The Five Red Herrings

by Dorothy L. Sayers

‘How dare you?’

  ‘To be frank with you,’ said Wimsey, taking the question at its face-value, ‘I do not think I am running any very great risk. If I did, I might be more cautious.’

  ‘Do you dare to suggest that I believe my husband to be guilty of murder?’

  ‘If I must answer that, then – I think you have thought so. I am not sure that you do not think so now. But I thought it possible that you believed him innocent, in which case, the sooner he returns to give an account of himself, the better for himself and for everybody.’

  He took up his hat and turned to go. He had his hand on the latch when she called him back.

  ‘Lord Peter!’

  ‘Think before you speak,’ he said hastily.

  ‘You – you are quite mistaken. I am sure my husband is innocent. There is another reason—’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Stupid of me. It is your own pride that you are sheltering now.’ He came back into the room, treading gently, and laid his hat on the table. ‘My dear Mrs. Farren, will you believe me when I say that all men – the best and the worst alike – have these moments of rebellion and distaste? It is nothing. It is a case for understanding and – if I may say so – response.’

  ‘I am ready,’ said Gilda Farren, ‘to forgive—’

  ‘Never do that,’ said Wimsey. ‘Forgiveness is the one unpardonable sin. It is almost better to make a scene – though,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘that depends on the bloke’s temperament.’

  ‘I should certainly not make a scene,’ said Mrs. Farren.

  ‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘I see that.’

  ‘I shall not do anything,’ said Mrs. Farren. ‘To be insulted was enough. To be deserted as well—’ Her eyes were hard and angry. ‘If he chooses to come back, I shall receive him, naturally. But it is nothing to me what he chooses to do with himself. There seems to be no end to what women have to endure. I should not say as much as this to you, if—’

  ‘If I didn’t know it already,’ put in Wimsey.

  ‘I have tried to look as though nothing was the matter,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘and to put a good face on it. I do not want to show my husband up before his friends.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Wimsey. ‘Besides,’ he added, rather brutally, ‘it might look as though you yourself had failed in some way.’

  ‘I have always done my duty as his wife.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Wimsey. ‘He put you up on a pedestal, and you have sat on it ever since. What more could you do?’

  ‘I have been faithful to him,’ said Mrs. Farren, with rising temper. ‘I have worked to keep the house beautiful – and to make it a place of refreshment and inspiration. I have done all I could to further his ambitions. I have borne my share of the household expenses—’ Here she seemed suddenly to become aware of a tinge of bathos and went on hurriedly, ‘You may think all this is nothing, but it means sacrifice and hard work.’

  ‘I know that,’ replied Wimsey, quietly.

  ‘Is it my fault that – just because this house was always a peaceful and beautiful place – that unhappy man should have come to me to tell me his troubles? Is that any reason why I should be outraged by vile suspicions? Do you believe there was anything more than sympathy in my feelings for Sandy Campbell?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Then why couldn’t my husband believe it?’

  ‘Because he was in love with you.’

  ‘That is not the kind of love I recognise as love. If he loved me he should have trusted me.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Wimsey, ‘I quite agree with you. But everybody has his own ideas about love, and Hugh Farren is a decent man.’

  ‘Is it decent to believe vile things of other people?’

  ‘Well – the two things often go together, I’m afraid. I mean, virtuous people are generally rather stupid about those things. That’s why bad men always have devoted wives – they’re not stupid. Same with bad women – they usually have their husbands on a lead. It oughtn’t to be like that, but there it is.’

  ‘Do you consider yourself a decent man when you talk like that?’

  ‘Oh dear no,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I’m not stupid. My wife won’t have that to complain of.’

  ‘You seem to imagine that infidelity is a trifle, compared with—’

  ‘With stupidity. I don’t quite say that. But the one can cause quite as much upheaval as the other, and the trouble is that it’s incurable. One of those things one has to put up with. I shan’t necessarily be unfaithful to my wife, but I shall know enough about infidelity to know it when I see it, and not mistake other things for it. If I were married to you, for example, I should know that under no circumstances would you ever be unfaithful to me. For one thing, you haven’t got the temperament. For another, you would never like to think less of yourself than you do. For a third, it would offend your aesthetic taste. And for a fourth, it would give other people a handle against you.’

  ‘Upon my word,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘your reasons are more insulting than my husband’s suspicions.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Wimsey. ‘They are.’

  ‘If Hugh were here,’ said Mrs. Farren, ‘he would throw you out of the window.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Wimsey. ‘In fact, now that I’ve put it to you in the right light, you can see that his attitude towards you is rather a compliment than otherwise.’

  ‘Go and see him,’ said Mrs. Farren fiercely. ‘Tell him what you have been saying to me – if you dare – and see what he says to you.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Wimsey, ‘if you will give me his address.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ said Mrs. Farren, shortly. ‘But the post-mark was Brough in Westmorland.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wimsey, ‘I will go and see him – and, by the way, I shall not mention this to the police.’

  At an early hour on Monday morning, a large black Daimler car, with an outsize bonnet and racing body, moved in leisurely silence down the main street of Brough. The driver, glancing carelessly from side to side through his monocle, appeared to be about to pull up at the principal hotel; then, suddenly changing his mind, he moved forward again, and eventually stopped the car before a smaller inn, distinguished by the effigy of a spirited bull, careering ferociously in an emerald green meadow beneath a bright summer sky.

  He pushed open the door and strode in. The innkeeper was polishing glasses, and bade him a polite good morning.

  ‘A fine morning,’ said the traveller.

  ‘Ay, so ’tis,’ agreed the innkeeper.

  ‘Can you give me a bit of breakfast?’

  The innkeeper appeared to turn this suggestion over in his mind.

  ‘Hey, mother!’ he bellowed at last, turning towards an inner door, ‘canst a’ give breakfast to t’ gentleman?’

  His shout brought out a comely woman in the middle forties who, after looking the gentleman over and summing him up, reckoned that she could, if a dish of eggs and Cumberland ham would suit the gentleman.

  Nothing could be better, in the gentleman’s opinion. He was ushered into a parlour full of plush-covered chairs and stuffed birds, and invited to take a seat. After an interval, a sturdy young woman appeared to lay the table. After a further interval came a large and steaming tea-pot, a home-baked loaf, a plate of buns, a large pat of butter and two sorts of jam. Finally, the landlady reappeared, escorting the ham and eggs in person.

  The motorist complimented her on the excellence of the food and fell to with an appetite, mentioning that he had just come down from Scotland. He made a few sensible observations on the curing of hams, and gave an intelligent account of the method used in Ayrshire. He also inquired particularly after a certain kind of cheese peculiar to the district. The landlady – in whom the monocle had at first raised some doubts – began to think that he was a more homely body than he appeared at first sight, and obligingly offered to send the girl round to the shop to procure a che
ese for him.

  ‘I can see you know the town, sir,’ she observed.

  ‘Oh, yes – I’ve been through here lots of times, though I don’t think I’ve ever pulled up here before. You’re looking very smart and all that – got the old Bull repainted, I see.’

  ‘Ah, you noticed ’en, sir. Well, that was nobbut finished yesterday. ’Twas done by a painter gentleman. He came walking into t’ bar Thursday and says to George, “Landlord,” he says, “the signboard would do wi’ a bit paint. If I make ’ee a fine new bull for ’en, will ’ee let me have a room cheap?” George, he didn’t know what to think, but t’ gentleman says, “I’ll make ’ee a fair offer. Here’s my money. Gie me my food and lodging and I’ll do my best by t’ bull, and if tha likes ’en when a’s done, tha canst allow what tha likes for ’en on t’ bill.” On walking-tour, a’ said a’ was, and a’ had one of these little boxes full of paints wi’ ’en, so that we could see a’ was an artist.’

  ‘Funny,’ said the motorist. ‘Had he any luggage?’

  ‘A little bag-like – nothing much. But anybody could see a’ was a gentleman. Well, George didn’t know what to think.’

  From what the traveller had seen of George, this seemed very probable. There was a kind of stolid dignity about George which suggested that he disliked being flurried.

  Apparently, however, the mysterious artist had then and there, with a piece of black stuff, sketched on the back of an envelope a bull so rampant, so fierce, so full of fire and vigour, as to appeal very strongly to George’s agrarian instincts. After some discussion, the bargain was struck, the old bull taken down and the paints brought out. On Thursday the new bull had made his appearance on one side of the sign, head down and tail up, steam issuing from his nostrils, and the painter had explained that this represented the frame of mind of the hungry traveller bellowing for his food. On Friday, a second bull was drawn and coloured on the other side, sleek, handsome and contented, having fed well and received the best of treatment. On Saturday, the sign had been set out to dry in the wash-house. On Sunday, the painter had applied a coat of varnish on both sides and set the board back in the wash-house. On Sunday night, the varnish, though still a little tacky, seemed to be dry enough to allow of the sign’s being put in place, and there it was. The painter had taken his departure on foot on Sunday afternoon. George had been so pleased with the bull that he had refused to take any money at all from the gentleman, and had given him an introduction to a friend of his in a neighbouring village, who also had a sign that needed renewal.

  The motorist listened with great interest to this story and carelessly inquired the painter’s name. The landlady produced her visitors’ book.

  ‘ ’Tis wrote here,’ said she. ‘Mr. H. Ford of London, but by a’s speech you’d ha’ taken ’en for a Scotsman.’

  The motorist looked down at the book, with a slight smile twisting the corners of his long mouth. Then he pulled a fountain-pen from his pocket and wrote, beneath the signature of Mr. H. Ford:

  ‘Peter Wimsey. Kirkcudbright. Good baiting at the Bull.’

  Then, getting up and buckling the belt of his leather coat, he observed, pleasantly:

  ‘If any friends of mine should come inquiring for Mr. Ford, be sure you show them that book, and say I left my compliments for Mr. Parker of London.’

  ‘Mester Parker?’ said the landlady, mystified, but impressed. ‘Well, to be sure, I’ll tell ’en, sir.’

  Wimsey paid his bill and went out. As he drove away he saw her standing, book in hand, under the signboard, staring at the bull which capered so bravely on the bright green grass.

  The village mentioned by the landlady was only about six miles from Brough, and was reached by a side-turning. It possessed only one inn, and that inn had no sign, only an empty iron bracket. Wimsey smiled again, stopped his car at the door and passed into the bar, where he ordered a tankard of beer.

  ‘What’s the name of your inn?’ he asked, presently.

  The landlord, a brisk Southerner, grinned widely.

  ‘Dog and Gun, sir. The sign’s took down to be repainted. Gentleman a-workin’ on it now in the back garden. One of these travelling painter chaps – gentleman, though. Comes from over the Border by his way o’ talkin’. Old George Wetherby sent him on here. Tells me he’s made a good job o’ the old Bull in Brough. Working his way down to London, by what I can make out. Very pleasant gentleman. Real artist – paints pictures for the London shows, or so he tells me. My sign won’t be any the worse for a dab o’ fresh paint – besides, it amuses the kids to watch him muckin’ about.’

  ‘Nothing I like better myself,’ said Wimsey, ‘than to hang round while another fellow does a spot of work.’

  ‘No? Well, that’s so, sir. If you like to step into the garden, sir, you’ll see him.’

  Wimsey laughed and wandered out, tankard in hand. He dodged under a little archway, covered with a tangle of faded ramblers, and there, sure enough, squatting on an upturned bucket with the signboard of the Dog and Gun propped on a kitchen-chair before him, was the missing Hugh Farren, whistling cheerfully, as he squeezed out paint upon his palette.

  Farren’s back was turned towards Wimsey and he did not turn his head. Three children watched, fascinated, as the thick blobs of colour oozed out on to the board.

  ‘What’s that, mister?’

  ‘That’s the green for the gentleman’s coat. No – don’t pinch it, or you’ll get it all over you. Yes, you can put the cap on. Yes, that’s to keep it from drying up. Yes, put it back in the box . . . That’s yellow. No, I know there isn’t any yellow in the picture, but I want it to mix with the green to make it brighter. You’ll see. Don’t forget the cap. What? Oh, anywhere in the box. White – yes, it’s a big tube isn’t it? You’ll see, you have to put a little white into most of the colours – why? Well, they wouldn’t come right without it. You’ll see when I do the sky. What’s that? You want the dog made white all over? No, I can’t make it a picture of Scruggs. Why not? Well, Scruggs isn’t the right sort of dog to take out shooting. Well, he’s not, that’s why. This has got to be a retriever. All right, well, I’ll put in a liver-and-white spaniel. Oh, well, it’s rather a pretty dog with long ears. Yes. I daresay it is like Colonel Amery’s. No. I don’t know Colonel Amery. Did you put the cap on that white paint? Dash it! if you go losing things like that I’ll send you back to Mother and she’ll spank you. What? Well, the gentleman has a green coat because he’s a gamekeeper. Possibly Colonel Amery’s gamekeeper doesn’t, but this one does. No. I don’t know why gamekeepers wear green coats – to keep them warm, I expect. No. I haven’t got any brown paint same as that tree-trunk. I get that by mixing other colours. No, I’ve got all the colours I want now. You can put ’em away and shut the box. Yes, I can tell pretty well how much I want before I start. That’s called a palette knife. No, it isn’t meant to be sharp. It’s meant for cleaning your palette and so on. Some people use a knife to paint with. Yes, it’s nice and wiggly, but it won’t stand too much of that kind of treatment, my lad. Yes, of course you can paint with a knife if you want to. You can paint with your fingers if it comes to that. No, I shouldn’t advise you to try. Yes, well, it makes a rougher kind of surface, all blobs and chunks of paint. All right. I’ll show you presently. Yes, I’m going to begin with the sky. Why? Well, why do you think? Yes, because it’s at the top. Yes, of course that blue’s too dark, but I’m going to put some white in it. Yes, and some green. You didn’t know there was any green in the sky? Well, there is. And sometimes there’s purple and pink too. No, I’m not going to paint a purple and pink sky. The gentleman and the dogs have only just started out. It’s morning in this picture. Yes, I know, on the other side they’re coming home with a lot of birds and things. I’ll put a pink and purple sunset into that if you’re good and don’t ask too many questions. No, be a good girl and don’t joggle my arm. Oh, Lord!’

  ‘Hullo, Farren!’ said Wimsey. ‘Finding the young idea a bit too eager for information, eh?’
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  ‘My God!’ said the painter. ‘Wimsey, by all that’s holy! How did you get here? Don’t say my wife sent you!’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Wimsey. ‘And yet, now you mention it, I believe she did do something of the sort.’

  Farren sighed.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Spit it out and get it over. Run away to your mother, bairns. I’ve got to talk to this gentleman.’

  ‘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.’