Part 6 (1/2)

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.

Four.

Father, O Father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.

-William Blake Hamish told Priscilla to phone Mrs. Wellington to say diat Effie had been found, but he ordered that no one except the police were to come near the site.

Priscilla moved a good bit away to sit down and stare blankly into s.p.a.ce. Hamish began to check round about the body. Effie was lying on hard rock just outside the cleft, so he was not afraid of messing up any footprints.

He found a wine botde not far from the body. He crouched down and sniffed. There was a sweetish smell, and squinting at the label, he could see it was a dessert wine.

Two helicopters landed down below the mountain, and he saw the figures of police and members of the Mountain Rescue Patrol climbing down onto the heather.

First on the scene was Detective Jimmy Anderson. ”Where's Blair?” asked Hamish.

”He's too fat to climb. He's sitting down there swigging whisky out of a flask. What have we got?”

”The dead woman is Effie Garrard, a local artist,” said Hamish. ”She had gone missing, and we searched all yesterday and then started today to look for her. There's a wine botde over there.”

”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 gla.s.ses in it,” called Hamish. ”They look clean. Don't diink 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 lain 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 botde 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 gendy 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.”