flannelette on a rod sort of thing – and you push that through the barrels. If you’re doing the job properly, you finish it off with gun oil on a lamb’s-wool mop, go over the extractors with a toothbrush to remove any powder that may have got caught, and then go over the metal parts of the gun with an oily cloth. I suppose they’ve dusted the guncleaning equipment for prints?”
“A set of gun-cleaning thingumajigs has gone, says the colonel. And it’ll not surprise you to learn there were no prints on the gun.”
“Checked everyone’s clothes for oil?”
“Not a sign of it. Even Pomfret’s clothes are clean, and you’d expect his shooting clothes would have some oil on them.”
“I think our murderer must have been used to shooting,” said Hamish cautiously.
“Why? It doesn’t take much expertise to go right up to someone and blow a hole in his chest.”
“Well,” sighed Hamish, “here’s what I’m thinking. I don’t believe the murderer could have counted on the captain being conveniently at that fence and in the perfect position to fake a suicide. An amateur might just have loaded two cartridges into the gun before going out. A man used to shooting would automatically fill his pockets with cartridges. The murderer had enough cartridges with him to change his for the captain’s – I mean not only in the gun, but in the captain’s pockets as well. Anyway, we know how it was done. The question is – why? How well did they all know him?”
“Oh, they all knew him, all right. Seems they’ve run into him at various house parties. Everyone very vague. Miss Smythe is the only one who’s definite in her statement. She said she met him two years ago when she and some of her friends went to the Highland Dragoons’ annual rifle shoot. She is also the only one who seems to have liked him. Jessica Villiers and Diana Bryce came in to see Blair together. He told Jessica to go and Diana to stay. The girls exchanged sort of conspiratorial, warning looks. Diana starts patronizing Blair. One meets the same people over and over again in our set, but I don’t suppose someone like you is aware of that’ type of thing. Jessica called in and says the same thing. Blair blows his top and starts bullying them and everyone else. Everyone clams up on the spot. Captain Bartlett could be offensive, they say, but not as offensive as
“And who is the chief suspect?” asked Hamish, rising and filling up Anderson’s glass.
“Thanks. Well, the chief suspect is Jeremy Pomfret. He’s the one who had the bet with Bartlett.”
“Dearie me,” said Hamish. “Mr Pomfret has pots of money, and five thousand pounds to him would be like a five-pound note to me.”
“OK, Sherlock, who would you pick?”
“I think there’s a lot of them with motives,” said Hamish. “I was at a party at the castle the night before the shooting. One minute Vera Forbes-Grant was drooling over Bartlett, and the next, she’d flung her drink in his face. Jessica and Diana had their heads together and they were staring at the captain in hate and horror, as if they’d just learned something awful. Diana started to yaJk to me about how easy it is to die from an accident in the Highlands, and when I said I was the local bobby, she clammed up. I think Freddy Forbes-Grant knows his wife had an affair with Bartlett. I think Sir Humphrey Throgmorton has reason to hate Bartlett as well. The Helmsdales didn’t like him either. Henry Withering knew him. How well, I don’t know.
“As for Jeremy Pomfret, he wanted me to come up to the castle and referee the shoot, but I had to tell him the colonel wouldnae stand for that. He didn’t trust Bartlett and he didn’t like him.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Anderson, “is that this house party is supposed to be so that the chosen few can meet the famous playwright. But most of them seem to have a grudge against Bartlett, and all seem to have known him. Weird that they should all end up at the same house party.”
“Not really,” said Hamish. “Diana was right about meeting the same people. These landed gentry only visit each other, you know, and there’s not that many folk this far north, so it stands to reason you’d end up running into the same people over and over again. I thought you would have known that.”
“Not me,” grinned Anderson. “You don’t often get crime in such elevated circles. The only high-falutin one I was ever on was that fishing one last year, but they were all visitors. I’m a town man, and there’s usually plenty in Strathbane to keep us busy, what with keeping an eye on thae Russians from the Eastern Bloc fleet and trying to smash the poaching gangs. We’ve got those big council estates and most of the folks are unemployed and as tight as ticks with booze from one week’s end to the other.”
“What about the paraffin test?” asked Hamish suddenly.
“Oh, to see if anyone had fired a gun recently? They don’t use the paraffin test any more. They took swabs from everyone’s hands and they’ve taken them back to the lab for tests. But they’re pretty sure the murderer was wearing gloves.”
“So you’re looking for the gloves?”
“Everyone’s going to be up at dawn, combing the grounds,” yawned Anderson. “Then we’re checking up on all the guests. We’ll soon be getting reports from all over. They’re a cagey lot. They must know we’ll find out all about them sooner or later, so you’d think they’d come clean.”
“With someone like Chief Inspector Blair, it’s a pleasure not to help him in anything,” said Hamish.
“He’s not bad when you get to know him. He’s awf’y good at routine work. This is a bit out of his league.”
Hamish picked up the whisky bottle and put it away in a cupboard. Anderson cast a longing look after it before getting to his feet. “Will I pass on to Blair what you said about the motives?” he asked.
Hamish thought of Blair, and then reminded himself severely there was a murderer at large. He shrugged. “Why not?” he said.
“I’ll drop along tomorrow evening,” said Anderson, “and let you know how things are going.”
“Aye, well, that would be grand,” said Hamish reluctantly. He had a very human longing to leave Blair to his own devices and watch him make a muck of the case.
After Anderson had left, Hamish began to wonder if he would be any better than Blair at finding out who the murderer was. And the more he wondered, the more his curiosity took over from his hurt at Blair’s snub.
He went into his office. There would be no harm in making a few calls to various friends and relatives. Like many Highlanders, Hamish had relatives scattered all over the world, and he was thankful he had still a good few of the less ambitious ones in different parts of Scotland.
He walked over to the wall where there was a large faded map of the north of Scotland and gazed at the county of Caithness, finally pinpointing the Bryces’ and Villierses’ estates.
The nearest town to both was Lybster. He sat down at his desk and phoned his fourth cousin, Diarmuid Grant, who had a croft outside Lybster. The conversation took over an hour. Things could not be hurried. There was the weather to be discussed, the decline in the grouse population, the vagaries of tourists, the price of sheep at the Lairg sales, the welfare of Diarmuid’s large brood of children, before the backgrounds of Jessica Villiers and Diana Bryce could be gone into.
By the time he put down the phone, Hamish was conscious of a feeling of excitement. He may as well, he thought, put through a few more calls and find out what he could about the other members of the house party.
By eleven o’clock, he had only gone half-way down the list.
He decided to leave the rest until the morning.
The next day was calm and quiet, ‘a nice soft day’ as they say in Scotland, which means a warm and weeping drizzle.
There was no news from the castle. Even Jessie failed to appear in the village. Hamish politely dealt with any members of the press who turned up. He considered ‘No comment’ too rude a form of dismissal for his Highland taste, served anyone who arrived at the police station with strong tea and biscuits, and sent them on their way to Tommel Castle, turning a deaf ear to their complaints that they had already been there and had been turned away at the gates.
He called in at the grocers-cum-hardware-cum-post-office-cum-off-licence for a bottle of good whisky in anticipation of Anderson’s promised evening visit. He made various phone calls to friends and relatives around Scotland and then to Rory Grant on the
But the long quiet day dripped its way into darkness and there was no sign of the detective.
Again, Hamish felt anger rising up inside him. A proper superior officer would at least have had him out
