M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dreamer

“But how would she even know where Geordie’s Cleft was?”

“Jock had told her he planned to go up there painting to get a panoramic view. He maybe told other people. So she sets off and climbs up and waits and waits. Decides to have a glass.”

“Find the corkscrew?”

“Damn. That’s another thing I’ve got to look for. So she feels disoriented and drowsy, maybe falls asleep. The killer’s been waiting nearby. She pops that typewritten suicide note into Effie’s pocket.”

“She?”

“The ring finger, cut off. Could be a jealous rage.”

“Or some man from her past.”

“Could be.” Hamish stood up. “I won’t eat any more at the moment. The food’s making me feel lazy. I’ll shut up the animals, and we’ll be on our way.”

They set out on the long climb. The air was full of the scents of bell heather and thyme. Down below them lay the fishing village of Lochdubh with its neat rows of whitewashed Georgian houses.

A yacht cut a white trail through the calm blue waters of the loch. Smoke rose straight up from chimneys; a lot of the villagers, like Hamish, used the old·fashioned method of heating water.

Hamish suddenly wanted it to be suicide so they could all go on with their safe lives far from the murder, drugs, and mayhem of the cities.

“I’m beginning to dread newcomers,” he said as thMacbethey approached the cleft.

“There may be more in the future.”

“Why?”

“With the European Union savagely cutting fishing quotas, a lot of the fishermen are thinking of turning their boats into tourist pleasure craft.”

“I’m beginning to think no one in the village tells me anything any more,” said Hamish. “First I’ve heard of it. I wonder what else they haven’t been telling me.”

They walked up to the cleft, then split up and began to search around. Although it was mostly rocky, there were a few stunted gorse bushes.

After an hour, Hamish said, “Nothing here. Let’s try further afield. Now, if someone threw something, where would it land?”

“Maybe right down the slope and into those gorse bushes. Mind you, they’re pretty far below.”

They slithered down. Hamish lost his footing and went straight into the gorse bushes. “Ouch,” he yelled. “Help me out of here. I’m all prickles.”

Priscilla took his hand and helped him out. Hamish plucked gorse prickles out of his hair and his clothes.

“There’s something glinting down in there,” said Priscilla, peering into the shade of the bushes.

“Let me try,” said Hamish. “A few more prickles won’t matter.”

She pointed. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, bent down, and eased a long arm into the bushes. “Got it.”

“What is it?”

“Its a corkscrew.”

“That solves one problem.”

“It’s brand new.”

“Maybe she bought it for the occasion.”

“I wonder why the forensic boys didn’t find it,” said Hamish. “Mind you, that lot are more interested in drinking and rugby than in finding anything. The lot of them turn up on jobs with hangovers. Unless it was put there afterwards.”

“I doubt it,” said Priscilla. “No one would want to be seen near the scene.”

They searched further without finding anything else.

“I’d like a look at Effie’s cottage,” said Hamish. “Just to see if she had a corkscrew.”

“Won’t it be locked up?”

“There are ways of getting in. Come on.”

∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

5

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found, it ,

And now I must pay for my fun ,

For the more you have known o’ the others

The less you will settle for one;

And the end of it’s sittin’ and thinkin ,

And dreamin’ Hell-fires to see .

So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not ),

And learn about women from me!

—Rudyard Kipling

Effie’s cottage turned out to be locked. “It’s just a simple Yalelock,” said Hamish. He took out a thin piece of steel from one of his many pockets and popped the lock.

“What if the sister’s here?” hissed Priscilla.

“I don’t think she’s come to Lochdubh yet. Probably making arrangements for the burial.”

Hamish started to look through the kitchen drawers.

“Here we are!” he said triumphantly. “Not one but two corkscrews.”

“So maybe she had three,” said Priscilla. “I think we should go.”

They walked outside, pulling the door behind them so that the lock clicked.

“Any sign of Betty Barnard coming back?” asked Hamish.

“I think she’s due back tomorrow.”

Hamish visibly brightened. Why could he not leave things alone and accept the procurator fiscal’s verdict of suicide? Then perhaps he could have a few more days spent in Betty’s company, driving around the Highlands.

“I think,” he said, “that I’m being overzealous. Maybe I’d chust better get on with things.”

Priscilla eyed Hamish narrowly. She knew that his accent became more sibilant when he was angry or excited about something.

♦

Hamish dropped Priscilla back at the hotel. Then he drove to the police station. He had not checked the morning’s mail. He threw the usual junk into the trash bin and then found one from the bank in Braikie. He opened it up. There was a letter from the manager congratulating him on his bravery and a reward cheque for ten thousand pounds. Hamish stared at it in delight. He would send half the money to his family in Rogart. And with the other half? He had a holiday coming up. He could travel! He could go to New York and visit his cousin in Brooklyn.

To hell with Effie. It had surely been suicide.

There was a tentative knock at the front door. Hamish frowned. The locals always came to the kitchen door. He went through to the front and wrenched the little-used door open.

He stifled a gasp of surprise. A thick sea mist had rolled in, and for one moment, he thought he was looking at the ghost of Effie Garrard. Then the figure addressed him in an all-too-human voice: “Police Constable Macbeth? I am Caro Garrard, Effie’s sister.”

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “We’ll go into the kitchen. I’ve got the stove on. The mist makes things awfy cold and damp.”

He shut the door behind her and then led the way to the kitchen. Lugs and Sonsie, who had been well fed, both raised their heads and stared at her and then went back to sleep.

“Sit down,” said Hamish. “How can I help you?”

“I don’t believe my sister committed suicide. The pathologist said to me that if I had any doubts about her death, perhaps I should talk to you. The police in Strathbane won’t listen to me.”

Hamish sat down opposite her. He could feel his dreams of visiting New York disappearing.

“What makes you think that?”

“I did not know Effie had been passing my work off as her own. She had a nervous breakdown last year over some man. She’s always wanted to live in the Highlands. We were brought up in Oban. I said I would help her buy a little place. She then said she could sell some of my work and take a small commission to keep her going. I agreed. Things seemed to be going very well, and then she phoned me to say she was going to marry some artist called Jock Fleming.

“I was a bit nervous because before her breakdown, she had been up in court accused of stalking some businessman in Brighton. But she sounded so happy and confident. Then she phoned me to say he had jilted her. She was crying hard. I said I would get up to see her as soon as I could.

“But then she phoned me later that night. She sounded elated. She said that she had found a bottle of wine outside her door with a note from Jock asking her to meet him up at Geordie’s Cleft. He said he really loved her.