Gently North-West by Alan Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

de’il any evidence I have to prove it.’ He rubbed his great palms together, making a sound like rustling paper. ‘Man,’ he said to Gently, ‘it’s a behind-doors sort of day – will you no’ spend an hour discussin’ the matter? I don’t know yet what you have to tell me, but I’m guessin’ it’s not in the nature of a hot pursuit – it’ll likely come to hand as I put the facts to you – and you’ll fit it together better than me. What do you say?’
    ‘He says yes,’ Brenda said. ‘Don’t let him argue himself out of it.’
    ‘It would be a favour,’ Blayne said. ‘And you can’t go places this weather.’
    Gently sighed and looked out at the rain, which he could see steaming over a wide lawn.
    ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just for an hour – or till the rain stops. But that’s all.’
    Blayne took out a long, silver cigarette-case, from which the pattern was almost worn, and reached tremendously across the desk to offer it to Brenda and Gently. Brenda accepted; Gently refused and began filling his pipe. Blayne fitted a cigarette to a lengthy holder and took a light from the top of the lamp. Then he puffed fastidiously for some moments, a finger cocked above the holder, his lantern-jaw moving in time and his hollow cheeks growing yet hollower.
    ‘Aweel,’ he said at last. ‘These are the short, sharp facts of the business. Dunglass was up the braes last night and some lad stuck a knife in his back.’
    He sucked another few puffs, his sunken eyes small in the smoke.
    ‘And we don’t know why he was up there,’ he said. ‘And the rain has washed out track and trace.’
    ‘When did it happen?’ Gently asked.
    ‘Eleven, twelve o’clock time, says the doctor. He was cold and stiff when McMorris found him, which would be seven this mornin’, thereabouts. McMorris is the Forestry ranger, you ken – they’re early risers in that profession – and he’d be out walkin’ the fences with his bag of tools – the sheep are no friends to young trees.’
    ‘And it was up at the Keekingstane?’
    ‘Ay, just there. Dunglass was lyin’ on his face by the Stane. You’d think he was starin’ through the nick at somethin’ and come down face-foremost when he was stickit.’
    ‘Just one blow?’
    ‘Ay. A guid one. Straight in under the left shoulder.’
    ‘And you don’t have the weapon?’
    Blayne shook his long skull. ‘And we’re no’ likely to have it, which is more. If the laddie pitched it into the trees it’ll just stay snug till thinnin’-time – you could scarcely get a dog in there – and it’ll be buried under the needles.’
    ‘Have you an idea what the weapon was?’
    Blayne nodded slowly. ‘Ay. A guess. From the nature of the wound – it was guid and clean – I’d say the weapon could be a dirk.’
    ‘A dirk!’
    ‘Ay. That’s a kind of dagger that goes in a Highland-man’s harness. They were fell free with them in the old days, but they’re no’ quite in the fashion now.’
    ‘A dirk – like those hanging in the hall?’
    Blayne’s features twisted in a ghoulish grin. ‘So you noticed them did you? – ay, you would. But it’s not one of those was stuck in Dunglass.’
    ‘Would they fit the wound?’
    ‘Not far short. But you hadn’t occasion to luik at them closely. If you put a light to them you can see the dust – they haven’t been out since they were cleaned last.’
    ‘Still, it’s a coincidence,’ Gently mused.
    Blayne nodded again. ‘That’s my way of thinking. And I’ll have more to say on the subject o’ dirks – but every dog in his own kennel.’
    He took a number of sapient whiffs and tapped the holder over a wastebasket. Then he surprised Brenda, who was staring at him, by a repetition of his grin.
    ‘And you’ve found no tracks, no marks,’ Gently said.
    ‘None. The rain’s taken care of all that. It’s just streamin’ rocks and bogs knee-deep and wee bit burns runnin’ wild. There wasn’t even any bluid, savin’