Five Red Herrings (24 page)

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, when she had made the join in the wool. She re-started the wheel with a light touch of the hand. ‘What was that you said?’

‘I said you might tell me where the letter came from.’

‘What letter?’

‘The letter your husband wrote you on Thursday.’

‘If,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘the police have been tampering with my correspondence, they can probably give you all the information you want — unless, of course, they also dislike interference.’

Her breath was coming short and angrily.

‘Well,’ replied Wimsey, ‘as a matter of fact they omitted that simple precaution. But since you admit the existence of the letter—’

‘I admit nothing of the sort.’

‘Come now,’ said Wimsey. ‘You are not one of Nature’s gifted liars, Mrs. Farren. Up to Thursday, you were genuinely frightened and anxious about your husband. On Friday you were pretending to be anxious, but you were not. Today I suggest that you received a letter from your husband on Friday morning, and you leap to the conclusion that the police have been investigating your correspondence. Therefore you did receive a letter. Why deny it?’

‘Why should I tell you anything about it?’

‘Why indeed? I have only to wait a day or two and I shall get the answer from Scotland Yard.’

‘What has Scotland Yard to do with it?’

‘Surely, Mrs. Farren, you must know that your husband is, or may be, a valuable witness in the Campbell case?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you know, he went off from here looking for Campbell. He was last heard of inquiring for Campbell in Gatehouse. It would be interesting to know if he did meet Campbell — wouldn’t it?’

‘Lord Peter Wimsey!’ Mrs. Farren stopped the wheel and turned indignantly to face him. ‘Have you ever thought how contemptible you are? We have received you here in Kirkcudbright as a friend. Everybody has shown you kindness. And you repay it by coming into the houses of your friends as a police-spy. If there is anything meaner than a man who tries to bully and trap a woman into betraying her husband, it is the wife who falls into the trap!’

‘Mrs. Farren,’ said Wimsey, getting up, with a white face, ‘if it is a question of betrayal, then I beg your pardon. I shall say nothing to the police about the letter or about what you have just said. But in that case I can only say again — and this time as a warning — that they have sent out an all-stations call from London and that from today your correspondence will be watched. In telling you so, I am possibly betraying official secrets and making myself an accessory after the fact to a murder. However—’

‘How dare you?’

‘To be frank with you,’ said Wimsey, taking the question at its face-value, ‘I do not think I am running any very great risk. If I did, I might be more cautious.’

‘Do you dare to suggest that I believe my husband to be guilty of murder?’

‘If I must answer that, then — I think you have thought so. I am not sure that you do not think so now. But I thought it possible that you believed him innocent, in which case, the sooner he returns to give an account of himself, the better for himself and for everybody.’

He took up his hat and turned to go. He had his hand on the latch when she called him back.

‘Lord Peter!’

‘Think before you speak,’ he said hastily.

‘You — you are quite mistaken. I am sure my husband is innocent. There is another reason—’

He looked at her.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Stupid of me. It is your own pride that you are sheltering now.’ He came back into the room, treading gently, and laid his hat on the table. ‘My dear Mrs. Farren, will you believe me when I say that all men — the best and the worst alike — have these moments of rebellion and distaste? It is nothing. It is a case for understanding and — if I may say so — response.’

‘I am ready,’ said Gilda Farren, ‘to forgive—’

‘Never do that,’ said Wimsey. ‘Forgiveness is the one unpardonable sin. It is almost better to make a scene — though,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘that depends on the bloke’s temperament.’

‘I should certainly not make a scene,’ said Mrs. Farren.

‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘I see that.’

‘I shall not do anything,’ said Mrs. Farren. ‘To be insulted was enough. To be deserted as well—’ Her eyes were hard and angry. ‘If he chooses to come back, I shall receive him, naturally. But it is nothing to me what he chooses to do with himself. There seems to be no end to what women have to endure. I should not say as much as this to you, if—’

‘If I didn’t know it already,’ put in Wimsey.

‘I have tried to look as though nothing was the matter,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘and to put a good face on it. I do not want to show my husband up before his friends.’

‘Quite so,’ said Wimsey. ‘Besides,’ he added, rather brutally, ‘it might look as though you yourself had failed in some way.’

‘I have always done my duty as his wife.’

‘Too true,’ said Wimsey. ‘He put you up on a pedestal, and you have sat on it ever since. What more could you do?’

‘I have been faithful to him,’ said Mrs. Farren, with rising temper. ‘I have worked to keep the house beautiful — and to make it a place of refreshment and inspiration. I have done all I could to further his ambitions. I have borne my share of the household expenses—’ Here she seemed suddenly to become aware of a tinge of bathos and went on hurriedly, ‘You may think all this is nothing, but it means sacrifice and hard work.’

‘I know that,’ replied Wimsey, quietly.

‘Is it my fault that — just because this house was always a peaceful and beautiful place — that unhappy man should have come to me to tell me his troubles? Is that any reason why I should be outraged by vile suspicions? Do you believe there was anything more than sympathy in my feelings for Sandy Campbell?’

‘Not for a moment,’ said Wimsey.

‘Then why couldn’t my husband believe it?’

‘Because he was in love with you.’

‘That is not the kind of love I recognise as love. If he loved me he should have trusted me.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Wimsey, ‘I quite agree with you. But everybody has his own ideas about love, and Hugh Farren is a decent man.’

‘Is it decent to believe vile things of other people?’

‘Well — the two things often go together, I’m afraid. I mean, virtuous people are generally rather stupid about those things. That’s why bad men always have devoted wives — they’re not stupid. Same with bad women — they usually have their husbands on a lead. It oughtn’t to be like that, but there it is.’

‘Do you consider yourself a decent man when you talk like that?’

‘Oh dear no,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I’m not stupid. My wife won’t have that to complain of.’

‘You seem to imagine that infidelity is a trifle, compared with—’

‘With stupidity. I don’t quite say that. But the one can cause quite as much upheaval as the other, and the trouble is that it’s incurable. One of those things one has to put up with. I shan’t necessarily be unfaithful to my wife, but I shall know enough about infidelity to know it when I see it, and not mistake other things for it. If I were married to you, for example, I should know that under no circumstances would you ever be unfaithful to me. For one thing, you haven’t got the temperament. For another, you would never like to think less of yourself than you do. For a third, it would offend your aesthetic taste. And for a fourth, it would give other people a handle against you.’

‘Upon my word,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘your reasons are more insulting than my husband’s suspicions.’

‘You’re quite right,’ said Wimsey. ‘They are.’

‘If Hugh were here,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘he would throw you out of the window.’

‘Probably,’ said Wimsey. ‘In fact, now that I’ve put it to you in the right light, you can see that his attitude towards you is rather a compliment than otherwise.’

‘Go and see him,’ said Mrs. Farren fiercely. ‘Tell him what you have been saying to me — if you dare — and see what he says to you.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Wimsey, ‘if you will give me his address.’

‘I don’t know it,’ said Mrs. Farren, shortly. ‘But the post-mark was Brough in Westmorland.’

‘Thank you,’ said Wimsey, ‘I will go and see him — and, by the way, I shall not mention this to the police.’

At an early hour on Monday morning, a large black Daimler car, with an outsize bonnet and racing body, moved in leisurely silence down the main street of Brough. The driver, glancing carelessly from side to side through his monocle, appeared to be about to pull up at the principal hotel; then, suddenly changing his mind, he moved forward again, and eventually stopped the car before a smaller inn, distinguished by the effigy of a spirited bull, careering ferociously in an emerald green meadow beneath a bright summer sky.

He pushed open the door and strode in. The innkeeper was polishing glasses, and bade him a polite good morning.

‘A fine morning,’ said the traveller.

‘Ay, so ’tis,’ agreed the innkeeper.

‘Can you give me a bit of breakfast?’

The innkeeper appeared to turn this suggestion over in his mind.

‘Hey, mother!’ he bellowed at last, turning towards an inner door, ‘canst a’ give breakfast to t’ gentleman?’

His shout brought out a comely woman in the middle forties who, after looking the gentleman over and summing him up, reckoned that she could, if a dish of eggs and Cumberland ham would suit the gentleman.

Nothing could be better, in the gentleman’s opinion. He was ushered into a parlour full of plush-covered chairs and stuffed birds, and invited to take a seat. After an interval, a sturdy young woman appeared to lay the table. After a further interval came a large and steaming tea-pot, a home-baked loaf, a plate of buns, a large pat of butter and two sorts of jam. Finally, the landlady reappeared, escorting the ham and eggs in person.

The motorist complimented her on the excellence of the food and fell to with an appetite, mentioning that he had just come down from Scotland. He made a few sensible observations on the curing of hams, and gave an intelligent account of the method used in Ayrshire. He also inquired particularly after a certain kind of cheese peculiar to the district. The landlady — in whom the monocle had at first raised some doubts — began to think that he was a more homely body than he appeared at first sight, and obligingly offered to send the girl round to the shop to procure a cheese for him.

‘I can see you know the town, sir,’ she observed.

‘Oh, yes — I’ve been through here lots of times, though I don’t think I’ve ever pulled up here before. You’re looking very smart and all that — got the old Bull repainted, I see.’

‘Ah, you noticed ’en, sir. Well, that was nobbut finished yesterday. ’Twas done by a painter gentleman. He came walking into t’ bar Thursday and says to George, “Landlord,” he says, “the signboard would do wi’ a bit paint. If I make ’ee a fine new bull for ’en, will ’ee let me have a room cheap?” George, he didn’t know what to think, but t’ gentleman says, “I’ll make ’ee a fair offer. Here’s my money. Gie me my food and lodging and I’ll do my best by t’ bull, and if tha likes ’en when a’s done, tha canst allow what tha likes for ’en on t’ bill.” On walking-tour, a’ said a’ was, and a’ had one of these little boxes full of paints wi’ ’en, so that we could see a’ was an artist.’

‘Funny,’ said the motorist. ‘Had he any luggage?’

‘A little bag-like — nothing much. But anybody could see a’ was a gentleman. Well, George didn’t know what to think.’

From what the traveller had seen of George, this seemed very probable. There was a kind of stolid dignity about George which suggested that he disliked being flurried.

Apparently, however, the mysterious artist had then and there, with a piece of black stuff, sketched on the back of an envelope a bull so rampant, so fierce, so full of fire and vigour, as to appeal very strongly to George’s agrarian instincts. After some discussion, the bargain was struck, the old bull taken down and the paints brought out. On Thursday the new bull had made his appearance on one side of the sign, head down and tail up, steam issuing from his nostrils, and the painter had explained that this represented the frame of mind of the hungry traveller bellowing for his food. On Friday, a second bull was drawn and coloured on the other side, sleek, handsome and contented, having fed well and received the best of treatment. On Saturday, the sign had been set out to dry in the wash-house. On Sunday, the painter had applied a coat of varnish on both sides and set the board back in the wash-house. On Sunday night, the varnish, though still a little tacky, seemed to be dry enough to allow of the sign’s being put in place, and there it was. The painter had taken his departure on foot on Sunday afternoon. George had been so pleased with the bull that he had refused to take any money at all from the gentleman, and had given him an introduction to a friend of his in a neighbouring village, who also had a sign that needed renewal.

The motorist listened with great interest to this story and carelessly inquired the painter’s name. The landlady produced her visitors’ book.

‘ ’Tis wrote here,’ said she. ‘Mr. H. Ford of London, but by a’s speech you’d ha’ taken ’en for a Scotsman.’

26

The motorist looked down at the book, with a slight smile twisting the corners of his long mouth. Then he pulled a fountain-pen from his pocket and wrote, beneath the signature of Mr. H. Ford:

‘Peter Wimsey. Kirkcudbright. Good baiting at the Bull.’

Then, getting up and buckling the belt of his leather coat, he observed, pleasantly:

‘If any friends of mine should come inquiring for Mr. Ford, be sure you show them that book, and say I left my compliments for Mr. Parker of London.’

‘Mester Parker?’ said the landlady, mystified, but impressed. ‘Well, to be sure, I’ll tell ’en, sir.’

Wimsey paid his bill and went out. As he drove away he saw her standing, book in hand, under the signboard, staring at the bull which capered so bravely on the bright green grass.

The village mentioned by the landlady was only about six miles from Brough, and was reached by a side-turning. It possessed only one inn, and that inn had no sign, only an empty iron bracket. Wimsey smiled again, stopped his car at the door and passed into the bar, where he ordered a tankard of beer.