Five Red Herrings (25 page)

‘What’s the name of your inn?’ he asked, presently.

The landlord, a brisk Southerner, grinned widely.

‘Dog and Gun, sir. The sign’s took down to be repainted. Gentleman a-workin’ on it now in the back garden. One of these travelling painter chaps — gentleman, though. Comes from over the Border by his way o’ talkin’. Old George Wetherby sent him on here. Tells me he’s made a good job o’ the old Bull in Brough. Working his way down to London, by what I can make out. Very pleasant gentleman. Real artist — paints pictures for the London shows, or so he tells me. My sign won’t be any the worse for a dab o’ fresh paint — besides, it amuses the kids to watch him muckin’ about.’

‘Nothing I like better myself,’ said Wimsey, ‘than to hang round while another fellow does a spot of work.’

‘No? Well, that’s so, sir. If you like to step into the garden, sir, you’ll see him.’

Wimsey laughed and wandered out, tankard in hand. He dodged under a little archway, covered with a tangle of faded ramblers, and there, sure enough, squatting on an upturned bucket with the signboard of the Dog and Gun propped on a kitchen-chair before him, was the missing Hugh Farren, whistling cheerfully, as he squeezed out paint upon his palette.

Farren’s back was turned towards Wimsey and he did not turn his head. Three children watched, fascinated, as the thick blobs of colour oozed out on to the board.

‘What’s that, mister?’

‘That’s the green for the gentleman’s coat. No — don’t pinch it, or you’ll get it all over you. Yes, you can put the cap on. Yes, that’s to keep it from drying up. Yes, put it back in the box. . That’s yellow. No, I know there isn’t any yellow in the picture, but I want it to mix with the green to make it brighter. You’ll see. Don’t forget the cap. What? Oh, anywhere in the box. White — yes, it’s a big tube isn’t it? You’ll see, you have to put a little white into most of the colours — why? Well, they wouldn’t come right without it. You’ll see when I do the sky. What’s that? You want the dog made white all over? No, I can’t make it a picture of Scruggs. Why not? Well, Scruggs isn’t the right sort of dog to take out shooting. Well, he’s not, that’s why. This has got to be a retriever. All right, well, I’ll put in a liver-and-white spaniel. Oh, well, it’s rather a pretty dog with long ears. Yes. I daresay it is like Colonel Amery’s. No. I don’t know Colonel Amery. Did you put the cap on that white paint? Dash it! if you go losing things like that I’ll send you back to Mother and she’ll spank you. What? Well, the gentleman has a green coat because he’s a gamekeeper. Possibly Colonel Amery’s gamekeeper doesn’t, but this one does. No. I don’t know why gamekeepers wear green coats — to keep them warm, I expect. No. I haven’t got any brown paint same as that tree-trunk. I get that by mixing other colours. No, I’ve got all the colours I want now. You can put ’em away and shut the box. Yes, I can tell pretty well how much I want before I start. That’s called a palette knife. No, it isn’t meant to be sharp. It’s meant for cleaning your palette and so on. Some people use a knife to paint with. Yes, it’s nice and wiggly, but it won’t stand too much of that kind of treatment, my lad. Yes, of course you can paint with a knife if you want to. You can paint with your fingers if it comes to that. No, I shouldn’t advise you to try. Yes, well, it makes a rougher kind of surface, all blobs and chunks of paint. All right. I’ll show you presently. Yes, I’m going to begin with the sky. Why? Well, why do you think? Yes, because it’s at the top. Yes, of course that blue’s too dark, but I’m going to put some white in it. Yes, and some green. You didn’t know there was any green in the sky? Well, there is. And sometimes there’s purple and pink too. No, I’m not going to paint a purple and pink sky. The gentleman and the dogs have only just started out. It’s morning in this picture. Yes, I know, on the other side they’re coming home with a lot of birds and things. I’ll put a pink and purple sunset into that if you’re good and don’t ask too many questions. No, be a good girl and don’t joggle my arm. Oh, Lord!’

‘Hullo, Farren!’ said Wimsey. ‘Finding the young idea a bit too eager for information, eh?’

‘My God!’ said the painter. ‘Wimsey, by all that’s holy! How did you get here? Don’t say my wife sent you!’

‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘And yet, now you mention it, I believe she did do something of the sort.’

Farren sighed.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Spit it out and get it over. Run away to your mother, bairns. I’ve got to talk to this gentleman.’

‘Look here,’ said Wimsey, when they were alone. ‘I want to say, first of all, that I haven’t the faintest right to ask questions. But I’d be damned glad if you’d tell me exactly what you’ve been up to since Monday night.’

‘I suppose my conduct is being harshly criticised at Kirkcudbright,’ said Farren. ‘Deserting the home, and all that?’

‘Well, no,’ said Wimsey. ‘Your wife has stuck to it that there’s nothing unusual in your disappearance. But — as a matter of fact — the police have been hunting for you everywhere.’

‘The police? Why in the world—?’

‘I think I’ll smoke a pipe,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, the fact that you were talking rather wildly about suicide and other things, don’t you know. And then your bicycle being found close to those old mines up beyond Creetown. It — suggested things, you see.’

‘Oh, I’d forgotten about the bicycle. Yes, but surely Gilda — I wrote to her.’

‘She isn’t worried about that, now.’

‘I suppose she must have been rather anxious. I ought to have written earlier. But — damn it! I never thought about their finding that. And — by Jove! old Strachan will have been in a bit of a stew.’

‘Why Strachan, particularly?’

‘Well, surely he told people — didn’t he?’

‘Look here, Farren, what the devil are you talking about?’

‘About Monday night. Poor old Strachan! He must have thought I’d really gone and done it.’

‘When did you see Strachan, then?’

‘Why, that night, up by the mines. Didn’t you know?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Wimsey. ‘Suppose you tell me the story right end foremost.’

‘All right. I don’t mind. I suppose you know that I had a bit of a row that night with Campbell. Oh! that reminds me, Wimsey. Didn’t I see something funny in the paper about Campbell? Something about his being found dead?’

‘He’s been murdered,’ said Wimsey, abruptly.

‘Murdered? That wasn’t what I saw. But I haven’t looked at a paper for days. I only saw — when was it? — Wednesday morning, I think — something about “well-known Scottish painter found dead in a river.” ’

‘Oh, well, it hadn’t got out then. But he was bumped off, as a matter of fact, some time on Monday night or Tuesday morning — up at the Minnoch.’

‘Was he? Serve the beggar right. Oh, by the way, I seem to see something behind this. Am I supposed to have done it, Wimsey?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey, truthfully. ‘But there is a feeling that perhaps you ought to come forward and say something. You were looking for him, you know, on Monday night.’

‘Yes, I was. And if I’d met him, there would have been murder done. But as a matter of fact, I didn’t meet him.’

‘You can prove that?’

‘Well — I don’t know that I can if it comes to that. This isn’t serious, is it?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s have the story, Farren.’

‘I see. Well. Well, I came home about six o’clock on Monday and found that blighter making love to my wife. I was fed up, Wimsey. I hoofed him out and I dare say I made a bit of an ass of myself.’

‘Wait a minute. Did you actually see Campbell?’

‘He was just making off when I came in. I told him to clear out, and then I went in and spoke my mind. I told Gilda I wouldn’t have that fellow there. She stuck up for him, and that annoyed me. Mind you, Wimsey, I haven’t a word against Gilda except that she can’t and won’t understand that Campbell is — was — a poisonous sort of hound and that she was making me a laughing-stock. She’s got an idea about being kind and sympathetic, and she can’t see that that sort of thing doesn’t work with fellows like Campbell. Dash it all, I know the blighter was crazy about her. And when I tried, quite nicely, to point out that she was making a fool of herself, she got on her high horse and — Damn it, Wimsey! I don’t want to talk like a pig about my wife, but the fact is, she’s too good and too full of ideals to understand what the ordinary man is like. You do see what I mean?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Wimsey.

‘Because my wife really is a wonderful woman. Only — well, I daresay I said a lot of silly things.’

‘I know exactly the sort of thing you said,’ observed Wimsey. ‘She didn’t tell me, but I can imagine it. You stormed about, and she told you not to have coarse ideas, and you got hotter, and she got colder, and you said things you didn’t mean in the hope of bringing her to your arms, so to speak, and then she said you were insulting and burst into tears, and then you worked yourself into half-believing the accusations you’d only made to annoy her, and then you threatened murder and suicide and went out to get drunk. Bless your soul, you’re not the first and won’t be the last.’

‘Well, you’ve got it about right,’ said Farren. ‘Only I really did begin to believe it at the time. At least, I believed Campbell was out to do all the mischief he could. I did get drunk. I had one or two in the town, and then I barged off to Gatehouse to find Campbell.’

‘How did you miss him in Kirkcudbright? He was at the McClellan Arms all the time.’

‘I never thought of that. I just hared off to Gatehouse. He wasn’t in his cottage, and Ferguson yelled out to me. I thought of having a row with Ferguson, but I wasn’t as drunk as all that. Then I went and had a few more. Somebody told me they’d seen Campbell go out to Creetown, so I went after him.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Wimsey. ‘You went up the road to the golf-links.’

‘Did I? Oh, yes so I did. I went to find Strachan, but he was out. I left a note or a message for him, I think; to tell the truth, I’m not very clear about it. But I think I told him I was going to Creetown to do Campbell in and cut my own throat. Some rot or other. . I say, poor old Strachan! He must have had a time! Did he show that note to the police?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Oh, no, I suppose he wouldn’t. Strachan’s a good sort. Well, I went over to Creetown. The pubs were shut when I got there, but I went in and got hold of a man there — by Jove, no, I suppose he wouldn’t have come forward, either. Well, never mind the man — I don’t want to get him into trouble. The point is that I raised a bottle of whiskey after closing-time.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I’m a bit vague about the next part of it, but I know I remember going up into the hills, with some vague idea of chucking myself down one of the pits. I wandered round. I remember wheeling the damned bike over the rough stuff — and then, damn it all, I came to the mouth of one of the mines. Nearly fell into it. I sat down and moralised a bit on the brink, with the help of the whiskey. I must have been damned drunk. I don’t know how long that lasted. Well, then, presently I heard somebody shouting and I shouted back. I felt like that. Somebody came up, and started talking. It was old Strachan. At least, my impression is that it was Strachan, but I freely admit that I may be mixing things up a bit. I know he talked and talked and tried to get hold of me, and I struggled and fought him. It was a lovely fight, I do know that. Then I knocked him down and started to run. I ran like hell. My God! it was fine. Drink takes me in the head, you know; my legs are always all right. I simply bounced over the heather, and the stars bounced along with me. Good God! I remember that now. I don’t know how long it went on. And then I lost my footing and went rolling away down a slope somewhere. I suppose I fetched up all right at the bottom, because, when I woke, it was well on in the morning, and I was lying in a sort of hollow among the bracken, quite snug and cosy and without so much as a headache.

‘I didn’t know where I was. But I didn’t care. I just felt that nothing mattered at all. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t care a hang about Campbell. I just felt as if all the cares of the world had tumbled off my back and left me alone in the sunshine. I walked straight ahead. I was getting damned hungry by that time, because I’d had no dinner the night before, but there wasn’t so much as a shepherd’s hut in sight. I walked and walked. The place was full of wee burns and I had plenty to drink. After hours and hours I struck a road and walked along, not meeting anybody. And then, some time about mid-day, I crossed a bridge and knew where I was. It was the place they call New Brig o’ Dee, on the New Galloway Road. I hadn’t really come so very far. I expect I must have made a bit of a circle, though I thought I was keeping the sun on my right all the time.’

‘The sun moves, you know,’ said Wimsey, ‘or appears to.’

27

‘Yes — I don’t think I realised how long I’d been going. Anyhow, I got there, and started to walk towards New Galloway. I met some sheep and a few cows and carts, and at last a fellow with a lorry overtook me. He took me as far as New Galloway, and I got something to eat there.’

‘What time was that?’ asked Wimsey, quickly.

‘Oh, it must have been nearly three. Then I wondered what to do with myself. I’d got about ten pounds in my pocket and my one idea was that I didn’t want to go back. I was finished. Done. I wanted to go gipsying. I didn’t give a damn if I never saw the Tolbooth spire again. I saw an empty lorry labelled with the name of a Glasgow firm on it, and I bargained with the man to take me to Dumfries. They were going that way.’

‘What was the name of the firm?’

‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. There were two very decent fellows on it and we talked about fishing.’

‘Where did they put you off?’

‘Just before we got to Dumfries. I wanted to think a bit, you see. It was a question whether I’d take the train there or put up in some pub or other. I was afraid of running into some of our crowd at the station. Besides, some of the railway people there would have known me. I often go to Dumfries. That was the trouble about the pub idea too. . I don’t know if I can explain how I felt, Wimsey. It was as if I’d escaped from something and was afraid of being — well, bagged. I mean, if I had met anyone who knew me, I should have fudged up some tale about fishing or painting and made everything sound quite ordinary, and then I should have gone home. You see. It wouldn’t have been the same if I’d had to make up an elaborate deception about it. You’re not free when you have to tell lies to escape. It’s not worth it. I can’t possibly make you understand that.’