The restless half-hour over, the murderer crawled out of bed, dragging half the clothes with him.
‘I think that’s fairly convincing. Now. Throw dirty water into slop-pail and dirty a fresh lot. Shaving brush? Toothbrush? Damn it, no. Must do them later on, or they’ll dry up. But I can go down and pack up the painting kit and lay two breakfast-tables. And meanwhile, you know, I can still be thinking out my plan. There’s a horrible hole in it at present and one place where I simply must trust rather to luck. By the way, my present intention, I may tell you, is to catch the 12.35 at Barrhill. But that absolutely depends on my getting away in good time from the Minnoch. Let’s pray there won’t be many people about.’
‘But ye didna gae tae Barrhill.’
‘No; I think something happened to make me change my mind.’ Wimsey was busily sorting out crockery. ‘You’ll remember that my over-mastering necessity is to get to Glasgow somehow. I have announced my intention of going, and I shall be feeling morbidly nervous about making any change of plan. If you only knew how my brain is spinning at the moment. There! there’s Campbell’s breakfast all laid out ready: tea-pot, cup and saucer, two plates, knife, fork, bread, butter, sugar. Milk! I must remember to take Campbell’s milk in in the morning, by the way; I know when to expect it, you see. Eggs, rasher and frying-pan laid out in the kitchen. Now, over to my own house. Same business here. I believe I had kippers for breakfast actually, but it doesn’t matter. For my own convenience I will make it a boiled egg.’
He chattered on as he laid the breakfast-materials out. Then suddenly, as though struck by a sudden thought, he dropped the saucepan on the kitchen floor.
‘Curse it! I was nearly forgetting. All this alibi depends on my going by train from Gatehouse. But I told a whole lot of people yesterday that I was going to drive to Dumfries and take the 7.35 train from there. Why should I change my mind? It will look so funny. The car. Something wrong with the car. Something the local people can’t be supposed to put right in a hurry. Of course — mag. trouble. Yes — I can work that, and it’ll probably help my alibi, too. Steady, old man. Loads of time. Be sure you finish one thing properly before you start another. Right. Breakfast’s ready. Now then. I’ve done my bed, but I haven’t done the water and things. Do that now. Pyjamas — there! One lot dirty water. Two lots dirty water. Happy thought. Clean socks and shirt to go to Glasgow in, and respectable suit. You must imagine that I’m doing all this. Must be a grey flannel suit, to match those bags of Campbell’s. Here it is, as a matter of fact, hanging up. I won’t put it on, but we might have a look at the pockets. Hullo, Macpherson, here you are! See the smear of white paint on the lining of the left-hand jacket pocket? Careless, careless. A little benzine rids us of this guilt. Well, well, well.’
He went swiftly through the motions of changing his garments, while the police, with satisfaction, examined the grey flannel jacket. Play-acting was all very well, but this had the appearance of solid evidence.
Presently Wimsey indicated that the change of clothes was supposed to be accomplished.
‘I am spending the night in Glasgow,’ he went on, ‘so I must pack an attaché-case. Here it is. Clean pyjamas, shaving-tackle, toothbrush. Better shave now, to save time. Five minutes for a shave. In they go. What else? Oh, a burberry. Absolutely essential. But I shall want to use that first. And a soft felt hat Voilà! A clean collar, no doubt. There it is. And the magneto will have to go in. That will just about fill the case. Now we go over the way again.’
He led them back to Campbell’s cottage, where, after putting on a pair of thin gloves, he carefully checked and repacked all the articles contained in Campbell’s painting-outfit, which had been brought over by Dalziel from the police-station for that purpose.
‘Campbell would take some grub with him,’ observed the murderer thoughtfully. ‘I’d better cut some. Here is a ham in the cupboard. Bread, butter, ham, mustard. And a small whiskey-flask, considerately left in full view. I think I shall be right in filling it up. Splendid. Now we go out and detach the mag. from our own car. Gently does it. Up she comes. Now we’ve got to damage her somewhere. I won’t do it really, but we’ll suppose it done. Wrap her up neatly in brown paper. Careful man, Ferguson. Always keeps odd bits of string and paper and stationery handy in case they’re wanted. Right. Now we’ll put this in the attaché-case so that we don’t forget it. We shall want an extra cap for when we cease to be Campbell. We’ll put that in the pocket of Campbell’s cloak. Oh, yes. And this pair of spectacles will be a good aid to disguise. They’re Campbell’s, but happily they are just sun-glare glasses with plain lenses, so that’s O.K. We’ll put those in our pocket. Now then, we’re all fit and ready.
‘Now comes the moment when we have to trust to a stroke of luck. We’ve got to go out and find a bicycle. It may take a bit of time, but the odds are that if it isn’t down one close it’ll be down the next. Put out the lights. Lock both doors and take the keys away. We can’t risk any more Strachans paying visits while we’re away.’
Suiting the action to the words, Wimsey left the cottages and walked briskly away down the road, closely followed by his observers. ‘I told you there’d be walking exercise,’ said Wimsey. ‘You people had better take the car. I shall have the bike to come back on.’
As the cortège arrived opposite the Anwoth Hotel, a bulky form came cautiously up to meet it.
‘He’s in there, all right,’ said P.C. Ross. ‘Duncan’s watching the other entrance and we’ve got the Gatehouse policeman sittin’ in the back garden tae see that he doesna get oot by the windows. Here’s your bicycle, my lord.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Wimsey. ‘Hit it the very first shot. Anybody’d think it had been left there on purpose. No’ — as the constable obligingly struck a match. ‘No lights. I’m supposed to be stealing this, my dear man. Good night — or rather, good morning. Wish us luck.’
It was a little after two when Wimsey got back to the cottage with the bicycle.
‘Now,’ he said, when he had deposited the bicycle in the garage, ‘we can have a rest. Nothing further happens till about 5 o’clock.’
The conspirators accordingly rolled themselves up in rugs and coats and disposed themselves on chairs and hearth-rugs, the couch being voted to the Fiscal in right of seniority.
The Chief Constable, being an old soldier, slept promptly and soundly. He was awakened a little before five by a clashing of pots and pans.
‘Breakfast for the observers is served in the kitchen,’ said Wimsey’s voice in his ear. ‘I am going up to finish off the bedrooms.’
At a quarter past five this job was finished, Campbell’s toothbrush and shaving-brush and both sets of soap and towels left wet and the proper appearances produced. Wimsey then came in to cook and eat his solitary eggs and bacon in Campbell’s front room. The tea-pot was left on the hob to keep warm.
‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey, ‘whether he left the fires going or re-lit them. He did one or the other, and it doesn’t matter a hoot. Now, corpse, it’s time I packed you into the car. I probably did it earlier, but you’d have been so uncomfortable. Come and take up your pose again, and remember you’re supposed to be perfectly rigid by now.’
‘This may be fun to you,’ grumbled Sir Maxwell, ‘but it’s death to me.’
‘So it is,’ said Wimsey. ‘Never mind. Ready? Up you go!’
‘Eh!’ said Macpherson, as Wimsey seized the Chief Constable’s cramped and reluctant body and swung it into the back seat of the Morris, ‘but your lordship’s wonderful strong for your size.’
‘It’s just a knack,’ said Wimsey, ruthlessly ramming his victim down between the seat and the floor. ‘I hope you aren’t permanently damaged sir. Can you stick it?’ he added, as he pulled on his gloves.
‘Carry on,’ said the corpse, in a muffled voice.
Wimsey slung in the painting outfit — stool, satchel and easel — followed it with Campbell’s cloak and hat, and piled the bicycle on top, securing it with a tow-rope whi
ch he produced from a corner of the garage, and tucking a large rug round and over his awkward load.
‘We’ll let the easel stick out a bit,’ he remarked. ‘It looks innocent and explains the rest of the load. Is that right? What’s the time?’
‘A quarter to six, my lord.’
‘Right; now we can start.’
‘But ye’ve no eaten Ferguson’s breakfast, my lord.’
‘No; that comes later. Wait a bit. We’d better lock the doors again. Right-ho!’
He drew a cloth cap closely down upon his head, muffled himself unrecognisably in a burberry and muffler, and climbed into the driving-seat.
‘Ready? Right. Let her go!’
The car with its burden moved gently out into the pale light of the morning. It bore round to the right at the end of the lane and took the direction of Gatehouse Station. The observation car swung in behind and followed it.
Upwards the road climbed steadily, mounting triumphantly past the wooded beauty of Castramont, ever higher over the lovely valley of the Fleet. Through the trees and out on to the lofty edge of the moor, with the rolling hills lifting their misty heads upon the right. Past the quarry and up still farther to the wide stretch of heather and pasture. Sheep stared at them from the roadside, and scurried foolishly across their path. Partridges, enjoying their last weeks of security, rose whirring and clattering from among the ling. Over to the north-east, white in the morning, the graceful arches of the Fleet viaduct gleamed pallidly. And ahead, grim and frowning, stood the great wall of the Clints of Dromore, scarred and sheer and granite-grey, the gate of the wilderness and guardian-barrier of the Fleet.
The little cottage by the level crossing seemed still asleep and the gates stood open. The cars passed over the line and, avoiding the station entrance, turned sharp away to the left, along the old road to Creetown. Here, for some distance, the way was flanked on either side by a stone wall, but, after a few hundred yards, the walls came to a stop. Wimsey held up a warning hand, stopped, turned his car, with some bumping, over the grass, and drove it well behind the shelter of the wall on the left. The police-car halted in the middle of the road.
‘What noo?’ asked Macpherson.
Wimsey alighted and peered cautiously under the rug.
‘Still alive, Sir Maxwell?’
‘Only just.’
‘Well, I think you might come out now and have a stretch. You won’t be needed again till 9 o’clock. Sit down comfortably with the Fiscal and have a smoke.’
‘And what do the others do?’
‘They walk back with me to Gatehouse,’ said Wimsey, with a grim smile.
‘Mayn’t we bring the car?’ said Macpherson, mournfully.
‘You can if you like, but it would be more sporting to cheer me with a little pleasant conversation. Damn it! I’ve got to walk.’
Eventually it was arranged that Macpherson should walk with Lord Peter, while Dalziel brought the car along behind in case the station-omnibus proved to be crowded. Telling the Fiscal to see that the corpse behaved itself, Wimsey waved a cheerful hand and started off with Macpherson to trudge the six-and-a-half miles back to Gatehouse.
The last mile was the most awkward, for the road was getting busy, and they had to be continually diving over walls and under hedges to avoid observation. At the last moment they were nearly caught in the lane by the paper-boy, who passed whistling, within a foot of them while they crouched behind a convenient hawthorn-bush.
‘Damn the paper-boy,’ said Wimsey. ‘Ferguson, of course, would have been expecting him. In any case, he probably did all this earlier, but I didn’t want to keep the corpse out all night. A quarter to eight. We’ve cut it rather fine. Never mind, Here goes.’
They took the remainder of the lane at a run, unlocked Campbell’s door, hid the key, performed the motions of taking in the milk and emptying part of it down the sink, took in and opened letters and newspapers, and dashed back to Ferguson’s cottage. Here Wimsey took in Ferguson’s milk, boiled his egg and made his tea, and sat down to his breakfast with an air of simple enjoyment.
At 8 o’clock, the rotund form of Mrs. Green was seen waddling down the lane. Wimsey looked out of the window and waved a friendly hand to her.
‘Better warn her, Macpherson,’ he said. ‘If she goes into Campbell’s place, she’ll have a fit.’
Macpherson hurried out, and was seen to vanish into the next-door cottage with Mrs. Green. Presently he returned, smiling broadly.
‘Verra gude, my lord,’ he said, ‘she’s tellt me it a’ luiks fine: jist precisely as it did the mornin’ Campbell was missin’.’
‘Good,’ said Wimsey. He finished his breakfast, packed the burberry into the attaché-case, and made a tour of inspection round the house, to make sure that nothing looked suspicious. With the exception of the mysterious remains of four extra breakfasts in the kitchen, everything seemed normal. He strolled out, met Mrs. Green in the front of the cottages, had a word with her, mentioning that he was catching the station ’bus and strolled down to the end of the lane.
Shortly after 8.30, the pant of the omnibus was heard coming along the road. Wimsey flagged it and got in. The police car followed on behind, much to the interest of the other passengers in the omnibus.
At 9 o’clock, or a little after, ’bus and car drew up in the station yard. Wimsey alighted and came across to the car.
‘I want you, Inspector, to come across to the train with me. When the rain has gone, come out and join Dalziel here. Then get out on to the road and pick up the other car.’
The two officers nodded, and Wimsey strolled into the station with the Inspector at his heels. He spoke to the station-master and booking-clerk and bought a first-class return to Glasgow. After a few minutes, the train was signalled, and a general exodus took place to the opposite platform. The station-master marched across, carrying the staff under his arm; the signalman came down from his lofty perch and crossed also, to perform the duties of a porter. The passengers from the ‘bus streamed across the line, followed by the ’bus-conductor on the look-out for return passengers with parcels. The booking-clerk retired into his office and took up a paper. Wimsey and the Inspector crossed over with the other passengers.
The train came in. Wimsey wrung the Inspector’s hand affectionately, as though he were not going to see him again for a month, and stepped into the first-class compartment which the porter was holding open for him. The station-master exchanged staffs and a pleasantry or two with the guard. A crate of poultry was wheeled along and dumped into the van. It suddenly occurred to Macpherson that this was all wrong. He ought to have been travelling with Wimsey. He darted to the carriage-window and looked in. The compartment was empty. The whistle blew. The guard waved his flag. The porter, with great bustle, urged Macpherson to ‘stand away’. The train moved out. Macpherson, left gazing up and down the line, perceived that it was empty.
‘By God!’ said Macpherson, slapping his thigh. ‘In at one side and oot at t’ither. The auldest dodge in the haill bag o’tricks.’ He ran precipitately across the line and joined Dalziel.
‘The cunning wee b—!’ he exclaimed affectionately. ‘He’s did it! Did ye see him come across?’
Dalziel shook his head.
‘Is that what he did? Och, the station buildin’s is between us. There’s a path through the station-master’s garden. He’ll ha’ come by that. We’ll best be movin’.’
They passed up the station entrance and turned along the road. In front of them went a small grey figure, walking briskly. It was then ten minutes past nine.
LORD PETER WIMSEY
The corpse was repacked into the car. Wimsey put on Campbell’s hat and cloak, again wrapping a muffler closely about his chin so that very little of his features was visible beneath the flapping black brim. He backed the car out on to the road and drove gently away towards Creetown. The road was stony, and Wimsey knew that his tyres were a good deal worn. A puncture would have been fatal. He kept his speed down to a
cautious twenty miles an hour. He thought as he drove how maddening this slow progress must have been to Ferguson, to whom time had been so precious. With a real corpse in the back seat, it must have been a horrible temptation to go all out at whatever risk.
The road was completely deserted, except for the wee burn which chuckled along placidly beside them. Once he had to get down to open a gate. The burn, deserting the right-hand side of the road, ran under a small bridge and reappeared on their left, glimmering down over stones to meander beneath a clump of trees. The sun was growing stronger.
Between twenty and twenty-five minutes past nine they came down at the head of the steep little plunge into Creetown, opposite the clock-tower, Wimsey swung the car out to the right into the main road, and encountered the astonished gaze of the proprietor of the Ellangowan Hotel, who was talking to a motorist by the petrol-pump. For a moment he stared as though he had seen a ghost — then he caught sight of Macpherson and Dalziel, following in the second car with the Fiscal, and waved his hand with an understanding smile.
‘First incident not according to schedule,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s odd that Ferguson shouldn’t have been seen at this point — especially as he would quite probably have liked to be seen. But that’s life. If you want a thing, you don’t get it.’
He pressed his foot on the accelerator and took the road at a good thirty-five miles an hour.
Five miles farther on, he passed the turn to the New Galloway road. It was just after half-past nine.
‘Near enough,’ said Wimsey to himself. He kept his foot down and hurried along over the fine new non-skid surface which had just been laid down and was rapidly making the road from Creetown to Newton Stewart one of the safest and finest in the three kingdoms. Just outside Newton Stewart, he had to slow down to pass the road-engine and workers, the road-laying having now advanced to that point. After a brief delay, bumping over the new-laid granite, he pushed on again, but instead of following the main road, turned off just before he reached the bridge into a third-class road running parallel to the main road through Minnigaff, and following the left bank of the Cree. It ran through a wood, and past the Cruives of Cree, through Longbaes and Borgan, and emerged into the lonely hill-country, swelling with green mound after green mound, round as the hill of the King of Elfland; then a sharp right-turn and he saw his goal before him — the bridge, the rusty iron gate and the steep granite wall that overhung the Minnoch.
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