Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dreamer Part 6

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 s.p.a.ce. 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.""

They both began to search in wider circles around the body. "There's a plastic carrier bag over here with two gla.s.ses in it," called Hamish. "They look clean. Don't diink anyone drank out of them."

They were sweating in the full heat of the sun. There is practically no pollution in the far north of Scotland, and the sun that day was fierce.

"You'd think it would be cooler this far up," complained Jimmy. "We'd better not mess up the scene. Let's sit over there where your girlfriend is and get a bit of shade."

They joined Priscilla. "Find anything?" she asked.

"No," said Jimmy. "We can't do anything until the experts arrive."

A helicopter hovered overhead, and a ladder descended. Dr. Brodie scrambled down it.

"Where's the pathologist?" asked Hamish.

"Coming along," said Dr. Brodie. "I'm to do the preliminary examination."

He turned Effie over. "We need a tent or something. The body's cooking in this sun. It's still damp underneath. She must have lain here since that awful rain. Maybe exposure. I can certify her dead, but that's it."

"No sign of poisoning?" asked Hamish. "There's a wine botde there. And that missing finger: Has it been sawn off, or did some animal bite it off?"

"I would say it had been hacked off with a penknife. That's the finger she had the engagement ring on."

"If she was suicidal," said Jimmy, "then maybe she hacked it off herself."

"So where is it?" asked Hamish. "I suppose it would be all right to look in her coat pockets in case there's a suicide note."

"I can see the forensic boys suiting up down below," said Jimmy. "They're starting to get into the police helicopter. No climbing for them."

Hamish went back to the body. "I'll just take a peek." Flies were buzzing around it, and he flapped at them angrily.

Effie was wearing a waxed coat with zip pockets. Hamish gendy opened one and felt inside. "Yuk!" he exclaimed. "The fingers in her coat pocket. No ring."

"Man, don't poke around any more," said Jimmy, "or Blair'll have your guts for garters."

Hamish searched in her other pocket. "There's a piece of folded paper here."

"Should you be opening that?" protested Dr. Brodie.

"I'm wearing gloves." Hamish unfolded the sheet of A4 paper. It had been protected from the rain by the heavy waxed coat.

"I cannot live any more," he read. "I am going to lie out on the mountain until I die. Jock has killed me. Effie."

"Well, that solves that," called Jimmy. "She went daft and stayed out here until she died of exposure."

Hamish replaced the letter. "The letter's typewritten," he said. "She may not have written it."

"Come on, laddie. Don't go looking for murder when you've got a nice clean case of suicide. Oh, look what's dropping down from the heavens."

A helicopter hovered overhead, and down the ladder, cursing and sweating, came Detective Chief Inspector Blair.

He was followed, one by one, by the members of the forensic team. He ignored Hamish and said to Jimmy, "What have we got here?"

"Local artist, sir. Looks like suicide. There's a note in her pocket and in another pocket a finger-her ring finger. Looks like she hacked it off."

"You shouldnae ha' touched the body."

"I did that," said Hamish.

"I'll see to you later," snarled Blair. "Take yourself off and take that friend of yours with you. You can put in a report."

Priscilla and Hamish moved off down the hill just as the forensic team were erecting a tent over the dead body.

"What do you think?" asked Priscilla.

"I think I want to get back to the police station, have a long cold drink, and think about this."

For once, when they got to where their cars were parked, Hamish was glad that Priscilla did not offer to join him. He wanted to be alone and think hard.

The first person he saw as he drove along the waterfront was Jock. There was no sign of his easel or paints. He was leaning against the wall staring moodily out over the loch.

Hamish stopped the Land Rover and got out. Jock turned and glanced at him and then turned back to the loch. "They've found her?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so. She's dead."

"How?"

"Maybe exposure. Have you any idea what she was doing up there?"

Jock turned back to face him. "That maybe was me. I went up to see her as soon as I got back. She tried to insist I had proposed marriage to her. I told her I had said no such thing. I then asked how the h.e.l.l she thought she'd got pregnant. She began to cry, but after a bit she apologised and we talked a bit about painting. I said I'd heard about that place called Geordie's Cleft and that you could get a panoramic view of the area from there. I said I might climb up and have a look. She asked me why it was called Geordie's Cleft, and I told her the story. I was right sorry for the wee woman at the end. I told her we could be friends and left it at that."

"She had a photo of you beside her bed," said Hamish. "It was signed, "To my darling Effie. Jock.""

"Then she signed it herself. Leave me alone, Hamish. I'm feeling right bad about this."

Hamish went back to the police station, where the cat and dog stared at him baleftdly. "I know," said Hamish. "But it isnae my fault you've been on your own all day. Off you go. Take yourselves for a walk, and I'll have dinner ready for you when you get back."

They both slid out the door.

Hamish drank a large gla.s.s of water, went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it over. Then he went to Patel's and bought a botde of whisky in the hope that Jimmy would call on him.

As if smelling the food he had cooked for them, the dog and cat appeared back in the kitchen just as he was filling their bowls.

Hamish did not feel like eating. He kept turning facts over and over in his mind. He poured himself a small measure of whisky, added water, and went into his living room and sat down in an armchair.

He started and nearly spilled his drink when Sonsie jumped on his lap. "You're too heavy," he grumbled. The cat stared at him with yellow eyes. Lugs tried to struggle up as well but then contented himself by lying on the floor with his chin on Hamish's crossed ankles.

Hamish felt his eyes beginning to close. He set the gla.s.s down on the floor beside him. Soon he was asleep.

He awoke an hour later, roused by the hissing of the cat on his lap and the sound of someone calling, "Hamish!"

He saw Jimmy standing nervously in the doorway. "Call off that weird cat, Hamish," said Jimmy. "It looks ready to spring."

Hamish patted the cat and said, "Down you go. It's all right. It's only Jimmy. Let's go into the kitchen."

"I need a dram," said Jimmy, sitting down at the kitchen table. "That cat's scary. I'm telling you, I'm surprised you've got a hen left in the coop."

"Never mind the cat. What's the verdict?"

"Seems like suicide. Professor Jane Forsythe, the pathologist, says she can't be sure until she does an autopsy."

"That note was typewritten," said Hamish. "Anyone could have done it. And where's the knife?"

"What knife?"

"The one used to saw the finger off. Was it anywhere around or in another pocket? And where's the ring?"

"No, and no ring, and are you going to pour me a dram or keep it all to yourself?"

"Help yourself. The bottle's on the table."

"Look," said Jimmy, "if by any chance it was murder, who would want to kill her?"

"I don't know. Jock's ex-wife is in town. I might be having a word with her."

"Come on. Effie was mad. She was a fantasist."

"But was she an artist?"

"What do you mean?"

Hamish told him about the dust on the pottery wheel and the stiff, dirty brushes.

"Still, I don't see if that's got anything to do with it," said Jimmy.

"Unless she was ripping off some artist. Any news of the sister?"

"Yes, she's called Caro Garrard, and she's on her way up."

"We might find out something from her. Maybe it's someone from Effie's past."

"Who killed her? Come on, Hamish. It's suicide pure and simple."

Three more days crept past while Hamish fretted, trying to hear of any results. He had a good idea that Blair had blocked anyone from talking to him. At last, on the morning of the fourth day, he phoned Professor Jane Forsythe and reintroduced himself.

"Oh, the bright policeman from Lochdubh," she said. "How can I help you?"

"I wonder if you have completed the autopsy and found out how the woman died?"

"Effie Garrard died of a combination of ethylene glycol and exposure."