At last, she rose and lifted the cover off the painting to see how he was getting on. She let out a cry of dismay. It looked as if someone had taken a rag soaked in turpentine and smeared it right across the portrait to obliterate the face.
Priscilla ran downstairs and phoned Hamish on his mobile.
♦
Hamish arrived with Robin, and they went up to the studio. “I’ll need to get this whole room dusted for fingerprints,” said Hamish. “Lock it up.”
He phoned Jimmy and explained what had happened. After Priscilla had locked the studio, he said he would need to ask Betty Barnard, Mrs. Addenfest, and Jock himself for permission to search their rooms.
Betty looked mildly hurt. “Now, why would I go about destroying my clients work, Hamish?”
“It’s just a process of elimination,” said Hamish.
Betty’s room was a mess, with clothes lying on the bed and scattered on the floor. “I can never decide what to wear,” said Betty defensively. There seemed to be nothing incriminating, but Hamish had not expected there would be. He had suggested searching Betty’s room because he did not want to be accused of favouritism. Mrs. Addenfest was nowhere in the hotel. Hamish assumed she was at the manse talking to the minister.
Jock was nowhere to be found. They searched the hotel and the grounds. Hamish borrowed a pair of binoculars and went out to the car park and focussed them up towards the mountains. Then he made out a figure up at Geordie’s Cleft. He adjusted the focus to get a sharper image. It was Jock, sitting at an easel.
“He’s up at Geordie’s Cleft,” said Hamish. “We’d better get up there.”
Robin looked down ruefully at her neat court shoes. “I’m not exactly dressed for climbing.”
“You wait here for the forensic people,” said Hamish.
“I’ll go.”
♦
It was one of those white summer days in the Highlands when the sky is covered by a thin veil of cloud and all colour seems to have been bleached out of the landscape. The air was warm and humid, and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in force. Hamish liberally applied repellent to his face and neck from a stick he always kept in his pocket. He drove up as far as he could and then got out and began to walk, his large regulation boots occasionally slipping on the scree.
He met Jock as the artist was on his way down. “Waste of time, Hamish,” shouted Jock as he approached the policeman. “The weather just turned, and there doesn’t seem to be a bit of colour anywhere. You’re obviously looking for me. Why?”
“Someone has defaced that portrait of Priscilla.”
“What!”
“Someone has taken turpentine and scrubbed the face out.”
“I’ll kill the bastard who did this,” raged Jock. “I’ll get compensation from that hotel.”
“Won’t work,” said Hamish. “They’ve given you a free room and a studio. They’re not responsible for protecting your work. You didn’t lock up the studio, did you?”
“Didn’t see the need,” said Jock bitterly. “I’m getting out of this hellish place.”
“I want you to stay here a bit longer.” They both began to slither down the hill. “It’s a bit insensitive of you to be up at Geordie’s Cleft.”
“Why? It gives the best panoramic view, and Effie was nothing to me.”
“When did you last do any work on the portrait?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“And you haven’t been inside the studio since?”
“I went in early this morning, around eight, to pick up my paints. I had a look at the portrait. It was all right then.”
“Do the maids clean the studio?”
“No, they’ve got orders to leave it alone until I’m finished. I suppose there’s no use going on with it now. Oh, man, what a waste!”
I must get more on Jock’s background, thought Hamish. I wonder if his money goes to something like drugs or gambling. Aloud, he said, “Hal’s ex-wife has arrived.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very rich now. Hal never got round to changing his will.”
“Might have a crack at her. Wouldn’t mind having enough to travel the world without this pressure of producing canvas after canvas.”
“Surely you’ve got enough money now.”
“I spend a lot, and then Dora takes a chunk for the kids’ welfare.”
They had reached Hamish’s Land Rover. “You go on down to the police unit and report,” said Hamish. “I’m going to see Effie’s sister.”
♦
Caro invited Hamish in. She had been working at a small easel. “I hope there have been no more murders,” she said.
“No, but Jock’s painting of Priscilla has been defaced.”
“But that’s dreadful. How? When?”
“He saw it at eight o’clock this morning, so it must have been shortly after that. Where were you?”
“Why should I…? Oh, for heaven’s sake. I was here.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Up here? No, not a soul. Why on earth should I deface one of Jock’s paintings?”
“Because maybe you suspect him of the murder of your sister.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? You must wonder who did it.”
“I don’t, and do you know why? I think Effie committed suicide. She could have had that note and wine bottle ready and put it on the doorstep when I turned away to get in my car. She was always jealous of me. I think Jock’s rejection of her and the shame of having been found out as a liar by the whole village must have turned her mind.”
“And you’re convinced of this?”
“Absolutely.”
When Hamish left her cottage, he felt the bonnet of her car. It was warm. He turned back and looked thoughtfully at the cottage. Caro’s white face glimmered back at him through the small window. But the day was unusually warm. That might explain it.
♦
Hamish parked the Land Rover on the waterfront and was going to the police unit when he was accosted by Elspeth.
“So what’s your explanation for last night?” she demanded.
“Elspeth, I’m right sorry. I forgot.”
“You were seen driving off with Betty Barnard.”
“Oh, all right, Elspeth. But I don’t need to explain my movements to you.”
She studied him thoughtfully and then said, “Do you know what your problem is? You’re afraid of love. You’d rather settle for companionship. Does Betty know she’s got serious competition?”
“Like who?”
“Like your cat and your dog. You know what you are? You’re nothing more than an old maid.”
“Get the hell away from me,” raged Hamish, his highland vanity cut to the quick. Then he gave a malicious smile. “So don’t you think there’s something up with you, hanging around and nagging someone who doesn’t want you?”
Elspeth slapped him full across the face and walked off.
Hamish became aware of the curious eyes of villagers. He glared back and went into the police unit to be told that Mr. Daviot had arrived and was up at the castle with Robin and Jimmy.
He decided to go back to the police station and take Sonsie and Lugs for a walk so he could think in peace. “And if there’s some woman waiting for me,” he muttered, “I’ll strangle her.”
But he could hardly strangle his boss’s wife.
With a sinking heart, he recognised the matronly figure of Mrs. Daviot waiting for him on the doorstep.
He had always considered the Daviots the very picture of a contented marriage. Mr. Daviot with his sleek grey hair, impeccably tailored suits, and smoothly shaven cheeks looked more like a successful businessman than a police superintendent. Mrs. Daviot was small and trim with dyed-brown hair in neat, permed curls and large blue eyes in a carefully made-up face.