Noonday and Night (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  “But you never saw any of his paintings? He never attempted to interest you in his work?”

  “Oh, no. He was not the type of man to take advantage”—she giggled again—“not of any sort.”

  “How unenterprising of him! Tell me, Mrs. White—you must know your husband’s boatyard pretty well—would it be possible for anybody to get into it after dark and borrow a boat?”

  “Oh, I daresay you could get into the yard easy enough, but it wouldn’t do you much good. My husband hasn’t got any big boats with properly bedded engines. His are all little things with outboard motors and those are all removed and locked up at night. Then he’s got one or two small yachts, but the sails are all stowed in the sail lockers while they’re at the boatyard.”

  “But if you owned a car and your own outboard motor, you could make shift to borrow a boat and then put it back without anybody being the wiser?”

  “No, I don’t believe you could,” said Mrs. White. “There are guard dogs at the next yard and I’m sure they’d create if anybody got into my husband’s place after dark.”

  “Guard dogs? I thought everybody trusted everybody else in the Highlands.”

  “There was a gang of roughs—Glasgow Irish—up here on the spree the year before last and a lot of damage was done, that’s why the dogs are there.”

  “I see. When was Mr. Carstairs last in residence next door?”

  “He drove off in his car the day before the party went to Skye. He drove off at about midday and they pulled in for the night at about six and went to Skye the next morning, like I told you before.”

  “And the driver disappeared some time that same night. I see.”

  “So Willie wasn’t drowned in Yarrow,” said Laura, “if the murderer didn’t commandeer a boat, and so the chances are that he is still alive.”

  “We cannot assume that. I had hoped to be able to prove that Knight spent the time when he was supposed to be on sick leave in carrying out those smuggling operations which, rightly or wrongly, I have assumed to be at the bottom of this business. It seems now that we must adjust our ideas.”

  “Yes, I see that; but if Carstairs isn’t Knight, who is he? If he isn’t Knight—and we can take that for granted after the descriptions we’ve had of both of them—he may not be mixed up in this business at all. You said, a while ago, that you thought we’d been persuaded to come up here on a wild-goose chase. Isn’t it time we went back and had another word with Basil Honfleur about Knight?”

  “You may well be right. Let us sleep on it. I will make up my mind in the morning.”

  Laura guessed that Dame Beatrice was dissatisfied with their progress. The theory that Knight and Carstairs were the same person had appeared promising, although, except for Knight’s sick leave and Carstairs’ comings and goings, there had been little to support it. Now, however, there seemed no way to connect the two men. Knight might or might not still be alive; Carstairs might or might not be the commercial traveller and/or the roving artist that Mrs. White took him to be. The only suspicious circumstance about him, in fact, was that, as he seemed to be in residence there so seldom and so intermittently, he should have purchased a bungalow in Saighdearan at all, considering that there were a hotel and a motel on the spot which he could use.

  In any case, thought Laura, lying fully dressed, except for her shoes, on her comfortable hotel bed at eleven o’clock that night, Saighdearan seemed an unlikely place for a commercial traveller to buy a pied-à-terre, although it might suit an artist.

  “I’m still sure we’re right, and there’s more to our Mr. Carstairs than meets the eye,” said Laura, to the four walls of her room, “and I’m dashed if I don’t go and have a snoop around that place of his.”

  When, having put on her shoes and an anorak when she had changed her dinner-frock for slacks and a sweater, she got into the hotel yard, the last of the bar customers were leaving and there was conversation, laughter, and much revving up of cars.

  Laura strolled out on to the road, crossed to the loch-side footpath, and strolled onwards in the direction of Fort William.

  The night was luminous, although there was only the sliver of a new moon. The waters of the loch washed very gently towards the stony shores, stirred slightly by a night-wind and the far-off tides beyond Lismore Island and Oban.

  Gradually the noise of the cars died away as the customers of the hotel bar made their homeward journeys. Laura strolled on, enjoying the night air and the blessed silence of stars, mountains, and the deep, dark water, the latter flashing now and again into moon-tipped wavelets as the currents made their infinitesimal movements.

  Except for an occasional car which swept by at speed along the otherwise deserted road, she might have been alone in the world. On the other side of the loch was the awful majesty of the Ardgour mountains. In front of her lay Lochaber and somewhere away to the east was the vast Killiechonate Forest and the awe-inspiring massif of Ben Nevis.

  It occurred to Laura that it might be interesting to pay a visit to MacGregor White’s boatyard, but then she remembered the guard dogs near by who could be trusted to give warning of her approach. Besides, except that they were Carstairs’ only near neighbours, there was nothing to connect the Whites with him, so she began to retrace her steps towards the hotel and, when she reached the spot opposite the lane which led up to the two bungalows, she crossed the road and began the steep ascent.

  There were no lights in the Whites’ bungalow. Laura opened the gate which led to Carstairs’ front door and took to the small lawn to avoid the sound of her footsteps on the path. The path continued, however, round the side of the building away from the Whites’ property, so she followed it round to the back.

  Whether the bungalow was empty, or whether the occupant was in residence again, there was no way of telling except by knocking on the door and this Laura, who could think of no reason she could give for calling at such an hour, was unwilling to risk. Having conceived the idea of inspecting the interior, however, she was hoping to find some means of ingress, regardless of the chance of being caught in the criminal act of breaking and entering, or whatever that was called under Scottish law. Herself a Highlander by birth and ancestry, she still had little knowledge of the legal terminology of her native land.

  Cautiously she tried the back door, but it was locked. This appeared to indicate that the bungalow was empty of human kind, for few people in the Highlands, as in the English countryside, trouble to lock up, even at night, if the house is tenanted.

  There were three windows at the back of the bungalow. Laura, prowling past them, diagnosed them as belonging to kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. A side window which she passed could be that of a second bedroom, she thought. She ignored it, since from it the light from a small torch she had brought with her could be seen from the road if anybody was passing. At the back of the bungalow, however, apart from a very small garden, there was nothing but the hillside, so, having halted and listened for a while, she switched on the torch and inspected the back windows.

  Her conclusions, so far as the kitchen and the bedroom were concerned, proved to be correct and, as the third window was made of opaque glass, she decided that she was right about that also. It was the only sash window, she noticed; the other two were casements. It was almost as though it had been put in especially for her purpose.

  “Oh, well, here goes for the bathroom, then,” thought Laura. “Better take my shoes off.” She did this, laid them on the sill of the adjacent bedroom window, and, taking a stout bowie knife from the pocket of her anorak, she slipped back the catch of the bathroom window. “Here, I expect, is where I break my neck,” she thought, as she pushed up the lower sash.

  Kneeling on the narrow sill, she shone her torch into the room. Fortunately the window was fairly wide and it was not above either the bath or the washbasin. The lid of the WC, which was directly under the window, was down. This was an unexpected bit of luck. Her stockinged foot slipped on the wooden lid of the WC but she held
on, retained her balance, and stepped down on to the bathroom floor.

  The bathroom door was locked on the inside. This seemed a curious circumstance. It looked as though the last occupant of the bungalow must have left it by the same means as Laura had managed to enter it. She turned the key, waited and listened, and then opened the door.

  Feeling that in for a penny was in for a pound, she tried the door which was next to the bathroom. It opened into a bedroom and here all was confusion. The bedclothes and two pillows were on the floor, the mattress was half on and half off the bed, a small cupboard on the wall was wide open, and so were the drawers of a dressing chest.

  Laura shone her torch round and about, took in the scene, and then continued her exploration of the bungalow. But for the sitting-room, which appeared to have no key, all the rooms (the bathroom having been the sole exception) were locked on the outside, so at every door she listened carefully before she turned the key and went in, but nowhere else was in the same state of disorder as the bedroom she had entered.

  “Wonder whether they found what they were looking for?” she said aloud. She returned to the bedroom. As it overlooked the hillside and not the road, she judged that it would be safe to switch on the electric light. She did this and then noticed what the beam of her torch had been too limited in scope to disclose. The tumbled bedclothes were stained with blood.

  “Here’s a nice how d’ye do!” muttered Laura. The thought that she was unlawfully on enclosed premises with every chance of being in company with a dead body was not an encouraging one. Still less encouraging, because it changed speculation into certainty, was the sight of a black shoe and a sock-clad ankle sticking out from under the tumbled bed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PISTOL AND DAGGER

  There was a telephone in the hall. Laura’s first instinct was to ring up the police, but she realised that Dame Beatrice, whose hearing remained unimpaired by age, would have heard her leave her room. She would probably sit up and read until one o’clock in the morning and, long before that, would anticipate Laura’s return, so she looked up the number of the hotel and rang the office.

  “I want to speak to Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley,” she said.

  “Who is that speaking?”

  “Her secretary, Mrs. Gavin.”

  “I will put you through.”

  “I say, Dame B,” said Laura, when they were connected and she heard her employer’s voice come over the line, “I’m stuck here at Carstairs’ bungalow until the police come, so don’t worry if I’m kept here half the night. I’ve found a body.”

  “Whose?”

  “I don’t know. I only saw a man’s shoe and a bit of his sock, but there’s blood all over the place.”

  “I see. You have kept all the rules except that against breaking and entering, I hope.”

  “I haven’t touched a thing except a window sash, door-keys, and one electric light switch, if that’s what you mean. I’m now going to ring the police.”

  “Do nothing so foolish. Wipe your fingerprints off that telephone and come back here at once.”

  “And my other prints?”

  “Wipe them off if you know what you have touched, but hurry here. I will explain when I see you.”

  “Right.” Laura did as she was told, left the bungalow by the bathroom window, which she had left open, and returned to the hotel.

  “Why hadn’t I to ring up the police?” she asked.

  “Because I have just done so myself. There is no point in your having to confess to an illegal act, still less that you have been on premises which house a dead body. Your telephone call to me must be regarded as an anonymous one. You may leave the necessary evasions to me. Meanwhile, change those clothes for the dress you wore at dinner. When the police arrive…”

  “Won’t they go straight to Carstairs’ bungalow?”

  “I think not. I have told them that the dead man may be the coach-driver we are looking for and, if so, that the manager here will be able to identify him and that, with the information I have gained, I should be able, with your help, to confirm that identification.”

  “Why should anybody ring you up and not ourselves?” asked the inspector, when he arrived in company with a sergeant.

  “I should imagine that whoever it was left me to communicate with you rather than involve himself directly. Besides, by this time, everybody in the neighbourhood probably knows my errand, which is to find this missing coach-driver.”

  “And ye’ll be thinking that somebody else has found him?”

  “It is not impossible. He disappeared from this hotel.”

  “Aye.” The hotel manager, who was drinking a quiet nightcap in his private sitting-room, was told to stand by in case he was wanted and, accompanied by Laura, Dame Beatrice went with the police to the bungalow. The inspector cut a small pane of glass out of the front door, reached for the knob inside which operated the lock, and in they all went.

  “Did your caller say in which room the body was to be found?” the inspector enquired when he had closed the front door and switched on the hall light.

  “No,” Dame Beatrice truthfully replied, for this information had not been supplied by Laura over the telephone. (“I admired that answer of yours. It was given, like Kipling says, ‘with steadfastness and careful truth,’” Laura commented later).

  “Oh, well, the bungalow isna a’ that lairge. We’ll find it soon enough if it’s here,” the inspector remarked. “Will ye kindly bide here while I look around?”

  He was back with them in a few minutes.

  “It is true, then?” Dame Beatrice enquired.

  “Och, aye, it is true enough, although I’m not surprised ye were sceptical. Whoever did it had pushed the body under the bed. It’s naebody we ken, so maybe you would tak’ a look at it yourself, ma’am, and tell us do you recognise it. It’s no sie a terrible sight. A quick stab in the back by somebody wha kenned juist whaur to plant a knife. The doctor will be here directly, but there’s nae doubt about what happened.”

  “No signs of a struggle?”

  “The mon was taken unaware, maist likely, but the intruder was a burglar. The room’s in an awfu’ mess.”

  “Have you found the weapon?”

  “We have not. We dinna look for that kind of help frae murderers.”

  Dame Beatrice and Laura followed him into the bedroom. The bed had been pulled away from the wall by the police, leaving the corpse where it had been so rudely thrust. It was clad in pyjama trousers, shoes, and socks, and was lying on its face so that the angry gash in its back was clearly visible in the strong electric light.

  “Do ye put a name on him?” asked the inspector. Dame Beatrice and Laura exchanged glances, but said nothing. “There is no reason not to move him,” the inspector continued, “since he has been moved already. Turn him over, sergeant.” The sergeant obliged, and both Dame Beatrice and Laura recognised the man immediately. The inspector went on: “We’ll need to get MacDonald frae the hotel to take a look at him, I daresay, and I maun rouse the couple next door. They should be able to help us, I think, to put a name on him.”

  “By the way, Inspector,” said Dame Beatrice, “I suppose the bloodstains on the bedding will be analysed?”

  “Analysed? For what purpose, ma’am? There’s nae doubt they came from the wound in the deid mon’s back.”

  “There is probably no doubt at all, but it might be interesting to make sure.”

  The inspector looked perplexed.

  “I ken well that ye’ve a great reputation, ma’am,” he said, “so a hint from you is as good as a nod, as they say. Will ye no tell me what is in your mind?”

  “Nothing, except that I believe in making certain that what we take as evidence really is evidence, that is all. I mean, suppose this blood proves to correspond with that of the dead man, well and good. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that his blood happened to belong to a different group, would that not cause us to think that this death is n
ot the result of murder but of a fight to the death in which the assailant was also wounded?”

  The inspector scratched his head, but promised that the comparison should be carried out.

  “And now what about the identification?” he asked.

  “He is not the missing coach-driver,” said Dame Beatrice, “but I have seen this man before. I do not know his full name. He was introduced to me merely as Vittorio. He is a one-time friend of Mr. Honfleur of County Motors. Incidentally, the nature of the wound, its position, and the fact that only one blow appears to have been struck, relate it to the other two bodies I have seen.”

  “Aye. Well, if it is the mon ye say, maybe MacDonald at the hotel will not know him. Weel, now, ye’d like to get to your beds, yoursel’ and Mistress Gavin, but before ye leave, tell me what you make of these.”

  He whipped up the pyjama jacket which matched the trousers the corpse was wearing. It was lying on the bedside table as though the man had discarded it during the night, but when the inspector twitched it aside there seemed little doubt that it had been placed on the bedside table to hide what lay beneath.

  “I dinna ken what the thief was looking for, the way he had the place turned upside down,” the inspector said, “but if it was these wee pistols, well, he didna look in the right place. We found them on the floor between the body and the wall.”

  Dame Beatrice did not need a warning not to touch the exhibits. She produced a magnifying glass and studied them closely.

  “I am not an expert in these matters,” she said, “but these very fine pistols were made, I should say, during the late seventeenth century. They remind me very much of a pair I have seen in the White Tower of London. If I am not mistaken, they are the work of Pierre Monlong, a Huguenot gunmaker who was appointed Gentleman Armourer to Dutch William, the husband of that Princess Mary who was the daughter of King James the Second and who became joint sovereign of England in 1689 with her husband.”