Five Red Herrings by Dorothy L. Sayers

Somebody had breakfasted in Campbell’s cottage, and the person who could do that most easily was Ferguson. Alternatively, if it was not Ferguson, Ferguson might have seen whoever it was. Tiresome of Ferguson to have gone off to Glasgow like that.
    As for Graham, apparently he had not been at Glen Trool. His silence might have half a dozen different explanations. ‘The leddies’ was the most obvious; it would be well, in Graham’s own interests, to discover whether he had any local attachment. Or he might merely have discovered some remote river, rich in trout which he wished to keep to himself. Or he might just be doing it to annoy. One could not tell. Beneath all his surface eccentricity, Graham was a man who kept his wits about him. Still, in a country place, where everybody knows everybody, it is impossible to keep one’s movements altogether secret. Somebody would have seen Graham — that is, if somebody chose to speak. But that was as doubtful as everything else about the case, for your country-dweller is a master of pregnant silences.
    Wimsey called at Sir Maxwell Jamieson’s to make his report about the eggs and bacon, which was received with an ‘Ay, imph’m’ of the driest kind. There had been no further news from Dalziel, and he went home, first calling across the way, only to ascertain that Waters had not yet returned.
    Bunter received him with a respectful welcome, but appeared to have something preying on his mind. On inquiry, however, this turned out to be merely the discovery that the Scots were so lost to all sense of propriety as to call a dish an ‘ashet’ — obviously with the deliberate intention of confusing foreigners and making them feel like bulls in china-shops.
    Wimsey sympathised and, to take Bunter’s mind off this mortifying experience, mentioned his meeting with Jock Graham.
    ‘Indeed, my lord? I was already apprised of Mr. Graham’s reappearance. I understand, my lord, that he was in Creetown on Monday night.’
    ‘Was he, by Jove? How do you know?’
    Bunter coughed.
    ‘After the interview with the young person at the china-shop, my lord, I stepped for a few moments into the McClellan Arms. Not into the public bar, my lord, but into the bar-parlour adjacent. While there, I accidentally overheard some persons mention the circumstance in the bar.’
    ‘What sort of persons?’
    ‘Roughly dressed persons, my lord. I apprehend that they might have been engaged in the fishing-trade.’
    ‘Was that all they said?’
    ‘Yes, my lord. One of them unfortunately glanced into the bar-parlour and discovered my presence, and after that they said nothing further about the matter.’
    ‘Who were they, do you know?’
    ‘I endeavoured to ascertain from the landlord, but he said no more than that they were a bunch of lads from the harbour.’
    ‘Oh! And that’s all you will ever hear, I expect. H’m. Did you manage to see any of them?’
    ‘Only the one who looked in at the door, and him only for a brief interval. The rest had their backs to the bar door when I emerged, my lord, and I did not care to appear inquisitive.’
    ‘No. Well — Creetown is on the way to Newton-Stewart, but it’s a far cry from there to the Minnoch. Did they mention the time at which they saw Mr. Graham?’
    ‘No, my lord, but, from the circumstance that they alluded to the number of drinks he consumed, I apprehend that it would be before closing-time.’
    ‘Ah!’ said Wimsey. ‘An inquiry among the Creetown pubs might settle that. Very well, Bunter. I think I shall go out and clear my wits with a round of golf this afternoon. And I’ll have a grilled steak and chips at 7.30.’
    ‘Very good, my lord.’
    Wimsey had his round of golf with the Provost, but without much satisfaction beyond that of beating him five up and three to play. He deduced from this victory that the Provost was not altogether easy in his mind, but he failed altogether to draw him on the subject of Campbell. It was ‘an unfortunate occurrence,’ and the Provost thought that ‘it