Five Red Herrings by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

painting-coat hung behind the door, and Wimsey inspected it inside and out with some care, but seemed to find nothing in it worthy of attention. He filled a cup at the tap, with his eyes roving about the room. The studio-easel stood in its place with a half-finished canvas upon it. The small sketching-easel was propped against the sink, strapped up. Farren had not gone out to paint, evidently.
    The water, splashing on his hand, reminded him of what he was supposed to be there for. He wiped the cup and turned to leave the studio. As he did so, he caught sight of Farren’s fishing-tackle standing in the corner behind the door. Two trout-rods, a salmon-rod, net, gaff, creel and waders. Well, there might be a fourth rod, of course, and one can fish without creel or waders. But, standing there so quietly, the things had a look of settled completeness.
    He returned to the sitting-room. Mrs. Farren waved the cup impatiently aside.
    ‘Thank you — I don’t need it. I told you I didn’t. I’m quite all right.’ Her worried and sleepless eyes belied her. Wimsey felt that he was being a brute, but somebody would be asking questions soon enough. As well he as the police, he thought.
    ‘Your husband ought to be here soon,’ he said. ‘The news will be all over the country by now. It’s surprising, really, he hasn’t got back already. You don’t know at all where he is?’
    ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
    ‘I mean, I’d gladly take a message or do anything like that.’
    ‘Why should you? Thank you all the same. But really, Lord Peter, you talk as though the death were in my family. We knew Mr. Campbell very well, of course, but after all, there’s no reason for me to be so prostrated as all that. . I’m afraid I may sound callous—’
    ‘Not at all. I only thought you looked a bit upset. I’m very glad you’re not. Perhaps I misunderstood—’
    ‘Perhaps you did,’ she said in an exhausted voice. Then she seemed to gather up her spirits a little, and turned upon him almost eagerly.
    ‘I was sorry for Mr. Campbell. He was a bitterly unpopular man, and he felt that more than people ever realised. He had a perpetual grudge against everybody. That’s unattractive. And the more you hate everybody for hating you, the more unattractive you grow and the more they go on hating you. I understood that. I don’t like the man. One couldn’t. But I tried to be fair. I daresay people did misunderstand. But one can’t stop going what’s right because people misunderstand, can one?’
    ‘No,’ said Wimsey. ‘If you and your husband—’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Hugh and I understood one another.’
    Wimsey nodded. She was lying, he thought. Farren’s objections to Campbell had been notorious. But she was the kind of woman who, if once she set out to radiate sweetness and light, would be obstinate in her mission. He studied the rather full, sulky mouth and narrow, determined forehead. It was the face of a woman who would see only what she wished to see — who would think that one could abolish evils from the world by pretending that they were not there. Such things, for instance, as jealousy or criticism of herself. A dangerous woman, because a stupid woman. Stupid and dangerous, like Desdemona.
    ‘Well, well,’ he said lightly. ‘Let’s hope the truant will turn up soon. He promised to show me some of his stuff. I’m very keen to have a look at it. I daresay I shall meet him as I buzz about the country. On his bike, as usual, I suppose?’
    ‘Oh, yes, he’s got his bicycle with him.’
    ‘I think there are more bicycles per head of the population in Kirkcudbright than in any town I ever struck,’ said Wimsey.
    ‘That’s because we’re all so hardworking and poor.’
    ‘Just so. Nothing is so virtuous as a bicycle. You can’t imagine a bicyclist committing a crime, can you? — except of course, murder or attempted murder.’
    ‘Why murder?’
    ‘Well, the way they rush about in gangs on the wrong side of the road and never have any brakes or bells or lights. I call it