Death of a Dreamer by MC Beaton

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 apologized 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.’
    ‘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