Wimsey 006 - Five Red Herrings

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Not quite. It was matches, not a torch.’

  ‘I see. How did you know that, by the way? I thought you only heard this person come and didn’t see anything.’

  He heard the hiss of Ferguson’s breath. Then:

  ‘Did I say that? I didn’t mean to give quite that impression. I heard the door open and saw the light upstairs. But I didn’t actually see the person who came.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him come out again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you had no idea who it was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you saw nobody else that night?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘And you saw Campbell go off in his car at 7.30 next morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Then you can hop it now, if you want to.’

  ‘Well I think I will . . . I say Wimsey!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh nothing! Good night!’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘He nearly told me then’ said Wimsey. ‘Poor devil!’

  Ferguson went out of the house and out of the gate. Two stealthy shadows crept out from the hedge and followed him.

  Wimsey waited at the window till he saw Dalziel leave the next-door cottage and carefully lock the door behind him replacing the key in its hiding-place. When the hum of the car had died away in the distance, he ran hastily down the stairs, and across to the garage.

  ‘Corpse!’ he cried.

  ‘Yessir!’ said the corpse, smartly.

  ‘While that ghastly blighter was nosing round – I – in my role as murderer you understand – had an awful thought. All this time you’re getting stiff. If I leave you like that I shall never be able to pack you into the back of the car. Come out, sir, and be arranged in a nice hunched-up position.’

  ‘Don’t you dump me in the car earlier?’

  ‘No, or you wouldn’t look natural. I lay you out on the floor to set. Now, where’s that blighter Dalziel? I hope he hasn’t buzzed zealously off to Falbae. No. Here he comes. Dalziel, help me to arrange the corpse exactly as it looked when it was found. It had the arms folded round in front, I think, and the head tucked down on them – no! not as far as that – we mustn’t cover up the bruise on the temple. That’s here. Now the legs bundled up sideways. Right. Hold that. That’s beautiful.’

  ‘Do I stay like this all night?’ asked Sir Maxwell, dolefully.

  ‘No – but remember the pose. We shall want it tomorrow. We’ll consider that done. Now we lock the garage door and take the key, for fear of other visitors. Now we go across to Campbell’s place. Hullo, Fiscal! come to see the fun? And Macpherson? That’s the ticket.

  ‘Now we find the key and open the door, locking it, I think, behind us. We shut the shutters and light up. My God! what’s this? A note. Look out for F. Great Jehoshaphat! – Oh, no, of course, it doesn’t mean me – it means Farren. Now – do we use that or destroy it? Better destroy it. It’s an accident we’re staging, not a murder. We don’t want the slightest suggestion of violence. Besides – must be decent to Farren. Campbell is alive till 7.30 tomorrow, so he found this and read it. When did he come in, though? After 12, of course, since Strachan can say he wasn’t here earlier. Yes, but how do I know how many people saw him come in at 10.15? Must say one thing or the other. Better suggest he came in and then went out again while I was asleep. On foot, perhaps, so that I didn’t hear the car. Damn Strachan! What did he want to come poking his nose in for, anyhow?’

  ‘Well, now – Campbell’s bed and Campbell’s pyjamas. I don’t think we put on the pyjamas. We shake them out – Tuesday’s wash-day, so they’ve had a week’s use, and we’ve only got to sprawl them about on the floor to make ’em look natural. Basin – dirty water – wash the hands and face. That does that and leaves the towel untidy. Bed. Must get into that. Horrid business, lying in bed when you can’t and mustn’t sleep, but it’s got to be done. And one can think.

  ‘One can read, too. I’ve provided some literature. Got it out of Ferguson’s place just now. L.M.S. Time Table. Great work of literature. Style slightly telegraphic, but packed with interest. Road-map, too also from next-door. Does the bed look sufficiently towsled yet? No, I’ll give it half an hour – rather a restless half-hour, I’m afraid.’

  The restless half-hour over, the murderer crawled out of bed, dragging half the clothes with him.

  ‘I think that’s fairly convincing. Now. Throw dirty water into slop-pail and dirty a fresh lot. Shaving brush? Toothbrush? Damn it, no. Must do them later on, or they’ll dry up. But I can go down and pack up the painting kit and lay two breakfast-tables. And meanwhile, you know, I can still be thinking out my plan. There’s a horrible hole in it at present and one place where I simply must trust rather to luck. By the way, my present intention, I may tell you, is to catch the 12.35 at Barrhill. But that absolutely depends on my getting away in good time from the Minnoch. Let’s pray there won’t be many people about.’

  ‘But ye didna gae tae Barrhill.’

  ‘No; I think something happened to make me change my mind.’ Wimsey was busily sorting out crockery. ‘You’ll remember that my over-mastering necessity is to get to Glasgow somehow. I have announced my intention of going, and I shall be feeling morbidly nervous about making any change of plan. If you only knew how my brain is spinning at the moment. There! there’s Campbell’s breakfast all laid out ready: tea-pot, cup and saucer, two plates, knife, fork, bread, butter, sugar. Milk! I must remember to take Campbell’s milk in in the morning, by the way; I know when to expect it, you see. Eggs, rasher and frying-pan laid out in the kitchen. Now, over to my own house. Same business here. I believe I had kippers for breakfast actually, but it doesn’t matter. For my own convenience I will make it a boiled egg.’

  He chattered on as he laid the breakfast-materials out. Then suddenly, as though struck by a sudden thought, he dropped the saucepan on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Curse it! I was nearly forgetting. All this alibi depends on my going by train from Gatehouse. But I told a whole lot of people yesterday that I was going to drive to Dumfries and take the 7.35 train from there. Why should I change my mind? It will look so funny. The car. Something wrong with the car. Something the local people can’t be supposed to put right in a hurry. Of course – mag. trouble. Yes – I can work that, and it’ll probably help my alibi, too. Steady, old man. Loads of time. Be sure you finish one thing properly before you start another. Right. Breakfast’s ready. Now then. I’ve done my bed, but I haven’t done the water and things. Do that now. Pyjamas – there! One lot dirty water. Two lots dirty water. Happy thought. Clean socks and shirt to go to Glasgow in, and respectable suit. You must imagine that I’m doing all this. Must be a grey flannel suit, to match those bags of Campbell’s. Here it is, as a matter of fact, hanging up. I won’t put it on, but we might have a look at the pockets. Hullo, Macpherson, here you are! See the smear of white paint on the lining of the left-hand jacket pocket? Careless, careless. A little benzine rids us of this guilt. Well, well, well.’

  He went swiftly through the motions of changing his garments, while the police, with satisfaction, examined the grey flannel jacket. Play-acting was all very well, but this had the appearance of solid evidence.

  Presently Wimsey indicated that the change of clothes was supposed to be accomplished.

  ‘I am spending the night in Glasgow,’ he went on, ‘so I must pack an attaché-case. Here it is. Clean pyjamas, shaving-tackle, toothbrush. Better shave now, to save time. Five minutes for a shave. In they go. What else? Oh, a burberry. Absolutely essential. But I shall want to use that first. And a soft felt hat Voilà! A clean collar, no doubt. There it is. And the magneto will have to go in. That will just about fill the case. Now we go over the way again.’

  He led them back to Campbell’s cottage, where, after putting on a pair of thin gloves, he carefully checked and repacked all the articles contained in Campbell’s painting-outfit, which had bee
n brought over by Dalziel from the police-station for that purpose.

  ‘Campbell would take some grub with him,’ observed the murderer thoughtfully. ‘I’d better cut some. Here is a ham in the cupboard. Bread, butter, ham, mustard. And a small whiskey-flask, considerately left in full view. I think I shall be right in filling it up. Splendid. Now we go out and detach the mag. from our own car. Gently does it. Up she comes. Now we’ve got to damage her somewhere. I won’t do it really, but we’ll suppose it done. Wrap her up neatly in brown paper. Careful man, Ferguson. Always keeps odd bits of string and paper and stationery handy in case they’re wanted. Right. Now we’ll put this in the attaché-case so that we don’t forget it. We shall want an extra cap for when we cease to be Campbell. We’ll put that in the pocket of Campbell’s cloak. Oh, yes. And this pair of spectacles will be a good aid to disguise. They’re Campbell’s, but happily they are just sun-glare glasses with plain lenses, so that’s O.K. We’ll put those in our pocket. Now then, we’re all fit and ready.

  ‘Now comes the moment when we have to trust to a stroke of luck. We’ve got to go out and find a bicycle. It may take a bit of time, but the odds are that if it isn’t down one close it’ll be down the next. Put out the lights. Lock both doors and take the keys away. We can’t risk any more Strachans paying visits while we’re away.’

  Suiting the action to the words, Wimsey left the cottages and walked briskly away down the road, closely followed by his observers. ‘I told you there’d be walking exercise,’ said Wimsey. ‘You people had better take the car. I shall have the bike to come back on.’

  As the cortège arrived opposite the Anwoth Hotel, a bulky form came cautiously up to meet it.

  ‘He’s in there, all right,’ said P.C. Ross. ‘Duncan’s watching the other entrance and we’ve got the Gatehouse policeman sittin’ in the back garden tae see that he doesna get oot by the windows. Here’s your bicycle, my lord.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Wimsey. ‘Hit it the very first shot. Anybody’d think it had been left there on purpose. No’ – as the constable obligingly struck a match. ‘No lights. I’m supposed to be stealing this, my dear man. Good night – or rather, good morning. Wish us luck.’

  It was a little after two when Wimsey got back to the cottage with the bicycle.

  ‘Now,’ he said, when he had deposited the bicycle in the garage, ‘we can have a rest. Nothing further happens till about 5 o’clock.’

  The conspirators accordingly rolled themselves up in rugs and coats and disposed themselves on chairs and hearth-rugs, the couch being voted to the Fiscal in right of seniority.

  The Chief Constable, being an old soldier, slept promptly and soundly. He was awakened a little before five by a clashing of pots and pans.

  ‘Breakfast for the observers is served in the kitchen,’ said Wimsey’s voice in his ear. ‘I am going up to finish off the bedrooms.’

  At a quarter past five this job was finished, Campbell’s toothbrush and shaving-brush and both sets of soap and towels left wet and the proper appearances produced. Wimsey then came in to cook and eat his solitary eggs and bacon in Campbell’s front room. The tea-pot was left on the hob to keep warm.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey, ‘whether he left the fires going or re-lit them. He did one or the other, and it doesn’t matter a hoot. Now, corpse, it’s time I packed you into the car. I probably did it earlier, but you’d have been so uncomfortable. Come and take up your pose again, and remember you’re supposed to be perfectly rigid by now.’

  ‘This may be fun to you,’ grumbled Sir Maxwell, ‘but it’s death to me.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Wimsey. ‘Never mind. Ready? Up you go!’

  ‘Eh!’ said Macpherson, as Wimsey seized the Chief Constable’s cramped and reluctant body and swung it into the back seat of the Morris, ‘but your lordship’s wonderful strong for your size.’

  ‘It’s just a knack,’ said Wimsey, ruthlessly ramming his victim down between the seat and the floor. ‘I hope you aren’t permanently damaged sir. Can you stick it?’ he added, as he pulled on his gloves.

  ‘Carry on,’ said the corpse, in a muffled voice.

  Wimsey slung in the painting outfit – stool, satchel and easel – followed it with Campbell’s cloak and hat, and piled the bicycle on top, securing it with a tow-rope which he produced from a corner of the garage, and tucking a large rug round and over his awkward load.

  ‘We’ll let the easel stick out a bit,’ he remarked. ‘It looks innocent and explains the rest of the load. Is that right? What’s the time?’

  ‘A quarter to six, my lord.’

  ‘Right; now we can start.’

  ‘But ye’ve no eaten Ferguson’s breakfast, my lord.’

  ‘No; that comes later. Wait a bit. We’d better lock the doors again. Right-ho!’

  He drew a cloth cap closely down upon his head, muffled himself unrecognisably in a burberry and muffler, and climbed into the driving-seat.

  ‘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 ra
ther 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.