Five Red Herrings (9 page)

He returned to the sitting-room. Mrs. Farren waved the cup impatiently aside.

‘Thank you — I don’t need it. I told you I didn’t. I’m quite all right.’ Her worried and sleepless eyes belied her. Wimsey felt that he was being a brute, but somebody would be asking questions soon enough. As well he as the police, he thought.

‘Your husband ought to be here soon,’ he said. ‘The news will be all over the country by now. It’s surprising, really, he hasn’t got back already. You don’t know at all where he is?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

‘I mean, I’d gladly take a message or do anything like that.’

‘Why should you? Thank you all the same. But really, Lord Peter, you talk as though the death were in my family. We knew Mr. Campbell very well, of course, but after all, there’s no reason for me to be so prostrated as all that. . I’m afraid I may sound callous—’

‘Not at all. I only thought you looked a bit upset. I’m very glad you’re not. Perhaps I misunderstood—’

‘Perhaps you did,’ she said in an exhausted voice. Then she seemed to gather up her spirits a little, and turned upon him almost eagerly.

‘I was sorry for Mr. Campbell. He was a bitterly unpopular man, and he felt that more than people ever realised. He had a perpetual grudge against everybody. That’s unattractive. And the more you hate everybody for hating you, the more unattractive you grow and the more they go on hating you. I understood that. I don’t like the man. One couldn’t. But I tried to be fair. I daresay people did misunderstand. But one can’t stop going what’s right because people misunderstand, can one?’

‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘If you and your husband—’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Hugh and I understood one another.’

Wimsey nodded. She was lying, he thought. Farren’s objections to Campbell had been notorious. But she was the kind of woman who, if once she set out to radiate sweetness and light, would be obstinate in her mission. He studied the rather full, sulky mouth and narrow, determined forehead. It was the face of a woman who would see only what she wished to see — who would think that one could abolish evils from the world by pretending that they were not there. Such things, for instance, as jealousy or criticism of herself. A dangerous woman, because a stupid woman. Stupid and dangerous, like Desdemona.

‘Well, well,’ he said lightly. ‘Let’s hope the truant will turn up soon. He promised to show me some of his stuff. I’m very keen to have a look at it. I daresay I shall meet him as I buzz about the country. On his bike, as usual, I suppose?’

‘Oh, yes, he’s got his bicycle with him.’

‘I think there are more bicycles per head of the population in Kirkcudbright than in any town I ever struck,’ said Wimsey.

‘That’s because we’re all so hardworking and poor.’

‘Just so. Nothing is so virtuous as a bicycle. You can’t imagine a bicyclist committing a crime, can you? — except of course, murder or attempted murder.’

‘Why murder?’

‘Well, the way they rush about in gangs on the wrong side of the road and never have any brakes or bells or lights. I call it murder, when they nearly have you into the ditch. Or suicide.’

He jumped to his feet with an exclamation of concern. This time Mrs. Farren had really fainted.

GRAHAM

Lord Peter Wimsey, having rendered first aid to Mrs. Farren, left her comfortably reclining on the couch in the sitting-room and went in search of Jeanie. He discovered her in the fishmonger’s and dispatched her home with the tidings that her mistress was unwell.

‘Ay,’ said Jeanie, philosophically. ‘I’m no surprised. She’s troubled in her mind about Mr. Farren. And nae wonder, wi’ him mekkin’ a’ that disturbance and gaein’ aff that gate an’ never comin’ back for twa nichts.’

‘Two nights?’ said Wimsey.

‘Ay. Nicht before last it was he went aff on his bicycle, swearin’ somethin’ awfu’ an’ nae ward tae say whaur he was gaein’ nor what he was gaein’ to du.’

‘Then he wasn’t at home last night for dinner?’

‘Him? Hame for’s denner? ’Deed no, nor ony time o’ the day. Monday nicht it was he come back an’ fund Campbell i’ the hoose an’ sent him packin’, an’ after that there was sic a collie-shangie it nigh frighted my brither’s wife into a fit an’ her verra near her time, tu. An’ out he gaes and away, wi’ Mistress Farren runnin’ oot o’ the door after him wi’ the tears fallin’ doon her cheeks. I dinna ken for why she takes on so aboot the man. I’d let him gae an’ be daumed tae him, wi’ his jealousies an’ his tempers.’

Wimsey began to see why Jeanie had been sent out on an errand in such a hurry. It was foolish, though, for nobody could expect the girl to hold her tongue over so fine a piece of gossip. Sooner or later, the tale would have to come out to somebody. Even now he observed that curious glances were following them down the street.

He asked a few more questions. No. Jeanie’s brother’s wife could not say exactly what the quarrel was about, but she had witnessed it from her bedroom window. Mr. Campbell had been in about 6 o’clock, and then Mr. Farren had come in and Mr. Campbell had gone away almost immediately. She could not say there had been any dispute between Farren and Campbell. But then Mr. and Mrs. Farren had talked about an hour in the sitting-room and Mr. Farren had walked about the room and waved his hands a great deal, and Mrs. Farren had cried. Then there had been a shouting and a kind of a skelloch, and Mr. Farren had run out of the door cramming his hat over his eyes, and had snatched up his bicycle. And Mrs. Farren had run out to stop him and he had shaken her roughly off and ridden away. Nor had he been home syne, for Jeanie’s brother’s wife had kept a look-out for him, being interested to see what might happen.

That was Monday and this was Wednesday; and on the Tuesday, Campbell had been found dead up at the Minnoch.

Wimsey said good-bye to Jeanie, with a caution against talking too much about her employer’s affairs, and turned in the direction of the police-station. Then he changed his mind. No need to make trouble before it was wanted. There might be other developments. It would not be a bad idea to run over to Gatehouse. There was a question he wanted to ask Mrs. Green who did the charing for Campbell. Also, something might have been found at Campbell’s house — letters, papers or what-not. In any case, a wee run in the car would do him no harm.

Passing over the bridge at Gatehouse, with these intentions, he was arrested by the sight of a tall man standing outside the Anwoth Hotel in conference with the local constable. The man, who was very shabbily dressed in an ancient burberry, dilapidated plus-fours, disreputable boots and leggings and a knapsack, waved a hand in violent greeting. Wimsey pulled up with reckless haste, nearly slaying the hotel cat, and waved violently back.

‘Hullo — ullo — ullo!’ he cried. ‘Where d’you spring from, you old ruffian?’

‘That’s just what everybody seems anxious to know,’ said the untidy man, extending a large, raw-boned hand. ‘I don’t seem to be allowed to go away on a little private matter without a hue and cry. What’s it all about?’

Wimsey glanced at the constable, who shook his head mysteriously.

‘Having received order,’ he began, ‘to make an inquiry—’

‘But you haven’t received orders to make a mystery, have you?’ said the untidy man. ‘What’s the matter? Am I supposed to have committed a crime? What is it? Drunk and disorderly, eh? or riding a push-bike without a tail-light? or driving to the public danger, or what?’

‘Weel, now, Mr. Graham, sir — in the matter of the bicycle, I wad be glad to know—’

‘Not guilty this time,’ said Mr. Graham promptly. ‘And in any case borrowing isn’t stealing, you know.’

‘Have you been borrowing push-bikes?’ asked Wimsey, with interest. ‘You shouldn’t. It’s a bad habit. Push-bikes are the curse of this country. Their centre of gravity is too high, for one thing, and their brakes are never in order.’

‘I know,’ said Mr. Graham, ‘it’s shameful. Every bicycle I borrow is worse than the last. I often have to speak quite firmly about it. I nearly broke my neck the other day on young Andy’s.’

‘Oh!’ said the landlord, who had come up during this conversation, ‘it’s ye, is’t, Mr. Graham, that’s got the lad’s bicycle? Ye’re welcome eneugh tae’t. I’m no sayin’ the contrary, but the lad’s been a bit put out, not knowin’ whaur it had disappeared tae.’

‘It’s gone again, has it?’ said Mr. Graham. ‘Well, I tell you it’s not me this time. You can tell Andy I’ll never borrow his miserable machine again till he has the decency to put it in order. And whoever did take it, God help him, that’s all I can say, for he’ll probably be found dead in a ditch.’

‘That may be, Mr. Graham,’ said the constable, ‘but I’d be glad if ye wad tell me—’

‘Damn it!’ said Jock Graham. ‘No, I will not tell you where I’ve been. Why should I?’

‘Well, it’s like this, old dear,’ said Wimsey. ‘You may possibly have heard in your mysterious retreat, that Campbell was found dead in a river yesterday afternoon.’

‘Campbell? Good Lord! No, I hadn’t heard. Well, well, well. I hope his sins are forgiven him. What had he done? Taken too many wee halves and walked over the dock at Kirkcudbright?’

‘Well, no. Apparently he had been painting and slipped on the stones and bashed his head in.’

‘Bashed his head in? Not drowned, then?’

‘No, not drowned.’

‘Oh! Well, I always told him he was born to be hanged, but apparently he’s got out of it another way. Still, I was right about his not being drowned. Well, poor devil, there’s an end of him. I think we’d better go in and have one on the strength of it, don’t you? Just a little one to the repose of his soul. He wasn’t a man I liked, but I’m sorry in a way to think I’ll never pull his leg again. You’ll join us, officer?’

‘Thank you, sir, but if ye’d kindly—’

‘Leave it to me,’ murmured Wimsey, jogging the constable’s elbow and following Graham into the bar.

‘How have you managed not to hear about it, Jock?’ he went on, when the drinks had been served. ‘Where have you been hiding the last two days?’

‘That’s telling. You’re as inquisitive as our friend here. I’ve been living a retired life — no scandal — no newspapers. But do tell me about Campbell. When did all this happen?’

‘They found the body about two o’clock,’ said Wimsey. ‘He seems to have been seen alive and painting at five past eleven.’

‘They didn’t lose much time about it, then. You know. I’ve often thought that one might have an accident up in the hills about here and be lost for weeks. Still, it’s a fairly well-frequented spot up there at the Minnoch — in the fishing season, at any rate. I don’t suppose—’

‘And how did ye ken, might I ask, sir, that the accident took place up at the Minnoch?’

‘How did I—? Oh-ho! To quote an extremely respectable and primly-dressed woman I once happened to overhear conversing with a friend in Theobald’s Road, there’s bloody more in it than meets the bloody eye. This anxiety about my whereabouts and this bash on Campbell’s head — do I understand, constable, that I am suspected of having bashed the good gentleman and tumbled him into the stream like the outlandish knight in the ballad?’

‘Well, not exactly, sir, but as a matter of routine—’

‘I see.’

‘Och, now!’ exclaimed the landlord, on whom a light had been slowly breaking. ‘Ye’re not meanin’ tae tell as the puir man was murdered?’

‘That’s as may be,’ said the constable.

‘He does mean it,’ said Graham. ‘I read it in his expressive eye. Here’s a nice thing to happen in a quiet country spot.’

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ said the landlord.

‘Come now, Jock,’ said Wimsey. ‘Put us out of our misery. You can see the suspense is telling on us. How did you know Campbell was up at the Minnoch?’

9

‘Telepathy,’ said Graham, with a wide grin. ‘I look into your minds and the picture comes before me — the burn full of sharp stones — the steep slope of granite leading down to it — the brig — the trees and the dark pool under them — and I say, “The Minnoch, by Jove!” Perfectly simple, Watson.’

‘I didn’t know you were a thought-reader.’

‘It’s a suspicious circumstance, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I’m not. I knew Campbell was going to be up at the Minnoch yesterday because he told me so.’

‘He told you so?’

‘Told me so. Yes, why not? I did sometimes speak to Campbell without throwing boots at him, you know. He told me on Monday that he was going up the next day to paint the bridge. Sketched it out for me, grunting all the time — you know his way.’

Graham pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and set to work on the bar counter, his face screwed up into a life-like imitation of Campbell’s heavy jowl and puffed lips, and his hand roughing in outlines with Campbell’s quick, tricky touch. The picture came up before their eyes with the conjuring quickness of a lightning-sketch at the cinema — the burn, the trees, the bridge and a mass of bulging white cloud, so like the actual canvas Wimsey had seen on the easel that he was thoroughly startled.

‘You ought to be making a living by impersonations, Jock.’

‘That’s my trouble. Too versatile. Paint in everybody’s style except my own. Worries the critics. “Mr. Graham is still fumbling for an individual style” — that kind of thing. But it’s fun. Look, here’s Gowan.’

He rubbed out the sketch and substituted a vivid chalk impression of one of Gowan’s characteristic compositions — a grim border-keep, a wide sweep of coast, a boat in the foreground, with muscular fishermen bending over their nets.

‘Here’s Ferguson — one tree with decorative roots, one reflection of same in water — dim blue distance; in fact, general blues all over — one heap of stones to hold the composition up. Here’s Farren — view of the roofs of Kirkcudbright complete with Tolbooth, looking like Noah’s Ark built out of nursery bricks — vermilion, Naples yellow, ultramarine — sophisticated naďveté and no cast shadows. Waters — “none of these charlatans take the trouble to draw” — bird’s-eye view of a stone-quarry with every bump identifiable — horse and cart violently foreshortened at the bottom, to show that he can do it. Bless you’ — he slopped some beer on the counter and wiped the mess away with a ragged sleeve — ‘the whole bunch of them have only got one gift between them that I lack, and that’s the single eye, more’s the pity. They’re perfectly sincere, I’m not — that’s what makes the difference. I tell you, Wimsey, half those damned portraits people pay me for are caricatures — only the fools don’t know it. If they did, they’d rather die than sign the cheques.’