Five Red Herrings (4 page)

Wimsey sat up and stared at the Sergeant.

‘It’s not here,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like the look of it at all, Dalziel. Look here, there’s just one possibility. It may have rolled down into the water. For God’s sake get your people together and hunt for it — now. Don’t lose a minute.’

Dalziel gazed at this excitable Southerner in some astonishment, and the constable pushed back his cap and scratched his head.

‘What would we be lookin’ for?’ he demanded, reasonably.

(Here Lord Peter Wimsey told the Sergeant what he was to look for and why, but as the intelligent reader will readily supply these details for himself, they are omitted from this page.)

‘It’ll be important, then, to your way o’ thinking,’ said Dalziel, with the air of a man hopefully catching, through a forest of obscurity, the first, far-off glimmer of the obvious.

‘Important?’ said Wimsey. ‘Of course it’s important. Incredibly, urgently, desperately important. Do you think I should be sliding all over your infernal granite making a blasted pincushion of myself if it wasn’t important?’

This argument seemed to impress the Sergeant. He called his forces together and set them to search the path, the bank and the burn for the missing object. Wimsey, meanwhile, strolled over to a shabby old four-seater Morris, which stood drawn well up on the grass at the beginning of the sheep-track.

‘Ay,’ said Constable Ross, straightening his back and sucking his fingers, preliminary to a further hunt among the prickles, ‘yon’s his car. Maybe ye’ll find what ye’re wantin’ in it, after all.’

‘Don’t you believe it, laddie,’ said Wimsey. Nevertheless, he subjected the car to a careful scrutiny, concentrated for the most part upon the tonneau. A tarry smear on the back cushions seemed to interest him particularly. He examined it carefully with a lens, whistling gently the while. Then he searched further and discovered another on the edge of the body, close to the angle behind the driver’s seat. On the floor of the car lay a rug, folded up. He shook it out and looked it over from corner to corner. Another patch of grit and tar rewarded him.

Wimsey pulled out a pipe and lit it thoughtfully. Then he hunted in the pockets of the car till he found an ordnance map of the district. He climbed into the driver’s seat, spread out the map on the wheel, and plunged into meditation.

Presently the Sergeant came back, very hot and red in the face, in his shirt-sleeves.

‘We’ve searched high and low,’ he said, stooping to wring the water from his trouser-legs, ‘but we canna find it. Maybe ye’ll be tellin’ us now why the thing is so important.’

‘Oh?’ said Wimsey. ‘You look rather warm, Dalziel. I’ve cooled off nicely, sitting here. It’s not there, then?’

‘It is not,’ said the Sergeant, with emphasis.

‘In that case,’ said Wimsey, ‘you had better go to the coroner — no, of course, you don’t keep coroners in these parts. The Procurator-Fiscal is the lad. You’d better go to the Fiscal and tell him the man’s been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ said the Sergeant.

‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘och, ay; likewise hoots! Murrrderrrd is the word.’

‘Eh!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Here, Ross!’

The constable came up to them at a slow gallop.

‘Here’s his lordship,’ said the Sergeant, ‘is of opeenion the man’s been murdered.’

‘Is he indeed?’ said Ross. ‘Ay, imph’m. And what should bring his lordship to that conclusion?’

‘The rigidity of the corpse,’ said Wimsey, ‘the fact that you can’t find what you’re looking for, these smears of tar on the Morris, and the character of the deceased. He was a man anybody might have felt proud to murder.’

‘The rigidity of the corpse, now,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’ll be a matter for Dr. Cameron.’

‘I confess,’ said the doctor, who had now joined them, ‘that has been puzzling me. If the man had not been seen alive just after 10 o’clock this morning, I would have said he had been nearer twelve hours dead.’

‘So should I,’ said Wimsey. ‘On the other hand, you’ll notice that that painting, which was put on with a quick-drying copal medium, is still comparatively wet, in spite of the hot sun and the dry air.’

‘Ay,’ said the doctor. ‘So I am forced to the conclusion that the chill of the water produced early rigor.’

‘I do not submit to force,’ said Wimsey. ‘I prefer to believe that the man was killed about midnight. I do not believe in that painting. I do not think it is telling the truth. I know that it is absolutely impossible for Campbell to have been working here on that painting this morning.’

‘Why so?’ inquired the Sergeant.

‘For the reasons I gave you before,’ said Wimsey. ‘And there’s another small point — not very much in itself, but supporting the same conclusion. The whole thing looks — and is meant to look — as though Campbell had got up from his painting, stepped back to get a better view of his canvas, missed his footing and fallen down. But his palette and painting-knife were laid down on his stool. Now it’s far more likely that, if he were doing that, he would have kept his palette on his thumb and his knife or brush in his hand, ready to make any little extra touch that was required. I don’t say he might not have laid them down. I would only say it would have looked more natural if we had found the palette beside the body and the knife half-way down the slope.’

‘Ay,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve seen ’em dew that. Steppin’ back wi’ their eyes half-shut and then hoppin’ forward wi’ the brush as if they was throwin’ darts.’

Wimsey nodded.

‘It’s my theory,’ he said, ‘that the murderer brought the body here this morning in Campbell’s own car. He was wearing Campbell’s soft hat and that foul plaid cloak of his so that anybody passing by might mistake him for Campbell. He had the body on the floor of the tonneau and on top of it he had a push-cycle, which has left tarry marks on the cushions. Tucked in over the whole lot he had this rug, which has tar-marks on it too. Then I think he dragged out the corpse, carried it up the sheep-track on his shoulders and tumbled it into the burn. Or possibly he left it lying on the top of the bank, covered with the rug. Then, still wearing Campbell’s hat and cloak, he sat down and faked the picture. When he had done enough to create the impression that Campbell had been here painting, he took off the cloak and hat, left the palette and knife on the seat and went away on his push-bike. It’s a lonely spot, here. A man might easily commit a dozen murders, if he chose his time well.’

‘That’s a verra interesting theory,’ said Dalziel.

‘You can test it,’ said Wimsey. ‘If anybody saw Campbell this morning to speak to, or close enough to recognise his face, then, of course, it’s a wash-out. But if they only saw the hat and cloak, and especially if they noticed anything bulky in the back of the car with a rug over it, then the theory stands. Mind you, I don’t say the bicycle is absolutely necessary to the theory, but it’s what I should have used in the murderer’s place. And if you’ll look at this smear of tar under the lens, I think you’ll see traces of the tread of a tyre.’

‘I’ll no say ye’re no richt,’ said Dalziel.

‘Very well,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now let’s see what our murderer has to do next.’ He flapped the map impressively, and the two policemen bent their heads over it with him.

‘Here he is,’ said Wimsey, ‘with only a bicycle to help or hinder him, and he’s got to establish some sort of an alibi. He may not have bothered about anything very complicated, but he’d make haste to dissociate himself from this place as quickly as possible. And I don’t fancy he’d be anxious to show himself in Newton-Stewart or Creetown. There’s nowhere much for him to go northward — it only takes him up into the hills round Larg and the Rhinns of Kells. He could go up to Glen Trool, but there’s not much point in that; he’d only have to come back the same way. He might, of course, follow the Cree back on the eastern bank as far as Minniegaff, avoiding Newton-Stewart, and strike across country to New Galloway, but it’s a long road and keeps him hanging about much too close to the scene of the crime. In my opinion, his best way would be to come back to the road and go north-west by Bargrennan, Cairnderry, Creeside and Drumbain, and strike the railway at Barrhill. That’s about nine or ten miles by road. He could do it, going briskly, in an hour, or, as it’s a rough road, say an hour and a half. Say he finished the painting at 11 o’clock, that brings him to Barrhill at 12.30. From there he could get a train to Stranraer and Port Patrick, or even to Glasgow, or, of course, if he dumped the bicycle, he might take a motor-bus to somewhere. If I were you, I’d have a hunt in that direction.’

The Sergeant glanced at his colleagues and read approval in their eyes.

‘And whae d’ye think, my lord, wad be the likeliest pairson to hae committed the crime?’ he inquired.

‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘I can think of half a dozen people with perfectly good motives. But the murderer’s got to be an artist, and a clever one, for that painting would have to pass muster as Campbell’s work. He must know how to drive a car, and he must possess, or have access to, a bicycle. He must be fairly hefty, to have carried the body up here on his back, for I see no, signs of dragging. He must have been in contact with Campbell after 9.15 last night, when I saw him leave the McClennan Arms alive and kicking. He must know the country and the people pretty well, for he obviously knew that Campbell lived alone with only a charwoman coming in, so that his early morning departure would surprise nobody. He either lives in the same way himself, or else had a very good excuse for being up and out before breakfast this morning. If you find a man who fulfils all these conditions, he’s probably the right one. His railway-ticket, if he took one, ought to be traceable. Or it’s quite possible I may be able to put my finger on him myself, working on different lines and with rather less exertion.’

‘Och, weel,’ said the Sergeant, ‘if ye find him, ye’ll let us know.’

‘I will,’ said Wimsey, ‘though it will be rather unpleasant, because ten to one he’ll be some bloke I know and like much better than Campbell. Still, it doesn’t do to murder people, however offensive they may be. I’ll do my best to bring him in captive to my bow and spear — if he doesn’t slay me first.’

FERGUSON

On his way back to Kirkcudbright, it occurred to Wimsey that it was more than time for tea, and, further, that it would be a good idea to visit Campbell’s cottage. He accordingly pulled up at the Anwoth hotel, and while voraciously filling himself up with potato-scones and ginger-cake, made out a rough list of possible suspects.

At the end of the meal, the list stood as follows:

Living in Kirkcudbright: 1. Michael Waters — 28 — 5 foot 10 inches — unmarried — living in lodgings with private latch-key — landscape painter — boasts of being able to counterfeit Campbell’s style — quarrelled with Campbell previous night and threatened to break his neck. 2. Hugh Farren — 35 — 5 foot 9 inches — figure and landscape painter — particularly broad in the shoulder — married — known to be jealous of Campbell — lives alone with a wife who is apparently much attached to him. 3. Matthew Gowan — 46 — 6 foot 1 inch — figure and landscape painter, also etcher — unmarried — house with servants — wealthy — known to have been publicly insulted by Campbell — refuses to speak to him.

Living in Gatehouse of Fleet: 4. Jock Graham — 36 — 5 foot 11 inches — unmarried — staying at Anwoth Hotel — portrait painter — keen fisherman — reckless — known to be carrying on a feud with Campbell and to have ducked him in the Fleet after being assaulted by him. 5. Henry Strachan — 38 — 6 foot 2 inches — married — one child, one servant — portrait painter and illustrator — secretary of golf-club — known to have quarrelled with Campbell and turned him off the golf-course.

The list had reached this stage when the landlord of the hotel came in. Wimsey gave him the latest news of the Campbell affair, without, however, referring to the murder theory, and remarked that he thought of running along to Campbell’s house, to see if anything was known there about his movements.

‘I doot ye’ll no be hearin’ much there,’ said the landlord. ‘Mrs. Green that does his work is away home, but she knows juist naething at a’, except that when she arrived this mornin’ at 8 o’clock to put the place in order, he had went oot. And Mr. Ferguson that lives next to him was away to Glasgow by the first train.’

‘Ferguson?’ said Wimsey. ‘I think I’ve met him. Didn’t he do those mural paintings for the town hall at some place or other?’

‘Ay, he’s a verra gude penter. Ye’ll have seen him gaun aboot in his wee Austin. He has the stujo next to Campbell’s every summer.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Ay, but his wife’s away the noo, visitin’ wi’ friends in Edinbro’. I believe they du not get on so verra weel tegither.’

4

‘Who, Ferguson and Campbell?’

‘No, no, Ferguson and Mrs. Ferguson. But the ither’s true, too. He and Campbell had an awfu’ quarrel aboot a bit of wall of Ferguson’s that Campbell knocked down wi’ his car.’

‘I wonder if there is a single person in the Stewartry that Campbell didn’t have a row with,’ thought Wimsey, and made an addition to his list:

1. John Ferguson — about 36 — about 5 foot 10 inches — grass-widower — landscape and figures — row about a wall.
   

‘By the way,’ he went on, ‘is Jock Graham anywhere about?’

‘Och, Jock — he’s away oot. He didna come hame last nicht at a’. He said he might be fishin’ up at Loch Trool.’

‘Oho!’ said Wimsey. ‘Up at Loch Trool, is he? How did he go?’

‘I couldna say. I think the factor had invitit him. He’ll ha’ spent last nicht in Newton-Stewart, maybe, and went up wi’ the factor in the mornin’. Or he will ha’ been fishin’ the loch all nicht.’

‘Will he, though?’ said Wimsey. This put a new complexion on the matter. An active man might have driven the body up to the Minnoch and walked back to Newton-Stewart in time to keep his appointment, if that appointment was not an early one. But it would have to be, of course, for a day’s fishing, and Jock Graham liked to work by night.

‘Will he be back tonight, Joe?’

‘I couldna say at all,’ said the landlord, scattering his hopes at a blow. ‘They’ll maybe tak’ twae nichts if the fishin’s gude.’