by Alan Hunter
‘I . . . I went to classes. If you ask at the school they’ll tell you . . .’
‘We have made enquiries at the school.’
‘Yes, well . . . after lunch, I didn’t have very much on. I thought . . . I suppose I shouldn’t have . . . but with the tide at low slack . . .’
‘You went out in your dinghy.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean to say—!’ He weaved a little. ‘Actually, it’s the autumn migration . . . though that may not mean much to you.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Downstream . . . the creeks.’
‘Surely at low slack they wouldn’t be navigable?’
‘Yes, but the tides are at spring.’
‘In that case, wouldn’t there be even less water?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I’m saying! But that’s where I went. There was water enough . . . perhaps the flood was pushing it up.’
‘At what time was that?’
‘At three . . . about.’
‘At three your dinghy was seen pulled up.’
‘But no, it couldn’t have been!’
‘Along with the dinghy belonging to Mrs Stoven.’
‘But I never pulled up there—!’
‘Pulled up where?’
‘I don’t know . . . where you’re saying.’
‘Where was that?’
‘There’s only one place, isn’t there? Above the church there’s nowhere else . . .’
‘A place you know well.’
‘No! I’ve never even moored there . . .’
‘We have questioned a student who says that you did.’
‘Well, perhaps once . . . I don’t remember . . . but not recently. Why would I?’
‘Plainly to meet Mrs Stoven, whose dinghy was several times seen there with yours.’
‘No – no!’
There was a real danger now that he was going to throw up over the table; he was trembling and listing from side to side, with the sweat standing out on his blanched forehead.
‘Fetch a glass of water.’
The glass was fetched and pushed into the young man’s hand. He gulped it noisily, then covered his mouth as though afraid it might not stay down. At last he sat back, partly recovered, and jacked his eyes again to Gently’s.
‘I believe you met Mrs Stoven, and that it was to have been for the last time.’
He shuddered. ‘But I tell you I’ve never met her!’
‘If your parents had met her, wouldn’t you have done too?’
‘I say no!’
‘Wouldn’t you have met her at the yacht club?’
‘I scarcely ever go there.’
‘At Claydon’s bookshop?’
‘I buy my books through the school.’
‘With her father, at the Festival?’
‘I was camping in Wales . . .’
‘But on the river you did meet her. On April 28th.’
‘No – please no!’
‘And on subsequent occasions. You joined her at the mooring above the church and went with her to a spot a short distance away.’
‘If you’re talking about the gorses—’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes . . . where else would anyone go? Well, I’ve been there . . . it’s where long-tailed tits nest . . . that’s all, the only reason.’
‘So you have been there more than once?’
‘Yes . . . I don’t know! But not with her.’
‘In October, were you looking for tits’ nests?’
‘On Friday, I keep telling you, I didn’t go there.’
‘Yet your boat and hers were seen there.’
‘No!’
‘And you were not seen sailing in the vicinity of the creeks.’
‘I can’t help that—’
‘It doesn’t bear out your story.’
‘I didn’t go there with her – I didn’t – I didn’t!’
‘Then where did you get this from?’
Gently took out the lighter and placed it slap on the table between them. Mark Riddlesworth stared at it stupidly, shrinking back in his chair.
‘I don’t know . . . I didn’t. What is it . . .?’
‘A lighter given to Mrs Stoven by her ex-husband.’
‘But what’s it got to do with me?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
‘But . . . I tell you, I’ve never seen it before!’
‘She used to carry it in her handbag.’
‘She never . . . I never . . .’
‘It wasn’t in her handbag when she was found.’
‘But . . .’
‘This lighter was found an hour or two ago in your tent in Foulden Forest.’
‘Oh . . . no!’
‘What I want now is for you to explain how it came there.’
If he didn’t vomit it must have been because a fit of hysterical sobbing inhibited it. His slim body pumped with sobs that he was making futile efforts to restrain. But then he hugged his face in his hands and gave way to a rush of tears. The constable moved his feet, Leyston folded his arms; the hawkish blonde stared at the young man sulkily.
‘Well, Riddlesworth?’
‘I’ve got to tell you, haven’t I?’
‘That is entirely up to you.’
‘Yes, but you think . . . you won’t believe me! And I can only say . . . I can’t explain . . .’
‘Listen carefully, Riddlesworth. You don’t have to say anything, but what you do will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’
He gulped down sobs. ‘Yes . . . I know! It means you have it in mind to charge me.’
He might have had the Judges’ Rules at his elbow. Gently nodded to the blonde, who selected a pencil and opened her notebook.
‘Very well. Now you can tell me.’
‘If I may . . . some more water.’
* * *
Surprisingly, he asked for a cigarette too, and the blonde found him one and gave him a light. For a while he sat sipping water and inhaling, a little reminding one of the tactics of his formidable father. Was there a contingency plan for this too, for the moment when he’d have to make his admission? It was possible; Riddlesworth had revealed that he was not unfamiliar with courts martial.
Finally the young man pulled himself together.
‘It’s true, then . . . I was Hannah’s lover.’
‘It is you she refers to in the diary?’
After a pause, he nodded.
‘You’ll never understand this, it sounds too improbable, but till yesterday I didn’t even know her name . . . not her surname, that is. She just told me to call her Hannah . . .’
‘Did she know who you were?’
‘I told her. But she wouldn’t tell me anything. I guessed she came up from the town, but she wouldn’t tell me where she lived. I wasn’t to try to find out, either, or to see her anywhere else . . . we were just to meet, now and then, when the tide was right in the afternoon.’
‘And you accepted that?’
‘I can’t explain it! In the first place, I’d never had a girlfriend . . . and then she was older, and not English. I felt I had to do what she said . . .’
‘April 28th was when you met?’
‘Yes. I won’t forget that date in a hurry. It was one of those mild days in early spring when just a few things are in fresh leaf. It’s true, I’d moored up to look for nests . . . there’s always one at least in the gorse there . . . and the gorse was in flower, mounds of it . . . then she came along and moored up too.’
‘She spoke to you?’
‘She asked what I was looking for . . . I told her, and showed her a nest. It was queer . . . I don’t really get on with women . . . but she was different. I can’t explain . . .’
‘You made love.’
‘Well . . . she . . .’ He squirmed a little and looked down.
‘It was the first time.’
‘You’ll never understand! But with her it was
all so natural. It was as though it were meant . . . as though just then and just there it had always been going to happen. I tried to tell her and she laughed . . . That’s when she christened me Endymion. Then she made me leave ahead of her and said I must never try to find out who she was.’
‘She didn’t ask who you were?’
‘No. But I told her, later on.’
‘What was her reaction?’
‘She just smiled. It didn’t seem to mean anything special to her.’
‘Yet she knew your father.’
‘I can’t help it. She never asked me any questions. Perhaps it was all a dream, like it was with Endymion. I don’t suppose you’re believing any of this.’
On the contrary: his tale had a ring of truth that couldn’t have been manufactured. Anything else would have struck a false note: it had to be exactly this.
‘Were you in love with her?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think she was in love with me. Otherwise . . . well, she wouldn’t have carried on that way, would she? I suppose I was too young, she wouldn’t have wanted me around . . . there wasn’t any future in it. In fact, she told me I was too young, and said she knew a nice girl who was more my age.’
‘What was the girl’s name?’
‘Elizabeth. She was going to bring her along, but she never did.’
‘Because the tide was wrong on a certain day?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Never mind.’
Mark Riddlesworth stared suspiciously at Gently, then dropped his gaze to the lighter. The blonde turned over a leaf and made a grab for a fresh pencil.
‘Well, if you know it all anyway . . .’
‘When did she give you the poem?’
‘I don’t see that it matters—’
‘Wasn’t it on Friday?’
‘I haven’t admitted yet . . .’
He worked his hands beneath the table.
‘Friday, then . . .’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I wasn’t certain she’d be coming . . . she’d already told me it would have to end. But I went anyway. And she was there. She was sitting on the bank, smoking. She said that after this she’d be storing her dinghy so she wouldn’t be seeing me any more. Then she gave me the poem, for a souvenir. She wouldn’t tell me what it said. If I wanted to know, I was to get hold of a Czech dictionary and work it out.’
‘Was that all she gave you?’
‘What . . .? Yes! You didn’t think she was giving me money, did you?’
‘Perhaps a token more permanent?’
‘I gave her a silver key-ring, but those were the only presents we exchanged.’
‘At what time did you get there?’
‘At two or just after. I’d ducked out early from lunch. At first, she didn’t say anything about not seeing me . . . it started off just as it had always done.’
‘A visit to the gorse.’
‘All right! Only this time it ended sooner . . . Then she gave me the poem and told me that this must be the last time.’
‘And of course, you argued.’
‘At first I couldn’t say anything, just trailed after her down to the boats. Then I tried to get her to change her mind, but all she did was kiss me and send me packing.’
‘You just went when she told you.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘She had smashed up your dream and you let her get away with it.’
‘But I’d known it was going to happen—’
‘She had simply been using you, and now it was no longer convenient you were getting the push.’
‘But it wasn’t like that!’
‘Then how was it?’
‘She was good to me. You don’t understand! It was always as though she were looking after me, and this was part of it, sending me away.’
‘Do you think I’m going to believe that?’
‘But you’ve got to – I wouldn’t have done anything to Hannah! She was just someone wonderful, I can’t describe it . . . and now . . . now . . .’
His voice caught in a sob.
‘So what is the end of this amazing story?’
‘You can call it what you like – I don’t care!’
‘You just left her on the bank.’
‘Yes, I did. Sitting on the bank with a cigarette.’
‘Which she had lit with what?’
‘I don’t know how she lit it! But that’s the last I saw of her . . . the last . . .’
He was sobbing again, and the blonde took the opportunity to make a few quick redactions to her scribble. Beside Gently, Leyston had got hold of a sideboard and was giving it little judicial tugs. Chummie was softening up! A little more leaning, and he’d be spilling it faster than the blonde could scrap it down. . .
Gently waited till the sobs had become sniffs.
‘So what time are you saying you left?’
‘I don’t know . . . I couldn’t have been there much longer than an hour.’
‘You went straight home?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘I don’t know! About half-past three.’
‘Who was there?’
‘My father was there . . . mother didn’t come in till later. I could hear father’s typewriter going in the study, so I slipped upstairs and lay on my bed.’
‘Did you notice his car outside?’
‘It wasn’t outside, it was in the garage. I leave my lifejacket in there, and I dropped it off before going up.’
‘But your father was in the study.’
‘Yes. He didn’t come out till mother got home. And I was supposed to be at classes anyway, so I just stayed upstairs, keeping quiet.’
Did he have his father’s facility for lying? Surely a little of it must have rubbed off! Yet you wouldn’t have thought so, listening to him, to the young man thoroughly shaken by a police interrogation . . .
‘Then on Friday, you say, you didn’t know what had happened.’
‘No.’
‘Yet you knew about it early on Saturday.’
‘That’s because . . .’
‘Because what?’
He had begun to tremble.
‘Because . . . because I saw her.’
‘You saw her!’
‘Yes.’ His trembling was pitiable. ‘You see, I went down early . . . to the waterfront . . . to check the tide. And she was there.’ He was holding on tightly to the table. ‘I knew it was her boat . . . I could see it, coming down the garden . . . it was flood . . . I thought . . . then I saw what was in the boat . . .’
‘It was on your waterfront?’
He nodded.
‘Moored up?’
‘No . . . just touching. There’s the bend there . . . it had drifted out of the current and got stuck on our foreshore. And she was lying in it. She was wearing the same clothes. There were black marks on her throat . . . I thought I would faint.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I shoved it off.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you to go for help?’
He shook his head. ‘I just couldn’t take it . . . I shoved it off again into the current. I saw it disappear into the mist and then I ran back into the house.’
‘Where you told your father.’
‘I had to tell someone. I knew Dad would know the best thing to do. He decided I’d better make myself scarce for a while till we saw how things would turn out. So I took off to the forest, to a part we knew, where he could come and see me after dark. I didn’t sleep much . . . being alone was ghastly. I think I would have given myself up, anyway.’
‘We visited your tent.’
‘I know. I heard your dog, and had to clear out.’
‘You have still not explained how this lighter came to be there.’
‘Because I don’t know! If that’s where it was.’
‘Have you seen it before?’
‘Never.’
‘It could ha
ve been a parting present from her to you.’
‘But it wasn’t! I’ve told you about that. She gave me the poem, and that was all.’
‘You wouldn’t like to change your tale?’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘And I’m suggesting you think hard about that.’
‘I don’t have to, it’s how I’m saying. I’ve never seen the lighter before in my life.’
And his small mouth had set obstinately before he suddenly opened it to say:
‘Are you going to charge me, now . . .?’
Gently regarded him for a long time, while the heater buzzed and the blonde massaged her hands. Then he rose, picked up the lighter, and nodded Leyston to follow him.
‘Let’s go to your office.’
The office was chill, after the fug in the interview room. Leyston hastened to switch on a heater, but for the moment it merely glowed without producing warmth. Gently dropped on the chair behind the desk.
‘In my opinion, the lighter was planted.’
‘Planted . . .?’
‘It didn’t come from a handbag. It’s been lying about somewhere, perhaps in a drawer.’
‘But . . . who, sir?’
Gently toyed with the lighter. ‘It could have been in Claydon’s hand when he reached into the tent. And a dud lighter is the sort of thing she might have left in her drawer at the shop.’
‘But why would he do that?’
‘Add up the score! Moulton saw a shortish man in dark clothing. Thwaite is on the way to Southgate, where Claydon turned up at four p.m. Claydon knew Hannah was going out in her boat, and may well have spied on her before. Time, place and opportunity. And now evidence planted in Riddlesworth’s tent.’
‘Are you saying Claydon’s chummie?’
‘I’m saying he fits.’
‘But I can’t believe . . .’
‘What colour is his car?’
Leyston’s sad eyes rounded. ‘A white Hunter . . . it’s old, but he keeps it polished like new.’
‘Did you finish checking his alibi?’
‘I haven’t had time . . .’
Gently pushed the phone across the desk. He lit his pipe, blew clouds of smoke, and broke the match into several pieces. Yes . . . the bookseller! The little man with the invalid wife and housekeeper behind him, the failing business . . . and this strange, this reverent tie with the sympathetic Hannah. One of her lame ducks, like the others, but this one perhaps fatal in his inadequacy, clutching at the bit of strength she gave him, unable to tolerate the threat of a rival . . . She had been too kind! And her kindness may have killed her. Perhaps it had even been a fault.