by Alan Hunter
‘And we don’t know why he was up there,’ he said. ‘And the rain has washed out track and trace.’
‘When did it happen?’ Gently asked.
‘Eleven, twelve o’clock time, says the doctor. He was cold and stiff when McMorris found him, which would be seven this mornin’, thereabouts. McMorris is the Forestry ranger, you ken – they’re early risers in that profession – and he’d be out walkin’ the fences with his bag of tools – the sheep are no friends to young trees.’
‘And it was up at the Keekingstane?’
‘Ay, just there. Dunglass was lyin’ on his face by the Stane. You’d think he was starin’ through the nick at somethin’ and come down face-foremost when he was stickit.’
‘Just one blow?’
‘Ay. A guid one. Straight in under the left shoulder.’
‘And you don’t have the weapon?’
Blayne shook his long skull. ‘And we’re no’ likely to have it, which is more. If the laddie pitched it into the trees it’ll just stay snug till thinnin’-time – you could scarcely get a dog in there – and it’ll be buried under the needles.’
‘Have you an idea what the weapon was?’
Blayne nodded slowly. ‘Ay. A guess. From the nature of the wound – it was guid and clean – I’d say the weapon could be a dirk.’
‘A dirk!’
‘Ay. That’s a kind of dagger that goes in a Highland-man’s harness. They were fell free with them in the old days, but they’re no’ quite in the fashion now.’
‘A dirk – like those hanging in the hall?’
Blayne’s features twisted in a ghoulish grin. ‘So you noticed them did you? – ay, you would. But it’s not one of those was stuck in Dunglass.’
‘Would they fit the wound?’
‘Not far short. But you hadn’t occasion to luik at them closely. If you put a light to them you can see the dust – they haven’t been out since they were cleaned last.’
‘Still, it’s a coincidence,’ Gently mused.
Blayne nodded again. ‘That’s my way of thinking. And I’ll have more to say on the subject o’ dirks – but every dog in his own kennel.’
He took a number of sapient whiffs and tapped the holder over a wastebasket. Then he surprised Brenda, who was staring at him, by a repetition of his grin.
‘And you’ve found no tracks, no marks,’ Gently said.
‘None. The rain’s taken care of all that. It’s just streamin’ rocks and bogs knee-deep and wee bit burns runnin’ wild. There wasn’t even any bluid, savin’ a spoonful under the body. But Ferguson – that’s the doctor – is of the opinion he wouldn’t have bled much from such a wound.’
‘For example, broken twigs,’ Gently said. ‘The rain wouldn’t conceal them.’
Blayne sucked in his cheeks. ‘What would that tell us? Dunglass could have snapped them as well as another.’
‘Then you know of nobody else being up there?’
‘That’s so.’
‘Say – Mrs Dunglass?’
‘She says she wasn’t. I have a statement from the house-keeper to the same effect – the lady was never out of the house.’
‘Have you examined her shoes?’
‘Ay, I did. They tellt me the lady was fond of the braes. But all her stout shoes were dry enough – you can’t give her the lie from them.’
‘So,’ Gently said. ‘Dunglass goes up the hill, and we don’t know why. Do we know when?’
Blayne’s head wagged. ‘In a manner of speakin’, though not very precisely. Dunglass was in this room all the evenin’ – his lady was watching T.V. in the parlour – then at 10 p.m., it may be later, he says he must drive into Balmagussie. And with no more about it, he gets in his car – the gardener sees him fetch it out – and is last seen crossin’ yon bridge and headin’ down the road for Balma’.’
‘But he never actually went there.’
‘That’s impossible. We found his car nearby Halfstarvit – and that’s on this side of the river, a guidish way along the back road. No, either somethin’ happened to change his mind, or his goin’ to Balma’ was just a blind – he was soon back over the river and makin’ his way up the hill.’
‘To meet someone.’
‘What for else?’
‘A woman?’
Blayne sucked air through his teeth. ‘Its a wearisome trystin’-place, that – and close on the mirk hour, you ken. Still, it could be a female, nonetheless – one of your mountain hizzies would make light work of it – maybe Dunglass was cheatin’ on his lady and some gudeman took the old way with him. Ay, it could be that.’
‘But you don’t think it likely,’ Gently said.
‘Not so I’d put my Sunday sark on it, without a deal more than’s showin’ yet.’
‘Of course, you’ll have checked out McMorris and the servants.’
Blayne’s head moved.
‘Wha’ about relatives?’
‘Dunglass’s family are around Glasgow – the lady’s at Cuitybraggan, which is almost as far.’
‘Friends and associates?’
‘None in Strathtudlem. Dunglass was a foreigner here, you ken – and his lady is no’ that much better, coming from half the shire off. I ken they have an acquaintance in Balma’ – Purdy is away to luik into it – and they’ll know some rich folk hereabout – just in a passin’ sort of way.’
Gently nodded and drew on his pipe. ‘So that’s a round-up of the hard facts.’
‘Ay,’ Blayne said, drawing out the word. ‘That’s what we have, short of speculation. There’s more to come, but I wouldn’t dilute an honest picture with chancy opinions. You have the facts now – less whatever contribution you may want to give me.’
Gently puffed. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
‘You’ll reserve your information?’
‘For the moment.’
‘I kent you would,’ Blayne said. ‘A man like yourself is not for rushin’ things. Weel – aweel. What we come to now is a bonnie exhibit to be showin’ an Englishman. Take a luik at this buik, Mr Gently – you’ll not have seen its like before.’
He picked up the blue folio and handed it across the desk to Gently. It was a fat, weighty volume, evidently made up from a high-quality paper. The binding was heavy buckram; on the front cover appeared a gilt dagger, and divided by the dagger stood the legend:
Let Him Who Scorns The Tartan/Fear the Dirk
‘A canny crest,’ Blayne said smoothly, leaning back and watching Gently. ‘It’s an old sayin’, you ken that. But an old sayin’ is whiles current.’
Gently rested the book on his knees and met Blayne’s look with a curious stare. ‘I’d like to see a picture of this Dunglass,’ he said. ‘And perhaps you can fill me in on his background.’
‘Ay, I can,’ Blayne said, moving some papers on the desk. ‘But will you not dip into the buik? It’s a grand privilege to handle that.’
‘So I’m beginning to guess,’ Gently said. ‘But every dog in his own kennel, I think you said.’
‘Man,’ Blayne said, his features twitching, ‘it’s a pleasure to talk to you – a real pleasure.’
He uncovered a photograph and passed it to Gently. It showed a dark-haired, dark-eyed man of about forty. Dunglass had been handsome in a full-faced way, with large, bold eyes and a determined chin. He had a short neck and strong shoulders, and a mouth that was faintly derisive; the picture gave an impression of power tempered by intelligence but probably by very little humour.
‘How tall was he?’ Gently asked.
‘Not above middle height,’ Blayne said. ‘But a solid, porridgy sort of a lad – he wouldn’t be behindhand in a scrap. There’s an oar hangin’ up in one of the rooms which says he stroked an eight at Cambridge – that’s answerin’ two questions in one. You ken now where he was schooled.’
‘Where did his money come from?’
‘Och, they’re a big family in the merchanting line – Dunglass and Ritchie, you may have heard of them – no lack of si
ller in that clan.’
‘Was he in the firm?’
‘Not to my knowledge. It would be before he drew up this way. He bought the estate soon after he wedded and settled down to bein’ a gentleman.’
‘Hm,’ Gently said. ‘Well, that sounds unexceptional.’
‘Very unexceptional,’ Blayne said drily. ‘If yon buik told no other story. Am I to understand you recognize the crest?’
Gently shrugged. ‘I could give you a guess.’
‘That buik man, is the minutes of the chieftainmeetin’s of the Scottish Nationalist Action Group.’
‘What exactly is that?’
Blayne closed his eyes. ‘Just the wuddiest lot of them all,’ he said. ‘The most mischievous, doctrinaire set of Home Rulers that ever disturbed the Queen’s Peace. Nothin’ goes on, from liftin’ the Stone of Scone to cuttin’ the power line to Balmoral, but the S.N.A.G. is either doin’ it or settin’ on those who will. And Donnie Dunglass, that stirrin’ laddie, was company-secretary to the whole clanjamfry – a principal, you ken – a prime mover – the tongue o’ the trump to them all, most like.’
‘Is the organization illicit?’
‘Not precisely licit nor illicit. We ken well enough what they’re about, but we can’t nicely put a finger on them. They’ve powerful friends, that’s true, and a deal of sympathizers and fellow-travellers – especially this side of the Forth – there’s aye tinder up the glens.’
Gently tapped the book. ‘But you’ll have names here.’
Blayne drew air through his teeth. ‘Aliases,’ he said. ‘We’re dealin’ with folk as canny as the wild-cats in the timber. Maybe some notions down there are treasonable, but you’ll scarcely ferret them out of the terminology – it’s all projects-this and projects-that, with a set of daft-like names attached to them. I don’t know but we may make out a case for proscription – but what guid would that do? We’d only luik the bigger fools.’
Gently nodded. ‘Certainly a problem.’
‘Ay. And we must just rub along with it. Unless the laddies begin to play rough and carry their dirks point-foremost.’
‘Is that the suggestion?’
Blayne’s head wagged. ‘That’s the notion of Mary Dunglass. An’ if you’ll kindly luik up the minutes of the last meeting, I’ll expound what put it into her head.’
Gently opened the book, and Brenda shamelessly edged her chair closer to his. The last entry occurred midway through and formed only a brief paragraph:
A Chieftain Meeting was called at The Castle by The Lord Thistle on Tuesday 14 June. Present: Hillman, Knockman, Burnsman, Townsman, Linnman, Pressman, Lochman, Shipman, Forestman, Strathman. Subject discussed: Gorseprick Project. Voting: 9 in favour. Abstention: Strathman. Project adopted.
‘A pithy sort of style,’ Blayne commented. ‘I could wish some of my officers would get in the way of it – but that’ll be education for you – it’s no’ all rowin’ down at Cambridge.’
‘Was Strathman Dunglass?’ Brenda asked.
‘Ay, just so,’ Blayne said. ‘And by the gracious bounty of Mary Dunglass we ken what was the project he wouldn’t vote on. It stands against her word, mind – though I don’t ken why she should lie – but the Gorseprick Project is a treasonable motion to train the ghillies and suchlike in guerrilla fightin’.’
‘Guerrilla fighting!’ Gently said.
‘It gave me a shog too, man,’ Blayne said. ‘You wouldn’t believe men in their sober senses would sit down discussin’ and votin’ for sich things. But that’s what Dunglass tellt his lady – the only time he’s tellt her anything – and that because – to give him his due – he wouldn’t have horns nor hide of it. He kent fine it would bring us down on them where we had given them rope before – and when they wouldn’t listen to cool reason, he upped and banned them – and resigned. So now you’ll be understandin’ the view his wife takes of the matter. They fetchit him out on some pretence then gave him the traitor’s end of the dirk.’
Gently stared for a moment. ‘Can we really credit that?’ he asked.
‘It’s a guid question,’ Blayne replied. ‘I don’t ken if we can or no’. On the one hand it explains Dunglass’s actions, which nothin’ else would seem to do – on the other, I cannot quite stomach the S.N.A.G. bein’ plunged so deep in sedition. They’re political, man – no’ terrorists – no whisper o’ violence before this. I’m fair flummoxed. I’m sore needin’ the sight of a handle to lay my grip on.’
Brenda looked at Gently.
‘Perhaps we have the handle,’ Gently said.
‘Then open the kennel, man,’ Blayne said. ‘A dog of any colour would glad my eyes.’
Gently told him of their brushes with the owner of the dark blue Cortina; Brenda described the man and identified him as the one they had seen at the Keekingstane. Blayne listened, his cadaverous face solemn and shadowed in the yellow lamplight, his fingers scrawling down notes on the sheet that bore their names.
‘Aweel,’ he said when they had finished. ‘A useful canine this may be. You wouldna be puttin’ a collar on him in the shape of the registration number of the car?’
‘Sorry,’ Gently said. ‘We’d no occasion to take the number. It was a post-Motor-Show ’64 model. That’s the best I can do for you.’
‘Och, we’ll find it,’ Blayne said. ‘There’ll no’ be that many in the district – and no’ but one with sich an owner. I’ll give Purdy instructions when he rings.’
‘You don’t know who Redbeard is?’ Brenda asked.
Blayne shook his head. ‘But I’m wishful to meet him.’
‘George thought he was a farmer.’
‘That may be. Though he wasn’t up yonder to bargain for kye.’ He rose stiffly and put out his great hand. ‘Man,’ he said to Gently, ‘this has done me guid. Just talkin’ the thing over with a man like yourself has helped me give it a glim o’ perspective. Are you stayin’ long in Strathtudlem?’
‘For the fortnight,’ Gently said.
‘Then maybe we’ll be meetin’ again, whether or no’ your mannie is mixed up wi’ the case. There,’ he said, as a chandelier above them splashed sudden light through the room, ‘you bring illumination where you come, man – they’ve mended the line at Glen Liffen.’
Gently looked out at the still-dashing rain. ‘I wish I could do the same for the weather,’ he said.
‘Och, I’m the man with that in my pocket,’ Blayne said. ‘Do you no’ ken it’ll be steamin’ sun by noon?’
CHAPTER FIVE
– Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armed men.
‘The Battle of Killiecrankie’
GENTLY DROVE THE Sceptre no farther than the bridge, below which the augmented river was booming impressively, before halting for the ostensible purpose of giving himself a fresh light. But while the match was flickering over the bowl of his pipe he was staring hard towards the Lodge which, across two hundred yards of rainy strath, one could see glimmering palely among its trees. Then he grunted and stabbed the match into an ashtray.
‘What do you think of Blayne?’ he growled at Brenda.
‘I like him,’ Brenda said in a small voice. ‘Even though he’s walked out of some Rowlandson cartoon. But I don’t trust him, of course.’
Gently grinned at her round his pipe. ‘Why?’
‘He was much too flattering. I think his object was simply to get you off the scene.’
‘Yes.’ Gently nodded. ‘Also I think he was holding back.’
‘About Mrs Dunglass?’
‘About Mrs Dunglass – and about where his sympathies lie in the matter.’
He tilted open a quarter-light, admitting the rumble and crashing of the river. Before them the wrack was thinning slightly to show the trees on the eastern braes. Rain drummed on roof and bonnet, rills gushed over the road to join the river, but the light was steadily improving. In this Blayne was likely to prove a true prophet.
‘Because,’ Brenda said, ‘he has Nationalist sympathies?’
‘It’s not impossible,’ Gently shrugged.
‘An intriguing thought,’ Brenda said. ‘Now this sort of thing we just do not have in England. Perhaps he’s one of the Hillman–Lochman clique himself.’
Gently chuckled. ‘That’s going too far. I reckon Blayne to be a loyal and efficient policeman, but not over-anxious to make trouble for the Nationalists. I think he’s worried in case there’s something in it and he can’t avoid taking action. It’s deflecting his attention from Mrs Dunglass – which is perhaps what it is intended to do.’
‘Aha,’ Brenda said. ‘A red herring.’
‘It was Mrs Dunglass who suggested Nationalists.’
‘Yes – and who told the Inspector her husband had a row with them – and spun him a yarn about them training guerrillas. That’s a load of old codswallop if you like.’
‘But I’m not sure he doesn’t believe it,’ Gently said.
‘Well I don’t believe it,’ Brenda said. ‘I believe she’s a scheming, conniving woman. I’ll bet she’s got the house-keeper squared, and the gardener too, if his evidence matters. And remember what her shoes tellt the Inspector – she’ll know her way about the braes.’
‘It may not be quite so simple,’ Gently mused.
‘Oh, she knows something,’ Brenda said. ‘For Heaven’s sake listen to my intuition, George – she’s as guilty as hell. Don’t defend her.’
‘I won’t defend her. She’s too pretty.’
‘Oh,’ Brenda said. ‘And oh. And oh. Listen to this – she knew enough to use a dirk, to make it seem like the Mafia did it. What about that?’
‘It only may have been a dirk.’
‘She’s got you,’ Brenda said. ‘Her bonny blue een. Wait till you read all about it in the papers my poor, sappy, simpering copper.’