Over the Sea to Death

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘No—but I do feel that the murderer was a passionate person and I don’t think Maynard has much feeling for women, not in that way.’

  ‘Lust,’ Ivory put in. ‘She was sunbathing nude.’ He glanced at the window but the curtains were drawn against the night. ‘All right in France perhaps but it’s not right here, is it? You saw her; anyone else could have seen her from the upper floor of this house—or anywhere else, come to that; could have seen it as an invitation. He went across after dark, she didn’t want him, she screamed.’

  ‘No one heard a scream.’

  ‘She tried to scream, mam.’

  She escaped from the writing room at last, but she was to have one more encounter before the night was over. As she started upstairs a door slammed loudly on the bedroom floor, and then another. She shook her head in disapproval, reflecting that good manners were going to the dogs even in Glen Shira House. She stopped at a book case outside her room and studied the spines of paperbacks.

  Suddenly the lavatory next door was flushed and Madge emerged looking shocked and angry. She was a peculiar colour as if she were pale under her tan. Although she saw Miss Pink, her expression didn’t change. She blundered along the corridor to her room and slammed that door. Forgetting all about books, Miss Pink entered her room, then paused and turned the key.

  Chapter Eight

  Overnight the weather changed. In the morning there were still no clouds but the light was harder and the air less fresh. Miss Pink went down for breakfast to find the place seething with hysteria. At the foot of the stairs Vera Hamlyn and Madge Fraser confronted each other, engaged in an altercation so intense that they seemed oblivious of the guests.

  ‘. . . in the circumstances I have no option,’ Madge was saying. ‘But I’m not leaving the glen; I’m going to camp by the waterfall until I’ve done the ridge.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Miss Pink was trying to squeeze past the guide, who moved but didn’t look at her. Miss Pink went through the door of the cocktail lounge to encounter the fervid eyes of Lavender Maynard who was standing, incongruously at this hour, at the cleared bar. From the hall Vera’s voice was brittle: ‘I would have thought the least you could do was to leave the island.’

  Madge said, with equal coldness, ‘For one thing I doubt if the police would let me go, for another, you don’t really think I’m going to come down here and bother you in the evenings, do you? I’ll only be there a couple of days.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Vera exclaimed. ‘Don’t you realise what you’re doing? Please go.’

  The tone was desperate but there was no response. Someone walked away, to be followed, after a pause, by the other. Lavender stared with ghoulish triumph at Miss Pink who turned and went out. There was no one in the hall.

  At the far end of the dining room Maynard was talking urgently to Madge who stared out of the window with a stony face. Miss Pink sat at her table and heard heels on the parquet behind her. Lavender stalked past and sat down, her back like a ramrod. Maynard joined her and at that moment Ida Hunt came hurrying in with their coffee, saying good morning cheerfully all round.

  The Lindsays entered, wearing climbing clothes, and now all except Madge speculated in low voices on the extent to which their movements were going to be restricted. They appealed to Miss Pink who could tell them nothing on that score.

  Breakfast threatened to be disrupted by the arrival of several cars obviously containing reporters but Hamlyn—very much the colonel at this moment—came quickly through the hall to shepherd them back to the gravel sweep. Voices were raised and there were references to private property and Fascism, but the cars went away again.

  After breakfast Sergeant Ivory asked Miss Pink if she could spare a moment for the inspector. She found Merrick sitting in the writing room as if he’d been there all night. He stood up at her entrance.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am; I trust you had an undisturbed night? Would you be available in about two hours’ time? You weren’t proposing to go climbing?’ He was most courteous. She agreed to stay in the glen that morning.

  ‘Yes.’ He breathed a sigh of relief as if he had been dreading obstruction. ‘I’m going to see these five this morning: the men on the list, and get their movements. . . . The pathologist’s report isn’t going to help with the time of death because we don’t know when she last ate. Willie can’t help us; she didn’t mention supper when he was there early on. I understand you’re friendly with Euphemia Morrison, ma’am?’

  ‘With Euphemia!’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, she appears to be a stranger to the truth. That’s the problem. But she did tell us you were “a proper lady”, which implies respect. We can’t get anything out of her except obvious lies otherwise. Do you think you might do better? Her cottage faces Largo. She might have seen something after the light went out: might have seen it lit again perhaps, or a torch moving along the top of the cliffs—or anywhere else.’ He looked doubtful. ‘You might have some trouble. She threatened our people; claimed acquaintance with the sheriff.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think she meant that.’

  ‘She appears to be far from normal.’

  ‘Where do you suggest I talk to her?’

  ‘You’ll find her in her cottage. She’s handed in her notice for some reason. You’ll have all the privacy you need down there.’

  *

  Shedog was an old black house with stone walls and a roof of rushes, the thatch being protected from the wicked winds by ropes weighted with large stones. There was a squat chimney at either end and two sash windows with white trim. The door, also painted white, was ajar and propped open by a chunk of quartzite.

  Miss Pink’s knock sounded uncanny in the stillness. There was a stirring in the depths and Euphemia came through the wood-lined passage, her expression carefully composed to welcome her caller. Ostensibly Miss Pink was concerned that the other was not at the big house but Euphemia explained with dignity that her affairs were private and if the poliss wanted to see her they could come to Shedog.

  ‘And your conversation might be overheard up there,’ Miss Pink observed idly.

  Euphemia nodded, and ushered her into the living room where a magnificent range gleamed with blacklead and a kettle was suspended over the fire from a crane like a ship’s boom. Above the range was a high shelf with two fine Staffordshire dogs. A brass lamp hung from the ceiling. Euphemia thrust a piece of driftwood under the kettle and gestured to a chair.

  ‘Sit yourself down; we’ll have a cup of tea.’ Her eyes shifted. ‘You think only of your stomach! No one was saying anything about eating!’

  A large black cat with a Grecian nose and emerald eyes hurried in making anxious noises. Having made sure that no food was available, he jumped on Miss Pink’s lap, kneaded himself into a comfortable position with his arms over her shoulder and went to sleep. The tea was made in a tin pot and placed on the trivet.

  Miss Pink said, ‘Mrs Hamlyn is going to be lost without your assistance.’

  Euphemia looked embarrassed. ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt Mrs Hamlyn, she knows that.’

  ‘But you don’t want everyone to know all your business.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing; it’s no good keep asking me.’

  ‘Are you afraid of someone?’ Miss Pink was blunt.

  Euphemia poured the tea. ‘Who would I be afraid of?’

  ‘A man who’s killed once could very likely kill again, almost certainly to protect himself. If you were out Monday evening and you met someone, on the shore or in the wood, you might keep quiet for fear of getting that person into trouble. But if he was the killer, he’d want to kill you to keep you from talking. If you said what you’d seen, or whom, then you’re safe. Do you see?’

  ‘I didn’t see nothing,’ Euphemia said, bewildered. ‘Nothing. The light went out about half past ten and that was all.’

  ‘No one came out of the cottage with a torch? It would be Terry going to wash the dishes in the burn.’

  Euphemia was very st
ill. ‘I went to sleep, I didn’t see nothing. Will you be after telling them that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Pink sighed. ‘I’ll see that everyone knows, then you can come back to the house—can’t you?’

  ‘Is Ida Hunt staying?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge she is.’

  ‘I’ll come back then, but remember—’ Euphemia was deadly serious, ‘I told you everything I know.’

  *

  Madge Fraser was packing a small rucksack with food. She had pitched her tent about a hundred yards from the top of the waterfall, not an ideal spot, for the ground was lumpy and would be wet when it rained, moreover at this point the burn was not easily accessible, its banks being miniature rock walls. In fact, the site had appeared abandoned when Miss Pink arrived but within a few moments Madge emerged from a hollow some distance upstream and approached carrying a plastic water bottle. There ensued a search for the top which, being green, took some time to find in the heather. The guide seemed badly organised today.

  Miss Pink remarked on the tent which was very different from the sophisticated designs of those on the dunes. The bay front was two triangular flaps fastened with buttons.

  ‘It’s old,’ Madge explained listlessly. ‘The button holes are so worn it comes undone in a breeze but those two loops on the flaps keep it closed. It suits me for the odd occasion. After all,’ she added dryly, ‘I’m not much interested in clients who can’t afford to put me up in a hotel. Can I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just had the last of my whisky.’

  Miss Pink declined the tea. She glanced at the empty half-bottle on the grass in front of the tent and wondered how often the guide drank whisky in the morning. Aloud she asked, ‘Did you go across to Largo on Monday evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did Terry have to say?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. I didn’t go to the cottage; there was no light.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  There was a pause. ‘About half past ten.’

  ‘Did you see the light go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you go across if there was no light?’

  ‘There was when I left the house. I looked to see. It went out before I reached the river.’ Another pause. ‘So I came back.’

  ‘Did you see anyone come out of the cottage?’

  ‘No,’ Madge said tightly, ‘I didn’t see anyone. There was no torch. I came back.’ Her tone grated with hostility.

  ‘What time did you return to the house?’ Miss Pink wondered why she wasn’t told to mind her own business.

  ‘Not long after I turned back. I couldn’t have been away for more than ten minutes.’

  ‘What has Vera Hamlyn got against you?’

  Madge turned exhausted eyes on the other woman. ‘She thinks I’m having an affair with her old man.’

  ‘You quarrelled with her last night?’

  ‘Of course, you were in the passage. Yes, I did. Is it your business?’ It was said carelessly, without heat.

  Miss Pink looked embarrassed. ‘There were two points to clear up: what time the light went out, and the cause of your quarrel with Vera.’

  ‘The light went out around ten-thirty.’

  ‘She was alive some time after that.’

  ‘What?’ Miss Pink watched with interest as the girl struggled to recover herself. ‘Who saw her?’

  ‘Willie MacNeill went to Largo at eleven, at which time she was washing billies in the burn.’

  Madge inhaled deeply. It seemed to take a long time for her lungs to fill, then, as she exhaled, she started to giggle quietly. Miss Pink looked at the islands and waited. After a while the giggling stopped and there was a long silence. Far away, probably at Rahane, a dog barked.

  ‘So it was Willie,’ came her voice, calmly.

  ‘Willie says she had a man with her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About eleven,’ Miss Pink repeated patiently. She turned and looked at the guide. She had changed—again. Now she was excited. ‘I’ve been such an ass,’ she said warmly, ‘Lavender was implying the most revolting things about Ken; she was obscene! But, well, mud sticks. I got to worrying and remembering things about Ken, and how he was attracted to young girls. Lavender hinted he went over to Largo that night; I think she’s getting a kick out of pretending he’s the killer.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, from about a quarter to eleven until well after midnight he was drinking with me in the lounge.’

  Miss Pink nodded. ‘That’s one point cleared up.’

  ‘I don’t think he left that bar all evening. When I came in, he and Gordon were hard at it on one of their interminable arguments.’

  ‘So Hamlyn was there too?’

  ‘Oh yes; the three of us: from before eleven until after midnight.’

  Miss Pink looked at her watch. ‘I must be getting down.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you be taking your meals at the house?’

  ‘No, I got some food from the youth hostel. I’m going to do the ridge tomorrow, and I’ll be leaving Skye the next day—assuming the police will let me go. Ken’s paid me and cancelled the engagement. We couldn’t have gone on with it when Lavender was in this mood. I’ll fade out and go to the Lakes; my next engagement is in Langdale.’

  ‘Don’t you ever take a holiday?’

  ‘When the season’s over. Can’t afford it before; I’ve got a daughter, you see.’ Miss Pink’s face was alert with interest and Madge was forced to elaborate: ‘Her father was killed on Monte Rosa before she was born.’

  ‘That was tragic!’

  Madge shrugged. ‘She might never have known him if he’d lived. He was married and I doubt if he’d have contributed towards her support. He wasn’t like that. In any case, I’m making enough to keep a family going. There’s my mother too; she’s got a widow’s pension. She looks after Barbara. We manage all right.’ She stood up briskly. ‘I’m going to put some grub on the ridge by that Stone Man, and then take the car to Sligachan and leave it to pick up tomorrow evening.’

  ‘How will you get back to Shira today?’

  ‘I’ll get a lift; there’ll be plenty of people on the road, what with the murder and everything.’

  Miss Pink said wonderingly, ‘You don’t seem to have been affected by Terry’s death.’

  Madge was surprised at the comment. ‘I’m not.’ She added earnestly, ‘It was bound to happen, you know.’

  ‘But when you said you’d visit her when she was on her own, I thought you liked her.’

  ‘Well, I thought she might be lonely with Colin away. I mean, she was only a few years older than my kid.’

  ‘But now she’s dead, you don’t think of her like your own daughter.’

  ‘That’s the point! I’ve got my own people to think about, haven’t I? She’s gone; what can I do about it?’ She was fitting the plastic water bottle into her pack. She glanced up at the headwall of Coire na Banachdich and in an instant she was cool and professional again. ‘If the weather breaks, I can always come down the corrie.’

  ‘You think it might be going to break?’

  ‘I don’t like it. Something’s brewing. The air’s sticky. Feel it?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Corroboration helps.’ Merrick indicated the pile of papers in front of him. ‘Madge Fraser was with Hamlyn and Maynard in the lounge from a quarter to eleven to ten past midnight because on that point the three of them agree. But there’s only her word for it that she turned back from Largo, although several people confirm that the light went out about ten-thirty. Who put it out?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think it was the murderer,’ Miss Pink said.

  He was puzzled. ‘He puts the light out and then helps her wash the dishes? Why put it out when she’s still alive?’

  ‘Why does it have to be Terry in the burn?’

  ‘Because he said—wait a minute.’ Merrick sorted through the statements, picked one out and read it, his lips moving. He looked up. ‘He saw no faces, only torchlight
on pans, and he heard only mumbling.’ He looked back at the statement. ‘“I heard her talking and then I heard a man. . . . I couldn’t hear what she said. . . .” So they were both mumbling. I see what you mean, ma’am; he heard a woman and assumed it was Terry, but you think it was another woman—and the killer?’

  ‘Terry was a town girl; would she put the lamp out, wait half an hour, then go outside to wash the pans, and come back to a dark house? I asked Euphemia if someone came out with a torch but she was definite that nothing happened after the lamp was put out. So is Madge Fraser.’

  Merrick was dubious. ‘Could she have put the lamp out in order to watch aurora? She might not have seen the Northern Lights before.’

  ‘It’s the time lag,’ Miss Pink insisted. ‘The lamp went out at ten-thirty, the pans were being washed close to eleven. What was happening during that half hour? I can’t believe that Terry was standing outside Largo watching aurora.’

  ‘So what do you think was happening? All right, there was a couple washing the pans. Which couple is missing from the house—this house? Or anywhere else,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘The Lindsays are the only married couple who were both in their rooms at that time,’ Ivory said.

  Merrick stared at his sergeant. ‘Why wash the dishes?’ His eyes came round to Miss Pink.

  ‘Billies,’ she corrected absently. ‘To confuse the issue—the time of death? Irwin wasn’t expected back until late the following night. If the murderer left the billies dirty, wouldn’t that imply that she died shortly after she’d eaten? But if they were washed, no one would know when she died.’

  ‘It could be more concrete than that,’ Merrick said. ‘Surely, with MacNeill tipping rubbish, there was a chance she wouldn’t be found at all and it would be assumed, since the killer had removed all her belongings—except for that marble chip you found, ma’am—that she’d left the glen? The billies could have been washed to give colour to that theory. If they’d been left dirty, the chances might be that Irwin would suspect foul play simply because, if she’d left him voluntarily, she’d have cleared up first.’