Gently to the Summit

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Oh I see. It’s about Henry, is it. I wondered why you had fetched me out here. And what has my son been up to this time: another car-smash, is it?’

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Askham.’

  ‘I’m hoping it won’t be necessary, Superintendent. If it’s a question of bail we can settle that immediately, and since I have guests to dinner, I should prefer not to be detained.’

  ‘It isn’t a question of bail.’

  ‘Not bail. Is it something troublesome?’

  ‘I’d sooner you sat down, Mrs Askham. It has to do with Reginald Kincaid.’

  ‘That man. So that’s it.’

  She gave her son a harder look. But he was determinedly turned away from her, his face towards one of the filing cabinets.

  ‘Very well, then. I’ll sit down. I didn’t know we were still on that business. But you will do me a favour, Superintendent, by being as brief as you possibly can.’

  She was indeed dressed for dinner and she arranged her billowing skirt with care. She was wearing a gown of pale straw and pearls gleamed dully above its neckline. About her shoulders was a quilted wrap in her especial tint of lilac, and she wore long matching gloves and lilac shoes with incredible heels. Her hair was sculptured rather than brushed and she wore in it a golden, pearl-studded comb.

  Gently was cautious with his opening.

  ‘I’m trying to complete our knowledge of the case. We still need some details about Fleece and Kincaid with reference to the time when you engaged Paula Kincaid. I thought you’d be the person best able to help us.’

  ‘I see. But what has this to do with my foolish son?’

  ‘Your son has been helping us, Mrs Askham. He had some information to give.’

  ‘About Kincaid?’

  ‘About Kincaid. And a few collateral matters.’

  ‘My son is imaginative, Superintendent.’

  ‘We have had occasion to notice that.’

  Her eyes had their usual frigid boldness but it was now a little icier, a little harder. They had been fencing from the outset and she was perfectly aware of it. She had no nerves. She knew her strength. She was a perfect mistress of her weapon.

  ‘Very good. Then what are your questions?’

  ‘Two of them relate to sums of money. The first concerns the ten thousand pounds with which your husband financed the expedition to Everest.’

  ‘My husband did no such thing.’

  ‘But Harry Askham paid that money.’

  ‘Then it was done without my knowledge.’

  ‘Why was that, Mrs Askham?’

  She made the gesture of flicking her skirt. ‘I wouldn’t necessarily know. I think I told you before that I didn’t meddle with my husband’s business. He was quite generous with his charities.’

  ‘Even when they were anonymous?’

  ‘He could also be disinterested.’

  ‘Surprisingly so, it would seem.’

  She let the thrust go by her. ‘And there was a second sum of money?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gently hit the word hard. ‘Another disinterested donation. We haven’t obtained the figures for this one but it would need to be in the tens of thousands. And it was paid to Arthur Fleece. On his successful return from the expedition.’

  ‘That I consider to be absurd.’

  ‘I quite agree. Unless it had a motive.’

  ‘There could be none.’ Her chin was up, she let her eyes sweep him witheringly. ‘Wherever this man obtained his money, I can assure you it was not from Harry, Harry had obligations to nobody. Certainly not to a sacked employee.’

  ‘Fleece was sacked?’

  ‘So I understood. I remember it being mentioned at the time. Some dishonesty in his records. I don’t remember precisely what.’

  ‘Then there would be a record of that at Metropolitan Electric. Some of the staff would remember the incident.’

  ‘They might.’ She picked a thread from her skirt. ‘But then again, it was probably hushed up.’

  Gently’s nod was caustic. ‘I feel sure it would have been. The air at Hendon seems to have a relaxing effect on memories. But you knew nothing of this payment?’

  ‘Nothing whatever. It was never made.’

  The foil was handsome, but that didn’t betray her into complacency. From the height of her expensive presence, she continued to eye him with alert attention. Henry Askham had straightened a little as though perhaps taking courage from his formidable mother. Evans was sitting in a crouching attitude. He seemed holding himself to spring on something or somebody.

  ‘I’d like you to consider those two payments together and in conjunction with what happened on Everest. I think you will come to a certain conclusion. I think your son has already done so.’

  ‘I didn’t know—!’

  Askham flung round, a truly ghastly look on his face. He stared in horror at his mother, who regally inclined in his direction.

  ‘Henry. You’d better leave the talking to me.’

  ‘But you don’t understand! I had to tell him—’

  ‘You are over-imaginative, Henry.’

  ‘But this … this …!’

  ‘You must control your nerves, boy. You should try to be more reserved in public. Superintendent, you will kindly excuse him. As an only son he’s been spoiled, I’m afraid.’

  Askham groaned and pulled away from her. She sat still and unmoved. Her hands lay quietly on her lap and the muscles of her mouth were unstressed. After a moment she resumed calmly:

  ‘I missed the point of your last question. I thought that what happened on Everest was beyond any sort of proof.’

  ‘You are familiar with accounts of it, then.’

  ‘Oh yes. Is that discreditable?’

  ‘And with the version Kincaid gave?’

  ‘One could scarcely escape that.’

  ‘How would you interpret it, Mrs Askham?’

  ‘I’m not certain that I want to. But if it were proved, then I should say Kincaid had reason to murder Fleece.’

  ‘You may take it as being proved.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Her chin was lifting again. ‘Then a conviction is almost certain. I suppose I should congratulate you, Superintendent.’

  ‘And those two sums of money are proved. Your husband paid for that expedition. And he paid Fleece when he returned. And he caused Paula Kincaid to vanish.’

  ‘You are wrong. Completely wrong.’

  ‘And Fleece knew something else, didn’t he? Your husband went for a ride on a tiger, and the tiger came back: he came for you.’

  ‘Stop it … stop it!’ Henry Askham sprang up, his eyes wild and his hair dishevelled. ‘I can’t stand it, I tell you, I can’t! I shall go mad … you’ve got to stop it!’

  ‘Henry.’ Her voice cut like a knife.

  ‘And you. You. You knew all about it! Knew that Father – oh, my God! I can’t stand it – I shall go mad!’

  ‘Henry, be silent.’

  ‘I can’t … I can’t!’

  ‘You will control yourself this moment.’

  ‘I’m finished. I just can’t take it.’

  ‘It isn’t true, Henry. It isn’t true.’

  Neither of them had seen Gently’s finger on the bell-push, nor noticed the door swinging silently open. He came in looking perplexed, his intense eyes switching about him, the brown suit he’d worn in the cells crumpled and badly needing a press. Then he heard the voice of the seated woman. His eyes grew wide, he began to tremble. He took a stumbled step forward and gave a little sobbing cry.

  ‘Paula … Paula!’

  Mrs Askham whirled to her feet. He was standing with his hands outstretched towards her.

  Was it altogether real, the tableau enacting in that room, painfully extending itself to moments, a scene in which every actor had dried? The spindly man with his appealing hands and tears rolling down his cheeks, the thunderstruck woman with ghost-seeing eyes, the staring young man backed against the cabinet? It seemed to hang breathlessly on the brink of unbe
ing, as though a sudden movement might sweep it away: dissolved and cut by its own emotion like a celluloid shadow from the screen.

  Then slowly Mrs Askham turned her back on Kincaid.

  ‘Paula!’

  The movement drew him after it. But he seemed to be shackled, he could advance only one foot. He stopped. He became as motionless as before.

  ‘Paula. Oh, look at me!’

  She wouldn’t. Her face was bitter. She wasn’t seeing Gently, though her eyes faced straight towards him.

  ‘Paula, I love you. It’s never changed. I love you, Paula. I love you!’

  Her mouth opened before she spoke. Finally she said:

  ‘It’s no use, Reg.’

  ‘But, Paula, I love you. I want you!’

  ‘No, Reg. It’s no use.’

  ‘Paula, listen to me. I’m rich now …’

  Her lips twisted. ‘And I’m poor!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He came another step. ‘I’m rich, Paula. Don’t you hear? We’ve got money now. A hundred thousand! I brought it back with me from Tibet.’

  A hundred thousand …! Gently saw the pitying expression that passed over her face. What was a hundred thousand to Mrs Askham: would it melt one splinter of her ice? She’d tossed the sum away on trifles, some fresh bloodstock, a new yacht; and that little man in his scrubby suit thought he was going to tempt her with such a bagatelle! The anger blazed. She swung on Kincaid:

  ‘Are you blind to what you’ve done?’

  ‘Paula …!’ Her rage pushed him backwards, his lips quivered and fell dumb.

  ‘Don’t you realize you’ve made me a pauper – me, a millionairess; stripped this very gown from my back; taken the ring off my finger?’

  ‘But Paula, listen …’

  ‘Listen. Listen! Will that do any good now? Will it make me Harry’s widow again? Confirm my title to his estate? You’ve ruined me, Reg, that’s what you’ve done. You’ve practically tossed me into the street. And now you insult me with your pretty charity, your childish sentiment and your hundred thousand! What must I do about it – kiss you? Throw my arms round your neck?’

  ‘Paula … I don’t understand …’

  Her savage laugh made him wince.

  ‘Don’t you? But Dicky Askham will understand, and so too will his lawyers. I had to fight that wastrel before, Reg. He contested the will right through the courts. And what sort of case do you think I’ll have now – as Harry’s mistress, with Henry his bastard? I’ll be fortunate to get a pittance: a beggarly percentage of your wonderful fortune. And Harry’s son can sweat in the works while his uncle squanders his father’s money …! And you’ve done it by walking in here, Reg, only by looking at me and saying, ‘Paula.’ Paula was dead and Paula was buried – and you, you’re the stranger who’s made me poor!’

  She flung away again with vehement passion, her eyes sparkling and blind. Kincaid stood as though entranced; crushed, broken by her piercing anger. For several seconds he couldn’t speak. He seemed to have died inside his body. Then insensibly something began to return, the lamp of his glazed eyes lit again.

  ‘Paula …’

  Her shoulders snatched at him, willing him to have done.

  ‘Paula, I didn’t know … I couldn’t guess that I would do you an injury.’

  ‘But you have, Reg. And I hate you for it.’

  ‘No, Paula. You mustn’t hate me.’

  ‘But I do. I do.’

  ‘You’re angry with me. Only angry.’

  She stamped her foot, and to Gently’s surprise he could see a tear trembling under her lashes. But her lips were pressing tight and her chin thrust well forward.

  ‘I want you to go now, simply go.’

  ‘Not without you, Paula. Never.’

  ‘Reg, you must.’

  ‘Don’t ask it of me. I love you, Paula. You’re all my life.’

  ‘I’ve not been faithful.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘You must suspect me.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘I’m a hard bitch, Reg. You can ask my son,’

  ‘You’re Paula Kincaid. You’re my wife.’

  What had come over him? He had suddenly transcended the eccentric character by which they had known him; even his voice had a deeper tone and his weedy figure appeared more substantial. And as his stature grew, Mrs Askham’s lessened, her commanding presence was whittled away. From being a priceless doll with a vice-royal manner, she was rapidly diminishing into something like a woman …

  ‘Listen, Paula. Why is this money important? What have you ever bought with it that has helped you to be happy? Has it made people love you? Has it made you less lonely? Has it stood to you as a husband since the man who took you died? If I’ve lost that for you, I’ve brought you something else, Paula. I’ve brought you a love that’s never altered, through all the bitter times past. And I’ve all the money we can ever need, more than we need with each other. Then why is your money so important? Why does losing it seem so hard?’

  ‘It’s no use, Reg; we’re strangers. You don’t know me now.’

  ‘I do know you.’ He came closer, standing right by her side.

  ‘I’m unforgivable. I know that.’

  ‘No, Paula. You’re always forgiven.’

  ‘I’ve got to hate you …’

  ‘You can’t do it.’

  ‘I must hate you. I must …’

  Then the tears came. Quietly, without any sobbing. Making her feel unseeingly for her handkerchief to dab to her eyes.

  ‘You’re not to touch me,’ she said. ‘You’re not to touch me, Reg …’

  She didn’t break down at all. But that would probably come later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IN THE MIDDLE of the proceedings arrived the Caernarvonshire Chief Constable, who had been warned by his spies that some development was afoot. He was a tall ex-Army man and the owner of a finely waxed moustache, and he evidently knew Mrs Askham and looked rather perturbed at finding her there. She gave no sign of knowing him, however; it was left to Evans to acknowledge his entry. Then after some whispering he took a chair in the background, there to make what he could of the goings-on.

  Gently was questioning; that was inevitable. His slow, flat voice laid query to query. He was covering ground unfamiliar to the Chief Constable and having apparently small connection with Fleece’s murder. Really, the only suggestion of it was the presence of Kincaid; and that alone brought a frown to the Chief Constable’s brow. The man was looking bumptious, quite different to when he was brought there. And if he was being properly guarded the fact was very little in evidence.

  ‘And you first saw Fleece when?’

  ‘I think it was twenty-eighth September.’

  This was another perplexing point; it was Mrs Askham who was answering the questions. She’d also been crying, the Chief Constable was sure of it, her make-up was in a ghastly mess; and her tone, though clear, was low, so that he needed to lean forward to catch the responses. What had this London fellow been doing to her, the wealthiest woman in North Wales …?

  ‘What was his purpose in visiting you?’

  ‘Reg.’

  ‘A question of money?’

  ‘No. Me.’

  ‘He made a proposal?’

  ‘If you can call it that.’

  ‘And your son knew?’

  ‘Yes. He was there.’

  ‘What steps did you take as a result of the visit?’

  ‘I consulted Clarence. He knew who I was.’

  ‘What suggestion did Mr Stanley make?’

  ‘None. There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘So you agreed to the proposal?’

  ‘I daren’t not agree.’

  ‘Did you know your son went looking for Kincaid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what for?’

  ‘Yes. A bribe. We were desperate.’

  Presumably Gently was adding it together, and Evans too, from his intelligent
attitude; but a freshly arrived Chief Constable was finding it difficult to pick up a cue. At last he drew out an amber cigar-holder, lit a cigar, and sat nursing his knee. The thing to do now was to think up an apology, something to smooth down the ruffled La Askham …

  ‘And now we’ll have your son’s statement.’

  Good lord, was there more of it? The Chief Constable touched his watch and looked meaningly at Evans. But no, there were no dissentients, this extension seemed understood. La Askham left the seat and her son took his place. And young Henry, he too was looking under the weather. He wasn’t nearly as fierce as the C.C. remembered him. Altogether his appearance was decidedly hangdog, though with his driving habits he was no novice at these parties …

  ‘Put in your own words what happened on Monday.’

  ‘I … for certain reasons I wanted to meet Mr Kincaid. I’d heard from our housekeeper that he was staying in Caernarvon, so I went there to find him, and afterwards to Llanberis …’

  Then, for the Chief Constable, the world abruptly ceased to turn. This was no simple statement: it was a full-dress confession. In horror he sat listening, with his cigar going cold on him; heard the damning words uttered in Henry Askham’s halting voice.

  ‘So I decided to wait there … in case I should see him …’

  ‘Say where it was you waited, please.’

  ‘On the cairn at the summit. I sat down because I felt dizzy …’

  ‘What made you feel dizzy?’

  ‘I’ve got a bad head for heights …’

  And then the worst, or what was so near it that the worst must be inferred: a transparent evasion of a guilt that screamed aloud. A damned-good grilling must get the rest of it, of that there was no question. The case was made. Henry Askham was the self-confessed murderer of Fleece.

  But the strangest part of it was the lack of emotion that accompanied this frightful revelation. Nobody appeared very much concerned, not even the droop-figured culprit. Gently was looking mildly bored; Evans had a distant, meditative expression; Mrs Askham was scarcely listening; and Kincaid was gawping at Mrs Askham. Did nobody care any longer about self-confessed murderers, even when millionaire-apparents, sons, and voiders of capital charges? It seemed they didn’t. In fact, the atmosphere was wholly unaccountable. The C.C. felt like pinching himself to be assured that he didn’t dream …