“The forensic boys’ll be along soon. I’ll leave it for them. What on earth was she doing up here? Suicide? Took something with that wine?”
“Could be. She was obsessed with Jock Fleming, a painter who’s visiting here. She told everyone she was engaged to him and flashed a diamond ring around. He denies the whole thing. She may have bought the ring herself. Mind you, there’s a photo by her bedside signed, “To my darling Effie. Jock.””
They both began to search in wider circles around the body. “There’s a plastic carrier bag over here with two glasses in it,” called Hamish. “They look clean. Don’t think anyone drank out of them.”
They were sweating in the full heat of the sun. There is practically no pollution in the far north of Scotland, and the sun that day was fierce.
“You’d think it would be cooler this far up,” complained Jimmy. “We’d better not mess up the scene. Let’s sit over there where your girlfriend is and get a bit of shade.”
They joined Priscilla. “Find anything?” she asked.
“No,” said Jimmy. “We can’t do anything until the experts arrive.”
A helicopter hovered overhead, and a ladder descended. Dr. Brodie scrambled down it.
“Where’s the pathologist?” asked Hamish.
“Coming along,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’m to do the preliminary examination.”
He turned Effie over. “We need a tent or something. The body’s cooking in this sun. It’s still damp underneath. She must have Iain here since that awful rain. Maybe exposure. I can certify her dead, but that’s it.”
“No sign of poisoning?” asked Hamish. “There’s a wine bottle there. And that missing finger: Has it been sawn off, or did some animal bite it off?”
“I would say it had been hacked off with a penknife. That’s the finger she had the engagement ring on.”
“If she was suicidal,” said Jimmy, “then maybe she hacked it off herself.”
“So where is it?” asked Hamish. “I suppose it would be all right to look in her coat pockets in case there’s a suicide note.”
“I can see the forensic boys suiting up down below,” said Jimmy. “They’re starting to get into the police helicopter. No climbing for them.”
Hamish went back to the body. “I’ll just take a peek.” Flies were buzzing around it, and he flapped at them angrily.
Effie was wearing a waxed coat with zip pockets. Hamish gently opened one and felt inside. “Yuk!” he exclaimed. “The fingers in her coat pocket. No ring.”
“Man, don’t poke around any more,” said Jimmy, “or Blair’ll have your guts for garters.”
Hamish searched in her other pocket. “There’s a piece of folded paper here.”
“Should you be opening that?” protested Dr. Brodie.
“I’m wearing gloves.” Hamish unfolded the sheet of A4 paper. It had been protected from the rain by the heavy waxed coat.
“I cannot live any more,” he read. “I am going to lie out on the mountain until I die. Jock has killed me. Effie.”
“Well, that solves that,” called Jimmy. “She went daft and stayed out here until she died of exposure.”
Hamish replaced the letter. “The letter’s typewritten,” he said. “She may not have written it.”
“Come on, laddie. Don’t go looking for murder when you’ve got a nice clean case of suicide. Oh, look what’s dropping down from the heavens.”
A helicopter hovered overhead, and down the ladder, cursing and sweating, came Detective Chief Inspector Blair.
He was followed, one by one, by the members of the forensic team. He ignored Hamish and said to Jimmy, “What have we got here?”
“Local artist, sir. Looks like suicide. There’s a note in her pocket and in another pocket a finger – her ring finger. Looks like she hacked it off.”
“You shouldnae ha’ touched the body.”
“I did that,” said Hamish.
“I’ll see to you later,” snarled Blair. “Take yourself off and take that friend of yours with you. You can put in a report.”
Priscilla and Hamish moved off down the hill just as the forensic team were erecting a tent over the dead body.
“What do you think?” asked Priscilla.
“I think I want to get back to the police station, have a long cold drink, and think about this.”
¦
For once, when they got to where their cars were parked, Hamish was glad that Priscilla did not offer to join him. He wanted to be alone and think hard.
The first person he saw as he drove along the waterfront was Jock. There was no sign of his easel or paints. He was leaning against the wall staring moodily out over the loch.
Hamish stopped the Land Rover and got out. Jock turned and glanced at him and then turned back to the loch. “They’ve found her?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. She’s dead.”
“How?”
“Maybe exposure. Have you any idea what she was doing up there?”
Jock turned back to face him. “That maybe was me. I went up to see her as soon as I got back. She tried to insist I had proposed marriage to her. I told her I had said no such thing. I then asked how the hell she thought she’d got pregnant. She began to cry, but after a bit she apologised and we talked a bit about painting. I said I’d heard about that place called Geordie’s Cleft and that you could get a panoramic view of the area from there. I said I might climb up and have a look. She asked me why it was called Geordie’s Cleft, and I told her the story. I was right sorry for the wee woman at the end. I told her we could be friends and left it at that.”
“She had a photo of you beside her bed,” said Hamish. “It was signed, “To my darling Effie. Jock.””
“Then she signed it herself. Leave me alone, Hamish. I’m feeling right bad about this.”
Hamish went back to the police station, where the cat and dog stared at him balefully. “I know,” said Hamish. “But it isnae my fault you’ve been on your own all day. Off you go. Take yourselves for a walk, and I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get back.”
They both slid out the door.
Hamish drank a large glass of water, went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it over. Then he went to Patel’s and bought a bottle of whisky in the hope that Jimmy would call on him.
As if smelling the food he had cooked for them, the dog and cat appeared back in the kitchen just as he was filling their bowls.
Hamish did not feel like eating. He kept turning facts over and over in his mind. He poured himself a small measure of whisky, added water, and went into his living room and sat down in an armchair.
He started and nearly spilled his drink when Sonsie jumped on his lap. “You’re too heavy,” he grumbled. The cat stared at him with yellow eyes. Lugs tried to struggle up as well but then contented himself by lying on the floor with his chin on Hamish’s crossed ankles.
Hamish felt his eyes beginning to close. He set the glass down on the floor beside him. Soon he was asleep.
He awoke an hour later, roused by the hissing of the cat on his lap and the sound of someone calling, “Hamish!”
He saw Jimmy standing nervously in the doorway. “Call off that weird cat, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “It looks ready to spring.”
Hamish patted the cat and said, “Down you go. It’s all right. It’s only Jimmy. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“I need a dram,” said Jimmy, sitting down at the kitchen table. “That cat’s scary. I’m telling you, I’m surprised you’ve got a hen left in the coop.”
“Never mind the cat. What’s the verdict?”
“Seems like suicide. Professor Jane Forsythe, the pathologist, says she can’t be sure until she does an autopsy.”
