Dorothy Sayers - Five Red Herrings

Sir Maxwell retreated cautiously on hands and knees from the precipice, which, to his prejudiced eyes, appeared to be about two hundred feet in depth, rolled over and sat up.

‘Oh, God!’ he said, rubbing his legs. ‘What have I done to deserve all this?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Wimsey. ‘If you had been really dead, you know, you wouldn’t have noticed it. But I didn’t like to go as far as that. Well, now we’ve got an hour and a half, I ought to paint the picture, but, as that is beyond me, I thought we might have a little picnic. There’s some grub in the other car. They’re just bringing it up.’

‘I could do with something to drink,’ said Sir Maxwell.

‘You shall have it. Hullo! Somebody’s coming. We’ll give them a start. Get under the rug again, sir.’

The distant clack of a farm-lorry was making itself heard in the distance. The Chief Constable hurriedly snatched up the rug and froze. Wimsey sat down before the easel and assumed brush and palette.

Presently the lorry loomed into sight over the bridge. The driver, glancing across with natural interest at the spot where the tragedy had taken place, suddenly caught sight of the easel, the black hat and the conspicuous cloak. He gave vent to one fearful yell and rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The lorry went leaping and crashing forward, scattering the stones right and left in its mad progress. Wimsey laughed. The Chief Constable sprang up to see what was happening and laughed too. In a few minutes the rest of the party joined them, so agitated with laughter that they could scarcely hold the parcels they were carrying.

‘Och, mon!’ said Dalziel, ‘but that was grand! That was young Jock. Did ye hear the skelloch he let oot? He’s away noo tae tell the folks at Clauchaneasy that auld Campbell’s ghaist is sittin’ up pentin’ pictures at the Minnoch.’

‘I trust the poor lad will come to no harm with his lorry,’ observed the Fiscal. ‘He appeared to me to be driving at a reckless pace.’

‘Never mind him,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Lads like that have nine lives. But I’m dying of hunger and thirst, if you are not. Half-past five is a terrible hour for breakfast.’

The picnic was a cheerful one, though it was a little disturbed by the return of Jock, supported by a number of friends, to view the phenomenon of a ghost in broad daylight.

‘This is getting rather public,’ said Wimsey.

Sergeant Dalziel grunted, and strode down to warn the spectators off, his stalwart jaws still champing a wedge of veal and ham pie. The hills returned to their wonted quiet.

At 11.25 Wimsey rose regretfully.

‘Corpse-time,’ he said. ‘Here, Sir Maxwell, is the moment when you go bumpety-bump into the water.’

‘Is it?’ said the Chief Constable, ‘I draw the line there.’

‘It would make you rather a wet-blanket on the party,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, we’ll suppose it done. Pack up, you languid aristocrats, and return to your Rolls-Royce, while I pant and sweat upon this confounded bicycle. We had better take away the Morris and the rest of the doings. There’s no point in leaving them.’

He removed Campbell’s cloak and changed the black hat for his own cap, then retrieved the bicycle from its hiding-place, and strapped the attaché-case to the carrier. With a grunt of disgust he put on the tinted spectacles, threw his leg across the saddle and pedalled furiously away. The others packed themselves at leisure into the two cars. The procession wound out upon the Bargrennan road.

Nine and a half miles of crawling in the wake of the bicycle brought them to Barrhill. Just outside the village, Wimsey signalled a halt.

‘Look here,’ said he. ‘Here’s where I have to guess. I guess that Ferguson meant to catch the 12.35 here, but something went wrong. It’s 12.33 now, and I could do it. The station is just down that side-road there. But he must have started late and missed it. I don’t know why. Listen! There she comes!’

As he spoke, the smoke of the train came in view. They heard her draw up into the station. Then, in a few minutes, she panted away again.

‘Well on time,’ said Wimsey. ‘Anyway, we’ve missed her now. She’s a local as far as Girvan. Then she turns into an express, only stopping at Maybole before she gets to Ayr. Then she becomes still more exalted by the addition of a Pullman Restaurant Car, and scorns the earth, running right through to Paisley and Glasgow. Our position is fairly hopeless, you see. We can only carry on through the village and wait for a miracle.’

He remounted and pedalled on, glancing back from time to time over his shoulder. Presently, the sound of an overtaking car made itself heard. An old Daimler limousine, packed with cardbord dress-boxes, purred past at a moderate twenty-two or three miles and hour. Wimsey let it pass him, then, head down and legs violently at work, swung in behind it. In another moment, his hand was on the ledge of the rear window, and he was free-wheeling easily in its wake. The driver did not turn his head.

‘A-ah!’ said Macpherson, ‘It’s our friend Clarence Gordon, by Jove! And him tellin’ us he’d passed the man on the road. Ay, imph’m, an’ he wad be tellin’ nae mair nor less than the truth. We’ll hope his lordship’s no killt.’

‘He’s safe enough,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘providing his tyres hold out. That’s a very long-headed young man, for all his blether. At this rate, we’ll be beating the train all right. How far is it to Girvan?’

‘Aboot twelve miles. We ought tae pass her at Pinmore. She’s due there at 12.53.’

‘Let’s hope Clarence Gordon keeps his foot down. Go gently, Macpherson. We don’t want to overtake him.’

Clarence Gordon was a careful driver, but acted nobly up to expectation. He positively put on a spurt after passing Pinwherry, and as they attacked the sharp rise to Pinmore, they caught sight of the black hinder-end of the train labouring along the track that ran parallel and close to the road. As they topped the hill, and left the train behind them, Wimsey waved his hat. They span merrily along, bearing to the left and winding down towards the sea. At five minutes past one, the first houses of Girvan rose about them. The pursuer’s hearts beat furiously as the train now caught them up again on their right and rushed past them towards Girvan Station. At the end of the town, Wimsey let go his hold on the car, sprinting away for dear life to the right down the station road. At eight minutes past he was on the platform, with three minutes to spare. The police force, like the ranks of Tuscany, could scarce forbear to cheer. Leaving Dalziel to arrange for the safe keeping of the cars, Macpherson ran to the booking office and took three first-class tickets to Glasgow. As he passed Wimsey on the platform, he saw him unstrapping the attaché-case and heard him cry to the porters in an exaggerated Oxford accent: ‘Heah! portah! label this bicycle for Ayr.’ And as he turned from the booking-window the porter’s urgent voice came right in his ear:

‘One first and a bicycle-ticket to Ayr, and make it quick, laddie. I must be gettin’ back tae my gentleman.’

They tumbled out on to the platform. The bicycle was being bundled into the rear van. They leapt for their carriage. The whistle blew. They were off.

‘Gosh!’ said Wimsey, wiping his face. And then: ‘Damn this thing, it’s like a fly-paper.’

In his left hand, concealed by the hat which he had removed for the sake of coolness, he held something which he now displayed with a grin. It was a luggage-label for Euston.

‘Simple as shelling peas,’ he said laughing. ‘I pinched it while he was wheeling the bike off to the van. All ready gummed, too. They do things handsomely on the L.M.S. Fortunately the pigeon-hole was labelled, so I didn’t have to hunt for it. Well, that’s that. Now we can take a breather. There’s nothing else till we get to Ayr.’