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.”
“That note was typewritten,” said Hamish. “Anyone could have done it. And where’s the knife?”
“What knife?”
“The one used to saw the finger off. Was it anywhere around or in another pocket? And where’s the ring?”
“No, and no ring, and are you going to pour me a dram or keep it all to yourself?”
“Help yourself. The bottle’s on the table.”
“Look,” said Jimmy, “if by any chance it was murder, who would want to kill her?”
“I don’t know. Jock’s ex-wife is in town. I might be having a word with her.”
“Come on. Effie was mad. She was a fantasist.”
“But was she an artist?”
“What do you mean?”
Hamish told him about the dust on the pottery wheel and the stiff, dirty brushes.
“Still, I don’t see if that’s got anything to do with it,” said Jimmy.
“Unless she was ripping off some artist. Any news of the sister?”
“Yes, she’s called Caro Garrard, and she’s on her way up.”
“We might find out something from her. Maybe it’s someone from Effie’s past.”
“Who killed her? Come on, Hamish. It’s suicide pure and simple.”
♦
Three more days crept past while Hamish fretted, trying to hear of any results. He had a good idea that Blair had blocked anyone from talking to him. At last, on the morning of the fourth day, he phoned Professor Jane Forsythe and reintroduced himself.
“Oh, the bright policeman from Lochdubh,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I wonder if you have completed the autopsy and found out how the woman died?”
“Effie Garrard died of a combination of ethylene glycol and exposure.”
“What’s ethylene glycol, and where can anyone get it?”
“Anywhere. It’s commonly known as antifreeze.”
“Wouldn’t it taste awful?”
“No, it tastes sweet. Some alcoholics even drink it when they can’t afford anything else. It was in that bottle of dessert wine that was found at the site.”
“Any fingerprints on the bottle?”
“No. I mean, just those of the deceased.”
“What about that sawn-off finger?”
“I can only assume she did it herself.”
“With what? Nothing was found in the way of a knife or razor.”
“She may have thrown it away. The procurator fiscal has decided on a verdict of suicide.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Well, your superiors are. Case closed. They say she was so mad and so disappointed in love that she killed herself.”
“What are the symptoms of antifreeze poisoning?”
“It’s changed in the body by the enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase into glycolic acid and oxalic acid, which are highly toxic compounds. There was widespread tissue injury to the brain, kidneys, liver, and blood vessels. After taking it, she would start to feel tired, disoriented, and may have fallen asleep.”
Hamish thanked her, put the receiver down, and stared into space. It was all so neat and tidy, and yet he had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He wondered if Jock’s wife was still in Lochdubh.
Cursing himself for not having tried to speak to her before, he hurried along to Sea View. Mrs. Dunne told him that Mrs. Fleming had gone out for a walk.
“Do you know which direction she took?” asked Hamish.
“I saw her go in the direction of the bridge.”
“When did she leave?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
Hamish set off in pursuit.
He saw a small blonde woman heading up the road on the other side of the humpback bridge.
He ran after her. “Mrs. Fleming?” he called.
She stopped and turned round. She was in her late thirties with dyed-blonde hair in a ponytail. She had small, discontented features and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse, brief khaki shorts, and sturdy boots.
“Yes?”
“Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, Mrs. Fleming. May I talk to you for a moment?”
“Go ahead, copper. But if it’s aboot that dead wumman, I cannae help ye.” Her voice was harsh with a Glaswegian accent.
“Did you know her?”
“Never heard o’ her till I come here.”
“Why did you and Jock divorce?”
“Away wi’ ye, ye nosy copper. That’s ma business.”
She stared at him defiantly, her thin arms folded across her chest. “I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye.”
“Well, if you think of anything…”
She continued to stare at him defiantly until he walked away.
Hamish went back to the station and put on his climbing boots. He was determined to go up to Geordie’s Cleft and look around.
First he phoned Angela and asked her if she would look after the dog and cat.
“Can’t,” she said. “Lugs is all right, but that wild cat of yours terrifies my cats. You’ll need to find someone else.”
In desperation, Hamish phoned Priscilla and explained his problem. “I’ll come with you,” she said in her calm, even voice. “There are no police around any more. We can take your Land Rover, put the animals in the back. I’ll bring some food, and we’ll drive up as far as we can. We can let them out for a run and then shut them up in the Land Rover while we climb up to Geordie’s Cleft.”
Hamish said he would pick her up. As he drove to the hotel, he couldn’t help hoping that Betty had returned. He was still puzzled as to why she had left without phoning him.
Priscilla was waiting for him in the forecourt with a large picnic hamper.
“You were quick getting the food ready,” said Hamish.
“A family had ordered it and then decided they didn’t want it. They’re being charged for it anyway, so it’s free food for all of us.”
Hamish drove as near Geordie’s Cleft as he could, the Land Rover bumping over the heather. He stopped, and they got out. Lugs and Sonsie ran off together.
“They won’t get lost, will they?” asked Priscilla anxiously.
“No, they always come back when I call. Anyway, if we eat before we climb, they’ll smell the food and come running.”
“I hadn’t time to get animal food for them.”
“They’re spoilt. They’re used to people food.”
Sure enough, Priscilla was just lifting a whole roast chicken out of its container when Sonsie came loping up, followed by Lugs, the dog’s odd, large ears flapping as he tried to keep up with the cat.
Hamish watched Priscilla as she deftly carved the chicken and separated the pieces out onto paper plates. The sun was shining down on the golden bell of her hair. What did she think? wondered Hamish. What did she think of him? Did she ever think of their broken engagement?
“I don’t think your animals will like potato salad,” said Priscilla. She gave each animal a plate of chicken pieces. “There’s a bottle of wine here, or would you prefer coffee?”