by M C Beaton
“Who the hell…?”
“Effie Garrard. An artist who lives here. She’s flashing around an engagement ring and says Jock is going to marry her.”
“Jock is divorced and swore blind he’d never marry again. Is this Effie beautiful?”
“No. She was at the ceilidh. Wait a bit. You weren’t there.”
“Nobody asked me.”
“I should have done,” said Hamish ruefully. “She seemed to be chasing Jock, and he looked as if he didn’t like it one bit.”
“I’ll look into it. Where does she live?”
“Not going to have a row or anything?”
“Why should I? Jock’s a valued client, but that’s all. But I am protective of my clients.”
Hamish gave her directions and then said, “There’s another odd thing. Although she’s been supplying art works for sale, the pottery wheel has dust on it and her paintbrushes are dry and stiff.”
“Aha! Meaning you think she’s been getting the stuff from somewhere else and passing it off as her own?”
“Just a thought.”
“Leave her to me.”
Betty drove up to Effie’s cottage. Effie answered the door. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jock’s agent, Betty Barnard. May I come in?”
“Just for a moment.”
Betty walked in and looked around, her sharp eyes taking in the details Hamish had noticed.
She turned and faced Effie. “What’s this rubbish about you and Jock getting married?”
“It’s not rubbish. It’s the truth. Look!” Effie waved the diamond ring under Betty’s nose.
“When did he propose?”
“Just before he left.”
“I don’t believe it. Jock swore he would never get married again.”
“Well, believe it and get out of here.”
Betty turned in the doorway and said, “I don’t believe you’re an artist, either. No artist would leave paintbrushes like that, and the pottery wheel looks as if it hasn’t been used.”
“You bitch!” screamed Effie. “I’m an artist, and I’ll get Jock to fire you as soon as he gets back!”
Betty gave a contemptuous shrug and walked out. Effie followed her, beside herself with rage.
“He’ll need to marry me anyway,” she shouted as Betty was getting into her car.
Betty swung round. “Why? What d’you mean?”
“I’m pregnant.”
And with that bombshell, Effie went back in and slammed the door.
Betty phoned Hamish and asked him to meet her at the Italian restaurant for dinner.
He found her nervous and agitated. “Effie says Jock’s got to marry her because she’s pregnant,” she burst out as soon as Hamish sat down.
“It might be possible,” said Hamish. “Does he drink a lot?”
“He goes on binges from time to time.”
“He could’ve got plastered and taken her to bed.”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you phoned him?”
“I’ve tried. The gallery said he was staying with friends, and I don’t have their number. I left a message for him to phone back, but he often doesn’t reply for a couple of days, particularly if he’s out partying with other artists.”
“There’s really nothing we can do until he gets in touch,” said Hamish. “Order something and have some wine. I’m getting this.”
Willie came to take their orders. “I saw Miss Halburton-Smythe today,” he said. “Herself was looking as beautiful as ever.”
“Take the orders and go away, Willie,” snapped Hamish.
“Everyone seems to mind everyone else’s business around here,” said Betty after doey had ordered. She glanced out of the window. “It looks as if rain is coming…Oh, my God. This is all Jock needs!”
“What?”
“I’ve just seen his ex-wife walking past.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“He’s probably behind with the alimony as usual and she’s hunting him down. Right little harpy.”
“When did he get divorced?”
“Two years ago.”
“Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“How old are they?”
“The boy, Callum, is six, and Shona, the girl, five.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“I don’t really know. Can we talk about something else? I’ve had enough of Jock and his problems for one evening.”
The next day, Hamish was in Patel’s general store when he saw Angela. Behind a stack of cans of baked beans—Lochdubh’s favourite food—he said to her in a low voice, “There’s a further complication. Effie is saying she’s pregnant.”
The Currie sisters, on the other side of the stack of baked beans, clutched each other. Then, forgetting their shopping, they hurried out to spread the news around the village about Effie’s pregnancy.
The villagers warmed to Effie. Poor wee lassie. Getting knocked up like that. Of course, she was a bit old to be having a baby, but look at old Mrs. McClutcheon. She had got pregnant with her last when she was fifty! And so the gossip ran round and round.
Effie did experience moments of sheer dread on the odd occasions when reality returned. But Jock had said he would marry her, she thought, stubbornly rephrasing his last goodbye.
But as the rain continued to hammer down on the corrugated iron roof of her cottage until she thought the sound of it would drive her mad, she learned from Mrs. Wellington, who had called to bring her some scones, that Jock’s ex-wife was in the village waiting for him.
“What’s she like?” asked Effie.
“Small, blonde, and beautiful,” said the ministers wife. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Jock was obviously looking for quality of character this time round.” And with that backhanded compliment, she took her leave.
Jealousy like bile rose up in Effie. Jock was hers, and she was going to keep him.
And then two days later, Jock Fleming came back bringing the good weather with him. Hamish saw him sitting at his easel on the waterfront and went to talk to him.
“Same old view?” commented Hamish.
“Different angle,” said Jock.
“So are you going to marry Effie?”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll go and see her and sort that one out. She’s mad.”
“I’m glad that’s over,” said Hamish. “Have you seen your ex-wife?”
“Dora? Yes, she’s staying at Sea View as well.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No, we get on all right.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“Hamish, run along. You’re as nosy as the rest of them.”
Hamish touched his cap and moved off. In that moment, he was sorry for Effie, probably sitting in her cottage with the ruin of her dreams tumbling about her ears. He thought of calling on her, but the lazy warm days were back and he had promised to go for a drive soon with Betty.
Hamish drove back to the police station two evenings later, happy and contented. He thought Betty was splendid company, and deep down he enjoyed the fact that Priscilla knew of his friendship with the agent.
He fed Sonsie and Lugs and took them out for a walk up the fields at the back of the station.
Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson phoned to give Hamish a date for when the bank robber would be appearing at the sheriff’s court. “He’s got a list of offences as long as your arm,” said Jimmy. “Name’s Hugh McFarlane, all the way from Glasgow.”
When Hamish rang off, it was to find Mrs. Wellington waiting for him. “I’ve been up to Effie’s cottage,” she said. “The door was unlocked, and I walked in when she didn’t answer. No sign of her. Her car is there.”
“She probably went for a walk,” said Hamish.
“Do me a favour. Go up there and just check the place out. It isn’t like the old days, you know. Nobody goes out any more and leaves their door unlocked.”
Ha
mish took his cat and his dog widi him. Although he was beginning to think that Effie was slightly mad, he thought that Mrs. Wellington was being over-fussy.
He went up to the cottage, opened the door, and called, “Effie!”
Silence.
He stepped inside. The main room was dark and deserted. Putting a handkerchief over his hand, he switched on the light. The first thing he noticed was that the room had been scrubbed clean. He sniffed the air. There was a strong smell of cleaning fluid. He searched the kitchen and then went into the bedroom. The bed was made up, and Effie’s clothes were in. the wardrobe. On the bedside table was a framed photograph of Jock at his easel. Hamish took out a pair of latex gloves, put them on, and picked up the photograph. It looked like an amateur snapshot that had been enlarged. It was signed, “To my darling Effie. Jock.”
Hamish replaced the photograph.
Perhaps Jock had been lying, and he really had proposed to Effie and was now trying to pretend it never happened.
The rain that had left Lochdubh alone for a few days had come back in force, and Hamish heard it hammering on the roof. How could she bear that noise?
He went out to the Land Rover, where Lugs and Sonsie were patiently waiting, took his oilskin out of the back, put it on, and began to search around the heathery fields outside the cottage, calling, “Effie!” from time to time.
He went back into the cottage to see if there was any clue he had missed. This time he saw an obvious one. At the side of the armchair by the fireplace was a handbag. Still wearing his gloves, he opened it up. Effie’s wallet and change purse were there along with her door keys and car keys.
Now what to do? he wondered. If he reported her missing and started a full-scale and expensive search and she just came wandering back, he would look silly. He got back into the Land Rover to wait. The wind rose, and the rain became even heavier, lashing against the windscreen, great gusts rocking the vehicle.
At last, he decided something was really wrong and drove back to the police station. He phoned headquarters and asked for permission to call out the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
He was told to phone again in the morning, and if there was still no sighting of her, then the patrol would be alerted.
He fed himself and his animals and dien phoned the minister and told him the situation and asked him to ring the church bell first thing in the morning. This would get the villagers gathered in the church hall, and he could organise a search party.
Hamish slept uneasily. He got up at dawn and went back to Effie’s cottage. It was still deserted. The rain had ceased, and the sky had a pale, washed-out look as if a heavenly hand had scrubbed it clean.
At eight o’clock, after he had again phoned police headquarters and this time extracted a promise that the Mountain Rescue Patrol would be sent out immediately, he went to the church hall, where the villagers were gathering. He went up to the podium and addressed them.
“Effie Garrard is missing. She may have taken a walk up on the moors and had an accident. I want everyone who’s free to help me in a search for her. The folks who are prepared to go stay in the hall.”
Because of the storm, the fishing boats hadn’t been out, and so Archie Macleod and his friends volunteered to join in the search along with the river bailiff and two gamekeepers from the Tommel Castle estate. Women, headed by Mrs. Wellington, volunteered as well.
Priscilla arrived just as the meeting was breaking up. “I’ve just heard,” she said. “I’ll go along with Mrs. Wellington.”
They all gathered again outside Effie’s cottage. Then they spread out over the moors, calling and searching.
Above them flew a helicopter of the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
All day long they searched without finding Effie. Hamish began to worry that she had fallen into a peat bog, and if that were the case, they would never find her.
The villagers began to think that Effie had perhaps committed suicide. Jock had been adamant that he had never proposed to Effie.
The indomitable Mrs. Wellington with her posse of village women set out again the next day. It was glorious weather. They all drove up on the moors as far as the road would allow them and then got out of their vehicles and once more began the search, agreeing to meet again at midday for a picnic lunch.
Hamish came across them at noon. They were sitting by a little stream with their picnic spread out on the grass. “That one can smell free food a mile off,” grumbled one, and Hamish flushed angrily.
Priscilla came up to him. “You look exhausted, Hamish. I’ve got a flask of coffee and some spare sandwiches. Come and sit down for a minute.”
Hamish gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich. “You don’t think she might have gone up into the mountains?” he said. “She must have been right distressed being caught out in that lie about Jock.”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s got a sister down in Brighton. Does anyone know her address?”
“No, but I phoned the Brighton police, and they’re looking for her. I would have thought Effie might have gone there, but her handbag is still at the cottage.”
Priscilla was wearing a tartan shirt, corduroy trousers, and sturdy boots but still managed to look cool and elegant.
“I thought Betty Barnard might have joined in the search,” Hamish said.
“She’s gone off to Glasgow for a few days. I don’t suppose she even knows Effie is missing.”
Gone and never even told me, thought Hamish gloomily. I have no luck with women at all.
Mrs. Wellington was armed with a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars. “I’ll just have a look around,” she boomed, “and then we can start off again.”
“It is hot,” said Priscilla, “and yet Mrs. Wellington is wearing a Harris tweed suit with a sweater under it.”
“I think that one carries around her own air conditioning,” said Hamish. “Is there another sandwich?”
“Got one right here. There you are.”
“I think I see something,” called Mrs. Wellington. “Right up on the mountain.”
Hamish stood up and went to her. “Let me see.”
She handed him the binoculars. “Up there, halfway up, by that cleft of rock. It was in the shadow when I looked before, but the sun’s moved.”
Hamish took the glasses and adjusted them. He focussed on the cleft. It looked like a small brown lump.
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but I’d better climb up there and have a look.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Priscilla. “It’ll take us at least two hours to get up there.”
“That’s Geordie’s Cleft,” said Hamish. It had been named after a young man who had fallen to his death some years before.
They set off, promising to holler if they found anything.
After they had gone, Mrs. Wellington tried to marshal her troops, but rebellion was setting in. The Currie sisters complained their legs were aching, and one by one the other village women began to edge back to their cars until only Mrs. Wellington and Angela Brodie remained.
Hamish and Priscilla kept up a gruelling pace as they climbed up the lower slopes of the mountain and then out onto the rock. It was easier going than they had expected, a path leading upwards for most of the way.
“People have been up here before,” said Hamish.
“There was a rumour a year ago that some of the village boys came up here to smoke pot,” said Priscilla.
“And you never told me!”
“Didn’t seem like a major crime, and at that time, you had a murder case on your hands.”
The sun beat down on their backs as they approached the cleft. Two buzzards sailed lazily overhead.
“There’s something there,” said Hamish, “unless someone’s dumped a bundle of old clothes.”
But as he got nearer, his heart sank. The small figure of a woman was lying on her face.
He went up and, putting on his gloves, turned the body over. It was Effie Garrard. There was
no sign of life.
Priscilla followed him. “How did she die?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “Exposure, maybe.”
He took out his phone and called Mountain Rescue and then called police headquarters in Strathbane.
Priscilla went a little way away and sat down suddenly.
Hamish finished phoning. “Feeling sick?”
“Look at her hand, Hamish. The left hand.”
Hamish bent down and let out a sharp exclamation.
Effies ring finger had been sawn off.
Four
Father, O Father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far,
Above the light of the morning star.
—William Blake
Hamish told Priscilla to phone Mrs. Wellington to say diat Effie had been found, but he ordered that no one except the police were to come near the site.
Priscilla moved a good bit away to sit down and stare blankly into space. Hamish began to check round about the body. Effie was lying on hard rock just outside the cleft, so he was not afraid of messing up any footprints.
He found a wine botde not far from the body. He crouched down and sniffed. There was a sweetish smell, and squinting at the label, he could see it was a dessert wine.
Two helicopters landed down below the mountain, and he saw the figures of police and members of the Mountain Rescue Patrol climbing down onto the heather.
First on the scene was Detective Jimmy Anderson. “Where’s Blair?” asked Hamish.
“He’s too fat to climb. He’s sitting down there swigging whisky out of a flask. What have we got?”
“The dead woman is Effie Garrard, a local artist,” said Hamish. “She had gone missing, and we searched all yesterday and then started today to look for her. There’s a wine botde over there.”
“The forensic boys’ll be along soon. I’ll leave it for them. What on earth was she doing up here? Suicide? Took something with that wine?”
“Could be. She was obsessed with Jock Fleming, a painter who’s visiting here. She told everyone she was engaged to him and flashed a diamond ring around. He denies the whole thing. She may have bought the ring herself. Mind you, there’s a photo by her bedside signed, “To my darling Effie. Jock.””
