Five Red Herrings (17 page)

‘Ye think so?’ said Macpherson. ‘Weel, that’s no a bad idea, neither. But I’m thinkin’ we’ll better be away tae Newton Stewart first. We’ll have tae find the doctor and get the undertaker tae open the coffin. I’ve a great fancy tae see how this spanner fits yon wound in the heid.’

‘Very good,’ said Wimsey, ‘so have I. But just a minute. We’d better have a look first and see if we can find out what happened to the body. The murderer stuck it into his car and drove off towards Gatehouse with it. He can’t have gone far, because he very soon came back for Campbell’s Morris, so there ought to be a gate about here somewhere. In fact, I fancy I remember seeing one.’

The search did not take long. About fifty yards farther along the bend they came to a rusty iron gate on the right-hand side. This led into a grassy lane which, after about thirty yards, turned abruptly to the left and was hidden behind some bushes.

‘Here’s the place,’ said Wimsey. ‘There’s been a car up here lately. You can see where the wing scraped the post. The gate has a hook and chain — easy enough to undo. He must have backed it in up to the bend. Then, if he turned the lights off, it would be absolutely invisible from the road. There’s no difficulty about that, and there’s no other possible hiding-place for a mile or so, I’m certain of that. Well, that’s uncommonly satisfactory. I gloat, as Stalky says. Back we go to the car, Inspector. Spit on your hands and grasp the coachwork firmly. I’m feeling sprightly, and I’m going to break all records between here and Newton Stewart.’

Dr. Cameron was greatly interested in the spanner, and experienced so much difficulty in keeping his hands off it, that it was thought best to have it tested for finger-prints before anythings else was done. By the combined exertions of the police-staff, the local photographer and Wimsey, this was done. A magnificent thumb-print made its appearance after a dusting with mercury-powder, and a perfectly good negative was ‘secured,’ to use the journalist’s per phrase.

In the meantime, a constable had rounded up the undertaker, who arrived in great excitement, swallowing the last fragments of his tea. A slight further delay was caused by its occurring to somebody that the Fiscal should be notified. The Fiscal, fortunately enough, happened to be in the town, and joined the party, explaining to Wimsey as they drove along to the mortuary that it was the most painful case he had handled in the whole of his experience, and that he had been much struck by the superiority of the Scots law to the English in these matters, ‘For,’ said he, ‘the publicity of a coroner’s inquest is bound to give much unnecessary pain to the relations, which is avoided by our method of private investigation.’

‘That is very true,’ said Wimsey, politely, ‘but think of all the extra fun we get from the Sunday newspapers. Inquests are jam to them.’

‘We then proceeded,’ ran Inspector Macpherson’s official notes on this occasion, ‘to the mortuary, where the coffin was unscrewed in the presence of the Fiscal, Dr. Cameron, James McWhan (the undertaker), Lord Peter Wimsey and myself, and the body of Campbell extracted. On comparison of the spanner formerly mentioned with the wounds upon the head of the corpse, Dr. Cameron gave it as his opinion that a contused area upon the left cheek-bone agreed exactly in contour with the head of the said spanner and had in all probability been inflicted by that or by a similar instrument. With regard to the larger contused area upon the temple, which had occasioned death, Dr. Cameron could not speak with certainty, but said that its appearance was consistent with the use of the said spanner.’

After this triumphant entry, which bears the marks of considerable literary effort, appears another.

‘Acting upon the suggestion of Lord Peter Wimsey’ (the Inspector was a just man, giving honour where it was due, regardless of his own lacerated feelings), ‘the finger-prints of the corpse were then taken.’ (This last phrase is erased, and a better locution substituted), ‘a record was then secured of the finger-prints of the corpse. On comparison of this record with the thumb-print found upon the spanner, these were both found to be identical. Acting upon instructions, I despatched both records to Glasgow for expert scrutiny.’

In this stately paragraph, nothing is said of the bitter disappointment experienced by the Inspector. It had seemed to him, with that finger-print in his hands, as though his case were concluded, and now, suddenly, he was taken up and cast down into the old outer darkness of uncertainty and gnashing of teeth. But his behaviour was handsome to the last degree.

‘It’s a great maircy,’ said he to Wimsey, ‘that your lordship should ha’ taken the notion tae have that done. It wad never have entered my heid. We might have eliminated a’ six suspects on the strength o’ that deceivin’ finger-print. It was a gran’ notion of yours, my lord, a gran’ notion.’

He sighed deeply.

‘Cheer up,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s all the luck of the game. Come and have a spot of dinner with me at the Galloway Arms.’

Now that was an unlucky suggestion.

The gathering in Bob Anderson’s studio was well attended that night. Bob was an artist, the geniality of whose temperament is best vouched for by the fact that it had never for one moment occurred to anybody engaged on the case that he could by any chance have hated Campbell, damaged Campbell, or been mixed up for a single moment in the Campbell mystery. He had lived in Kirkcudbright for nearly as many years as Gowan, and was extremely popular, not only with all the artists, but also with the local inhabitants, particularly with the fishermen and the men employed about the harbour. He seldom visited anybody, preferring to be at home every evening in the week, and all the news of the town was bound to filter through Bob’s studio in time.

When Wimsey poked his long nose round the door on that Thursday evening, he found a full house already assembled. Miss Cochran and Miss Selby were there, of course, and Jock Graham (in a remarkable costume, comprising a fisherman’s jersey, a luggage strap, riding-breeches and rope-soled deck-shoes), and Ferguson (rather surprisingly, for he did not as a rule go out of an evening), the Harbour-master, the doctor, Strachan (his black eye almost faded out), a Mrs. Terrington, who worked in metal, a long, thin, silent man called Temple, of whom Wimsey knew nothing except that his handicap was five at St. Andrews, and finally Mrs., Miss and a young Mr. Anderson. The babble of conversation was terrific.

Wimsey’s entrance was greeted by a welcoming shout.

‘Here he is! Here he is! Come away in! Here’s the man to tell us all about it!’

‘All about what?’ said Wimsey, knowing only too well. ‘What to back for the Leger?’

‘Leger be damned. All about this business of poor Campbell. It’s terrible the way the police come running in and out of one’s house. One doesn’t feel safe for a moment. Luckily I’ve got a cast-iron alibi, or I’d begin to feel I was a criminal myself.’

‘No, Bob, not you,’ said Wimsey.

‘Oh, ye never know these days. But very fortunately I was at dinner with the Provost Monday night and didn’t get home till midnight, and on Tuesday morning I was showing myself up and down St. Cuthbert’s Street. But tell us, Wimsey, you that’s hand in glove with the police—’

‘I’m not allowed to tell anything,’ said Wimsey, plaintively. ‘You mustn’t tempt me. It’s not fair. I could not love thee, Bob, so much, loved I not honour more. Besides, I’m supposed to be finding things out, not giving information away.’

‘Well, you’re welcome to all we know,’ said Miss Selby.

‘Am I?’ said Wimsey. ‘Tell me, then, how many hundred people in the county, besides Jock, knew that Campbell meant to go up to the Minnoch on Tuesday?’

‘You had better ask who did not?’ said the doctor. ‘He said so here on the Sunday night. He’d been making a preliminary sketch that afternoon. Monday he was going to fish in some wonderful place he wouldn’t tell anybody about—’

‘I know where it was, all the same,’ put in Graham.

‘You would. And Tuesday he was going to paint the Minnoch if the weather held. You heard him say so, Mary.’

‘I did so,’ said Miss Cochran.

‘I was here, too,’ said Ferguson, ‘and I remember it perfectly. I fancy I said something about it to Farren on the Monday morning, because he had a tea-party or something fixed up for Brighouse Bay on Tuesday and said he hoped they wouldn’t run into Campbell.’

‘I knew, too,’ said Strachan. ‘My wife and I met him up here on Sunday, as I think I mentioned to Wimsey.’

Wimsey nodded. ‘Campbell seems to have been more communicative than usual,’ he remarked.

‘Och,’ said Bob, ‘Campbell was not such a bad fellow if you took him the right way. He had an aggressive manner, but I believe it was mostly due to a feeling that he was out of everything. He used to have awful arguments with people—’

‘He was an opinionated man,’ said the Harbour-master.

‘Yes, but that made it all the more amusing. One couldn’t take Campbell seriously.’

‘Gowan did, for one,’ said the doctor.

‘Ah, but Gowan takes everything very seriously, and himself most of all.’

‘All the same,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Campbell ought not to have spoken of Gowan as he did.’

‘Gowan’s away, isn’t he? They told me he had gone to London. By the way, Wimsey, what’s happened to Waters?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest. As far as I can make out, he’s supposed to be in Glasgow. Did you see anything of him, Ferguson?’

‘No. The police asked me that. Do I take it that Waters is suspected of anything?’

‘Waters was here on Sunday night,’ observed the doctor, ‘but he didn’t stay very long after Campbell came in.’

‘You’re a great man for facts, doctor. But if Waters was in Glasgow he couldn’t have been up at the Minnoch.’

‘The odd thing,’ said Miss Selby, ‘is that nobody saw him in Glasgow. He was supposed to be going by our train, but he didn’t, did he, Mr. Ferguson?’

‘I didn’t see him. But I wasn’t looking out for him particularly. I saw you two get in at Dumfries, and I saw you again with your party at St. Enoch Station. But I went off in rather a hurry. I had some shopping to do before I got down to the show. As a matter of fact, the whole thing was very irritating. Something went wrong with my magneto, otherwise I should have got up early and run over to catch the 7.30 express from Dumfries, instead of waiting for that ghastly 11.22, which stops at every station.’

‘Rather than travel by a confirmed stopper,’ said Wimsey, ‘I’d have waited a little longer and gone by the 1.46.’

‘Taking the 10.56 from Gatehouse, you mean?’

‘Or the 11 o’clock ’bus. It gets you in to Dumfries at 12.25.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Strachan. ‘That’s the Sunday ’bus. The week-day ’bus goes at 10.’

‘Well, anyway, I couldn’t,’ said Ferguson, ‘because I’d made an appointment to meet a man at the show at 3.15, and the 1.46 doesn’t get in to Glasgow until 3.34. So I had to make a martyr of myself. And the sickening thing was that my man never turned up after all. I found a note at my hotel, saying he’d been called to see a sick relative.’

‘Sick relatives ought to be forbidden by law,’ said Wimsey.

‘Yes; I was damned fed-up. However, I took my mag. along to Sparkes & Crisp, and it’s still there, confound it. Something obscure in the armature winding, as far as I could make out — I don’t think they knew themselves. And it’s practically a new car, too; only done a few thousand. I’m claiming under guarantee.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Wimsey, consolingly, ‘Sparkes & Crisp will provide a nice little alibi for you.’

‘Yes; I don’t know exactly when I got there, but they’ll be able to say. I took a tram up. I should think I got to their place about 3 o’clock. The train was a quarter of an hour late, of course; it always is.’

‘It was nearer twenty minutes late,’ said Miss Selby, severely. ‘We were very much annoyed about it. It cut down our time with Kathleen.’

‘Local trains always are late,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s one of the rules. It’s done so that the guard and the engine-driver can step out and admire the station-master’s garden at every stop. You know those gardening competitions they have in railway magazines. Well, that’s how they’re run. The guard gets off at Kirkgunzeon or Brig o’ Dee with a yard measure in his hand and measures the prize marrow and says: “Twa fut four inches — that’ll no dew, Mr. McGeoch. They’ve got one at Dalbeattie that beats ye by two inches. Here, George, come and look at this.” So the engine-driver strolls over and says, “Och, ay, imph’m, ye’ll dew weel tae gie’t a mulch o’ liquid guano and aspidistra tonic.” And then they go back to Dalbeartie and tell them that the marrow at Kirkgunzeon is hauling up on them hand over fist. It’s no good laughing. I know they do it. If not, what on earth do they do, hanging everlastingly about at these three-by-four stations?’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Miss Anderson, ‘talking such nonsense, with poor Mr. Campbell lying dead.’

‘They’re burying him tomorrow, aren’t they?’ said Jock Graham, suddenly and tactlessly. ‘At Gatehouse. Does one go? I haven’t any wedding garments.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Bob. ‘Never thought of that. We must go, I suppose. Look odd if we didn’t. Besides, I’d like to show respect to the poor fellow. Surely we can go as we are.’

‘You can’t go in those terrific tweeds, Bob,’ said Miss Selby.

‘Why not?’ demanded Bob. ‘I can feel just as sorry in a check suit as in a frock-coat smelling of moth-balls. I shall go in my ordinary working clothes — with a black tie, naturally. Can you see me in a top-hat?’

‘Dad, you are dreadful,’ said Miss Anderson.

18

‘My God!’ said Wimsey. ‘I hope Bunter has remembered to order a wreath. I expect he has. He remembers everything. Did you decide to send one from the Club, Strachan?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Strachan. ‘We all agreed it was the right thing to do.’

‘The trouble with Campbell,’ said the five-handicap man unexpectedly, ‘was that he was a bad loser. A slice off the tee or a foozled approach-shot would put him off his game for the afternoon.’

Having unburdened his mind of this criticism, he retired in obscurity again and spoke no more.

‘He was having a one-man show in London this autumn, wasn’t he?’ said Ferguson.