Five Red Herrings (39 page)

‘Ready? Right. Let her go!’

The car with its burden moved gently out into the pale light of the morning. It bore round to the right at the end of the lane and took the direction of Gatehouse Station. The observation car swung in behind and followed it.

Upwards the road climbed steadily, mounting triumphantly past the wooded beauty of Castramont, ever higher over the lovely valley of the Fleet. Through the trees and out on to the lofty edge of the moor, with the rolling hills lifting their misty heads upon the right. Past the quarry and up still farther to the wide stretch of heather and pasture. Sheep stared at them from the roadside, and scurried foolishly across their path. Partridges, enjoying their last weeks of security, rose whirring and clattering from among the ling. Over to the north-east, white in the morning, the graceful arches of the Fleet viaduct gleamed pallidly. And ahead, grim and frowning, stood the great wall of the Clints of Dromore, scarred and sheer and granite-grey, the gate of the wilderness and guardian-barrier of the Fleet.

The little cottage by the level crossing seemed still asleep and the gates stood open. The cars passed over the line and, avoiding the station entrance, turned sharp away to the left, along the old road to Creetown. Here, for some distance, the way was flanked on either side by a stone wall, but, after a few hundred yards, the walls came to a stop. Wimsey held up a warning hand, stopped, turned his car, with some bumping, over the grass, and drove it well behind the shelter of the wall on the left. The police-car halted in the middle of the road.

‘What noo?’ asked Macpherson.

Wimsey alighted and peered cautiously under the rug.

‘Still alive, Sir Maxwell?’

‘Only just.’

‘Well, I think you might come out now and have a stretch. You won’t be needed again till 9 o’clock. Sit down comfortably with the Fiscal and have a smoke.’

‘And what do the others do?’

‘They walk back with me to Gatehouse,’ said Wimsey, with a grim smile.

‘Mayn’t we bring the car?’ said Macpherson, mournfully.

‘You can if you like, but it would be more sporting to cheer me with a little pleasant conversation. Damn it! I’ve got to walk.’

Eventually it was arranged that Macpherson should walk with Lord Peter, while Dalziel brought the car along behind in case the station-omnibus proved to be crowded. Telling the Fiscal to see that the corpse behaved itself, Wimsey waved a cheerful hand and started off with Macpherson to trudge the six-and-a-half miles back to Gatehouse.

The last mile was the most awkward, for the road was getting busy, and they had to be continually diving over walls and under hedges to avoid observation. At the last moment they were nearly caught in the lane by the paper-boy, who passed whistling, within a foot of them while they crouched behind a convenient hawthorn-bush.

‘Damn the paper-boy,’ said Wimsey. ‘Ferguson, of course, would have been expecting him. In any case, he probably did all this earlier, but I didn’t want to keep the corpse out all night. A quarter to eight. We’ve cut it rather fine. Never mind, Here goes.’

They took the remainder of the lane at a run, unlocked Campbell’s door, hid the key, performed the motions of taking in the milk and emptying part of it down the sink, took in and opened letters and newspapers, and dashed back to Ferguson’s cottage. Here Wimsey took in Ferguson’s milk, boiled his egg and made his tea, and sat down to his breakfast with an air of simple enjoyment.

At 8 o’clock, the rotund form of Mrs. Green was seen waddling down the lane. Wimsey looked out of the window and waved a friendly hand to her.

‘Better warn her, Macpherson,’ he said. ‘If she goes into Campbell’s place, she’ll have a fit.’

Macpherson hurried out, and was seen to vanish into the next-door cottage with Mrs. Green. Presently he returned, smiling broadly.

‘Verra gude, my lord,’ he said, ‘she’s tellt me it a’ luiks fine: jist precisely as it did the mornin’ Campbell was missin’.’

‘Good,’ said Wimsey. He finished his breakfast, packed the burberry into the attaché-case, and made a tour of inspection round the house, to make sure that nothing looked suspicious. With the exception of the mysterious remains of four extra breakfasts in the kitchen, everything seemed normal. He strolled out, met Mrs. Green in the front of the cottages, had a word with her, mentioning that he was catching the station ’bus and strolled down to the end of the lane.

Shortly after 8.30, the pant of the omnibus was heard coming along the road. Wimsey flagged it and got in. The police car followed on behind, much to the interest of the other passengers in the omnibus.

At 9 o’clock, or a little after, ’bus and car drew up in the station yard. Wimsey alighted and came across to the car.

‘I want you, Inspector, to come across to the train with me. When the rain has gone, come out and join Dalziel here. Then get out on to the road and pick up the other car.’

The two officers nodded, and Wimsey strolled into the station with the Inspector at his heels. He spoke to the station-master and booking-clerk and bought a first-class return to Glasgow. After a few minutes, the train was signalled, and a general exodus took place to the opposite platform. The station-master marched across, carrying the staff under his arm; the signalman came down from his lofty perch and crossed also, to perform the duties of a porter. The passengers from the ‘bus streamed across the line, followed by the ’bus-conductor on the look-out for return passengers with parcels. The booking-clerk retired into his office and took up a paper. Wimsey and the Inspector crossed over with the other passengers.

The train came in. Wimsey wrung the Inspector’s hand affectionately, as though he were not going to see him again for a month, and stepped into the first-class compartment which the porter was holding open for him. The station-master exchanged staffs and a pleasantry or two with the guard. A crate of poultry was wheeled along and dumped into the van. It suddenly occurred to Macpherson that this was all wrong. He ought to have been travelling with Wimsey. He darted to the carriage-window and looked in. The compartment was empty. The whistle blew. The guard waved his flag. The porter, with great bustle, urged Macpherson to ‘stand away’. The train moved out. Macpherson, left gazing up and down the line, perceived that it was empty.

‘By God!’ said Macpherson, slapping his thigh. ‘In at one side and oot at t’ither. The auldest dodge in the haill bag o’tricks.’ He ran precipitately across the line and joined Dalziel.

‘The cunning wee b—!’ he exclaimed affectionately. ‘He’s did it! Did ye see him come across?’

Dalziel shook his head.

‘Is that what he did? Och, the station buildin’s is between us. There’s a path through the station-master’s garden. He’ll ha’ come by that. We’ll best be movin’.’

They passed up the station entrance and turned along the road. In front of them went a small grey figure, walking briskly. It was then ten minutes past nine.

LORD PETER WIMSEY

The corpse was repacked into the car. Wimsey put on Campbell’s hat and cloak, again wrapping a muffler closely about his chin so that very little of his features was visible beneath the flapping black brim. He backed the car out on to the road and drove gently away towards Creetown. The road was stony, and Wimsey knew that his tyres were a good deal worn. A puncture would have been fatal. He kept his speed down to a cautious twenty miles an hour. He thought as he drove how maddening this slow progress must have been to Ferguson, to whom time had been so precious. With a real corpse in the back seat, it must have been a horrible temptation to go all out at whatever risk.

The road was completely deserted, except for the wee burn which chuckled along placidly beside them. Once he had to get down to open a gate. The burn, deserting the right-hand side of the road, ran under a small bridge and reappeared on their left, glimmering down over stones to meander beneath a clump of trees. The sun was growing stronger.

Between twenty and twenty-five minutes past nine they came down at the head of the steep little plunge into Creetown, opposite the clock-tower, Wimsey swung the car out to the right into the main road, and encountered the astonished gaze of the proprietor of the Ellangowan Hotel, who was talking to a motorist by the petrol-pump. For a moment he stared as though he had seen a ghost — then he caught sight of Macpherson and Dalziel, following in the second car with the Fiscal, and waved his hand with an understanding smile.

‘First incident not according to schedule,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s odd that Ferguson shouldn’t have been seen at this point — especially as he would quite probably have liked to be seen. But that’s life. If you want a thing, you don’t get it.’

He pressed his foot on the accelerator and took the road at a good thirty-five miles an hour.

Five miles farther on, he passed the turn to the New Galloway road. It was just after half-past nine.

‘Near enough,’ said Wimsey to himself. He kept his foot down and hurried along over the fine new non-skid surface which had just been laid down and was rapidly making the road from Creetown to Newton Stewart one of the safest and finest in the three kingdoms. Just outside Newton Stewart, he had to slow down to pass the road-engine and workers, the road-laying having now advanced to that point. After a brief delay, bumping over the new-laid granite, he pushed on again, but instead of following the main road, turned off just before he reached the bridge into a third-class road running parallel to the main road through Minnigaff, and following the left bank of the Cree. It ran through a wood, and past the Cruives of Cree, through Longbaes and Borgan, and emerged into the lonely hill-country, swelling with green mound after green mound, round as the hill of the King of Elfland; then a sharp right-turn and he saw his goal before him — the bridge, the rusty iron gate and the steep granite wall that overhung the Minnoch.

He ran the car up upon the grass and got out. The police-car drew up into the shelter of a little quarry on the opposite side of the road. When the observers came up with him, Wimsey was already rolling back the rug and pulling out the bicycle.

‘Ye’ve made verra gude time,’ observed the Inspector. ‘It’s jist on 10 o’clock.’

Wimsey nodded. He ran up on to the higher ground and surveyed the road and the hills to left and right. Not a soul was to be seen — not so much as a cow or a sheep. Though they were only just off a main road and a few hundred yards from a farm, the place was as still and secret as the heart of a desert. He ran down again to the car, flung the painting-kit upon the grass, opened the door of the tonneau and clutched ruthlessly the huddled form of the Chief Constable who, more dead than alive after his disagreeable journey, hardly needed to feign the stiffness which was cramping him in every limb. Hoisted in a dismal bundle on Wimsey’s back, he made a last lurching stage of his progress, to be dumped with a heavy thud on the hard granite, at the edge of the incline.

‘Wait there,’ said Wimsey, in a menacing tone, ‘and don’t move, or you’ll fall into the river.’

The Chief Constable dug his fingers into a bunch of heather and prayed silently. He opened his eyes, saw the granite sloping sharply away beneath him, and shut them again. After a few minutes, he felt himself enveloped in a musty smother of rug. Then came another pause, and the sound of voices and heartless laughter. Then he was deserted again. He tried to imagine what was happening and guessed, rightly, that Wimsey was secreting the bicycle somewhere. Then the voices came back, and a few muttered curses suggested that somebody was setting up an easel with unpractised hands. More laughter. Then the rug was twitched from his head and Wimsey’s voice announced, ‘You can come out now.’

Sir Maxwell retreated cautiously on hands and knees from the precipice, which, to his prejudiced eyes, appeared to be about two hundred feet in depth, rolled over and sat up.

‘Oh, God!’ he said, rubbing his legs. ‘What have I done to deserve all this?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Wimsey. ‘If you had been really dead, you know, you wouldn’t have noticed it. But I didn’t like to go as far as that. Well, now we’ve got an hour and a half, I ought to paint the picture, but, as that is beyond me, I thought we might have a little picnic. There’s some grub in the other car. They’re just bringing it up.’

‘I could do with something to drink,’ said Sir Maxwell.

‘You shall have it. Hullo! Somebody’s coming. We’ll give them a start. Get under the rug again, sir.’

The distant clack of a farm-lorry was making itself heard in the distance. The Chief Constable hurriedly snatched up the rug and froze. Wimsey sat down before the easel and assumed brush and palette.

Presently the lorry loomed into sight over the bridge. The driver, glancing across with natural interest at the spot where the tragedy had taken place, suddenly caught sight of the easel, the black hat and the conspicuous cloak. He gave vent to one fearful yell and rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The lorry went leaping and crashing forward, scattering the stones right and left in its mad progress. Wimsey laughed. The Chief Constable sprang up to see what was happening and laughed too. In a few minutes the rest of the party joined them, so agitated with laughter that they could scarcely hold the parcels they were carrying.

42

‘Och, mon!’ said Dalziel, ‘but that was grand! That was young Jock. Did ye hear the skelloch he let oot? He’s away noo tae tell the folks at Clauchaneasy that auld Campbell’s ghaist is sittin’ up pentin’ pictures at the Minnoch.’

‘I trust the poor lad will come to no harm with his lorry,’ observed the Fiscal. ‘He appeared to me to be driving at a reckless pace.’

‘Never mind him,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Lads like that have nine lives. But I’m dying of hunger and thirst, if you are not. Half-past five is a terrible hour for breakfast.’

The picnic was a cheerful one, though it was a little disturbed by the return of Jock, supported by a number of friends, to view the phenomenon of a ghost in broad daylight.

‘This is getting rather public,’ said Wimsey.

Sergeant Dalziel grunted, and strode down to warn the spectators off, his stalwart jaws still champing a wedge of veal and ham pie. The hills returned to their wonted quiet.