The photographer had put up a rickety erection in shape of a tent
close to the grand stand at Musselburgh race-course. He was a
travelling portrait-taker, and his “saloon” was a portable one,
consisting of four sticks for the corners and a bit of thin cotton to
sling round them. There was no roof, partly from poverty and partly
to let in more light. It was the first day of the races, and masses
of people had been coming into the place by every train and available
conveyance.
The photographer’s name was Peter Turnbull—a tall, lanky fellow, like
an overgrown boy who had never got his appetite satisfied. He was
clad in the shabbiest of clothes, but talked with the stately dignity
of an emperor or a decayed actor. In spite of the gay crowds pressing
past outside, business did not come very fast to Turnbull, so, after
waiting patiently inside like a spider for flies, he issued from his
den and tried to force a little trade with his persuasive tongue.
In front of his tent he had slung up a case of the best photographs
he could pick up for money, which were likely to pass for his own,
and occasionally some of those bent on pleasure paused to look at the
specimens, when Turnbull at once tackled them to give him an order.
Women he invariably asked to have their “beautiful” faces taken; men,
who are not accustomed to be called beautiful, or to think themselves
so, he manipulated in a different fashion. He appealed to them as to
whether they hadn’t a mother who would like a portrait of them always
beside her, or a sweetheart who would value it above a mountain of
diamonds. Turnbull’s appearance was against him—he looked hungry down
to the very toes of his boots—and most of those he addressed were as
suspicious of his eloquence as of that of a book canvasser.
At length, however, he did get a man to listen to him—a sailor,
evidently, with a jovial, happy look about his face, and plenty of
money in his pocket.
“You’ll be just off your ship, I suppose, you’re looking so fresh and
smart,” said Turnbull at a venture. “Your sweetheart will be pleased
to see you, but she’d be more pleased if you brought her a good
portrait to leave with her.”
The sailor laughed heartily.
“Sweetheart?” he echoed between his convulsions of merriment. “Why,
I’m a married man.”
“So much the better,” returned the photographer, not to be daunted.
“She’ll want your portrait exactly as you stand—not as you were
before this voyage, or when you were courting her. Folks’ faces
change so soon.”
“Maybe they do, but their hearts remain the same,” returned the
sailor cheerily.
“Well, not always—they change, too, sometimes,” said Turnbull, with
the air of one who had bitterly experienced the truth of his words;
“but with your portrait always beside her, her heart couldn’t change.
Just step in—I won’t keep you a moment, and you can take it with
you. You’ll have it, and she’ll have it, long after the races are
forgotten.”
The sailor easily yielded, and followed him into the tent, and then
Turnbull, having now a professional interest in the man, took notice
of his dress and appearance particularly for the first time. The
man was low in stature, thick set, and evidently a powerful fellow.
He wore an ordinary sailor’s suit of dark blue, but had for a
neckerchief a red cotton handkerchief loosely rolled together, and so
carelessly tied that the ends hung down over his breast.
In order to get all the sailor’s face into the portrait, Turnbull
with some difficulty persuaded him to remove his cap, and then drew
from him an admission that his objection arose from the fact that
there was a flesh mark on one side of his forehead which he did not
wish to appear in the portrait. The difficulty was got over—as it
was with Hannibal—by taking a side-view, and the first attempt came
out all right, so far as the portrait was concerned. But the sailor
wished to appear as if he had just removed his cap, and with that in
his hand, so the first was put aside as spoilt, and another taken,
which, though not so successful, pleased the owner better, as in
that the cap appeared in his hand. The portrait was finished and
framed, and so free and good-natured was the owner that he insisted
on paying for the spoilt one, which, however, he refused to take
with him. While Turnbull had been putting a frame on the portrait,
the sailor took out a long piece of tobacco and a pocket knife and
cut himself a liberal quid, at the same time offering a piece to the
photographer, which was accepted. The knife with which the tobacco
was cut was a strong one, with a long, straight blade and a sharp
point.
The whole transaction over, they bade each other good-day, and the
sailor disappeared among the crowds of spectators and betting men
on the course with the avowed intention of enjoying himself, and
scattering some money before he went home.
Six or seven hours later a man was found lying in one of the narrow
back lanes of the town, so inert, and smelling so strongly of drink,
that more than one person had passed him under the impression that
he was drunk, and without putting out a hand to help. At length the
ghastly hue of his face attracted attention, and it was found that he
was lying in a pool of blood, which had flowed from two deep wounds
in his breast and side, and thence oosed out at the back of his
clothes on the ground below.
Some of the crowd who gathered about him as he was being carried to
a house close by identified him as a baker named Colin M^cCulloch,
belonging to a town some miles off, but who was well known in a wide
district from the fact that he went about with a bread van. He was
not quite dead when found, but an examination of his wounds soon
indicated that life was ebbing away.
One of these was as deep as the doctor’s finger could reach, and
appeared to have been inflicted with the narrow, straight blade of a
long, sharp-pointed knife.
I had been on the race-course for the greater part of the day looking
for a man who did not turn up, and heard of the occurrence only when
I called at the station before leaving for town. It had been decided
that M^cCulloch was not fit to be removed, and I went to see him,
but found him far beyond speech or explanation. By visiting the spot
on which he had been found I discovered a girl who gave me the first
clue.
She had been passing along the lane, and had been “feared” as she
expressed it, to pass M^cCulloch, who was tottering along in the
same direction, very drunk and demonstrative, though all alone.
Every one was away at the races, and the narrow lane seemed quite
deserted, but there appeared in front a sailor, who had no sooner
sighted M^cCulloch than he began quarrelling with him and threatening
him. Thankful of the opportunity, the girl slipped past during the
quarrel, having just time to notice that the sailor was a short,
thick-set fellow, and that he wore a red cotton handkerchief for a
necktie. When she was at a safe distance she chanced to look back,
and saw the sailor give M^cCulloch “a drive in the breast,” and so
knock him down. She did not wait to see anything more, but hurried
home, thinking that it was only an ordinary drunken quarrel.
Questioned by me, she could not say whether the sailor had used a
knife. Her idea was that he had only given the man a drive with his
hand to knock him down or get him out of the way. The sailor spoke in
a low tone; M^cCulloch was noisy and defiant. She saw no knife in the
sailor’s hand, and was sure he was a stranger. She did not think she
would know him again, as she did not look at his face, but she knew
every one about the town, and was positive that the sailor did not
belong to the place. It was the sailor who stopped M^cCulloch, whom
he seemed to know; and she thought he was quite sober, though pale
and angry-looking. “Look me in the face and say it’s not true,” were
the only words she could remember hearing, and they were spoken in a
fierce tone by the sailor, just as she was getting beyond earshot.
Having thus a little to work upon, I tried all the exits of the
town for some trace of him, without success. He had not gone away
by rail or coach, and no one had seen him leave on foot, so far as
I could discover; but that was to be expected in the state of the
town. Dozens of sailors with red neckties might have come and gone
and never been noticed in such a stir. In the town itself I was
more successful. To my surprise I found that a man answering the
description had visited nearly every public-house in the place. He
had never spoken or called for drink; he had merely looked through
the houses in a pallid, excited manner, and gone his way.
“He seemed to be looking for some one,” a publican said to me, “but
he was gone before I could ask him.”
I spent a good deal of time in the place, though not sure that if
I got that man I should be getting the murderer, and returned to
Edinburgh with the last train. I went back again next morning, and
found M^cCulloch still alive, and sensible enough to be able to give
an assent or dissent when asked a question. But about the murderous
attack upon himself he could not or would not give a sign. He would
only stare, or shut his eyes, or turn away. The doctor thought he did
not understand me—that the patient’s head was not yet quite clear;
I thought quite the reverse. The same curious circumstance occurred
when it was suggested that his deposition should be taken. M^cCulloch
had no deposition to make, or would not make one. He seemed quite
prepared to die and give no sign.
Not an hour later I was favoured with a visit from Turnbull, the
travelling photographer. He had been lodging in the town, and of
course had heard of the strange crime. He had heard also of my
unsuccessful hunt for the sailor, and would probably have gone up to
Edinburgh to see me had he not been loth to lose another day at the
race-course, his stance being taken for three days.
I could not conceive what the lank, hungry-looking being could want
with me, or why there should be about his lean jaws such a smirk of
intense satisfaction, as he gave his name and occupation.
“A murder has been committed—or what is as good as a murder, for the
man, I believe, is at his last gasp,” he exultingly began. “There
will be a hanging match—that is, if you can trace and capture the
murderer. Now, Mr M^cGovan, you’re said to be clever, but you haven’t
got him yet, and never will unless you get my help.”
“Your help?” I echoed in amazement; “why, who are you, and how can
you help me?”
“My name you know, and I am not unknown to fame, I am an actor as
well as a photographic artist. I have trod the boards with some
success, and you know that that in itself is a kind of training in
acuteness eminently fitting one for detective work.”