Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Quite. This is a slow deterioration. Look at the sky.’

  There were a few small clouds above the Hebrides, more to the east on the mainland mountains, but the sky was still blue, although robin’s egg rather than gentian. As yet there was little to presage a break except for that hint of humidity in the west.

  ‘Time enough to find him,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘He can’t have gone far.’

  They turned and trudged up the slope. When they reached the road they looked towards the village, but it was hidden by the lie of the land and all they could see was an empty stretch of water and the wooded southern shore of the loch.

  ‘I didn’t realise how many trees there were on that side,’ Miss Pink said. ‘There should be pine martens.’

  ‘That’s not the shore. It is wooded, but those trees are on the islands. They’re covered with scrub birch.’

  ‘Is that so? And yesterday he was out on the loch. I thought he was fishing, but he could have been transporting stores.’

  ‘There are no buildings on the islands, no ruins. And the fire wasn’t until after dark.’

  ‘The first fire was the previous evening. It would be logical to sleep on an island if you wanted people—including your wife—to think you were in danger.’

  ‘Searching all the islands would take ages; they’re terribly overgrown. We used to picnic on them, and fish. Ah, here’s Ranald.’ He was approaching from the far side of the lighthouse boundary.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. Any news?’ They shook their heads. ‘And nothing here,’ he went on. ‘Although I’d hardly expect him to hang around, as it were. It’s just that I told them I’d come to the point and work back. I started with the cliffs under the light; it’d be a good clean way to do it—straight over the edge. He doesn’t own a gun.’

  They stared at him. ‘What makes you so sure he killed himself?’ Beatrice asked.

  He blinked owlishly. ‘Well, if he meant to do it he’s done it already. Wouldn’t you say so?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt about it: we’re looking for a body. Have you been inside?’ He gestured at the lighthouse. ‘Can’t get in the light, of course, but I’ll have a look round the outbuildings and the old living quarters, see if anyone’s broken in.’

  ‘We’ll leave that to you,’ Beatrice said. ‘We thought we’d go out to the islands.’

  ‘The islands?’ He looked across the loch. ‘That’s possible, or he could have holed up in a bothy. I still think he opted for a cliff. I’m going to look in the bays along the coast here where stuff washes up.’

  ‘He’s enjoying it,’ Beatrice exclaimed as they started back.

  ‘Enjoying the drama?’ Miss Pink suggested. ‘A defence mechanism perhaps; he doesn’t relate the situation to a real person.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I’d hate to think he was a ghoul.’

  ‘He’s repressed.’

  Beatrice stared at her profile. ‘People are speaking their minds today. Is this what happens to ordinary men and women in the proximity of violence?’

  ‘The circumstances are abnormal. And what’s this?’

  A horse was standing across the road, Coline in the saddle and waving them down. She approached the driver’s side. ‘Melinda, you’re just the person I need—and Beatrice. I want you to come and look at something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know—something very odd indeed. I want your opinion. Follow me.’

  She set off at a canter along the grass verge and Miss Pink followed, exchanging speculations with Beatrice. When they came to the North Wood, Coline took a cart track that led diagonally down the slope towards the loch. Beatrice said, ‘This leads to Camas Beag. It’s a holiday place, one of the more luxurious ones. But Campbell can’t be there or she’d have said.’

  ‘Does she own all this land?’

  ‘Clear to the point. Presumably the Northern Lights lease the lighthouse property, and a few of the crofters have bought their places, as we did, but the holiday cottages belong to Coline. Stop here.’

  The track widened to a turning circle under the gable end of a house. Coline had dismounted and was waiting for them. She led the way to the back of the building which at first sight was unremarkable: a stone-paved yard with outhouses, a dustbin, drains, back door, windows. They were casement windows with small panes; one pane was broken and the casement unlatched. The room beyond was the kitchen.

  ‘Have you been inside?’ Miss Pink asked, peering at what she could see of the interior.

  ‘Yes. He’s not here, but I’d like you to take a look and see if you can spot anything significant. I’m not a criminologist.’

  They walked round to the front door. ‘You mean there’s nothing missing?’ Miss Pink asked as Coline inserted a key in the lock.

  ‘Not that I can tell. Of course, there’s nothing of value in a holiday place …’

  A subjective opinion, thought Miss Pink as they stepped inside. Camas Beag was furnished with some good Victorian pieces and Liberty fabrics. There was a large colour television set, electric radiators, a range of kitchen gadgets, a telephone—all except the phone were portable and desirable.

  They went upstairs. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom. The bath fittings were whiter than white, the bedrooms so neat that the pale carpets showed no sign of traffic since they were last vacuumed. The beds were made up with patchwork quilts tucked under pillows in the fashion of hotels, with hospital corners at the feet.

  ‘All the same,’ mused Miss Pink, following unspoken thoughts, ‘did you look in the wardrobes?’

  Coline was appalled. ‘Oh, no! No, I didn’t. Are you going to?’

  ‘Of course. We’re here now. And the window is broken. When did you come here last—or anyone else who had a right to be here? Who looks after the place?’

  ‘Mary MacLeod. The last tenants left two weeks ago; Mary would have cleaned after they went and I doubt if she’s been back since. I’ll ask her.’

  She went downstairs and Miss Pink walked from room to room opening wardrobes and cupboards, pulling out drawers—which were all empty—looking under beds.

  ‘Surely no one’s been up here,’ Beatrice remarked, watching from a doorway.

  ‘There’s no sign of it, but someone broke in. Why?’

  Below stairs Coline was talking on the telephone. They descended and Miss Pink went to the kitchen. She studied the stainless steel draining boards, the double sink, the white tiles of the window sill, stooping to look along the shining surfaces.

  ‘If someone came in,’ she said, ‘they removed all their traces.’

  Coline appeared in the doorway. ‘Mary says she hasn’t been back since she cleaned two weeks ago. The window wasn’t broken then.’

  ‘She has her own key?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Yes, all the places have duplicate keys. The cleaners have one, I keep the other and hand mine to the tenants when they arrive.’

  Miss Pink went to the sitting room. There were two main rooms downstairs; the second was a dining room. The others trailed after her. She turned to Coline. ‘You think there’s nothing missing, but didn’t anything strike you as odd when you came in the first time, on your own?’

  Coline shook her head helplessly. ‘I came in the front way because the back door’s bolted. Nothing seemed odd until I went to the kitchen and saw the window, then I thought that the weirdest thing was that there was nothing wrong. I mean, even the tinned food doesn’t seem to have been touched. If it was Campbell or a tramp who broke in, then he didn’t sleep or eat here. If it was a thief, he didn’t steal anything. Surely a burglar would at least have taken the food mixer for his mother or his girl-friend.’ She sounded affronted.

  They went outside and she locked the front door. ‘I’ve told Mary to send Sinclair to replace the pane,’ she said. ‘It’s a mystery. Has it given you any ideas?’

  Miss Pink shook her head. ‘Not yet. Something may occur to me.’


  Coline untied the pony’s halter. ‘What do you propose to do now?’

  Beatrice said, ‘We thought we’d borrow a dinghy and take a look at the islands.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. His boat isn’t around. Damn, it’s low tide and we’ll never get our boat across the sand. I know—we’ll take Sinclair’s dinghy; it’s on the bar below the schoolhouse. I’ll see you there.’ She mounted and pushed the pony down a slope so steep he was sliding on his haunches like a dog. They came out on a strip of sand and set off at a canter towards the village.

  ‘I’m glad she’s coming,’ Beatrice said. ‘She’s happy with engines, I’m not.’

  ‘She took it for granted that she should join us.’

  ‘The islands are part of the estate. Nothing happens in Sgoradale without the family being concerned.’

  ***

  At any other time exploring the southern shore would have been sheer delight; even today, searching for a man in trouble, they couldn’t fail to be affected by the beauty of the islands. The water was calm and Coline had no difficulty in navigation. Even underwater reefs appeared innocuous as the boat slipped past submerged rocks and their fringes of waving weed.

  From a distance the islands looked like a solid mass, but on approach miniature straits and channels revealed a maze of rock and water. In places Coline cut the engine and they pushed themselves along the rock with their hands. A seal bobbed up and followed them for a while like an inquisitive Labrador. A heron gave an angry croak and flapped away, trailing water across the surface. On a patch of grass at the back of a small bay a group of barnacle geese was grazing. Some of the islands were several hundred yards in length and even the heather was tall enough to conceal a man if he were lying down; the trees would have hidden a tent.

  ‘All the same,’ Miss Pink said, ‘he can’t hide the boat. It’s too heavy for one man to drag into the timber, and we’ve seen no caves.’

  ‘There’re none on the shore either,’ Coline told her. ‘The nearest caves are in the big cliffs under the lighthouse.’

  ‘There’s nothing for it. We have to go ashore.’

  ‘But if his boat’s not here—’ Beatrice protested.

  ‘He could have set it adrift or sunk it.’

  ‘But that would mean—’

  ‘Let’s start with the islands in the middle,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Those most effectively concealed from the mainland.’

  It was hot and exhausting work. The heather was full of dust and pollen, and a smell of old honey. Blackbirds fled from them shrieking, eider duck grumbled in the shallows and the three women ploughed doggedly through the undergrowth, more than one of them wondering if this were not a waste of time, merely a show of concern.

  They shared their lunch with Coline, sitting on rock slabs across the water from the island where the barnacle geese were grazing. ‘We’ll try there next,’ Miss Pink said.

  The geese padded to the other side of the bay as the women trudged up the sand. On the higher ground there was gorse, then came rock outcrops with the heather and old gnarled birches rooted in the cracks. Miss Pink was in the lead when she stopped suddenly.

  The camouflage was almost perfect. It was a dull green pup tent, its ridge descending almost to the ground, and it was closed.

  ‘Campbell?’ Miss Pink called, but no one responded, nothing moved. She unzipped the flysheet to reveal the tent proper, also fastened. She opened the second zip and the sides fell loose. The interior was a green gloom and it was untenanted. She sat back on her heels and the others peered over her shoulders.

  The tent wasn’t empty; there were possessions: a sleeping bag, a camping stove, a set of dixies and cutlery—clean and stacked—a few tins of food: beans, potatoes, stewed steak. Miss Pink backed out and rose to her feet. ‘Now where did he go?’

  They closed the tent and went back to the shore. She looked around and said, ‘This bay is invisible except from the next island. He could come and go unseen by anyone on the mainland. He could take off down the loch and once he passed behind an island he could enter the maze and no one would know where he was.’

  ‘Who’d be interested?’ Coline asked. ‘No one was after him. We agreed that was a fantasy.’

  Beatrice said suddenly, ‘I’m going to leave a note in the tent. He trusts me and he has no friends; he needs help and he knows I can supply it.’

  They agreed that leaving a note could do no harm; it might flush him out, and he had to be located for his own good. Miss Pink found a pencil and they returned to the tent where Beatrice wrote a message on a label from a tin of beans and placed it on the groundsheet under the tin. As they retreated Coline asked what she’d written.

  Beatrice said, ‘I want both of you to keep this confidential. I promised him that no one else would be at the meeting and that I’d tell no one the location.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Coline asked.

  ‘I’ve been employing him for ten years.’

  Miss Pink said nothing. Later, in the boat, she mentioned the bothies on the moors and utilising horses to reach them; she considered her own participation, but thought the lodge ponies too small for her weight. Who did the exercising in Flora’s absence, she asked casually; she’d seen someone riding yesterday—Hamish?

  ‘That would be him,’ Coline said. ‘He comes up every day. He’s paid, of course, but he has to groom and muck out and everything.’

  Miss Pink felt old eyes watching her.

  ***

  ‘Would you like me to keep you company this evening?’ she asked, passing Beatrice the shortbread. They were drinking tea in Miss Pink’s sitting room.

  Knox had seen them coming in and was waiting below the schoolhouse when Coline put them ashore. They had come to the conclusion that there was no point in looking further for Campbell, at least until tomorrow, by which time it was hoped he would have approached Beatrice. There wasn’t much they could do anyway; there were only two or three hours of daylight left. Hamish had ridden to the southern headland and he would come back before dark; Sir Ranald had given up and gone home saying that if Campbell were in hiding four people weren’t going to find him, and if he was dead there was no urgency.

  Coline took her pony out of Sinclair’s paddock and rode back to the lodge, while Miss Pink took Beatrice home for tea and discussion.

  ‘I’d prefer to be alone this evening,’ Beatrice said. ‘And I promised Campbell I wouldn’t reveal the meeting place, remember? I feel I have to meet him on his own level. But I assure you I’ll telephone as soon as he’s gone, if possible.’

  ‘If possible?’

  ‘He may ask me to promise not to call anyone.’

  ‘Then I shall call you.’

  ‘Don’t do that. An interruption could be fatal.’

  ‘That’s an unfortunate turn of phrase. But it’s because he is so unpredictable that I feel some precautions should be taken.’

  ‘If he intends harm, a telephone call isn’t going to avert it.’

  Miss Pink filled their cups and passed the milk. ‘You have firearms.’ It was a statement, not a question, but when her guest didn’t respond Miss Pink looked at her with deliberation.

  Beatrice raised her eyes from her cup. ‘Yes,’ she said, without inflection. ‘I have Robert’s guns.’

  ‘I’m wondering if you’re doing the right thing.’

  ‘He knows he has nothing to fear from me. He’s simple, like an animal. I’ve always known how to deal with him, and we’ve never had a misunderstanding. Don’t worry about it; I’m quite confident.’

  She was adamant and Miss Pink made no further move to dissuade her from being alone when she met Campbell, if he came. Would he return to the tent, and would he accept the invitation if he did so? She pondered these questions when Beatrice had left, and wondered if much hinged on the outcome in any event. It was possible that he would leave his spartan camp, particularly if the weather broke, and return to the village without visiting Beatrice. He had no home, bu
t his van was still outside the cottage. The keys had been in the ignition and Miss Pink had moved it to the verge across the road, close to her Renault where it wouldn’t block her view of the loch. She had left the keys where they were.

  The sun set, the afterglow lingered, darkness fell. She would have liked to go out and stand on the shore listening for the sound of oars. If he slept on the island last night and Esme heard no outboard motor, then he must have rowed there. By now, if his paranoia were rampant, he would have muffled the oars. But she didn’t go outside; he would be watchful as a wild beast and she must leave the field to him and Beatrice. She drew her curtains and switched on the television.

  The telephone rang while she was watching the ten o’clock news. She sighed with relief when she heard the familiar voice.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Beatrice said in answer to the inevitable question, sounding exasperated that it should have been asked. ‘And he’s all right. No problems. He’s coming ashore tomorrow and he’s agreed to see his doctor on Monday. We’ll keep this to ourselves, shall we? It embarrasses him. I have to call Coline and Knox, of course, but I shall say as little as possible to Knox.’

  ‘Was Campbell amenable?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I had no trouble with him at all. He’s had a bad time. By the way, he’ll be moving his van; don’t be surprised when you hear the engine start. You left the keys in it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Where will he put it?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you alone now? Are you quite happy?’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘You wouldn’t like me to come along—’

  ‘No. But thank you for suggesting it. After I’ve made those phone calls I shall turn in. It’s been a tiring day.’

  Miss Pink replaced the receiver with a strong feeling of anticlimax. She felt the constraint of her four walls and yet, if the visit had gone off so smoothly, with Campbell agreeing to see a doctor, it would be tempting fate to go outside for a breath of fresh air and risk an encounter with him. She compromised and went upstairs to stand in her dark bedroom at the side of the open window.