Murder of a Lady (3 page)

“Was her maid the last person who saw Miss Gregor alive?” Dr. Hailey asked.

“The last.” The old man raised himself in his chair. “I am glad that it was so, for they were old and dear friends. Christina closed my dear father's, the late Duchlan's, eyes. She has shared our joys and sorrows with us for more than thirty years.”

Each time that he mentioned his father, Duchlan lowered his voice. That tribute was impressive; but Dr. Hailey could not forget what John MacCallien had told him about the late laird of Duchlan. The man had been a tyrant, strong-willed and stiff-necked, who had brooked no opposition to his will. He had been, in addition, especially in his later life, a very heavy drinker, and his carouses had brought both fear and shame on his family. Was it from these uneasy scenes that his son and daughter had drawn their reliance on one another? Doubtless they had had need of such comfort as they were able to get and bestow.

“Your sister did not use a paraffin lamp in her room?” he asked.

“No, sir.” A faint smile appeared for an instant on the old man's lips. “Doubtless,” he said, “you think that we live far behind these modern times, but it is a fact that Mary looked upon paraffin lamps with the anxiety which new inventions must always awaken in old minds. We were born and brought up in the age of candles, and that gentle form of illumination remained the most attractive to both of us. Our drawing-room was always lighted by candles and was always, I know, very much admired when so lighted, even by those who have grown accustomed to electricity. My son spoke recently of installing electric light in the castle; Mary begged that that innovation might be postponed until after her death.”

This statement, like those which had preceded it, was made with a vehemence which detracted from its effect. Again the doctor had the impression that Duchlan was acting as a mere mouthpiece. Even from her death-bed his sister seemed to direct his thoughts and words. The temptation was great to ask him what his own opinion about the upbringing of children and paraffin lamps and electricity might be.

“Did your sister,” he inquired, “leave Duchlan much during the year?”

“Never. Her life was here, in this house. Long ago, she used to travel sometimes to Edinburgh, and at very rare intervals she went to London for a week or so during the season. But latterly these excursions were wholly abandoned.” Duchlan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Every detail of the management of this house and its surroundings was in her hands. Nothing was left to chance; nothing was overlooked or neglected. She was a wonderful manager, a wonderful director, a wonderful housekeeper. All she did, too, was done without haste or bustle, and without waste. I assure you that but for her admirable skill and foresight it would, long ago, have been impossible for me to have remained in the Castle. I should have been compelled to let my shooting every year and perhaps to have gone into permanent residence in one of the smaller houses on the estate. Mary had a horror of such a step which never ceased to disturb her.”

The doctor took a silver box from his waistcoat pocket and, after a moment of silent deliberation, opened it and took snuff. He performed this act with much grace, but the vacant expression of his face remained unchanged.

“How was her death discovered?” he asked.

“It was discovered when the housemaid, Flora, took up my sister's early morning tea. My sister had apparently locked the door of her bedroom, a thing she had never done before. Flora got no reply when she knocked on the door. She called Christina, and then Angus, but they, too, failed to get any response. Angus came for me.” The old man broke off and bowed his head for a moment. “My son had come back over night,” he resumed. “He has been in Ayrshire on military duty. I roused him. We sent for a carpenter, who cut the lock out of the door. We sent also for Dr. McDonald of Ardmore. He came before the door was opened.”

Duchlan lay back in his chair. His face, the skin of which resembled parchment, was pinched like the face of a corpse. He seemed to breathe with difficulty.

“You are quite sure,” Dr. Hailey asked, “that Miss Gregor was not in the habit of locking her bedroom door?”

“Absolutely sure.”

Duchlan's black eyes flickered as he answered the question. The doctor shook his head.

“So that,” he said, “last night she reversed the habits of a life-time?”

The old man did not reply. He moved uneasily in his chair while his fingers began to drum on its arms. Suddenly he leaned forward listening. They heard a car drive up to the front door.

Chapter IV

Inspector Dundas

Inspector Robert Dundas was a young man with a shrewd expression. His manner of entering the smoking-room at Duchlan announced that he came to conquer. The mixture of cordiality and aloofness in the way he greeted the old laird indicated that he proposed to allow no consideration to interfere with the discharge of his duty.

He was not very tall, but his slight build made lack of height unimportant. Dr. Hailey thought of the word “wiry”, for there was a hard quality as well as a quality of suppleness. Dundas's brow and eyes were girlish, but his mouth seemed well fitted to administer a bite. It descended at the corners and was furnished with lips of a singular thinness. Mr. McLeod, who knew the young man, introduced him to John MacCallien and the doctor, and Dundas informed each of these in turn that he was pleased to meet him. He did not look pleased.

“I lost no time, as you see, Fiscal,” he said to Mr. McLeod.

His manner was quiet, with the pained restraint of an undertaker at work. But his blue eyes searched the room. They chilled when he learned what Dr. Hailey had already done.

“Before I go upstairs myself,” he stated, “I should like to know who are at present living in this house.” He turned to Duchlan and whipped a thin notebook out of his pocket. “I want a complete list, if you please.”

The last remark was made in the manner of a doctor taking stock of symptoms, the significance of which can be understood only by himself. Duchlan bowed stiffly.

“I had better begin with myself,” he said. “Then there is my son Eoghan and his wife. I have only four indoor servants…”

Dundas raised a manicured hand.

“One moment, please. You are Major Hamish Gregor, late of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, and laird of Duchlan in the county of Argyll?” He wrote quickly as he spoke. “How old are you, sir?”

“Seventy-four.”

“Older or younger than your late sister?”

“Older.”

“What about your son? He's an officer in the Army, isn't he?”

“Eoghan is a Captain in the Royal Regiment of Artillery.”

“On leave?”

“No. My son returned from Malta a month ago He had been there rather less than a year. He is now carrying out special duties in Ayrshire.”

“I see. So he's only here for a day or so?”

“He arrived last night. I am not aware when he must return.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Is he your only son?”

“My only child.”

“You are a widower, I believe?”

“I am.”

“How long have you been a widower?”

Duchlan frowned, but after a moment his brow cleared.

“Since my son was four years of age.”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Quite so.”

“Has your sister lived with you during the whole of that period?”

“She has.”

“So that she brought up your son?”

“Yes.”

The busy pencil appeared to have been outstripped for Dundas asked no more questions until he had written during several minutes. Then he raised his head sharply.

“How long has your son been married?” he demanded.

“Three years and a few months.”

“Any children?”

“One boy of two years.”

“His wife's name? Full maiden name?”

“Oonagh Greenore.”

“Irish?”

A faint smile appeared on Duchlan's lips.

“I believe so,” he said gravely.

“Did Mrs. Gregor accompany her husband to Malta?”

“No, she remained here because of her son.”

“Did she go to Ayrshire with him?”

“No.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Was he…” Dundas's fair head gleamed in the lamplight as he raised it in the quick, uncomfortable way that was apparently habitual—“was she on terms of affection with your late sister?”

Dr. Hailey moved uneasily in his chair, but he watched closely the effect of this question on the old man. Duchlan's black eyes flashed.

“I suppose,” he said, “that I can pardon such a question by recalling the fact that you had not the privilege of knowing my sister.”

“No offence meant, sir.”

“So I have presumed.” Duchlan passed his hand over his long chin. “My daughter-in law,” he declared, “felt for her aunt the same respect and love which all who knew her felt for her.”

Dundas wrote. “Relations cordial,” he quoted from his memorandum in tones that set Dr. Hailey's teeth on edge. “So much can't be said in every case,” he remarked reassuringly. “Very good. Now we can come to the servants. That was your butler, I take it, who admitted me.”

“My piper, Angus MacDonald.”

“Acting in the capacity of butler.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Dundas, but you appear to be but ill-informed about Highland custom. Angus is first and foremost my friend, the friend of my family. He was piper to my father, the late Duchlan, who held his friendship an honour; should I predecease him, I pray God that he may serve my son. Our pipers stand remote from the class of domestic servants; but in these difficult times we are compelled to ask from them an extended range of service.”

“Isn't it six of one and half a dozen of the other, sir?” Dundas remarked coolly. “I mean, piper or no piper, the old man is in fact acting as butler?”

“No.”

The policeman shrugged his shoulders. He had the air of a modern jerry builder visiting a Gothic cathedral; there was no recognition of beauty, but in some sort, respect for age and mass, to be expressed later in exaggeration of both. Dundas, Dr. Hailey felt sure, would boast about his visit to Duchlan and embellish boasting with spurious detail. It seemed that Duchlan was not unaware of this probability for his face expressed a degree of ferocious anger that is seen only in the faces of men and carnivorous birds.

“Have the goodness, sir,” he exclaimed, “to leave that alone which you do not and cannot understand. Confine yourself to your business.”

“Very well. How old is your piper?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Married or single?”

“Single.”

“The other servants?”

Duchlan considered a moment. His eyes were still glowing with anger, but he had himself in control.

“I employ the services of a cook and a housemaid,” he stated. “They are sisters named Campbell. In addition, there is my son's old nurse, Christina, whose position is not that of a servant.”

He paused, challenging Dundas to utter any syllable of comment. The policeman gazed at the carpet.

“Christina is sixty. She's a widow. Her name is Graeme. She has acted latterly as maid to my sister, as well as nurse to my grandson.”

“Are the Campbells local people?”

“They are.”

“Their Christian names?”

“Mary and Flora. Mary, my cook, is twenty-eight. Her sister is twenty-five.”

The old man gave these facts and figures in tones of contempt. He sneered at the policeman and his notebook, baring his long teeth like a dog. But the doctor thought that, behind this mask of scorn, there was relief that the task of dealing with the murder had been committed to so narrow an intelligence.

Chapter V

The Sound of a Splash

An uneasy silence filled the room. Dundas broke it.

“There's one question,” he remarked, “that I wish to ask before I go upstairs. It's this: Did you expect your son to return last night?”

“We expected him to return soon.”

“Please answer my question.”

“We did not know that he was coming last night.”

“How did he come?”

“By motor-boat.”

“What?”

Duchlan's eyes flashed again.

“He came by motor-boat.”

“Is that the quickest way?”

“You must ask him that yourself.”

Dr. Hailey accompanied Dundas to Miss Gregor's room. Before they entered the room the policeman told him that he proposed to conduct the investigation single-handed.

“I know very well, Doctor,” he said, “how big your reputation is as an amateur detective. And I'm, of course, indebted to you for the preliminary work you've done here. I shall be honoured if you agree to stand by me during the examination of witnesses. But I mean to ride the horse myself. There must be no independent lines of inquiry.”

He paused, having observed the flush which had risen to his companion's cheeks.

“Very well.”

“Please don't be angry. Put yourself in my place. This is the chance of my life. I'll never get another if I fail. And I'm a solitary worker. Can't go in double harness. Can't concentrate if ideas are brought to me. My mind runs on its own scents, so to speak. So I say, ‘Come with me, but don't confuse me.' And don't run on ahead of me. That's not being rude. It's being honest.” The man's face was so earnest that the tactlessness of his address was discounted. The doctor smiled.

“I'm to have a seat on the bench, so to speak?” he asked in genial tones.

“Exactly. As a distinguished stranger.”

“And if I decline that honour?”

“I'll be sorry. But not so sorry as if you had begun to work on the case independently of me.”

Dr. Hailey nodded assent.

“I'm staying for another week at Darroch Mor,” he said. “You may command my services at any time during that period.”

“You won't come here at all?”

“No.”

Dr. Hailey's habitual good-humour had reasserted itself. His large face expressed neither hostility nor contempt. It was not, perhaps, at any time an expressive face, but there was a gentleness in its aspect which conveyed its own message. The man compelled confidence and liking without moving a muscle.

“I do hope you'll make a great success,” he said in quiet tones. “Nobody knows better than I do how much success in cases of this kind is conditioned by chance. It's like playing Bridge; a bad hand may discount the greatest ability.”

“Oh, yes, one realizes that.”

Dundas spoke in tones which suggested that his luck had not, so far, deserted him. But his manner had changed nevertheless. He opened a gun-metal cigarette-case and offered it with a smile that conveyed the suggestion of a wish to be friendly.

“I feel,” he apologized, “that you may think I've been rude and ungrateful. It isn't that. Crime is your hobby; it's my business. If you fail, nobody's going to blame you; if I fail somebody else will be sent the next time.” He paused. “And there's another point. If you work with me and we find our man, the credit will go to you, no matter how modest you may be. The public loves amateurs. Credit is the goodwill of my business. It's my only possession.”

“I understand perfectly. Believe me, I didn't thrust myself in here.”

Dundas nodded.

“What do you think of the case?” he asked suddenly.

The doctor met this advance with a smile which conveyed a gentle rebuke.

“My dear sir, if I told you shouldn't I be prejudicing your judgement?” he asked.

He smiled again when the detective's face reddened.

“All the same,” Dundas exclaimed, “I'd like to know your opinion, that is, if you've formed any opinion at all.”

Dr. Hailey shook his head.

“I haven't formed any opinion. When you arrived I was listening to Duchlan talking about his sister. The only clear idea I obtained from that recital was that Miss Gregor ruled this house with a heavy hand. Her brother appears to have allowed her to do exactly what she liked; he had no ideas, I think, except her ideas. Now that she's dead, he seems to be clinging to her ideas and precepts like a disciple who has lost his master. He can't endure the slightest criticism of them.”

Dundas raised his eyebrows. It was clear that he saw no help in these personal details.

“I'm afraid,” he confessed, “that my concern must be with those who wanted Miss Gregor out of the way, not with those who find it difficult to live without her.”

They parted. The doctor descended the staircase. It was the first time, he reflected, that he had been dismissed from a case. But he meant to abide by his decision. He told Duchlan and the others frankly how the matter stood.

“Dundas is like that,” Mr. McLeod said in tones of regret. “He always wants to do everything himself. So far, I'll admit, he's had the luck on his side.”

“Let us hope it won't desert him.”

John MacCallien rose to go. He held out his hand to Duchlan.

“You know how distressed I feel,” he said. “This policeman, I'm afraid, is an additional burden.”

“Thank you, John.” Duchlan turned to Dr. Hailey. “Believe me, my gratitude is very real. I'm sorry that you have not been able to continue your inquiry.” He shook his head as he spoke. But in spite of the melancholy expression on his face the doctor had the same impression he had experienced when taking leave of Dundas. The laird of Duchlan, no less than the policeman from Glasgow, was glad to see him go. Duchlan rose and glanced at the clock. Then he took a thin gold watch from his pocket and looked at that, too.

“Shall I send for the car?” he asked John MacCallien.

“No, please don't.”

“Then may I walk with you as far as the lodge? I feel that I need air.”

“My dear Duchlan, it's very late. Do you think you ought to venture out?”

“Ah, what hurts me is sitting here, alone.”

The moon had come westward, and was high above their heads as they emerged from the Castle. In this light the sham medievalism of the building was tolerable largely because one could no longer see it. There had happened at Duchlan what happened all over the Highlands when the lairds became rich in the middle of the nineteenth century, namely, an attempt to turn the old bare house of the chiefs of the clan into a feudal castle on the English model. Turrets, balustrades, and the rest of the paraphernalia of baronialism had been heaped about a dwelling formerly humble and beautiful, to the profit of the local builder and the loss of the community.

The old man walked slowly and the journey to the lodge took a long time. John MacCallien tried, once or twice, to talk but failed to awaken any response. Dr. Hailey noticed that each time Duchlan stopped, and he stopped frequently, he turned and looked out, across the loch. On these occasions he seemed to be listening. Once, when a seabird screeched, he dropped his walking-stick. The doctor began to observe him and soon made up his mind that this excursion was predetermined. But to what was he listening? The night was still and without voice.

“My sister delighted in this walk,” he told his companions. “She had travelled widely but maintained that the view from the north lodge was the most beautiful she had seen. I like to think that she may be watching us now.”

He addressed Dr. Hailey. “We Highland folk,” he said in low tones, “partake of the spirit of our hills and lochs. That's the secret of what the Lowlanders, who will never understand us, call our pride. Yes, we have pride; but the pride of blood, of family; of our dear land. Highlanders are ready to die for their pride.”

It was gently spoken, but in accents which thrilled. Duchlan, clearly, was assured of the reality of those ideas on which his life was based. He had marched all the way to fanaticism; but, your fanatic, the doctor reflected, is ever a sceptic at heart.

They reached the lodge. The old man struck a match and looked at his watch.

“It's two o'clock,” he announced, “or so I make it. What do you say, Doctor?”

“I'm afraid my watch has stopped.”

John MacCallien held his wrist up to the moon.

“Yes,” he declared, “just two o'clock precisely.”

“I bid you good morning, gentlemen.”

Duchlan bowed ceremoniously and turned back. They watched him until his figure could no longer be distinguished from the shadows.

John MacCallien was about to pass through the lodge gates when the doctor put his hand on his arm.

“I should like to see Duchlan reach home,” he said.

“Oh, he's on his own ground, you know.”

“Listen, my dear fellow. You go back to Darroch Mor and leave the front door on the latch for me. I'll follow as soon as I've satisfied myself that everything's all right.”

“I'll come with you.”

The doctor shook his head.

“Forgive me, if I say that I would rather go alone. And allow me to postpone explanations.”

“My dear Hailey.”

“I have good reasons for what I'm doing.”

John MacCallien belonged to that rare type which is content to leave other folk to conduct their affairs in their own way. He nodded, took out his pipe, and began to fill it.

“Very well.”

Dr. Hailey left him and hurried along the avenue after Duchlan. As he had foreseen, the old man was capable of walking fast when occasion required. He did not come up with him. When he reached the castle, he assured himself that Duchlan had not returned home; the light was still burning in the window of the study and the room was empty. Very cautiously, he approached the lighted window without, however, crossing the flower-bed which separated it from the carriage-way.

Where had the old man gone? He walked along the front of the house, passing from the carriage-way to the steep bank which he had seen from Miss Gregor's window. He descended the bank, keeping a sharp look-out to right and left. But he reached the burn without seeing anybody.

The stream broadened out above the jetty. It was high tide and the water was deep. He had an excellent view of the motor-boat. He raised his eyeglass to determine if there was anyone aboard and concluded that there was nobody. He thought of walking down the jetty and then decided against a course which must make him conspicuous to anybody standing among the trees on the far side of the burn. Doubts of the process of reasoning which had brought him back to the castle began to assail him; but when he recalled that process he put them away. Duchlan had fussed with his watch both before leaving the castle and at the lodge gate. He had been at pains to impress on the minds of his companions that two o'clock had struck before he left them. The inference seemed justified that he was anxious that some event, timed to occur at two o'clock, should not be laid to his account.

A twig snapped amongst the trees on the opposite side of the burn. Dr. Hailey turned and stood listening. He heard a window being opened. He crouched down. Footsteps approached and passed. Then the moonlight showed him a woman descending towards the jetty.

She walked slowly, seeming to linger at every step. He could see that she was young. As she approached the end of the jetty she stood and turned. The moon gave him a view of her face and he observed the tense, strained poise of her head. Suddenly she raised her arms and stretched them out towards the castle. She remained in this attitude for several seconds. Then her arms fell to her side and she turned to the water which shone and glimmered round the pier at her feet. A sound, like a subdued cough, which seemed to come from close at hand, made him turn his head and gaze into the shadows across the burn. A splash recalled him. The woman had disappeared.