Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Oh no,’ he breathed. ‘Not Madge! You’re mad, you’re off your—’ He turned and looked at Miss Pink. With great care he pulled himself together. It was a long process, then, ‘I am most appallingly drunk,’ he announced. ‘Please accept my apologies.’

  Leaving his brandy on the counter, he walked out of the room and up the stairs.

  In the taut silence Vera fidgeted with something below the counter. Miss Pink was wondering how to re-open the conversation, if that were possible, when she was spared the decision by the return of Hamlyn, breathing satisfaction.

  ‘One thing I’ll say for this—event; it’s made me introduce some order into that stable.’

  ‘Anything you have to do with is always in apple-pie order.’ Vera sounded like an automaton.

  ‘That’s only the appearance. Anyone can make a neat stack on a shelf, but the shelves themselves were filthy! It’s a good job all the First Aid stuff is sealed—by Jove, yes!’ He chuckled. ‘Not that sterile equipment makes any difference in practice. Jimmie Carr always says he’d sooner operate in an open field than in an operating theatre.’

  ‘Why?’ Miss Pink asked, because someone had to say something.

  ‘Bugs in the air conditioning!’ As he roared with laughter Vera slipped out through the kitchen door.

  *

  It rained in the night and although this cleared the sea fog, in the morning clouds were skimming the watershed on the western side of the glen. Largo was closed and abandoned and Miss Pink wondered who would be the next person to occupy it—or would old MacNeill let it crumble into ruin?

  As she came downstairs Betty Lindsay was leaving the dining room. The woman looked as if she hadn’t slept much and she explained, rather long-windedly, that Lindsay had taken Watkins’ van to the hospital, so now she must go over in their car to bring her husband back. Miss Pink was puzzled. It seemed early for Watkins to have rung Glen Shira, but Betty’s expression was defiant. It might be advisable to wait until evening before asking for elucidation.

  Maynard was alone in the dining room, drinking black coffee. He regarded her guiltily. ‘Please don’t say anything,’ he implored, ‘I’m far too ill.’

  She glanced at the window. ‘Perhaps some fresh air—?’

  ‘I might be able to crawl uphill. At least Betty isn’t coming.’

  ‘Have you seen the police?’

  ‘No, and I don’t intend to. They don’t seem to have left anyone in the glen last night, so let’s get away before they arrive.’

  Miss Pink, who had her own reasons for wanting to talk to him in private, agreed and, against her principles, hurried over her breakfast. It was raining again by the time they were ready to leave but they didn’t hesitate and started smartly up the drive in their waterproofs, speculating on whether Madge would retreat, go on regardless, or shelter under a rock. Maynard thought she would shelter; she wasn’t out for a record and she would not want to continue the traverse in wet clothes. She would be travelling light and carrying no waterproofs.

  ‘Aren’t we being remiss in not backing her better?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘Surely people doing the ridge normally have more support?’

  ‘Not nowadays, not chaps, anyway; they just pop out and do it, and Madge wouldn’t expect any discrimination in her favour. I did think of going up last night to wish her well and ask if there was anything we could do, but by the time I’d thought about it, it was too late.’

  Miss Pink remembered the state he was in. ‘And one wouldn’t want to be wandering around in the dark and fog on the lip of this ravine.’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’

  The fall was in view with quite a lot of water going over the drop and looking most dramatic against the green foliage and purple heather. Then Madge’s tent appeared but there was no one moving around it. Still higher, they looked back because it faced upstream, but the flaps were closed, which indicated that she was on the ridge ahead of them, as they’d expected.

  ‘What time would she start?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘About five. I’m going like a cripple. Don’t you think it would be best to go straight up the Sgumain Stone Shoot? If we did a route to reach the ridge, she could go along the top while we were climbing and we’d miss her. If we go up the Sgumain screes we could be on Alasdair quickly.’

  ‘Scree!’ she repeated feelingly.

  He had his way, not least because all the steep rock looked dauntingly wet and cold in the cloud shadow. The Sgumain screes were strenuous but they were safe.

  It was also eerie. They scrambled upwards into mist and the black rock walls closed round them. It was far too warm but by the time they stepped out on the summit ridge, the rain had stopped and they could take off their stifling waterproofs. Anoraks followed, and as they started off again, with big loads but in their shirtsleeves, there was a hint of blue above, a glimpse of a dark loch far below and next time Miss Pink looked up all the peaks to the south were rampant against a cerulean sky.

  ‘If it’s been like this since dawn,’ Maynard said, ‘she’ll be a fair way along the ridge already.’

  ‘She won’t be this far. What a pity we can see only the peaks; she must be in sight at this moment, or would be if the cloud would drop a little more.’

  They avoided the Bad Step of Alasdair by an easy chimney and were on the summit by one o’clock, still with no sign of the guide, but they were not too surprised at this. Only the top hundred feet or so of the highest peaks were clear of the cloud; for long stretches the ridge was invisible. They settled down with rocks as back-rests and ate their lunch. It was strange that no one should appear at all; they assumed that the climbers were still climbing and that scramblers wouldn’t venture on the ridge when they thought that it was in cloud. They did see people on the Inaccessible Pinnacle across Coire Lagan but they were going the wrong way: north to south. Madge would be moving north.

  At last Maynard said, ‘I can remember mentioning Madge last night but what did I say?’

  ‘You told Vera that an affair between Hamlyn and Madge was ridiculous.’

  ‘So it is.’ There was another silence. After a while he asked carelessly, ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘There was a suggestion that Madge killed Terry; that Vera could have suspected that.’

  ‘How circumspect. I didn’t actually accuse Vera of harbouring that suspicion?’

  ‘No. And she knew you were drunk.’

  ‘It’s fortunate that I should have made an exhibition of myself in front of the only two people who won’t spread it around.’

  ‘That could have been deliberate.’

  ‘You mean, I chose you?’

  ‘Or you didn’t mind getting drunk in our presence. You had to let off steam.’

  He stared at the mist wafting round the stolid bulk of Mhic Coinnich across an enormous chasm. ‘It was missing this that was the trouble,’ he said quietly, ‘and losing Madge.’ After a while he added, ‘There’s nothing between us. You’re not surprised. I think you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘And there’s your magazine.’

  ‘How discerning of you. You’re so right: no one can exploit sex if they still have any passion left. Funny, I took over that publication with such high principles—but that was before the deluge. . . . One only has so much energy, and if one’s lived a riotous—and perhaps careless—life, the privileges one’s enjoyed spawn responsibilities; like dragons’ teeth, of course.’ He turned his spaniel eyes on her. ‘One can’t disown mistakes and if you can’t remedy them you have to learn to live with them. Marrying was a mistake.’ He did not qualify that by suggesting that he might have married someone other than Lavender and then it wouldn’t have been a mistake. ‘And a few years ago,’ he went on, ‘there was Madge, after others. The others didn’t matter; they were just lovely girls. Madge was hardly a gorgeous mistress but I needed her as much for what she represented as what she was. After all, we fall in love with an ideal, don’t we? It’s all subjective. She was rather dull on a
weekend in London, but a fortnight with her on Skye—and twice we went to the Alps—these times were out of this world. For the routes we did, of course; you’ve got that? Our affair was so short-lived and innocuous compared with—a kind of triangular relationship: rock, Madge, me, that it hardly mattered. It would have died and we’d have gone on as a climbing team, but Lavender found out. You can imagine the result.’

  Miss Pink stirred uncomfortably but said nothing. There was no need to. She had known Lavender for five days.

  He went on, ‘Lavender is alone in the world. She’s only got me. On the other hand she can make life pretty unbearable. There’s been blackmail on both sides. Now I am “allowed” Madge for two holidays a year and some weekends but, of course, even if I loved her, there’d be no affair, not after Lavender discovered it. There are more ways than one of emasculating a man.’

  Miss Pink thought for a moment, not offering facile sympathy, then she said, ‘I think she is more jealous in these circumstances.’

  ‘Naturally. She could never have competed in the same field. If it’s only a matter of sex, women can blame their inadequacy on age or loss of looks—there’s always some alibi, something they can share with other ageing women. What Lavender finds literally unbearable is that I go to Madge not for bed but to be taken up steep rock.’

  ‘And she knows you enjoy rock more than sex,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘It’s logical.’

  After a while he said quietly, like a child, ‘These don’t hurt you,’ meaning the mountains.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘There’s no malice,’ he amended. Suddenly he looked round, startled. ‘But where is she? And what’s happened to the weather?’

  Insidiously but very fast, the sky had been overdrawn by an opaque film. A breeze came sniffing round the rocks like a dog with a wet nose.

  ‘She must have passed Alasdair before we got here,’ he said. ‘At that rate she’ll be going up Dearg now, and there’s the cloud. . . .’

  Miss Pink raised her binoculars. ‘There’s a party coming down the side of the Inaccessible under the South Crack, but they’re three, and going the wrong way. We won’t see a thing now; the cloud’s rising faster than a climber.’

  ‘It’s only two o’clock; shall we follow her route round the skyline?’

  They set off but had hardly reached the top of the next point when they were engulfed by the cloud and navigation became tricky. They didn’t speak and they forgot the guide; they needed all their concentration for their footing. As Mhic Coinnich loomed above, Miss Pink felt a prickling sensation on her scalp and saw that her companion’s hair was standing on end.

  ‘There’s too much electricity about,’ she called. ‘Let’s get off the ridge.’

  They were close to the easy descent into Coire Lagan but they’d lost only a few hundred feet of height when the storm struck and further progress was accompanied by glaring flashes and stupendous claps of thunder which rolled and reverberated through all the corries. Then the rain came, hissing across the dry rocks and then settling to a dull drumming on their heads like small rubber balls.

  ‘She’ll have to come off now,’ Miss Pink said, and he nodded.

  ‘She’ll come down Coire Banachdich.’

  But the storm didn’t last long and by the time they came to the mouth of Coire Lagan the clouds were clearing, and again the peaks stood gaunt and dry above the steaming corries.

  The tent came into view across the burn but no one moved about it and the flaps were still closed. They studied the back of Coire na Banachdich through binoculars but could see no sign of her, so they assumed that she was continuing the traverse of the ridge.

  Below the tent they looked back at the fall and noticed that there was less water in it than there had been this morning. So what they’d seen then must have been last night’s rain running off; the recent storm would make little, if any difference to the level of the burns.

  Miss Pink bathed and then made tea in her room. She was enjoying her second cup when there was a knock at her door. Betty entered, wearing the same khaki suit she’d worn last night and at breakfast, so crumpled now that she might have slept in it. She looked exhausted.

  Miss Pink glanced at her and immediately filled a second cup with tea, then she got up to fetch her medicinal brandy.

  ‘Andy’s gone,’ Betty said without passion. ‘He’s cleared off with George Watkins. They’ve eloped.’

  She started to laugh stridently.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘He left a note,’ Betty explained, gulping brandy from a bathroom tumbler, ‘saying George had rung telling him to take the van to the hospital. Of course, no one had rung; I asked the Hamlyns. The note was on the dressing table when I came upstairs last night. And then I realised that Andy had taken all his things. I didn’t get too excited about that. We had a row on Monday, you may have noticed; he slammed out of the dining room. I’d been putting the pressure on; there’s this house for sale outside Portree: a bargain, and I wanted to put a deposit on it. He wasn’t having any, put his foot down, refused to leave the south. . . . You know how one thing can lead to another?’ Miss Pink nodded sympathetically. ‘In the end—upstairs—we were quarrelling about George. That was nasty. The atmosphere’s been tense for the last few days. So last night I wasn’t really surprised when I saw he’d gone—’ she smiled wryly, ‘—after all, he had left me the car; I went down to check. Funny thing, it didn’t seem significant at the time that he’d taken George’s van. I thought he’d spend the night in Broadford or somewhere and then ring me to go and pick him up. He didn’t ring so I went over this morning. When I got to the hospital they told me Andy called some time after nine last night. George had been waiting for him. Then one of the ambulance men said he’d seen them go to a hotel in the village so I went and looked in the register. They’d left, of course, but they’d signed in: under a false name, Drummond, and shared a room.’

  ‘Cheaper,’ Miss Pink murmured.

  One side of Betty’s mouth rose. ‘I’ve known all along; I refused to acknowledge it, even to myself. You can keep up a better front that way.’

  Miss Pink nodded surprised approval. ‘But,’ she pointed out, ‘flight looks very suspicious at this moment.’

  ‘No one’s been told not to go.’ She was on the defensive and Miss Pink realised she was still fighting for this strange couple.

  ‘Perhaps Merrick was hoping something like this would happen,’ she mused. ‘I thought it curious that they should have left us to ourselves last night.’

  ‘You mean, he expected George and Andy to—to—’

  ‘He might have been expecting someone to make a run for it.’

  ‘Well, it won’t worry them. George will be amused at being hunted by the police. He’s probably making a game of it right now. He won’t have much success though; he hasn’t got the brain for a criminal.’

  ‘You don’t seem to have any illusions left.’

  ‘I never had. He’s a mutton-headed oaf, and I’m not the first woman to be attracted to one.’ She stared at the other belligerently.

  ‘Is that why you went to Largo on Monday evening: because you wanted to catch him with Terry and have a show-down?’

  Betty’s mouth hung open. After a moment she gasped, ‘How did you find that out?’ Miss Pink sighed. ‘I see,’ the other continued flatly, ‘Andy told you.’

  ‘It wasn’t calculated malice. He’d mentioned that Terry was “flat as a board” when pregnancy was referred to, you remember? So I thought he must have met her after Saturday evening because then her dress was concealing—in that respect. Someone must have seen her in other clothes, or through binoculars from the house—which didn’t sound like your husband.’ Miss Pink was poker-faced. ‘Nor,’ she added more naturally, ‘like you. It seemed more likely that you had gone to Largo, and then told him.’

  Betty was deflated. After a moment she remembered the original question. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I did go across because I thought she�
��d be with someone; perhaps I hoped it would be George. I was in a horrible mood; I felt that a violent confrontation, particularly with George, was what I needed at that moment.’

  ‘And was she alone?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t go in. There were no curtains, or they weren’t drawn. I watched her for a while and then I came away.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she was quite alone? Could there have been a visitor anywhere else? Upstairs, for instance, or even outside?’

  Betty stared. ‘I wouldn’t think so. If there was, she didn’t know it. She was reading, and then she got up and hefted the kettle so I came away quickly in case she came outside for water. I didn’t want her to catch me there. By that time I felt awful. I saw the bruises on her face and I felt like a Peeping Tom.’

  ‘What was the time?’

  ‘Not late; about nine.’

  ‘Did you hear anyone on your way back—or at any time while you were out?’

  ‘No, but I was too early; she must have been killed after eleven. Willie saw her alive then.’

  Miss Pink looked blank. ‘But that may have had no particular relevance to when her killer went across, you see.’

  ‘You mean he may have gone there much earlier than eleven.’ She leaned back in Miss Pink’s easy chair. She was a better colour now as her rather slow brain started to follow the line which was appearing to her. She looked up quickly to find herself observed. ‘You’re thinking I was powerful enough to carry her body to Scarf Geo. Quite true. I didn’t do it though.’ Miss Pink nodded with a small neutral smile. ‘The field’s pretty limited now, isn’t it?’ Betty was thoughtful. ‘Obviously it wasn’t George or Andy. You may include them but I know it wasn’t. So that leaves Ken, Gordon Hamlyn, Colin Irwin. Who else? The crofters?’

  Miss Pink said, ‘I think we ought to dress.’

  Betty appeared not to have heard her. ‘Isn’t that odd,’ she murmured, ‘Madge and Vera are just as strong as me.’ She stared at Miss Pink in horror. ‘Madge and Vera? Why has Madge gone up to the waterfall? Do you know?’ Miss Pink stood up and smoothed her bed. Betty stood too. ‘The service stairs are down this passage,’ she said, ‘after the Hamlyns’ suite; they’ve got a sitting room and bedroom farther along. And then there’s the fire escape; anyone could go and come secretly. Madge is on this corridor too. How did she appear today when you met her?’