Five Red Herrings

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  The painter looked at him, and put the back of his hand up against his forehead with a sort of desperation in the gesture.

  ‘My God, Wimsey,’ he said, ‘you deadly devil!’ He stepped back and sat down on his camp-stool, shaking. ‘I meant to kill you then. I’ve got such a hell of a temper. What made you do that?’

  ‘I wanted to see what sort of a temper you had got,’ said Wimsey, coolly. ‘And you know,’ he added, ‘as a matter of fact, if you had killed me, you would have run very little risk. You had only to go away and leave me, hadn’t you? My car would have been here. Everybody would have thought I’d just been blown off my feet and cracked my skull – like Campbell. What evidence would there have been against you?’

  ‘None, I suppose,’ said Strachan.

  ‘You think that?’ said Wimsey. ‘Do you know, Strachan, I almost wish I had let you knock me over – just to see what you would do. Well, never mind. It’s starting to rain. We’d better pack up and go home.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other. He was still very white, but he started meekly to put his painting materials together. Wimsey noticed that, in spite of his obvious agitation, he worked swiftly and neatly, evidently following out some habitual order of working. He secured the wet canvas in a carrier, mechanically putting in the canvas-pins and pulling the straps tightly, transferred the brushes to a tin case and the palette to a box and then collected the tubes of paint from the ledge of the easel.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said, suddenly.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Wimsey.

  ‘The cobalt’s not here,’ said Strachan, dully, ‘it must have rolled off.’

  Wimsey stooped.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, extracting it from a clump of heather. ‘Is that the lot?’

  ‘That’s the lot,’ said Strachan. He laid the tubes in their box, folded up and strapped the easel and stood, as though waiting for orders.

  ‘Then we’d better make tracks,’ said Wimsey, turning up his coat-collar, for the rain had started to come down heavily.

  ‘Look here,’ said Strachan, still motionless in the downpour, ‘what are you going to do?’

  ‘Go home,’ said Wimsey. ‘Unless’ – he looked hard at Strachan – ‘unless there’s anything you want to tell me.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ said Strachan. ‘One of these days you’ll go too far, and somebody will murder you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be in the least surprised,’ said Lord Peter, pleasantly.

  MRS. SMITH-LEMESURIER

  All this time there was a gentleman who was feeling rather hurt and neglected, and that was the young constable who had so signally failed in interviewing Mr. Jock Graham. This young man, whose name was Duncan, was keen about his profession, and he was acutely aware that he was not being given a proper chance. Graham had laughed at him; Sergeant Dalziel, importantly rushing about after bicycles and railway-tickets, had callously ignored his suggestions and left him to deal with drunks and motoring offences. Nobody took P.C. Duncan into his confidence. No matter. P.C. Duncan would pursue a line of his own. Perhaps, when he had shown them what he could do, they would be sorry.

  There was no doubt at all in Duncan’s mind that Jock Graham’s movements required investigating. There were rumours. Hints were dropped in bars. Fishermen had been seen to nudge one another and fall suddenly silent when Graham’s name was mentioned. Unfortunately, it is hardly possible for a local policeman in a country place to snoop about, wheedling information out of the inhabitants after the manner of Sherlock Holmes. His features are known. He is a marked man. Duncan played a little with the idea of getting himself up (when off duty) as an aged clergyman or a Breton onion-seller, but a glance in the mirror at his stalwart frame and round, ruddy cheeks was enough to rob him of his self-confidence. He envied the Scotland Yard detective, who, lost among a multitudinous population and backed by a powerful force, can go about, impenetrable and unknown, hob-nobbing with thieves in the East End or with dukes and millionaires in Mayfair night-clubs. Alas! in Creetown and Newton-Stewart he had only to poke his nose round the door to be known and avoided.

  He made persistent inquiries, cajoling and even threatening one or two people who appeared to know more than they should. Unhappily, the Scottish peasant has a remarkable talent for silence when he likes and, unhappily, also, Jock Graham was a popular man. After several days of this kind of thing, Duncan did, however, contrive to unearth one piece of definite information. A farmer who was passing along in a cart towards Bargrennan at 11.30 on the Tuesday morning, had seen a man walking along the farther side of the Cree as though coming from the scene of the crime. The man had immediately ducked down as though to escape observation, but not before the farmer had definitely recognised him as Graham. But further than this, Duncan succeeded only in hearing and raising rumours. A journalist on the Glasgow Clarion, to whom he had rather rashly said more than he ought, came out with an unfortunate article, and P.C. Duncan received a severe rebuke from his harassed superiors.

  ‘An’ if Graham was as guilty as sin,’ said Sergeant Dalziel angrily – this occurred on the same day that the porter at Girvan developed appendicitis, and the Sergeant was quite ready to take it out of somebody – ‘what for wad ye be tellin’ him that he’s suspectit, an’ givin’ him the chance to make up an alibi? Wull ye look at this, noo?’ He flapped the Clarion before Duncan’s unhappy eyes. ‘“Reason to suppose that the crime was committit by an artist.” Isna yon precisely the fact that we was wishfu’ tae conceal frae the suspecks? “Weel-known airtist interviewed by oor correspondent.” Whae tell’t yae tae send you fellie speirin’ round at Graham’s place? If ye canna lairn discretion, Charlie Duncan, ye wad du better tae fin’ some ither profession.’

  However, this indiscretion had its consequences. On the Saturday morning, Sergeant Dalziel was seated in his office when a lady was ushered in, demurely dressed in a black costume and close-fitting hat. She smiled nervously at the Sergeant, and murmured that she desired to make a statement in connection with Campbell’s murder.

  Dalziel knew the lady well enough. She was Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier, an ‘in-comer’ of some three years’ standing in Newton-Stewart, and giving herself out to be the widow of an African civil servant. She lived, simply and inexpensively, in a small converted cottage, with a French maid. Her manner was plaintive and artless, her age rather more than it appeared, and young men who knew no better were apt to see in her a refreshing revelation of an unfashionable womanliness. Why she should have chosen to settle in this out-of-the-way spot was never explained. Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier herself was accustomed to say that the rents in Scotland were so low, and that she had to do the best she could with her poor little income. It did not matter where she lived, she would add, sadly; since her husband’s death she was all alone in the world. Lord Peter Wimsey had been introduced to her the previous year at a small sale of work which was being held in connection with the Episcopalian Church. He had afterwards expressed the coarse opinion that the lady was ‘out for blood.’ This was ungrateful, since Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier had devoted herself to him very charmingly throughout what must have been to him a tedious afternoon, and had sold him a green silk sachet with ‘Pyjamas’ embroidered upon it with her own hands. ‘I can’t give money,’ said Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier, smiling shyly up at him, for she was a dainty little person, ‘but I can give my work, and it’s the intention that counts, isn’t it?’

  Sergeant Dalziel placed a chair for his visitor, and softened his rugged tones as he inquired what he could do for her.

  Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier hunted in her vanity-bag for some time, and eventually produced the cutting from the Glasgow Clarion which had brought P.C. Duncan so much trouble and reproof.

  ‘I just wanted to ask,’ she said, raising her speedwell-blue eyes pleadingly to the policeman’s face, ‘whether there is any foundation for – for the dreadful insinuations in this.’

  Sergeant Dalziel read the paragraph through as carefully as though he had never seen it before, a
nd replied cautiously:

  ‘Ay, imph’m. That’s as may be.’

  ‘You see,’ said Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier, ‘it says that the m-m-murder must have been committed by an artist. Wh-what makes them say that?’

  ‘Well,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I’ll no be sayin’ that there mightna be some evidence tae point in that direction.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the lady. ‘I hoped – I thought – fancied perhaps this reporter was making it all up out of his own head. They are terrible people, you know. Did he really get that idea from – from the police?’

  ‘I couldna verra weel say,’ replied the Sergeant. ‘He’ll maybe ha’ caught it fra’ some ither irresponsible pairson.’

  ‘But the police do think that?’ she insisted.

  ‘I’ll no be sayn’ so,’ said Sergeant Dalziel, ‘but seein’ as the deceased was an airtist himsel’ and that the most of his friends was airtists, there is always the possibeelity.’

  Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier fumbled with the clasp of her bag.

  ‘And then,’ she said, ‘it goes on to mention Mr. Graham.’

  ‘Ay, it does so,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Surely, surely’ – the blue eyes again sought the Sergeant’s – ‘it can’t be that you – that you actually suspect Mr. Graham of this dreadful thing?’

  Sergeant Dalziel cleared his throat.

  ‘Och, weel noo,’ said he, ‘there is always some groonds for suspeecion when a crime is committed an’ a pairson willna state juist whaur he was at the time. I wadna say that there was what they ca’ a violent presumption of guilt, but there’s groonds for what we may ca’ a general suspection.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, officer – supposing – supposing anybody were to clear your mind of this – general suspicion against Mr. Graham – it wouldn’t be necessary to – to – to make the explanation public?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Dalziel, eyeing his visitor rather more closely, ‘on the nature of the explanation. If it was such as tae remove a’ possibeelity of this gentleman’s bein’ consairned, an’ if it was weel supportit by proofs, an’ provided that the maitter never cam’ tae trial, there wad be nae need tae mak’ onything public at a’.’

  ‘Ah! then, in that case – oh, Mr. Dalziel, I can rely on your discretion, can’t I? It’s such a dreadful thing to have to tell you – just consider – but I’m sure you will understand – in my sad, lonely position – I – oh! I don’t know how to say it.’

  Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier dragged out a wispy handkerchief and temporarily veiled the light of the speedwell eyes.

  ‘Come, noo,’ said the Sergeant, gently, ‘there’s no call tae fash yoursel’. We hear an awful’ lot o’ things, in oor profession, that we niver think twice on. Forbye,’ he added, helpfully, ‘I’m a mairrit man.’

  ‘I don’t know that that doesn’t make it worse,’ bleated Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier. ‘But I’m sure,’ she added, peeping hopefully up over the edge of the handkerchief, ‘you’re a kind, understanding man, and wouldn’t make it worse for me than you could help.’

  ‘ ’Deed, no,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Dinna fash yersel’, Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier. Juist tell me a’ aboot it, as if I micht be your feyther.’

  ‘I will, thank you, I will. Mr. Graham would never say anything, of course, he’s too kind and too chivalrous. Mr. Dalziel – he couldn’t tell you where he was on Monday night – because – he was – with me.’

  Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier paused with a little gasp. Sergeant Dalziel, for whom this revelation held by this time no element of surprise, nodded paternally.

  ‘Ay, imph’m, is that so? That’s a verra guid reason for him tae keep silence, a verra satisfactory reason indeed. Can ye tell me, Mrs. Smith Lemesurier, at whit time Mr. Graham came tae your hoose and left ye again?’

  The lady squeezed the filmy handkerchief between her small, plump hands.

  ‘He came to dinner, at about 8 o’clock. And he left me again after breakfast. That would be a little after 9.’

  The Sergeant made a note on a slip of paper.

  ‘And did naebody see him come or gae?’

  ‘No. We were – very careful.’

  ‘Ay. How did he come?’

  ‘I think he said a friend had given him a lift into Newton Stewart.’

  ‘Whit friend wad that be?’

  ‘I don’t know – he didn’t say. Oh, Mr. Dalziel, shall you have to find out? My maid can tell you when he arrived. Is it necessary to bring this other person into it?’

  ‘Maybe no,’ said the Sergeant. ‘An’ he went aff again after 9 o’clock? Your maid can witness that tu, I’m thinkin’.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘An’ he was in the hoose a’ the time?’

  ‘He – he was never out of my sight,’ moaned Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier, again overcome by the painfulness of this confession.

  The Sergeant looked at her shaking shoulders and hardened his heart.

  ‘An’ whit makes ye think, ma’am, that this story provides Mr. Graham wi’ an alibi for the murder o’ Campbell, that was fund wi’ his heid dunted in at 2 o’clock o’ Tuesday afternoon?’

  Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier gave a little shriek.

  ‘Oh!’ she stared at him wildly. ‘I didn’t know. I thought – look at that horrid newspaper. It said Mr. Graham refused to state where he was the previous night. I don’t understand. I imagined – oh! don’t, don’t say it doesn’t clear him after all!’

  ‘I’ll no gae sae far as tae say that,’ said the Sergeant, ‘but ye’ll see for yersel’ that it disna cover a’ the groond. Mr. Graham was twa days missin’. Ye dinna ken whaur he went after he left your hoose?’

  ‘No – no I’ve no idea. Oh, my God! Why did I ever come here? I made so certain that it was an alibi for the Monday night you wanted.’

  ‘Well, that’s a’ tae the guid,’ said the Sergeant, comfortingly. ‘It’s verra like, when the kens that the Monday nicht is accountit for, he’ll tell us aboot the ither maitter. Noo, I’ll juist rin ye back tae your hoose in my car and get a wee word fra’ your maid, by way o’ corroboration. Dry your eyes, ma’am. I’ll no say a word mair than is necessary. It’s verra courageous of ye tae ha’ come tae me wi’ your story, an’ye can coont upon ma’ discretion.’

  The maid’s story agreed word for word with that of the mistress – as, indeed, the Sergeant had expected it would. He did not care for the woman – a sly foreign creature, he thought her – but he could not shake her on any essential point.

  The whole episode was disquieting. No sooner had that infernal paragraph appeared in the paper than he had expected an alibi to be produced. He had said as much to the unhappy Duncan. But why this particular alibi? The woman’s story was not improbable in itself, given Jock Graham and given Mrs. Smith-Lemesurier, only – why the alibi for the Monday night only? He read the newspaper cutting again. ‘– Mr. J. Graham, the distinguished artist, who laughingly refused to state where he had been between Monday night and Wednesday morning.’ No; nobody could have deduced from that that Monday night was the crucial period. Wimsey must have been talking. God knew what he had been blurting out in the course of his unofficial inquiries. If it was not Wimsey –

  If it was not Wimsey, then nothing but guilty knowledge could possibly account for that alibi, so neatly covering the time of Campbell’s death. And if Jock Graham had guilty knowledge, then what became of the beautiful theory about Farren, and the hopeful imbroglio about the bicycle?

  The Sergeant groaned aloud. He might have groaned still more deeply if he had known that Inspector Macpherson and Chief Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard were at that very moment engaged in destroying the beautiful Farren theory in favour of a Gowan theory.

  His eye fell upon an object lying on his desk. It was a grey felt hat – the sole treasure-trove that the search party had so far brought back from Falbae. It was not Farren’s. Mrs. Farren and Jeanie had both repudiated it. It bore no name. It was just another puzzle. He turned it about in his hands discontentedly.


  The telephone rang. Sergeant Dalziel lifted the receiver. The speaker was the police-superintendent at Glasgow.

  ‘We’ve got a man here who says he is Mr. Waters of Kirkcudbright. Are you still wanting him? He was just boarding the Dumfries train.’

  ‘Whit account does he gie o’ himsel’?’

  ‘Says he’s just off a yachting expedition. He made no attempt to deny his identity. What shall we do with him?’

  ‘Detain him,’ said Sergeant Dalziel, desperately. ‘I’ll be along on the next train.’

  ‘I’ll tak nae mair chances,’ he added to himself, as he hurriedly prepared for his journey. ‘I’ll detain the whole bluidy lot o’ them.’

  WATERS’ STORY

  To his great surprise, the Sergeant found Wimsey at the Glasgow police-station before him. He was waiting placidly in the Superintendent’s office, with his hands clasped over his walking-stick and his chin on his hands, and he greeted the Sergeant with exasperating cheerfulness.

  ‘Hullo – ullo – ullo!’ he said. ‘So here we are again.’

  ‘An’ hoo did yew get here?’ snapped Dalziel, his Galloway accent very pronounced and sharpening his u’s almost to the point of menace.

  ‘In a rather roundabout way,’ said Wimsey, ‘but, generally speaking, by train. I spent last night in Campbell’s cottage. Arrived in Glasgow by the 2.16 to see Picture Exhibition. Distressed fellow-countryman wires to Kirkcudbright that he is in the hands of the children of Amalek and will I come and disentangle him. Faithful valet sends wire on to Picture Exhibition. Intelligent attendant at Exhibition identifies me and delivers wire. Like a mother-eagle I fly to the place where distressed fellow-countryman, like wounded eaglet, bleeds, metaphorically speaking. You know my friend, Superintendent Robertson?’