Gently with the Innocents

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Let’s take one troublesome time,’ Gently said. ‘Was there any religious foundation at Cross?’

  Bressingham nodded. ‘A Benedictine house. But it was neither large nor rich.’

  ‘Where was the site?’

  ‘Don’t think it’s known, and I’m pretty well briefed in local history. At a guess I’d say it was close to the Mere. The monks usually built where fishing was handy.’

  ‘No connection with Frenze Street?’

  Bressingham shook his head. ‘I think we can forget the monks,’ he said. ‘I know that Harrisons is ages old, but my dealer’s nose says we’re off the track.’

  ‘Let’s get to the house, then. What do you know about it?’

  ‘Not very much,’ Bressingham admitted. ‘We have a Town Plan of 1742 which shows it having bigger grounds than it does now. They ran through to Thingoe Road in those days, mostly a plantation and some formal gardens. There’s a sketch in the library, circa 1750, showing the house with a backing of beeches and conifers.’

  ‘How did it get its name?’

  ‘No mention of that anywhere. As a matter of fact, Harrison isn’t an indigenous name in these parts. It doesn’t occur in the town rolls, feet of fines or church registers – though the latter aren’t much help. They only go back a couple of centuries.’

  ‘So?’

  Bressingham shrugged. ‘It blew in from somewhere. Once upon a time there was a Harrison of Harrisons.’

  ‘He must have made an impression.’

  ‘It was perhaps just his being a foreigner. Cross is clannish enough today – the Lord knows what it was like then!’

  Gently nodded. The solution was probable. Being a well-to-do ‘foreigner’ was enough to make a mark. And certainly (x) Harrison must have been well-to-do to buy the old place in its heyday. One could visualize it crisp and newly decorated with its screen of tall trees, its plentiful servants, who were no doubt housed in the amplitude of the lofts. And the formal gardens, requiring gardeners, and the carriage and horses with their quota . . . yes, he needed to have money, that mysterious foreigner with the name that had stuck.

  He found Bressingham watching him quizzically.

  ‘Look . . . this is a bit of cheek on my part . . . I’ve the curiosity of the devil. Have you searched the house yet?’

  ‘Not a proper search.’

  ‘Well . . . if you want a ferret. I mean, this is just my line of country. I really do have a nose for it, and I know the local domestic architecture backwards. If there’s anything there, I’m sure to spot it.’

  Gently shrugged. ‘If there’s anything there! The theory is that it grew some wings on the night when Peachment was pushed downstairs.’

  ‘But you don’t know that.’

  ‘It’s a fair guess.’

  Bressingham’s magnified eyes stared eagerly.

  ‘Forgive me – but on present evidence, you can’t be sure there was anything in the first place. There are these two pieces, that’s all, the Edward angel and the medal. They may be part of a collection, or they may be a red herring.’

  Gently chuckled. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well – we can do better than that. If we find a hiding place, at least we know there was something hidden to begin with.’

  ‘And we might deduce something from the cache.’

  ‘Exactly. You might find old Peachey’s prints. And some more of that odd wrapping-paper – perhaps even with coin-impressions on it.’

  Gently grinned broadly at the chubby little man. ‘You’ve clearly missed your vocation,’ he said.

  ‘It’s cheek, I know, but when you stop to think—’

  ‘All right, I’m sold. When are you free?’

  The snow had a blizzardy touch in it when Gently stepped out in the courtyard again. All day the weather had been slowly worsening and the temperature edging lower.

  Tomorrow was December, and there was Christmas round the corner . . .

  In town, the weather wouldn’t notice so much; here, it was bleak like the open fields.

  Gently shoved his way into a newsagent’s for a copy of the paper Bressingham had shown him. A sulky-faced girl, who’d been cuddling a radiator, came forward reluctantly to serve him.

  ‘Eastern Evening News.’

  ‘They’re all gone.’

  Didn’t his voice proclaim him a ‘foreigner’?

  ‘Give me a tin of Erinmore, then.’

  She took his money without a word.

  A little town, with winter closing on it: all foreigners go home.

  Turning into the street, he was almost knocked down by boys racing coatless through the snow. He recognized Dinno. The youngster dodged him, bawling, ‘When are y’going to pinch Cokey, mister?’

  ‘Come back!’ Gently called.

  But Dinno laughed jeeringly and bolted on into the darkness. He heard them whooping and jeering in the distance till the scurrying wind swept the sound away.

  A little town . . .

  One felt a relief in pushing through the George’s revolving door, exchanging suddenly the snowy night of Cross for the suave civility of a hotel. Here at least they welcomed foreigners, and were always glad to see them!

  ‘Any calls for me?’

  ‘No, sir, but . . .’

  The manager’s wife nodded towards the lounge. Through the swing doors Gently could see young Adrian Peachment sitting tensely beside a rather pretty girl.

  Gently grunted. More hand-holding!

  ‘Better send in tea for three.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And she actually smiled as she took his snow-caked coat and hat . . .

  When young Peachment talked he had a sort of jerk which might one day develop into a twitch. Jeanie Norton, his girl-friend, was obviously smitten with him and watched him with intent, smiling earnestness.

  ‘I thought since I was up this way – I’d better, well . . . report in, sir.’

  Or, what was more likely, he had been persuaded to by the neat-featured Jeanie.

  ‘Why? Your movements have not been restricted.’

  ‘Oh no, sir. But I still thought—’

  ‘Why are you up here?’

  ‘To see Jeanie. We’re . . . well, you know . . . I’m often up here.’

  And here at Cross, along with his Jeanie, the provincial touch was even stronger. His military jacket notwithstanding, you knew you were talking to a native.

  Lighting his pipe, Gently studied the young man. Had he been tempted to dismiss him too quickly? Adrian Peachment was certainly an easy answer to a number of puzzling questions. He, alone, had talked with the old man. He, alone, was familiar with the house. He would know his uncle’s habits, too, better than any outside watcher. And his alibi? Give him half an hour – the p.m. estimate was not precise – stretch it a little, and he could still have been back in his flat by ten p.m.

  But, on the other hand, if he were guilty, why had he come to Gently? Some sort of contorted cunning? A compulsion not to leave well alone?

  ‘I thought that Jeanie . . . it’s important, isn’t it?’

  Jeanie was looking at Gently and blushing.

  ‘What about Jeanie?’

  ‘Well, she can tell you . . . the time I left, I mean! On the evening Uncle was killed.’

  So this was it! Young Peachment had been worrying about that alibi, perhaps realizing it wasn’t quite watertight after all. Jeanie, determined not to be flustered, fixed her hazel eyes on Gently, sitting very straight, legs firmly folded, hands placed together on her lap.

  ‘We . . . we’d had a row.’

  ‘What sort of a row?’

  The wrong question! Jeanie flinched slightly.

  ‘It was . . . does it matter?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. As Mr Peachment says, this is important.’

  Jeanie shuffled her hands a little. ‘All right, if you really have to know. It was about . . . well, the truth is . . . I suppose you’d call me a little old-fashioned.’

  ‘He wanted you to s
leep with him.’

  ‘Yes . . . no! It wasn’t quite so . . . not like that. He wanted me to spend a weekend in town – Christmas shopping. That’s all.’

  ‘Staying at his flat, of course?’

  ‘Well . . . yes. But it didn’t have to mean what you’re thinking. And anyway . . . perhaps it’s the way I’ve been brought up. I know everyone does it these days, but . . .’

  An old-fashioned girl – she was quite charming! And she’d probably turn out to be a handful. Her voice had that little edge of righteousness that ought to have been a warning to Peachment. But perhaps he wanted to be dominated? There didn’t seem a lot of buck there.

  ‘When did the row happen?’

  ‘In the afternoon. Adrian went to visit his uncle. Then we drove out . . . I don’t know. Rattlesham Heath, I think it was.’

  ‘Did you go with Adrian to his uncle’s?’

  ‘No. I waited in the car. Old Mr Peachment was queer about people, he didn’t like them coming in the house.’

  ‘So Adrian wasn’t there very long?’

  ‘No. About twenty minutes, I suppose.’

  ‘More like quarter of an hour,’ Adrian Peachment said. ‘I . . . well, we never had much to talk about.’

  Gently nodded. That was understandable. One could visualize long moments of helpless silence – the old man with nothing left to say, the young man despairing of saying anything. Yet Adrian had still persisted with these visits.

  ‘What rooms did you go in?’

  Adrian Peachment hesitated. ‘The kitchen, I think . . . he was in the kitchen. Then . . . oh, yes, he took me up to the store-room. He didn’t say why. He was like that.’

  ‘Which is the store-room?’

  ‘It’s the room up the stairs.’

  ‘You mean the stairs he fell down?’

  Adrian Peachment stirred nervously. ‘This was in the afternoon – three o’clock. It’s got nothing to do—’

  ‘But he took you into that room?’

  Gently drew steadily on his pipe. Always, one came back to the room . . . Yet it was a room you could take in at a glance – no panels to tap, no suggestive features.

  ‘Think back carefully. You were in that room. Tell me exactly what you saw in it.’

  ‘Well . . . nothing.’

  ‘Take your time. Go over the whole room in your mind.’

  Adrian Peachment stared unhappily, giving now and then his little jerk.

  ‘I’m sure . . . nothing! Uncle never used it. You see, it was upstairs . . . it wasn’t convenient . . .’

  ‘The chair. The table.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . that was all.’

  ‘How long had they been there?’

  ‘I think . . . always! At least, the chair . . .’

  ‘That was fresh?’

  ‘I’m trying . . . yes. The chair wasn’t there before.’

  ‘And the shelves – go over those.’

  The young man’s hands were twisting together.

  ‘Empty . . . I’m sure . . . quite empty.’

  ‘Not even, say – a twist of blue paper?’

  It meant nothing, Gently was certain. It just reduced Adrian Peachment to shaking his head. He was baffled. He simply didn’t know why Gently was hammering him about this.

  ‘All right, then. But your uncle said something, he didn’t just lead you up there in silence.’

  ‘No . . . I forget. You didn’t know Uncle! He’d mutter away, pulling you along with him.’

  ‘He said something to you about the old house.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t remember where.’

  ‘Wasn’t it up there in the store-room?’

  ‘Yes – it could have been. I don’t remember!’

  ‘He was such a vague old man,’ Jeanie put in, loyally trying to relieve the pressure. ‘You couldn’t have a proper conversation with him. He didn’t listen to what you said.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Why? I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve heard it suggested he was deaf.’

  ‘Deaf?’

  She looked at Adrian Peachment, but he was too confused to do more than shake his head.

  Their tea arrived. Jeanie poured for them with a firm, unhesitating hand. In this slightly more genial atmosphere Gently tidied up details of the alibi.

  They’d gone out snogging, that was plain enough, and Adrian had pushed for something more satisfying. After all, she was wearing a modest little ring, and was due to become an Easter bride. He’d stayed for tea. Their evening programme had been a visit to the local flicks. She found she had a headache. Adrian had left. The time, she was sure, was seven p.m.

  ‘You went to the car with him – saw him off?’

  ‘No. But I watched him from the window.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘It’s in Broome Road. He didn’t have to go back through the town.’

  Then a drive of nearly three hours . . . hadn’t Gently checked it himself this morning? It had taken him two and a half from Finchley, never mind the grind between there and Kensington. If the times were right . . .

  He looked keenly at Jeanie, who was eating toast with an elevated finger. She caught his eye and smiled dutifully. No, you really couldn’t believe . . .

  ‘How long have you known Colkett?’

  Adrian Peachment started, letting his cup collide with his saucer.

  ‘I don’t think I know—’

  ‘The fellow at the warehouse. He says you’re quite a buddy of his.’

  Flush-spots appeared in the young man’s cheeks. ‘I’m afraid I scarcely know him. A couple of times – once I drank some tea with him. I assure you he’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him to keep an eye on Harrisons?’

  ‘I . . . yes, just for something to say! I mean, Uncle living alone like that, and not having any neighbours.’

  ‘You didn’t discuss your uncle?’

  ‘Well, no . . . that is, only making conversation.’

  Gently shrugged and didn’t push it. Colkett, in any case, was a liar.

  But then, just as they were leaving, with the embarrassment of young folk, the interview suddenly spilt some pay-dirt. Jeanie, putting on her scarf, remarked nervously, ‘Well, one thing’s certain. People knew about the coins.’

  ‘Knew about them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The kids at school all knew. My brother Jackie came in one day and told us old Peachey was selling his gold.’

  Gently went still. ‘How did he know?’

  ‘Kids’ gossip.’ Jeanie smiled complacently. ‘Young Phil Bressingham heard his father talking about it. Mr Bressingham deals in coins.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ONLY GISSING WAS in the office when Gently arrived back at the station. He listened pokerfaced to Gently’s account of the Edward IV angel and Jeanie’s remarks.

  Gissing, you felt, was surprised at nothing: he met it all with a dead bat. Behind the screen of his heavy features he slowly absorbed, brooded, adjusted.

  ‘I reckon that opens it up a bit, sir.’

  Understatements like that were his daily bread.

  ‘If the kids knew about it, it’d get around. Our chummie could be just about anyone.’

  Brilliant deduction! Gently sat on the desk and grinned at the local man. The office was dreary, but it was warm, a place to spin-out and mull-over common-places.

  ‘I mean . . . even if it was just the one coin, the kids would say it was a sackful. Then if one of our villains got to hear about it . . . what about Bressingham himself?’

  ‘He has an alibi.’

  Gissing nodded blankly. ‘Not that Tom’s ever given any trouble.’

  ‘Who are your villains?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know. There’s one or two I’ll have a word with.’

  Gissing himself had had a little luck. He’d visited a shop in Thingoe Road. A general store, it was where old Peachment had bought his paraffin and tobacco. On two evenings a week they opened l
ate, and October 27th had been such an evening. Though he couldn’t swear to the 27th, the shopkeeper was positive that Peachment had come in one evening that week. He’d bought some matches. Among the contents of Peachment’s pockets had been a new box of Bryant & May.

  Thingoe Road . . .

  ‘He’d have gone by the footway.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Slap past Colkett’s office.’

  ‘All the same . . . a bit risky. No way of telling how long he’d be gone.’

  ‘If Colkett knew where to find the loot, sir, it wouldn’t be very much of a risk. He could slip in there and out again before old Peachey could turn round.’

  ‘But – he didn’t.’

  Gissing condescended to frown. ‘No, sir. He must have struck a snag. Maybe it was the way we thought, after all, and he did knock Peachey about to make him talk.’

  Gently struck a mean match.

  ‘Let’s forget about Colkett for a moment. Peachment goes out into Thingoe Road, and that’s where chummie could have spotted him. Is it a busy place?’

  ‘Middling busy. Council houses, a bit of traffic.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘They’ve got their quota.’

  ‘So?’

  Gently put the match to his pipe.

  But Gissing, after a pause, dead-batted that one.

  ‘I don’t know, sir . . . it’s asking a lot. If someone spotted him in Thingoe Road, they’d see he was only going to the shop. Of course, we could do a house-to-house . . .’

  He let it linger in the air gloomily.

  Gently shrugged. ‘It may come to that.’

  Gissing just let it die.

  And so, of necessity, they were back with Colkett, their only glimmer of a suspect. Gissing had put a Detective Constable, Scole, on the chore of rechecking Colkett’s alibi.

  ‘He’ll be in the Grapes now, chatting up a few of the regulars. I’m going round to the Marquis myself. If you’d care to come out for a jar, sir?’

  Gently thanked him but declined – there was pheasant on the George’s menu. From Gissing’s manner you couldn’t tell if he were disappointed or relieved.

  ‘One other thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’d like a chat with those kids some time.’