‘Yes, but we didn’t know what to make of it. It must have got knocked off in your rough-and-tumble with Farren, and at first we thought it was his, but Mrs. Farren said it wasn’t, so we didn’t know quite what to think.’
‘Well, now you know. The fact that you found it there ought to prove my story pretty well, don’t you think?’
The Chief Constable had been thinking that very thing, but at the sharply triumphant note in Strachan’s voice, a doubt shot through him. What would have been easier than to drop a hat at a suitable place, any time between Tuesday and Friday, as a foundation for this highly dramatic story?
‘Never mind what I think, Mr. Strachan,’ said he. ‘Go on. What did you do next?’
‘Well, I kept on down the burn, and after a time I came in sight of the road and the car. It was just where I had left it, and the dashboard clock made it a quarter past twelve.’
‘Didn’t you see anybody on the way back?’
‘Well, yes — I did see one man. But I — well, I lay doggo till he had passed.’
‘Why?’
Strachan looked rather uncomfortable.
‘Because — well, because I wasn’t exactly ready to answer questions. I didn’t know what had become of Farren. I realised that it looked as though I’d been in the wars, and if Farren’s body was going to be found down a hole or anything it might look rather queer for me.’
‘But surely—’
‘Yes, I know just what you’re going to say. But surely, if I thought that, I ought to have told somebody and got a search-party going. But don’t you see, it was perfectly possible that Farren had come to his senses and gone quietly home. It would have been perfectly idiotic to start a rumpus and make a scandal all about nothing. It seemed to me that the best thing I could do was to get back quietly and find out what really had happened. I had a beast of a time starting up the car. I’d left the lights on the night before, with the idea of finding it again, and the batteries had run down. I had to swing her over with the starting-handle, and it was heavy work. Those Chrysler 70’s have rather a big engine. Still, I managed to get her going after about a quarter of an hour—’
‘Surely you could have got help from the farm.’
Strachan made a gesture of impatience.
‘Haven’t I told you that I didn’t want to attract attention? As a matter of fact, I was afraid all the time that somebody would hear me and come up to see what was happening. But they didn’t. Probably they were all at their dinner. I had an old cap and a motoring coat in the car, so I tidied myself up as best I could, and got on to the back road — the one through Knockeans. It crosses the Skyre Burn just beyond Glen and comes out by Anwoth Auld Kirk. I got back home about half-past one.’
The Chief Constable nodded.
‘Was your family alarmed by your being out all night?’
‘No. I forgot to say that when I got Farren’s note I rang up and told my wife that I’d been called away and that I didn’t want anything said about it.’
‘I see. What did you do when you got home?’
‘I rang up the McClellan Arms in Kirkcudbright and asked them kindly to send a message up to the Farrens to say, would Mr. Farren ring me up about a fishing appointment. The call came through in about half an hour’s time, when I’d had a bath and felt rather better. Mrs. Farren had come down and said Hugh wasn’t at home and could she take a message? I told her to say absolutely nothing to anybody for the moment, but that I would come over and see her after lunch, as I had something rather important to tell her. She gave a bit of a gasp, and I said, had Hugh come home last night, and to answer only yes or no. She said, No. And I said, Had there been any sort of trouble with Campbell? and she said, Yes. So I told her to say nothing about that either, and I would come over as soon as I could.’
‘How much did you tell your wife about all this?’
‘Only that Farren had got himself into a state of mind and left home, and that she was on no account to say anything to anyone about it, or about my having come home so late and in such a pickle. When I’d made myself reasonably presentable, I had some lunch. I needed it by that time.’
‘I expect you did. Did you, in fact, go over to Kirkcudbright afterwards?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
There was something about the Chief Constable’s dogged ‘Why?’ and ‘Why not?’ that was irritating as well as disquieting. Strachan shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘I changed my mind about it.’
‘Why?’
‘I was going to go, of course.’ Strachan appeared to lose the scent for a moment and then went off on a fresh cast. ‘We dine in the middle of the day on account of my little girl. We had roast jiggot of mutton. It wasn’t ready till past two o’clock. That was later than our usual time, of course, but they’d kept it back with the idea that I might turn up. I wanted that mutton, and I didn’t want to appear unusual before the servant. So we took our time over dinner and hadn’t finished till nearly three. About a quarter past three it would be before I was ready to start. I went down to open the gate for the car. I saw Tom Clark coming down from the golf-course. Just opposite my gate he met the Gatehouse policeman. They didn’t see me, because of the hedge.’
The Chief Constable made no comment. Strachan swallowed hard and continued.
‘The constable said, “Is the Provost up at the golf-course?” Clark said, “Ay, he is that.” The constable said, “He’s wanted. Mr. Campbell’s been found lying dead at Newton Stewart.” After that they moved farther up the road, and I didn’t hear any more. So I went back to the house to think about it.’
‘What did you think about it?’
‘I couldn’t make up my mind what to think about it. I couldn’t see how it was going to affect me. But I didn’t feel that it was quite the moment to go up to the Farrens’. It might cause comment. At any rate, I wanted time to consider.’
‘Was that the first you had heard about Campbell?’
‘Of course it was. Why, the news had only just come through.’
‘Did it surprise you?’
‘Naturally.’
‘But you didn’t rush out as anybody else would have done and demand details?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘What the devil do you mean, why? I didn’t, that’s all.’
‘I see. When Lord Peter Wimsey called later in the evening, you still hadn’t been over to Kirkcudbright?’
‘No.’
‘He brought the news of Campbell’s death to your wife. Had she heard about it before?’
‘No. I didn’t know any particulars and I thought it better not to mention it.’
‘Did you tell Lord Peter that you knew about it already?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought my wife would think it odd that I’d said nothing about it to her.’
‘Was anything said about your black eye?’
‘Yes. I gave a — er — fictitious explanation.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t see what business it was of Wimsey’s.’
‘And what did your wife think of that explanation?’
‘I don’t see what business that is of yours.’
‘Were you at that time of the opinion that Farren had committed a murder?’
‘There wasn’t any question of murder at that time.’
‘Precisely, Mr. Strachan. That is what makes your behaviour appear so odd. You went over and saw Mrs. Farren late that night?’
‘I did.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I told her the events of the previous night.’
‘Was that all? You did not, for example, say that you expected a charge of murder to be preferred against Farren and that she was to be very careful what she said to the police?’
Strachan’s eyes narrowed.
‘Isn’t that one of those questions which you are not supposed to ask, nor I to an
swer?’
‘Have it your own way, Mr. Strachan.’ The Chief Constable got up. ‘You seem to be well acquainted with the law. You know, for example, that an accessory to murder after the fact is liable to the same punishment as the principal?’
‘Certainly I do, Sir Maxwell. I also know that you are not allowed to use threats, either overt or implicit, in interrogating a witness. Is there anything further I can do for you?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said the Chief Constable, politely.
Indeed, he thought, as he drove back to Kirkcudbright, Strachan had done quite enough. If the story about the note left on Campbell’s table were true — and he was inclined to believe it — then Strachan had shattered the whole elaborate theory that the police had been building up. For what it meant was clearly this. Either Campbell had been alive after Strachan’s visit — in which case there had been no murder on the Gatehouse-Kirkcudbright road — or else some other person, hitherto unknown, had entered the cottage after midnight, and that person was undoubtedly the murderer.
There was, of course, the possibility that there never had been any note, and that Strachan had found Campbell at home and killed him. This agreed with Ferguson’s evidence. But in that case, why invent the tale about the note at all, unless to throw suspicion on Farren? That was ridiculous, because the only reasonable explanation of Strachan’s conduct otherwise was that he was either shielding Farren or in league with him.
Some other person — some other person. Who could that be? So far, Ferguson’s story had been amply borne out. The first arrival of the car with the body, the second arrival of Strachan — if a third person had arrived, how unfortunate that Ferguson should not have heard him come! Ferguson—
Ferguson.
Yes, well what about Ferguson?
He, of all people, could have entered Campbell’s cottage unnoticed. He had only to walk round and open the door with that convenient key, which he must have seen Campbell hide a hundred times.
But then, that was absurd. Not only had Ferguson got an alibi — the Chief Constable did not set any undue value on alibis — but this theory left one huge question unanswered. Where had Campbell been when Strachan came in? If Strachan had found him there, why should he not have said so?
Suppose Strachan had found Campbell lying there dead — killed by Ferguson at some earlier moment. What then? Was Strachan in league with Ferguson?
Here was a real idea at last. All their difficulties had arisen from supposing that only one artist had been concerned in the crime. Ferguson could have committed the murder and established an alibi by going to Glasgow, while Strachan remained behind to concoct the faked accident and paint the picture.
All that story about fighting Farren and tumbling down a mine was very thin. Strachan had been up at Newton-Stewart all that time. His return by the by-road between Creetown and Anwoth Kirk could probably be proved, and agreed reasonably well with the time necessary for taking the body to the Minnoch, painting the picture and making his escape.
Only — why bring Farren into it? Could Strachan not have invented some better excuse for being out all night than one which involved his best friend? One, too, which was so suspicious in itself? It argued a degree of cold-blooded villainy that one would hardly expect from Strachan.
A clever fellow, though. One who saw the drift of your questions before you asked them. A keen, canny, cautious devil. A man who could think a plan like this out beforehand.
Clever, to think of taking that hat up to Falbae and leaving it there on the edge of the mine-shaft. But he had shown his triumph a bit too openly there.
The Chief Constable felt more satisfied than he had done for some time. He unbent so far as to go and look for Wimsey, to tell him all about it. But Wimsey was not at home.
GRAHAM’S STORY
‘I do wish, Wimsey,’ said Waters, irritably, ‘you would get something to do. Why not go fishing, or take the car out for a run? I can’t paint properly with you snooping round all the time. It puts me off my stroke.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wimsey. ‘It fascinates me. I think the most joyous thing in life is to loaf round and watch another bloke doing a job of work. Look how popular the men are who dig up London with electric drills. Duke’s son, cook’s son, son of a hundred kings — people will stand there for hours on end, with their ear-drums splitting — why? Simply for the pleasure of being idle while other people work.’
‘Very likely,’ said Waters. ‘But the row fortunately prevents them from hearing the workmen’s comments on their behaviour. How would you like me to sit round and watch you detecting things?’
‘That’s different,’ said Wimsey. ‘The essence of detection is secrecy. It has no business to be spectacular. But you can watch me if you like.’
‘Right-ho! You run away and do some detecting, and I’ll come and watch you when I’ve finished this panel.’
‘Don’t disturb yourself,’ said Wimsey, pleasantly. ‘You can watch me now. There’s no charge.’
‘Oh! are you detecting now?’
‘Like anything. If you could take the top of my head off, you would see the wheels whizzing round.’
‘I see. You’re not detecting me, I hope.’
‘Everybody always hopes that.’
Waters glanced at him sharply and uneasily, and laid his palette aside.
‘Look here, Wimsey — you’re not suggesting anything? I’ve told you all about my movements, and I suppose you believe me. The police may be excused for seeing nothing but the obvious, but I should have thought that you at least had common sense. If I had been murdering Campbell, surely I should have taken care to provide myself with a better alibi.’
‘It depends on how clever you are,’ replied Wimsey, coolly. ‘You remember Poe’s bit about that in The Purloined Letter. A very stupid murderer doesn’t bother about an alibi at all. A murderer one degree cleverer says, “If I am to escape suspicion I must have a good alibi.” But a murderer who was cleverer still might say to himself, “Everyone will expect the murderer to provide a first-class alibi; therefore, the better my alibi, the more they will suspect me. I will go one better still; I will provide an alibi which is obviously imperfect. Then people will say that surely, if I had been guilty, I should have provided a better alibi. If I were a murderer myself, that is what I should do.” ’
‘Then you would probably come to a sticky end.’
‘Very likely; because the police might be so stupid that they never got beyond the first step in the reasoning. It’s a pity about that bicycle of yours, isn’t it?’
Waters took up his palette again.
‘I don’t want to discuss this stupid business.’
‘Nor do I. Go on painting. What a lot of brushes you’ve got. Do you use them all?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Waters, sarcastically. ‘I keep them there for swank.’
‘Do you always keep everything in this satchel? It’s just like a woman’s vanity-bag, all higgledy-piggledy.’
‘I can always find things when I want them.’
‘Campbell used a satchel, too.’
‘Then that was a bond of union between us, wasn’t it?’ Waters snatched the satchel, rather impatiently, out of Wimsey’s hands, ferreted out a tube of rose madder, dabbed some paint on his palette, screwed up the tube and tossed it back into the bag again.
‘Do you use rose madder?’ said Wimsey, inquisitively. ‘Some people say it’s such an awkward colour.’
‘It’s handy sometimes — if you know how to use it.’
‘Isn’t it supposed to be rather fugitive?’
‘Yes — I don’t use much of it. Have you been taking an art course?’
‘Something like it. Studying different methods and all that. It’s very interesting. I’m sorry I never saw Campbell at work. He—’
‘For God’s sake, don’t keep harping on Campbell!’
‘No? But I so well remember your saying that you could do a perfectly good imitation of Campbell if you
liked. That was just before he was bumped off — do you remember?’
‘I don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Well, you were a bit tight at the time, and I don’t suppose you meant it. There’s a bit about him in the Sunday Chronicle this week. I’ve got it somewhere. Oh, yes — it says he is a great loss to the artistic world. “His inimitable style,” it says. Still, I suppose they have to say something. “Highly individual technique”: that’s a good phrase. “Remarkable power of vision and unique colour-sense placed him at once in the first rank.” I notice that people who die suddenly generally seem to be in the first rank.’
Waters snorted.
‘I know that fellow who does the Sunday Chronicle stuff. One of the Hambledon gang. But Hambledon is a painter. Campbell took Hambledon’s worst tricks and made a style out of them. I tell you—’
The door of the studio burst open and Jock Graham tumbled in, breathless.
‘I say is Wimsey here? Sorry, Waters, but I must speak to Wimsey. No, it’s all right. I don’t want to take him away. Wimsey, old man, I’m in the most ghastly hole. It’s too awful. Have you heard about it? It’s only just been sprung on me.’
‘Go to, go to,’ said Wimsey, ‘you have heard what you should not. Put on your nightgown, look not so pale. I tell you yet again. Campbell’s dead; ’a cannot come out on’s grave.’
‘I wish he could.’
‘Wake Duncan with thy knocking? I would thou couldst.’
‘Oh, stop drivelling, Wimsey. This really is damnable.’
‘O horror, horror, horror,’ pursued Wimsey, staggering realistically into a corner, ‘tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name it. Where got’st thou that goose-look?’
‘Goose is right enough,’ said Graham. ‘That’s exactly what I’m looking like just now.’
‘Geese are made to be plucked,’ said Wimsey, eyeing him shrewdly, ‘and so are you.’
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