M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dreamer

Caro sat down next to him. She was wearing a long Indian gown of crushed velvet decorated with little pieces of sparkling mirror. Her perfume smelled like sandal-wood.

“What problem?”

“You were seen the evening afore Effie disappeared calling here at the cottage. Henry, the gamekeeper, was up on the hill scanning the area with a pair of binoculars looking for poachers, and he saw you arrive.”

She bent her head. “I didn’t like to tell you.”

“Why? If you want me to find out whether your sister was killed or not, I need every bit of information I can get. Now, let’s have the truth.”

She gave a little sigh and then began to speak in a low voice. “I wanted to find out whether she had been murdered, but I feared that if you knew I had called on her that evening, it would look suspicious.”

“Go on.”

“My foster parents were good people. They died when I was twenty-eight. I had already graduated from Glasgow School of Art and moved down to Brighton.”

Hamish’s hazel eyes sharpened. “Did you know Jock Fleming when you were at the college?”

She shook her head. “In Brighton, I began to build up a reputation for myself as an artist. Vogue did an article on Brighton, and I was featured in the magazine. Two days later, Effie turned up. I was delighted to see her. She said she had no money and nowhere to go, and so I said she could live with me. I was dating another artist and hoped to become engaged to him. He told me Effie was bothering him, phoning him up, trying to see him. I didn’t want to believe him because I was so thrilled to have found my sister. Then one day he told me he had gone to the police to get an injunction taken out against her to stop her from stalking him. I confronted Effie, who burst into tears. She showed me letters from him, passionate love letters. I believed Effie. I refused to see the man again. The next thing I knew she was up in court for breaking the injunction. It all came out. She had forged the letters. I was going to throw her out, but she had a nervous breakdown.

“When she recovered, she was so contrite and so miserable. She said she’d always wanted to go back to Scotland, and I saw a way of getting her out of my hair. I was well-off. My foster parents had left me a great deal of money in their will. I saw a way of still caring for Effie but getting her out of Brighton. I told her if she found a cheap place in Scotland, I would buy it for her. So she found this cottage, and I paid. Then she said she could sell some of my small paintings and pottery. I agreed because I thought it would give her something to do.

“I was having an exhibition in Brighton. A visitor said he had seen similar work to mine in the Highlands but by Effie Garrard, not Caro. I pressed him for details, and that is how I found that Effie had been passing my work ofif as her own. As soon as the exhibition was over, I drove up here.”

Hamish interrupted her. “But you told me twice that you did not know Effie was pretending that your work was hers!”

“I lied. There was still something in me that wanted to protect her. I told her I was having nothing more to do with her, that she was on her own. She began to cry. But I was determined this time to get rid of her. I said I would come in the morning and pick up my stuff and then collect the rest from wherever she had tried to sell it.

“Then I opened the door to leave. There was a bottle of wine on the step with a note attached to it. I yelled, ‘Message for you,’ and went to my car. She ran out of the house and read the note and then ran up to the car and hammered on the window. She said I could go to hell because some local artist, Jock Fleming, was in love with her and they were going to be married. She was elated, triumphant.

“I said, “I don’t know how you did it, Effie, but you probably wrote that note yourself. You’re mad.” And then I drove off.”

“What did you do then?” asked Hamish.

“I felt sickened. I decided to motor down to Glasgow and see a few old friends and then come back up when I was feeling calmer. Then I read about her death. I immediately thought someone had murdered her. I didn’t want the police to know I’d been there. I panicked. I phoned them and said I was coming up from Brighton. I used my mobile phone. And that’s it. Everything I’d come to know about Effie made me think of murder. Then I learned about Jock Fleming and about how she had been lying about an engagement, a pregnancy, and how she had even gone as far as buying an engagement ring. I couldn’t suspect Jock because to me it was the Brighton business all over again. I went to see Jock just to be sure and showed him a signed photograph of him she’d had on her bedside table. He said the writing was a forgery and showed me samples of his own handwriting to prove it.”

She fell silent.

Hamish said, “But you must be glad she’s dead.”

“In a way, yes, there’s relief there. But I don’t want to think there’s a murderer out there thinking he’s got away with it. Will you have to report what I’ve said?”

“No, as far as the police are concerned, it’s suicide, and they don’t want to think about any other solution. I’ll keep in touch with you. Was Effie always a bit weird?”

“No, at one time she seemed pretty normal – or as normal as we both could be with that father of ours. He would get drunk and beat us. He sexually abused me and had Effie watch. Effie went numb and quiet. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I was twelve years old, and Effie was eleven. I walked into the police station in Oban and told them. They had me examined and found I was telling the truth. Effie and I were taken into care by the social services. They tried to find us a home together, but we had to be split up. I never saw her again until she walked into that gallery in Brighton. I was so sorry for her, remembering the abuse we had suffered.” Caro began to cry. “What a mess.”

Hamish went over to the kitchen area, where he found a bottle of whisky. He poured her a shot and took it back to her. “Drink that down,” he said.

She took a gulp of whisky and dried her eyes with a corner of her dress. Hamish took out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her. “Use this,” he said. “You’ll cut your eyes on those wee bits o’ glass on your frock.”

Caro gave him a weak smile.

“Did Effie say anything to you about an American who had been taking her out?” asked Hamish.

“Not a word. Who is he?”

“Some chap who lives up at the hotel. He only took her out a couple of times. I’d better be on my way. I’ve got someone else to see.”

♦

Hamish drove down to the Sea View boarding house and asked Mrs. Dunne if Mrs. Fleming was in.

“She is that,” said Mrs. Dunne, “but she’s up in her room, and no gentlemen are allowed to visit ladies in their rooms. This is a respectable house.”

“Chust tell her I’m here,” said Hamish crossly, “and ask her to come down.”

Mrs. Fleming came into the lounge, looking tired and sulky. “Whit now?” she demanded.

Hamish took out his notebook. “Sit down,” he commanded. “Full name.”

“Dora Fleming. Whit…?”

“Maiden name.”

“Harris.”

Hamish sat down opposite her. “Where are your children?”

“With ma mither.”

“And what brought you to Lochdubh?”

“I thocht it was time Jock was paying a bit mair.”

“Right, now let’s get to it. On the evening Effie Garrard disappeared, you were seen calling at her cottage.”

“I never did!”

“Don’t lie. You were seen. What did you talk about?”

She picked nervously at her nail varnish. “I telt her to stop bothering Jock. I told her she was right daft, making up all them stories.”