Five Red Herrings (15 page)

15

8.35

(say). Farren arrives at the Minnoch, hides the corpse and starts on his painting.

10.10

Farren (disguised as Campbell) seen by Jock for first time.

11.5

Farren seen by Jock for the second time.

Here the Inspector paused uncertainly. Was two-and-a-half hours too long to allow for the painting of that picture? He knew very little about artists, and the thing had seemed to him a rough and sketchy affair. He must ask somebody who knew.

But there! What a thick-headed fool he was! Of course, Farren could not begin to paint till the light was good. He mightn’t know much, but he did know that. He thoughtfully shook a few blots from his fountain-pen and continued.

It now seemed very probable that Farren was the passenger at Girvan. The schedule would therefore run on: –

Tuesday.

11.10 a.m.

Farren throws body into the river, puts on cap and overcoat and starts for Girvan on his bicycle.

1.7 p.m.

Arrives at Girvan. Has bicycle labelled for Ayr.

1.11 p.m.

Takes train for Ayr.

1.48 p.m.

Arrives Ayr.

Here, for the moment, the Inspector’s deductions came to an end. Dalziel, he knew, was following up the trail of the bicycle. It would be better to wait for his report before carrying the schedule any further. But he had not done so badly. He had at last succeeded in fixing the crime definitely upon one person, and in producing a plausible time-scheme to which to work. Fortunately, also, it was one that was susceptible to confirmation at several points.

He glanced over his paper again.

If Farren had been searching for Campbell in Gatehouse between 8 o’clock and 9.15, there ought to be evidence of other calls besides that at the Murray Arms. Inquiries would have to be made at the Angel and the Anwoth. But surely, before asking at public houses, Farren would have tried Campbell’s house. If so, it was almost impossible that he should not have been seen. For one thing, he would have had to cross the bridge twice, and there is no hour of the day at which the bridge at Gatehouse is not occupied by at least one idler. The bridge is the common club and gathering-place of the Gatehouse population, who meet there for the exchange of gossip, the counting of passing cars and rising trout, and the discussion of local politics. Even if, by a miracle, the bridge should have been clear on both occasions, there was the long bench outside the Anwoth Hotel, on which fishermen sit to tie knots, pat Bounce the dog and inquire of Felix the cat how many rats he has killed during the day. Lastly, supposing Farren to have escaped notice at both these points, there was always the possibility that Ferguson had been at home and had seen him come to the cottage.

Then, if Strachan’s car had been taken out, surely somebody would know of it. Strachan himself might refuse information or lie stoutly in defence of his friend, but there still remained Mrs. Strachan, the child and the maid. They could not possibly all be in the plot. According to the theory, Farren had called three times at Strachan’s — at about 9.15, to borrow the car; at about 10.40, to fetch the bicycle; at about 11.30 to return the car. The first and last of these visits at any rate ought to have left traces behind them.

Next, there were the three night visits to Campbell’s house — the first, to garage Campbell’s car; the second, to bring in the body; the third, on foot, to fake the evidence. No, that was not necessarily correct. There might have been only two visits. It was more likely that on the first occasion the car had been left somewhere, to be picked up on the final visit. That would reduce the risk very considerably. In fact, the body might have been transferred to Campbell’s car at some quiet spot, thus doing away with the necessity of entering Campbell’s place twice in two different cars — a proceeding bound to arouse suspicion. The transfer could not, naturally, have taken place in Gatehouse itself — that would have been the act of a madman. But it might have been done anywhere between Kirkcudbright and Gatehouse, or on the unfrequented piece of road between the War Memorial and Strachan’s house. Or, if Strachan was indeed involved, it might have been done still more quietly and safely at Strachan’s house itself.

The Inspector made an alteration or two in his time-table to correspond with this new theory, and made a note to advertise for any passer-by who might have seen a Morris car with Campbell’s number-plates stationary at any point on the route.

Finally, the Tuesday morning’s journey could now be corroborated. If his calculations were exact, Campbell’s car must have passed through Gatehouse a little after 7.30; through Creetown about 8 o’clock; and through Newton Stewart at about 8.15. Somebody must undoubtedly have seen it. The Newton Stewart police were, in fact, already investigating this point, but now that he could give them the approximate times, his task would be easier.

Inspector Macpherson put a call through to Newton Stewart and another to Gatehouse, and then turned back with renewed appetite for a fresh bite at his problem.

And now he suddenly realised, what he had momentarily overlooked in working out his times, that he had one piece of hugely important evidence lying ready to his hand. With any luck at all, he had the weapon!

That heavy spanner, which had hurtled through the air and nearly laid out the unfortunate little Helen — what else could it be but the blunt instrument which had crashed in Campbell’s skull? It was perhaps odd that it should have drawn no blood, but much depended on the kind of spanner it was. Anyway, the great thing was to get hold of it. The doctor would tell him if it was a suitable weapon to have inflicted the blow. How fortunate that the corpse was still above ground! It was to be buried next day. He must get hold of that spanner instantly. The Inspector was simmering with suppressed excitement as he pulled on his cap and hastened out to his car.

FERGUSON’S STORY

On the same Thursday morning that took Sergeant Dalziel and Constable Ross to Ayr and set Inspector Macpherson to work at time-schedules, Lord Peter Wimsey presented himself at the farther of the two cottages at Standing Stone Pool.

The door was opened by Mr. Ferguson in person, palette in hand, and dressed in a pair of aged flannel bags, an open shirt and a shapeless and bulging jacket. He seemed a little disconcerted at the sight of an early visitor. Wimsey hastened to explain himself.

‘I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Wimsey. I fancy we met once at Bob Anderson’s.’

‘Yes, of course. Come in. When I heard you knock I thought you were going to be a pound of sausages or the man from the greengrocer’s. I’m afraid the place is in rather a mess. I’ve been away for a couple of days and Mrs. Green seized the opportunity to tidy up, with the result that I’ve had to spend a couple of hours untidying it again.’ He waved his hand towards a litter of canvases, rags, dippers, bottles and other paraphernalia. ‘I never can find anything I want in a tidy studio.’

‘And now I’ve come bargin’ in and interrupting you just as you were settling down to work.’

‘Not a bit. It doesn’t worry me. Have a drink?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve just had one. You carry on and don’t mind me.’

Wimsey cleared a number of books and papers from a chair and sat down, while Ferguson returned to the contemplation of a large canvas, in which Wimsey recognised the typical Ferguson of Graham’s malicious description — the tree with twisted roots, the reflection, the lump of granite and the blue distance and the general air of decorative unreality.

‘Been in Glasgow, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Ran up to look at the show.’

‘Is it a good one?’

‘Not bad.’ Ferguson squeezed out some green paint on to his palette. ‘Craig’s got some fine studies, and there’s a good thing of Donaldson’s. The usual allowance of duds, of course. I really went to see the Farquharsons.’

He added a blob of scarlet vermilion to the semi-circle of colours, and appeared to think that his palette was made up, for he took up a bunch of brushes and began to mix two or three paints together.

Wimsey asked a few more questions about the Exhibition, and then remarked carelessly:

‘So you’ve lost your next-door neighbour.’

‘Yes. I don’t care to think too much about that. Campbell and I were not exactly on the best of terms, but — I wish he could have departed some other way.’

‘It’s all rather queer,’ said Wimsey. ‘I suppose you’ve had the police round, asking the usual questions.’

‘Oh, yes. Apparently it’s just as well I had an alibi. I say, Wimsey — you know all about this kind of thing — I suppose it’s a fact that he was — that it wasn’t an accident?’

‘That does seem to be the case, I’m afraid.’

‘What makes them think so?’

‘Oh, well, I’m an outsider, you know, and of course the police aren’t giving their game away. But I think it was something to do with his being dead before he got into the river and all that kind of guff, don’t you know.’

‘I see. I heard something about a bash on the head. What’s the idea? That somebody snooped up behind and did him in for his money?’

‘Something like that, I dare say. Though, naturally, the police can’t tell if he was robbed till they know how much he had on him. They’re making inquiries at the bank and all that, I expect.’

‘Funny sort of place for a tramp to hang around, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, I dunno. There might have been some fellow sleepin’ up there in the hills.’

‘H’m. Why couldn’t he just have hit his head on the stones in falling?’

Wimsey groaned within himself. This perpetual parrying of pertinent questions was growing wearisome. One after another, everybody wanted to know the same thing. He replied, vacuously:

‘Couldn’t say. Seems on the whole the likeliest idea, don’t it? If I were you, I’d ask the doctor johnnie.’

‘He wouldn’t say, any more than you.’

Ferguson went on for a few minutes dabbing paint on to his canvas in silence. Wimsey noticed that he seemed to be working at random, and was not surprised when he suddenly threw the palette on to the table and, turning round, demanded suddenly:

‘Look here, Wimsey. Tell me one thing. It’s not good your pretending you don’t know, because you do. Is there any doubt at all that Campbell died the same morning that he was found?’

Wimsey felt as though he had suddenly received a jolt in the solar plexus. Whatever made the man ask that — if it was not the self-betrayal of a guilty conscience? Not being very sure how to answer, he asked, quite simply, the question he had just asked himself.

‘Whatever makes you ask that?’

‘And why ever can’t you give me a straightforward answer?’

‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘it seems such a damn funny question. I mean — oh, well, of course — perhaps they didn’t tell you about the picture?’

‘What picture?’

‘The picture Campbell had been painting. The paint was still wet on it. So he must have been alive that morning, or he couldn’t have painted it, could he?’

‘Ah!’ Ferguson let out a long breath, as though his mind were relieved of some anxiety. He picked up his palette again. ‘No, they didn’t tell me that. That settles it, of course.’

He stepped back a couple of paces and regarded his canvas with head cocked and eyes half-shut.

‘But what made you ask?’

‘Well,’ said Ferguson. He took up a palette-knife and began scraping off all the paint he had just put on. ‘Well — the police have been asking questions. I wondered — See here’ — his face was close to the painting and he went on scraping without looking at Wimsey — ‘perhaps you can tell me what I ought to do about it.’

‘About what?’ said Wimsey.

‘About the police. The first thing they did was to go into my movements, starting from Monday night. That was simple enough, as far as Tuesday went, because I took the 9.8 to Glasgow and was there all day. But I had to admit that I was here all Monday night, and they became — damnably inquisitive.’

‘Did they? Well, I’m blessed.’

‘That was why I wanted to know, don’t you see? It’s extremely unpleasant if — well, if there’s any doubt about Campbell having been alive on the Tuesday morning.’

‘Yes, I see your point. Well, so far as I know — mind, I don’t pretend to know everything — but so far as I know, anybody who has a complete alibi for Tuesday morning is perfectly safe.’

‘I’m glad of that. Not so much for my own sake, though naturally one isn’t keen on being suspected of things. But — the fact is, Wimsey, I didn’t quite know what to say to those fellows.’

‘Oh?’ said Wimsey, his eyes all over the place. ‘I say, I like that thing over there, with the white cottage and the heather in the foreground. It sits very nicely up against the slope of the hill.’

‘Yes. It isn’t so bad. I’ll tell you what, Wimsey, after what you’ve said, I don’t so much mind — that is, when those fellows were here, I thought there might possibly be something in it, so I — reserved judgment, so to speak. But perhaps I’d better spill the beans to you, and then you can say whether I ought to mention it. I’m not particularly anxious to make trouble. On the other hand, you know, I don’t want to be an accessory to anything.’

‘If my opinion is worth anything,’ said Wimsey, ‘I’d say, cough it up. After all, if anybody did do the poor devil in, it’s rather up to one to get it detected, and so on.’

‘I suppose it is, though one can’t bring people to life again unfortunately. If one could, of course, one wouldn’t hesitate. Still—’

‘Besides,’ said Wimsey, ‘you never know which way evidence is going to work. People sometimes hang on to information with the bright idea of shieldin’ their husbands or sons or best girls, and give the police a hell of a time, and when it does come out, it proves to be the one thing in the world that was wanted to save their necks — the husbands’ and sons’ and best girls’ necks, I mean, of course.’

Ferguson looked dissatisfied.

‘If I only knew why they wanted to know about Monday night,’ he said, slowly.

‘They want to find the last person who saw the man alive,’ said Wimsey, promptly. ‘It’s always done. It’s part of the regular show. You get it in all the mystery stories. Of course, the last person to see him never commits the crime. That would make it too easy. One of these days I shall write a book in which two men are seen to walk down a cul-de-sac, and there is a shot and one man is found murdered and the other runs away with a gun in his hand, and after twenty chapters stinking with red herrings, it turns out that the man with the gun did it after all.’