Five Red Herrings

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘I don’t know. That’s just the point. Somebody came later on.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Just after midnight, but I didn’t get up to see who it was. Somebody knocked at the door and presently whoever it was went in, but I didn’t bother to get up and look. And then I went off to sleep.’

  ‘And didn’t hear the person go?’

  ‘No. I’ve no idea how long he – or she – stayed.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘I say he or she, because I really haven’t the least idea which it was. I don’t think it was Farren, though, because I fancy I heard a car. You might give me that rag, if you’ve finished with it. I’m really frightfully vague about the whole business. To tell the truth, I thought it was Jock Graham up to his games again.’

  ‘That’s quite likely. H’m. If I were you, Ferguson, I think I’d mention it.’

  ‘What? Just that midnight visitor, do you mean? Or Farren as well?’

  ‘Farren too. But particularly the midnight person. After all, he apparently was the last to see Campbell alive.’

  ‘What do you mean? I saw him in the morning.’

  ‘Saw him to speak to,’ said Wimsey. ‘He might be able to give the police valuable help, if they could get hold of him.’

  ‘Why hasn’t he come forward, then?’

  ‘Oh, Lord! a hundred reasons. He may have been selling illicit salmon, or, as you say, he may have been she. One never knows.’

  ‘True. All right. I’ll come clean, as they say. I’d better do it at once, or they’ll think I know more than I do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wimsey. ‘I shouldn’t waste any time.’

  He wasted none himself, but drove straight back to Kirkcudbright, where he met Inspector Macpherson just stepping into his car.

  LORD PETER WIMSEY

  ‘Hullo – ullo – ullo!’ cried Wimsey. ‘Where are you off to? I’ve got something for you.’

  The Inspector clambered out of the car again and greeted Wimsey cordially.

  ‘Weel, noo,’ said he, ‘I had something tae show ye, too. Wull ye step intae the station a wee while?’

  The Inspector was in no way sorry to get someone to admire his time-schedule, and Wimsey applauded generously. ‘What’s more,’ said he, ‘I can fill up a blank or two for you.’

  He unfolded his budget, while the Inspector sat licking his lips.

  ‘Ay,’ said the latter, ‘ ’tis a’ clear as daylight. Puir Farren – he must ha’ been in a rare way tae go and do such a thing. Peety we ha’ lost sae much time. It’s a hundred to one he’s oot o’ the country by noo.’

  ‘Out of the country or out of the world,’ suggested Wimsey.

  ‘Ay, that’s a fact. He said he wad hae ’t oot wi’ Campbell an’ then mak’ away wi’ himsel’. They often says it an’ doesna’ do’t, but whiles they do’t a’ the same.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ pursued Macpherson, ‘we’ll no be far wrang if we send a search-party up into them hills beyond Creetown. Ye’ll mind the sad affair there was a year or two ago, with the puir woman as threw hersel’ doon one o’ the auld lead-mines. Where there’s been trouble once there may be again. It wad be a terrible thing if the puir man’s body was to be lying up yonder and us not tae find it. Ay, d’ye ken, my lord, I’m thinkin’ this’ll juist be the verra thing that Mistress Farren’s fearin’, though she disna like tae say so.’

  ‘I absolutely agree,’ said Wimsey. ‘I think she believes her husband’s killed himself, and daren’t say so because she suspects he may have done the murder. You’d better get your sleuth-hounds out at once, Inspector, and then we’ll pop along and have a hunt for this spanner.’

  ‘There’s a terrible deal of work tae be done,’ said Macpherson. ‘I’ll doot we’ll no have men enough for a’ these investigations.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Wimsey. ‘You’ve pretty well narrowed it down now, haven’t you?’

  ‘Ay,’ replied the Inspector, cautiously, ‘but I’m no countin’ upon it. There’s mony a slip, an’ I’m no losin’ sight o’ ony o’ my suspectit pairsons, juist yet awhile.’

  Wee Helen had described the site of Campbell’s encounter with the man in the car so exactly that there was no necessity to take her along with them to point it out. ‘We’ll be mair comfortable and private-like on our own,’ observed Macpherson, and heaved himself with a sigh of contentment into the front seat of Wimsey’s huge Daimler. Six or seven minutes brought them to the bend. Here Wimsey deposited the Inspector, and here, after stowing the car out of the way of other travellers, he joined him in his search.

  According to Helen’s story, she had taken up her position beneath the sunk wall, on the left-hand side of the road going towards Gatehouse. Wimsey and Macpherson therefore started, one at either end of the bend, searching within a couple of yards from the wall and working gradually towards one another. It was back-breaking exercise, for the grass was rather long, and as he groped, Wimsey found himself versifying after the manner of the old man sitting on a gate.

  ‘But I was scheming to devise

  A wheeze to catch the spanner,

  With magnets of uncommon size,

  And sell it for a tanner,

  Or train a pack of skilful hounds

  To scent it like a rabbit,

  And something, something, something – ounds

  And something, something habit.’

  He paused and straightened his spine.

  ‘Not very lively,’ he mused; ‘better, I think, for a Heath Robinson picture.

  Or purchase half a ton of flints

  And hurl them in the dark

  And something or the other ending in glints,

  And a last line ending in see the spark.

  I ought to have brought Bunter. This is menial toil. It’s really beneath the dignity of any human being, unless one is like the army of Napoleon which is popularly reputed to have marched on its belly. Hullo! hullo! hullo!’

  His walking-stick – which he carried with him everywhere, even in the car, for fear that by some accident he might be obliged to stagger a few steps when he got to places – struck against something which gave out a metallic noise. He stooped, looked, and let out a loud yell.

  The Inspector came galloping up.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Wimsey, with conscious pride.

  It was a big King Dick spanner, slightly rusty with the dew, lying within a couple of feet of the wall.

  ‘Ye’ve no touched it?’ asked the Inspector, anxiously.

  ‘What do you take me for?’ retorted Wimsey, hurt.

  Macpherson knelt down, drew out a tape-measure and solemnly measured the distance of the spanner from the wall. He then peered over the wall into the road and, drawing out his notebook, made a careful plan of the exact position. After that, he took out a large jack-knife and thrust it in among the stones of the wall, by way of making the indication still more precise, and only after performing these rites did he very gingerly lift the spanner, covering his fingers with a large white handkerchief and wrapping the folds of the linen tenderly about it.

  ‘There might be finger-prints, ye ken,’ said he.

  ‘Ay, there might,’ agreed Wimsey, in the language of the country.

  ‘And then we’ve only tae get the prints of Farren and compare them. How will we do that now?’

  ‘Razor,’ said Wimsey, ‘palette-knife, picture-frames, pots – anything in his studio. Studios are never dusted. I suppose the actual riot took place on the other side of the road. There won’t be much trace of it now, I’m afraid.’

  The Inspector shook his head.

  ‘It’s no likely, wi’ cars and cattle passin’ up and doon. There was no bloodshed, an’ this dry grass takes no marks, mair’s the pity. But we’ll tak’ a look round.’

  The tarmac itself betrayed nothing, and the indications in the grass were so vague that nothing could be made of them. Presently, however, Wimsey, beating about among a tuft of bramb
le and bracken, uttered a small astonished noise.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Macpherson.

  ‘What indeed?’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s one of these problems, Inspector, that’s what it is. Did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats that fought till only their tails were left behind them? Now here are two gentlemen having a fight, and both of them spirited away, leaving only a tuft of hair. And what’s more, it’s the wrong colour. What do you make of that?’

  He held up in his hand a tuft of curly blackness suggestive of an Assyrian wall-painting.

  ‘That’s a queer thing,’ said Macpherson.

  ‘Cut off, not torn out,’ said Wimsey. He pulled a lens from his pocket and examined the trophy carefully. ‘It’s soft and silky, and it’s never been trimmed at the distal end; it might come from one of those sweet old-fashioned long-haired girls, but the texture’s a bit on the coarse side. It’s a job for an expert, really, to say where it does come from.’

  The Inspector handled it carefully and peered through the lens with as much intelligence as he could assume on the spur of the moment.

  ‘What makes ye say it’s never been trimmed?’ he enquired.

  ‘See how the points taper. Is there a female in the country with hair so black and so curly, that’s never been shingled or bingled? Were our blokes wrestling for a love-token, Inspector? But whose? Not Mrs. Farren’s unless she’s turned from a Burne-Jones to a Rossetti in the night. But if it isn’t Mrs. Farren’s, Inspector, where’s our theory?’

  ‘Hoots!’ said the Inspector. ‘Maybe it has naething tae do wi’ the case at a’.’

  ‘How sensible you are,’ said Wimsey, ‘and how imperturbable. Calm without something or other, without o’erflowing, full. Talking of that, how soon will the pubs be open? Hullo! here’s another bunch of hair. Some love-token! I say, let’s trot home with this and interview Bunter. I’ve a notion it may interest him.’

  ‘Ye think so?’ said Macpherson. ‘Weel, that’s no a bad idea, neither. But I’m thinkin’ we’ll better be away tae Newton Stewart first. We’ll have tae find the doctor and get the undertaker tae open the coffin. I’ve a great fancy tae see how this spanner fits yon wound in the heid.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Wimsey, ‘so have I. But just a minute. We’d better have a look first and see if we can find out what happened to the body. The murderer stuck it into his car and drove off towards Gatehouse with it. He can’t have gone far, because he very soon came back for Campbell’s Morris, so there ought to be a gate about here somewhere. In fact, I fancy I remember seeing one.’

  The search did not take long. About fifty yards farther along the bend they came to a rusty iron gate on the right-hand side. This led into a grassy lane which, after about thirty yards, turned abruptly to the left and was hidden behind some bushes.

  ‘Here’s the place,’ said Wimsey. ‘There’s been a car up here lately. You can see where the wing scraped the post. The gate has a hook and chain – easy enough to undo. He must have backed it in up to the bend. Then, if he turned the lights off, it would be absolutely invisible from the road. There’s no difficulty about that, and there’s no other possible hiding-place for a mile or so, I’m certain of that. Well, that’s uncommonly satisfactory. I gloat, as Stalky says. Back we go to the car, Inspector. Spit on your hands and grasp the coachwork firmly. I’m feeling sprightly, and I’m going to break all records between here and Newton Stewart.’

  Dr. Cameron was greatly interested in the spanner, and experienced so much difficulty in keeping his hands off it, that it was thought best to have it tested for finger-prints before anythings else was done. By the combined exertions of the police-staff, the local photographer and Wimsey, this was done. A magnificent thumb-print made its appearance after a dusting with mercury-powder, and a perfectly good negative was ‘secured,’ to use the journalist’s per phrase.

  In the meantime, a constable had rounded up the undertaker, who arrived in great excitement, swallowing the last fragments of his tea. A slight further delay was caused by its occurring to somebody that the Fiscal should be notified. The Fiscal, fortunately enough, happened to be in the town, and joined the party, explaining to Wimsey as they drove along to the mortuary that it was the most painful case he had handled in the whole of his experience, and that he had been much struck by the superiority of the Scots law to the English in these matters, ‘For,’ said he, ‘the publicity of a coroner’s inquest is bound to give much unnecessary pain to the relations, which is avoided by our method of private investigation.’

  ‘That is very true,’ said Wimsey, politely, ‘but think of all the extra fun we get from the Sunday newspapers. Inquests are jam to them.’

  ‘We then proceeded,’ ran Inspector Macpherson’s official notes on this occasion, ‘to the mortuary, where the coffin was unscrewed in the presence of the Fiscal, Dr. Cameron, James McWhan (the undertaker), Lord Peter Wimsey and myself, and the body of Campbell extracted. On comparison of the spanner formerly mentioned with the wounds upon the head of the corpse, Dr. Cameron gave it as his opinion that a contused area upon the left cheek-bone agreed exactly in contour with the head of the said spanner and had in all probability been inflicted by that or by a similar instrument. With regard to the larger contused area upon the temple, which had occasioned death, Dr. Cameron could not speak with certainty, but said that its appearance was consistent with the use of the said spanner.’

  After this triumphant entry, which bears the marks of considerable literary effort, appears another.

  ‘Acting upon the suggestion of Lord Peter Wimsey’ (the Inspector was a just man, giving honour where it was due, regardless of his own lacerated feelings), ‘the finger-prints of the corpse were then taken.’ (This last phrase is erased, and a better locution substituted), ‘a record was then secured of the finger-prints of the corpse. On comparison of this record with the thumb-print found upon the spanner, these were both found to be identical. Acting upon instructions, I despatched both records to Glasgow for expert scrutiny.’

  In this stately paragraph, nothing is said of the bitter disappointment experienced by the Inspector. It had seemed to him, with that finger-print in his hands, as though his case were concluded, and now, suddenly, he was taken up and cast down into the old outer darkness of uncertainty and gnashing of teeth. But his behaviour was handsome to the last degree.

  ‘It’s a great maircy,’ said he to Wimsey, ‘that your lordship should ha’ taken the notion tae have that done. It wad never have entered my heid. We might have eliminated a’ six suspects on the strength o’ that deceivin’ finger-print. It was a gran’ notion of yours, my lord, a gran’ notion.’

  He sighed deeply.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s all the luck of the game. Come and have a spot of dinner with me at the Galloway Arms.’

  Now that was an unlucky suggestion.

  The gathering in Bob Anderson’s studio was well attended that night. Bob was an artist, the geniality of whose temperament is best vouched for by the fact that it had never for one moment occurred to anybody engaged on the case that he could by any chance have hated Campbell, damaged Campbell, or been mixed up for a single moment in the Campbell mystery. He had lived in Kirkcudbright for nearly as many years as Gowan, and was extremely popular, not only with all the artists, but also with the local inhabitants, particularly with the fishermen and the men employed about the harbour. He seldom visited anybody, preferring to be at home every evening in the week, and all the news of the town was bound to filter through Bob’s studio in time.

  When Wimsey poked his long nose round the door on that Thursday evening, he found a full house already assembled. Miss Cochran and Miss Selby were there, of course, and Jock Graham (in a remarkable costume, comprising a fisherman’s jersey, a luggage strap, riding-breeches and rope-soled deck-shoes), and Ferguson (rather surprisingly, for he did not as a rule go out of an evening), the Harbour-master, the doctor, Strachan (his black eye almost faded out), a Mrs. Terrington, who worked in m
etal, a long, thin, silent man called Temple, of whom Wimsey knew nothing except that his handicap was five at St. Andrews, and finally Mrs., Miss and a young Mr. Anderson. The babble of conversation was terrific.

  Wimsey’s entrance was greeted by a welcoming shout.

  ‘Here he is! Here he is! Come away in! Here’s the man to tell us all about it!’

  ‘All about what?’ said Wimsey, knowing only too well. ‘What to back for the Leger?’

  ‘Leger be damned. All about this business of poor Campbell. It’s terrible the way the police come running in and out of one’s house. One doesn’t feel safe for a moment. Luckily I’ve got a cast-iron alibi, or I’d begin to feel I was a criminal myself.’

  ‘No, Bob, not you,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Oh, ye never know these days. But very fortunately I was at dinner with the Provost Monday night and didn’t get home till midnight, and on Tuesday morning I was showing myself up and down St. Cuthbert’s Street. But tell us, Wimsey, you that’s hand in glove with the police—’

  ‘I’m not allowed to tell anything,’ said Wimsey, plaintively. ‘You mustn’t tempt me. It’s not fair. I could not love thee, Bob, so much, loved I not honour more. Besides, I’m supposed to be finding things out, not giving information away.’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to all we know,’ said Miss Selby.

  ‘Am I?’ said Wimsey. ‘Tell me, then, how many hundred people in the county, besides Jock, knew that Campbell meant to go up to the Minnoch on Tuesday?’

  ‘You had better ask who did not?’ said the doctor. ‘He said so here on the Sunday night. He’d been making a preliminary sketch that afternoon. Monday he was going to fish in some wonderful place he wouldn’t tell anybody about—’

  ‘I know where it was, all the same,’ put in Graham.

  ‘You would. And Tuesday he was going to paint the Minnoch if the weather held. You heard him say so, Mary.’

  ‘I did so,’ said Miss Cochran.