Wimsey nodded. His fine, long fingers were gently exploring head and limbs. The doctor watched him with grave approval.
‘Man,’ he said, ‘ye’d make a fine surgeon. Providence has given ye the hands for it.’
‘But not the head,’ said Wimsey, laughing. ‘Yes, he’s got knocked about a bit. I don’t wonder, coming down that bank full tilt.’
‘Ay, it’s a dangerous place,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Weel, noo, doctor, I’m thinkin’ we’ve seen a’ that’s to be seen doon here. We would better be getting the body up to the car.’
‘I’ll go back and have a look at the painting,’ said Wimsey, ‘unless I can help you with the lifting. I don’t want to be in the way.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Thank you for the offer, my lord, but we can manage fine by oorsel’s.’
The Sergeant and a constable bent over and seized the body. Wimsey waited to see that they required no assistance, and then scrambled up to the top of the bank again.
He gave his first attention to the picture. It was blocked in with a free and swift hand, and lacked the finishing touches, but it was even so a striking piece of work, bold in its masses and chiaroscuro, and strongly laid on with the knife. It showed a morning lighting – he remembered that Campbell had been seen painting a little after 10 o’clock. The grey stone bridge lay cool in the golden light, and the berries of a rowan-tree, good against witchcraft, hung yellow and red against it, casting splashes of red reflection upon the brown and white of the tumbling water beneath. Up on the left, the hills soared away in veil on veil of misty blue to meet the hazy sky. And splashed against the blue stood the great gold splendour of the bracken, flung in by spadefuls of pure reds and yellows.
Idly, Wimsey picked up the palette and painting-knife which lay upon the stool. He noticed that Campbell used a simple palette of few colours, and this pleased him, for he liked to see economy of means allied with richness of result. On the ground was an aged satchel, which had evidently seen long service. Rather from habit than with any eye to deduction, he made an inventory of its contents.
In the main compartment he found a small flask of whiskey, half-full, a thick tumbler and a packet of bread and cheese, eight brushes, tied together with a dejected piece of linen which had once been a handkerchief but was now dragging out a dishonoured existence as a paint-rag, a dozen loose brushes, two more painting-knives and a scraper. Cheek by jowl with these were a number of tubes of paint. Wimsey laid them out side by side on the granite, like a row of little corpses.
There was a half-pound tube of vermilion spectrum, new, clean and almost unused, a studio-size tube of ultramarine No. 2, half-full, another of chrome yellow, nearly full, and another of the same, practically empty. Then came a half-pound tube of viridian, half-full, a studio-size cobalt three-quarters empty, and then an extremely dirty tube, with its label gone, which seemed to have survived much wear and tear without losing much of its contents. Wimsey removed the cap and diagnosed it as crimson lake. Finally, there was an almost empty studio-size tube of rose madder, and a half-pound lemon yellow, partly used and very dirty.
Wimsey considered this collection for a moment and then dived confidently into the satchel again. The large compartment, however, yielded nothing further except some dried heather, a few shreds of tobacco and a quantity of crumbs, and he turned his attention to the two smaller compartments.
In the first of these was, first, a small screw of greaseproof paper on which brushes had been wiped; next, a repellent little tin, very sticky about the screw-cap, containing copal medium; and, thirdly, a battered dipper, matching the one attached to the palette.
The third and last compartment of the satchel offered a more varied bag. There was a Swan Vesta box, filled with charcoal, a cigarette-tin, also containing charcoal and a number of sticks of red chalk, a small sketch-book, heavily stained with oil, three or four canvas-separators, on which Wimsey promptly pricked his fingers, some wine-corks and a packet of cigarettes.
Wimsey’s air of idleness had left him. His long and inquisitive nose seemed to twitch like a rabbit’s as he turned the satchel upside down and shook it, in the vain hope of extracting something more from its depths. He rose, and searched the easel and the ground about the stool very carefully.
A wide cloak of a disagreeable check pattern lay beside the easel. He picked it up and went deliberately through the pockets. He found a pen-knife, with one blade broken, half a biscuit, another packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a handkerchief, two trout-casts in a transparent envelope, and a piece of string.
He shook his head. None of these was what he wanted. He searched the ground again, casting like a hound on the trail, and then, still dissatisfied, began to lower himself gingerly down the smooth face of the rock. There were crannies here into which something might have fallen, clumps of bracken and heather, prickly roots of gorse. He hunted and felt about in every corner, stabbing his fingers again at every move and swearing savagely. Small fragments of gorse worked their way up his trouser-legs and into his shoes. The heat was stifling. Close to the bottom he slipped, and did the last yard or so on his hinderparts, which irritated him. At a shout from the top of the bank he looked up. The Sergeant was grinning down at him.
‘Reconstructing the accident, my lord?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘Here, wait just a moment, will you?’
He scrambled up again. The corpse was now laid as decently as possible on a stretcher, awaiting removal.
‘Have you searched his pockets?’ panted Wimsey.
‘Not yet, my lord. Time enough for that at the station. It’s purely a formality, ye ken.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Wimsey. He pushed his hat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘There’s something funny about this, Dalziel. That is, there may be. Do you mind if I go over his belongings now?’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Dalziel, heartily. ‘There’s no sic a great hurry. We may as weel dew’t first as last.’
Wimsey sat down on the ground beside the stretcher, and the Sergeant stood by with a notebook to chronicle the finds.
The right-hand coat pocket contained another handkerchief, a Hardy catalogue, two crumpled bills and an object which caused the Sergeant to exclaim laughingly, ‘What’s this, lip-stick?’
‘Nothing so suggestive,’ said Wimsey, sadly, ‘it’s a holder for lead-pencil – made in Germany, to boot. Still, if that’s there, there might be something else.’
The left-hand pocket, however, produced nothing more exciting than a corkscrew and some dirt; the breast-pocket, only an Ingersoll watch, a pocket comb and a half-used book of stamps; and Wimsey turned, without much hope, to the trouser-pockets, for the dead man wore no waistcoat.
Here, on the right, they found a quantity of loose cash, the notes and coins jumbled carelessly together, and a bunch of keys on a ring. On the left, an empty match-box and a pair of folding nail-scissors. In the hip-pocket, a number of dilapidated letters, some newspaper cuttings and a small notebook with nothing in it.
Wimsey sat up and stared at the Sergeant.
‘It’s not here,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like the look of it at all, Dalziel. Look here, there’s just one possibility. It may have rolled down into the water. For God’s sake get your people together and hunt for it – now. Don’t lose a minute.’
Dalziel gazed at this excitable Southerner in some astonishment, and the constable pushed back his cap and scratched his head.
‘What would we be lookin’ for ?’ he demanded, reasonably.
(Here Lord Peter Wimsey told the Sergeant what he was to look for and why, but as the intelligent reader will readily supply these details for himself, they are omitted from this page.)
‘It’ll be important, then, to your way o’ thinking,’ said Dalziel, with the air of a man hopefully catching, through a forest of obscurity, the first, far-off glimmer of the obvious.
‘Important?’ said Wimsey. ‘Of course it’s important
. Incredibly, urgently, desperately important. Do you think I should be sliding all over your infernal granite making a blasted pincushion of myself if it wasn’t important?’
This argument seemed to impress the Sergeant. He called his forces together and set them to search the path, the bank and the burn for the missing object. Wimsey, meanwhile, strolled over to a shabby old four-seater Morris, which stood drawn well up on the grass at the beginning of the sheep-track.
‘Ay,’ said Constable Ross, straightening his back and sucking his fingers, preliminary to a further hunt among the prickles, ‘yon’s his car. Maybe ye’ll find what ye’re wantin’ in it, after all.’
‘Don’t you believe it, laddie,’ said Wimsey. Nevertheless, he subjected the car to a careful scrutiny, concentrated for the most part upon the tonneau. A tarry smear on the back cushions seemed to interest him particularly. He examined it carefully with a lens, whistling gently the while. Then he searched further and discovered another on the edge of the body, close to the angle behind the driver’s seat. On the floor of the car lay a rug, folded up. He shook it out and looked it over from corner to corner. Another patch of grit and tar rewarded him.
Wimsey pulled out a pipe and lit it thoughtfully. Then he hunted in the pockets of the car till he found an ordnance map of the district. He climbed into the driver’s seat, spread out the map on the wheel, and plunged into meditation.
Presently the Sergeant came back, very hot and red in the face, in his shirt-sleeves.
‘We’ve searched high and low,’ he said, stooping to wring the water from his trouser-legs, ‘but we canna find it. Maybe ye’ll be tellin’ us now why the thing is so important.’
‘Oh?’ said Wimsey. ‘You look rather warm, Dalziel. I’ve cooled off nicely, sitting here. It’s not there, then?’
‘It is not,’ said the Sergeant, with emphasis.
‘In that case,’ said Wimsey, ‘you had better go to the coroner – no, of course, you don’t keep coroners in these parts. The Procurator-Fiscal is the lad. You’d better go to the Fiscal and tell him the man’s been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ said the Sergeant.
‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, ‘och, ay; likewise hoots! Murrrderrrd is the word.’
‘Eh!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Here, Ross!’
The constable came up to them at a slow gallop.
‘Here’s his lordship,’ said the Sergeant, ‘is of opeenion the man’s been murdered.’
‘Is he indeed?’ said Ross. ‘Ay, imph’m. And what should bring his lordship to that conclusion?’
‘The rigidity of the corpse,’ said Wimsey, ‘the fact that you can’t find what you’re looking for, these smears of tar on the Morris, and the character of the deceased. He was a man anybody might have felt proud to murder.’
‘The rigidity of the corpse, now,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’ll be a matter for Dr. Cameron.’
‘I confess,’ said the doctor, who had now joined them, ‘that has been puzzling me. If the man had not been seen alive just after 10 o’clock this morning, I would have said he had been nearer twelve hours dead.’
‘So should I,’ said Wimsey. ‘On the other hand, you’ll notice that that painting, which was put on with a quick-drying copal medium, is still comparatively wet, in spite of the hot sun and the dry air.’
‘Ay,’ said the doctor. ‘So I am forced to the conclusion that the chill of the water produced early rigor.’
‘I do not submit to force,’ said Wimsey. ‘I prefer to believe that the man was killed about midnight. I do not believe in that painting. I do not think it is telling the truth. I know that it is absolutely impossible for Campbell to have been working here on that painting this morning.’
‘Why so?’ inquired the Sergeant.
‘For the reasons I gave you before,’ said Wimsey. ‘And there’s another small point – not very much in itself, but supporting the same conclusion. The whole thing looks – and is meant to look – as though Campbell had got up from his painting, stepped back to get a better view of his canvas, missed his footing and fallen down. But his palette and painting-knife were laid down on his stool. Now it’s far more likely that, if he were doing that, he would have kept his palette on his thumb and his knife or brush in his hand, ready to make any little extra touch that was required. I don’t say he might not have laid them down. I would only say it would have looked more natural if we had found the palette beside the body and the knife half-way down the slope.’
‘Ay,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve seen ’em dew that. Steppin’ back wi’ their eyes half-shut and then hoppin’ forward wi’ the brush as if they was throwin’ darts.’
Wimsey nodded.
‘It’s my theory,’ he said, ‘that the murderer brought the body here this morning in Campbell’s own car. He was wearing Campbell’s soft hat and that foul plaid cloak of his so that anybody passing by might mistake him for Campbell. He had the body on the floor of the tonneau and on top of it he had a push-cycle, which has left tarry marks on the cushions. Tucked in over the whole lot he had this rug, which has tar-marks on it too. Then I think he dragged out the corpse, carried it up the sheep-track on his shoulders and tumbled it into the burn. Or possibly he left it lying on the top of the bank, covered with the rug. Then, still wearing Campbell’s hat and cloak, he sat down and faked the picture. When he had done enough to create the impression that Campbell had been here painting, he took off the cloak and hat, left the palette and knife on the seat and went away on his push-bike. It’s a lonely spot, here. A man might easily commit a dozen murders, if he chose his time well.’
‘That’s a verra interesting theory,’ said Dalziel.
‘You can test it,’ said Wimsey. ‘If anybody saw Campbell this morning to speak to, or close enough to recognise his face, then, of course, it’s a wash-out. But if they only saw the hat and cloak, and especially if they noticed anything bulky in the back of the car with a rug over it, then the theory stands. Mind you, I don’t say the bicycle is absolutely necessary to the theory, but it’s what I should have used in the murderer’s place. And if you’ll look at this smear of tar under the lens, I think you’ll see traces of the tread of a tyre.’
‘I’ll no say ye’re no richt,’ said Dalziel.
‘Very well,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now let’s see what our murderer has to do next.’ He flapped the map impressively, and the two policemen bent their heads over it with him.
‘Here he is,’ said Wimsey, ‘with only a bicycle to help or hinder him, and he’s got to establish some sort of an alibi. He may not have bothered about anything very complicated, but he’d make haste to dissociate himself from this place as quickly as possible. And I don’t fancy he’d be anxious to show himself in Newton-Stewart or Creetown. There’s nowhere much for him to go northward – it only takes him up into the hills round Larg and the Rhinns of Kells. He could go up to Glen Trool, but there’s not much point in that; he’d only have to come back the same way. He might, of course, follow the Cree back on the eastern bank as far as Minniegaff, avoiding Newton-Stewart, and strike across country to New Galloway, but it’s a long road and keeps him hanging about much too close to the scene of the crime. In my opinion, his best way would be to come back to the road and go north-west by Bargrennan, Cairnderry, Creeside and Drumbain, and strike the railway at Barrhill. That’s about nine or ten miles by road. He could do it, going briskly, in an hour, or, as it’s a rough road, say an hour and a half. Say he finished the painting at 11 o’clock, that brings him to Barrhill at 12.30. From there he could get a train to Stranraer and Port Patrick, or even to Glasgow, or, of course, if he dumped the bicycle, he might take a motor-bus to somewhere. If I were you, I’d have a hunt in that direction.’
The Sergeant glanced at his colleagues and read approval in their eyes.
‘And whae d’ye think, my lord, wad be the likeliest pairson to hae committed the crime?’ he inquired.
‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘I can think of half a dozen people with perfectly good motives
. But the murderer’s got to be an artist, and a clever one, for that painting would have to pass muster as Campbell’s work. He must know how to drive a car, and he must possess, or have access to, a bicycle. He must be fairly hefty, to have carried the body up here on his back, for I see no, signs of dragging. He must have been in contact with Campbell after 9.15 last night, when I saw him leave the McClennan Arms alive and kicking. He must know the country and the people pretty well, for he obviously knew that Campbell lived alone with only a charwoman coming in, so that his early morning departure would surprise nobody. He either lives in the same way himself, or else had a very good excuse for being up and out before breakfast this morning. If you find a man who fulfils all these conditions, he’s probably the right one. His railway-ticket, if he took one, ought to be traceable. Or it’s quite possible I may be able to put my finger on him myself, working on different lines and with rather less exertion.’
‘Och, weel,’ said the Sergeant, ‘if ye find him, ye’ll let us know.’
‘I will,’ said Wimsey, ‘though it will be rather unpleasant, because ten to one he’ll be some bloke I know and like much better than Campbell. Still, it doesn’t do to murder people, however offensive they may be. I’ll do my best to bring him in captive to my bow and spear – if he doesn’t slay me first.’
FERGUSON
On his way back to Kirkcudbright, it occurred to Wimsey that it was more than time for tea, and, further, that it would be a good idea to visit Campbell’s cottage. He accordingly pulled up at the Anwoth hotel, and while voraciously filling himself up with potato-scones and ginger-cake, made out a rough list of possible suspects.
At the end of the meal, the list stood as follows:
Living in Kirkcudbright:
1. Michael Waters – 28 – 5 foot 10 inches – unmarried – living in lodgings with private latch-key – landscape painter – boasts of being able to counterfeit Campbell’s style – quarrelled with Campbell previous night and threatened to break his neck.