by Alan Hunter
‘Black coffee . . . it was just as Father was taking the agreement from its envelope!’
She turned to sweep him a whiplash look, as brief as the blink of a camera.
‘And Best . . . drank it.’
‘Yes, he did. He put the cup down empty when he rose to go.’ She gave the settee a vicious jerk. ‘But this is scarcely an issue, is it? Because what could have been slipped in his cup that would have dissolved so as not to be noticed – in seconds only! – while, on the other hand, all they found in his stomach was aspirin?’
‘Something that needed special knowledge.’
Mrs Swafield snatched her head. Down-river, a train was rumbling over the bridge, the sound distinct then cutting off suddenly.
‘I’m told you were last to leave after the dinner.’
She swung in silence a few times. ‘So?’
‘Was that also by chance?’
‘The insinuation escapes me. It was merely because Arthur had some more to say to Father.’
Gently nodded. ‘When you came out . . . how many cars were still parked on the sweep?’
‘Why would I notice?’
‘Did you, Mrs Swafield?’
‘Somehow, I don’t feel called on to remember.’ She sank back with an air of languor.
‘Perhaps you should be going . . . Mr Scott! You have performed all your little tricks and the matter stands just where it did before. Ronnie wasn’t murdered and nobody poisoned him. The Coroner’s verdict will certainly stand. And my patience with prying officials is exhausted.
‘I suggest you take the next train back to town.’
She closed her eyes, folded her hands and reclined her head on the cushioned settee-back.
Over at the sheds a hooter sounded; but Mrs Swafield paid it no attention.
* * *
A metallic-bronze Volvo 264 met them as they were leaving the Ferry House drive. Driven fast, it braked violently to pull up with smoking tyres.
Arthur Swafield jumped out. His plump face red, he scuttled across to the Cortina. Ignoring Ives, he ran round to beat with his fist on Gently’s window.
‘So . . . I’ve caught you at it, have I!’
Gently dropped the window. ‘You have something to say to me?’
‘Something to say . . .’
Swafield’s eyes were popping and his fleshy mouth was agape.
‘Let me tell you you’ve got no right . . . out here, you’ve got me to reckon with! If you’ve been persecuting Greta . . .
‘Get out – get out of this car!’
‘Calm down, Mr Swafield.’
‘Get out and face me! Do you think I’m afraid of you because . . . listen to me!
‘I don’t care who . . . it doesn’t matter to me what the old man told you!’
He was well-nigh incoherent; his jowls wobbled as he talked. On his breath was a reek of whisky and sweat glinted under his eyes.
‘I don’t care, do you hear that? And now I’ve caught you pestering Greta . . . ! You’ll answer for it, oh yes – you aren’t going to get away with anything! Just because . . .
‘If you believe what he says, take my word for it you’re in trouble. You’d do better, if it comes to that . . .
‘Why pick on me, and not Johnny Meeson?’
Gently shook his head. ‘We’re not picking on anyone.’
‘What—? You can tell that to . . . listen to this! If I catch you round here again . . . you understand?
‘And that’s a promise!’
He rocked for a moment, fists swinging, then tramped away to the Volvo. The car leaped forward with a screech of wheelspin, to be braked moments later in a scatter of gravel.
Ives stared after it, eyes wistful.
‘Like me to do him for driving under the influence?’
Gently sighed. ‘Better let him go! You can pick him up any time business is slack.’
Ives snicked into gear. Catching Gently’s eye, he rolled his own.
What a family!
FIVE
‘WHERE TO NOW, sir?’
In point of fact, Gently’s thoughts had gone off at a tangent. Though he’d been in Hulverbridge for only an afternoon, he was beginning to feel he’d known it a lifetime.
A riverside village . . . but more than that, because across the river was a great blank; a blank that half-encircled a parish which, for hinterland, had fields and obscure roads.
A frontier village: its linking highways the river itself and the railway – each pursuing a lonely course through a wilderness otherwise forbidden. And each, for that matter, with its touch of violence, the tidal stream and the iron track.
A frontier village. Of which Walter Raynes was perhaps a natural, inevitable expression – unlike his family, who felt the tug of cultural currents from without. Hulverbridge had crushed his wife, had thrown his children on the defensive: driven one, indeed, to escape. But in Walter Raynes had found its genius . . .
‘I’d like another talk with the old man. Then we’ll round up with the Meesons.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ives had said nothing since the encounter with Arthur Swafield. Only too blatantly they were playing with fire if they pressed on with this dubious affair – yet Gently was showing no signs of relenting. Like a miller of God, he proposed to grind on . . .
No cars were parked at Raynes’s house, and the door was answered by Mrs Raynes. Freed from the presence of her overpowering husband, she met them with an attempt at fragile dignity.
‘Walter is at the office . . .’
She ventured a smile, but it couldn’t disguise the alarm in her eyes. Like a fluttered sparrow, she hugged the doorway, one hand clutching the door-handle.
They left the car on the sweep and passed through to the yard by the garden gate. The path skirted an overgrown plot on which two old yachts were ending their days. Then they emerged on the yard’s main concourse, running between sheds and offices. Though business was over for the day, a few cars were still parked outside the latter.
‘Which way . . . ?’
‘Best try upstairs, sir.’
Ives pushed a way through glass doors. They entered a brightly-furnished foyer and ascended by varnished, riserless stairs. At the top was a landing provided with chairs and a wide passage with doors off. The doors were signed: ‘Sales’, ‘Management’ and ‘Accounts’, and one, in small brass letters: ‘Boss’.
‘This one . . . ?’
‘I reckon so, sir!’
Gently tapped on the door. From within came sounds of hurried movements, followed by Walter Raynes’s voice:
‘Come!’
Gently opened the door. In the large room beyond, Walter Raynes was seated in a swivel desk-chair. Behind him, with her back turned, stood a girl.
She was hastily buttoning her dress.
‘All right, Sonya . . . that’ll do for now!’
Raynes was showing not the slightest embarrassment. Massive and unconcerned, he might well have been concluding some usual office routine.
The girl on the other hand had flushed to the hair and was shamefacedly smoothing herself down. Not more than eighteen, she was a baby-faced blonde with a developed figure and attractive legs.
‘Run along, or you’ll be late for tea!’
Catching up a handbag, she bolted for the door. Behind her she left a whiff of cheap scent mingled with a tang of perspiration.
‘Close the door, then . . . do you want a drink?’
On the desk before him were glasses and a bottle. The office, though large, was sparsely furnished, containing mainly some chairs and a draughtsman’s table. On the walls were framed photographs of yachts and half-models mounted on panels.
The room smelled of varnish, whisky and pipe-smoke. Windows looked towards the mooring-basin and the house.
‘Have you talked to Flo?’
Raynes’s glass stood beside him; he topped it up from the bottle. His big curved nose looked angrier than ever, but his fierce gaze was steady.
‘I’ll bet she let you have it, too! What lies did she tell you?’
Gently said nothing. Raynes eyed him, took a nip.
‘Look . . . put yourself in her place for a moment! She’s going to come out fighting, isn’t she? That’s what I’d do, and she’s no different. If she hasn’t said a mouthful I’m a Dutchman.’
‘She made certain allegations . . .’
‘To put it mildly, she’ll want to rush up a case against me. And you can believe her or not as you like, but it makes no difference to what I’m saying. Did you get much out of her?’
‘A small admission. That she assisted in serving the coffee. Mrs Swafield, who sat on Best’s right, claims that Mrs Clive Raynes actually handed him his cup.’
‘That cold-hearted bitch . . . !’
Raynes’s mouth was sour, his eyes for a moment distant. Strangely, at times, one glimpsed a younger man in his large, coarsened features.
‘Let me tell you what I think about Greta . . . she’s behind half of what goes on here! That great lout, Swoff, is in the palm of her hand, and my loving son Clive doesn’t stand a chance . . .
‘I wouldn’t put a trick like this past Greta, and if it was her she’ll have played it clever. She doesn’t love Flo, and if the going gets rough she’s likely to shove Flo into your arms.
‘So keep your eye on her. If Flo was her cat’s paw, you’ll have to be sharp to make it stick.’
He drank deeply. Below, a door slammed and someone started a car-engine. Voices sounded in the foyer; then a vacuum-cleaner began moaning.
‘What else did Greta tell you?’
‘Not very much. Why did Swafield stay later than the others?’
Mischief sparked suddenly in Raynes’s eye. He splashed more whisky into his glass.
‘Call it an internal matter.’
‘Internal . . . ?’
‘Slush money is what I mean. Swoff earns a good screw, but not enough to pay for that motor-yacht of his. He’s buying it on a personal loan and he’s been finding repayments difficult . . . he got to accepting backhanders from a firm who supply us on tender.
‘No names, no pack-drill! Believe me, it’s all been sorted out now.’
‘Perhaps you’ll tell me how it came to your attention.’
Raynes’s shoulders hoisted. ‘Ronnie spotted it.’
‘And Swafield knew that?’
‘He’d have been thick if he didn’t. I’d asked Ronnie to vet the last batch of tenders.’
‘Which was shortly before the dinner-party?’
Raynes tipped his glass. ‘Do you think that hasn’t occurred to me too . . . ?’
The drone of the sweeper came nearer and, in the passage, a bucket clattered. A woman’s voice shouted down the stairs; one heard a faint reply.
‘And your other son-in-law?’
‘What about him?’
‘I would like the complete picture.’
Raynes’s large hand rose and fell.
‘You don’t have to worry yourself about Johnny! Him and Carole, they’re not like the rest of them. Carole’s got a bit of kindness in her.
‘And Johnny . . . well, you’re not a fool! A man needs to be close to his accountant these days. If you don’t have a good one you’re sunk . . . and Johnny’s a good one, you compris?’
He stared hard, emptied his glass, then rose abruptly to his feet.
‘Look . . . I’m not asking you how you’ll handle it! I know a man I can trust when I meet him. You do it your way . . . only remember that I’m up against it here . . .
‘They’ll stop at nothing, that’s what I’m saying. They’ll have me out of this if they can . . .
‘Get to the truth of it, that’s all I ask.
‘Find out what really happened to Ronnie!’
Someone tapped at the door: Raynes bawled at them, and steps retreated. The sweeper, silent for a spell, began again in a distant room.
Raynes’s mouth was drooping again:
‘Come and look through this window!’
Obediently Gently rose and went to stand beside him.
‘You see those two old yachts up there? The Merry and Bright – they were my first ones. Forty-odd years ago I built them in a shed where the basin is now . . .
‘And there’s my latest, moored in the basin . . . she’d set you back a quarter of a million . . . tanked up and ready to go. What do you say to dinner in Holland?’
‘In Holland . . . ?’
‘Why not? It’s three hours driving out of Star-mouth – I keep a berth reserved at the Hook. We could be back here by two in the morning.
‘And when you come to think of it, there’s precious little dragging me back to that house up there . . .’ Gently stared, then shook his head.
Raynes drove hands into sagging pockets.
Down the passage a cleaner was singing tunelessly in a room that sounded empty.
Unlike the others they had visited, the Meeson house stood remote from the river. A renovated farmhouse, it looked out on fields pale with stubble or green with beet.
Poplars surrounded it; a cattle-byre beside it had been converted to garages and extra rooms. The duck-pond, enclosed by paving, now displayed lilies and contained fish.
On a lawn at the front a little girl was swinging a boy younger than herself on a child’s swing. All they wore were bathing trunks, though the girl had a ribbon in her hair.
They watched the Cortina with curious eyes but continued their play. In the house, a dog barked excitedly, and a man came to the door.
‘Oh . . . hullo!’
After brief hesitation, he came forward with a cautious smile. Aged in his forties, he had agreeable eyes and crumpled, rather tired good looks. He wore glasses with heavy black frames.
‘You’ll be the man that everyone’s expecting . . . Scott, isn’t it? We were wondering when you’d get round to us.’
‘John Meeson?’
‘That’s me.’ He turned for a moment to the children. ‘Jean – teatime in quarter of an hour, and don’t forget to wash your hands!’ Then to Gently: ‘Well . . . come in. I expect you can use a cup of tea.’
They followed him into a hall where the floor-pemmons were laid with rush matting, then into a lounge with a beamed ceiling and sash-windows more broad than tall. The house smelled of baking. Over by the window, chess was set out on a low table. A labrador puppy, which had padded in after them, sat wagging its tail and gazing encouragement.
‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch Carole.’
Shrugging, Gently sauntered down the room. Comfortably furnished, it had a big open hearth with a mantelshelf on which stood pewter.
From the windows one saw fields, about which a combine-harvester was chuntering. Also the church.
In the garden, the children hung on the swing, talking and giggling.
‘Here we are, then . . . !’
The kettle must have been on, because Meeson was back in a couple of minutes. With him came a fresh-faced, auburn-haired woman carrying tea-things on a tray.
‘Mr Scott – Carole.’
She threw them a smile while setting down the tray. Dressed in a loose coat, almost an overall, she brought the smell of baking with her.
‘This is Carole’s big day in the kitchen . . .’
Scones, still hot, were piled on a napkin on a dish. Deftly and without embarrassment she poured out tea and handed the cups.
Then she took a seat by the tray.
‘Could we, please, know just what is going on?’
If her features didn’t entirely favour her father’s, at least one could have guessed at a connection. The eyes in particular, firm and handsome, bore a strong resemblance to Walter Raynes’s.
‘I’ll be honest. I’ve heard from Greta that you’re taking this matter seriously . . . that, to put it bluntly, one of us slipped something in Ronnie’s coffee!
‘If that’s the case, I’d prefer to
know it before I answer any questions. This could be a very damaging business . . . for reasons other than you suppose.’
Gently nodded, stirring his tea. ‘You are referring to your father’s situation . . . ?’
‘I’m referring to – everything! But yes, it was my father I had in mind.’
‘You fear your brother will take legal action.’
‘Unless the matter is dropped, nothing will stop him.’
‘You think he may succeed . . .’
‘I think . . . never mind! Only I wish you would make your position plain.’
Hearing their mother’s voice, the children had come to the window and were clinging to the sill. She waved them away; after a moment, they dropped down and wandered back to the swing.
In the background, Meeson was putting on a pipe. He had chosen a seat beside the chess-table.
‘Certainly your father may have acted . . . unwisely.’
‘Then you don’t believe that Ronnie was poisoned.’
Inscrutably Gently sipped tea. He reached to the tray for a scone.
‘At the dinner-party, naturally . . . with so much going on . . .’
‘What has my father said about that?’
Gently shrugged. ‘I doubt whether anyone . . . including your father . . . has very clear impressions.’
‘Does he claim he saw something suspicious?’
‘There could have been very little to see.’
‘Mother poured the coffee – but I suppose you could guess that. I’m not sure who it was handed out the cups.’
‘All that’s been accounted for.’
‘I see.’
‘In fact, your father’s memories are vague. His suspicions are largely circumstantial . . . this is by way of a double-check.’
Behind them Meeson’s pipe whiffled, but he was leaning over the chess-board. Mrs Meeson sipped tea, her eyes lowered to the tray.
The children, who had been comparing hands, now dashed indoors and could be heard clattering up the stairs.
‘So what is it you want me to say?’
‘All I need is routine confirmation . . . for example, that at table Best was seated between Mrs Swafield and Mrs Clive Raynes.’
She nodded, though unwillingly. ‘Is that so important?’