by Alan Hunter
‘Oh, yes.’ He gulped smoke. ‘I knew her when she was still married. She and her husband were customers, he used to come hunting for architecture books. She wanted me to order her books in Czech – I suppose you know who her father is.’
‘What sort of man was her husband?’
‘Clever, I should think, but I never paid him much attention.’ He gave Gently a wavery look. ‘Why do you ask?’
Gently stared back without answering.
‘When she came to work here, you’d get to know her better.’
‘Naturally one gets to know one’s staff.’
‘I’m told she was a friendly person.’
‘Otherwise, I wouldn’t have engaged her.’
‘She would have worked in here?’
‘Of course. That’s her table there, with her things in the drawer.’
‘If I may, I’ll take a look.’
‘You may. But she kept nothing personal here.’
He had to get up and move his chair to enable Gently to squeeze by him to the table. The drawer contained only ballpens, a ruler, some cigarettes and a book of matches. The two latter were of the same brands as those found in her handbag.
Claydon gazed at them, his mouth twitching.
‘Yesterday, she offered me one of those . . .’
‘You had grown fond of Hannah.’
‘Yes . . . I’ll admit it. Though I can’t forgive her the hole she’s got me into.’
‘Mrs Stoven was strangled.’
‘Oh, heavens.’
‘Did she ever mention a boyfriend to you?’
‘No . . . never . . .’
‘Did she speak of any friends?’
‘Forgive me . . . I’m not feeling so well.’
He dropped down on his chair, leaving Gently stranded in the small space at the back of the office. After a shrug, Gently pulled out the typist’s chair and sat. Claydon looked as though he might be sick. He was leaning over the desk with stopped breathing. From the direction of the curtain that hid the shop, one could hear excited whispering, then a giggle.
‘I’m sorry . . . I suppose it’s the shock . . . that and the mess I’m in, anyway. Yesterday she was as well as you or I. She was talking about taking the tide upriver . . .’
‘Did she say she was meeting someone?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Hannah Stoven had a lover.’
Claydon gaped.
‘Yesterday she kept a rendezvous with a man, near Bodney Church.’
‘I – I can scarcely believe that.’
‘Take it as true. She had had a lover for at least the past six months. Perhaps someone living in the Thwaite direction, or possibly at Harford. I want you to think very carefully of any names she may have dropped.’
‘But . . . she didn’t seem to have many friends.’
‘Think. During all the time she was working here.’
Claydon was very pale, and his cigarette burned unnoticed between his fingers. He sat frowning through the heavy-framed glasses, supported by an elbow on the desk.
‘At Thwaite, she knew Group Captain Riddlesworth.’
‘She told you that?’
‘I know she used to go sailing with him. But that was last year . . . wait! I remember his name coming up again, yesterday.’
‘In what connection?’
Claydon noticed the cigarette and took a few, fluttery drags.
‘It was about a book he had on order . . . a history of Bomber Command. She said that if she saw him, she’d let him know it had come in.’
‘If she saw him?’
‘I suppose she thought she would be going in his direction, I don’t know! But that’s what she said. Only I can’t think the Group Captain . . .’
‘Have you ever seen them together?’
‘No – well, only once here in the shop. She went to check a title in the secondhand stock, and he was there, and they chatted a moment.’
‘Did his manner seem familiar?’
‘Just friendly. They seemed pleased to see each other.’
‘When was this?’
‘One day recently. I can’t remember which.’
He buried his second cigarette in the ashtray, then glanced towards the packet, but didn’t light another. Meanwhile the curtain had twitched once or twice, though now there was silence in that direction.
‘I think the staff want to go . . .’
‘Call them in.’
Claydon hesitated, then did as he was bid. Four girls, now divested of overalls, came to cluster round the office door. Rather waspishly, Claydon introduced them. The pretty girl was his senior, a Miss Burton. Though they probably couldn’t have heard what was passing in the office, they had a serious air as they faced Gently.
‘Which of you knew Hannah Stoven well?’
They looked at each other, at a loss. At last Miss Burton ventured:
‘Once she took me out in her boat.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh . . . in the summer. In August, I think it was.’
‘Was there any special reason?’
‘I was at a loose end . . . I suppose she knew it, and asked me out.’
‘Which way did you go?’
‘It had to be downstream, because that’s how the tides were. Hannah said she knew a man at Harford and we moored up there, but we didn’t meet him. She said he must be sailing further down.’
‘Did she mention his name?’
‘No.’
‘What did you talk about on the trip?’
Miss Burton was getting a little warm. She was a plumpish girl with fluffy light brown hair and an appealing mouth.
‘Well . . . the usual thing! I’d had a row with my boy, and he’d cleared off with friends for the weekend. I suppose I was full of that. Hannah knew I’d been having problems.’
‘You talked about boyfriends?’
‘More or less. We talked about all sorts of things.’
‘She told you she had a boyfriend?’
‘Yes, and that surprised me quite a bit.’
‘Did she tell you his name?’
‘No. But she had a sort of dreamy look when she talked about him. She said he didn’t live in the town and that he was nobody I would know. She said he was interested in music, like her, and that it was all very romantic, but that it couldn’t last, and for his sake she would have to break it off.’
‘Because he was married?’
Miss Burton dimpled. ‘She didn’t say that in so many words! And I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, she talked in such a queer way.’
‘How was it queer?’
‘It’s hard to explain. As though she were talking about a dream, her eyes sort of in the distance. I was pretty sure she was making it up.’
‘Had you ever seen her in the company of a man?’
‘Oh no.’
Gently glanced round the little group.
‘Anyone?’
A tall girl with glasses said: ‘It probably doesn’t count, but once or twice I’ve seen her with Group Captain Riddlesworth.’
‘You’ve seen them where?’
‘Oh, at the yacht club, where my father is a member. And once going towards the Martello Tower. Though I couldn’t say if she invited him in.’
Gently regarded the little group sternly.
‘As you may have guessed, something rather serious has happened. It is important that the police should know about any men friends Hannah had. Can anyone add to what you have told me?’
They looked furtively at each other, and Miss Burton glanced towards Claydon; but that was all.
‘You see, Hannah was older. And she never told us much about herself . . .’
He let them go, and they trooped away silently to collect their bags and coats. Claydon, who was smoking again, had begun stacking the account books in a pile.
‘I still can’t believe it . . . who would do such a thing? Not to mention the hole it’s leaving me in . . .’
Gently snapped: ‘Your accountant can sort that out.’
‘But you don’t understand. Those fellows cost money.’
‘Weren’t you paying Hannah Stoven?’
‘They charge the earth. There’s my wife too . . . she’s an invalid. Do you know what a housekeeper costs these days? My hand is never out of my pocket.’
He jerked out a fresh cigarette, this time lighting it from the stub of the last. There was something disgusting about the way his eyes kept squinting towards the account books. Another lame duck . . .? He had claimed to be fond of her, and yet, after the first shock was over . . . If his wife’s invalidity were genuine, perhaps she had been poisoned by those cigarettes!
There was a thumping at the shop door, which the girls had locked as they left. Leyston went to investigate, and they heard a short exchange.
‘It’s Shavers with another man . . . Mason told them we were here.’
Gently glanced at Claydon.
‘Better show them in.’
Claydon puffed meanly, but raised no objection.
Shavers had had time to spruce himself up and now looked more of a peacock – jazzy jacket, crewnecked sweater, mauve slacks and suede boots. His companion however wore fisherman’s gear and gumboots with rolled tops. A heavy-shouldered, broad-faced man, he hung back as Shavers pushed into the office.
‘Chiefie, listen – I’ve found you a witness.’
Gently met him with a bleak stare.
‘What sort of a witness?’
‘You’ll see. This is Ted – Ted Moulton. He was up the river yesterday.’
‘A customer of yours?’
‘So what? I had to ask people who knew me, didn’t I? I knew you weren’t going to leave me alone till I could prove what I was telling you.’
‘So you found a customer who fitted.’
‘Ted, you tell him where you saw me. Then tell him what you saw when you were lifting your nets yesterday.’
He squeezed against the filing-cabinets to let the fisherman get by. Moulton brought into the office an odour of fish and beer to add to the fug of Claydon’s cigarettes. Standing awkwardly, he blinked over Claydon’s head at Gently. The bookseller drew back sharply, doubtless getting Moulton’s smell at full strength.
‘Well?’
‘It’s like Chick was telling you . . . I came up this way on yesterday’s flood. And I saw Chick on his boat, doing something down below.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two, or just after. When the flood had started to make.’
‘And you could see him – down below?’
‘Well yes, that’s right. I cocked my eye in as I was going by.’
‘Was he there when you came back?’
‘Well there you are . . . I didn’t come down till the pubs turned out.’
‘So you just saw him there at two, or a little after.’
‘Yes . . . I can’t say more than that.’
Gently stared across at Shavers. ‘Scarcely worth the petrol, was it?’
‘Chiefie, I was there – like I said I was!’
‘And on top of the petrol, how many beers?’
‘Never mind that, I was there – and someone bleeding saw me there. That’s worth something, isn’t it? And that isn’t all by a long chalk.’
‘So what else have you two been cooking up?’
‘We haven’t cooked up sodding nothing! I want you off my back, don’t I? So I’m just giving the coppers a hand. You tell him, Ted.’
Moulton looked bemused and his moonish face was moist. A solid, shapeless figure, he loomed huge over the shrinking Claydon.
‘I’ve got some nets up that way . . . in the drains, that’s where they are.’
‘Which drains?’
‘What . . .? In the bend, aren’t they, just across from Bodney Church. So I went up on the flood to draw them, and picked up nine or ten stone . . . then I came down to Friday’s to get hold of Sam Yaxley.’
‘Sam Yaxley?’
‘He buys fish, doesn’t he? He’s got a cold-store up there. And after that I was in the Smacksman till they turned out, like I told you.’
‘Why didn’t you come straight home?’
‘Why?’ Moulton’s eyes widened. ‘You try coming down there against the flood, and see where that gets you, old matey.’ He licked his lips. ‘I’d as lief buy beer as petrol, and I don’t care who knows it.’
‘And that’s all you have to tell me?’
‘No, it isn’t.’ He pressed up closer to the unhappy bookseller. ‘Time I was up there after my nets I saw two boats on the other bank. One was a dinghy with an outboard motor and the other was a dinghy with a mast. They were pulled up together side by side, about quarter of a mile above Bodney Church.’
Gently eyed the big fisherman, who nervously wiped his face with his sleeve. Shavers was dying to join in but, catching Gently’s look, thought better of it.
‘At what time was this?’
‘Why, mid-afternoon . . . I can’t rightly say when.’
‘How long did you have the boats under observation?’
‘I wasn’t observing them at all, was I? I just cocked my eye in that direction, like you do when you’re about. I was just leaving the topmost drain, so I’d be down out of sight in a couple of shakes. But there they were, side by side, one with a motor, one with a mast.’
‘Did you recognize either of them?’
‘Blast no. There’s plenty like them about here. Chick’s got one, only it couldn’t have been him or I’d have seen him pass by me.’
‘You see, Chiefie?’ Shavers broke in. ‘I’m covered. There’s no bleeding way I could have been up there.’
Gently pinned him with a look. ‘I’ve heard nothing that clears you, yet!’
‘Chiefie, how could I have been there—’
‘Keep quiet.’
‘Yes, but listen, there’s some more to come—’
‘Just keep quiet.’
Shavers ducked his head, and Gently returned his attention to Moulton.
‘Go on.’
Moulton mopped his face again; perhaps the beer was beginning to wear off. He swallowed a couple of times and then mumbled:
‘I saw someone . . . a man.’
‘Who?’
Moulton coughed, catching a puff of smoke from Claydon.
‘I wouldn’t know, would I? I mean, he wasn’t nothing to me. . .’
‘Where was he, and what was he doing?’
‘He was just standing there, that’s all.’
‘Standing where?’
‘Why, up at the road, where there’s a path goes through the furze . .’
‘Describe him.’
Moulton began coughing again, but he couldn’t avoid Claydon’s smoke. Gasping, he got out:
‘I couldn’t make out his face, could I, but he was stumpy, dressed in something dark.’
‘Stumpy, and dressed in something dark.’
‘So it couldn’t have been me!’ Shavers broke in. ‘You can’t call me stumpy, and it’s bleeding sure I don’t dress like a funeral.’
‘Shut up.’
‘But for crying out loud—’
‘Keep quiet, or I’ll have you put out.’
Suddenly Claydon said, in a dry tone: ‘It sounds very like a description of Group Captain Riddlesworth.’
‘The Groupie – bloody yes!’
‘Will you keep quiet?’
‘But look, Chiefie, she knew a bloke with a yacht—’
‘And this could be a pack of lies put together in the bar of the Eel’s Foot!’
Now there was thunder in Gently’s voice, and Shavers shut up as though he’d been struck. Moulton was breathing through his mouth, his eyes round, and Claydon squeezed small in his chair.
Thunder about . . .! Even Leyston, hovering in the doorway, looked apprehensive.
Apologetically, Claydon murmured:
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
Gently
ignored him. After a moment of silence, he said softly to Moulton:
‘Do you know Group Captain Riddlesworth?’
‘I . . . yes, I’ve seen him around.’
‘And he resembles the man you saw yesterday?’
‘Well . . . I don’t know! . . . I aren’t going to say that.’
‘Why aren’t you going to say it?’
Moulton’s eyes were desperate. ‘Look . . . I don’t want to make trouble for no bugger! You’ve been at me to say what I saw, and that’s what I saw, and that’s all.’
‘You saw a person of Group Captain Riddlesworth’s description.’
‘I aren’t saying it was him, and that’s flat.’
‘But you want me to believe it was.’
‘No! I haven’t said nothing about the Group Captain.’
‘Can you prove a single word of what you have been telling me?’
‘Oh my lor’! Didn’t I sell my fish yesterday?’
Fish he had evidently been in contact with lately: about that there could be no question. And he himself looked rather like a fish, gaping and squirming at the end of a line.
Gently shrugged wearily.
‘Give your address to the Inspector, and clear out.’
‘It’s the God’s honest truth I’ve told you—’
‘Get out before I change my mind!’
Moulton got out, but his odour still lingered in that cupboard of an office. Shavers continued to hover by the cabinets, his eyes fixed cautiously on Gently.
‘Listen, Chiefie—’
‘Come here, you.’
Reluctantly, Shavers advanced a couple of steps. Neither paid any attention to the bookseller, who sat crouched between them, his head well down.
‘Now bear this in mind! The next witness you bring me had better be cold sober, and no customer of yours. Just this once I’m going to pretend that he wasn’t bribed and wasn’t primed. But next time I shall throw the book at you – and leave Myrtle to pick up the pieces.’
‘So help me, Chiefie, I didn’t prime him . . . I might have bought him a few beers.’
‘And helped his memory!’
‘Honest to God, I only told him he must have seen me on the yacht.’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’
‘Well, he wasn’t sure . . . but all the rest is straight up. When he told me about the boats I rushed him straight round here, I knew you’d want to hear about that.’
‘And about the Group Captain?’