Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  “Are we drinking champagne in honour of the second ascent of the Pagoda —” she asked, raising her glass.

  “It’s a fine climb,” Clive acknowledged.

  Marcus told them how she had led the final overhangs. The others listened with blank faces, Leila, one hand supporting her chin, turning a prawn shell in the other. The room was in shadow, the low table lamp illuminating glass and silver, hands and faces. “Like a Georges de la Tour,” Bridget remarked: “You know: the girl with a skull.” Leila dropped the shell.

  “What are the police doing?” Marcus asked.

  Miss Pink’s eyes met those of her host. “Investigating,” he said.

  It went on like that: small bursts of conversation linked by Marcus and Bridget talking about new lines they’d been studying from the Pagoda.

  “How about getting up a party tomorrow,” he suggested, “and going to look at this crack — it’s a good two hundred feet and solid as granite?”

  “Not for me,” Clive said.

  Miss Pink, realising she was being addressed too, collected herself. “I can’t say at the moment.”

  “I shall be busy,” Leila said.

  The champagne was finished and they had become more subdued with each glass. Now they moved to the drawing room, Marcus speculating on the absence of Jessie and Elspeth.

  “They’re all at Catacol,” Clive told them. “I saw people making their way there as I went round the sheep. I — spoke to Hector.” The sentence seemed significant in the charged atmosphere.

  “They never tell you what they’re doing,” Leila murmured.

  “They do usually.”

  Bridget brought the coffee, Clive served brandy and liqueurs.

  “Festive,” Bridget observed, sinking gracefully on the sofa. She turned to her uncle with studied languor but demanding his full attention. “That had all the rites of a last supper, darling,” she said firmly. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing!” Leila was sharp.

  He looked round their circle. “I’m going away — for some time — but you don’t have to worry —” as Bridget made an involuntary movement, “— Leila will take my place. We shall go on as before.”

  “Going where?” Marcus asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.” As the others reacted in astonishment — all except Miss Pink who watched him steadily — he went on: “I’m not going to hold a post mortem: to consider whether a mistake’s been made, but I owe it to all of you to try to explain my actions. If a mistake was made it was in my thinking that, socially and culturally, we could remain self-sufficient — untouched. There were always threats to our way of life; as MacKenzie is fond of saying, you can’t resist progress. Sooner or later we had to lose our privacy: the road would be widened, we’d have a caravan park; worst of all, the crofters would become discontented. I ignored the threats, blocked them out; I tried to keep the place like the Garden of Eden. I don’t think I can change, I’ve had it my own way for too long. When I come back I shall go on as before, but it will be a matter then merely of running a farm rather than trying to preserve the old values in one small corner. I could have got my priorities wrong; that’s my affair. I shall always regret Pincher’s death —” Bridget gasped with shock: “— if only, when we take the law into our own hands, it involved nothing more than it does when you shoot a crow! But when you start on human vermin, the action has repercussions which you never thought of originally.”

  “No!” Bridget cried. “It wasn’t you — was it?” She turned wildly to Leila.

  “No,” Leila said quietly.

  “They’re right,” Marcus protested in his turn. “I don’t believe a word of it. What the hell are you trying to do?”

  “He’s protecting someone,” Bridget stated. “Who?”

  “He’s doing it for me,” Leila said.

  “No!” Clive had been standing and now he moved to the back of the sofa where she was sitting. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Leave it now, my dear.”

  She turned and put her hand on his. Her smile was radiant and Bridget frowned and looked away but Miss Pink regarded the two middle-aged people intently.

  “Sit down, Clive,” Leila said.

  He obeyed, taking a chair opposite her, his expression one of deepest compassion.

  “You didn’t go up to Farrid Head,” she told him, “because I saw you turn back. You saw me too.”

  He put his head in his hands. No one dared to frame a question until Miss Pink asked Leila quietly: “You undid the knot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And loosened the piton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Bridget breathed.

  “I had a motive.”

  “Are you not going to tell us?” Marcus asked.

  “No.”

  “No one can prove it,” Bridget cried: “They don’t suspect you —”

  “No. They suspect Clive.”

  The girl rounded on her uncle. “Did you say you’d seen her up there — on the Head?”

  He looked bewildered. “I’ve told no one.”

  “Then only we know.” She stared at them eagerly.

  “Bell is certain it was Clive,” Miss Pink told them. “He gave me to understand that quite clearly.”

  “You see?” Leila’s tone held a hint of triumph. “He hasn’t told the police he did it but they were here this afternoon and —” she smiled, “— I think he’s given a good performance of a megalomaniac who’s gone over the edge.” He grimaced but Miss Pink nodded acceptance of the statement. Leila went on: “It may have convinced the police but it can’t convince us. Solo-ing steep rock at Clive’s age is just not on, but apart from that, he had no motive.” She regarded them almost smugly.

  “I knew about the film,” Clive said.

  “Not until Wednesday.”

  “I knew on Monday.”

  “What?” She was visibly shaken.

  “Stark told me on Monday evening while Bridget and Marcus were with you at Soutra.”

  She shook her head firmly. “He didn’t tell you, darling.”

  “The murderer,” Miss Pink said, as if to herself, “had to descend Tangleblock, swim across the mouth of the cave, swim out to Pincher and bring the body in . . . then the mouth of the cave again — is it possible, after all, that he had the use of a boat?”

  “No boats,” Bridget said. “We swam.”

  “What the devil!” Marcus ejaculated.

  “Bit cold, wasn’t it?” she observed.

  He was scandalised and a little frightened. “I didn’t — I couldn’t have done —”

  “You’re not with it, darling,” she said coolly. “You should play the game like Clive and Leila, even though you can’t solo Tangleblock. You could have got down if I’d roped you from above though. Collusion, it’s called. You had a motive.”

  “That’s enough!” Clive thundered. “You’re insulting my guest!”

  “That’s better.” She grinned at him. “That’s more in character. I’ll let Marcus off the hook. He was with me in my room for hours that night. Talking.”

  “That’s true,” he confirmed resentfully.

  Miss Pink turned to Leila. “Why was Pincher’s body unclipped from the rope?” she asked curiously.

  “The wrong person had been killed. That was — shocking. You don’t think reasonably when you’re in shock. By a miracle he might have been still alive.”

  “But the body wasn’t taken out of the sea.”

  “It was too heavy; it slipped back.”

  The older woman considered, then went off on a new tack: “You didn’t wake me: going out on two consecutive nights.”

  “You sleep well.”

  “Why did you put your light on?” Clive asked dazedly.

  “Me?” Leila asked, her voice rising: “Put my light on?”

  “When you went back to Soutra. I was up on the rock band, watching. You put your light on when you reache
d home.”

  She was impatient now. “I was undressing, of course — and washing.”

  “Wait a minute,” Miss Pink put in. She turned to Clive. “You saw the light go on from the band, but Leila was behind you, above you — she says.”

  “That’s right,” the other woman said desperately: “I was above him; that’s how I know he didn’t go to Farrid Head. He turned back.”

  “So how did you get in front of him to put your light on while he was still on the cliffs?”

  “I slipped past him; there are lots of ways down the crags if you know them. He was on the path.”

  “I was on the path,” he agreed, “but there aren’t that many ways down the crags, my dear. It’s not climbers’ rock but it’s loose and vegetated and very steep.”

  “There’s the gully above Thundergay.”

  “Above Thundergay! You came down there!”

  “Of course. I’ve been in that gully scores of times in the spring. There’s a ring ouzel —”

  “You came down Thundergay!” he repeated, staring at her. She started to waver.

  “Where did you think you saw her?” Miss Pink asked.

  He turned astonished eyes on the older woman. “I couldn’t have seen her; it was too far away. But then if she went down by way of Thundergay, who the devil passed me on the path?”

  In the ensuing silence they could hear the distant sound of the sea. “Go on,” Miss Pink said: “Tell us about this other person.”

  He held Leila’s eyes. “A third person,” he emphasised, “besides the two of us. You know the place on the rock band where the burn comes down from the lochan?” Leila nodded as if mesmerised. “I was climbing slowly up the path: carefully, you understand, because of the shadows cast by the moonlight. I wasn’t making much noise — the burn was making all the noise, in fact, and then I started to bear away from it, on a horizontal line along one of the ledges. I heard a stone click behind me as if a foot had dislodged it and I looked back because there shouldn’t have been any animals up there: all the sheep are down — and I thought I saw something move.

  Well, the rocks are full of holes and corners on the band and I wouldn’t have thought much of it — a fox, perhaps, or a big bird flicking off — except that I’d started out thinking Stark and Pincher might have returned and I was looking for them. Because of that, I didn’t call out but I flattened myself into a corner and waited. Nothing happened. No one appeared and I was just about to go on when I saw something move some distance below, going over that shoulder at the back of the lower point. It wasn’t the shadow of a rock, I’m sure. I reckoned someone had gone down the bed of the burn to avoid me.

  “My immediate reaction was that it was Stark or Pincher and whichever one it was, the other could be behind so I took my time going down. I kept looking back; I didn’t fancy having Stark behind me when I couldn’t hear anyone approach because of the noise the burn was making. The result was that by the time I could look down on the in-bye land, whatever it was appeared only as a vague shape moving towards the settlement.”

  “What part of the settlement?” Miss Pink asked.

  “It was too far away to tell and clouds crossed the moon then. I sat down to see if something might happen to give me some indication as to who it had been and after a while the light came on in Soutra. I thought of Leila.”

  Miss Pink said to herself: And when you found it couldn’t have been Stark or Pincher, you thought of her again because she had motive, means and opportunity, and she’d served a term for manslaughter. She said pleasantly to Leila: “I suppose you couldn’t sleep and woke up and put the light on to read. It was clever of you to question me this afternoon about the sequence of events and what was in Bell’s mind.”

  “There were a lot of people on the cliffs that night,” the older woman said inanely.

  “But not you.” Bridget was firm. “If it weren’t for the fact that Ian can’t climb — to the required standard, he’d be the best bet; he’s the only one who doesn’t really mind the killers.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marcus asked petulantly.

  “Why, the whales, of course, and all that swimming; the whales were around till Thursday at least.”

  “The whales!” Miss Pink breathed. “I’d forgotten them.”

  *

  She walked slowly down the slope in the moonlight. At the track she turned left and made her way past the end of MacLeod’s croft, past the ruined black house and the MacKenzie place, following the road through the dunes. There was a light in MacKenzie’s where the police were waiting.

  She came to Catacol’s gate and unlatched it, closing it carefully behind her. Sadie opened the back door to her knock. The girl didn’t seem surprised but took her hand and led her along a passage to a small and crowded room. The MacLeods and the MacKenzies were there, and Rita sat beside the fire stroking a collie. Bottles of whisky were ranged on the table and plates of scones and cakes. Everyone held glasses. Hector was on his feet welcoming her and the others were shifting together hurriedly. Someone vacated an easy chair.

  “A ceilidh?” she asked as Hector handed her a full glass.

  “A kind of ceilidh, ma’am,” he acknowledged, and people, catching her eye, smiled politely. There was a small and deferential silence.

  “Is that the new bitch?” she asked, indicating the collie.

  “No, ma’am,” MacLeod said gravely: “This here’s MacKenzie’s dog.”

  “A pet,” MacKenzie told her. “Not a working dog. It’s Rita’s now.”

  “Till I get a puppy,” Rita put in.

  “Won’t you have a long time to wait?” Miss Pink asked, thinking of the new bitch: “Or will you come back on a visit?”

  No, miss; I’m staying on.”

  “She’s going to stay at Catacol,” Sadie said firmly, then: “There’s someone at the door.”

  The dog’s ears had gone up but he made no further move. Sadie went out and returned with Ian, leading him by the hand as she had led Miss Pink. The naturalist seemed dazzled by the light and allowed himself to be pushed gently down on the sofa where Sadie and Rita squeezed together to make room for him.

  “So you’re going to stay,” Miss Pink said to Rita.

  “Yes, I don’t like it nowhere else. I like Catacol — and Hector don’t mind.”

  “We want you in Scamadale,” he told her reprovingly. He looked round their circle. “We’re all here now.”

  “Except for the people at the House,” Miss Pink remarked: “Four of them.”

  “They don’t signify,” MacLeod said.

  “Now what do you mean by that, Mr MacLeod?”

  “No harm meant, ma’am, but they’re no’ part of this.”

  “Am I?” she asked in surprise.

  “Why, you come to pay your respects,” the old man said. “And as for Rita and Ian, they’re stayin’.”

  “I’m staying?” Ian asked. It was plain that this was news to him.

  “Ach, you’ll stay when Mr Perry asks you,” Hector told him. “We can’t do without you.”

  Miss Pink said sternly: “Mr Perry is talking about giving himself up to the police.”

  “Ach, now, what a man!” Jessie exclaimed, and took a sip of her whisky.

  Hector’s smile was indulgent. It was as if they were approving a friend who had distinguished himself. “He was after tellin’ me,” Hector announced. “He said goodbye.”

  “He was on the cliffs with a rifle on the night that Stark was killed.” Miss Pink looked at MacKenzie. “You saw him?” He nodded. “And now Miss West is saying that she was up there too.”

  “You mean they’re both trying to say they did it?” Rita asked in wonder.

  Hector said: “Mr Perry turned back before the Head, and as for Miss West, she was safe in her bed all that night.”

  Jessie, sitting beside Miss Pink in voluminous gold lamé under a Norfolk jacket, turned stiffly and peered up into the other’s face. “Miss West’s like one of us,”
she said earnestly. “I’m hopin’ she’s not after doin’ all those dishes herself tonight. Elspeth an’ me’ll be along in the mornin’.”

  “What’s dishes on a night like this, woman?” MacLeod glared at his wife.

  “There’s no hurry, Mrs MacLeod.” Miss Pink’s comfort was automatic. Faces seemed to shift and swim in the hot little room. MacLeod was watching her. “We can’t let Mr Perry or Miss West go to the police,” she went on. It was meant to be an ultimatum but to herself it sounded more like a plea.

  They smiled and nodded, all except Ian. “Of course not,” he responded hotly: “But why should either of them have to do that? They couldn’t have done it.” Partial understanding dawned in his eyes as he realised that if the murderer were not at the House then he was in this room. In such a moment of stress he turned to Sadie and she stroked his hand with the same kind of compassion she would have shown a distressed animal.

  “You got left behind, love,” Rita told him.

  His lips opened, forming the word “who?” but no sound came.

  “How did you guess?” Hector asked Miss Pink pleasantly.

  “That’s what I was wonderin’.” Sadie’s eyes were fixed on the older woman. “Did I say somethin’?”

  “Nothin’ to hurt,” Hector murmured, waiting for an answer.

  “There was no call for the police to go to the House, Elspeth said with a trace of resentment: “They should have come to us first.”

  “Why?” Miss Pink asked, astonished.

  “Because it had to be someone who was used to the cliffs.”

  “But that’s why: the best climbers.” She paused and went on slowly: “Everyone had a reason for wanting Stark out of the way, and at the House, knowing each other’s reasons, they tried to protect each other.” There was no need to tell them that in fact it was only Leila and Clive who had fought so hard to take the guilt. The behaviour of the people at the House had revolved as much round Leila’s secret as round the attempt on Bridget’s life. These things would stay in the past now but while they’d bulked large in people’s minds, the other suspects in Scamadale had remained in the background. Which was why . . . “The police were thinking that the murderer must be a rock climber in the modern sense, with ropes and all the other equipment; they passed over the fact that everyone in Scamadale climbed although Hector called it ‘scrambling’ —”