Again it was Catherine who could identify the man in the negative sense.
“This is not the man we call Hector Loudoun,” said she.
“You will be telling us what you mean by that,” suggested the inspector.
“Yes. You see, my husband and I are on holiday here, and on our first day we met a man who called himself Hector Loudoun, but who indicated to us that his name might not be Loudoun at all. I hurt my ankle, and he very kindly allowed us to stay the night in his house, Craigullich, and sent us back to Ballachulish in his car on the following morning. He would have gone with us, but his housekeeper disappeared, and he was anxious to know where she was. Well, while we were at the house I read his hand.”
“I do not understand that.”
“Palmistry, you know. Not fortune-telling. Just reading his character and—and his qualities and talents. It was only in fun, but he had rather an interesting hand, and, you see, this man’s hand”—she indicated the sheeted figure which they had been summoned to identify—“this man’s hand isn’t the same.”
“You are saying that this man is not Hector Loudoun?”
“He is not the man who introduced himself to us as Hector Loudoun.”
“But you cannot tell us the name of this man here?”
“No. I can only say that, although he is very, very like him, he is not the man we met.”
“But,” interposed Mrs. Bradley, “he is the man I met and he encouraged me to believe that he was the man whom my friends here had left at Craigullich looking for his housekeeper.”
“And what had happened to his housekeeper?” asked the inspector.
“I don’t know. All I know is that an old woman (who did not fail to correspond with the description given of old Morag), let me in when I called, but I learned that her name was Ellen.”
“Why would you have been calling on Hector Loudoun?”
“In response to a message saying that he wished for advice.”
“Advice?”
“Professional advice.”
“Och, aye. You’ll be a psychiatrist, and you’ll be a doctor of medicine. What was the matter with him?”
“Nothing, except for a guilty conscience.”
“That would have been this dead man here, you’re thinking?”
“It was this man here, to the best of my knowledge and belief.”
“You identify him, then?”
“I identify him as the man I knew as Hector Loudoun.”
“Aye. There would seem to be a mystery here. Why should a man impersonate another?”
“I have no idea, unless he could gain something from it.”
“You’ll have formed a theory, no doubt, about that?”
“About a dozen theories, but we have not very much to build on. All I can say is that the impersonation might easily have been successful, so long as no one who knew either man very well was brought to the house.”
“This old woman of whom you are speaking: what of her?”
“I don’t know anything about either of the old women I have mentioned, except that the one I did not meet, whose name is Morag or Minnie, is said to be mad, but the one I did meet, whose name is Ellen, certainly is not mad, and has disappeared like the other.”
“Well, well! There was nobody in the house except for your two selves yesterday?”
“No one, except the two men who ran away when they heard what they thought was a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Were you also hearing this ghost?”
“Yes.”
“What would it have been, now?”
“I think it was the voice of a living person.”
“What would be causing you to think so?”
“I had had a previous experience of the voice.”
“When you went to give Hector Loudoun your advice?”
“Yes. I had thought that the first Hector Loudoun (you will understand that my Hector Loudoun is this dead man here) himself was telling lies about the ghost-voice. Then I discovered that the second Loudoun knew nothing about the ghost, which spoke on the night I was there—or, rather, in the early morning. I was not in the room when the voice spoke, but I knew at the time that it was a human voice, and not the ghost-voice, which I heard.”
“And what are you thinking now? It could not have been this man who spoke in the ghost voice yesterday?”
“I agree.”
“Can you not be giving us any help? It is the strange story you’re telling us. If it should be anybody else that was telling me the same story, I am not very sure I would believe it.”
He looked apologetic but spoke firmly. Mrs. Bradley cackled, and he seemed to recognize this as an expression of sympathy for him in his dilemma, for he smiled at her with great sweetness before he turned to Catherine.
“And were you hearing the ghost that night you stayed in the house?”
“No,” she answered. “But I think there was at least one more person in the house that night than had been accounted for.”
“What would you be meaning by that?”
“I can’t tell you. It was an opinion I formed, and my husband shared it.”
The inspector looked at Ian, who nodded and then confirmed what Catherine had said.
“Loudoun and I searched the policies,” he said, “but it would have been easy enough, I think, for anyone to get away that meant to do so. I certainly heard somebody moving about in the house before Loudoun and I went outside, and, later, I heard a man cough, and the cough was inside the house.”
“You could identify this other Loudoun if you were to be seeing him?”
“Certainly—now. But I don’t know that, if both were alive, I would be certain of knowing them apart. They are much alike in height and build, and their faces seem to me like the faces of twins. You would have to know both very well to be sure which was which, I should think.”
“Mrs. Menzies, though, could tell them apart by their hands?”
“Yes,” said Catherine, answering for herself.
“You have no proof, I suppose?”
“I can’t prove it to anyone’s satisfaction but my own, unless you would accept as proof this print which I took at the time I read Mr. Loudoun’s hand.”
“Why should you have been taking a print of his hand?”
“To study, at my leisure, what I had told him in the quickness of the moment. I was surprised at the appearance of his hand.”
“Would it have been an unusual type of hand?”
“Very.”
“A hand, then, that had an interest for you?”
“As a student of palmistry, yes.”
“I am wondering what special interest it would have.”
“A general interest. It was unlike any hand I had seen. It was—well, a criminal’s hand.”
“Och, aye. And you have a print of this hand?”
“I’ve brought it, if you’d care to look at it. It’s a bit smudgy, I’m afraid, because I haven’t fixed it properly, and it’s only done in candle-smoke. It ought to be done with the stuff you use for fingerprints. But you can see the lines well enough, I think, to be able to compare them with the lines on this dead man’s hand.”
The inspector and the sergeant made close comparison and were satisfied, especially when Catherine added helpful and illuminating comments. Mrs. Bradley also studied the lines, using a magnifying glass in order to do so, and lending it then to the inspector.
“And now,” she said offhandedly, as the inspector folded the handle of the glass across its face and handed it back, “where did you find the body?”
“A shepherd found it on Beinn Cruachan. A man stopped him on the road and told him where he would be finding it. We were going there to look again at the place.”
“We’ll all go,” said Mrs. Bradley expansively. The inspector looked doubtful. The sergeant pulled at the ends of his moustache. Neither made any verbal objection, however, and the sergeant was heard to murmur
to the inspector that it might be as well that they should be on their way before those lads from Fort William would be hearing about the matter.
Beinn Cruachan, lifting his peaks nearly thirty-seven hundred feet at the northern end of Loch Awe, was distant less than twelve miles from Oban, and the road was passable. The body had been found by a shepherd named Donald MacBain in one of the corries. It did not look as though there had been much attempt to hide it. The police made a careful search of the ground, and, taking their findings (and Catherine) with them, went modestly back to their car, leaving Mrs. Bradley and Ian to explore the surroundings at their leisure.
“Must have brought him by car,” said Ian. “They’ve brought him too far in the time to have used any other means. It must have been a tough business getting him into the corrie. Would have taken two men all their time. One couldn’t have done it alone.”
“What about three?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
“You mean our Loudoun may have double-crossed the other Loudoun as well as murdered him? He may have persuaded the two men who were acting nursemaid on Skye to come over into his side of the ring? It’s possible, I suppose, but I should also call it pretty doubtful.”
“Very well. We’ll say two,” Mrs. Bradley agreed. “Er—which two?”
“Which two?”
“Yes.”
“Um . . . yes,” said Ian thoughtfully. “So far, you mean, we’ve got the two men against the one Loudoun. He’d have had an accomplice if he murdered his half-brother and put the body here.”
“It was your suggestion that he had an accomplice, child.”
“Well, do you see how he got the body into this corrie alone? It’s fairly high up the mountain; it was a good old scramble, even for us, who are carrying nothing except your camera. Could one man have brought a body up here by himself?”
“Yes, he might; or a woman might have helped him.”
“Old Morag?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But she must be over seventy! Besides, she disappeared, and we’ve no evidence that she’s ever reappeared.”
“We’ve no evidence except Mr. Loudoun’s word (and we have yet to prove that that is entirely reliable!) that she ever disappeared, child. Why do you suppose,” she went on, before Ian could speak, “I never troubled about her? Why do you think I did not put the police upon her track?”
“I see.” He pondered the matter. “Well, that being that, what about getting back? There’s nothing more to do here.”
“On the contrary, there is a great deal more to do here. It’s a pity the weather turned wet. The heather is still very damp, and it’s going to rain again soon. One thing comforts me. We should not, in any case, have been able to light a fire.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“We are going to wait.”
“What for?”
“For the two men who are coming to find the body.”
“But the body’s already been found.”
“I know; you know; the police know; but I think it just possible that the two men do not know.”
“But . . .”
“It is just my fancy, child. Do not stay unless you wish.”
“Of course I shall stay if you do. But I can’t see why you think they’ll come. How should they know where to look if you’re right, and they are not the blokes who planted it?”
“They may have been notified, child.”
“By the murderer?”
“It is possible.”
“But why? To lead them into a trap?”
“I don’t know, child. I don’t even know that they’re coming.”
“But why should you think they might come?”
“Did it never strike you that there was something very odd in Mr. Ure’s having wanted to purchase Glen Ullich?”
“It seemed idiotic—at least, his reason did.”
“True.”
“Well?”
“Well, either the story, or that part of it, as told by Loudoun, was false, and Ure never made any such proposition…”
“Yes?”
“Or else it was true, although it may be that the reason given was false. . . .”
“Yes?”
“In which case there is something more to be learned about Craigullich—something which, so far, we do not know. Something which, possibly, Loudoun himself did not know.”
“It was certainly a very odd story.”
“I’ve thought a great deal about that story,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and about the curious fact that on the night you were at Craigullich the ghost refused to perform. On the two occasions, however, when I have been at Craigullich, the ghost has done rather well. What do we deduce from that?”
“That the ghost wished to impress you, but thought that I was not important, and did not need to be impressed,” said Ian, grinning.
“Can’t you think of anything better than that, child?”
“Well, perhaps I am not a medium. Perhaps you are.”
“Better; but still not good. You had better work it out. We have plenty of time, I expect. In any case, we have a good view of the road, and you will be able to recognize the quarry before they can get sight of us.”
“What do we do when they spot us?”
“I hope they won’t. Perhaps we had better remove ourselves before they come to the corrie.”
“This way, then. Lucky we’ve nails in our boots. Can you climb?”
“Sufficiently, child.”
“Can you manage the col over there?”
“I think we should be seen against the skyline.”
“Not enough to be recognized on an overcast day like this.”
“I prefer the larig yonder. It looks like a waterfall now, but I think it is quite a good path in better weather.”
“You don’t mean to leave any tracks, I suppose? All right. It’s a bit of a scramble. Are you sure you can do it?”
“Oh, yes, it’s only a trickle. We must chance the coming down at the end.”
“We can maybe work over to the left, and get back to the road without returning to this corrie. There should be a bit of a glen. I climbed here once, with a chap who wasn’t much good. We did the easy bits, and I think I remember that one. What about the car, by the way? They’ll spot it, and wonder whose it is.”
“It’s well hidden. They shouldn’t find it. I gave instructions to the sergeant. My only fear is lest he has hidden it too well. If he has, we must walk back to Oban.”
The rain they had anticipated held off for another hour. Slipping, scrambling, scratched, and perspiring, they reached the position of vantage they had chosen, and were able to get a good view into the corrie without there being much chance that they themselves would be seen. Almost as soon as they were settled, lying on their stomachs on the harsh and saturated heather, with the sounds of leaping water in their ears and the peaks of Cruachan shrouded in mist and cloud above their heads, the rain came on again.
“We’ll never be able to swear to them in this,” said Ian dolefully. Mrs. Bradley, her ordinarily yellow cheeks red with the exercise and the rain, grinned cheerfully at him.
“We’ll manage, child,” she said. “At the worst, we shall have to stalk them.”
To Ian, who had stalked deer, the idea was not unwelcome. He had realized, too, during the breath-taking scramble in which they had just indulged, that his elderly companion would be no mean performer at a game in which muscle and temper, skill, boldness, and patience all played a considerable part.
“Attaboy!” said he. Mrs. Bradley produced a pocket flask and a packet of sandwiches. The next quarter of an hour passed by. The mist crept closer around them. Ian, folding the sandwich papers preparatory to pocketing them so as not to leave them on the mountainside either as an eyesore or a clue, looked about him dubiously. “We shan’t get down to the road in this if we don’t start at once,” said he. “I’m awfully sorry, but Cruachan has beaten us, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” said
Mrs. Bradley, proving that the elderly are as self-disciplined as the young. “Lead the way, then, child.”
But Cruachan was their friend, after all. As Ian was crawling from behind a rock where a false step might have sent smaller boulders crashing down the hillside and so given away their presence to anyone within a quarter of a mile of the larig, he almost trod on a hand. He went to ground immediately, and Mrs. Bradley, behind him, sank up to her knees in the stream that was racing between two boulders and over a natural step of rock like a dyke-ditch got up and gone berserk, and nobly hid herself from view.
Ian remained without moving. The hand was withdrawn and reappeared higher up the hillside and about a foot to the left. For a moment Ian thought that he must be discovered, but he was not. He waited where he was for five minutes. Then, beckoning his companion, he crawled up over a tiny neck thick with heather, slid his long body into a runnel choked with last year’s bracken fronds, craned his neck, and beckoned Mrs. Bradley again. Faithful as any henchman, wisp-haired, bedraggled, and wet, she crawled up beside him. Their quarry was well in view. Standing on a flattened part of the hillside and studying a map already rotting through with the rain, were men whom Ian had recognized immediately. Mrs. Bradley drew out her binoculars and feasted her eyes on a couple of unintelligent, pugnacious, and puzzled faces.
She put away the binoculars. The men put away their map and were soon using arms and legs in scrambling down the face of a small, steep corrie.
Ian touched Mrs. Bradley’s arm. They pursued their silent way towards the road.
Neither spoke until they had found the car and started her up. The men had also brought a car. At any rate, one was drawn up at the roadside on the side of a partly-developed quarry.
“It was the two we met on Skye all right,” said Ian. “Will you know them again, do you think?”
“I know them now, child. I saw them a year ago when I visited Pentonville prison.”
“Good Lord! They really are criminals!”
My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley) Page 13