by Gwen Moffat
‘You didn’t see her again?’
‘She went indoors. It gets cold when the sun leaves that side of the glen, and there’s the midges in the evening. She went in and lit the fire.’
‘Did she have any visitors?’
‘Not that I saw. If it’s not a rude question, ma’am, why would you be so interested?’
‘Good gracious! Aren’t you? A dead body on your doorstep and a girl missing from the glen?’
He looked at her from under his eyebrows and decided not to push it further.
There were people on the shore. At the eastern end of the strand there were three or four groups in bright colours, campers or trippers, but working along the tide wrack towards them as the boat came in was a woman in drab clothes whom she’d met in the passages of Glen Shira House, and whom she knew as Euphemia. Miss Pink was put ashore and trudged up the sand wondering what Vera Hamlyn’s cleaner was doing down here at this time of day.
‘Good afternoon, Euphemia.’ Behind her she heard Captain Hunt start the outboard, and looked back to see him watching them as the boat headed for Rahane.
‘Good afternoon, miss.’ The woman stared at her from eyes which were shrewd although filmed with age.
‘You’re not at the house today?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘I’m off now, for a while. I don’t start the dinner till later. Ida Hunt does the teas.’ She stopped and made pushing gestures at Captain Hunt. ‘Spying on us! I do all the cooking.’ This was palpably untrue; Vera Hamlyn was the cook. She stared intently at Miss Pink, waiting for her reaction.
‘The food is delicious.’ It was said sincerely, and Euphemia beamed. Miss Pink smiled gently.
‘Which is your croft?’ she asked, as if she didn’t know.
The woman pointed along the shore to a single-storey cottage at the far end from Rahane. ‘That’s Shedog. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘You think it means something?’ She searched Miss Pink’s face, possibly for derision. ‘It’s a blowy place,’ she said, as if idly.
‘I see. Windy. Of course, the gales will sweep straight into the loch.’ Miss Pink’s eyes absorbed the scenery. ‘You’re very exposed. But you’ll see everything that goes on.’
Euphemia nodded. ‘I don’t miss much.’ She stared at Rahane. ‘You frightened that Willie MacNeill. How did you do it?’
‘Not me. There’s a body in the geo.’
‘Is there now? How did it get there? In the geo?’
‘Thrown down from the top.’
‘Someone killed it first. No one in the glen’s died natural. And anyways, they’d have to have a proper funeral. I minded my father till he died. Who is it?’
‘The body’s wearing trousers like the young girl wore who was camping here.’
‘Where?’
Miss Pink led the way up the beach and pointed to Watkins’ tent. Euphemia’s eyes were blank.
‘There’s no girl there. It’s a man.’
‘She was there for a short time on Saturday.’
‘He killed her?’
The tone was harsh, the eyes bright. Miss Pink regarded her pleasantly and Euphemia relaxed with a dazzling smile.
‘She went across to Largo,’ she said. ‘But Colin didn’t kill her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Did you see her light go out last night?’
‘Oh yes; after ten o’clock.’
‘How long after?’
‘I go to bed at ten—well, not quite ten; that’s when I feed the Sheriff and make myself a milk drink.’
‘You feed the Sheriff at ten.’
‘While I’m listening to the News. I’m away about ten past. My bed faces the window. I was watching the light in Largo. It went out after I got into bed.’
‘You had to drink your milk—’ Her tone was calculating. There was a flicker of anger and Miss Pink changed tactics smoothly. Her eyes lit up with amusement. ‘You don’t drink it in the dark! You’d spill it—’ she paused and inspiration came, ‘—all over the Sheriff!’
Euphemia went off into a high cackle of laughter and this time it was Miss Pink who watched carefully. There were tears in the other’s eyes.
‘Scalded cat!’ she cried, and Miss Pink screwed up her face in simulated amusement.
‘’Course I don’t drink it in the dark.’ She was sober, even thoughtful. ‘You’re right; I wouldna notice her light with mine—So hers went out after I blew out my candle. Probably about half past ten or a bit before.’
Miss Pink stooped, picked up a mussel shell and admired the shades of blue. ‘You’ll probably have a visit from the police today or tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’
Euphemia looked sly. ‘It depends.’ There was a gleam of excitement in her eyes. ‘Here be the colonel.’
Gordon Hamlyn was striding across the dunes, his face deeply concerned.
‘Is this true?’ he called as he approached.
Miss Pink said that she was afraid it was.
‘MacNeill’s collapsed. Is it that young girl? He says so.’
‘It looks like her trousers.’
‘Good God!’ He gaped at her, then looked at Euphemia sternly. ‘Did you see anything?’
She was indignant. ‘What would I be after seeing in the dark? I was in my bed where every self-respecting soul should be at that time of night. I told this lady what time her light went out but that didna mean anything, did it? Do you put the light out?’
He glowered at her, then turned away, taking Miss Pink’s elbow. ‘It’s no good scolding her,’ he said confidentially. ‘She’s not really impertinent; quite amusing at times, really.’ He gave a chuckle then composed his features quickly. ‘You didn’t accuse Willie, surely?’
‘No.’
‘Ah. He’s frightened. Said you were asking questions about his going to Largo. I suppose there’s no doubt—? He says she’s in a plastic bag!’
‘That’s true. Captain Hunt took me into the geo in his boat. How quickly the bush telegraph operates in this glen! It’s one of those survival bags we carry in our packs in case we’re benighted.’
He stopped and stared at her. ‘How was she killed?’
‘I have no idea. I only saw the legs, the jeans with flowers on them. Terry Cooke had a pair like that. I didn’t tell Willie about the trousers; in fact, you couldn’t see them from the top.’
‘That seems fishy—I mean, he’s saying that it’s her.’
‘I did tell him that she was missing.’
‘Yes.’ He stopped and turned. Euphemia had resumed her beach-combing and was working towards her croft.
‘She knows something,’ he said. ‘She’s a terrible liar—but not all the time. That makes it more difficult to know when she’s speaking the truth. She’s quite mad, of course.’ He shook his head wryly. ‘That’s in-breeding. Accounts for a great deal, you know.’
‘She never married?’
‘Dear me, no.’ He shot her a glance. ‘That doesn’t mean to say. . . . But Euphemia never had any children—to survive, that is. Just as well. Those lines ought to be allowed to die out, or be quietly sterilised. Perfectly simple: diagnose a suspected tumour, open ’em up, and there you are. Relatives would be relieved if they knew but—least said, soonest mended, eh? MacNeill’s another: very unstable.’
‘I thought that young Willie was rather a fine specimen.’
‘Oh yes, indeed: fine physical specimen; Skye provided some of our best infantrymen in the old days. But that’s the trouble: all the animal attributes and no control—not nowadays, not in civilian life. And now look what’s happened.’
‘What did the police say?’
He snorted and smote one hand with his fist. ‘There! That’s why I came to find you! They found it difficult to believe, and I had to put Willie on the line but by that time he was in tears; they’ve no reserves, but then, if he . . . However, as I said, they thought him drunk and asked what I made of it a
ll, and what could I say? So I told them I’d come down and have a look myself. Was just going to take my boat out. But you’ve seen this body?’
‘There’s no doubt about it.’
He nodded. ‘Would you go up and speak to the police? I told them you were a magistrate; that’s right, isn’t it? But Willie was the weak link, you understand. Do you think any harm’s been done by the delay?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘How long—? When do you think he pushed her over—I mean, assuming it was a man?’
‘Could a woman have carried her?’
‘Carried her?’
‘From Largo. She wouldn’t have gone along those cliffs in the dark with a stranger.’
‘Did it have to be in the dark?’
She stared at him. ‘With Euphemia and the Hunts and all the camp site watching, not to speak of the MacNeills? How could it have been done in daylight?’
‘Of course. You have a very sharp mind. Why do you say “the MacNeills” in the plural? Don’t you think the lad did it?’
‘No, I don’t.’
And there was the light at Largo, she thought; surely the killer would never have left the light on when there was a body in the house?
*
Willie was hiding something. After she’d made her telephone call to the police—baldly stated it sounded merely as if a body had been washed up by the sea—Miss Pink went to the kitchen to find Vera Hamlyn and Ida Hunt sitting at a huge scrubbed table drinking tea and exchanging what by now must be weary comments. Between them Willie sprawled with his elbows on the table, a cup of tea and a glass of whisky in front of him. At her entrance, he looked truculent, but the women regarded her with expectancy, Vera rather less eagerly than Ida Hunt who was flushed with excitement.
‘I’ve rung the police,’ Miss Pink told them, and looked at the tea pot.
At that they remembered their manners and, while Ida leapt up and whisked the pot to the sink, Vera stood up and pulled out a chair.
‘Please sit down. Mrs Hunt will make fresh tea. Have you had your lunch?’
‘Don’t worry about me—but a cup of tea will be most welcome.’ She addressed them generally but her glance lingered on Willie. He glowered at her and licked his lips. He appeared to expect help from Vera and Ida but they watched him in silence, Vera with circumspection, Ida with a hint of ghoulishness.
‘All right then!’ he burst out. ‘I did go across, but I didna go in! I didna go inside the door! It was closed then!’
‘What time was that?’ Miss Pink asked conversationally.
He shook his head, wide-eyed. ‘Before eleven. The old man had gone to bed; he goes some time after ten.’
‘Was there a light in Largo?’
‘Not in the house, no.’
‘Where, then?’
‘In the burn!’
Vera and Ida looked meaningly at each other, then at Miss Pink, implying that he was drunk. He intercepted this and was furiously angry.
‘I’m telling you! I stood outside the door thinking that she’d gone to bed because her light was out, and I heard a noise from the burn. I looked and saw a torch. It was a bit difficult at that moment because the Lights was very bright—’ he forgot his truculence and waved an arm indicating the Northern Lights wheeling in the sky, ‘—so I walked towards the burn and she was washing the dishes: those aluminium sort they use camping; I heard her put them down on the rocks and I saw them shine in the torch light. I called to her and she put the light out.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘I didna!’ His voice rose again. ‘She’d got a fellow with her.’
Miss Pink studied him. ‘Who was it?’
‘I dunno. I didna hear him speak.’ His eyes sharpened suddenly.
‘How did you know it was a fellow?’ Miss Pink pressed.
‘It musta been, mustn’t it? Why would she keep quiet like that if it was a girl with her? Besides, there wasna another girl at Largo—’less someone went over from the youth hostel or the camp site, but she didna know anyone. Why would she keep quiet if it was a girl with her? It was a fellow.’
‘Did you hear him speak?’
‘It was just a low mumble: his voice and hers, high and low. I couldna hear the words.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I turned round and went home; I wasna wanted, I could see that.’
*
‘What do you think?’
Miss Pink and her hostess had left the kitchen and were sitting on a garden seat in front of the house. Bees hummed in a hedge of Michaelmas daisies.
‘I think he was in love with her.’
‘A sex crime? She wouldn’t have him because of Irwin?’
‘No. She was promiscuous. She wouldn’t refuse Willie—he was far too attractive. Besides, she wasn’t sexually attracted to Irwin.’
Vera was astonished. ‘Are you sure of that?’
Miss Pink frowned. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘I never saw them together—and I’m not sure that I’m much good at that kind of thing.’ Miss Pink showed polite attention and Vera looked away, embarrassed. ‘I find it better, you know, not to see what’s going on—sometimes. I don’t think I’d be very happy if I knew. So I’m rather naïve that way. She seemed to me very—er, obvious. You really mean the friendship with Irwin was platonic?’
‘I’ll amend that; there was sexual attraction, but not physical. Willie would be the boy—’ Miss Pink coughed. ‘Quite healthy, of course.’
‘What would be unhealthy?’ There was a short silence. ‘Watkins?’
They were very still. Out on the lawn blades of grass shivered and crumbs of rich black soil erupted above a burrowing mole.
‘Watkins,’ Vera repeated thoughtfully.
‘Need a good cat.’
‘What?’
‘For the moles. Nothing like it. Euphemia’s cat is called the Sheriff.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘After dark.’
‘Euphemia wouldn’t see anything then—unless she was out, of course.’
‘No. She was safe in bed when it happened.’
They were quiet again for a time then Vera said: ‘I wonder what his story will be?’
‘He won’t have one.’ Miss Pink sounded casual. ‘He’ll have spent the evening in his tent and then: bed—or rather, sleeping bag. He could have an alibi.’ She looked surprised at her own words.
‘How could he? He didn’t come up here last night. You’re thinking of a girl from the camp site, or the youth hostel—who spent the night with him?’
‘I imagine an alibi would have to cover all the hours of darkness.’
Lavender Maynard came walking out of the trees and across the lawn. She had a peculiar gait: flat-footed, and she moved her legs stiffly from the knee, as if her pelvic joints were frozen. She wore a large white hat and a yellow dress. She started to smile at them, then her eyes flickered from Vera’s overall to Miss Pink’s breeches and boots.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Come and sit down.’ Vera patted the seat between them.
‘Kenneth!’
‘No, no, no!’ Vera gave a comforting little laugh. ‘Nothing to bother you.’
Lavender seated herself and her colour came back. ‘Stupid of me, but when they climb—but of course, Colonel Hamlyn climbs. . . . It’s different when you do it yourself; and then, taking a woman guide! I wouldn’t worry if he would employ men but a woman’s no good in emergencies, is she?’ She shrugged. ‘I mean: they go to pieces.’
The others looked bland.
‘But something’s wrong,’ she went on more naturally.
Vera glanced at Miss Pink who said, ‘Terry Cooke has had an accident.’
Lavender licked her lips. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh yes? Well, that’s bad.’ Only her mouth moved. ‘What happened?’
‘The body was put in a plastic bag and dropped down
Scarf Geo.’
‘That—is—unbelievably—horrible.’ The voice was expressionless. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You asked.’
‘You’re being deliberately callous. What significance does it have for me?’
‘None,’ Vera said chidingly. ‘Miss Pink isn’t callous, just practical; she’s getting it over as quickly as possible.’
‘I see.’ Lavender addressed herself to Miss Pink. ‘You do know that Kenneth and I share a room?’
Vera looked stupid. Miss Pink stared, then nodded in comprehension: ‘And you don’t take sleeping pills?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact. When was she killed?’
Vera gave an exasperated sigh and went indoors.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Lavender asked histrionically.
‘She’s tired. We’ve had a busy hour or so.’
‘I didn’t come down for lunch. I was resting. What happened? Was she killed at Largo?’
Miss Pink recounted the facts. She didn’t say that when she left Irwin that morning she had started to wonder where Terry Cooke might be if she had never left the glen, nor that she was not concerned with pollution when she first looked down Scarf Geo. At the end of the account Lavender observed that the girl had brought it on herself. Miss Pink stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ the other asked suspiciously.
Miss Pink went in the porch and emerged with her rucksack. She didn’t answer but waved a hand and strode up the drive.
Chapter Seven
From a vantage point Miss Pink raked the slopes above Glen Shira through binoculars and, having located her quarry, met the Lindsays and Watkins above the waterfall. She made no pretence that the encounter was an accident but there seemed little to be gleaned from their initial reactions to her appearance.
Betty seemed pleased to see her, Watkins amused; Lindsay’s expression was, as usual, faintly anxious, but it was impossible to decide whether this originated in his difficulty with human relationships or merely from the fear of putting his foot in a rabbit hole.
After an exchange of cursory greetings (as if they really had met by accident), she accompanied them to the lip of the ravine, where they halted and looked back at the waterfall dropping daintily down the rock. Betty remarked that they needed rain.
