by Gwen Moffat
‘What do you think?’ he asked hopelessly.
‘If we can get into the ravine at all, it will be by way of the left bank; the right one is impossible.’
‘You think she’s—’ He gulped air and tried again. ‘You think we ought to go down?’ He looked at the canopy of birch foliage below them. ‘It could be dangerous.’
But she was already crossing the burn to the left bank. He followed and they made their way round the gouge in the moor to a place where the trees stepped down at the least precipitous angle. They descended through a green gloom, slipping and sliding from trunk to trunk, came to a loose bank of shale above the water, crossed the burn, struggled through saplings on the opposite side, then came back again, the sound of the fall increasing until they could no longer communicate except by signs.
They stumbled over rounded boulders to the foot of Eas Mor. Miss Pink was in the lead, concentrating on her footing because the rocks were wet with spray and it had occurred to her that to lie here with a broken ankle waiting for rescue, with the fall thundering above her head, would constitute a peculiar form of horror. She looked up and saw dark globules of water, like tipped rubbish, leap out against the sky. She looked down and saw the body.
*
The waterfall dropped to a green pool about twenty-five feet wide, and ten feet from the fall the main outlet ran off between two rocks. The body had gone through the rocks and now lay stranded on the slanting shallows beyond.
It was very cold. The fall made air currents like a wind. Miss Pink moved forward, slipping on the stones. There was little doubt that it was the guide; they recognised the breeches and jersey. She lay face-down and barefooted. When they turned her over the features were unrecognisable, but then it had been a long fall.
Maynard walked away and sat down. Miss Pink glanced at his back and then examined the body. The limbs were fractured in many places and quite flaccid. She stood up and, for a moment, had the impression that she was deaf because it appeared that the water was falling without sound. She moved away purposefully and Maynard jumped when she touched his shoulder.
They climbed out of the ravine, the sense of hearing returning as the rush of the fall receded. Now they could distinguish bird calls and the soughing of birches in the breeze. Out on the open moor, Maynard turned to Miss Pink.
‘What do we do now?’
‘Sit down,’ she said comfortably.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ He sat on a heathery ledge and stared at the sea. ‘There’s no hurry.’ Miss Pink said nothing but she was not staring in his hopeless fashion; she was frowning, pondering, and by telepathy, he hit on the subject.
‘When did it happen? She’d never slip in the daylight, sober or drunk.’
‘There’s no stiffness in the body. In normal conditions you’d expect it to be rigid after twelve hours, but then cold delays rigor; the night temperature and the water could account for the delay.’
‘She must have been worn out. She came straight down from the Banachdich pass to the tent.’
‘Worn out after that distance?’
‘It’s a long way.’
‘She’d intended to do the whole ridge.’
‘She made a mistake. If she didn’t come off because she was tired, why should she come off? What’s it matter anyway?’
‘Then,’ Miss Pink suggested, ‘she came off in that brief storm yesterday afternoon or—later?’ Her voice rose, puzzled. ‘And when she went for water, fell in the burn?’ She frowned at him.
‘There was the whisky, don’t forget that. If it was a full bottle when she started, she accounted for most of it. She must have shrugged off her pack, got out of her boots and just sat there in the heather swigging whisky until she felt like eating. She put her sandals on but didn’t trouble to fasten them. That’s dangerous. Then she stumbled on that slabby bit and fell down the mossy corner, probably hitting her head. The burn did the rest. I wonder why she drank so much? Of course, it hasn’t been her week, and having to retreat from the ridge could have been the last straw on top of all the trouble in the glen.’
This time their thoughts were running on the same lines. He shook his head in a negative gesture. ‘No. She’d never do that!’
‘Not deliberate?’
‘No. Madge lived for her family. She wouldn’t have understood suicide, let alone have contemplated the thought for herself.’
‘I just wondered.’ She sounded meek. ‘The burn looks too low to carry a body to the fall. You’d expect it to jam.’
‘It rained.’
‘It wasn’t a spate when we came down.’
‘There was another storm in the night.’ There was a pause, then he said carefully, ‘Why should she kill herself?’
‘Terry’s killer must have suffered.’
‘Not if he’s mad.’ He was equable. ‘Madge wasn’t mad.’
‘Madness isn’t always obvious, but you’d known her for a long time. . . . You’d seen her under pressure—well, on hard climbs. Surely she wasn’t always cool?’
‘She was worried if things got difficult.’ His tone was deliberate. ‘And she was relieved afterwards, like anyone else—but this is totally irrelevant. Do you think she was a nutter?’
‘If she killed herself—’
‘She didn’t. She had nothing to do with Terry either.’
Miss Pink said: ‘Wednesday evening, when you were drinking, you thought Vera turned Madge out of the house because she suspected Madge had something to do with Terry’s death.’
‘I was drunk. You said so.’
‘You’ve changed your mind?’
He sighed. ‘Well, I don’t think Madge was having an affair with Hamlyn—why, she only tolerated the old fellow because he was Vera’s husband! Perhaps he’s having an affair with someone else and lied to Vera about her identity; maybe he was just boasting about Madge.’
‘Do they share the same room?’
‘Who?’
‘Vera and her husband. Do they share a bedroom?’
‘Of course they do.’ He stared at her as if she’d been overcome by events. ‘I’d better go down and report this to the police. And they’ll be needing a rescue team to get the body out. Are you coming down?’
‘I’ll make myself useful looking for an easier way out of the ravine.’
But as soon as he’d disappeared from sight she went back to the tent where she opened Madge’s day sack and ran over the contents. The sack was made of waterproof material and the folded anorak inside was quite dry. There was a survival bag, a woollen cap, headlamp, whistle and a tin of Elastoplast, also half a bar of Kendal Mint Cake. There was no other food and no plastic water carrier.
*
The pass was in cloud, and the gullies which dropped away on the Coruisk side were terrifying. It was not a nice place to be alone, but Miss Pink reminded herself that Madge had often been alone, and she continued searching until, away beyond another jumbled crest, she saw the Stone Man.
It was very quiet; even the wind was soundless, and the mist appeared to move of its own volition. Only the scree shifted noisily under her boots and the sound echoed—or was someone else moving on the scree?
The Stone Man loomed and wavered like a real man above the abyss but she clenched her teeth and went towards it and the thing, as if intimidated, resumed its solidity and waited—smugly? Two bodies had made her fanciful.
The cache was about six feet from its base and, she was almost certain, to the north. She carried no compass for the rocks were magnetic in places and compasses on the Cuillin were unreliable. But the question of degrees was immaterial; the cache was on the Sgurr Banachdich side of the pass and this was it and there was the hole which Madge had said was ideal, and the rock to block the entrance. It was not blocking the entrance any longer and the hole was empty.
She knelt and peered at the scree. There was nothing to show that food had been stored here, or eaten: no shred of paper, not an orange pip nor a crumb of bread, and if the plastic wa
ter carrier had ever been in the hole, it had vanished.
Stones moved in a crunching rhythm. This was no echo. Very carefully she rose and moved back from the Coruisk side where the precipices were. The footsteps were coming along the pass from the south. A form resolved itself into a person and suddenly the atmosphere lightened, the cloud drifted away, and Colin Irwin was moving towards her. He looked puzzled rather than surprised at her presence.
‘I was on my way to Madge’s tent and I met Maynard. He told me what happened. It’s ghastly.’
‘Why were you going to the tent?’
‘I only learned this morning that she’d moved up to the waterfall, and Captain Hunt said that she was doing the ridge yesterday, so I got finished quick and went up to ask her what sort of a trip she’d had.’
‘You finished what?’
‘The cows and so on. I’m staying at Rahane for a bit. Old MacNeill got a call from Willie yesterday to fetch him home because the police had let him go. I’d been helping out while Willie was at Portree.’
‘So Willie was back in the glen last night?’
‘No. They never came back: the pair of them.’
‘Didn’t they phone?’
Irwin grinned. ‘Crofters don’t publicise their whereabouts.’ His face fell. ‘But this is awful: Madge falling in the burn! I can’t believe it! Can you understand how it happened?’
‘She must have been extremely tired to retreat from here—’
‘Maynard told me. Why do you think she went down from here? Is the food gone?’
‘Every bit of it.’ She led him across the scree to the hole near the Stone Man. He looked round him and then up the ridge towards Sgurr Banachdich.
‘Who passed you before I came on the scene?’
She blinked at him. ‘This morning?’
‘Didn’t someone go by a few minutes before I arrived? I thought I saw a figure going on towards the summit, but the cloud was shifting about; I could have imagined it—must have done if you say there was no one.’ She regarded him fixedly but he didn’t notice her expression. He reverted to the tragedy. ‘Euphemia said something odd about Madge.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She said that she wouldn’t camp alone in this glen, if she was paid. She won’t stay in Shedog on her own; she sleeps at Sletta with the Hunts. When I pointed out that Madge wasn’t afraid of anything, Euphemia said that it would be better if she was, and she said the same thing held with Terry. Isn’t that strange?’
‘Not really,’ Miss Pink said.
He sat on a rock and, after a moment’s hesitation, she sat beside him. They looked out from under an umbrella of cloud to the mainland and the Sound of Sleat basking in sunshine. When he spoke again his tone was quiet and conversational and, in view of what he was saying, she realised that he was suffering from shock.
‘Funny thing: I always thought it was Watkins who killed Terry, well, not quite true; my initial reaction was that it was Willie: when I found out that he went across to Largo, but I soon realised there had been a misunderstanding. That was after I talked to Willie. He plays the game according to the rules, you see; they’re very strict on etiquette, the crofters. But Terry didn’t know there were any rules. She didn’t give him the ritual brush-off when he went over the first time on Monday evening, so he went back—he told me himself. He thought she was just there for anyone, you see. She’d been Watkins’ girl and then she came to me; I expect everyone thought the same thing. He was quite frank about it. But I’m a bit puzzled about Watkins.’
Miss Pink was following this attentively. ‘Where does he come in?’
‘If it wasn’t Willie, the next most likely person is Watkins but is he likely? He knew Terry—and he didn’t want her and he was vain. It wouldn’t be like him to come across to Largo and risk her rejecting him. Besides, he was drunk.’
‘That can be simulated. You’re quite sure she would have rejected Watkins—or anyone?’
‘We got on. We found out in one day. She said she’d stay on Skye, with me.’ He looked at her candidly. ‘She meant it. So I can’t think she’d invite another guy to Largo in that way. She respected me and it was my place. Do you understand?’
‘Yes; she’d found what she was looking for—but did she have all that much regard for her own body? You have to face facts, and she was promiscuous. You’re suggesting that she changed suddenly?’
‘Am I?’ He gave the question thought, gazing down the corrie to the glen where Largo was visible, even at this distance. ‘She wasn’t promiscuous,’ he said carefully, ‘because that means everybody, and Terry had no time for old or ugly men—’
‘Good gracious! What was George Watkins?’
‘The exception.’
In the silence that followed, both seemed to be acknowledging the truth of this, then Miss Pink asked, ‘Why are you talking about Terry?’
‘Well, why not?’
‘It is Madge who has just died.’
He stared at her. ‘Are you reading some significance into that? Madge died last night, and I talk about Terry who died several days ago? But there was no personal relationship between me and Madge, and I guess her death put me in mind of Terry. Like, you might say: death was the common denominator.’
‘You weren’t thinking that there was any connection between the two deaths? You see, what you’ve been suggesting is that Terry’s visitor on Monday evening was not a man because she wasn’t interested in anyone other than yourself—’ he shifted restlessly, ‘—or, if not that, that she would not have invited a man into your house. That leaves a woman, doesn’t it? But the women form a very restricted circle—and one of them has just died. Which is why there could be more than the mere fact of death as a common denominator.’
Chapter Fourteen
On the descent they made a wide detour to avoid Eas Mor; neither had any desire to see the body being evacuated. In the context, it was undignified; one would have felt differently had the guide died at work.
Irwin left Miss Pink at the entrance to Glen Shira House and she walked down the drive to find a black police car parked outside the porch, and Lavender Maynard sitting on the seat in front of the Michaelmas daisies.
‘The police were asking where you were,’ the other said by way of greeting. ‘Merrick was annoyed that you’d disappeared.’
‘So that is Merrick’s car; what is he doing?’
Lavender looked sly. ‘Madge was a suspect in the first murder case; naturally the C.I.D. would come back when she was killed.’
‘First murder case?’
Lavender smiled unpleasantly. ‘I mean the first death, of course. This one is an accident, isn’t it?’
Miss Pink let that go. ‘What is Merrick doing at this moment?’
‘He’s talking to Kenneth. They got the body down some time ago; they had a lot of difficulty in the ravine. It kept getting tangled in the trees.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No, but Captain Hunt went up. We’ve had the Press here and the Mountain Rescue team. Betty and I were helping cut sandwiches in the kitchen. You were lucky to miss all the fuss. You’re back early. Where did you go?’
‘To Banachdich.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a pleasant scramble.’
‘What did Colin Irwin want with you?’ Lavender smiled like a ferret. ‘He followed you up the corrie. Captain Hunt—’
‘—Saw me, and told—Euphemia?’
‘And yet,’ Lavender said with a startling swing to objectivity, ‘although they’re so garrulous, they don’t give anything away if it’s to their disadvantage.’
‘And they talk when that is advantageous? Who benefited by publicising my meeting with Colin Irwin?’
‘Who indeed? Who stole my sleeping capsules? Two have been taken from a bottle beside my bed.’
‘Perhaps you miscounted.’
‘I never miscount. Ask Kenneth.’
‘Could he have taken them?’
‘He won’t t
ouch barbiturates; says he can get to sleep by yoga.’
Betty Lindsay came out of the porch wearing an apron, her face red and shining.
‘Can I sit here with you? What an awful day! Still, I suppose it’s best to keep busy.’
‘Is there anything to do?’ Lavender asked without enthusiasm.
‘No. Euphemia and Ida are coping with the washing up. Vera’s gone upstairs for a few minutes’ rest.’
Miss Pink said, ‘Euphemia is here, despite the police? They drove her away last time.’
‘She didn’t like the police asking her intimate questions. Of course, they’re not doing it this time: taking statements. Only from the last people to see Madge alive. They want you,’ she added carelessly. ‘They’re with Ken at the moment.’
‘They’ll want Vera,’ Lavender said, and smiled.
‘I don’t see why,’ Betty countered. ‘This was an accident, not a murder case.’
‘Not proved yet,’ Miss Pink said. ‘It’s not official.’
Betty scrutinised her face. ‘The Fiscal was up there, and the pathologist.’
‘Not at the fall!’
‘Oh yes. And at the tent.’
‘How did the pathologist get here so quickly? Surely they haven’t one resident on Skye?’
‘He flew up from Glasgow for the autopsy on Terry and was still here when Ken reported the accident.’
‘What were the results of the autopsy?’
‘I don’t know. But I shouldn’t think there’ll be any surprises. That goes for Madge too—’ Miss Pink was regarding her with astonishment, but she went on evenly, ‘Ken said she must have drunk nearly half a pint of Scotch. Well, it’ll be there in the stomach, won’t it?’
‘Bloodstream. It’s absorbed almost immediately.’
‘Like Tuinal,’ Lavender put in brightly.
Miss Pink started to say something and checked. ‘Why did you say that?’ she asked curiously.
‘That’s what I take: Tuinal.’
‘So what?’ Betty was brusque.
‘Two capsules have been stolen.’
‘I expect Madge pinched them. She’d need a good night’s sleep before doing the ridge. And after you and Vera had been getting at her, she could have found sleep difficult. She must have taken your capsules: poetic justice.’
