The rain that had left Lochdubh alone for a few days had come back in force, and Hamish heard it hammering on the roof. How could she bear that noise?
He went out to the Land Rover, where Lugs and Sonsie were patiently waiting, took his oilskin out of the back, put it on, and began to search around the heathery fields outside the cottage, calling, “Effie!” from time to time.
He went back into the cottage to see if there was any clue he had missed. This time he saw an obvious one. At the side of the armchair by the fireplace was a handbag. Still wearing his gloves, he opened it up. Effie’s wallet and change purse were there along with her door keys and car keys.
Now what to do? he wondered. If he reported her missing and started a full-scale and expensive search and she just came wandering back, he would look silly. He got back into the Land Rover to wait. The wind rose, and the rain became even heavier, lashing against the windscreen, great gusts rocking the vehicle.
At last, he decided something was really wrong and drove back to the police station. He phoned headquarters and asked for permission to call out the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
He was told to phone again in the morning, and if there was still no sighting of her, then the patrol would be alerted.
He fed himself and his animals and then phoned the minister and told him the situation and asked him to ring the church bell first thing in the morning. This would get the villagers gathered in the church hall, and he could organise a search party.
Hamish slept uneasily. He got up at dawn and went back to Effie’s cottage. It was still deserted. The rain had ceased, and the sky had a pale, washed-out look as if a heavenly hand had scrubbed it clean.
At eight o’clock, after he had again phoned police headquarters and this time extracted a promise that the Mountain Rescue Patrol would be sent out immediately, he went to the church hall, where the villagers were gathering. He went up to the podium and addressed them.
“Effie Garrard is missing. She may have taken a walk up on the moors and had an accident. I want everyone who’s free to help me in a search for her. The folks who are prepared to go stay in the hall.”
Because of the storm, the fishing boats hadn’t been out, and so Archie Macleod and his friends volunteered to join in the search along with the river bailiff and two gamekeepers from the Tommel Castle estate. Women, headed by Mrs. Wellington, volunteered as well.
Priscilla arrived just as the meeting was breaking up. “I’ve just heard,” she said. “I’ll go along with Mrs. Wellington.”
They all gathered again outside Effie’s cottage. Then they spread out over the moors, calling and searching.
Above them flew a helicopter of the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
All day long they searched without finding Effie. Hamish began to worry that she had fallen into a peat bog, and if that were the case, they would never find her.
The villagers began to think that Effie had perhaps committed suicide. Jock had been adamant that he had never proposed to Effie.
♦
The indomitable Mrs. Wellington with her posse of village women set out again the next day. It was glorious weather. They all drove up on the moors as far as the road would allow them and then got out of their vehicles and once more began the search, agreeing to meet again at midday for a picnic lunch.
Hamish came across them at noon. They were sitting by a little stream with their picnic spread out on the grass. “That one can smell free food a mile off,” grumbled one, and Hamish flushed angrily.
Priscilla came up to him. “You look exhausted, Hamish. I’ve got a flask of coffee and some spare sandwiches. Come and sit down for a minute.”
Hamish gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich. “You don’t think she might have gone up into the mountains?” he said. “She must have been right distressed being caught out in that lie about Jock.”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s got a sister down in Brighton. Does anyone know her address?”
“No, but I phoned the Brighton police, and they’re looking for her. I would have thought Effie might have gone there, but her handbag is still at the cottage.”
Priscilla was wearing a tartan shirt, corduroy trousers, and sturdy boots but still managed to look cool and elegant.
“I thought Betty Barnard might have joined in the search,” Hamish said.
“She’s gone off to Glasgow for a few days. I don’t suppose she even knows Effie is missing.”
Gone and never even told me, thought Hamish gloomily. I have no luck with women at all.
Mrs. Wellington was armed with a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars. “I’ll just have a look around,” she boomed, “and then we can start off again.”
“It is hot,” said Priscilla, “and yet Mrs. Wellington is wearing a Harris tweed suit with a sweater under it.”
“I think that one carries around her own air conditioning,” said Hamish. “Is there another sandwich?”
“Got one right here. There you are.”
“I think I see something,” called Mrs. Wellington. “Right up on the mountain.”
Hamish stood up and went to her. “Let me see.”
She handed him the binoculars. “Up there, halfway up, by that cleft of rock. It was in the shadow when I looked before, but the sun’s moved.”
Hamish took the glasses and adjusted them. He focussed on the cleft. It looked like a small brown lump.
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but I’d better climb up there and have a look.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Priscilla. “It’ll take us at least two hours to get up there.”
“That’s Geordie’s Cleft,” said Hamish. It had been named after a young man who had fallen to his death some years before.
They set off, promising to holler if they found anything.
After they had gone, Mrs. Wellington tried to marshal her troops, but rebellion was setting in. The Currie sisters complained their legs were aching, and one by one the other village women began to edge back to their cars until only Mrs. Wellington and Angela Brodie remained.
♦
Hamish and Priscilla kept up a gruelling pace as they climbed up the lower slopes of the mountain and then out onto the rock. It was easier going than they had expected, a path leading upwards for most of the way.
“People have been up here before,” said Hamish.
“There was a rumour a year ago that some of the village boys came up here to smoke pot,” said Priscilla.
“And you never told me!”
“Didn’t seem like a major crime, and at that time, you had a murder case on your hands.”
The sun beat down on their backs as they approached the cleft. Two buzzards sailed lazily overhead.
“There’s something there,” said Hamish, “unless someone’s dumped a bundle of old clothes.”
But as he got nearer, his heart sank. The small figure of a woman was lying on her face.
He went up and, putting on his gloves, turned the body over. It was Effie Garrard. There was no sign of life.
Priscilla followed him. “How did she die?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “Exposure, maybe.”
He took out his phone and called Mountain Rescue and then called police headquarters in Strathbane.
Priscilla went a little way away and sat down suddenly.
Hamish finished phoning. “Feeling sick?”
“Look at her hand, Hamish. The left hand.”
Hamish bent down and let out a sharp exclamation.
Effies ring finger had been sawn off.
∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧
4
Father, O Father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far,