There was an awkward interval in which neither man spoke.
“Here, I'll give you a lift,” Whitely mumbled.
After packing up, they drove in strained silence back to Powell's car. Along Lochindorb, Whitely's white van overtook Powell's Triumph and sped away, spraying the little roadster with gravel.
In Kinlochy, Powell stopped at Grant and Son's Tackle Shop to purchase some flies in the faint but rapidly dwindling hope that he might someday soon have an opportunity to use them. As he entered the shop he nearly collided with John Sanders, who was just leaving with a long rod tube in hand. Sanders looked startled.
“Erskine, fancy bumping into you like this! I haven't had a chance to thank you. The fishing's been so good that I've decided to stay on for a few more days. That is, I mean if it's all right…”
‘Of course,” Powell said. ‘The way things are going, I expect I'll be tied up for a while yet.”
“Pinky's told me all about the case. Busman's holiday, eh? Any suspects yet? No? Well, tell you what, I'll pop over to the hotel one evening and buy you a drink. Thank you properly.”
“I'll take you up on that.”
“It's settled then. See you.”
“Right.”
Old Peter Grant, something of a local institution, was muttering to himself behind the cluttered counter. “Ber-luddy daft, more money than brains, ber-luddy Yanks.”
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Grant?”
“Ye saw that gent that just walked oot?”
“Mr. Sanders? Yes, I know him.”
“It's nae business of mine what company ye keep.”
Powell had to make an effort to keep a straight face. “What did he do exactly, Mr. Grant?”
“Weel, he comes in here aboot a week ago tae buy a new salmon rod. Says he's never used one before. So I fixed him up wi’ a fifteen-foot carbon fiber. One of my own custom jobs and a real beauty it was, too. Then what does he do? He comes in today and says he's broken it, Wants tae buy a new one, he says.” He glared at Powell triumphantly.
“So?”
Grant shook his grizzled head, as if wondering how anybody could be so thick. “The rod blank is guaranteed by the makers, so I told him tae bring back the pieces and I'd gladly replace the rod. Free of charge,” he added significantly, as if that explained everything. “Ye'll not believe what he said. He said it was his own fault and he'd thrown the pieces away. Said he wanted tae buy a new one.”
Powell was no longer listening as Grant blethered on about the dire consequences of rampant profligacy to civilization as we know it. Instead, he walked out of the shop, having forgotten about the dozen Munro Killers in assorted sizes and thereby reinforcing the old man's opinion of all foreigners.
CHAPTER 12
It was going on four o'clock when Powell got back to the hotel. One look at Ruby's face and he knew that something was terribly amiss.
“Oh, Mr. Powell, I don't know what to say!” Powell steeled himself reflexively. “What is it, Ruby? What's wrong?”
“It's Mr. Warburton! Mr. Preston and young Mr. Crawford pulled him from the river an hour ago—” Powell felt a cold hand clutch his heart. “Is he—” “He's alive, thank the good Lord.” She produced a voluminous handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. “They brought him back to the hotel, all of them soaked to the skin and Mr. Warburton gasping and sputtering something awful. Half drowned he was, Mr. Powell, and terrible blue in the face. I called Dr. Webster right away.” Powell felt a surge of relief. “Where is he now?” “They took him to hospital in Grantown.” Powell nodded. Suddenly, something occurred to him. “Where's Mr. Sanders?”
She seemed puzzled. “Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him all afternoon.”
Powell noticed for the first time how terrible Ruby looked. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen and her plump face was almost white. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“This must be very upsetting for you, Ruby. Do you have any idea what happened?”
She looked at Powell uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then she spoke in a barely audible whisper, “First Mr. Murray and now Mr. Warburton.”
Powell removed his hand. Feeling curiously detached, he heard himself speak. “Ruby, what are you saying?”
She clutched his hand in both of hers and looked up at him like a wounded deer. “Oh, Mr. Powell! What does it all mean?”
Powell stared at her, not knowing what to think. “I don't know; I honestly don't know.” He gently pried his fingers from her grasp. “I must get to the hospital. Does Nigel know?”
Ruby seemed unable to speak, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “He—he went out after lunch and hasn't come back.” Her voice broke. It was obvious that she was terrified.
After inquiring at Admittance, Powell ran up the stairs to the second floor. An elderly, tweedy-looking man had just emerged from the last room on the right at the end of the corridor.
“Dr. Webster?”
“Aye?”
Powell produced his identification. “I've come to see about Mr. Warburton …” He left it open ended.
Webster squinted myopically at Powell's card and then frowned. “You're a long way from home, Chief Superintendent. May I ask if your interest in Mr. Warburton's condition is a professional one?”
“He's a friend.”
“I see. Well, he's had a nasty experience. He's a very lucky man, in fact.” As if sensing the contradiction, he added irritably, “Another few minutes in that cold water and, well, who knows?”
“How is he?”
“He'll survive.”
Charming bedside manner. “How long will he have to stay here?”
“A day or two, just to make certain that there are no complications.”
“May I see him?”
Dr. Webster regarded Powell severely, like a schoolmaster sizing up an errant boy. He glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes and not a minute more.” With that he strode ramrod-straight down the corridor, leaving Powell alone with the echoing footsteps and hospital smells.
Warburton lay still with his eyes closed, his round face uncharacteristically pale against the dingy pillowcase. His breathing was labored and uneven. As Powell closed the door quietly behind him, Warburton began to cough violently, gasping raspingly between paroxysms as if unable to catch his breath. Powell bounded to his bedside and helped him sit up.
“Easy does it, old chap.”
Powell propped him up with the pillow and then poured a glass of water from a stainless steel pitcher on the bedside table. When the fit had subsided, Warburton drank greedily. Eventually, he managed a weak smile.
“Thanks, I needed that, although God knows I've swallowed enough water for a lifetime.”
“I came as quickly as I could. You can't imagine how I feel, Pinky, if only I'd been …”
“Nonsense. I'll pull through. Could have happened to anybody. Simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the right time. The main thing is to find out who did it, so that it doesn't happen to anyone else.”
The import of Warburton's words caught Powell like a blow to the solar plexus. Until that moment he had refused to acknowledge that Pinky's mishap could have been anything but an accident. Confronted earlier with Ruby's fears, he had preferred to think that she had simply been caught up in the emotion of the moment and had let her imagination get the better of her. But once again it seemed that Ruby's intuition was uncannily sound. He felt a wave of anger rising like bile at the back of his throat. It was personal now, and he promised himself that he'd leave no stone unturned. Grim faced, he drew up a chair and asked quietly, “How did it happen?”
“Where to begin?” Warburton shook his head sheepishly. “You know, it's funny. One always supposes, rather immodestly I daresay, that if one were ever placed in a situation like this, one would give one's statement clearly and succinctly and without emotion. But to be honest, Erskine, my mind is in complete turmoil.”
Powell said reassuringly, “First
off, Pinky, you are not being cross-examined. Secondly, you've just been through a terrible ordeal, so take your time and do the best you can.”
Warburton smiled wanly. “Thanks, old chap.” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if to distill his thoughts. “We'd drawn the bridge beat,” he began slowly. “The water was fishing well and we'd each had a fish in the morning. When we returned to the beat after lunch, poached plaice and a rather respectable hock—” he digressed a trifle wistfully “—I elected to fish the Bridge Pool, and John decided to try his luck down by the birch spinney. After an hour or so, I stopped for some refreshment. John joined me presently and said he had to pop into town to run some errands.”
“Before you continue, Pinky, tell me how you got to your beat today.”
“We've been taking turns driving. It was John's turn today, so we took his car in the morning. But after lunch he suggested that we each take our own vehicle, which suited me fine.” He grimaced. “John has hired one of those cramped little tin cans like Alex's and one feels a bit like a sardine. At any rate, where was I? Oh, yes— after John had gone I fished through the pool once more and then decided to move a little farther downstream. I was bringing in my line when I hooked on to something. At first I thought I'd snagged bottom, but when I pulled hard the thing came loose and eventually I managed to get it in.”
Warburton lapsed into another coughing fit. Waving Powell off, he took several deep, ragged breaths and then clutched Powell's sleeve. “It was the rod!” he whispered hoarsely.
“What?”
“The one left behind by Arthur's poacher. It must have been. It was a double-hander with the reel and line still attached. There was no sign of corrosion, so it couldn't have been in the water very long.”
“That was a bit of luck,” Powell said distractedly. The police divers had combed the river for two days and hadn't come up with a thing. Still, it was the same with drownings—the bodies often turned up when you least expected them. An article like a fishing rod could, he supposed, get lodged in various places in a large river where it would be difficult to spot. First Murray's corpse and now this. It seemed that the salmon rod would soon replace the grapple for dredging up clues from the deeps. “Did you happen to notice the make?” he asked.
Pinky smiled. “You know I always notice that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, it was a very nice custom job by that local maker, Peter Grant.”
Powell felt his jaw tighten. That drink with John Sanders had suddenly shot to the top of his social agenda. “Are you certain?”
Warburton looked mildly surprised. “Of course. His name was on it, signed in India ink just above the grip.”
Powell nodded. “Go on.”
“I was sitting on that big rock at the bottom end of the pool examining the rod when, without any hint of a warning, someone pushed me from behind. The next thing I knew, I was in the drink and it was bloody cold, I can tell you.” He shivered convulsively.
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Afraid not, old man. I was too busy swimming for dear life. The current was faster than it looked and there was a strong undertow. All I can remember is a loud roaring sound in my ears. The next thing I knew, I was being revived by Preston and young Crawford.”
“What happened to the rod?”
Warburton shrugged. “It's at the bottom of the river again, I expect.”
“Do you have any idea what time all this happened?”
“I'd only be guessing, but I'd say near enough three.”
“How long after Sanders had left for town would that be?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes, I should think.” Warburton tossed Powell a curious glance. “Why do you ask?”
“Force of habit. By the way, have you heard from Sanders?”
Warburton shook his head. “I'm a bit puzzled about that, actually. When he got back he must have wondered what had happened to me. I've been expecting him to pop in.”
“Bloody peculiar, I'd say. You wouldn't happen to know what he does by way of earning a crust, would you?”
“I haven't the faintest idea. He seldom talks about himself, and one doesn't like to pry.”
“Pinky, did you happen to mention Arthur's run-in with the poacher to Sanders?”
Pinky looked guilty. “Shouldn't I have?”
“It's not important.” Powell tried to think. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain, but for the life of him he couldn't put his finger on it.
On his way back to the Salar Lodge, Powell paid a visit to the Ravenscroft Guesthouse. The proprietor, a Mrs. Blakey, informed him that, yes, Mr. Sanders was staying there, but, no, he was not in at the moment. And, no, sir, not a word to the gentleman. Powell had created the impression that he was an old friend who wanted to surprise Sanders.
Barrett rang as usual that evening and after Powell had brought him up to date, the Scot described in minute detail what he would do if he ever got his hands on Pinky's assailant.
“The main thing is he's all right,” Barrett concluded, “but this certainly puts matters in a different light. I can finish up here tomorrow and—” He hesitated. “Look, Erskine, why don't I call in someone from Division to help out?” He left the rest unsaid.
“Thanks all the same, Alex, but I can manage.” Powell's tone left no room for argument.
Barrett was about to say something about the hazards of getting personally involved in a case but decided that it wasn't necessary. He had to assume that Powell knew what he was doing. “Right, then,” he said. “Why don't you review what we have so far?”
Powell summarized the facts of the case, scrupulously avoiding any hint of subjectivity.
“Cagey, aren't we?” Barrett observed. “I take it you'd like to hear my views before committing yourself. Well, for what it's worth, my money's still on Pickens. The man seems unwilling or, more likely, unable to provide a proper alibi, and he's admitted that Murray diddled him when they were in business together. So there's both opportunity and motive. And let's not forget that he was, as far as we know, the last person to see Murray alive. But proving it is another thing.”
Powell shook his head doubtfully. “I don't know. There's something about Pickens that rings true. When I was interviewing him I got the distinct impression that he was more interested in his latest business deal than the possibility of a murder charge.”
Barrett was adamant. “That's not inconsistent with the type of character we're dealing with. No, as far as I'm concerned, he's still our best bet.”
Powell sighed heavily. “Point made.”
“Moving down the list,” Barrett said carefully, “we are bound to consider Nigel.” He paused to give Powell the opportunity to protest, but when there was no reaction he forged ahead. “Murray threatened to put Nigel out of business mere hours before he was murdered, by reneging on the Salar Lodge's fishing rights. There's a lot of Maggie Whitely in the Salar Lodge, and I'm convinced that Nigel would do anything in his power to protect what they'd built together.”
“Including murder?” Powell asked incredulously.
“I know the idea seems ridiculous, but, as you yourself have pointed out, Nigel's been behaving very strangely of late. He'd been through hell with Maggie and now there's the prospect of Bob leaving; perhaps he'd reached the end of his tether. There's another possibility, of course. Nigel may have a good idea who did kill Murray and is profoundly disturbed by the prospect.”
“You mean Bob, I take it.”
“Murray stood between the lad and his true love, a rather precarious position, I'd say, considering Bob's penchant for going off half-cocked. And putting it bluntly, one must also consider the fact that Heather Murray's, em, dowry has increased substantially as a result of her father's death—rather sweetening the pot, in a manner of speaking.” He paused significantly and the silence stretched out awkwardly. Once again, he decided it best to soldier on. “While we're on the subject, it seems to me that Miss Murray, herself, is no small enigma. Her devotion to
her father seems rather odd when you consider that he could apparently be such a bastard. She's admitted they'd had a major row, quite possibly over her choice of boyfriends, and she strikes me as the type who's used to having her own way.”
“What are you implying?”
“I am simply drawing your attention to the rich tapestry of possibilities that confronts us. Did you know that ninety percent of all violence in Britain involves family members?”
Barrett could be a royal pain in the arse at times.
“And finally,” he continued with exasperating precision, “there's John Sanders. Now I'll admit that this fishing rod business is suggestive, but it just doesn't stand up to scrutiny. If Sanders had committed a murder, why in heaven's name would he stick around? The natural reaction would be to put as many miles between himself and Kinlochy as quickly as possible. Being a tourist, he could have slipped away without drawing the slightest attention to himself.
“Let's assume for the sake of argument that Sanders did kill Murray and then decided for some inexplicable reason to linger at the scene of the crime. And let us accept, moreover, that it was in fact Sanders whom Arthur encountered a few days later, poaching, cool as a cucumber, on his victim's water. The fact remains that the rod found by Pinky, even supposing it did belong to Sanders, in no way links him to the murder. A possible conviction on a minor poaching offense hardly seems a sufficient motive for attempting to kill Pinky.”
“That doesn't alter the fact that somebody tried to.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
“The one thing consistently lacking in this case is hard evidence. So, first off, we need to get the boffins combing the ground around the Old Bridge.”
“Right.”
“And I'm going to have a little chat with Sanders. I'm still convinced that there's more to our Canadian friend than meets the eye. In the meantime, why don't you punch him into your computer and see what you come up with.”
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