Gently in the Sun

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Did she have her bag with her when she went down to supper?’

  ‘Can’t say I noticed. It wasn’t where my eyes were.’

  ‘Did she usually have it with her?’

  ‘Women don’t go far without one.’

  ‘All right. You can go now. Send Rosie up here, will you?’

  Was there a tinge of uneasiness in those insolent grey eyes? Gently had deliberately hooked on the order to provoke some. But Maurice would hardly have given Rosie for an alibi unless he could depend on her: he rose jauntily from his seat, clicking his heels before he departed.

  Rosie came in some five minutes later. She had had time to repowder and to dab on some scent. Closing the door, she favoured Gently with a truly blonde smile, and in sitting down she crossed her legs and leaned intimately towards him.

  ‘What did Maurice say when he asked you to come up?’

  ‘Maurice? He just said you wanted me in the bedroom.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  She flickered her eyes coyly.

  ‘He said you were a bit of all right, and that I needn’t be afraid of you.’

  ‘Just as long as I know!’ Gently eased himself back a little. Rosie’s perfume was oppressive and so was her person. She wasn’t uncomely but there seemed to be a lot of her: when she talked she found it necessary to move a little closer.

  ‘You remember last Tuesday, do you?’

  ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Were you serving tea in the lounge?’

  ‘Me and Betty were, between us.’

  ‘Did you serve Mr Mixer?’

  ‘Yes – he got on to me for spilling some tea.’

  ‘What was his attitude towards Miss Campion?’

  ‘Right-down nasty. You can take it from me.’

  Gently’s pipe was dead but he was obliged to get it going again. It was necessary protection against Rosie’s affectionate incursions. Her face kept swimming up to him like a cheap-scented flower, and each time, by sensible degrees, she dragged her chair forward.

  ‘How did you spend the evening?’

  ‘Like one usually does here. After tea there was the supper to get, and then there’s the washing-up. It isn’t a rest-cure, I can tell you. We deserve our bit of fun.’

  ‘You served Miss Campion at supper?’

  ‘They sit at one of my tables.’

  ‘What sort of mood would you say she was in?’

  ‘She’d got a book with her but she didn’t read much. Thoughtful, I’d say she was. Kept staring out of the window.’

  ‘What did she do after supper?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. She went off out of the dining room and that’s the last I saw of her. As it was I didn’t finish up much before ten.’

  ‘When you finished, what did you do?’

  Rosie’s face loomed up to within inches. She had painted her lips a pillar-box red, but a fine dew of perspiration had beaten the powder on her nose.

  ‘Didn’t Maurice tell you that?’

  ‘I’d rather you told me.’

  ‘You don’t want a girl to give details, do you?’

  ‘The facts and the times will do, I think.’

  ‘Well!’ Her lids sank modestly. ‘I did spend a bit of time with him. You have to take your fun where you can get it, cooped up in a guest house. But you needn’t think that just anyone … on the whole, I’m very particular! Only sometimes you get fed up with it, day-in, day-out.’

  ‘Where did you meet Maurice?’

  ‘He came into the kitchen looking for me.’

  ‘At what time, did you say?’

  ‘As near to ten as makes no difference.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, I had a wash – don’t say I did a lot to myself! Then I went along with him, just like he told you. He was hanging about while I was having my wash – our rooms are next door, you see. They’ve put you in mine.’

  ‘How long were you with him?’ – Gently puffed voluminously. Rosie’s knee was tentatively brushing his leg. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure! One doesn’t really notice, does one? But it couldn’t have been so late, because I had to get up in the morning.’

  ‘About one say, or two?’

  ‘Oh, not as late as that. When you have to be down by seven you don’t let things get out of hand. More like about midnight, that would have been it.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I don’t like to lose my beauty sleep.’

  From outside they must be seeing this intimate tête-à-tête. Gently, his back against the window frame, was fairly cornered by Rosie’s advance. Now she was leaning on the sill and gazing up into his eyes. Her face, in effect, was scarcely a pipe’s length from his own.

  ‘How long have you known Maurice Cutbush?’

  With difficulty he slid from the sill and escaped into the room.

  ‘Ever since I came here – Easter, that was. But he was here before that – two years, I think he said.’

  ‘What are your impressions of him?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s been on the liners, you know, that makes them free and easy. From all accounts it was a poor trip when Maurice didn’t get off.’

  She had got up from the chair and was trailing him across the room. The moment he came to a standstill she seemed to be breathing down his neck.

  ‘Has he got off with any other guests?’

  ‘Dozens. That’s how things go. In this sort of business you get bored stiff – ask anyone you like. It’s the same wherever you are.’

  ‘And the guests make passes at you?’

  ‘All the time, and some you wouldn’t think.’

  ‘Did Mixer ever make one?’ Indignantly she recoiled.

  ‘As a matter of fact he didn’t – but you’ve got to have your self-respect!’

  Gently grinned to himself and struck a protective match. Rosie watched him reprovingly as he set it to his pipe. She was really trying hard – was it Maurice who had put her up to it? She couldn’t believe yet that Gently was as coy as he pretended.

  ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’

  The match was out and she swayed towards him. For a moment her parting lips were tilted under his, her two firm breasts pressed lightly against him.

  ‘It’s my afternoon off … I’m not doing anything. There’s some things of mine I want to fetch from a drawer in your room.’

  After she had gone he went back to the window. The lawn was now better tenanted and more deckchairs were being fetched. An old lady with her knitting was casting furtive glances in his direction, but the majority of the baskers were still discussing their papers.

  He relocked the door and slipped the key into his pocket. All the way down the stairs he was chuckling softly to himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SUN, BY ten o’clock, was fully established, and the last of the morning had gone out of the day. The village and vicinity, which till then had seemed tolerable, now began to weary with its pitiless exposure. So little shade there was, so little promise of respite! Beach, marrams, and houses glared and rippled in the furnace. Not a motion stirred the grasses, not a bird sang anywhere. The air was a burden and one sweated doing nothing.

  Oddly enough the effect was of darkness. The extreme brilliance of the sun appeared to vitiate colour. The sea looked heavy, the houses dulled, the sky itself seemed dusky and unluminous. It was the sun alone which throbbed with brightness. Into itself it drew again its effulgent light. Left behind was the heat, enveloping, ennervating: the world seemed plunged into a dark, fierce fever.

  ‘Another scorcher!’

  One heard it everywhere. With a peculiar emphasis, it expressed the weather exactly. And yet people were somehow proud of it, this Homeric bout of sun. Inevitably the two words would come out like a boast.

  ‘Another scorcher, sir!’

  Dutt had said it as they started out. The manager, too, had got it in when they passed him on the lawn. A little furthe
r on they encountered Colonel Morris. His step had lost its briskness and he had ceased to swing his cane.

  ‘Another scorcher, eh? Reminds me of Alex!’

  Why did they sound so personal about it, as though in some way it did them credit?

  ‘That kid’s in for a rough time, sir,’ observed Dutt as they tramped along the beach. ‘I haven’t said nothing before, sir, but from the first I’ve had my doubts about him. I don’t reckon we need worry about Mixer any more.’

  Gently trudged ahead without replying. Everything was pushing the ball in Simmonds’s direction. If you agreed to let out Mixer, then there seemed but one thing for it; yet, out of sheer pig-headedness no doubt, his mind kept shying away from Simmonds. It was as if he had formed an equation the terms of which excluded the artist.

  ‘There’s his background, sir, you can’t overlook it. The bloke on the Echo brought that out pretty well. Haven’t we seen it before with kids like that? A little extra shove, and click! – they’re over the edge.’

  ‘You can’t argue like that, Dutt.’

  ‘I know, sir. But it makes you think. And like the paper says, she wasn’t found far from his tent.’

  Like the paper says! Was that what was influencing him? Not for the world would he have admitted it to himself. As always when on a case he made a point of reading the papers: sometimes they gave him a fact which he hadn’t succeeded in eliciting. But he didn’t let them bias him, one way or the other. They were a necessary evil which he had learned to put up with.

  Besides, in this particular case … there was Maurice, for instance. And even on the facts, those that one knew.

  ‘You’d better tail him, I suppose, after we’ve had his statement.’

  ‘It won’t do any harm, sir, and might do some good.’

  ‘He might do something silly. Let him see you around. If necessary I’ll get another man out from Wendham.’

  ‘He’s the type to blow his gaff, sir, if he thinks we’re really after him.’

  As they drew nearer to the campsite the effect of the Echo article became apparent. Most of the people on the beach had gravitated in that direction. Except for a few small boys they didn’t precisely stand and stare, but now and then a head would turn or a voice be cautiously lowered.

  When the detectives arrived it was different: the crowd began to exhibit a purpose. From an accidental scattering they drew together in a group. They followed the two men up the sandhill and casually deployed themselves at the top – if this was to be the arrest, then nobody there was going to miss it!

  ‘What are you doing with your tent?’

  Simmonds was not alone at his campsite. On the hummocks round about were seated the reporters and their cameramen.

  ‘I’m packing it up. I’m going!’

  ‘Not today you aren’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But I am – I’ve got to! Can’t you see what’s happening?’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you talked to the press.’

  Already the tent was struck and partly packed away in a pannier. In another were stuffed his blankets, while his gear lay together in a pile. A photographer, rising to his feet, made an adjustment to his camera. Simmonds started back involuntarily and shrank behind Gently’s protective bulk.

  ‘You don’t understand!’

  ‘I do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I didn’t know – I thought I could trust him! He said I should put my story before the public. I trusted him, I tell you! I didn’t guess for a moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, but you’ve got to stay in Hiverton.’

  ‘You wouldn’t make me do it!’

  ‘I can’t let you do anything else.’

  Persuasively the photographer sidled towards him.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind turning …’

  Simmonds threw up a terrified hand.

  ‘They can’t keep doing that – stop them! I won’t have it!’

  The camera clicked smoothly, catching his gesture and desperate expression.

  ‘I can’t stop here!’

  He was pretty well in tears. His slight figure was shaking as he stood helpless by the ruined camp. From the crowd came a motion which made Gently turn sharply. He found himself staring into the burning eyes of Bob Hawks.

  ‘If you’ve got any feeling!’

  ‘Very well. Finish your packing.’

  ‘You mean you’ll let me go?’

  ‘No. Just do as I say.’

  Everyone was straining their ears to catch the gist of what was passing. A few bolder ones had pushed forward, but the majority were holding their line. The reporters, however, felt no need for constraint; they crowded around chatting and trying to lever something out of Gently.

  ‘You’re going to detain him, are you?’

  ‘He’s going to sign a statement for me.’

  ‘Where’s he going then?’

  ‘That has still to be decided.’

  ‘He was her lover, wasn’t he?’

  ‘So far I haven’t asked him.’

  ‘It’s a fact that you think he can assist you?’

  ‘Everyone in Hiverton can be of assistance.’

  From the corner of his eye he could see Hawks approaching. The fisherman was shuffling gingerly towards the centre of the circle. At a few yards distance he stopped, his lean frame slightly crouched: his gaze was fixed on Simmonds with a ferocious intensity of hate.

  ‘Did you know he struck his father, and that that was why he left home?’

  Nobody seemed to care whether Simmonds heard or not.

  ‘We’ve been in touch with his ex-schoolmaster. He was noted for his violent temper. Once he struck a boy who was ragging him and knocked out a couple of teeth.’

  The artist was trembling uncontrollably as he fumbled with his belongings. His hands were shaking so much that he could scarcely buckle the pannier-straps. From every side eyes were turned on him; the heat on the sandhill was terrific. At one time it looked as though he never would get those bags on.

  ‘I’ve got n-nothing to put my paintings in!’

  He turned towards them desperately, a pile of the canvases clutched piecemeal in his arms.

  ‘You took away my satchel.’

  ‘Dutt here will look after them.’

  ‘Perhaps I can get some p-paper and string.’

  He spilled two of them on the sand as he handed them to the sergeant. A reporter grabbed them eagerly, but they were only a couple of beachscapes. The crowd had fallen quiet and unnaturally still: one could well-nigh hear their breathing above the gentle wash of the combers.

  ‘I’m ready to go.’

  Simmonds heaved on the loaded cycle. Its wheels were burying in the sand and he had much ado to push it. The crowd shifted and murmured, but parted to make him way. It was Hawks, standing right in his path, who wouldn’t budge an inch for him.

  ‘You – murdering – little rat!’

  He spat the words straight into Simmonds’s face. One could feel, like an electric charge, the violence suddenly begin to generate.

  ‘Hanging’s too good for your sort – drowning in a sack’d be better! By rights we ought to string you up – here, where you did for her!’

  It was trembling in the balance, that situation on the sandhill: in an ugly silence it was preparing to explode. A moment before the crowd had wavered between contempt and pity, but now, in a flash, the seed of hatred had been sown.

  ‘There’s only one thing for your sort!’

  ‘That’s enough from you. Get back!’

  ‘I’ll say what I please.’

  ‘You’ll get back out of the way!’

  This was no time for argument, and Gently didn’t argue. Poking his fingers into the fisherman’s chest, he drove him backwards into the crowd.

  ‘You two – Pike and Spanton! Take charge of this fellow will you?’

  Coming out of their stupor, they seized Hawks by the arms.

  ‘Now take him away and see he doesn’t cause
more trouble.’

  With surprising alacrity they marched Hawks off the sandhill.

  It was enough to break the spell: the crowd had temporarily forgotten Simmonds. Their attention divided, they permitted him to depart. They watched him off the campsite in a sort of murmuring indecision: he was sobbing like a child and scarcely able to shove the bicycle.

  The cameramen, in the meantime, had taken several excellent photographs.

  The Police House was a building of stodgy brick which stood some distance inland from the village. It bore the date, on a tablet, of nineteen-thirty-five, and had a garage-like addition which was obviously a detention-room.

  Mears was out when they arrived and they were received by his wife. She was a tall, raw-boned woman whose false teeth had a tendency to slip. She was nursing a baby and had another child in the garden. From her kitchen a smell of greens boiling was wafted through the house.

  ‘We’ve a statement to take. May we use the office?’

  She showed them through to her front room, which served the usual dual purpose. Across one of the corners was placed an old knee-hole desk. It bore a telephone, a Moriarty, a Kelly’s, and the Starmouth directory.

  ‘You’ll find the forms and some paper.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t let us disturb you.’

  ‘I was wondering about a drink. I can soon fetch some lemon squash.’

  Simmonds, at least, looked in need of refreshment. His cheeks were burning feverishly and his lips were dry as paper. Dutt had kindly wheeled the bicycle for him all the way through the village, but the artist was still trembling and much relieved to sit down.

  ‘Now we’ll just go over again what you told me, I think.’

  He gave Dutt the desk and sat himself by the window. From there he could see, over Mears’s lawn and hollyhocks, the road and the reporters – the latter having, of course, followed them. They were squatting in the shade of a tree opposite the gate. After a minute or two, as he knew they would, they produced a pack of cards.

  ‘Please answer the questions slowly because the sergeant doesn’t write shorthand. First give him your name, age, profession and address.’

  His back was turned to Simmonds to give him a chance to recover himself. For the same reason he tried, where possible, not to interrupt the artist’s answers.