by Gwen Moffat
‘Does he still tell the same story?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘About the woman washing billies in the burn? Funny, both these cases. . . . Yes, he sticks to that. Why did Madge Fraser leave the house, ma’am? When she asked my permission to do so she intimated that Mrs Maynard objected to her presence here.’
‘There was an enormous amount of tension after Terry’s death. Everyone was snappy and liable to jump to conclusions. Vera Hamlyn thought that Madge was too friendly with her husband.’
‘Anything in it?’
‘I—don’t know.’
There was a knock at the door and Ida Hunt looked in. ‘There’s a telephone call for Inspector Merrick,’ she told him coldly.
He excused himself and went out. In his absence Miss Pink learned that Ivory disliked hotels and was homesick for his wife’s cooking. He wasn’t enamoured of the Terry Cooke case; it wasn’t what he was used to, except the disposal in Scarf Geo. They were not unfamiliar with bodies on tips; particularly burning tips—
‘But drowning will be more familiar,’ she put in firmly. ‘You’ll have had a few of those. Rather run of the mill?’
‘Well, no; Madge Fraser is quite interesting: did she fall or was she—’ He stopped and grabbed clumsily for a scone.
‘The C.I.D. don’t investigate accidents.’ She was casual.
‘We were on a murder case,’ he said with dignity, ‘and the Fiscal didn’t like it.’
Merrick came back. ‘Message from the pathologist.’ His eyes were keen and hard in the haggard face. ‘She was smothered.’
There was a long silence during which Merrick poured himself a second cup of tea, Ivory studied the floor and Miss Pink’s mind changed gear. She experienced a blankness at first, then came the awareness that at least some of the pieces were about to click into place.
Ivory spoke first. ‘The Fiscal was right then.’
Merrick addressed Miss Pink. ‘You expected it, ma’am; you drew our attention to the whisky, and the tent being fastened. Then there was the level of the burn.’
‘There was something wrong. But I didn’t expect—I’m shocked at the method. What was the rest of the report?’
‘It was only a preliminary and only a message. He knew I’d like to know as soon as he discovered that. There’s a lot of work to do yet. There are stomach contents and blood to be analysed. But we’ve got enough to be going on with—’ He stopped and regarded her with raised eyebrows. ‘And you can vouch for everyone from—when?’
‘Six-thirty perhaps; long before dark.’
‘Until eleven, except that you say the Maynards went up before. How long before?’
‘About a quarter of an hour.’
‘Two married couples and Betty Lindsay.’ He looked at Ivory. ‘We’ll see them next, but unless a couple’s in collusion, or it’s Betty Lindsay, it wasn’t done after they went to bed—not, that is, by a resident of this house. Failing that, it was someone from outside, or it wasn’t done when we assume it was. We don’t know the time of death. Who was the last innocent person to see her alive?’
‘So far as we know,’ Ivory said, ‘the people who picked her up at Sligachan.’
‘They’ll have to be traced. That still leaves twenty-four hours during which someone must have seen her. We want some help back here.’ He was brisk now. He addressed Miss Pink. ‘If you’ll give Ivory a list of people’s movements from when you came down to the house yesterday. . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘Alibis can be faked—’
‘No one can fake his presence,’ Miss Pink said stoutly. ‘If she was killed when X was under my eye in the lounge, then X can’t be the killer, not in this context.’
‘That follows. So we have to fix the time of death. What is the earliest time that she could have reached that pass?’
‘That’s a difficult one. We don’t know what time she started, but even if she was north of Alasdair when we reached it, I don’t think she’d get to the pass before two, and an hour to reach the tent. . . . But we came down at four-thirty and she wasn’t at the tent then! It was closed.’
‘Would you see that gear: the little rucksack, the boots and socks, from the path you were on?’
‘No, that would be quite impossible.’
‘So she could have been there and asleep inside the tent.’ He turned to Ivory. ‘We’ll make a start on people’s movements then, double-checking wherever possible. We’ll have help within the hour. We’ll intensify the search for Watkins and Lindsay because if it was someone outside the house, my money’s on them rather than Colin Irwin. And although everyone’s under suspicion, it’s got to be impressed on them, that no one must do anything, go anywhere, alone. That applies particularly to you, ma’am. Cooke’s appears to have been a murder on impulse, but this last one was carefully worked out. There’s a very clever killer somewhere and even now, with this second murder, we don’t know why he killed.’
Chapter Fifteen
Excluding herself there were thirteen people whose movements the detectives were anxious to determine. Ivory made a list; Miss Pink, searching her memory, told him where people had been to her certain knowledge, but when whereabouts were a matter of assumption or hearsay, the information was queried.
At the end they sat back and regarded each other: Ivory showing resignation, Miss Pink annoyance; there was a query against every name on the list. But as she rejected the possibility of collusion between the married people in the house, she remembered the disappearance of sleeping capsules from the Maynards’ room. Ivory noted the information stolidly but lifted his eyebrows at the thought of the killer slipping from the house after dropping Tuinal in a nightcap.
As for the movements of the crofting women: Ida had waited at dinner and subsequently there had been glimpses of her and Euphemia, and Vera Hamlyn, in the kitchen, when Hamlyn went through for ice. The women had gone home about eight thirty. After that they were an unknown quantity as, indeed, were Captain Hunt and Irwin for the whole of the period under review: yesterday afternoon and evening—and night.
Lindsay, Watkins and the two MacNeills were the remaining suspects, and the only help she could give there related to the MacNeills. She repeated Irwin’s information that the old man had gone to Portree, ostensibly to join Willie. The son had left the police station at eleven o’clock yesterday morning, Ivory told her. The MacNeills seemed to have vanished between Portree and Glen Shira.
At five-thirty Euphemia served Miss Pink with a large sherry and she went upstairs to steep gently in her bath. Before she dressed, she made a personal list. She wrote: ‘Where is the water bottle, and why is it missing?’—‘Why was the tent fastened?’—but almost immediately she answered that one: ‘To delay discovery.’ She contemplated this at length, then queried it. The third question needed careful framing: ‘If X took the whisky to the tent in order to get Madge drunk, how was she induced to drink it?’ and ‘Is half a pint sufficient to stop the victim struggling when smothered?’ No one could imagine Madge being easy to kill.
Despite the proliferation of queries she felt that this piece of paper was more apposite than the one which Ivory had prepared, although the latter was also based on her information.
She dressed and went down to the kitchen where she found Euphemia blanching sorrel.
‘Where is Mrs Hamlyn?’
‘She’s at the boat, miss.’
‘Is she going fishing?’
Euphemia strained the sorrel through a sieve. ‘She might.’
‘How did she take the news of Madge’s death?’
There was a flicker in Euphemia’s eyes. ‘She—didna like it.’
‘She must be very worried.’
‘We all are.’ The woman turned her back and, lifting the lid of a fricandeau pan, interested herself in the contents, pushing steak around with a fork and mumbling.
‘Where is the colonel?’
‘He went upstairs a while back.’ Euphemia turned quickly and through the window they saw Vera Hamlyn cross the yard t
o the stables carrying a petrol can.
Miss Pink went out of the back door. In the stable Vera was wiping her hands on a piece of rag. She gasped as the other’s shadow fell across the doorway.
‘Sorry to startle you,’ Miss Pink apologised. ‘Going for a trip?’
‘Just filling her up.’ There was a pause. ‘Are they keeping an eye on me?’
‘Should they?’
‘They should watch everybody until the killer’s found.’ She seemed quite composed. ‘What are they doing now?’
‘They’re checking on people’s movements last evening. When did you know that Madge was murdered?’
‘Actually, the inspector started with Gordon: wanting to know where everyone else was, of course.’ She was coolly amused. They were still standing inside the stable, looking across the yard to the kitchen where Euphemia had been joined by Ida.
‘I’ve got no regrets,’ Vera said.
After a moment, Miss Pink asked, in the same companionable tone, ‘Not even about her child?’
‘Yes, I have there; but the grandmother is comparatively young. Madge would have made a bad mother; it’s better this way. She was unstable. All that cold dedicated manner, and the ruthless-mother bit: it wasn’t an act, but it was only one side of her. The other side was ruthless top; she was totally amoral. When Madge wanted a man, she took him without any thought at all for the consequences.’ Vera gave Miss Pink a quiet smile. ‘And no fear. That was her mistake. Madge was the classic victim. I’m only amazed it didn’t happen before; her child’s father was a married man, too.’
‘When did you go up there?’
‘Up where, dear?’
‘To the tent.’
‘My prints weren’t found there.’
‘What did you do with the water bottle?’
Vera’s face was a mask. ‘Water bottle?’
‘What’s wrong with your husband’s back?’
‘A slipped disc.’
‘Is he having treatment?’
‘No one knows he has a damaged spine, except me—and you. Presumably Betty Lindsay told you. I’m getting careless.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ The tone was dry. ‘What was the point of washing the billies at Largo?’
The leap to a different murder was followed without effort. ‘I assume: to confuse the issue?’
‘And who was the man in the burn?’
‘What man, dear? Washing the dishes? Willie only heard mumbling; he didn’t hear a woman and a man, but a high and a low mumbling: easy enough to imitate the low register.’
‘Terry was dead at that moment?’
‘Was she?’
‘A curious thing,’ Miss Pink said, ‘I would have thought the only woman in this community strong enough to carry a body was Betty Lindsay.’
‘Poor Betty; what a lot she’s had to take.’ Vera spread her fingers and studied the back of her hand. ‘I have to do all the heavy work round here because of Gordon’s back, and then I was in the Land Army during the war.’ She smiled. ‘No self-starters on tractors in those days, and no discrimination in favour of women. Sacks of corn weighed two hundredweight.’
‘How did you meet your husband?’
‘During the war.’
‘What is his background?’
Vera raised delicate eyebrows. ‘Just normal, dear; his father was a rector, nothing interesting.’ Nor, her tone implied, that concerned Miss Pink. ‘I must see to the dinner,’ she went on, then hesitated. ‘Mustn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ Miss Pink was grave. ‘Where is your husband?’
Vera stood still and eyed her carefully. ‘You mean, what has happened to him, don’t you? He was in our sitting room.’
Miss Pink followed her indoors, went upstairs, along the passage and pushed open the door of the Hamlyns’ sitting room. It was empty.
She went downstairs again and looked in the cocktail lounge. Maynard was behind the bar serving his wife and Betty Lindsay.
‘Where is the colonel?’
None of them knew and no one commented on the question. Maynard asked if she would take a sherry but she said not at that moment.
Down the hall a door opened and, looking out, she caught a glimpse of Ida going back to the kitchen. She went and knocked at the door of the writing room. Ivory opened it and Merrick said cheerfully, ‘Come in; have you got something for us?’
‘Vera Hamlyn has just implied that she killed Madge, and Terry as well.’
‘It’s a common occurrence in murder cases, ma’am, particularly where there’s ladies of a certain age. We’ve got a lot of those here; I’m not surprised that one of them should confess. Have you anything else?’
‘The colonel’s disappeared.’
‘Oh, I doubt it. He’s probably gone fishing. He was with me till six and then said he might go out for a while on the loch. He’s not looking at all well; damaged his back earlier this year when he was picking up a stretcher.’
‘Could he help you on people’s movements?’
‘He confirms your statement that all the residents were in the bar last evening until eleven. He was last up: about a quarter past. The house was locked but the back door key’s on a nail in the passage. Betty Lindsay says she was in bed at eleven. No alibi, of course. No one could have gone up to the tent in the afternoon according to Hamlyn; he was around all day and has a fair idea of everyone’s movements—including your own, incidentally. So far as the people here are concerned, Ida Hunt’s recollection agrees with his. As for the crofters themselves, after eight-thirty Euphemia was at Sletta with the Hunts and she slept there. The crofters are scared. We haven’t got to Irwin yet. We’ve discovered what happened to the MacNeills though. Hamlyn ran across them at lunch time today in one of the bars in Portree, so Ivory asked our people if the MacNeills had been seen last night. They had toured every bar in Portree and ended with Willie being forcibly ejected!’
‘Who could eject Willie?’
‘He was very drunk. His father was no better but more amenable. The MacNeills can’t be in the running for this murder. Now, have you got anything else for us, ma’am?’
A telephone was ringing as she returned to the cocktail lounge.
‘I’ll have that sherry now, Ken.’
‘Had a bad time, dear?’
‘Not really.’ She frowned at him. ‘Why “dear”?’
‘Just a mannerism.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not with it. Have they shaken you?’ He glanced at the other women. ‘We’re all friends here.’
Someone came quickly and heavily along the hall. A door slammed. They were silent, straining their ears.
‘Are there many police in the glen?’ Miss Pink asked, trying to make conversation. It would seem too contrived to talk about anything else.
‘There are several fresh cars on the camp site,’ Betty told her, ‘and Ivory said they can bring in a mobile murder control centre to make the investigation on the spot much more efficient. I want to get away. I’m going to look for a croft tomorrow if Merrick will let me go.’
‘Couldn’t we climb?’ Maynard asked wistfully. ‘The police won’t let us leave the glen but they might let us go on the ridge.’ Lavender didn’t look at him. She was smoking thoughtfully.
‘Miss Pink!’
They all jumped. She looked across the hall and saw Merrick beckoning. Ivory was hurrying away. Merrick looked excited. He drew her into the writing room and closed the door.
‘Is Mrs Lindsay in the lounge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her husband and Watkins are at Coruisk. Will you show me?’
‘It’s on the other side of the Cuillin.’ She indicated the loch on the map.
‘That’s only five miles away!’
‘Well—’
‘There’s this climbers’ hut. Where is it?’
‘Where the outlet from the loch runs into the sea.’ She showed him. ‘How do you know they’re there?’
‘An Elgol man took them ro
und yesterday in his boat. Apparently Elgol is the place where you get a boat for Coruisk? It’s them all right; they left Watkins’ van at the boatman’s croft. How long would it take to walk to Eas Mor from this hut?’
‘By the quickest way—’ She looked at the map and calculated, ‘Something like three to four hours over the Banachdich pass.’
He nodded. ‘Time enough to do it. Will you tell Mrs Lindsay her husband has been located, and where, and watch her reactions? I’m going round to Elgol by road now but I’m leaving a car at the head of the glen to make sure no one leaves until I give the word. I’ll send some people back to carry on the work here, and to give you moral support in case . . .’
‘In case it’s not Watkins or Lindsay?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Just keep them together tonight, that’s all I ask.’
Betty was neither surprised nor alarmed at the news. From their lack of reaction it was evident that none of the people in the cocktail lounge thought that Andrew Lindsay, nor even George Watkins, was a murderer.
Vera opened the door at the back of the bar to tell them that dinner was ready. She accepted a gin from Maynard and remained with them to drink it, smiling a little nervously, which was not like Vera. When Miss Pink caught her eye, she didn’t look away or blink, but her face was suddenly expressionless.
They went in to dinner, drew the tables together and re-laid the places. Ida entered and regarded the new arrangement without comment or surprise. Maynard ordered a Burgundy.
‘Where’s Gordon?’ Betty asked, fiddling with her glass. People murmured negatively.
‘You’re very quiet, dear.’ Maynard addressed his wife. ‘You’ve hardly said a word all evening.’ She looked at him without subterfuge, then at Miss Pink who said: ‘If you know something, you should tell us. It’s dangerous to hang on to knowledge.’
Maynard gave her a quick glance. ‘Is that what Madge did?’
Lavender bit her lip and said to Miss Pink, ‘It was someone she saw in the wood, wasn’t it?’
Ida came in with the steaks.
