Five Red Herrings (33 page)

‘My theory is this. I think Farren’s story is true. It is too absurd and whimsical a story not to be true, and all Farren’s alleged actions are exactly the sort of daft thing Farren would do. I feel sure that Farren isn’t the man to plan out an elaborate fake like the planting of the body and the painting of the picture. The man who did that was perfectly cool and unemotional, and he would have known a great deal better than to go and lose himself in that suspicious way immediately afterwards. No. Depend upon it, the man who committed the crime would take the very first opportunity of reappearing in his usual haunts.

‘The way I see it is this. Strachan got that note from Farren and went down to the cottage as he said. When he got there, one of two things happened, and I am not perfectly sure which. I think Campbell opened the door to him and I think that he went in and had an interview with Campbell which ended in a violent quarrel and struggle. I think Ferguson was awakened by the noise, and came down just at the moment when Strachan had knocked Campbell down and killed him. Or possibly he arrived to find Strachan and Campbell fighting together, and then himself struck the blow which finished Campbell. There is the third possibility that the situation was reversed, and that Strachan came in to find Campbell already dead and Ferguson standing over him red-handed. I think that is rather less likely, for a reason I’ll explain later.

‘In any case, I’m sure we have this situation — the two men at the cottage with Campbell’s dead body and one at least of them guilty of killing him. Now, what would they do next? It is quite conceivable that, if only one of them had a hand in it, the other should at first threaten to inform the police, but there might be difficulties about that. Both men were well known to have quarrelled previously with Campbell, and the accused man might very well threaten to bring a counter-accusation. In any case, I fancy they realised that they were both of them in an exceedingly awkward position, and decided to help each other out if possible.

‘Which of the two had the idea of faking the accident I don’t know, of course, but I should imagine it would be Strachan. He is a man of particularly quick and keen intellect — just the sort that can think well ahead and foresee the consequences of his actions. The first bold outline of the idea would probably be his, but Ferguson no doubt helped, with his remarkable memory for details.

‘They would hope, naturally, that the whole thing would be accepted as pure accident; but they would remember that, if once a murder was suspected, they would need alibis to cover the whole period from midnight to the following mid-day. Obviously, they couldn’t both have alibis for the whole period, but they might do equally well by dividing the time. Eventually they decided that Strachan was to establish the alibi for the night hours, while Ferguson did everything necessary in connection with the body, and that Ferguson would then establish his alibi for the next morning, while Strachan painted the picture.’

The Chief Constable paused and looked round to see how his audience were taking this. Encouraged by a little hum of appreciative surprise, he took up his tale again.

‘The reason why they worked it that way is, I think, that Ferguson had already announced his intention of going to Glasgow in the morning, and that any sudden change of plan might appear odd. They now had to think of some alibi which Strachan could reasonably put forward at that hour of the night, and the best thing they could think of was that he should carry out his original intention of going after Farren.’

‘But,’ interposed the Fiscal, ‘was not that a very difficult and uncertain plan on which to rely? It was a hundred to one against his meeting Farren. Would it not have been simpler to knock up some person with a suitable story? He could, for instance, have communicated to somebody his fears about Farren, and even taken that person with him as a witness to his alibi.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Sir Maxwell. ‘That point occurred to me also, but when I came to think the matter over, I saw that Strachan’s plan was about the best he could have adopted in the circumstances. For one thing, I believe that it would have been awkward for him to present himself in public at that moment. I think that he had already received that blow in the eye which he afterwards accounted for in another manner. That is why I said I felt pretty sure that Strachan took part in the struggle with Campbell, even though he may not have struck the fatal blow himself. Moreover, suppose he did knock somebody up to inquire about Farren, and suppose that somebody kindly offered to accompany him in his search? He would then, as the Fiscal truly says, have an unimpeachable witness to his alibi — certainly he would. But what if he could not get rid of the witness in time to do the very important job he had to do the next morning? What reason could he possibly give for abandoning his search for Farren and rushing away to Newton-Stewart? And how could he prevent people from knowing where he was going, if once he got a hue-and-cry started? Whatever happened, he had to get up to the Minnoch early the next morning, and he had to do it in secret.

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t think his plan turned out as he intended. Indeed, it went very near to miscarrying altogether. I feel sure his original intention was to find Farren and bring him home — either to Kirkcudbright or to his own house at Gatehouse. He could then have explained his black eye as being due to a fall sustained in his search at Falbae.’

‘But,’ objected Wimsey, who had been following all this argument with a keenness which his half-drooped eyelids scarcely veiled, ‘he’d still have to trundle off to the Minnoch next morning, wouldn’t he, old thing?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Maxwell, ‘so he would. But if he had dropped Farren at Kirkcudbright, he could easily have driven straight away again from there. He would hardly be expected to stay and make a third in the conjugal reunion. Then he could have gone off where he liked — perhaps leaving some sort of reassuring message for Mrs. Strachan. Or similarly, if he had taken Farren to Gatehouse, he could then have gone off for the ostensible purpose of reassuring Mrs. Farren about her husband. When he was once away, he could always be detained somewhere, by engine-trouble or what not. I see no great difficulty about that.’

‘All right,’ said Wimsey. ‘I pass that. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll.’

‘Well then, Strachan drove off in search of Farren, leaving Ferguson to pack the body up and do all the necessary things about the house. And by the way, I may as well say at this point that I don’t think any of you have paid sufficient attention to these things that were done about the house. The man who did them must have known a great deal about Campbell’s manner of living. He must have known exactly when to expect Mrs. Green, for example, and the way Campbell behaved when at home — whether he was tidy or untidy, for instance, and what sort of breakfast he usually had, and all that kind of thing. Otherwise, Mrs. Green would have noticed that something out of the ordinary had happened. Now, how could Farren or Waters or Gowan or Graham be aware of all these domestic details? The man who would know them was Ferguson, who was his next door neighbour and employed the same daily woman. He would be the one person who might habitually see Campbell having breakfast and puttering about the house; and what he didn’t know from his own observation he’d be sure to get from Mrs. Green in the course of her daily gossip.’

‘That’s a damned good point, Chief,’ said Wimsey, with the detached air of an Eton boy applauding a good stroke by a Harrow captain. ‘Damned good. Of course. Mrs. Green would be full of information. “Och. Mr. Campbell’s an awfu’ mon wi’ his pyjammers. Yesterday he was leavin’ them in the coal-hole an’ them only jist back fra’ the laundry. An’ today I’m findin’ them in the stoojo an’ him usin’ them for a pentin’-rag.” One learns a lot about one’s neighbours by listening to what is called kitchen-talk.’

‘Ay, that’s so,’ said Macpherson, a little doubtfully.

Sir Maxwell smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘when I came to think the matter over, that struck me very forcibly. But to go on with Strachan. There’s no doubt he did find Farren, and there, I admit, he was rather lucky, though perhaps the chances against his doing so were not quite a hundred to one. After all, he had an extremely good idea where Farren was likely to be found, and he knew the ground about Falbae pretty well.’

‘Ay, that’s so,’ said Dalziel, ‘but whit wad he ha’ done, sir, if Farren really had throwed himsel’ doon the mine?’

‘That would have been rather unfortunate for him, I admit, said the Chief Constable. ‘In that case, he would have had to forgo his alibi for the early morning. All he could have done would be to leave some object or objects at Falbae to show that he had been there — his hat, for example, or his overcoat — and carry out his painting job at the Minnoch as early as possible, returning later to give the alarm and start the search for Farren. He could explain that he had been searching in some other place in the interim. It wouldn’t have been so good, but it would have been fairly good, especially as the subsequent discovery of Farren’s body would have been a very good witness to the truth of his story. However, he did find Farren, so we need not bother about that.

‘Unhappily, however, the plan came rather unstuck at this point. Farren, instead of coming quietly, escaped, and Strachan tumbled into a mine. This very nearly prevented Strachan from carrying out his part of the plot at all. He did fall down, he did have a job to extricate himself — though it didn’t take him quite as long as he said it did — and that was why he was so late in getting up to the Minnoch. If his plan had worked out properly, he no doubt hoped to be back with Farren at, say, 3 o’clock in the morning, and then go straight on to pick up the car and the body where Ferguson had left them ready for him.’

‘And where would that be?’ asked the Fiscal.

‘I can’t say exactly, but the idea would be for Ferguson to drive Campbell’s car up to some suitable spot — say by the old road through Gatehouse Station to Creetown — and leave it there to be picked up and taken on by Strachan. Ferguson would then return on a bicycle—’

‘What bicycle?’ said Wimsey.

‘Any bicycle,’ retorted the Chief Constable, ‘except, of course, the Anwoth Hotel bicycle that we’ve heard so much about. It’s not difficult to borrow bicycles in these parts, and he would have had plenty of time to bring it back and leave it where he found it. Ferguson would be back, say, at 7 o’clock, in good time to eat his own breakfast and catch the omnibus for Gatehouse Station.’

‘He must have been full of breakfast by that time,’ observed the Fiscal, ‘having already eaten Campbell’s.’

‘My dear man,’ said the Chief Constable, rather irritably, ‘if you had committed a murder and were trying to get away with it, you wouldn’t let a trifle like a second breakfast stand in your way.’

‘If I had committed a murder,’ replied the Fiscal, ‘I would feel no appetite even for one breakfast.’

The Chief Constable restrained any expression of feeling at this frivolous comment. Macpherson, who had been jotting words and figures in his notebook, struck in at this point.

35

‘Then I take it, sir, this’ll be your time-table for the crime.’

Case against Ferguson and Strachan

Monday.

9.15 p.m.

Farren leaves note at Strachan’s house.

10.20 p.m.

Campbell returns home after encounter with Gowan.

12 midnight or thereabouts

Strachan returns home and finds note.

Tuesday.

12.10 a.m.

(say). Strachan goes to Campbell’s cottage; is joined by Ferguson. Murder is committed.

12.10–12.45

(say). Plan of fake accident evolved. Strachan starts for Falbae, taking Campbell’s hat and cloak, painting materials, etc., in car.

2–3 a.m.

During this period Strachan and Farren meet and Farren escapes.

3.30 a.m.

(say). Strachan falls down mine.

4 a.m.

(say). Ferguson arrives at some spot on old road from Gatehouse Station to Creetown, with Campbell’s car containing body and bicycle. Leaves car hidden.

5–6 a.m.

Ferguson returns on bicycle to Gatehouse by old road.

9 a.m.

Strachan extricates himself from mine and finds his car.

9.8 a.m.

Ferguson takes the train to Dumfries.

9.20 a.m.

Strachan arrives at rendezvous transfers himself to Campbell’s car. Hides own car. Disguises himself.

9.35 a.m.

Strachan disguised as Campbell seen by workman passing turning to New Galloway.

10 a.m.

Strachan arrives at Minnoch. Plants body and paints picture.

11.15 a.m.

Strachan finishes picture.

Here Macpherson paused.

‘How will Strachan get back tae his car, sir? ’Tis fourteen mile gude. He culdna du’t on his twa feet?’

‘Farren’s bicycle,’ replied the Chief Constable, promptly. ‘You should have made him pick that up at Falbae. Of course, if his original plan hadn’t gone wrong, he would either have borrowed another bicycle or had time to go on foot, but under the circumstances, with Farren’s machine lying ready to hand, he would take advantage of it.’

‘Ay, sir; but ye have an answer tae everything.’ Macpherson shook his head soberly and returned to his time-table.

12.45 p.m.

Strachan returns on Farren’s bicycle to Creetown; abandons bicycle. Transfers to own car.

1.15 p.m.

Strachan returns to Gatehouse by Skyre Burn road.

‘That,’ said the Fiscal, who had been checking this time-table with the Chief Constable’s report of his interview with Strachan, ‘agrees very well with Strachan’s statement to you.’

‘It does’ replied Sir Maxwell ‘and what is still more important, it agrees with the facts. We have found a man who distinctly remembers seeing Strachan passing along the Skyre Burn road between 1 o’clock and 1.20. Moreover, we have traced his telephone-call to the McClellan Arms, and it was put through at 1.18 precisely.’

‘You realise,’ said Wimsey, ‘that you’ve only allowed him an hour and a quarter for painting that picture. I had two of the slickest men in the district working on it, and the quicker painter of the two couldn’t get the result under an hour and a half.’

‘That’s true,’ said the Chief Constable, grimly, ‘but he wasn’t painting for his life, you know.’

‘I wad like tae be sairtain o’ that,’ said a voice. Everybody was surprised. P.C. Duncan had sat so silent that they had almost forgotten his existence.

‘Is that so?’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Well, Duncan, you’re here to give us your opinion. Suppose we have it now.’

The policeman shifted on his chair and glanced uneasily at Dalziel. He had an obscure idea that he was going to let himself in for a wigging, but he stuck manfully to his guns, and opened fire with a flourish.

GRAHAM: GOWAN: WATERS

‘Them twa theories,’ said P.C. Duncan, ‘is jist fine, an’ I’m no sayin’ the contrair’, but, mon! they’re jist awfu’ complicated. It mak’s ma heid spin only tae think o’ them. I wadna wish tae be puttin’ masel’ forrit, but I wad like fine tae know how Sir Maxwell Jamieson thinks that yon plan could ha’ been a’ talked oot in three-quarters o’ an hour.’

‘Well,’ replied Sir Maxwell, ‘those times are very elastic. Provided we get Strachan up to Falbae before it’s too light for tumbling into mines, I don’t mind how late you make him start.’

‘But no matter for that,’ put in the Fiscal, seeing that Duncan looked a little discouraged. ‘If you have a better and simpler idea to offer, by all means put it forward.’

‘I was jist thinkin’, then,’ said Duncan, ‘and beggin’ your pardon, Dr. Cameron, whether it was not, after all, possible that the mon was kill’t the same day he was found. Ye’ll no be offended, doctor?’

‘Not at all,’ said Dr. Cameron, heartily. ‘Speak out your mind, man. This business of speaking to the precise time of death is not so easy as ye’d think by reading detective novels. In my experience, the older a medical man gets, the less willing he is to make ex cathedra pronouncements, and the more he learns that Nature has her own way of confounding self-confident prophets.’

‘Ay,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve jist been readin’ a wee buik aboot the subject. It’s a gran’ buik, an’ it was gied me by my feyther for my last birthday. My feyther was an’ awfu’ weel-eddicated mon for his station in life, an’ he wad always be tellin’ me that studyin’ was the road tae success.’

He laid a large, square, brown-paper parcel on the table as he spoke, and slowly untied the stout string with which it was secured.

‘This here,’ said he, as the last knot yielded and the paper was turned back to disclose the ‘wee buik’ — a formidable volume nine inches long by six inches across and thick in proportion — ‘this here is ca’ed Forensic Medicine and Toxicology by Dixon Mann, an’ there’s gran’ readin’ in it for a man in oor profession. Noo, there’s a passage here as I’d like tae get your opinion on, doctor. I’ve pit a wee bit paper tae mark the place. Ay, here ’tis, page thirty-seven. This is aboot the death-stiffenin’.’

‘Rigor mortis,’ said the doctor.

‘Ay, that’s what it is, only here it’s ca’ed Cay-day-verric Rigeedity, but ’tis that same rigor he means. Yon’s jist his difficult name for’t. Noo, here’s whit this man says, an’ he’ll be a great authority, for my puir feyther paid a terrible deal o’ money for the buik. “Under ordinary circumstances the’ — och, dear! — the s-k-e-l-e-t-a-l, the skeeleetal muscles begin tae stiffen, in fra’ fower tae ten hours after death.” Fower tae ten hours. Noo, that’ll gie us what ye might ca’ a margin o’ six hours error in estimatin’ the time o’ death. Wull’t no, doctor?’

‘Other things being equal,’ said the doctor, ‘yes.’

‘Ay, an’ here again: “It is fully developed,” that is, the rigor, ye onnerstand, “in fra’ twa tae three hours.” That’ll gie us anither hour’s margin.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Ay, “This condition last for a period varyin’ from a few hours tae six or eight days.” There’s a terrible big difference there, doctor!’

‘So there is,’ said Dr. Cameron, smiling slightly, ‘but there are other things to be taken into consideration besides rigor mortis. You’ll not be suggesting the body was six or eight days old?’

‘Not at all, doctor. But it gaes on tae say, “Twenty-four tae forty-eight hours may be regarded as the average duration of ca-da—” that is, o’ this rigor. Ye’ll allow, maybe, that this great authority isna so varra preceese tae twa-three hours. Noo, then, doctor, when ye saw this corpse at 3 o’clock o’ the afternoon, how stiff was he?’

‘He was quite stiff,’ replied the doctor. ‘That is, to employ the stately language of your great authority, the cadaveric rigidity was fully established. This made it probable that the man had then been dead not less than six hours and probably — taking the appearance of the bruises, etc., into account — considerably longer. Taking Mr. Dixon Mann’s pronouncement as the basis of a diagnosis, you will see that it would allow death to have taken place as much as thirteen hours earlier — ten hours to start the rigor and three to develop it fully. That is, the death might have taken place as late as 9 a.m. or as early as midnight, and the body would still have been stiff at 3 p.m., without its being necessary to presume anything abnormal in the onset or development of the rigor.’

‘Ay, but—’ began Macpherson, hastily.

‘Ay, that’s jist what I—’ began Duncan, at the same moment.

‘One minute,’ said the doctor. ‘I know what ye’re about to say, Inspector. I’m not fully allowing for the case that the rigor might have been completely established some time before I saw it. Supposing the rigor had come on slowly and had been fully developed, say, at 1 o’clock. That would make it possible that the death took place as early as 10 p.m. the day before. I told you before that that was not impossible.’

Macpherson gave a satisfied grunt.

‘Campbell was a man in vigorous health,’ went on the doctor, ‘and he died from a sudden blow. If you’ll consult that authority of yours a bit farther on, Duncan, you’ll see it says that, under those conditions, the onset of cadaveric rigidity is likely to be slow.’

‘Ay, doctor,’ persisted the policeman, ‘but ye’ll see also that when the subject is exhausted an’ depressed in his physical strength, the rigidity may come on verra quick. Noo, I was thinkin’ that yon Campbell must ha’ passed an awfu’ exhaustin’ nicht. He was fightin’ wi’ Mr. Waters at 9 o’clock or thereabouts, he was fightin’ again wi’ Mr. Gowan at 9.45, an’ he had his inside fu’ o’ whuskey forbye, which is weel known tae be depressin’ in its effects — that is,’ he added hastily, catching a slight grin on Wimsey’s face, ‘after the high speerits o’ the moment is wore off. Then he’s away oot airly in the mornin’ wi’oot his breakfast, as was established by examination o’ his insides, an’ he drives his car twenty-seven mile. Wad he no be sufficiently exhausted wi’ a’ that tae stiffen up quick when he was killed?’

‘You seem to have thought this out, Duncan,’ said the doctor. ‘I see I shall have to be careful, or I shall be caught tripping. I will only say this. The average duration of rigor mortis is from twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Campbell’s body was rigid when I saw it on Tuesday afternoon at 3 o’clock, and it was still rigid on Wednesday night when it was put into its coffin. On Thursday evening, when I examined it in the presence of a number of you gentlemen, the rigidity had entirely passed off. That gives a fairly average duration for the rigor. In general, a quick onset is followed by a short duration, and a slow onset by a long duration. In this case, the duration appeared average to slow, and I conclude that the onset would also have been average to slow. That is why I finally gave it as my considered opinion that the most probable time of death was somewhere round about midnight, and this agreed with the general appearance of the body and the bruises.’

‘How about the contents of the stomach?’ asked Sir Maxwell.

‘The contents of the stomach was whiskey,’ said the doctor, drily, ‘but I’m not saying how late on Monday night the deceased would be drinking whiskey.’

‘But,’ said Duncan, ‘supposin’ the murder didna take place till 9 o’clock or so on the Tuesday, that wad shorten the duration of the rigor.’

‘Well, of course,’ said the doctor. ‘If he didn’t die till Tuesday morning, that might bring the duration of the rigor down to a little over thirty-six hours. I can only speak to the period between 3 p.m. on Tuesday and 7 p.m. on Wednesday, when I handed it over to the undertaker.’

‘Well, the point appears to be,’ said the Fiscal, ‘that, though the appearances suggest to you a death round about midnight, you may be in error to the extent of an hour or two either way.’

‘That is so.’

‘Could you be in error to the extent of eight or nine hours?’

‘I would not like to think so,’ replied the doctor, cautiously, ‘but I would not say it was impossible. There’s very few things impossible in Nature, and an error in diagnosis is not one of them.’

‘Weel,’ said Dalziel, eyeing his subordinate with some disfavour, ‘ye hear what the doctor says. He’ll no say it is impossible an’ that’s mair nor ye could ha’ expectit, an’ you tae be question-in’ his great experience, with your rigor mortis an’ your auld feyther, an’ your wee buik an’ a’. ’Tis tae be hoped ye can gi’e a gude reason for your presumption. Ye’ll kindly excuse him, doctor. Duncan is a gude lad, but he’s ower zealous.’

Duncan, thus stimulated, began again, blushing hotly all over his face.

‘Weel, sirs, the point I started from was this, that oot of a’ six suspects there’s not one that’s been proved to ha’ been nigh the place where the corpse was found, only Mr. Graham. But we’ve evidence that Graham was actually seen at Bargrennan the verra morning o’ the murder. An’, what’s mair, he admits tae’t himsel’.’

‘That’s a fact,’ said the Fiscal. ‘You’ve got in here in your notes that this man Brown saw Graham walking along the banks of the Cree just below Bargrennan at half-past eleven on Tuesday morning. He says that Graham was going upstream, and that when he saw Brown approaching, he scrambled quickly down the bank as though to avoid observation. That certainly looks like a suspicious circumstance.’

‘Ay,’ said Duncan, excitedly. ‘An’ when Graham is questioned, what does he say? First of a’, he refuses tae state whaur he’s been. An’ that, mind you, before there’s ony suspicion gi’en oot that Campbell’s death was mair nor an accident. That’s yin thing. Secondly, as sune as it’s known through the papers that it may be a case o’ murder, he comes forrit wi’ a fause alibi for the Monday nicht only.’

‘Stop a moment, Duncan,’ said Sir Maxwell. ‘If, as you seem to suppose, Graham did not commit the murder till Tuesday morning, there would be no point in his bringing forward an alibi for Monday night. He’d know it would not cover him.’

‘Ay, that’s so,’ said Duncan, screwing up his ingenuous face into an expression of the most concentrated cunning, ‘but it was the leddy brought forrit the alibi, an’ why? Because it had been pit aboot — I’m no sayin’ by whom — that the murder was maist probably committed o’ the Monday nicht. Then the leddy — that kens fine Graham did the murder but isna saw weel informed as tae the time — fa’s heid ower heels intae the trap. She says, “He couldna’ ha’ done ’t; he was wi’ me.” Mr. Dalziel asks her sharp and sudden. “How long was he wi’ you?” She says, “Till past 9 o’clock,” knowing verra weel that if she was tae say till 12 o’clock or some such hour, the next question wad be, “Did nae-body see him leavin’ the hoose?” — which, wi’ a’ the folks astir in the toon is no verra probable. Verra gude. Then Graham hears on’t an’ says tae himsel’, “I maun du better than that. Likely enough I was recognised by that fellow up yonder. I’ll say I was the haill of they two nichts and days up at Bargrennan poachin’ wi’ Jimmy Fleeming an’ Jimmy’ll bear me oot.” An’ that’s when he comes in wi’ his second alibi.’