‘By the way, Inspector,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘I suppose the bloodstains on the bedding will be analysed?’
‘Analysed? For what purpose, ma’am? There’s nae doubt they came from the wound in the deid mon’s back.’
‘There is probably no doubt at all, but it might be interesting to make sure.’
The inspector looked perplexed.
‘I ken well that ye’ve a great reputation, ma’am,’ he said, ‘so a hint from you is as good as a nod, as they say. Will ye no tell me what is in your mind?’
‘Nothing, except that I believe in making certain that what we take as evidence really is evidence, that is all. I mean, suppose this blood proves to correspond with that of the dead man, well and good. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that his blood happened to belong to a different group, would that not cause us to think that this death is not the result of murder but of a fight to the death in which the assailant was also wounded?’
The inspector scratched his head, but promised that the comparison should be carried out.
‘And now what about the identification?’ he asked.
‘He is not the missing coach-driver,’ said Dame Beatrice, “but I have seen this man before. I do not know his full name. He was introduced to me merely as Vittorio. He is a one-time friend of Mr Honfleur of County Coaches. Incidentally, the nature of the wound, its position and the fact that only one blow appears to have been struck, relate it to the other two bodies I have seen.’
‘Aye. Well, if it is the mon ye say, maybe MacDonald at the hotel will not know him. Weel, now, ye’d like to get to your beds, yoursel’ and Mistress Gavin, but before ye leave, tell me what you make of these.’
He whipped up the pyjama jacket which matched the trousers the corpse was wearing. It was lying on the bedside table as though the man had discarded it during the night, but when the inspector twitched it aside there seemed little doubt that it had been placed on the bedside table to hide what lay beneath.
‘I dinna ken what the thief was looking for, the way he had the place turned upside down,’ the inspector said, ‘but if it was these wee pistols, well, he didna look in the right place. We found them on the floor between the body and the wall.’
Dame Beatrice did not need a warning not to touch the exhibits. She produced a magnifying glass and studied them closely.
‘I am not an expert in these matters,’ she said, ‘but these very fine pistols were made, I should say, during the late seventeenth century. They remind me very much of a pair I have seen in the White Tower of London. If I am not mistaken, they are the work of Pierre Monlong, a Huguenot gun-maker who was appointed Gentleman Armourer to Dutch William, the husband of that Princess Mary who was the daughter of King James the Second and who became joint sovereign of England in 1689 with her husband.’
‘Ye call him Dutch William,’ said the inspector. Dame Beatrice waved a yellow claw.
‘A resolute man,’ she said. ‘Queen Elizabeth Tudor would not have liked him. There is no doubt that he usurped his wife’s rights. Be that as it may, the gunmaker Pierre Monlong previously had held the post, as such, to the royal house of France and was a master of his craft. Note the delicate scroll-work on these pistols and the inlays in gold on pale blue enamel. These are not so much weapons of offence as works of art, Inspector.’
‘They would be collectors’ items, then.’
‘Very valuable ones. The pair I saw at the Tower were valued at ninety thousand pounds.’
‘Losh! Ye dinna tell me that!’
‘It is true. However, I doubt whether our burglar knew of the existence of these treasures. The devastation he has left behind him seems to indicate that he was certainly looking for something, but – tell me, Inspector, have you had any burglaries of objets d’art in this neighbourhood recently?’
‘Aye, and no lang syne. Some Americans have Castle Bratach this summer and they reported thefts of valuable china, but, so far as I know, nobody has reported losing a pair of pistols.’
‘I may be able to trace them in England. Well, if you don’t need us any longer we will accept your permission to leave. I should be pleased to know the full identity of this dead man Vittorio.’
‘If MacDonald or White can identify him, you shall be told, ma’am. Otherwise we may need to call upon Mr Honfleur.’
The manager of the hotel could not identify the dead man.
‘And the Whites?’ asked Dame Beatrice of the manager, for whose return to the hotel she had waited up.
‘They could not put a name on him,’ said MacDonald, ‘any more than I can. All they could tell the police is that he is not the man they know as Carstairs.’
‘He wore surprisingly large pyjamas,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘and apparently went to bed in his shoes.’
On the following morning Laura drove Dame Beatrice southward to Oban and across the Border to Carlisle, where they were to spend the night. The next day they went south again as far as Cheltenham and on the afternoon following a night there they reached Dame Beatrice’s New Forest home.
‘Well, I suppose it’s all over, so far as we are concerned,’ said Laura, after they had enjoyed one of Henri’s superb dinners. She twirled the brandy in her glass and looked across at her employer. ‘Aren’t you feeling rather sorry?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Dame Beatrice replied. ‘For one thing, it is not all over so far as we are concerned. We have not found Knight, which is what we went to Saighdearan to do. However, I am glad to be back in England and shall enjoy a chat with Basil Honfleur. Then I shall resume the search for Knight. As for Basil himself, the evening is still young, so perhaps you will engage him on the telephone and suggest that he come to see us as soon as he can. We ourselves have done enough travelling for the time being and we know that he is not particularly busy at this time in the season.’
‘He’ll be out to dinner most likely, but I’ll try.’
‘Leave it until ten. He should be at home by then.’
This was so. Laura made contact and Honfleur was bidden to come to lunch at the Stone House on the following day.
‘What is the news?’ he asked, as soon as he arrived.
‘We came back from Scotland yesterday and have left the whole matter in the hands of the police,’ replied Dame Beatrice.
‘You mean you are backing out?’
‘Yes, if you care to put it like that. There is nothing more for us to do until a man who calls himself Carstairs is found. But let us relax over lunch and then we shall tell you all.’
‘You had some success, then, at Fort William?’
‘I would not put it so positively.’
When lunch was over and coffee had been served, Honfleur refused to contain himself any longer.
‘Come on, now, Dame Beatrice, please!’ he said. ‘What happened up there, and what did you find out?’
‘But little,’ Dame Beatrice replied. This was greatly to Laura’s surprise, for she had expected that Honfleur would at least be told that Vittorio had been found murdered. She knew better, however, than to mention this herself, and Dame Beatrice proceeded to give Honfleur a detailed description of the rest of their activities on the shores of Loch Linnhe. Laura added her quota whenever her employer turned the narrative over to her and, as the recital proceeded, Honfleur looked more and more sceptical, but he waited until it was finished before he put in a word.
‘I still can’t follow why you identified Carstairs with Knight,’ he said.