Читать книгу Murder of a Lady - Robert McNair Wilson - Страница 6

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Inspector Robert Dundas was a young man with a shrewd expression. His manner of entering the smoking-room at Duchlan announced that he came to conquer. The mixture of cordiality and aloofness in the way he greeted the old laird indicated that he proposed to allow no consideration to interfere with the discharge of his duty.

He was not very tall, but his slight build made lack of height unimportant. Dr. Hailey thought of the word “wiry”, for there was a hard quality as well as a quality of suppleness. Dundas’s brow and eyes were girlish, but his mouth seemed well fitted to administer a bite. It descended at the corners and was furnished with lips of a singular thinness. Mr. McLeod, who knew the young man, introduced him to John MacCallien and the doctor, and Dundas informed each of these in turn that he was pleased to meet him. He did not look pleased.

“I lost no time, as you see, Fiscal,” he said to Mr. McLeod.

His manner was quiet, with the pained restraint of an undertaker at work. But his blue eyes searched the room. They chilled when he learned what Dr. Hailey had already done.

“Before I go upstairs myself,” he stated, “I should like to know who are at present living in this house.” He turned to Duchlan and whipped a thin notebook out of his pocket. “I want a complete list, if you please.”

The last remark was made in the manner of a doctor taking stock of symptoms, the significance of which can be understood only by himself. Duchlan bowed stiffly.

“I had better begin with myself,” he said. “Then there is my son Eoghan and his wife. I have only four indoor servants...”

Dundas raised a manicured hand.

“One moment, please. You are Major Hamish Gregor, late of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, and laird of Duchlan in the county of Argyll?” He wrote quickly as he spoke. “How old are you, sir?”

“Seventy-four.”

“Older or younger than your late sister?”

“Older.”

“What about your son? He’s an officer in the Army, isn’t he?”

“Eoghan is a Captain in the Royal Regiment of Artillery.”

“On leave?”

“No. My son returned from Malta a month ago. He had been there rather less than a year. He is now carrying out special duties in Ayrshire.”

“I see. So he’s only here for a day or so?”

“He arrived last night. I am not aware when he must return.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Is he your only son?”

“My only child.”

“You are a widower, I believe?”

“I am.”

“How long have you been a widower?”

Duchlan frowned, but after a moment his brow cleared.

“Since my son was four years of age.”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Quite so.”

“Has your sister lived with you during the whole of that period?”

“She has.”

“So that she brought up your son?”

“Yes.”

The busy pencil appeared to have been outstripped for Dundas asked no more questions until he had written during several minutes. Then he raised his head sharply.

“How long has your son been married?” he demanded.

“Three years and a few months.”

“Any children?”

“One boy of two years.”

“His wife’s name? Full maiden name?”

“Oonagh Greenore.”

“Irish?”

A faint smile appeared on Duchlan’s lips.

“I believe so,” he said gravely.

“Did Mrs. Gregor accompany her husband to Malta?”

“No, she remained here because of her son.”

“Did she go to Ayrshire with him?”

“No.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Was he...” Dundas’s fair head gleamed in the lamplight as he raised it in the quick, uncomfortable way that was apparently habitual—“was she on terms of affection with your late sister?”

Dr. Hailey moved uneasily in his chair, but he watched closely the effect of this question on the old man. Duchlan’s black eyes flashed.

“I suppose,” he said, “that I can pardon such a question by recalling the fact that you had not the privilege of knowing my sister.”

“No offence meant, sir.”

“So I have presumed.” Duchlan passed his hand over his long chin. “My daughter-in law,” he declared, “felt for her aunt the same respect and love which all who knew her felt for her.”

Dundas wrote. “Relations cordial,” he quoted from his memorandum in tones that set Dr. Hailey’s teeth on edge. “So much can’t be said in every case,” he remarked reassuringly. “Very good. Now we can come to the servants. That was your butler, I take it, who admitted me.”

“My piper, Angus MacDonald.”

“Acting in the capacity of butler.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Dundas, but you appear to be but ill-informed about Highland custom. Angus is first and foremost my friend, the friend of my family. He was piper to my father, the late Duchlan, who held his friendship an honour; should I predecease him, I pray God that he may serve my son. Our pipers stand remote from the class of domestic servants; but in these difficult times we are compelled to ask from them an extended range of service.”

“Isn’t it six of one and half a dozen of the other, sir?” Dundas remarked coolly. “I mean, piper or no piper, the old man is in fact acting as butler?”

“No.”

The policeman shrugged his shoulders. He had the air of a modern jerry builder visiting a Gothic cathedral; there was no recognition of beauty, but in some sort, respect for age and mass, to be expressed later in exaggeration of both. Dundas, Dr. Hailey felt sure, would boast about his visit to Duchlan and embellish boasting with spurious detail. It seemed that Duchlan was not unaware of this probability for his face expressed a degree of ferocious anger that is seen only in the faces of men and carnivorous birds.

“Have the goodness, sir,” he exclaimed, “to leave that alone which you do not and cannot understand. Confine yourself to your business.”

“Very well. How old is your piper?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Married or single?”

“Single.”

“The other servants?”

Duchlan considered a moment. His eyes were still glowing with anger, but he had himself in control.

“I employ the services of a cook and a housemaid,” he stated. “They are sisters named Campbell. In addition, there is my son’s old nurse, Christina, whose position is not that of a servant.”

He paused, challenging Dundas to utter any syllable of comment. The policeman gazed at the carpet.

“Christina is sixty. She’s a widow. Her name is Graeme. She has acted latterly as maid to my sister, as well as nurse to my grandson.”

“Are the Campbells local people?”

“They are.”

“Their Christian names?”

“Mary and Flora. Mary, my cook, is twenty-eight. Her sister is twenty-five.”

The old man gave these facts and figures in tones of contempt. He sneered at the policeman and his notebook, baring his long teeth like a dog. But the doctor thought that, behind this mask of scorn, there was relief that the task of dealing with the murder had been committed to so narrow an intelligence.