Malice in the Highlands
Page 4
Powell's reverie was interrupted by an increase in the intensity of Barrett's voice. The Scot was obviously warming to his subject.
“You see, Pinky, fishing differs fundamentally from both shooting and stalking, where the pheasant or stag is clearly the intended victim. In the gentle sport of angling it is the humble fisherman who is the aggrieved party.” Barrett paused to light a cigarette. “Consider for a moment an unsuspecting angler, biding awhile beside a burn and innocently dangling a line to which he has attached a prized concoction of silk, fur, and feather—simply for the aesthetic pleasure that's in it, you understand. And what happens? A salmon or trout seizes the fly, with larcenous, if not murderous intent, and attempts to run off with it. Naturally, our fisherman endeavors to recover his property and if in the process he manages to capture the scaly brigand, which must then quite properly pay the ultimate price for its misdeeds, so much the better.”
Warburton chuckled. “I must admit that I've never looked at it quite like that before.”
“Sounds like entrapment to me,” Powell observed, stifling a yawn.
Before Barrett could reply, Ruby arrived at their table laden with several steaming and fragrant dishes: a rich, red lamb roghan josh a saffron-scented pilau; and stacks of crisp pappadams and fluffy naans accompanied by various small dishes of chutneys and pickles.
Sniffing each in turn, Powell was transported. “Absolutely brilliant, Ruby! You have surpassed yourself.”
Ruby blushed, obviously well pleased. “I hope you gentlemen enjoy your dinner.” It seemed that things had returned to some semblance of normality at the Salar Lodge.
After Ruby had gone, Barrett said, “Erskine, would you mind getting your snout out of the stew or whatever it is?” He shook his head sadly. “I should have known the two of you were up to something. I'd had it from a reliable source that you were seen passing Ruby a vial of some strange-looking substance the other day. I can see now that I should have put the Drug Squad on to you.”
“The substance, to which you so flippantly refer, happens to be my secret garam másala, renowned in London curry circles and prepared especially for this occasion.”
Barrett grimaced. “Quite honestly, Erskine, I don't see how you can rave about this muck.”
Powell rose to the bait. “I daresay it's quite an improvement over that memorable period a few years back when Ruby was on her Taste of Scotland’ kick. I tell you, Pinky, every meal seemed to consist entirely of sheep's entrails, assorted naughty bits, and congealed body fluids, the whole served up with lashings of stiff porridge.”
“Blasphemy!” Barrett cried. “The trouble with you English is that you lack a sense of cultural identity and consequently have never developed a truly distinctive national cuisine. With the possible exception of eggs and chips,” he concluded with a triumphant smirk.
Powell hooted derisively. “Did I heard you say ‘cuisine’? Pinky, you really must try the clapshot cordon bleu sometime. And let's not forget that traditional Scottish favorite, deep-fried Mars bar.”
Warburton was laughing helplessly, tears streaming down his round, red face. “Stop, you two, please stop!” he implored.
“Now tell the truth, Pinky,” Barrett said. “What's your opinion?”
Pinky dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “I'm sorry, Alex. I must confess that I, too, am an unrepentant curry fiend. Indian army brat and whatnot. However, it does seem that, for some, curry is an acquired taste. As is haggis, I suppose,” he added charitably.
“Aye, well,” Barrett sighed resignedly, “in the absence of more substantial fare, I suppose I'd better tuck in so as to keep my strength up for the morrow.”
Powell noted with considerable annoyance that Barrett had two huge servings of lamb and rice and had the cheek to help himself to the last naan, which he then used to polish his plate. After Ruby had cleared away the dishes and served coffee, they retired to the bar.
A short time after they had settled themselves in the inglenook, Bob Whitely came in and made a beeline for Barrett. He seemed more or less his old self and acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened that afternoon. “A Sergeant Gordon just telephoned with a message for you to call Mr. Furness. He said it was important.”
Barrett frowned, avoiding Powell's eyes. Whitely cleared his throat and continued, “I wish to apologize for my behavior at lunch. There is absolutely no excuse and, well, I hope you can see your way clear to forgive me.”
‘Think nothing of it, Bob,” Powell said quickly. “This must be a difficult time for you.”
“Aye, well, I'm sure things will work out eventually.” He seemed anxious to change the subject. He turned to Barrett. “You can use the phone in the office, if you like.”
“Thanks, Bob,” said Barrett, springing to his feet. “This shouldn't take long,” he added for Powell's benefit.
“What do you suppose that's all about?” Warburton asked.
“Oh, I expect it's nothing important,” Powell replied absently. He swung his legs up onto the settle and felt for his cigarettes.
“Your friend Barrett is quite a character,” Warburton ventured tentatively.
“You'll get no argument from me on that score.”
Warburton leaned closer. “I say, he does get this queer look at times. It's—it's as if he's looking right through one. It's rather off-putting. Haven't you noticed?”
Powell smiled lopsidedly. “It's his left eye. Completely useless. Took a stray pellet while grouse shooting as a lad. Every once in a while he tends to go a bit cross-eyed, that's all.”
Warburton seemed relieved. “That explains it. I was beginning to think it was my imagination.”
“Damn useful, though,” Powell mumbled.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You've heard of the ‘evil eye’?”
Warburton shook his head, frowning slightly. Tm afraid you've lost me, old boy.”
Powell thought about another whisky. How many had he had? He couldn't remember. No matter. He brought his attention with some difficulty back to the subject at hand. “Look, Pinky, before I relate to you one of the most astounding feats in the annals of modern detection you must promise me that you'll not breathe a word of this to another living soul.”
Warburton cocked his head warily, obviously curious, but leery of being had. “With a buildup like that I'd be a fool not to agree, wouldn't I? All right, I promise.”
Powell nodded. “It happened many years ago in Edinburgh. Alex was an up-and-coming detective-sergeant at the time, and he'd been working on a case involving the theft of some paintings from the house of a certain wealthy industrialist. After a lengthy investigation he was still at loose ends, so as a last resort he assembled the suspects at the scene of the crime, hoping to bring things to a head, as it were. Dame Agatha would've been proud of him.”
Powell drew on his cigarette with studied deliberation. “He'd narrowed the field down to three possibilities. There was the owner, himself, who stood to benefit from the insurance settlement. Bit of a shifty character, apparently. Then there was the wayward son, who had a penchant for gambling more than he could afford to lose. There was even a bloody butler, if you can believe it. The man had evidently developed a taste for the finer things in life, including the master's wife, who happened to be a drunk. A regular rogues’ gallery, I think you'd agree.”
He smiled cryptically. “To cut a long story short, the ploy failed miserably. Alex was trying to figure out how to make a graceful exit when, as chance would have it, a gust of wind through the open window blew a speck of something into his good eye. As he was attempting to dislodge it, like this—” Powell clumsily pulled his right eyelid down to demonstrate “—he was amazed to find that for the first time since his boyhood accident he could see perfectly well with his other eye.” He paused significantly for effect. “You're not going to believe this, Pinky, but Alex swears that he could see, as clearly as I can see you now, a sort of ethereal figure hovering over th
e assembly. And—get this—the thing was pointing an accusing finger at the son.”
“Good Lord!”
“When Alex opened his good eye, the apparition vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Always one to seize the moment, he confronted the lad, who was caught completely off guard and confessed on the spot.”
Warburton was transfixed. “Absolutely incredible!”
“Wait, you haven't heard the half.”
“You mean there's more?” Warburton gasped.
“The ghost or spirit or whatever in hell you'd call it— you'll never guess what, or rather who, it was.”
“Don't keep me in suspense, for God's sake!”
Powell lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It was the Flower of Culloden, the Bonny Prince himself.”
The color had drained from Warburton ‘s face like port from a glass, and for several seconds he seemed incapable of speaking. Eventually he managed to sputter, “You— you can't be serious!”
“If there's one thing I've learned, Pinky, it's never to underestimate the Celtic mind.”
Warburton struggled to his feet. “Christ, I need another drink.” The thought of Barrett communing with the Young Pretender was evidently too much for him.
He returned with the whiskies and gave Powell a resentful look. “You know I'm superstitious, you bugger.”
Powell laughed. “Not to worry, Pinky, we've got only Alex's word for it.”
They nursed their drinks in silence until Warburton spoke.
“Now that I have the opportunity, Erskine, I—well, I'd like to thank you for having me along. Quite honestly, I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself as much. I can see now how badly I needed to get away.”
“Don't mention it, Pinky. But my motives were not entirely unselfish. It's been far too long since we've got together for a good natter.”
“There's been a lot of water under the bridge, all right. But I'm pleased to see that you've enjoyed continuing success in your profession; I seem to recall that you'd just made chief inspector when we last lunched at the Savoy.” He regarded Powell thoughtfully. “You know, Erskine, I've always regarded you as a kind of Prometheus in plainclothes, gallantly striving to dispel the darkness in the world—or at least your own small corner of it.”
Powell smiled weakly. “I think Sisyphus is more my style.” He hesitated, not quite sure how to broach a potentially delicate subject. He decided it was pointless to avoid the issue. “And you, Pinky, how have you been getting on?” It came out more awkwardly than he had hoped.
“Oh, I can't complain. You may be interested to know that I've recently embarked on a new career as an estate agent. I've decided to specialize in sporting properties, since I've had a bit of experience in that line.”
Powell searched for any sign of bitterness in Pinky's voice and was relieved to find none; if anything, there was perhaps a hint of irony. “Well, it would seem that your timing is impeccable. I understand that property sales are beginning to pick up.”
Warburton smiled. “So far I've managed to keep the wolves from my door. I don't wish to seem immodest, Erskine, but I do believe that I have a certain aptitude for the profession.”
Powell chuckled. “I don't doubt it for a moment, Pinky. You could charm the—”
He was interrupted by the clamorous arrival of Barrett and a uniformed police constable who appeared distinctly ill at ease. It was obvious that Barrett was not happy as he threw himself onto the settle.
“Chief Superintendent Powell and Mr. Warburton, Police Constable Shand. Sit down, Shand, and have a drink.”
“Er, I'd better not, sir. Thanks all the same.”
“Suit yourself. But I'll have one, if you don't mind.”
“What's up?” Powell asked.
Barrett scowled. “A routine bloody accident and it seems that I'm the only one in the entire force competent to deal with it.” But his expression suddenly brightened as his attention fixed on PC Shand. “I trust, however, that the good constable here will be able to do most of the leg-work, leaving me ample time for more, em, rewarding pursuits.”
Powell noticed that the good constable was fidgeting in his seat.
“Sir?”
“Well, Shand, what is it?” Barrett snapped.
“I thought I should tell you, sir. Dr. Campbell, the pathologist, called to advise that he's completed the postmortem. Apparently something a bit peculiar has turned up. He can make himself available at eight tomorrow morning to discuss his findings with us, if it's convenient, of course, sir. I was just about to check with Grantown when you called, but now that you're in charge, sir, I naturally assumed …” he trailed off lamely.
There was a deadly silence round the table. Finally, Barrett exhaled like a punctured tire. “Well, that's it then. Be here tomorrow morning at seven-thirty precisely.” His manner left no doubt that PC Shand had been dismissed.
“Yes, sir.” Shand jumped to his feet, mumbled a good evening, and fled the lounge bar of the Salar Lodge. He stopped at the front desk to place a call to Dr. Campbell.
Warburton took his cue and, after a decent interval, bade his companions good-night.
Powell and Barrett sat in silence for a few moments. Presently Barrett spoke. “The bet's off. After all, fair's fair.”
“What?”
“You know, our fishing match. Until I get this business cleared up.”
“Alex, I'm surprised at you!” Powell said, feigning dismay. “It's only sport, after all.”
Barrett ignored him. “If I'm right, it shouldn't take long.”
“One can only hope,” Powell replied, not at all convinced.
Nigel Whitely stepped back quickly. He had been standing behind the inglenook just outside the rear doorway to the lounge bar. He hesitated for a moment and then hurried down the corridor to a side service door. His movements were jerky, almost spastic, and his plimsolls squeaked jarringly on the lino tile.
He opened the door a few inches and listened. A damp chill seeped through the crack. He shuddered. Eventually he heard the crunch of gravel as a vehicle pulled out of the car park. He counted slowly to ten and then slipped outside, carefully shutting the door behind him.
A few moments later, a white van emerged from behind the Salar Lodge and turned into the empty street.
CHAPTER 4
Not a cloud sullied the pale blue sky as PC Shand drove Powell and Barrett into Grantown-on-Spey the next morning. As they sped through the well-kept streets, Powell was absorbed in thoughts of giant salmon swirling in sunlight-gilded pools. He imagined at that very moment that Pinky would be perfecting his casting technique under the watchful eye of Arthur Ogden, renowned authority on salmon fishing and resident angling tutor at the Salar Lodge.
Ogden had arrived late the previous evening with a group of clients for his annual spring fishing course, from which Powell himself had graduated more years ago than he cared to remember. In the conviviality of the Salar Lodge bar, Powell had offered, somewhat rashly it seemed to him now in the harsh light of morning, to accompany Barrett to see Dr. Campbell, the pathologist. It had seemed like the matey thing to do at the time, but in retrospect he had to admit that curiosity had been his true motivation. It wasn't until Barrett mentioned it that Powell had realized he would be more or less abandoning Pinky to his own devices. Fortunately, Ogden, who had joined them for a drink, had offered to take Warburton under his wing while Barrett and Powell were otherwise engaged, thus allowing Powell's conscience to escape relatively unscathed. At breakfast that morning, Powell, feeling slightly the worse for the previous evening's festivities, had hastily explained the situation to an understanding Warburton just as PC Shand arrived to collect them.
Powell's reverie was interrupted as they drew up in front of a pleasant stone house set in a half-acre garden on a quiet street of similar houses, several of which displayed discreet signs advertising bed-and-breakfast accommodation. Barrett dispatched Shand on an errand, instructing him to return in an hour.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming at this ungodly hour,” he said smartly. “As I indicated to your young constable, I have a rather urgent matter to attend to later this morning and I naturally assumed that you'd wish to have my report as soon as possible.”
“We do appreciate your time, Doctor,” Barrett replied smoothly. “By the way, I'm Chief Inspector Barrett and this is Chief Superintendent Powell of New Scotland Yard. Mr. Powell is here to, em, study our local police methods.”
Powell coughed politely.
“Splendid. Please sit down, gentlemen.”
Barrett got directly to the point. “I'm given to understand that you've turned up something in the Murray postmortem. Something a bit peculiar, according to Constable Shand. We'd appreciate it if you could summarize your findings for us—in layman's terms, if at all possible.” He smiled mildly.
Campbell frowned. “By all means, Chief Inspector. But first I must take issue with your constable's choice of words. ‘Peculiar,’ indeed!” He grimaced as if biting into something unpleasant. “In science, no finding is any more or less peculiar than any other. A fact, gentlemen, is a fact!” he declaimed climactically. He then fell silent and absently stroked his mustache.
“Quite.” Barrett made a mental note to have a word with PC Shand. After a decorous interval he prompted, “You were saying, Dr. Campbell?”
Campbell, apparently mollified, cleared his throat. “In cases of this kind, one invariably approaches the problem with a working hypothesis, that is to say with some idea of the likely cause of death. Now, don't misunderstand me, gentlemen—I do not wish to imply that one prejudges the matter. I simply mean to say that one naturally looks for the obvious things first.” He paused reflectively, this time to light his pipe.