The Case of the Constant Suicides

by John Dickson Carr

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “But haven’t you – er – made a mistake?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” replied the girl, rubbing her arm and staring back at him with increasing coolness.

  Even then he noticed how attractive she was, though she wore very little powder or lipstick, and there was a look of determined severity about her rounded face. She was five feet two inches tall, and pleasantly shaped. She had blue eyes, spaced rather wide apart, a good forehead, and full lips which she tried to keep firmly compressed. She wore tweeds, a blue jumper, and tan stockings with flat-heeled shoes.

  “But this,” he pointed out, “is compartment number four.”

  “Yes. I know that.”

  “Madam, what I am trying to indicate is that it’s my compartment. My name is Campbell. Here it is on the door.”

  “And my name,” retorted the girl, “happens to be Campbell too. And I must insist that it’s my compartment. Will you be good enough to leave, please?”

  She was pointing to the suitcase.

  Alan looked, and looked again. The train rattled and clicked over points, swaying and gathering speed. But what he could not assimilate easily was the meaning of the words painted in tiny white letters on the side of the suitcase.

  K.I. Campbell. Harpenden.

  2

  In Alan’s mind and emotions, incredulity was gradually giving way to something very different.

  He cleared his throat.

  “May I ask,” he said sternly, “what the initials ‘K.I.’ stand for?”

  “Kathryn Irene, of course. My first names. But will you please –?”

  “So!” said Alan. He held up the newspaper. “May I further ask whether you have recently taken part in a disgraceful correspondence in the Sunday Watchman?”

  Miss K.I. Campbell put up a hand to her forehead as though to shade her eyes. She put the other hand behind her to steady herself on the rim of the wash-basin. The train rattled and jerked. A sudden suspicion, and then comprehension, began to grow in the blue eyes.

  “Yes,” said Alan. “I am A.D. Campbell, of University College, Highgate.”

  By his proud and darkly sinister bearing, he might have been saying, “And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu.” It occurred to him that there was something vaguely ridiculous in his position as he inclined his head sternly, threw the paper on the berth, and folded his arms. But the girl did not take it like this.

  “You beast! You weasel! You worm!” she cried passionately.

  “Considering, madam, that I have not had the honor of being formally introduced to you, such terms indicate a degree of intimacy which –”

  “Nonsense,” said K.I. Campbell. “We’re second cousins twice removed. But you haven’t got a beard!”

  Alan instinctively put a hand to his chin.

  “Certainly I have not got a beard. Why should you suppose that I had a beard?”

  “We all thought you had. We all thought you had a beard this long,” cried the girl, putting her hand at about the level of her waist. “And big double-lensed spectacles. And a nasty, dry, sneering way of talking. You’ve got that, though. On top of which, you come bursting in here and knock me about –”

  Belatedly, she began to rub her arm again.

  “Of all the nasty, sneering, patronizing book reviews that were ever written,” she went on, “that one of yours –”

  “There, madam, you show a want of understanding. It was my duty, as a professional historian, to point out certain errors, glaring errors –”

  “Errors!” said the girl. “Glaring errors, eh?”

  “Exactly. I do not refer to the trivial and meaningless point about the Duchess of Cleveland’s hair. I refer to matters of real moment. Your treatment of the elections of 1680, if you will excuse my plain speaking, would make a cat laugh. Your treatment of Lord William Russell was downright dishonest. I do not say that he was as big a crook as your hero Shaftesbury. Russell was merely a muttonhead: ‘of,’ as it was put at the trial, ‘imperfect understanding’; to be pitied, if you like, but not to be pictured as anything except the traitor he was.”

  “You’re nothing,” said K.I. Campbell furiously, “but a beastly Tory!”

  “In reply, I quote no less an authority than Dr Johnson. ‘Madam, I perceive that you are a vile Whig.’”

  Then they stood and looked at each other.

  Alan didn’t ordinarily talk like this, you understand. But he was so mad and so much on his dignity that he could have given points and a beating to Edmund Burke.

  “Who are you, anyway?” he asked in a more normal tone, after a pause.

  This had the effect of putting Kathryn Campbell again on her dignity. She compressed her lips. She drew herself up to the full majesty of five feet two.

  “Though I consider myself under no obligation to answer that question,” she replied, putting on a pair of shell-rimmed glasses which only increased her prettiness, “I don’t mind telling you that I am a member of the department of history at the Harpenden College for Women –”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. And as capable as any man, more so, of dealing with the period in question. Now will you please have the elementary decency to get out of my compartment?”

  “No, I’m damned if I do! It’s not your compartment!”

  “I say it is my compartment.”

  “And I say it’s not your compartment.”

  “If you don’t get out of here, Dr Campbell, I’ll ring the bell for the attendant.”

  “Please do. If you don’t, I’ll ring it myself.”

  The attendant, brought running by two peals on the bell each made by a different hand, found two stately but almost gibbering professors attempting to tell their stories.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the attendant, worriedly consulting his list, “I’m sorry, sir; but there seems to have been a mistake somewhere. There’s only one Campbell down here, without even a ‘Miss’ or a ‘Mr’. I don’t know what to say.”

  Alan drew himself up.

  “Never mind. Not for the world,” he declared loftily, “would I disturb this lady in possession of her ill-gotten bed. Take me to another compartment.”

  Kathryn gritted her teeth.

  “No, you don’t, Dr Campbell. I am not accepting any favors on the grounds of my sex, thank you. Take me to another compartment.”

  The attendant spread out his hands.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I’m sorry, sir. But I can’t do that. There’s not a sleeper to be had on the whole train. Not a seat either, if it comes to that. They’re even standing in third class.”

  “Never mind,” snapped Alan, after a slight pause. “Just let me get my bag from under there, and I’ll stand up in the corridor all night.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said the girl in a different voice. “You can’t do that.”

  “I repeat, madam –”

  “All the way to Glasgow? You can’t do that. Don’t be silly!”

  She sat down on the edge of the berth.

  “There’s only one thing we can possibly do,” she added. “We’ll share this compartment, and sit up all night.”

  A powerful shade of relief went over the attendant.

  “Now, miss, that’s very kind of you! And I know this gentleman appreciates it. Don’t you, sir? If you wouldn’t mind, I’m sure the company’ll make it right with you at the other end. It’s very kind of the lady, isn’t it, sir?”

  “No, it is not. I refuse –”

  “What’s the matter, Dr Campbell?” asked Kathryn, with icy sweetness. “Are you afraid of me? Or is it that you just daren’t face historical fact when it is presented to you?”

  Alan turned to the attendant. Had there been room, he would have pointed to the door with a gesture as dramatic as that of a father turning out his child into the storm in an old-fashioned melodrama. As it was, he merely banged his hand on the ventilator. But the attendant understood.

  “Then that’s all right, sir. Good ni
ght.” He smiled. “It shouldn’t be so unpleasant, should it?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Kathryn demanded sharply.

  “Nothing, miss. Good night. Sleep – I mean, good night.”

  Again they stood and looked at each other. They sat down, with mutual suddenness, at opposite ends of the berth. Though they had been fluent enough before, now that the door was closed they were both covered with pouring self-consciousness.

  The train was moving slowly: steadily, yet with a suggestion of a jerk, which probably meant a raider somewhere overhead. It was less hot now that air gushed down the ventilator.

  It was Kathryn who broke the tension of self-consciousness. Her expression began as a superior smile, turned into a giggle, and presently dissolved in helpless laughter. Presently Alan joined in.

  “Sh-h!” she urged in a whisper. “We’ll disturb the person in the next compartment. But we have been rather ridiculous, haven’t we?”

  “I deny that. At the same time –”

  Kathryn removed her spectacles and wrinkled up her smooth forehead.

  “Why are you going north, Dr Campbell? Or should I say Cousin Alan?”

  “For the same reason, I suppose, that you are. I got a letter from a man named Duncan, who bears the impressive title of Writer to the Signet.”

  “In Scotland,” said Kathryn, with a cutting condescension, “a Writer to the Signet is a lawyer. Really, Dr Campbell! Such ignorance! Haven’t you ever been in Scotland?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Well – not since I was a little girl. But I do take the trouble to keep myself informed, especially about my own flesh and blood. Did the letter say anything else?”

  “Only that old Angus Campbell had died a week ago; that such few members of the family as could be found were being informed; and could I find it convenient to come up to the Castle of Shira, at Inveraray, for a family conference? He made it clear that there was no question of inheritance, but not quite so clear what he meant by ‘family conference.’ I used it as a good excuse to get leave for a much-needed holiday.”

  Kathryn sniffed. “Really, Dr Campbell! Your own flesh and blood!”

  And Alan found his exasperation rising again.

  “Oh, look here! I’d never even heard of Angus Campbell. I looked him up, through a very complicated genealogy, and found that he’s a cousin of my father. But I never knew him, or anybody near him. Did you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “In fact, I’d never even heard of the Castle of Shira. How do we get there, by the way?”

  “At Glasgow, you take a train to Gourock. At Gourock you get a boat across to Dunoon. At Dunoon you hire a car and drive out round Loch Fyne to Inveraray. You used to be able to go from Dunoon to Inveraray by water, but they’ve stopped that part of the steamer service since the war.”

  “And what is that in? The Highlands or the Lowlands?”

  This time Kathryn’s glance was withering.

  Alan would not pursue the matter further. He had a hazy idea that in estimating the Lowlands or the Highlands, you just drew a line across the map of Scotland about the middle; that the upper part would be the Highlands, the lower part the Lowlands; and there you were. But now he felt somehow that it could not be quite as simple as this.

  “Really, Dr Campbell! It’s in the Western Highlands, of course.”

  “This Castle of Shira,” he pursued, allowing (though with reluctance) his imagination some play. “It’s a moated-grange sort of place, I suppose?”

  “In Scotland,” said Kathryn, “a castle can be almost anything. No: it’s not a big place like the Duke of Argyll’s castle. Or at least I shouldn’t think so from photographs. It stands at the entrance to Glen Shira, a little way off from Inveraray by the edge of the loch. It’s rather a slatternly-looking stone building with a high tower. “But it’s got a history. You, as a historian, of course wouldn’t know anything about that. That’s what makes it all so interesting: the way Angus Campbell died.”

  “So? How did he die?”

  “He committed suicide,” returned Kathryn calmly. “Or he was murdered.”

  The Penguin novel which Alan had brought along was bound in green for a crime thriller. He did not read such things often, but he considered it his duty, sometimes, in the way of relaxation. He stared from this back to Kathryn’s face.

  “He was – what?” Alan almost yelped.

  “Murdered. Of course you hadn’t heard about that either? Dear me! Angus Campbell jumped or was thrown from a window at the top of the tower.”

  Alan searched his wits.

  “But wasn’t there an inquest?”

  “They don’t have inquests in Scotland. In the event of a suspicious death, they have what is called a ‘public inquiry,’ under the direction of a man named the Procurator Fiscal. But if they think it’s murder, they don’t hold the public inquiry at all. That’s why I’ve been watching the Glasgow Herald all week, and there’s been no report of an inquiry. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, of course.”

  The compartment was almost cool. Alan reached out and twisted the mouth of the ventilator, which was hissing beside his ear. He fished in his pocket.

  “Cigarette?” he offered, producing a packet.

  “Thanks. I didn’t know you smoked. I thought you used snuff.”

  “And why,” said Alan with austerity, “should you imagine that I used snuff?”

  “It got into your beard,” explained Kathryn, making motions of intense disgust. “And dropped all over everywhere. It was horrid. Big-breasted hussy, anyway!”

  “Big-breasted hussy? Who?”

  “The Duchess of Cleveland.”

  He blinked at her. “But I understood, Miss Campbell, that you were the lady’s particular champion. For nearly two and a half months you’ve been vilifying my character because you said I vilified hers.”

  “Oh, well. You seemed to have a down on her. So I had to take the other side, hadn’t I?”

  He stared at her.

  “And this,” he said, whacking his knee, “this is intellectual honesty!”

  “Do you call it intellectual honesty when you deliberately sneered at and patronized a book because you knew it had been written by a woman?”

  “But I didn’t know it had been written by a woman. I specifically referred to you as ‘Mr Campbell,’ and –”

  “That was only to throw people off the track.”

  “See here,” pursued Alan, lighting her cigarette with a somewhat shaky hand, and lighting his own. “Let us get this straight. I have no down on women scholars. Some of the finest scholars I’ve ever known have been women.”

  “Listen to the patronizing way he says that!”

  “The point is, Miss Campbell, that it would have made no difference to my notice whether the writer of the book had been a man or a woman. Errors are errors, whoever writes them.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. And for the sake of truth will you now admit to me, strictly in private and between ourselves, that you were all wrong about the Duchess of Cleveland being small and auburn-haired?”

  “I most certainly will not!” cried Kathryn, putting on her spectacles again and setting her face into its severest lines.

  “Listen!” he said desperately. “Consider the evidence! Let me quote to you an example, an instance I could hardly have used in the newspaper. I refer to Pepys’s story –”

  Kathryn looked shocked.

  “Oh, come, Dr Campbell! You, who pretend to be a serious historian, actually give any credit to a story which Pepys received at third hand from his hairdresser?”

  “No, no, no, madam. You persist in missing the point. The point is not whether the story is true or apocryphal. The point is that Pepys, who saw the lady so often, could have believed it. Very well! He writes that Charles the Second and the Duchess of Cleveland (who was then Lady Castlemaine) weighed each other; ‘and she, being with child, was the heavier.’ When we remember that Charles, though
lean, was six feet tall and on the muscular side, this makes out the lady to be rather a fine figure of a woman.

  “Then there is the account of her mock marriage with Frances Stewart, in which she acted the part of the bridegroom. Frances Stewart was herself no flyweight. But is it reasonable to suppose that the part of the bridegroom was enacted by the smaller and lighter woman?”

  “Pure inference.”

  “An inference, I submit, warranted by the facts. Next we have Reresby’s statement –”

  “Steinmann says –”

  “Reresby makes quite clear –”

  “Hey!” interrupted an exasperated voice from the next compartment, followed by a rapping on the metal door. “Oi!”

  Both disputants instantly piped down. For a long time there was a guilty silence, broken only by the flying click and rattle of the wheels.

  “Let’s turn out the light,” whispered Kathryn, “and draw the blackout, and see what’s going on outside.”

  “Right.”

  The click of the light-switch appeared to satisfy the disturbed occupant of the next compartment.

  Pushing aside Kathryn’s suitcase in the dark, Alan pulled back the sliding metal shutter from the window.

  They were rushing through a dead world, pitch-black except where, along a purple horizon, moved a maze of searchlights. Jack’s beanstalk went no higher than these white beams. The white lines shuttled back and forth, in unison, like dancers. They heard no noise except the click of the wheels: not even the waspish, coughing drone of war-war, war-war, which marks the cruising bomber.

  “Do you think he’s following the train?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A sense of intimacy, uneasy and yet exhilarating, went through Alan Campbell. They were both crowded close to the window. The two cigarette-ends made glowing red cores, reflected in the glass, pulsing and dimming. He could dimly see Kathryn’s face.

  The same powerful self-consciousness suddenly overcame them again. They both spoke at the same time, in a whisper.

  “The Duchess of Cleveland –”