‘Damn it!’ said Jock Graham. ‘No, I will not tell you where I’ve been. Why should I?’
‘Well, it’s like this, old dear,’ said Wimsey. ‘You may possibly have heard in your mysterious retreat, that Campbell was found dead in a river yesterday afternoon.’
‘Campbell? Good Lord! No, I hadn’t heard. Well, well, well. I hope his sins are forgiven him. What had he done? Taken too many wee halves and walked over the dock at Kirkcudbright?’
‘Well, no. Apparently he had been painting and slipped on the stones and bashed his head in.’
‘Bashed his head in? Not drowned, then?’
‘No, not drowned.’
‘Oh! Well, I always told him he was born to be hanged, but apparently he’s got out of it another way. Still, I was right about his not being drowned. Well, poor devil, there’s an end of him. I think we’d better go in and have one on the strength of it, don’t you? Just a little one to the repose of his soul. He wasn’t a man I liked, but I’m sorry in a way to think I’ll never pull his leg again. You’ll join us, officer?’
‘Thank you, sir, but if ye’d kindly—’
‘Leave it to me,’ murmured Wimsey, jogging the constable’s elbow and following Graham into the bar.
‘How have you managed not to hear about it, Jock?’ he went on, when the drinks had been served. ‘Where have you been hiding the last two days?’
‘That’s telling. You’re as inquisitive as our friend here. I’ve been living a retired life – no scandal – no newspapers. But do tell me about Campbell. When did all this happen?’
‘They found the body about two o’clock,’ said Wimsey. ‘He seems to have been seen alive and painting at five past eleven.’
‘They didn’t lose much time about it, then. You know. I’ve often thought that one might have an accident up in the hills about here and be lost for weeks. Still, it’s a fairly well-frequented spot up there at the Minnoch – in the fishing season, at any rate. I don’t suppose—’
‘And how did ye ken, might I ask, sir, that the accident took place up at the Minnoch?’
‘How did I—? Oh-ho! To quote an extremely respectable and primly-dressed woman I once happened to overhear conversing with a friend in Theobald’s Road, there’s bloody more in it than meets the bloody eye. This anxiety about my whereabouts and this bash on Campbell’s head – do I understand, constable, that I am suspected of having bashed the good gentleman and tumbled him into the stream like the outlandish knight in the ballad?’
‘Well, not exactly, sir, but as a matter of routine—’
‘I see.’
‘Och, now!’ exclaimed the landlord, on whom a light had been slowly breaking. ‘Ye’re not meanin’ tae tell as the puir man was murdered?’
‘That’s as may be,’ said the constable.
‘He does mean it,’ said Graham. ‘I read it in his expressive eye. Here’s a nice thing to happen in a quiet country spot.’
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ said the landlord.
‘Come now, Jock,’ said Wimsey. ‘Put us out of our misery. You can see the suspense is telling on us. How did you know Campbell was up at the Minnoch?’
‘Telepathy,’ said Graham, with a wide grin. ‘I look into your minds and the picture comes before me – the burn full of sharp stones – the steep slope of granite leading down to it – the brig – the trees and the dark pool under them – and I say, “The Minnoch, by Jove!” Perfectly simple, Watson.’
‘I didn’t know you were a thought-reader.’
‘It’s a suspicious circumstance, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I’m not. I knew Campbell was going to be up at the Minnoch yesterday because he told me so.’
‘He told you so?’
‘Told me so. Yes, why not? I did sometimes speak to Campbell without throwing boots at him, you know. He told me on Monday that he was going up the next day to paint the bridge. Sketched it out for me, grunting all the time – you know his way.’
Graham pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and set to work on the bar counter, his face screwed up into a life-like imitation of Campbell’s heavy jowl and puffed lips, and his hand roughing in outlines with Campbell’s quick, tricky touch. The picture came up before their eyes with the conjuring quickness of a lightning-sketch at the cinema – the burn, the trees, the bridge and a mass of bulging white cloud, so like the actual canvas Wimsey had seen on the easel that he was thoroughly startled.
‘You ought to be making a living by impersonations, Jock.’
‘That’s my trouble. Too versatile. Paint in everybody’s style except my own. Worries the critics. “Mr. Graham is still fumbling for an individual style” – that kind of thing. But it’s fun. Look, here’s Gowan.’
He rubbed out the sketch and substituted a vivid chalk impression of one of Gowan’s characteristic compositions – a grim border-keep, a wide sweep of coast, a boat in the foreground, with muscular fishermen bending over their nets.
‘Here’s Ferguson – one tree with decorative roots, one reflection of same in water – dim blue distance; in fact, general blues all over – one heap of stones to hold the composition up. Here’s Farren – view of the roofs of Kirkcudbright complete with Tolbooth, looking like Noah’s Ark built out of nursery bricks – vermilion, Naples yellow, ultramarine – sophisticated naïveté and no cast shadows. Waters – “none of these charlatans take the trouble to draw” – bird’s-eye view of a stone-quarry with every bump identifiable – horse and cart violently foreshortened at the bottom, to show that he can do it. Bless you’ – he slopped some beer on the counter and wiped the mess away with a ragged sleeve – ‘the whole bunch of them have only got one gift between them that I lack, and that’s the single eye, more’s the pity. They’re perfectly sincere, I’m not – that’s what makes the difference. I tell you, Wimsey, half those damned portraits people pay me for are caricatures – only the fools don’t know it. If they did, they’d rather die than sign the cheques.’
Wimsey laughed. If Graham was playing for time, he was doing it well. If he was trying to avert suspicion from his dangerous gift of imitation, his air of careless frankness could not possibly be better done. And his explanation was plausible enough – why, indeed, should Campbell not have mentioned where he was going – to Graham or to anyone?
The constable was registering impatience.
‘As a matter of routine,’ he murmured.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Graham. ‘This lad’s one of the bulldog breed.’
‘Obviously,’ said Wimsey, ‘like St. Gengulphus. They cried out, “Good gracious! How very tenacious!” It’s no good old man. He means to have his answer.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Graham. ‘Want must be his master, as nurses said in the good old days before Montessori was heard of. I was not up at the Minnoch. But where I was is my affair.’
‘Weel, sir,’ said the constable, nonplussed. Between the Judges’ Rules, the Royal Commission, his natural disinclination to believe anything wrong about Mr. Graham, and his anxiety to pull off a coup, he felt his position to be a difficult one.
‘Run along, laddie,’ said Graham, kindly. ‘You’re only wasting your time. You’ve only to look at me to know I wouldn’t hurt a fly. For all you know, the murderer’s escaping while you and I exchange merry quips over a pint of bitter.’
‘I understand,’ said the constable, ‘that ye refuse cateegoorically tae state whaur ye were on last Monday nicht.’
‘Got it at last!’ cried Graham. ‘We’re slow but sure in this country, Wimsey. That’s right. I refuse categorically, absolutely, in toto and entirely. Make a note of it in case you forget it.’
The constable did so with great solemnity.
‘Ah, weel,’ he said, ‘I’ll hae tae be reportin’ this tae the authorities.’
‘Right,’ said Graham. ‘I’ll have a word with them.’
The constable shook his head doubtfully and departed with slow reluctance.
‘Poor devil,’ said Graham. ‘It’s a
shame to tease him. Have another, Wimsey?’
Wimsey declined, and Graham took himself off rather abruptly, saying that he must go down and see to things at his studio.
The landlord of the Anwoth followed him with his eyes.
‘What’s behind that?’ said Wimsey, carelessly.
‘Och, it will be some tale or anither,’ replied the landlord. ‘He’s a perfect gentleman, is Graham, and a great lad for the leddies.’
‘Quite so,’ said Wimsey. ‘And that reminds me, Joe, I’ve got a new limerick for you.’
‘Have ye noo?’ said the landlord, and carefully closed the door between the inn-parlour and the bar.
Having delivered himself of his limerick and taken his leave, Wimsey turned his attention again to business. Mrs. Green, the charwoman, lived in a small cottage at no great distance. She was making bannocks when Wimsey arrived, but having dusted the flour from her hands and transferred the bannocks to the girdle, was willing enough to talk about the sudden death of her gentleman.
Her Scots was broad and her manner excitable, but after putting his questions two or three times, Wimsey succeeded in understanding her replies.
‘Did Mr. Campbell take any breakfast before he went out on Monday morning?’
Yes, he did. There had been the remains of some bacon and eggs on the table and a used teapot and cup. Forbye, the loaf and butter had diminished, by comparison with the previous night, and there had been slices cut from the ham.
‘Was that Mr. Campbell’s usual breakfast?’
Ay, fried eggs and bacon were his breakfast, as regular as clockwork. Two eggs and two rashers, and that was what he had taken that morning, for Mrs. Green had counted.
‘Did Mr. Ferguson eat his breakfast that morning also?’
Yes, Mr. Ferguson had taken a kipper with a cup of coffee. Mrs. Green had herself brought in a pair of kippers for him on Saturday, and he had had the one on Sunday morning and the other on Monday morning. There had been nothing unusual about either cottage, that she could see, and so she had told the policeman when he called upon her.
Wimsey turned these matters over in his mind as he ran back to Kirkcudbright. The doctor’s report made those two eggs and rashers a suspicious circumstance. Somebody had breakfasted in Campbell’s cottage, and the person who could do that most easily was Ferguson. Alternatively, if it was not Ferguson, Ferguson might have seen whoever it was. Tiresome of Ferguson to have gone off to Glasgow like that.
As for Graham, apparently he had not been at Glen Trool. His silence might have half a dozen different explanations. ‘The leddies’ was the most obvious; it would be well, in Graham’s own interests, to discover whether he had any local attachment. Or he might merely have discovered some remote river, rich in trout which he wished to keep to himself. Or he might just be doing it to annoy. One could not tell. Beneath all his surface eccentricity, Graham was a man who kept his wits about him. Still, in a country place, where everybody knows everybody, it is impossible to keep one’s movements altogether secret. Somebody would have seen Graham – that is, if somebody chose to speak. But that was as doubtful as everything else about the case, for your country-dweller is a master of pregnant silences.
Wimsey called at Sir Maxwell Jamieson’s to make his report about the eggs and bacon, which was received with an ‘Ay, imph’m’ of the driest kind. There had been no further news from Dalziel, and he went home, first calling across the way, only to ascertain that Waters had not yet returned.
Bunter received him with a respectful welcome, but appeared to have something preying on his mind. On inquiry, however, this turned out to be merely the discovery that the Scots were so lost to all sense of propriety as to call a dish an ‘ashet’ – obviously with the deliberate intention of confusing foreigners and making them feel like bulls in china-shops.
Wimsey sympathised and, to take Bunter’s mind off this mortifying experience, mentioned his meeting with Jock Graham.
‘Indeed, my lord? I was already apprised of Mr. Graham’s reappearance. I understand, my lord, that he was in Creetown on Monday night.’
‘Was he, by Jove? How do you know?’
Bunter coughed.
‘After the interview with the young person at the china-shop, my lord, I stepped for a few moments into the McClellan Arms. Not into the public bar, my lord, but into the bar-parlour adjacent. While there, I accidentally overheard some persons mention the circumstance in the bar.’
‘What sort of persons?’
‘Roughly dressed persons, my lord. I apprehend that they might have been engaged in the fishing-trade.’
‘Was that all they said?’
‘Yes, my lord. One of them unfortunately glanced into the bar-parlour and discovered my presence, and after that they said nothing further about the matter.’
‘Who were they, do you know?’
‘I endeavoured to ascertain from the landlord, but he said no more than that they were a bunch of lads from the harbour.’
‘Oh! And that’s all you will ever hear, I expect. H’m. Did you manage to see any of them?’
‘Only the one who looked in at the door, and him only for a brief interval. The rest had their backs to the bar door when I emerged, my lord, and I did not care to appear inquisitive.’
‘No. Well – Creetown is on the way to Newton-Stewart, but it’s a far cry from there to the Minnoch. Did they mention the time at which they saw Mr. Graham?’
‘No, my lord, but, from the circumstance that they alluded to the number of drinks he consumed, I apprehend that it would be before closing-time.’
‘Ah!’ said Wimsey. ‘An inquiry among the Creetown pubs might settle that. Very well, Bunter. I think I shall go out and clear my wits with a round of golf this afternoon. And I’ll have a grilled steak and chips at 7.30.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Wimsey had his round of golf with the Provost, but without much satisfaction beyond that of beating him five up and three to play. He deduced from this victory that the Provost was not altogether easy in his mind, but he failed altogether to draw him on the subject of Campbell. It was ‘an unfortunate occurrence,’ and the Provost thought that ‘it might be a wee while before they got to the bottom of it’ – and after that the conversation was firmly led away to the quoiting match at Gatehouse, the recent regatta at Kirkcudbright, the shortage of salmon and depredations of poachers in the estuary, and the problems of sewage-distribution in tidal waters.
At half-past nine, when Wimsey had absorbed his grilled steak and rhubarb tart, and was dreaming over some old numbers of The Gallovidian, he was aroused by a clatter of feet upon the cobblestones of the close. He was just rising to look out of the window, when there was a knock upon the door, and a cheerful female voice called: ‘May we come in?’
Miss Selby and Miss Cochran occupied adjacent cottages and were continually to be found taking tea in each other’s living-rooms or bathing together on the sands at the Doon. Miss Selby was tall, dark, rather angular, rather handsome in an uncompromising kind of way and painted rather good, strong, angular and handsome figure-studies in oils. Miss Cochran was round, cheerful, humorous and grey-haired; she illustrated magazine stories in line and wash. Wimsey liked them both, because they had no nonsense about them, and they liked him for the same reason, and also because they found Bunter extremely amusing. Bunter was always distressed to see them cooking their own dinners and putting up their own curtains. He would step reproachfully to their assistance, and take the hammer and nails from their hands, with a respectful, ‘Allow me, miss’; and would obligingly offer to look after stews and casseroles during their absence. They rewarded him with gifts of vegetables and flowers from their garden – gifts which Bunter would receive with a respectful, ‘Thank you, miss. His lordship will be greatly obliged.’ While Wimsey was greeting his visitors, Bunter now advanced unobtrusively and inquired, as soon as there was a pause in the conversation, whether the ladies would take supper after their journey.
; The ladies replied that they were quite well-fed, but a little investigation showed that they had indeed had nothing since tea-time except a few sandwiches on the train. Wimsey promptly ordered omelettes, a bottle of claret and the remains of the rhubarb-tart to be brought forward, and, when Bunter had withdrawn to prepare the feast, said:
‘Well, you’ve missed all the excitement.’
‘So they told us at the station,’ said Miss Cochran. ‘What is it all about? Is it true that Mr. Campbell is dead?’
‘Quite true. He was found in the river—’
‘And now they’re saying he’s been murdered,’ put in Miss Selby.
‘Oh, they’re saying that, are they? Well, that’s true, too.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Miss Selby.
‘And who is it they’re saying has done it?’ demanded Miss Cochran.
‘They don’t know yet,’ said Wimsey, ‘but there’s a kind of an idea that it was a premeditated job.’
‘Oh, why?’ asked Miss Cochran, bluntly.
‘Oh, well, because the symptoms point that way, you know, and there doesn’t seem to have been any robbery from the person, or anything – and – in fact, several things.’
‘And in fact you know more than you think you ought to tell us. Well, it’s fortunate we’ve got an alibi, isn’t it, Margaret? We’ve been in Glasgow ever since yesterday morning. It was on Tuesday it happened, wasn’t it?’
‘It seems so,’ said Wimsey, ‘but just to make sure, they are checking up everybody’s whereabouts from Monday night onwards.’
‘Who’s everybody?’
‘Well – the people who knew Campbell best, and so on.’
‘I see. Well, you know we were here on Monday night, because we said good-night to you when you came in, and we went off by the 8.45 yesterday morning and we’ve got any amount of witnesses to show that we were in Glasgow between then and now, so I imagine we’re all right. Besides it would have taken more powerful people than Mary or me to tackle Mr. Campbell. What a relief to know that we can’t possibly be suspected!’
‘No – you two and Waters are out of the running all right, I fancy.’
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