‘Just got your wire what does it mean greatuncle stolen last night burglar escaped please write fully.’
Wimsey committed himself to a brief comment in language usually confined to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-Uncle Joseph, and, even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacy was by this time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiously helpless. He even cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from going north and dealing with the matter personally.
While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in, It ran:
‘Greatuncle’s bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar in flight contents gone what next.’
Wimsey pondered this.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if the thief simply emptied the bottle and put Great-Uncle in his pocket, we’re done. Or if he’s simply emptied Great-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we’re done. But “dropped in flight” sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had gone overboard lock, stock, and barrel. Why can’t the fool of a Scotsman put a few more details into his wire? It’d only cost him a penny or two. I suppose I’d better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupation won’t hurt him.’
He took a telegraph form from his desk and despatched a further message:
‘Was greatuncle in bottle when dropped if so drag river if not pursue burglar probably Robert Ferguson spare no pains starting for Scotland tonight hope arrive early tomorrow urgent important put your back into it will explain.’
The night express decanted Lord Peter Wimsey at Dumfries early the following morning, and a hired car deposited him at the Stone Cottage in time for breakfast. The door was opened by Maggie, who greeted him with hearty cordiality:
‘Come awa’ in, sir. All’s ready for ye, and Mr Macpherson will be back in a few minutes, I’m thinkin’. Ye’ll be tired with your long journey, and hungry, maybe? Aye. Will ye tak’ a bit parritch to your eggs and bacon? There’s nae troot the day, though yesterday was a gran’ day for the fush. Mr Macpherson has been up and doun, and up and doun the river wi’ my Jock, lookin’ for ane of his specimens, as he ca’s them, that was dropped by the thief that cam’ in. I dinna ken what the thing may be – my Jock says it’s like a calf’s pluck to look at, by what Mr Macpherson tells him.’
‘Dear me!’ said Wimsey. ‘And how did the burglary happen, Maggie?’
‘Indeed, sir, it was a vera’ remarkable circumstance. Mr Macpherson was awa’ all day Monday and Tuesday, up at the big loch by the viaduct, fishin’. There was a big rain Saturday and Sunday, ye may remember, and Mr Macpherson says, “There’ll be grand fishin’ in the morn, Jock,” says he. “We’ll go up to the viaduct if it stops rainin’ and we’ll spend the nicht at the keeper’s lodge.” So on Monday it stoppit rainin’ and was a grand warm, soft day, so aff they went together. There was a telegram come for him Tuesday mornin’, and I set it up on the mantelpiece, where he’d see it when he cam’ in, but it’s been in my mind since that maybe the telegram had something to do wi’ the burglary.’
‘I wouldn’t say but you might be right, Maggie,’ replied Wimsey gravely.
‘Aye, sir, that wadna’ surprise me.’ Maggie set down a generous dish of eggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.
‘Well, I was sittin’ in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin’ for Mr Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puir souls, for the rain was peltin’ down again, and the nicht was sae dark I was afraid they micht ha’ tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, I was listenin’ for the sound o’ the door-sneck when I heard something movin’ an the front room. The door wanna lockit, ye ken, because Mr Macpherson was expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht they had mebbe came in and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set the kettle on the fire, and then I heard a crackin’ sound. So I cam’ out and I called “Is’t you, Mr Macpherson?” And there was nae answer, only anither big crackin’ noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam’ quickly oot o’ the front room, brushin’ past me an’ puttin’ me aside wi’ his hand, so, and oot o’ the front door like a flash o’ lightnin’. So, wi, that, I let oot a skelloch, an’ Jock’s voice answered me fra’ the gairden gate. “Och!” I says “Jock! here’s a burrglar been i’ the hoose!” An’ I heard him rennin’ across the gairden, doun toe the river, tramplin’ down a’ the young kail and the stra’berry beds, the blackguard!’
Wimsey expressed his sympathy.
‘Aye, that was a bad business. An’ the next thing, there was Mr Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray’s cattle had brokken in, they couldna ha’ done mair deevastation. An’ then there was a big splasin’ an’ crashin’, an’, after a bit, back comes Mr Macpherson an’ he says. “He’s jumpit intil the Fleet,” he says, “an’ he’s awa’. What has he taken?” he says. “I dinna ken,” says I, “for it all happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.” “Come awa’ then,” says he, “an’ we’ll see what’s missin’.” So we lookit high and low, an’ all we could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, and naething taken but this bottle wi’ the specimen.’
‘Aha!’ said Wimsey.
‘Ah! an’ they baith went oct tegither wi’ lichts, but naething could they see of the thief. Sae Mr Macpherson comes back, and “I’m gaun to ma bed,” says he, “for I’m that tired I can die nae mair the nicht,” says he. “Oh!” I said, “I daurna gae bed; I’m frichtened,
’
’ An’ Jock said, “Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yersel’. There’ll be nae mair burglars the nicht, wi’ the fricht we’ve gied ’em.” So we lockit up a’ the doors an’ windies an’ gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink.’
‘Very natural,’ said Wimsey.
‘It wasna till the next mornin’,’ said Maggie, ‘that Mr Macpherson opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An’ then the telegrams startit. Back an’ forrit, back and’ forrit atween the house an’ the post-office. An’ then they fund the bits o’ the bottle that the specimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i’ the river. And aff goes Mr Macpherson an’ Jock wi’ their warders on an’ a couple o’ gaffs, huntin’ in a’ the pools an’ under the stanes to find the specimen. An’ they’re still at it.’
At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.
‘Gude save us!’ ejaculated Maggie, ‘I was forgettin’ the puir gentleman.’
‘What gentleman?’ enquired Wimsey.
‘Him that was feshed out o’ the Fleet,’ replied Maggie. ‘Excuse me juist a moment, sir.’
She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of coffee and lit a pipe.
Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee – not being a man to deprive himself of his pleasures – and walked quietly upstairs in Maggie’s wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half open – the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage. He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-haired gentleman, whose long, foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted rakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by the bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.
‘Good morning, Mr Ferguson,’ said he. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Good morning,’ said Mr Ferguson snappishly.
‘I had no idea, when we last met,’ pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed and sitting down upon it, ‘that you were thinking of visiting my friend Macpherson.’
‘Get off my leg,’ growled the invalid. ‘I’ve broken my knee-cap.’
‘What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn’t it? And they say it takes years to get right – if it ever does get right. Is it what they call a Potts fracture? I don’t know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive. How did you do it? Fishing?’
‘Yes. A slip in that damned river.’
‘Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher, Mr Ferguson?’
‘So-so.’
‘So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy for this part of the country. I rather like a Greenaway’s Gadget myself. Ever tried it?’
‘No,’ said Mr Ferguson briefly.
‘Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you use one? Have you got your fly-book here?’
‘Yes – no,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘I dropped it.’
‘Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket.’
‘Not so bad,’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘I’ve sometimes caught trout with it.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected his improvisation to pass muster. ‘Well, I suppose this unlucky accident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned back luck. Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch.’
‘What’s that? A trout?’
‘Yes – a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or other. I’m going out with Mac to try for him today. He’s a jewel of a fellow. We’ve nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don’t joggle about like that – you’ll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get for you?’
He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.
‘Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?’
‘It is. How’s sport?’
Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.
‘I say, d’you know who that is? It’s Robert.’
‘I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?’
‘No, we haven’t, What’s all this mystery about? And what’s Robert doing here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why is Great-Uncle Joseph so important?’
‘One thing at a time. Let’s find the old boy first. What have you been doing?’
‘Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, you were off your rocker.’ (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) ‘But then I considered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thought Great-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense in what you said, after all.’ (‘Dashed good of you,’ said Wimsey.) ‘So I went out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there’s the faintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down like this. Well, I hadn’t got very far – by the way, I took Jock with me. I’m sure he thinks I’m mad, too. Not that he says anything; these people here never commit themselves—’
‘Confound Jock! Get on with it.’
‘Oh – well, before we’d got very far, we saw a fellow wading about in the river with a rod and creel. I didn’t pay much attention, because, you see, I was wondering what you – Yes. Well! Jock noticed him and said to me, “Yon’s a queer kind of fisherman, I’m thinkin’.” So I had a look, and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his fly floating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering into all the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailed him, and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of a hurry and started to reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it,’ added Macpherson appreciatively.
‘I can believe it,’ said Wimsey. ‘A man who admits to catching trout with a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything.’
‘A pink what?’
‘Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on.’
‘Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling and hauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of a sudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That made me pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and I yelled out, “Good God, it’s Robert!” And he dropped his rod and took to his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came down an awful crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought him home. He’s got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Very interesting. I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself, but it wouldn’t do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He’s a good man.’
‘You’ve had extraordinary luck about this business so far,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far down have you got?’
‘Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting his knee and so on, we couldn’t do much yesterday.’
‘Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let’s get down to it.’
He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand (‘Robert’s,’ interjected Macpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down in a brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage. Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph. Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there – then turned suddenly to Jock.
‘Where’s the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?’ he demanded.
‘Eh, well! there’s the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye’ll whiles find things washed up there. Aye, Imph’m. There’s a pool and a bit sand, where the river mak’s a bend. Ye’ll mebbe find it there, I’m thinkin’. Mebbe no. I couldna say.’
‘Let’s have a look, anyway.’
Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detail appeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.
‘That’s a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse, we’ve only got two fields to cross.’