Five Red Herrings

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  The Inspector interrupted again.

  ‘If your wee Helen can tell us onything aboot Mr. Campbell, we wad like fine tae hear it. Now, Mistress McGregor, will ye jist let the lassie tell us her ain tale fra’ the beginning. Come along, Helen, dinna be frightened, now. Speak up.’

  Helen, thus encouraged, began her story, which, between her own agitation and her mother’s interruptions, was rather a tangled one. However, by dint of coaxing and the gift of a bag of sweeties which a constable was sent out to procure, the Inspector eventually succeeded in getting the tangle straightened out.

  Mr. and Mrs. McGregor had gone over to Kirkcudbright on the Monday evening in a neighbour’s car, to visit some friends, leaving Helen with strict instructions to lock the cottage door and put herself to bed. Instead of this, the abandoned child had gone out to play with some little boys belonging to a neighbouring farm. They had strayed down the road to some fields about half a mile away, where the boys were going to set some highly illegal rabbit-snares.

  The Inspector shook his head slightly at this, but gave his promise that nothing dreadful should be done to the marauders, and Helen who seemed to have been more troubled by this thought than by her mother’s threats of punishment, went on more coherently with her story.

  The place where they were looking for rabbits was about half-way between Gatehouse and Kirkcudbright, at a point where the road makes a very sharp and dangerous S-bend between two stone walls. It was a fine night, not dark, but dusk, and with a slight ground-mist lying in streaks on the hill. The boys had wandered well away into the fields and were intending to stay out much later, but at about a quarter to ten Helen, remembering that her parents would soon be home, had left them and started to go back by the road. She knew it was a quarter to ten, because one of the boys had a new watch which his grandfather had given him.

  She crossed the fields and was just about to climb over the wall into the road, when she noticed a man in a car, drawn up stationary by the roadside and headed towards Gatehouse. The engine was running, and at that very moment, the driver pulled the car out across the road as though he was about to turn. At the same time, she heard another car approaching fast from the direction of Gatehouse.

  She described the spot very exactly. It was not the sharpest and most dangerous part of the bend, where the walls are high on either side, but was what might be described as the lower bend of the S – the bend nearer Kirkcudbright. Here the turn is shallower and wider, and the wall on the side where she stood is a sunk wall, with gorse bushes and brambles beneath it. The approaching car came very quickly round the upper bend, just as the first car turned across the road, blocking the way. There was a sharp squeal of brakes, and the second car stopped, slewing violently to the right and avoiding a crash by a miracle. The driver had shouted out something and the first man had replied, and then the driver of the second car had said in a loud and angry tone, ‘Campbell! Of course! It would be Campbell’ – or words to that effect.

  Then there had been a sharp exchange of abuse, and Campbell had stopped his engine and got out. She had seen him jump on the other man’s running-board. There was some sort of struggle and then, all in a moment, both men were out on the road, fighting and struggling. There were blows and a great deal of foul language. She could not see exactly what was going on, because the men were on the far side of the two cars. They had fallen to the ground and seemed to be rolling over one another. Nor could she say what the cars were like, except that Campbell’s was a four-seater and the other a large two-seater with very bright lights.

  When the struggle had gone on for some little time, she got a bad fright. A big spanner was flung suddenly into the air. It just missed her head and fell close beside her. She cowered down again under the wall, afraid to stay where she was and yet anxious to find out what was happening. She heard horrid sounds as though somebody was being thumped and throttled. After a little time she peered up again and saw something which frightened her still more. A man was getting up from the roadside, and over his shoulders he had got the body of another man. From the limp way in which it hung she thought the man must be dead. She didn’t scream, because she was afraid if she did that the terrible man would hear her and kill her too. He carried the body over to the two-seater car and slumped it into the passenger’s seat. This was the car which stood nearest to Gatehouse. She didn’t see the face of the living man, because it was all bent down under the burden he was carrying, but as he passed in front of the lights of the four-seater to get to the other car she caught a glimpse of the dead man’s face and it looked very dreadful and white. She couldn’t describe it, except that she thought it was clean-shaven and the eyes were shut. The terrible man then got into the driver’s seat and backed the two-seater away round the bend in the direction of Gatehouse. She heard the engine change its note, and the lights moved backwards and forwards as though the car were turning round. Then she heard it move off again, and the noise of the engine gradually died away.

  When it had gone, she climbed up over the wall, and thought she would have a look at the four-seater car, which was still standing half-across the road. It was headed towards Gatehouse, and its lights were turned towards the off-side of the road. Before she could examine it, however, she heard footsteps coming along from the direction of Gatehouse. She hoped it was somebody who would look after her and take her home, and then, suddenly, for no reason, it came over her that this was the bad man coming back to kill her. She was dreadfully alarmed, and started to run home as fast as she could. Then she heard an engine started up and hid herself in the bushes, thinking that the bad man was pursuing her in the car. Nothing came, however, and after a time she ventured out again and hurried home. Just as she got inside her own gate, a car flashed past at a furious pace towards Kirkcudbright. She got into the cottage just as the kitchen clock was striking ten. She rushed into the bedroom and jumped into bed, just as she was, and pulled the clothes over her head.

  Mrs. McGregor then took up the tale. She and her husband had got home at 10.30, and found the child shivering and crying in bed with all her clothes on. She was so terrified that they could get nothing out of her. All they could do was to scold her soundly, undress her and put her to bed properly, give her a hot drink and stand by till she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. All next day she refused to tell them anything, but the next night she had woken them up three times by crying out in her sleep that the bad man was coming to kill her. On Wednesday evening, her father, who made a great pet of the child, succeeded in getting the story out of her, and when they heard the name of Campbell mentioned they decided that the police ought to be told. In answer to a question of the Inspector’s, Mrs. McGregor said that their kitchen clock was five or six minutes slow.

  The Inspector thanked them both very much – and felt that he had indeed good reason to be grateful. He told Helen that she was a brave lassie, begged her mother not to punish her, in view of the great importance of her story, and ended the interview with a strongly-worded caution against passing the story on to anybody else.

  When they had gone, he sat back to think it out. The times agreed fairly well with the doctor’s report, except that he was now obliged to place the actual moment of the murder rather earlier than he had expected. As he interpreted it, Campbell and the other man had met and quarrelled, and Campbell had been killed in the struggle. The murderer must then have pushed Campbell’s body into the two-seater car and concealed it somewhere at the side of the road. Then he had come back, fetched Campbell’s car, and driven it back to Gatehouse, where it would, of course, be wanted to stage the fake accident. At some later time, he must have come back, collected his own car with the body in it, and – well, what? Driven it back to Gatehouse?

  The Inspector grunted. There were difficulties here. Why in the world had not the murderer put Campbell’s body straight away into Campbell’s Morris and driven off with it there and then? Why court discovery by leaving the body by the roadside for anyone to find during the ti
me it would take him to drive the Morris back to Gatehouse and return on his bicycle? For he must have come back on a bicycle or on foot, if he was going to take his own car away. A bicycle was the obvious thing for him to use, and he might quite well have brought it back in the dickey of the two-seater. But the difficulty remained; why had he left the corpse behind him?

  It was possible, thought Macpherson – indeed, it was more than possible – that the murderer had not at that time thought out the scheme of the alibi and the faked accident. Perhaps that explained it. He meant simply to drive away as though nothing had happened, and it was only afterwards that, having worked out his elaborate plan, he had returned to collect the corpse. But no! that would not work. It was Campbell’s car that he had driven away with. The only explanation of that was that he had already planned the faked accident in his own mind. But that seemed simply incredible. Taking the child’s account as reliable, which it appeared to be, it seemed obvious that the encounter between Campbell and the other man was fortuitous. Surely, in those few brief moments after the struggle, it would hardly have been possible for the murderer to work out his elaborate plan of escape.

  And yet – had the meeting been, after all, fortuitous? Campbell’s behaviour, if you came to think of it, suggested the exact contrary. He had planted his car in the road at the exact point where it was most difficult for two vehicles to pass, and when he had heard the other car coming, he had actually drawn out so as to block the way still further. A crazy thing to do, since it was more likely to provoke a fatal accident than any other kind of encounter. Still, it was known that Campbell was drunk at the time, and this might have blinded him to the risk of a collision.

  But, if the witness was to be trusted (and, after all, he could not pick and choose, believing one bit of evidence and rejecting another to suit his own theories), then it was clear that, whoever had expected the meeting, it was not the murderer. And if the murderer had not foreseen the meeting, he could not have premeditated the crime, and so could not have prepared the faked alibi beforehand.

  ‘Ay,’ said the Inspector to himself, ‘but that doesna follow, by no manner of means. He might weel ha’ premeditated the alibi, intendin’ tae commit the murder at some ither place or time. Then, meetin’ wi’ Campbell in that verra convenient manner, he may ha’ carrit oot his nefarious design forthwith.’

  There still remained the difficulty about the car. And there was the account of the man who had driven so furiously along towards Kirkcudbright a short time after the encounter. Was he the murderer? Impossible, if the murderer was taking Campbell’s car to Gatehouse. If he was somebody else, who was he? He must have passed the murderer on the road. He would have to be found. After a little further thought, the Inspector gave up this part of the problem as insoluble for the moment, and turned to another aspect of the matter.

  How did his story fit in, if at all, with the evidence about Farren? And here, suddenly, the Inspector gave a great smack with his hand upon the table. Of course! the times fitted perfectly, and here was the explanation of why Farren had turned up the road to the golf-links. Evidently he had seen through the young farmer’s well-meant lie about Creetown. He had searched Gatehouse for Campbell and, failing to find him there, had come to the conclusion that he must still be in Kirkcudbright. He had then hurried off to see Strachan, obviously for the purpose of borrowing Strachan’s car. Whether or not Strachan was an accomplice was not quite plain. Probably not. No, again the Inspector smacked the table with enlightenment. This explained the whole thing – the taking of the wrong car, the leaving the body and everything. Farren’s original idea had been to put the guilt of the murder on Strachan. The body was to have been found in Strachan’s car and the inference was to have been that Strachan had decoyed Campbell away and murdered him.

  A very poor plan, of course. Strachan would immediately tell the story of how he had lent the car to Farren. Probably he would be able to produce witnesses of the transaction. Moreover, the thing would in itself have a very unlikely appearance. What man would be fool enough to leave his own car lying about with a murdered body in it? This was, in fact, the very point which had immediately struck the Inspector himself, and Farren, when he thought over what he had done, could not fail to see how unreasonable his first idea was. But while driving Campbell’s car back to Gatehouse, he would have time to think matters over. A better idea would occur to him – the idea of faking the accident at the Minnoch. What then? What would he do?

  He would first, of course, take Campbell’s car back and put it in the garage. Then he would have to go and collect his own bicycle from Strachan’s house. At that time of night it would be easy enough to do so without being seen, supposing, as was possible, that he had left the machine somewhere handy – say, just inside the garden gate.

  With considerable excitement, the Inspector drew a pad of paper towards him, and began to jot down a schedule of times, heading the document boldly: ‘The Case against Hugh Farren.’

  Monday.

  6 p.m.

  Farren returns home and finds Campbell there. Turns him out of the house. (Jeanie’s sister’s evidence.)

  7 p.m.

  After a quarrel with his wife, during which she presumably makes some damaging admission about Campbell, Farren departs on his bicycle.

  9 p.m.

  Farren enters the Murray Arms, looking for Campbell. (The farmer’s evidence.)

  9.15 p.m.

  (about). Farren goes to Strachan’s house and borrows car.

  9.45 p.m.

  (about). Meeting with Campbell on the Kirkcudbright road. Murder of Campbell. (Helen McGregor’s evidence.)

  9.55 p.m.

  Farren plants the body in Strachan’s car.

  10 p.m.

  (or thereabouts). Farren starts back in Campbell’s car.

  10.10 p.m.

  Farren arrives in Gatehouse (say five miles) and garages Campbell’s car.

  10.30 p.m.

  Farren arrives on foot at Strachan’s house to fetch bicycle.

  11 p.m.

  Farren arrives on bicycle at the scene of the crime.

  11.10 p.m.

  Farren is back with the body at Campbell’s house. Hides the body in the house or garage.

  11.20 p.m.

  Farren returns car to Strachan’s house.

  11.40 p.m.

  Farren is back at Campbell’s house to prepare evidence of Campbell’s having spent the night and breakfasted there.

  The Inspector gazed with some complacency upon this schedule. Some of the times were, of course, only approximate, but the essential points corresponded well enough, and, making every allowance for Farren’s being a slow walker, or bungling parts of his procedure, he had ample time to carry out all these manoeuvres before Tuesday morning.

  Encouraged by this, the Inspector proceeded, rather more tentatively, with the rest of his theory.

  According to the evidence of ‘young Jock’ at Borgan, the spurious Campbell had been seen sitting by the Minnoch at 10.10 on the Tuesday morning. This, therefore, gave the latest possible moment for Farren’s arrival there. Actually, the Inspector thought it would probably have been earlier. Farren would certainly not have risked hanging about in Campbell’s cottage very late in the morning. He would have been up and away well before 8 a.m., when Mrs. Green was due to arrive. On the other hand, he would not have started ridiculously early, because of Ferguson. It would be necessary that Ferguson, if he happened to hear Campbell’s car go out, should be able to swear that it left at a reasonable hour in the morning. Accordingly, the Inspector put down at a venture: –

  7.30

  Farren leaves Campbell’s house, wearing Campbell’s hat and cloak, with the body tucked away on the floor of the car and the bicycle on top, all covered by the rug.

  8.35

  (say). Farren arrives at the Minnoch, hides the corpse and starts on his painting.

  10.10

  Farren (disguised as Campbell) seen by Jock for first tim
e.

  11.5

  Farren seen by Jock for the second time.

  Here the Inspector paused uncertainly. Was two-and-a-half hours too long to allow for the painting of that picture? He knew very little about artists, and the thing had seemed to him a rough and sketchy affair. He must ask somebody who knew.

  But there! What a thick-headed fool he was! Of course, Farren could not begin to paint till the light was good. He mightn’t know much, but he did know that. He thoughtfully shook a few blots from his fountain-pen and continued.

  It now seemed very probable that Farren was the passenger at Girvan. The schedule would therefore run on: –

  Tuesday.

  11.10 a.m.

  Farren throws body into the river, puts on cap and overcoat and starts for Girvan on his bicycle.

  1.7 p.m.

  Arrives at Girvan. Has bicycle labelled for Ayr.

  1.11 p.m.

  Takes train for Ayr.

  1.48 p.m.

  Arrives Ayr.

  Here, for the moment, the Inspector’s deductions came to an end. Dalziel, he knew, was following up the trail of the bicycle. It would be better to wait for his report before carrying the schedule any further. But he had not done so badly. He had at last succeeded in fixing the crime definitely upon one person, and in producing a plausible time-scheme to which to work. Fortunately, also, it was one that was susceptible to confirmation at several points.

  He glanced over his paper again.

  If Farren had been searching for Campbell in Gatehouse between 8 o’clock and 9.15, there ought to be evidence of other calls besides that at the Murray Arms. Inquiries would have to be made at the Angel and the Anwoth. But surely, before asking at public houses, Farren would have tried Campbell’s house. If so, it was almost impossible that he should not have been seen. For one thing, he would have had to cross the bridge twice, and there is no hour of the day at which the bridge at Gatehouse is not occupied by at least one idler. The bridge is the common club and gathering-place of the Gatehouse population, who meet there for the exchange of gossip, the counting of passing cars and rising trout, and the discussion of local politics. Even if, by a miracle, the bridge should have been clear on both occasions, there was the long bench outside the Anwoth Hotel, on which fishermen sit to tie knots, pat Bounce the dog and inquire of Felix the cat how many rats he has killed during the day. Lastly, supposing Farren to have escaped notice at both these points, there was always the possibility that Ferguson had been at home and had seen him come to the cottage.