by Gwen Moffat
‘She’s taken everything she owned?’ Miss Pink pressed.
‘I haven’t searched, but the obvious things have gone: bedding roll, handbag, clothes. You can look.’
She explored the rest of the cottage. On the left of the front door there was a room that would have been the parlour in better days. There was a pair of easy chairs with the stuffing coming out, and a sack half full of carrots and onions.
The stairs went straight up from the front door to a tiny landing and a bedroom above each of the rooms below. These were lit by dormer windows and each contained an iron bedstead on which were palliasses made of hessian and filled with straw or chaff. A fruit crate stood beside one bed and the stump of a candle. The crate had its back to the window. Up-ended it served as a bedside table, the partition in the middle doing duty as a shelf. As she turned it round, something moved inside: a large chip of rough green marble.
She came downstairs to find Irwin lighting the cooker.
‘You’ll have a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you. What’s this?’
He took the chip, frowned momentarily, then his face cleared. ‘I gave it to her. It was my best specimen. I pick them up beside the road at Drynoch.’ He gestured to the window sill and she saw, what she had missed at a cursory glance, that the rocks were interesting pieces; some were fossils, most were marble, but all were inferior to the chip she had found in the bedroom. ‘I was trying to think of a way to make them into jewellery,’ he explained. ‘I gave her that piece and she treasured it; said she’d always keep it. You see what it means? She’d never go without it. She left it deliberately to show she’s coming back.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Pink was bright. ‘That could be it.’
She dreaded the moment when he realised how much simpler it would have been for the girl to write a note—but already he’d seen that his theory was too devious.
‘Well,’ he admitted grudgingly, ‘perhaps she forgot it.’ He brightened a little. ‘Then she’ll write and ask me to send it. Won’t she?’
But as they stared at the green chip they were both wondering why she had gone.
Chapter Six
Willie MacNeill, driving along the green shelf from Rahane to Scarf Geo, prepared himself for trouble. At the end of the track, just beyond the place where he tipped the rubbish, a solitary figure appeared to be waiting for him. It was the lady who had been with Colin on the camp site.
Willie had more than a passing acquaintance with elderly mountaineers, particularly in relation to Scarf Geo, and he wondered if this one would do as the doctor did in July: stand in his path so that he couldn’t tip. He found English ladies intimidating and as he approached this one, too fast for his own comfort but he was too proud to slacken speed, he had the feeling she was going to be awkward, and sure enough, here she came: advancing to the head of the gully to take up her stand this side of the sleepers that were his marker for lowering the shovel. His eyes widened in panic as she raised her hand, then, deftly, like a man, made the gesture of switching off the engine. It was that which unnerved him. He obeyed her and waited, momentarily defeated.
‘You’ll have to stop tipping,’ she said firmly.
He tried to grin. ‘You canna stop us—and we’re tipping for the Council now anyways; they’re on strike and the man at Portree says it’s a health hazard.’ He reached for the ignition.
‘Go back to Rahane,’ Miss Pink ordered, ‘and ring the police—’
‘It’s no’ a poliss job, mam; they won’t have nothing to do with it. The colonel, he tried—’
‘—Ask to speak to the man in charge and tell him that there is a body in Scarf Geo—’ She considered for a moment and in the silence Willie heard the sea birds calling and felt sick. ‘On second thoughts,’ she went on, ‘go to the house and ask the colonel to telephone. Tell him that I sent you.’
He swallowed. ‘I havena seen it.’
She regarded him doubtfully but led the way to the place where she’d been when he saw her first. There was a fence along the top of the cliffs and here on the edge a stretcher post was cemented in the rock.
‘If you get through the wire and lean out from the post, you can see.’
He looked at her suspiciously. She saw what was in his mind: a madwoman who would pick up a rock and hammer at his fingers when all his weight was on the post. She moved back a few yards and sat down.
He kicked the post, found it firm, stooped and stepped through the wire, then, still staring at her, he gripped the post and leaned out. The concern in her face infuriated him and he looked down.
At first he saw only the recent loads draping the back of the gully which dropped in two steps to the deep and narrow inlet. The tide was high and the geo almost awash below the accumulated filth. He couldn’t see anything in the water that looked like a body.
‘In a plastic bag,’ Miss Pink said.
He sneered. ‘Body of what? A dead cat?’
‘A large bag; it looks somewhat like a seal.’
There was a big piece of plastic down there, reflecting the sun. He couldn’t remember picking up a piece of plastic that size today. There was something red underneath it. And something like a foot—
Miss Pink had stood up. She said firmly, ‘Come back now.’
He felt the iron under his hand, pulled back, blundered through the wire, was surprised to notice how scorched the turf was here on top of the cliffs, and walked towards the sound of her voice. He sat down, shaking, and stared at the water, his eyes shocked.
‘Who is it?’ he whispered.
‘I don’t know yet.’ She was also looking out to sea.
‘I was tipping on it!’
‘No harm done,’ she lied, and looked at him closely. ‘Do you think you can drive back to the big house?’
‘Ay.’ He stood up. ‘You said to phone the poliss?’
She repeated her instructions and he walked towards the tractor. ‘MacNeill!’ He turned. ‘You were at Largo last night.’
He had been very pale. Now he flushed. ‘I wasna!’ She said nothing. ‘Early on,’ he muttered. ‘I came away before seven.’
‘You weren’t there later?’
‘No.’
He made to climb on the tractor but checked and stood with his back to her, his head hanging. Slowly he turned round. He looked bewildered and dangerous.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘She’s disappeared.’
He started back aggressively but before he reached her his face changed again. He looked as if he might burst into tears.
‘You’re no’ thinking—’ he glanced towards the cliff. ‘No!’ More quietly: ‘It’s no’ her, is it?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ she repeated. ‘Did you return to Largo after seven?’
‘No, no, no!’
He ran and leaped on the tractor, reversed, turned and sped back along the track, the shovel spilling rubbish. It was a grotesque spectacle.
Miss Pink became aware of a small boat approaching from the settlement, the figure in the stern following Willie’s progress with interest.
On the east side of the geo the cliffs were less steep and a buttress at an easy angle ran down to slanting shelves at sea level. She walked along the top of the cliffs and signalled to the boatman who, interpreting her correctly, shut down his engine and nosed into the rock.
She climbed down to the water and exchanged sharp looks with a heavy man, unshaven, with faded blue eyes, who wore the west coast garb of navy jersey and ancient beret.
‘Captain Hunt?’
He nodded economically. ‘And you’ll be Miss Pink who’s staying at the house.’ His wife, a rather superior person with blue rinsed hair and upswept red glasses, waited at table.
‘I wonder,’ Miss Pink began, accepting his hand as she stepped into the boat and went forward to the bows, ‘if you would mind running me into Scarf Geo?’
He smiled carefully. ‘’Tis a horrible place at the bottom, ma’am. You’ll be after seeing all
you want to see from the top. My, but you’ve put the fear o’ death into that Willie. You didna even let un tip!’
They had come into the geo and he throttled back, regarding the scum round his boat benignly. ‘You would be wanting to go closer, ma’am?’
‘Right in, captain.’
A whiff of putrefaction drifted past. He blinked.
‘Can you do it?’ Miss Pink asked anxiously.
‘They put dead sheeps down here!’
‘Breathe through your mouth. Be quick, there’s a good fellow.’
He stared at the shore as he took her in. ‘What is it you’ve found?’
‘It looks like a body.’
‘Ay. Corpses do wash up in storms.’
‘No doubt.’
They reached what passed for land. The boat made no healthy sound of grating on pebbles but squashed and squelched on nasty things. A basic courtesy asserted itself and he floundered after her through the muck.
‘Can’t stay long,’ she announced stolidly. The sun beat into the back of the inlet and the flies were terrible. ‘Just to satisfy ourselves. Ridiculous if it were a sheep.’
She lurched sideways against her escort.
‘Watch your footing, ma’am; will ye no’ go back?’
She didn’t answer and she hadn’t slipped; she’d nearly trodden on a green suède shoulder bag.
‘God!’ the captain gasped, and stopped.
Miss Pink, having been shocked by the sight of the bag, regarded the body almost with objectivity but thankful that only the legs were visible. The injuries were severe but they had not bled. Embroidered flowers showed on the rent trousers. She looked around. Willie might have tipped two or three times this morning but his shovel held comparatively little and she thought she recognised the cloth of a coat among the trash.
They returned to the boat and put out to sea. After a few hundred yards they started to take deep breaths.
‘Thank you,’ she said sincerely. ‘You did very well.’
‘How did she die, ma’am?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was a long pause. ‘How do you know who it is?’
The shock was fading and he looked sly. ‘Us canna tell, but they trousers is like the lassie at Largo wore.’
‘But is she missing?’ Her tone was innocent, but his was equally so.
‘You was looking for her this morning—with Colin. You didna find her.’
One or other of the crofters must have been watching her movements and now, like social animals, everyone knew—although they didn’t know everything. Or did they? Hunt would have taken her into the geo not because she’d requested it but because he needed to know the cause of Willie’s wild behaviour. She said, cautiously and untruthfully, ‘By “missing” I meant disappeared; there would be nothing remarkable if she’d merely left the glen.’
‘Ay. You was keen on finding her though.’
They chugged on towards the beach.
‘When did you see her last?’ she asked.
He reached in his pocket and, pulling out a packet of Players’, offered her one. She declined, and he lit a match with his thumb nail.
‘It would be after tea time,’ he mused. ‘Yesterday. She was sunbathing all day outside Largo. The wife said she hadna much on—’ he glanced at her, ‘—if anything.’
‘You didn’t see her again?’
‘She went indoors. It gets cold when the sun leaves that side of the glen, and there’s the midges in the evening. She went in and lit the fire.’
‘Did she have any visitors?’
‘Not that I saw. If it’s not a rude question, ma’am, why would you be so interested?’
‘Good gracious! Aren’t you? A dead body on your doorstep and a girl missing from the glen?’
He looked at her from under his eyebrows and decided not to push it further.
There were people on the shore. At the eastern end of the strand there were three or four groups in bright colours, campers or trippers, but working along the tide wrack towards them as the boat came in was a woman in drab clothes whom she’d met in the passages of Glen Shira House, and whom she knew as Euphemia. Miss Pink was put ashore and trudged up the sand wondering what Vera Hamlyn’s cleaner was doing down here at this time of day.
‘Good afternoon, Euphemia.’ Behind her she heard Captain Hunt start the outboard, and looked back to see him watching them as the boat headed for Rahane.
‘Good afternoon, miss.’ The woman stared at her from eyes which were shrewd although filmed with age.
‘You’re not at the house today?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘I’m off now, for a while. I don’t start the dinner till later. Ida Hunt does the teas.’ She stopped and made pushing gestures at Captain Hunt. ‘Spying on us! I do all the cooking.’ This was palpably untrue; Vera Hamlyn was the cook. She stared intently at Miss Pink, waiting for her reaction.
‘The food is delicious.’ It was said sincerely, and Euphemia beamed. Miss Pink smiled gently.
‘Which is your croft?’ she asked, as if she didn’t know.
The woman pointed along the shore to a single-storey cottage at the far end from Rahane. ‘That’s Shedog. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘You think it means something?’ She searched Miss Pink’s face, possibly for derision. ‘It’s a blowy place,’ she said, as if idly.
‘I see. Windy. Of course, the gales will sweep straight into the loch.’ Miss Pink’s eyes absorbed the scenery. ‘You’re very exposed. But you’ll see everything that goes on.’
Euphemia nodded. ‘I don’t miss much.’ She stared at Rahane. ‘You frightened that Willie MacNeill. How did you do it?’
‘Not me. There’s a body in the geo.’
‘Is there now? How did it get there? In the geo?’
‘Thrown down from the top.’
‘Someone killed it first. No one in the glen’s died natural. And anyways, they’d have to have a proper funeral. I minded my father till he died. Who is it?’
‘The body’s wearing trousers like the young girl wore who was camping here.’
‘Where?’
Miss Pink led the way up the beach and pointed to Watkins’ tent. Euphemia’s eyes were blank.
‘There’s no girl there. It’s a man.’
‘She was there for a short time on Saturday.’
‘He killed her?’
The tone was harsh, the eyes bright. Miss Pink regarded her pleasantly and Euphemia relaxed with a dazzling smile.
‘She went across to Largo,’ she said. ‘But Colin didn’t kill her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Did you see her light go out last night?’
‘Oh yes; after ten o’clock.’
‘How long after?’
‘I go to bed at ten—well, not quite ten; that’s when I feed the Sheriff and make myself a milk drink.’
‘You feed the Sheriff at ten.’
‘While I’m listening to the News. I’m away about ten past. My bed faces the window. I was watching the light in Largo. It went out after I got into bed.’
‘You had to drink your milk—’ Her tone was calculating. There was a flicker of anger and Miss Pink changed tactics smoothly. Her eyes lit up with amusement. ‘You don’t drink it in the dark! You’d spill it—’ she paused and inspiration came, ‘—all over the Sheriff!’
Euphemia went off into a high cackle of laughter and this time it was Miss Pink who watched carefully. There were tears in the other’s eyes.
‘Scalded cat!’ she cried, and Miss Pink screwed up her face in simulated amusement.
‘’Course I don’t drink it in the dark.’ She was sober, even thoughtful. ‘You’re right; I wouldna notice her light with mine—So hers went out after I blew out my candle. Probably about half past ten or a bit before.’
Miss Pink stooped, picked up a mussel shell and admired the shades of blue. ‘You’ll probably have a visit from
the police today or tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’
Euphemia looked sly. ‘It depends.’ There was a gleam of excitement in her eyes. ‘Here be the colonel.’
Gordon Hamlyn was striding across the dunes, his face deeply concerned.
‘Is this true?’ he called as he approached.
Miss Pink said that she was afraid it was.
‘MacNeill’s collapsed. Is it that young girl? He says so.’
‘It looks like her trousers.’
‘Good God!’ He gaped at her, then looked at Euphemia sternly. ‘Did you see anything?’
She was indignant. ‘What would I be after seeing in the dark? I was in my bed where every self-respecting soul should be at that time of night. I told this lady what time her light went out but that didna mean anything, did it? Do you put the light out?’
He glowered at her, then turned away, taking Miss Pink’s elbow. ‘It’s no good scolding her,’ he said confidentially. ‘She’s not really impertinent; quite amusing at times, really.’ He gave a chuckle then composed his features quickly. ‘You didn’t accuse Willie, surely?’
‘No.’
‘Ah. He’s frightened. Said you were asking questions about his going to Largo. I suppose there’s no doubt—? He says she’s in a plastic bag!’
‘That’s true. Captain Hunt took me into the geo in his boat. How quickly the bush telegraph operates in this glen! It’s one of those survival bags we carry in our packs in case we’re benighted.’
He stopped and stared at her. ‘How was she killed?’
‘I have no idea. I only saw the legs, the jeans with flowers on them. Terry Cooke had a pair like that. I didn’t tell Willie about the trousers; in fact, you couldn’t see them from the top.’
‘That seems fishy—I mean, he’s saying that it’s her.’
‘I did tell him that she was missing.’
‘Yes.’ He stopped and turned. Euphemia had resumed her beach-combing and was working towards her croft.
‘She knows something,’ he said. ‘She’s a terrible liar—but not all the time. That makes it more difficult to know when she’s speaking the truth. She’s quite mad, of course.’ He shook his head wryly. ‘That’s in-breeding. Accounts for a great deal, you know.’