‘Look here,’ said Wimsey, when they were alone. ‘I want to say, first of all, that I haven’t the faintest right to ask questions. But I’d be damned glad if you’d tell me exactly what you’ve been up to since Monday night.’
‘I suppose my conduct is being harshly criticised at Kirkcudbright,’ said Farren. ‘Deserting the home, and all that?’
‘Well, no,’ said Wimsey. ‘Your wife has stuck to it that there’s nothing unusual in your disappearance. But – as a matter of fact – the police have been hunting for you everywhere.’
‘The police? Why in the world—?’
‘I think I’ll smoke a pipe,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, the fact that you were talking rather wildly about suicide and other things, don’t you know. And then your bicycle being found close to those old mines up beyond Creetown. It – suggested things, you see.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten about the bicycle. Yes, but surely Gilda – I wrote to her.’
‘She isn’t worried about that, now.’
‘I suppose she must have been rather anxious. I ought to have written earlier. But – damn it! I never thought about their finding that. And – by Jove! old Strachan will have been in a bit of a stew.’
‘Why Strachan, particularly?’
‘Well, surely he told people – didn’t he?’
‘Look here, Farren, what the devil are you talking about?’
‘About Monday night. Poor old Strachan! He must have thought I’d really gone and done it.’
‘When did you see Strachan, then?’
‘Why, that night, up by the mines. Didn’t you know?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Wimsey. ‘Suppose you tell me the story right end foremost.’
‘All right. I don’t mind. I suppose you know that I had a bit of a row that night with Campbell. Oh! that reminds me, Wimsey. Didn’t I see something funny in the paper about Campbell? Something about his being found dead?’
‘He’s been murdered,’ said Wimsey, abruptly.
‘Murdered? That wasn’t what I saw. But I haven’t looked at a paper for days. I only saw – when was it? – Wednesday morning, I think – something about “well-known Scottish painter found dead in a river.” ’
‘Oh, well, it hadn’t got out then. But he was bumped off, as a matter of fact, some time on Monday night or Tuesday morning – up at the Minnoch.’
‘Was he? Serve the beggar right. Oh, by the way, I seem to see something behind this. Am I supposed to have done it, Wimsey?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey, truthfully. ‘But there is a feeling that perhaps you ought to come forward and say something. You were looking for him, you know, on Monday night.’
‘Yes, I was. And if I’d met him, there would have been murder done. But as a matter of fact, I didn’t meet him.’
‘You can prove that?’
‘Well – I don’t know that I can if it comes to that. This isn’t serious, is it?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s have the story, Farren.’
‘I see. Well. Well, I came home about six o’clock on Monday and found that blighter making love to my wife. I was fed up, Wimsey. I hoofed him out and I dare say I made a bit of an ass of myself.’
‘Wait a minute. Did you actually see Campbell?’
‘He was just making off when I came in. I told him to clear out, and then I went in and spoke my mind. I told Gilda I wouldn’t have that fellow there. She stuck up for him, and that annoyed me. Mind you, Wimsey, I haven’t a word against Gilda except that she can’t and won’t understand that Campbell is – was – a poisonous sort of hound and that she was making me a laughing-stock. She’s got an idea about being kind and sympathetic, and she can’t see that that sort of thing doesn’t work with fellows like Campbell. Dash it all, I know the blighter was crazy about her. And when I tried, quite nicely, to point out that she was making a fool of herself, she got on her high horse and – Damn it, Wimsey! I don’t want to talk like a pig about my wife, but the fact is, she’s too good and too full of ideals to understand what the ordinary man is like. You do see what I mean?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Wimsey.
‘Because my wife really is a wonderful woman. Only – well, I daresay I said a lot of silly things.’
‘I know exactly the sort of thing you said,’ observed Wimsey. ‘She didn’t tell me, but I can imagine it. You stormed about, and she told you not to have coarse ideas, and you got hotter, and she got colder, and you said things you didn’t mean in the hope of bringing her to your arms, so to speak, and then she said you were insulting and burst into tears, and then you worked yourself into half-believing the accusations you’d only made to annoy her, and then you threatened murder and suicide and went out to get drunk. Bless your soul, you’re not the first and won’t be the last.’
‘Well, you’ve got it about right,’ said Farren. ‘Only I really did begin to believe it at the time. At least, I believed Campbell was out to do all the mischief he could. I did get drunk. I had one or two in the town, and then I barged off to Gatehouse to find Campbell.’
‘How did you miss him in Kirkcudbright? He was at the McClellan Arms all the time.’
‘I never thought of that. I just hared off to Gatehouse. He wasn’t in his cottage, and Ferguson yelled out to me. I thought of having a row with Ferguson, but I wasn’t as drunk as all that. Then I went and had a few more. Somebody told me they’d seen Campbell go out to Creetown, so I went after him.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Wimsey. ‘You went up the road to the golf-links.’
‘Did I? Oh, yes so I did. I went to find Strachan, but he was out. I left a note or a message for him, I think; to tell the truth, I’m not very clear about it. But I think I told him I was going to Creetown to do Campbell in and cut my own throat. Some rot or other . . . I say, poor old Strachan! He must have had a time! Did he show that note to the police?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Oh, no, I suppose he wouldn’t. Strachan’s a good sort. Well, I went over to Creetown. The pubs were shut when I got there, but I went in and got hold of a man there – by Jove, no, I suppose he wouldn’t have come forward, either. Well, never mind the man – I don’t want to get him into trouble. The point is that I raised a bottle of whiskey after closing-time.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I’m a bit vague about the next part of it, but I know I remember going up into the hills, with some vague idea of chucking myself down one of the pits. I wandered round. I remember wheeling the damned bike over the rough stuff – and then, damn it all, I came to the mouth of one of the mines. Nearly fell into it. I sat down and moralised a bit on the brink, with the help of the whiskey. I must have been damned drunk. I don’t know how long that lasted. Well, then, presently I heard somebody shouting and I shouted back. I felt like that. Somebody came up, and started talking. It was old Strachan. At least, my impression is that it was Strachan, but I freely admit that I may be mixing things up a bit. I know he talked and talked and tried to get hold of me, and I struggled and fought him. It was a lovely fight, I do know that. Then I knocked him down and started to run. I ran like hell. My God! it was fine. Drink takes me in the head, you know; my legs are always all right. I simply bounced over the heather, and the stars bounced along with me. Good God! I remember that now. I don’t know how long it went on. And then I lost my footing and went rolling away down a slope somewhere. I suppose I fetched up all right at the bottom, because, when I woke, it was well on in the morning, and I was lying in a sort of hollow among the bracken, quite snug and cosy and without so much as a headache.
‘I didn’t know where I was. But I didn’t care. I just felt that nothing mattered at all. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t care a hang about Campbell. I just felt as if all the cares of the world had tumbled off my back and left me alone in the sunshine. I walked straight ahead. I was getting damned hungry by that time, because I’d had no dinner the night before, but there wasn’t so much as a shepherd’s hut in sight
. I walked and walked. The place was full of wee burns and I had plenty to drink. After hours and hours I struck a road and walked along, not meeting anybody. And then, some time about mid-day, I crossed a bridge and knew where I was. It was the place they call New Brig o’ Dee, on the New Galloway Road. I hadn’t really come so very far. I expect I must have made a bit of a circle, though I thought I was keeping the sun on my right all the time.’
‘The sun moves, you know,’ said Wimsey, ‘or appears to.’
‘Yes – I don’t think I realised how long I’d been going. Anyhow, I got there, and started to walk towards New Galloway. I met some sheep and a few cows and carts, and at last a fellow with a lorry overtook me. He took me as far as New Galloway, and I got something to eat there.’
‘What time was that?’ asked Wimsey, quickly.
‘Oh, it must have been nearly three. Then I wondered what to do with myself. I’d got about ten pounds in my pocket and my one idea was that I didn’t want to go back. I was finished. Done. I wanted to go gipsying. I didn’t give a damn if I never saw the Tolbooth spire again. I saw an empty lorry labelled with the name of a Glasgow firm on it, and I bargained with the man to take me to Dumfries. They were going that way.’
‘What was the name of the firm?’
‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. There were two very decent fellows on it and we talked about fishing.’
‘Where did they put you off?’
‘Just before we got to Dumfries. I wanted to think a bit, you see. It was a question whether I’d take the train there or put up in some pub or other. I was afraid of running into some of our crowd at the station. Besides, some of the railway people there would have known me. I often go to Dumfries. That was the trouble about the pub idea too. . . . I don’t know if I can explain how I felt, Wimsey. It was as if I’d escaped from something and was afraid of being – well, bagged. I mean, if I had met anyone who knew me, I should have fudged up some tale about fishing or painting and made everything sound quite ordinary, and then I should have gone home. You see. It wouldn’t have been the same if I’d had to make up an elaborate deception about it. You’re not free when you have to tell lies to escape. It’s not worth it. I can’t possibly make you understand that.’
‘Why not?’ said Wimsey. ‘It would be like buying a weekend wedding-ring.’
‘Yes – just as tedious as if it was 22-carat. And signing the hotel register and wondering if the reception-clerk believed you. Wimsey, you’re rich and there’s nothing to stop you from doing what you like. Why do you trouble to be respectable?’
‘Just because there’s nothing to stop me from doing what I like, probably. I get my fun out of it.’
‘I know you do,’ said Farren, looking at him in a puzzled way. ‘It’s odd. You create an illusion of liberty. Is it money? Or is it being unmarried? But there are plenty of unmarried men who don’t—’
‘Aren’t we wandering slightly from the matter in hand?’ said Wimsey.
‘Perhaps. Well – I went into a little inn – a one-horse little place – and had a drink in the four-ale bar. There was a young fellow there with a bike and side-car. He said he was going through to Carlisle. That gave me an idea. I asked him if he’d take me and he said he would. He was a decent bloke and didn’t ask any questions.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I didn’t ask, nor did he. I said I was on a walking tour and that my belongings were waiting for me in Carlisle. But he didn’t seem to bother. I never met such a reasonable man.’
‘What was he?’
‘I gathered that he had something to do with the second-hand motor trade and was taking the bike in part-exchange for something. I shouldn’t have known that, only he apologised for its internals not being in perfect trim. In fact, something went wrong with them on the road, and I had to hold an electric torch for him while he put it right. He didn’t seem to have many ideas beyond plugs and things. He didn’t talk. Said he’d been thirty-six hours on the road, but I needn’t worry, because he could drive in his sleep.’
Wimsey nodded. He knew the helots of the second-hand-motor trade. Grim, silent, cynical, abroad at all hours and in all weathers, they are men accustomed to disillusionment and disaster. To deliver their melancholy screws to their customers and depart before inconvenient discoveries are made; to scramble home with their surprise-packets of old iron before the patched radiator bursts or the clutch gives way – this is their sole preoccupation. Always dog-tired, dirty and prepared for the worst, habitually hard-up and morose, they are not likely to be inquisitive about stranded travellers who offer to pay for a lift.
‘So you got to Carlisle?’
‘Yes. I slept most of the time, except, of course, when I was holding the torch. I enjoyed the bits when I was awake. Not knowing who he was made it better. Do you know, I hadn’t been in a side-car before. It’s not like a car. Cars fascinate me, too, though the only two or three times I tried to drive one I didn’t get much kick out of it. I like being driven – and this side-car business gets my imagination. The power is outside you, and you are pulled along – in tow, so to speak. Like being eloped with. You seem to notice the strength of the machine more than you do in a car. Why is that?’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Perhaps I was imagining things. Well, anyhow, we got to Carlisle in the morning and I had some grub in a sort of teashop place. Then, of course, I had to decide on something. I bought a clean shirt and some socks and a toothbrush and so on, and a knapsack to shove them into. It was only then that I thought about money. I’d have to cash a cheque somewhere. But that meant telling people where I was. I mean, the bank people would have to ring up Kirkcudbright and all that. I thought it would be more fun to pay my way. I’d still got enough to buy paints with, so I went into an art-dealers’ and got a box and a palette and some brushes and colours—’
‘Winsor & Newton, I observe,’ said Wimsey.
‘Yes. You can get them easily in most places, you know. I usually get my stuff from Paris, but Winsor & Newton are perfectly reliable. I thought I’d make my way down into the Lake Country and paint little pictures for tourists or something. It’s fearfully easy. You can knock off two or three in a day – hills and water and mists, you know – and idiots will give you ten bob a time, if the stuff’s sentimental enough. I knew a man who always paid for his holidays that way. Didn’t sign ’em in his own name, naturally. It’s a form of mass-production.’
‘Hence the idea of a Mr. H. Ford?’
‘Oh, you’ve been to the Bull at Brough? Yes – the idea rather tickled me. Well, after I’d bought the paints I had just about enough left to bribe another lorry-driver. But I didn’t. I found a man with a Riley – Oxford fellow – a frightfully good sort. He was heading south and told me I could go as far as I like with him and damn paying for it. He talked all right. His name was John Barrett and he was just fooling around amusing himself. Didn’t know where he was going. Had just got the new car and wanted to see what she could do. Damn it, he did, too. I was never so frightened in my life.’
‘Where did he live?’
‘Oh, London, somewhere. He told me the place, but I can’t remember it now. He asked a lot of questions, too, but I just said I was a travelling artist and he thought it was a fearfully good wheeze. I didn’t mind telling him that, because by that time it was true, you see. He asked what one could make out of it and all that and I gave him all the stuff I’d had from my friend, and he asked me where I’d been last and I said in Galloway. It was just as easy as that. But when we got to Brough, I said I’d get off there. I felt I was too young to die – just as I was starting off on an adventure, too. He was a bit disappointed, but he wished me luck and all that. I went to the Bull, because it looked less grand than the other place, and that was where I got the idea about the sign. Good thing I did, too, because the weather turned nasty the next day, and I hadn’t altogether reckoned with that when I made my plan about doing the hills and lakes and things. So that was that, and
here I am.’
Farren took up his brushes again and renewed his assault upon the Dog and Gun.
‘Very jolly,’ said Wimsey. ‘But you know, it all boils down to this, that you can’t produce a single witness to say where you were between Monday night and Tuesday afternoon at 3 o’clock.’
‘Oh! no – I’d forgotten about all that. But, I mean, all this isn’t serious, really? And, after all, I’ve got a perfectly natural, straightforward explanation.’
‘It sounds natural enough to me, perhaps,’ said Wimsey, ‘but whether the police will take that view—’
‘Damn the police! I say, Wimsey—’
The shadow of something cold and deadly crept into the painter’s eyes.
‘Does this mean I’ve got to go back, Wimsey?’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Wimsey, ‘I’m very much afraid—’ He was looking back over Farren’s shoulder at the back door of the inn, from which two squarely-built men in tweeds were emerging. Farren, catching the infection of uneasiness, turned his head.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘It’s all up. Bagged. Trapped. Prison.’
‘Yes,’ said Wimsey, almost inaudibly. ‘And you won’t escape this time – ever.’
STRACHAN’S STORY
‘Bicycles?’ said Inspector Macpherson. ‘Dinna ye talk tae me o’ bicycles. I’m fair fed up wi’ the name o’ them. Wad ye believe that there could be sic a stour aboot twa-three bicycles? Here’s ane o’ them at Euston and anither up at Creetoon, and as if that wasn’t enough, here’s Waters’ bicycle vanished and naebody kens whether we should arrest Waters for murder or make a sairch for a bicycle-thief.’
‘It’s very trying,’ said Wimsey. ‘And I suppose nobody saw Waters go aboard at the Doon?’
‘An’ if onybody had seen him,’ said the Inspector, wrathfully, ‘wad I be fashin’ masel’ the noo? There’s a mon saw anither mon wadin’ across the sand, but he was half a mile off, an’ whae’s tae sae it was Waters?’