a look at Effie’s cottage,” said Hamish. “Just to see if she had a corkscrew.”

  “Won’t it be locked up?”

  “There are ways of getting in. Come on.”

  Chapter Five

  I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it,

  An’ now I must pay for my fun,

  For the more you have known o’ the others

  The less you will settle for one;

  An’ the end of it’s sittin’ and thinkin’,

  An’ dreamin’ Hell-fires to see.

  So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),

  An’ learn about women from me!

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Effie’s cottage turned out to be locked. “It’s just a simple Yale lock,” said Hamish. He took out a thin piece of steel from one of his many pockets and popped the lock.

  “What if the sister’s here?” hissed Priscilla.

  “I don’t think she’s come to Lochdubh yet. Probably making arrangements for the burial.”

  Hamish started to look through the kitchen drawers.

  “Here we are!” he said triumphantly. “Not one but two corkscrews.”

  “So maybe she had three,” said Priscilla. “I think we should go.”

  They walked outside, pulling the door behind them so that the lock clicked.

  “Any sign of Betty Barnard coming back?” asked Hamish.

  “I think she’s due back tomorrow.”

  Hamish visibly brightened. Why could he not leave things alone and accept the procurator fiscal’s verdict of suicide? Then perhaps he could have a few more days spent in Betty’s company, driving around the Highlands.

  “I think,” he said, “that I’m being overzealous. Maybe I’d chust better get on with things.”

  Priscilla eyed Hamish narrowly. She knew that his accent became more sibilant when he was angry or excited about something.

  Hamish dropped Priscilla back at the hotel. Then he drove to the police station. He had not checked the morning’s mail. He threw the usual junk into the trash bin and then found one from the bank in Braikie. He opened it up. There was a letter from the manager congratulating him on his bravery and a reward cheque for ten thousand pounds. Hamish stared at it in delight. He would send half the money to his family in Rogart. And with the other half? He had a holiday coming up. He could travel! He could go to New York and visit his cousin in Brooklyn.

  To hell with Effie. It had surely been suicide.

  There was a tentative knock at the front door. Hamish frowned. The locals always came to the kitchen door. He went through to the front and wrenched the little-used door open.

  He stifled a gasp of surprise. A thick sea mist had rolled in, and for one moment, he thought he was looking at the ghost of Effie Garrard. Then the figure addressed him in an all-too-human voice: “Police Constable Macbeth? I am Caro Garrard, Effie’s sister.”

  “Come ben,” said Hamish. “We'll go into the kitchen. I’ve got the stove on. The mist makes things awfy cold and damp.”

  He shut the door behind her and then led the way to the kitchen. Lugs and Sonsie, who had been well fed, both raised their heads and stared at her and then went back to sleep.

  “Sit down,” said Hamish. “How can I help you?”

  “I don’t believe my sister committed suicide. The pathologist said to me that if I had any doubts about her death, perhaps I should talk to you. The police in Strathbane won’t listen to me.”

  Hamish sat down opposite her. He could feel his dreams of visiting New York disappearing.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I did not know Effie had been passing my work off as her own. She had a nervous breakdown last year over some man. She’s always wanted to live in the Highlands. We were brought up in Oban. I said I would help her buy a little place. She then said she could sell some of my work and take a small commission to keep her going. I agreed. Things seemed to be going very well, and then she phoned me to say she was going to marry some artist called Jock Fleming.

  “I was a bit nervous because before her breakdown, she had been up in court accused of stalking some businessman in Brighton. But she sounded so happy and confident. Then she phoned me to say he had jilted her. She was crying hard. I said I would get up to see her as soon as I could.

  “But then she phoned me later that night. She sounded elated. She said that she had found a bottle of wine outside her door with a note from Jock asking her to meet him up at Geordie’s Cleft. He said he really loved her.

  “I tried to tell her that someone was playing a nasty trick on her. A
man doesn’t jilt a woman and then a few hours later tell her he loves her. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Did you tell the police at headquarters about this?”

  “They said Effie was mad. All she did was lie. They said her brain had turned and she went up there to commit suicide.”

  “Have you spoken to Jock Fleming?”

  “Yes, earlier today. He was very distressed. He said he’d never proposed marriage to her. He said that she was chasing after him. Remembering Effie’s behaviour in Brighton, I felt I had to believe him.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m going to stay at Effie’s cottage for a bit. Can you help me?”

  O lost New York, swirling away in a grey mist like the mist outside, to be gone forever. Then Hamish brightened. Of course, all he had to do was delay his holiday leave.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But I’m short of suspects. Jock’s ex-wife is here. I’ll get to know her a bit better.”

  In the kitchen light, he noticed differences between Caro and her sister. Caro’s hair was styled in a smooth bob, and she was wearing light make-up.

  “Are you really sure,” Hamish went on, “that you did not know that your sister was passing off your work as her own?”

  “She wouldn’t do that!”

  “I assure you she did.”

  “I would have been really furious with her if I had known that. I haven’t been to the cottage yet. The police gave me the keys. I really thought she might have started painting a bit on her own. Hal Addenfest told me she had some stuff in the hotel gift shop.”

  “Who is Hal Addenfest?”

  “Some American tourist. I believe he took Effie out for a meal a couple of times.”

  Hamish began to wonder seriously why no one in the village was gossiping to him any more.

  He told Caro he would keep in touch with her. After she had left, he phoned Priscilla. “What’s this about some American called Hal Addenfest dating Effie?”

  “Oh, him. The locals call him the Ugly American. He’s like an old-fashioned stereotype, bragging and thinking anyone outside the States is determined to cheat him.”

  “Priscilla, I didn’t know until today of his existence. Why is no one telling me anything any more?”

  “It started one day when Angela was wearing a brief pair of shorts. The Currie sisters called on you to tell you that you should do something about it. You told them you were sick of gossip and sent them off. They told everyone in the village not to gossip to you because it was making you furious.”

  “I’ve just seen Effie’s sister. She said Effie phoned her the night she was murdered saying she had a note from Jock asking her to meet him at Geordie’s Cleft. It was left with that bottle of wine.”

  “So why aren’t the police all over the place investigating a murder?”

  “Because they—probably Blair—insist that Effie was mad and never told the truth. I’ll need to investigate it on my own. I’ll be up at the hotel tomorrow.”

  Hal Addenfest went out for his usual constitutional walk the following morning, taking in great lungfuls of clear air. He was a retired businessman who had been chairman of a company. Because of the power of his situation, he had never known just how unpopular he was. When he retired, his wife left him, declaring she couldn’t stand having him around all day.

  He had fought the divorce case savagely, hiring the best lawyers, so that his wife ended up with very little. He was a little man, just under five feet tall, with a leathery face and small, suspicious eyes. But deep down in him was a romantic streak. An American in Paris had been one of the favourite films of his youth. So he had first relocated to Paris. He found the French standoffish and cold, particularly when he frequently snarled at them, “We pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in World War II.”

  His other favourite film had been Brigadoon. He turned his calculating eyes to the Scottish Highlands.

  He found the hotel beautiful and the food excellent, but the locals baffled him, quite unaware that he baffled them. The village was occasionally visited by American tourists, courteous and polite. Hal was a type they had not met before.

  Two days after his arrival, he had said to the hotel manager, Mr. Johnson, “How do I get to meet the highlanders?”

  Surprised, the manager said, “They're all around you.”

  “But,” Hal protested, “where is this famous highland hospitality? They should be inviting me into their cottages for whisky and those things—bannocks.”

  “You'll need to make friends here, just as you made friends in the States,” Mr. Johnson said.

  But Hal had not made friends in the States. All his life he had been too busy clawing his small way up the corporate ladder. Once on top, he had been surrounded by enough sycophants to give him an illusion of popularity.

  He was returning to the hotel when he noticed the tall figure of a policeman standing outside.

  He went to walk past but found himself being hailed.

  “Mr. Addenfest?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. I’d like a wee word with you.”

  “What about?”

  “Effie Garrard. Do you mind if we go inside?”

  They went into the hotel lounge. “So what do you want to know?” demanded Hal.

  “I believe you took her out a couple of times.”

  “So?”

  They were interrupted by a maid placing a tray with coffee and biscuits in front of them.

  “What’s this?” demanded Hal angrily. “I didn’t order anything.”

  “It’s on the house,” said the maid. “Mr. Johnson knows Hamish likes his coffee.”

  “I hope she doesn’t expect a tip,” grumbled Hal when the maid went off and stood by the door. “Yeah, Effie Garrard. I saw her stuff in the gift shop. It’s good. I met her there, and we got talking. I took her out a couple of times. Expensive restaurants. Cost me nearly…Wait a bit.” He took a small leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket.

  “Never mind,” interrupted Hamish. “I want to know about Effie herself. Coffee?”

  “Sure they aren’t going to charge me for it?”

  “No!”

  “Keep your shirt on. Yes, Effie. Well, she was good company. She’s had a very colourful life. She and her sister were brought up in an orphanage in Perth. Caro was adopted first, but they didn’t want Effie. She was finally adopted by a family in Inverness. She said the woman beat her and the husband sexually abused her.”

  “What was the name of the people who adopted Effie?”

  He took out his notebook again.

  “Man, ye surely didn’t sit taking notes while she was talking!” exclaimed Hamish.

  “Afterwards. I’m going to write a book.”

  “We had an author over at Cnothan,” said Hamish. “Someone murdered him.”

  “Here we are!” said Hal, ignoring Hamish’s last remark. “Cullen, that was the name. George and Martha Cullen.”

  “And where in Inverness did they live?”

  “Somewhere out on the Bewley Road.”

  “Did she give you the name of the orphanage?”

  “Sorry.”

  “So what else did she say?”

  “If what I tell you leads to the capture of someone, will I get a reward?”

  “No.”

  Hal closed the notebook again. “Well, that’s all, folks. You are wasting my valuable time. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

  “What if I arrest you for impeding a police investigation?”

  Hal grinned. “And what if I tell you what I know? The police have decided it’s suicide. Case closed. So unless I hear differently, I’ll keep any information about Effie I have to myself. You wanna know any more? Tell your bosses to phone me.”

  Hal got to his feet and, picking up the plate of biscuits, headed off for the stairs.

  Priscilla came and sat down opposite Hamish. “How did you get on?”

  “Hor
rible wee man.”

  “He’s a one-off. We've got an American family staying here, and they run when they see him.”

  Hamish eyed her speculatively. “Hal wrote down everything Effie told him in a notebook. She told him she was brought up in an orphanage in Perth and subsequently adopted by a couple in Inverness who abused her. You couldn’t charm some more information out of him?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Hamish returned to the police station. He found a George Cullen at an address in Sutherland Terrace which he remembered being off the Bewley Road. He phoned. When a man answered, Hamish introduced himself and asked, “Mr. George Cullen?”

  “Aye, that’s me.”

  “Did you adopt an Effie Garrard a long time ago?”

  “We fostered her for a bit.”

  “May I come and talk to you?”

  “Aye, any time. I’m long retired. Sad thing about her death.”

  “I’ll leave now,” said Hamish, “and be with you in just under an hour.”

  The Cullens’ house was a small, granite Victorian villa. Hamish rang the bell, and an old stooped man answered the door.

  “Mr. Cullen?”

  “That’s me. Come ben.”

  The living room into which Mr. Cullen ushered Hamish was dark and cold and strangely barren. No pictures, photographs, or books. A square table with upright chairs stood by the window. There was an armchair next to the two-bar electric fire. The carpet was old and faded.

  “Sit down,” said Mr. Cullen, indicating a chair at the table. He saw Hamish looking around and said, “The wife died last year. I got rid of nearly everything. All those things did was to remind me of her, and I was tired of grieving. How can I help you?”

  “You fostered Effie Garrard?”

  “Yes, that’s right. She was twelve at the time. We couldn’t cope. We had to get rid of her after a year.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She was a congenital liar. She walked into a police station and said my wife was beating her and I was sexually abusing her. Oh, the scandal. Thank God it didn’t get into the papers. The police medical examiner found she was still a virgin and hadn’t a mark on her. We couldn’t bear to have her in the house after that.”