Dorothy Sayers - Five Red Herrings

Lord Peter told the story again, with such detail as he thought desirable.

‘That’s exactly like Campbell,’ said Strachan. ‘He walks about — that is, he used to walk about — with his eyes on his canvas and his head in the air, never looking in the least where he was going. I shouted out to him on Sunday to be careful — he couldn’t hear what I said, or pretended he couldn’t, and I actually took the trouble to fag round to the other side of the stream and warn him what a slippery place it was. However, he was merely rude to me, so I left it at that. Well, he’s done it once too often, that’s all.’

‘Oh, don’t speak in that unfeeling tone,’ exclaimed Mrs. Strachan. ‘The poor man’s dead, and though he wasn’t a very nice man, one can’t help feeling sorry about it.’

Strachan had the grace to mutter that he was sorry, and that he never wished any harm to the fellow. He leaned his forehead on his hand, as if his head was aching badly.

‘You seem to have been in the wars a bit yourself,’ remarked Wimsey.

Strachan laughed.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘most ridiculous thing. I was up on the golf-course after breakfast when some putrid fool sliced a ball about a thousand miles off the fairway and got me slap-bang in the eye.’

Mrs. Strachan gave another small squeak of surprise.

‘Oh!’ she said, and then subsided swiftly as Strachan turned his parti-coloured eyes warningly upon her.

‘How tiresome,’ said Wimsey. ‘Who was the blighter?’

‘Haven’t the faintest idea,’ replied Strachan, carelessly. ‘I was completely knocked out for the moment, and when I pulled myself together again and went to spy out the land, I only saw a party of men making off in the distance. I felt too rotten to bother about it I simply made tracks for the club-house and a drink. I’ve got the ball, though — a Silver King. If anybody comes to claim it I shall tell him where he gets off.’

‘It’s a nasty knock,’ said Wimsey, sympathetically, ‘A beautiful specimen of its kind, but uncommonly painful, I expect. It’s come up nicely, hasn’t it? When exactly did you get it?’

‘Oh, quite early,’ said Strachan. ‘About 9 o’clock’ I should think. I went and lay down in my room at the club-house all morning, I felt so rotten. Then I came straight home, so that’s why I hadn’t heard about Campbell. Dash it all, this means a funeral, I suppose. It’s a bit awkward. In the ordinary way we send a wreath from the Club, but I don’t quite know what to do under the circumstances, because last time he was here I told him to send in his resignation.’

‘It’s a nice little problem,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I think I should send one, all the same. Shows a forgiving spirit and all that. Keep your vindictiveness for the person who damaged your face. Whom were you playing with, by the way? Couldn’t he have identified the assassins?’

Strachan shook his head.

‘I was just having a practice round against bogey,’ he said. ‘I caddied for myself, so there were no witnesses.’

‘Oh, I see. Your hand looks a bit knocked about, too. You seem to have spent a good bit of your time in the rough. Well, I really came in to ask you to make up a foursome tomorrow with Waters and Bill Murray and me, but I don’t suppose you’ll, so to speak, feel that your eye is in just yet awhile?’

‘Hardly,’ said Strachan, with a grim smile.

‘Then I’ll be popping off,’ said Wimsey, rising. ‘Cheerio, Mrs. Strachan. Cheerio, old man. Don’t bother to see me off the premises. I know my way out.’

Strachan, however, insisted on accompanying him as far as the gate.

At the corner of the road Wimsey overtook Miss Myra Strachan and her nurse taking an evening stroll. He stopped the car and asked if they would like a little run.

Myra accepted gleefully, and her attendant made no objection. Wimsey took the child up beside him, packed the nurse into the back seat and urged the Daimler Double-Six to show off her best paces.

Myra was delighted.

‘Daddy never goes as fast as this,’ she said, as they topped the tree-hung rise by Cally Lodge and sailed like an aeroplane into the open country.

Wimsey glanced at the speedometer-needle, which was flickering about the 85 mark, and took the corner on a spectacular skid.

‘That’s a fine black eye your Dad’s got,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, isn’t it? I asked him if he’d been fighting, and he told me not to be impertinent. I like fighting. Bobby Craig gave me a black eye once. But I made his nose bleed, and they had to send his suit to the cleaners.’

‘Young women oughtn’t to fight,’ said Wimsey, reprovingly, ‘not even modern young women.’

‘Why not? I like fighting. Oo! look at the cows!’

Wimsey trod hastily on the brake and reduced the Daimler to a lady-like crawl.

‘All the same, I believe he was fighting,’ said Myra. ‘He never came home last night, and Mummy was ever so frightened. She’s afraid of our car, you know, because it goes so fast, but it doesn’t go as fast as yours. Does that cow want to toss us?’

‘Yes,’ said Wimsey. ‘It probably mistakes us for a pancake.’

‘Silly! Cows don’t eat pancakes, they eat oil-cake. I ate some once, but it was very nasty, and I was sick.’

‘Serve you right,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’d better put you down here, or you won’t be back by bed-time. Perhaps I’d better run you part of the way home.’

‘Oh, please do,’ said Myra. ‘Then we can drive the cows and make them run like anything.’

‘That would be very naughty,’ said Wimsey. ‘It isn’t good for cows to run fast. You are an impertinent, bloodthirsty, greedy and unkind young person, and one of these days you’ll be a menace to society.’

‘How lovely! I could have a pistol and a beautiful evening dress, and lure people to opium-dens and stick them up, I think I’d better marry you, because you’ve got such a fast car. That would be useful, you see.’

‘Very,’ said Wimsey, gravely. ‘I’ll bear the idea in mind. But you might not want to marry me later on, you know.’

WATERS

It amused Lord Peter to lead the simple life at Kirkcudbright. Greatly to the regret of the hotel-keepers, he had this year chosen to rent a small studio at the end of a narrow cobbled close, whose brilliant blue gate proclaimed it to the High Street as an abode of the artistically-minded. His explanation of this eccentric conduct was that it entertained him to watch his extremely correct personal man gutting trout and washing potatoes under an outside tap, and receiving the casual visitor with West End ceremony.

As he clattered down the close, picking his way past the conglomeration of bicycles which almost blocked the entrance, Wimsey perceived this efficient person waiting upon the doorstep with an expression which, though strictly controlled, might almost have been called eager.

‘Hullo, Bunter!’ said his lordship, cheerfully. ‘What’s for dinner? I’m feeling uncommonly ready for it. There’s a beautiful corpse up at Creetown.’

‘I apprehended, my lord, that your lordship would be engaged in investigation. Not being certain of the exact hour of your lordship’s return, I thought it wiser, my lord, to prepare a dish of stewed beef with thick gravy and vegetables, which could, in case of necessity, be kept hot without deterioration.’

‘Excellent,’ said his lordship.

‘Thank you, my lord. I understand from the butcher that the portion of the animal which I have been accustomed to call shin of beef is termed in these parts the — er — hough.’

‘I believe you are right, Bunter.’

‘I did not take the man’s word for it,’ said Bunter, with melancholy dignity. ‘I inspected the carcase and ascertained that the correct cut was removed from it.’