by M C Beaton
“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.”
“So why aren’t there still police and detectives crawling all over the village?”
“Police headquarters have decided it was suicide and don’t want to investigate any further.”
“So why bother?”
“I don’t like to think of a murderer loose in my village.”
“That’s a pity. I was hoping we could maybe spend the day together tomorrow. I was going to phone you.”
Hamish thought quickly. “Maybe just an afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up at one o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you've finished with Jock, leave us alone to discuss business.”
Hamish drove down to the village and went into Patel’s grocery store. He asked Mr. Patel, “Do you sell much antifreeze?”
“Don’t stock it. Most folks go to Iain to get their cars serviced, and he supplies the antifreeze.”
Iain Chisholm was working on the engine of an old Volvo in his garage. He straightened up when he saw Hamish.
“Do you ever sell antifreeze to anyone?” asked Hamish.
“No, there’s no need. I put it in when I service their cars.”
“Any missing?”
Iain pushed back his oily cap and stared around the dusty jumble of his garage. Then he went over to a row of shelves. “I’ve got two containers of the stuff here. I’m sure that’s all I had.”
“Could anyone have helped themselves while your back was turned?”
“I suppose they could. What’s this about?”
“Effie Garrard. Herself died from drinking antifreeze. Who’s been in here lately to get repairs or servicing?”
“The doctor, Mrs. Wellington, Mr. Johnson with two of the hotel cars, and that’s about it.”
“Do you ever leave the garage unattended?”
“I lock it up. Not that there’s thieves here, but the locals will nip in and take a spanner or something like that and forget to give it back. Hamish, if anyone wanted antifreeze, they've only got to stop at any garage outside or inside Strathbane and buy some.”
Hamish went to the police station to find Priscilla waiting for him in the kitchen. He kept a spare key in the gutter above the kitchen door.
“I’ve taken Sonsie and Lugs for a walk,” said Priscilla. “They've been fed. Archie gave me some fish for Sonsie, and I bought some liver for Lugs.”
“Did you find out anything more about the American?” asked Hamish.
“I invited him to join me for dinner. It was quite an ordeal. He kept taking out a notebook and scribbling in it under the table. It’s all round the village he’s a government spy.”
“Who for? The CIA? How can people be so daft?”
“It made me furious. I told him if he didn’t stop taking notes about what I was saying, then I’d put the dinner on his bill.”
Hamish grinned. “I bet that stopped him in his tracks.”
“He has ambitions to be an author.”
“Good luck to him. I’d like to get a look at that notebook of his.” Hamish looked hopefully at Priscilla.
“No hope, Hamish. I’ll bet he sleeps with it under his pillow. Any leads?”
Hamish told her about his various interviews and then said, “I want to get to the bottom of this. Blair’s behaved disgracefully in insisting it’s a suicide. I could have done with a whole forensic team and policemen helping me to interview everyone.”
“I’m afraid some members of the Strathbane forensic team are in trouble. I met Matthew on the road here, and he told me.”
“What have they been up to now?”
“They’d just got a delivery of those blue light things, you know the ones that bring up bloodstains?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they were using them to play Star Wars outside their favourite pub in Strathbane. They were all charged with drunk and disorderly and misuse of police property. They were even dressed up as Star Wars characters. I believe Luke Skywalker was particularly abusive.”
Hamish groaned. “I’m beginning to think that lot are never sober. I’d better get on the phone and cancel my leave.”
The following afternoon, Hamish spent a pleasant time with Betty. She listened to him as he felt no one had listened to him before. He began to wonder what it would be like to be married to an artists’ agent. Then he wondered uneasily about Elspeth Grant, the reporter who was now back at her job in Glasgow. He had been thinking of proposing to her but had left it too late. He had tried calling her at various times, but she had hung up on him.
He was just leaving Betty at the hotel and about to get into the police Land Rover when Priscilla came running out. “Hamish! Hal’s gone missing, and his bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“When did anyone last see him?”
“Yesterday. He took a packed lunch and said he was going for a walk. A lot of us have been out looking for him all day.”
Hamish phoned Strathbane and alerted them that an American tourist had gone missing. Then he phoned the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
“I’ll come into the hotel and find out if anyone saw him leave and which direction he went.”
Mr. Johnson summoned the staff. When questioned, they all said they hadn’t noticed where the American had gone. Then the maid, Bessie, came on duty and asked what all the fuss was about.
When Hamish told her, she said, “But he did come back!”
“When?”
“Last night. Just before dinner. I’d been taking a tray up to poor Mrs. Tabolt, who’s feeling poorly. She
’s in the room next to him. I saw him going into his room.”
“What time?”
“It would be about seven o’clock in the evening.”
Hamish phoned the Mountain Rescue Patrol again and told them to hold off the search for the moment and then phoned Strathbane and said he was about to search Hal’s room.
Mr. Johnson took him up to Hal’s room. The door wasn’t locked. Hamish went in. The bed was made up and obviously hadn’t been slept in. Lots of clothes were in the wardrobe. Hamish searched every bit of the room, looking for Hal’s notebook, but it was nowhere to be found.
“Let’s check if his car is outside. He may have decided to drive somewhere,” said Hamish.
But Hal’s car was in the car park.
Hamish began to feel nervous. That wretched notebook, he thought. He phoned Strathbane once again and said he would need a team up to help him search. He knew they would turn out for a missing American tourist where they wouldn’t budge for a local artist.
He went out into the moors around the hotel, calling and searching. At last, exhausted, he returned to the police station, having decided to start the search again in the morning. The nights were still light, and the weather was warm. There would be no danger of the wee man dying of exposure unless he had decided to climb up into the mountains.
Two local schoolboys, Sean and Diarmuid Hamilton, found the long white nights exciting. It was hard to sleep. They’d made an agreement earlier to slip out of their cottage and go down to the loch and play at chukkies—seeing how far they could skim a flat stone across the water.
In the grey gloaming which was like an early dawn just before the sun comes up, Diarmuid, proud possessor of a pencil torch, searched the shingly beach for flat stones. He swept the torch this way and that. The beam caught a pair of eyes down by the edge of the water.
“A seal, Sean,” he called. “Come and look. Slowly, now. We don’t want to frighten the beast.”
They crept closer.
“Oh, hell,” gasped Diarmuid. “It’s a man!”
They turned and ran as hard as they could, scrambling up the steps to the waterfront and hurtling towards the police station.
Hamish was aroused from a deep sleep by the sound of hammering on the door and the sharp barking of Lugs.
When he opened the door, he looked down into the ashen faces of two small boys.
“There’s a deid man down by the loch,” gasped Diarmuid.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down while I get myself dressed,” said Hamish.
He went back into the bedroom and scrambled into his uniform. He hoped against hope the boys were mistaken and it would turn out to be nothing more than a bundle of old clothes.
When he was ready, he walked down with them to the beach, carrying a torch.
“Ower there,” said Diarmuid, pointing.
In the peculiar grey light of a highland summer night, Hamish saw the body. He crouched down. The dead eyes of Hal Addenfest stared up at him. He was lying half in and half out of the water.
Hamish stood up and took out his mobile phone and called Strathbane. He turned to the boys. “Run along home. I’ll be along to see you later.”
The boys ran off. Hamish crouched down by the body again. He felt for a pulse and found none. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and gently began to search in the pockets. Hal’s wallet was there, with money and credit cards. But there was no sign of his notebook.
He gently turned the head to one side and felt the skull. It gave beneath his probing fingers. Someone had smashed Hal’s skull in. The top half of the body, which was out of the water, was dry. There was no blood around the head that he could see. He looked at his watch. One in the morning. High tide had been two hours before, so allowing the time for the tide to recede, Hal must have been killed or placed on the beach a short time before the boys found him.
How could the killer have managed it unobserved? There were old people in Lochdubh who slept badly. Sound carried. Someone would surely have heard something.
He retreated to a flat rock and sat down. He took out his notebook and drew a plan of where the body was lying. Then on another page, he wrote down the boys’ names and when they had called at the police station. A little breeze rippled the glassy surface of the loch, bringing with it the scent of pine from the forests on the other side.
At last, he could hear the distant wail of police sirens. They came ever nearer and ever louder. Lights started to go on in the cottages. The peace of the summer night was being ripped apart.
Police cars stopped on the waterfront. He could see the heavy figure of Blair approaching the steps. Blair slipped on a piece of seaweed and crashed down the steps and fell with a shriek of pain.
Hamish ran towards him. “I’ve broke my leg,” howled Blair.
“Don’t move,” said Hamish, seeing the forensic team’s white van coming along the waterfront. He called Dr. Brodie. Jimmy Anderson came down the steps to join him. “Tell the forensic boys to get a stretcher down here,” ordered Hamish.
When Blair was carried up to the waterfront and was being examined by Dr. Brodie, who had come hurrying up with a coat over his pyjamas, Jimmy said, “So who’s dead?”
“An American tourist called Hal Addenfest. He was staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”
“That’s the one you reported missing?”
“The same.”
“Let’s have a look.” They walked down to where Hal was lying.
“He got a sore dunt in the back of his head,” said Hamish.
“He might have fallen down the steps and dragged himself to the water’s edge,” said Jimmy. “Look at what’s just happened to Blair.”
Another siren sounded in the distance. “That'll probably be the ambulance from Braikie Hospital,” said Hamish. “Blair must really have broken his leg.”
When Blair was loaded into the ambulance, Jimmy and Hamish were joined by the pathologist, Professor Jane Forsythe. “He’s got a crack on the back of his head,” said Hamish.
She examined the body carefully and then straightened up. “I’ll be able to tell you better what happened to him when I do the autopsy, but, yes, I would guess he had been killed by a blow to the head.”
The forensic team started their work. A cameraman took pictures. A small crowd of villagers had gathered on the waterfront.
“His notebook’s missing,” said Hamish.
“What notebook?” asked Jimmy.
“He said he was going to be a writer. He took notes of what people said. He took Effie Garrard out a couple of times. I asked to see his notes about what she had said to him, but he refused. I couldn’t press him because it wasn’t a murder investigation.”
“And you think it is now?”
“I think it always should ha’ been. I’ll be off and talk to the wee boys who found him, and then I’d better check if a rowing boat has been used. Someone could have taken him out in a boat, cracked him on the head, and left him on the beach.”
“So why not just give him to the fishes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone planned to take him off in a car and dump him somewhere where we wouldn’t find him. I’ll start in the morning and talk to all the people whose cottage windows overlook the loch.”
“I’ll have plenty of men to help you. Every damn cottage seems to overlook the loch.”
“I suppose you're in charge of the case now, Jimmy.”
“Aye. Great, isn’t it?”
“I would suggest you start by reopening the case on Effie. I’ll tell you everything I’ve got.”
Jimmy sighed. “It’s going to be a long night. I’ll call on you in the morning. I want bacon, sausage, eggs, and whisky.”
Hamish grinned and touched his cap. “Yes, sir!”
Hamish went to the Hamiltons’ cottage. Their father said they had kept the boys up, knowing the police would want to talk to them.
Diarmuid and Sean were in the living room, drinking cocoa and being watched over by
their anxious mother.
“Now, boys,” said Hamish, “how soon after you left your home did you find the body?”
“About ten minutes,” said Diarmuid. “We went out to throw stones in the loch. I thought it was a seal. Then I saw it was a deid man.”
“Did you see or hear anything or anyone else?”
Their eyes widened with fright. “You mean the murderer might still ha’ been around?” asked Sean.
“Maybe.”
The boys looked at each other and then shook their heads. “It was awfy quiet,” said Sean. “Not a sound.”
“I’ll take statements from you both later. Off to bed with you and try to get some sleep.”
Mr. Hamilton let Hamish out. “They're good boys,” he said.
“I know,” said Hamish. “They didn’t mean any harm. I doubt if they'll be sneaking out for some time to come.”
As Hamish walked towards the police station, he saw police were already interviewing the villagers who had gathered. He decided to catch a few hours’ sleep, relieved that Blair was not on the case or Hamish would have been allowed no sleep at all.
He set the alarm for six o’clock and climbed into bed, followed by his dog and cat. His last thought was that he should stop them from sleeping on his bed. What if his friendship with Betty progressed to something more?
The shrill sound of Hamish’s alarm clock woke him. He struggled out of bed, feeling as if he had not slept at all. The dog and cat moved into the warm space in the bed left by his body and went back to sleep.
He washed and shaved, put on his uniform, and went out to the hen house to collect eggs for Jimmy’s breakfast.
He went back in with the eggs in his cap, set them on the kitchen table, lit the stove, and was just putting the frying pan on it when a knock at the kitchen door heralded the arrival of Jimmy. The detective’s foxy face looked tired, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Give me a dram, Hamish. I’m fair worn out.”
Hamish poured him some whisky and began to fry up breakfast. “So what’s new?” he asked.
“Damn all,” said Jimmy. “Nobody saw or heard anything. Forensic have moved their search to the rowing boats.”
“I’m sure it’s connected with Effie’s murder.”
