‘Ay. But there’s anither thing. I didna rest satisfied wi’ that. I pursued my inquiries at the ither stations along the line an’ I found there was a gentleman wi’ a bicycle tuk the 1.11 train at Girvan.’
‘Was there, by Jove!’ Wimsey pulled out his map of the district and studied it intently.
‘It could be done, Dalziel, it could be done! Barrhill is nine miles from the scene of the crime and Girvan is, say, twelve miles further on – call it twenty-one miles altogether. If he started at 11.10 that would give him two hours, which means just over ten miles an hour – easy enough for a good cyclist. Was the train punctual, by the way?’
‘It was. Ay, he could ha’ done it.’
‘Did the station-master give any description of him?’
‘He said that accordin’ tae the porter he was juist an ordinary gentleman of thirty or forty years of age, in a grey suit and a check cap pu’d weel doon. Clean-shaven, or nearly so, and of middling size, and he was wearin’ big glasses wi’ they tinted lenses.’
‘That’s suspicious,’ said Wimsey. ‘Would the porter be able to identify him, do you think?’
‘Ay, I’m thinkin’ he wad. He said the gentleman spoke like an Englishman.’
‘Did he?’ Wimsey considered his six suspects. Waters was a Londoner and spoke standard public-school English. Strachan, though a Scot, habitually spoke with an English accent, having been educated at Harrow and Cambridge. He, however, was a noticeably tall man. It could hardly be he. Gowan was double-tongued; he spoke English with Wimsey and the broadest Scots with the natives – but then, Gowan’s grand silky beard which had never known a razor was pointed out to visitors as one of the local sights of Kirkcudbright. Graham was completely Londonised, and his English would pass muster at Oxford. His astonishing blue eyes were his one really memorable feature – was this the explanation of the tinted glasses? Farren – his Scots tongue was unmistakable; nobody, surely, could mistake him for an Englishman. His whole person was noticeable, too – the wide, ridgy shoulders, tumbling fair hair and queer, light eyes, temperish, pouted mouth and heavy jaw. Ferguson, too, was Scottish in accent, though not in idiom, and in feature might be almost anything.
‘Did the gentleman give any particular account of himself?’ asked Wimsey, coming rather suddenly out of his abstraction.
‘No, he only got tae the station as the train was standin’ at the platform, but he said somethin’ aboot startin’ late fra’ Ballantrae. He tuk his ticket for Ayr and the machine was labelled according.’
‘We may be able to trace that,’ said Wimsey.
‘Ay, that’s so. I hae sent an inquiry to Ayr and to Glesga’. They’ll may be remember’t.’
‘And maybe not,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, now, Dalziel, I also, as the lady said, have not been idle.’
He produced his list of suspects.
‘Mind you,’ he said, warningly, ‘this list may not be complete. But we know the man we are looking for is a painter, which narrows the field considerably. And all these six people are known to have had it in for Campbell in one way or another, though some of the motives may seem pretty inadequate.’
The Sergeant peered thoughtfully at the list, and so did Sir Maxwell. The latter’s jurisdiction extended over both Kirkcudbrightshire and Wigtownshire, and he knew all the artists more or less well, though not with any great intimacy, his own interests being military and sporting.
‘Now,’ said Wimsey, ‘two of these people have alibis. Ferguson was duly seen on to the 9.8 from Gatehouse. He had no bicycle with him, and he booked to Glasgow. There’s a picture exhibition on there, and no doubt that’s what he was making for. Waters also departed for Glasgow by the 8.45 from Kirkcudbright, in company with Miss Selby and Miss Cochran. If they all met at the show they will prove each other’s alibis all right. Strachan was out all night and came home at lunch-time with a black eye, and what is more, he is telling lies about it.’ He gave a brief summary of his conversations with Strachan and Myra.
‘That looks bad,’ said Dalziel.
‘Yes; we mustn’t pin all our faith to the cyclist at Girvan, or even to the mysterious passenger at Pinwherry; they may both be perfectly genuine travellers. Strachan might quite well have been painting up the Minnoch at 11 o’clock and ridden back to Gatehouse by lunch-time. It’s only twenty-seven miles. It would be dangerous, because he might be recognised, but people who commit murders must take a few risks. Besides, he might have hidden his car somewhere on the road the day before, and picked it up on his way back, bringing the bicycle with him. Did I mention to you, by the way, that there’s a bicycle disappeared from the Anwoth Hotel at Gatehouse?’
Dalziel shook his head.
‘It’s a case wi’ a great number of possibeelities,’ he said. ‘Always supposin’ that it is a case. We havena got the doctor’s opeenion yet.’
‘That’ll come tomorrow, I suppose?’
‘Ay. The maitter has been laid before the Fiscal, and there will be a post-mortem examination. There’s Campbell’s sister expectit to-nicht – it seems she’s his only relation – an’ they’ll maybe wait till she has seen the corpse, forbye the licht will be better for the doctor in the mornin’.’
After the Sergeant and his companion had gone, Wimsey remained smoking thoughtfully for some time. He was worried about Waters. He had left him the night before in a dangerous mood. The last train from Glasgow got in to Kirkcudbright at 9.00. If Waters had really gone to see the Exhibition, it was not reasonable to expect him back that night. He would only have got into Glasgow at 2.16, and would have had to leave again at 5.30. Nobody would go all that way in order to spend a bare three hours in the town. Except, possibly, to establish an alibi. Could one establish an alibi that way?
Wimsey turned to the time-table again. Kirkcudbright depart 8.45. That was capable of proof by witnesses. Tarff 8.53. Brig-of-Dee, 9.2 – nothing to be done from there, except by car. Castle Douglas 9.7. That was different. Castle Douglas was a junction. From there one might turn back in the direction of Newton-Stewart. Yes. There was a train. This was ridiculous, of course, because Waters had travelled with the two women, but there was no harm in working it out. Castle Douglas 9.14, Newton-Stewart 10.22. Wimsey breathed a sigh of relief. If the murderer had been seen painting at 10 o’clock, that let out Waters. He could not have got even so far as Newton Stewart by that time.
But all this depended on the doctor’s report. If both Wimsey and he had been mistaken about the rigor – then it was possible that Campbell himself had been painting at the Minnoch till five minutes past eleven. In which case – Wimsey thumbed the time-table again.
In which case a train reaching Newton Stewart at 10.22 might prove very handy to an intending murderer – supposing the murderer knew already that Campbell meant to paint that day at the Minnoch. A car from Newton Stewart would bring him to the scene of the crime in twenty minutes – time enough and to spare. And though Waters had no car, such things can be hired. There would be a risk, certainly, for in country districts people know one another, and indeed, who would hire out a driverless car to a man he did not know, without making careful inquiries? Yet, if the deposit were big enough, he might take the risk. It would not do to cross Waters off the list too promptly.
At this point Wimsey cursed himself for a fool. It was as certain as anything could be that Waters had travelled peacefully to Glasgow under the eyes of his friends, and would return peacefully with them the next day.
He looked at his watch. It was not possible, of course, that Waters had returned by the 9 o’clock train. Still, it would do no harm to go and see.
He walked along the High Street. There was no light either in Waters’ sitting-room or in his bedroom, both of which faced upon the street. The landlady would think him daft if he made any more inquiries. There was Waters’ studio – a big converted barn up a turning off the Tongland Road. If he had come back, he certainly would not be working there at this hour. Still, when one is restless, any excuse will serve t
o take a little walk.
Wimsey made his way past the Castle, up the little flight of steps and over the green by the harbour. The tide was dropping, and the long mud-flats of the estuary glimmered faintly in the pale midsummer night. The yacht that had come in that morning still lay close against the harbour wall, her spars and rigging making a bold foreground of interlaced verticals and horizontals against the galumphing curves of the ugly concrete bridge. Wimsey crossed the open space where the ’buses congregate by day, plunged down the little alley by the gasworks and came out past the station on to the Tongland Road.
Crossing the street, he turned off again to the right and found himself in a happy backwater, with an ancient overshot watermill, a few cottages and a wide open space, grassy and forlorn, surrounded by sheds and derelict out-buildings.
Waters’ studio was approached by a little winding path among overgrown bushes and lush grass. He pushed open the gate and tried the door. It was locked, and there was no sign of life about the place. The silence was intense. He heard some small animal move in the grass, the plop, plopping from the wooden trough over the paddles of the mill-wheel; far off, somewhere in the town, a dog barked hoarsely.
Wimsey turned to go. As he went, the stony path creaking under his feet, the door of one of the cottages was flung suddenly open, letting a long bar of light stream suddenly across the ground. Framed in the door he saw the silhouette of a woman peering out anxiously into the silvery darkness.
It occurred to Wimsey suddenly that this was Farren’s house, and he paused, half-decided to stop and speak. But as he hesitated, somebody laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder and drew her in, shutting the door. There had been something quick and stealthy about the action that banished Wimsey’s plan, half-formed. The second figure had been a man’s, but it was taller and bigger than Farren’s. He felt sure that it was not Farren, and that, if he knocked, the door would not open to his knocking.
FARREN
Sir Maxwell Jamieson was not a man to rush into precipitate action. Sound and cautious, with a reputation for taciturnity, he preferred to know exactly where he stood before committing himself to stirring up scandal by vexatious inquiries. He was not over-pleased to find Wimsey palpitating on his doorstep the next morning, shortly after breakfast, when he himself had barely had time to read the paper.
He was too wise to ignore Wimsey and his theories. He knew that Lord Peter had an uncanny nose for a crime, and that his help was valuable, but he did not care for this English habit of rushing into situations on a high tide of chatter and excitement. It was true that Wimsey had shown a certain amount of tact in coming to him. There was no telephone in Blue Gate Close, and if Wimsey must have the latest intelligence piping hot, it was better that he should apply for it in private than interrogate Sergeant Dalziel over the line in a hotel bar.
But Sir Maxwell was not yet perfectly convinced that there was any murder to be investigated. All this talk about missing objects and bicycles was well enough, but it was a small basis on which to rear so threatening a structure of accusation. Doubtless, if the things were more carefully searched for, they would be found, and the whole murder theory would collapse. Certainly, there was that awkward point about the rigor, but Sir Maxwell, turning over the pages of Taylor and Glaister, felt convinced that it was not possible to lay down any very exact or reliable laws about the onset of rigor.
He frowned over Wimsey’s list of suspects – a disagreeable document, he thought, and savouring strongly of the libellous. All these people were highly respected citizens. Take Gowan, for instance – a leading inhabitant of Kirkcudbright for over fifteen years, well known and well liked, in spite of his small vanities and somewhat overbearing manner. He was wealthy, kept a good house, with an English butler and housekeeper, and owned two cars, with a chauffeur to drive them when required. Was it likely that he would be found knocking his fellow-artists on the head and tumbling them into salmon-rivers in the neighbouring county? What possible motive could he have for it? There had been talk of some disagreement about a picture, but, in Sir Maxwell’s experience, artists frequently disagreed about pictures, with no more consequences than a little cold-shouldering or the formation of a clique. Waters, again – a pleasant young man enough, though inclined to irritate his neighbours by his South-country mannerisms. It was unfortunate that he should have fallen out with Campbell, but surely he was not the man to harbour murderous resentment for a hasty word spoken over a drink. And Farren—
Sir Maxwell paused there, in justice to Wimsey. Where women were concerned, you never knew. Campbell had been rather a frequent visitor at the cottage by the old mill. It was said – there had been talk – threats had been uttered. If there was anything in it, there might be some difficulty in getting at the truth here. Farren’s suspicions had probably been quite unfounded, for one could hardly look at Mrs. Farren and believe evil of her. Still, wives tell lies and provide alibis, even for the most unreasonable of husbands, and indeed, the more virtuous the wife, the more obstinate the liar, under such conditions. With considerable discomfort, Sir Maxwell admitted to himself that he could not undertake to say that the Farrens were, in the nature of things, clear of all suspicion.
Then, of course, there were those people over at Gatehouse. Jock Graham – a harum-scarum, word-and-a-blow fellow if ever there was one. Clever, too. If it came to picking the man with the brains to plan an ingenious crime and the coolness to carry it through, then Graham was the man for his money, every time. Graham had had plenty of practice in the execution of practical jokes, and he could tell a circumstantial lie, looking you square in the eyes with the face of an angel. Ferguson was notoriously on bad terms with his wife. Sir Maxwell knew nothing else to his disadvantage, but he noted it, in his upright Presbyterian mind, as a discreditable fact. Strachan – well, Strachan was secretary of the golf-club and weel-respectit. Surely Strachan, like Gowan, could be ruled out.
The telephone rang. Wimsey pricked up his ears. Sir Maxwell raised the receiver with irritating deliberation. He spoke; then turned to Wimsey.
‘It’s Dalziel. You had better listen in on the extension.’
‘Is’t you, Sir Maxwell? . . . Ay, we have the doctor’s report . . . Ay, it supports the theory of murder richt enough. There was nae water in the lungs at a’. The mon was deid before he got intae the burn. ’Twas the scart on the heid that did it. The bone is a’ crushed intae the brain. Och, ay, the wound was made before death, and he must ha’ deid almost immediately. There’s a wheen mair blows to the heid an’ body, but the doctor thinks some o’ them will ha’ been made after death, wi’ the body pitchin’ doon the burnside an’ washin’ aboot amang the stanes.’
‘What about the time of the death?’
‘Ay, Sir Maxwell, I was juist comin’ to that. The doctor says Campbell will ha’ been deid at least six hours when he first saw the body, an’ mair likely twelve or thirteen. That’ll pit the time o’ the murder in the late nicht or the airly mornin’ – at ony rate between midnicht and nine o’clock. And a verra suspeecious an’ corroboratin’ circumstance is that the man had nae food in his wame at a’. He was kilt before he had ta’en ony breakfast.’
‘But,’ said Wimsey, cutting in on the conversation, ‘if he had had his breakfast early, it might have passed out of the stomach before lunch-time.’
‘Ay, that’s so. But it wadna ha’ passed oot o’ him a’-’gither. The doctor says his interior was as toom as a drum, an’ he will stake his professional credit he hadna eaten onything sin’ the previous nicht.’
‘Well, he ought to know,’ said Wimsey.
‘Ay, that’s so. That’s his lordship speakin’, is’t no? Your lordship will be gratified by this support for our theory.’
‘It may be gratifying,’ said Jamieson, ‘but I wish very much it hadn’t happened.’
‘That’s so, Sir Maxwell. Still, there’s little doot it has happened and we maun du the best we can by it. There is another remarkable circumstance, an’ that is th
at we can find no recognisable finger-prints upon the artistic paraphernalia, and it has the appearance as if the user of them had been doin’ his pentin’ in gloves. An’ the steerin’-wheel o’ the car is wiped as clean as a whistle. Ay, I’m thinking the case is weel substantiated. Is it your opeenion, Sir Maxwell, that we should mak’ the fact o’ the murder public?’
‘I hardly know, Sergeant. What do you think yourself? Have you consulted with Inspector Macpherson?’
‘Weel, sir, he thinks we maun gie some gude reason for makin’ our inquiries . . . Ay, we’ll best gae cannily aboot it, but there’s folk talkin’ a’ready aboot the quarrel wi’ Waters . . . ay, an’ wi’ Farren . . . ay . . . ay . . . an’ there’s a story about Strachan bein’ over in Creetown the nicht of the crime speirin’ after Farren . . . I doot we’ll no be able to keep the thing hushed up.’
‘I see. Well, perhaps we had better let it be known that there is a possibility of foul play – that we are not quite satisfied, and so on. But you’d better not tell anybody what the doctor says about the time of the death. I’ll be over presently and have a word with the Fiscal. And meanwhile I’ll get the Kirkcudbright police on to making a few inquiries.’
‘Ay, sir, ’twill be best for them to sort it their end. I’ve a report here fra’ Stranraer I’ll hae to deal wi’ masel’. They’ve detained a young fellow that was boardin’ the Larne boat . . . ay, weel, I’ll ring ye again later, Sir Maxwell.’
The Chief Constable hung up the receiver, and confronted Wimsey with a dour smile.
‘It certainly looks as though you were right,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘But,’ he added, more cheerfully, ‘now that they’ve traced the man at Stranraer, it will probably all be cleared up this morning.’
‘Maybe,’ said Wimsey, ‘but I rather doubt whether the man who fixed that accident up so cleverly would be fool enough to give himself away by making a belated bolt to Ireland. Don’t you?’