by Alan Hunter
‘It was probably accidental. Or perhaps one or other of the ladies was on friendly terms with Best.’
‘On friendly terms . . . ?’
‘Wouldn’t that be likely? I understand he was a personable young man.’
Carole Meeson toyed with her cup; she gave her husband a swift glance.
‘In Florence’s case . . . no doubt Greta mentioned it! . . . at one time she wasn’t unfriendly towards Ronnie. But Greta of course had no choice. She merely took the chair by her husband.’
‘Between Best and your sister-in-law there was still a friendliness?’
‘No . . . you must understand all that had changed! If Florence sat beside him it would have been by accident – unless it was she wanted to sit by Noel.’
‘Yes . . . Noel Raynes and she were sitting together.’
‘Noel is thick with her and Clive.’
‘And naturally, he’d be placed to give her a hand with any small duties – like serving coffee.’
‘But that would mean nothing!’
‘Very probably.’
Gently took further sips. John Meeson, who’d been wiping his glasses, replaced them to address Gently with an ingratiating smile.
‘Have you seen Walter’s dining-room . . . ?’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, Walter always sits where he’s near the decanter! Carole sat on his right, then me, then Noel and Florence, then Ronnie. If you can visualize it, you’ll realize that Noel and Florence sat nearest to the trolley . . .
‘Noel was up already, helping with the brandy. He simply continued by giving Florence a hand.’
‘He gave Best his brandy?’
‘As far as I remember – but what’s so sinister about that? He gave me mine at the same time, and it could have been any glass of three.’
‘The glasses were on a salver.’
‘Exactly. Positively no sleight of hand.’
Meeson smiled again, persuasively. He gave his pipe revivifying whiffs. Carole Meeson was staring sternly at Gently, the droop of her mouth echoing her father’s.
Above stairs, a cistern flushed and there was a squeal of childish laughter.
‘What time did you leave to come home?’
Steps were pounding down the stairs again. Outside the door they stopped: Carole Meeson’s eyes switched in that direction.
‘I don’t know! It wasn’t late. When it got too chaotic, we came away.’
‘You were first to leave?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Noel went first,’ Meeson put in.
‘Well – after Noel. In point of fact we sat talking things over in the car . . . then Clive and Florence came out, rowing together, and we left.’
‘Leaving the Clive Rayneses still there?’
‘Yes. They were arguing by their car.’
‘The two other cars – presumably – belonging to the Swafields and Noel Raynes.’
‘Of course. There were only the four cars.’
‘And when you drove away, only three.’
Carole Meeson checked, her face blank; then she put down her cup and rose.
‘I’m sorry, but the children need their tea! They’ve been waiting too long already . . .
‘If you want my opinion, you’re wasting your time – and the sooner you realize it the better!’
She hastened out, catching the girl apparently stooped at the keyhole; the door closed on an outburst of prattle that was quickly swept away down the hall.
Gently put down his cup also; he rose and approached the chess-board. Meeson, taking little whiffs, lifted a piece and set it down on an opposite square.
Gently moved a pawn.
‘Was Noel Raynes’s car there?’
Between whiffs Meeson said: ‘For what it’s worth . . . !’
‘How much did Best know about the firm’s finances?’
After a pause, Meeson said: ‘As much as Walter told him.’
Gently indicated a bishop.
‘About tax . . . arrangements?’
Smilingly, Meeson brooded over the board. For a while he seemed tempted by a speculative castling, but in the end moved the bishop and took Gently’s pawn.
* * *
Once again they halted on the waterfront, which now wore an air of settling-in for the night. Every berth was filled, and most of the cruisers had erected their collapsible wheel-houses.
The two old hands had rigged their yacht with a snug overall awning; halyards were correctly led down the mast, sheet coiled on crutches and frapped with two turns.
Now each man took his ease lying along one of the well-seats; at sunset, the skipper would feel his way forward and strike the flag with slow, regular downhaul . . .
‘I’ll need the car.’
‘Yes, sir. The local constable will run me back.’
Gently had lit a different pipe, a curved-stem shape with a large bowl. For minutes he’d sat smoking it dreamily, taking long, reflective puffs. He was making a decision, Ives had no doubt, though his placid expression offered no clue to it.
To go back to town . . . ?
In half-an-hour, a train left direct for Liverpool Street. As Ives saw it, that would solve a problem which, more clearly than ever, ought never to have been raised. In fact he’d been on the point of mentioning this train when Gently spoke, settling the question . . .
‘You’ll need this.’
Gently took out his envelope, without however letting go of it.
‘Lay it on for midnight . . . is there a road to the church that doesn’t go through the village?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’ll need to seal the approaches – and, of course, use the minimum of lights. Bring sheeting for the excavated soil . . . I shall want the grave made good afterwards.’
‘Yes, sir.’
There really didn’t seem anything else for Ives to say! Somehow, Gently had got to the conclusion that exhumation was the proper step . . .
‘Set it up – and wait.’
‘Sir . . . ?’
‘I shall be in touch later this evening. By then I’ll want you ready to go – if I decide to carry on.’
‘Then . . . !’
‘I’ve a call to make first. After that, we shall see.’
Still he held on to that fateful envelope, the dreamy expression in his eye. A late-coming cruiser was nudging the flood, baffled in its search for moorings. One of the old hands hailed it, pointing to a quay below the bridge; then returned to a paper.
Gently held out the envelope:
‘Here . . . !’
SIX
STILL THE SAME blank sky overlaid the same blank marshscape.
Unhurriedly, Gently had eaten at The Steam-packet and spent an hour smoking and brooding over reports.
Then he’d borrowed a map – it was an essential for one unfamiliar with the local road system! – and set out in the Cortina to drive the fifteen miles into town.
He drove over roads almost empty of traffic, though work was still going on in the fields. Thunderous combines, like roaming mammoths, poured storms of dust into the evening air. Here and there high hedges were punctuated with field-oaks; verges were tall with sere vegetation, occasionally yellow with ragwort.
Narrow road led to narrow road. At places, one caught sight of the river valley; a shallow depression, dark with alder-carrs, it stretched to wide uplands where trees were tiny.
At last a road descended by acute bends to a commuter-village, made comely by trees, and joined finally a turnpike with a prospect of the spire and towers of the city.
In traffic now, Gently bowled along through suburbs where street-lights were already lit. The road joined the river again briefly at a strip of green, then climbed into a Victorian townscape.
A right turn brought him higher still, into a bending road flanked with terraces; driving slowly, he came to a block with a sign-board: Easton Heights.
He parked and locked the car. From the balcony above, a man was watching him.
A face with a shag beard and bushy hair, it withdrew as he mounted the steps.
‘Don’t give me that stuff about “Mr Scott”!’
The room Gently entered smelled of linseed oil. A double room, running right through the flat, it was part-furnished as a painter’s studio.
There a mousy-haired woman in a smock was working at an easel clamped to a chair. She had a bowl-light switched on behind her and was apparently absorbed in her task.
The front part of the room was in use as a lounge and furnished with settee, chairs, television. It opened on to the balcony and a view over the city, now scattered with lights.
‘You see, I happen to know who you are – I recognized you from a picture in the press! And if it comes to that, who else would they send but a top man from the murder-squad?’
Expressionlessly Gently said: ‘You were expecting one . . . ?’
At first sight, Noel Raynes looked almost a teenager. Lanky-framed, he was dressed in bell-bottomed jeans and a fisherman’s smock soiled with paint.
Then one noticed slightly-pouched eyes and the few grey strands in his beard. Also his hair, though plentiful behind, had begun to recede on top.
‘Is that meant to be clever? Of course I was expecting one! The old man is accusing us of murder, isn’t he? You may have fooled the others – Clive thinks you’re from the Home Office! – but I know the fuzz when I smell it . . .’
Casually, Gently was strolling about the room, inspecting the pictures that crowded every wall. Impressionistic landscapes, they had been painted in an impasto as thick as mud.
Greatly different were a couple by themselves, delicate studies of still-life; also a monotone drawing, presumably the view through the window.
‘Introduce me to the lady.’
‘This doesn’t concern Lynne . . . !’
But Gently had strayed into the studio. The picture in progress was a still-life of marigolds, a bowl of which rested on the stand.
‘All right then! Lynne Taylor . . .’
The woman in the smock went on with her painting. Of uncertain years, she had small rounded features and a small, determined chin.
Her smock was neat and sat becomingly on a firmly-contoured figure. The tip of her tongue protruded from her mouth; she didn’t bother to give Gently a glance.
‘Now . . . are you satisfied?’
‘Why so many of your paintings, so few of hers?’
‘Never mind that! If you must poke your nose in, it’s because Lynne’s outlets are better than mine.’
‘She sells.’
‘If you want to put it that way . . . ! My stuff is too experimental for the market . . . dealers won’t bother with it. Not that I don’t sell a picture or so, now and then.’
‘But enough to live on?’
‘Go to hell!’
Lynne Taylor said quietly: ‘Not all painters make a living.’
‘You don’t have to tell him that!’ Noel Raynes snarled. ‘All he wants to prove is that I’m a remittance-man.’
‘And . . . aren’t you?’
Noel Raynes’s eyes were mean; he had flushed under his beard. Going six feet, he had a stooping posture with long arms that hung loosely.
‘I’ve got motive . . . that’s right, isn’t it? I’m the black sheep who wants to get back to the fold! I’m nearing forty, I’ve had my fling, and as a painter I’m a flop . . .
‘Well, there’s a lot of truth in that! And of course you know I’ve been a bad boy. So naturally, when you’re looking for a scapegoat . . .
‘All right, Ronnie was standing in my light!’
‘As you say . . . quite natural.’
‘But you’ll have to prove it first.’
Lynne Taylor said, without ceasing to paint: ‘If you two will sit down, I’ll fetch some beer.’
Noel Raynes glared, then shut his mouth; he walked out to lean on the rail of the balcony.
Lynne Taylor worked calmly for another few minutes before rinsing her brush and rising.
Cars passed below; the lights of the city were showing brighter under the dulled sky.
Certain buildings had been floodlit, the castle, cathedral, city hall.
Notches of brilliance, they had a fairy-like appearance against the dusted gloom of other buildings. Vehicle-lights flickered in and out and the stir of traffic was distant.
‘I wonder how much you’ve ferreted out . . .’
Noel Raynes had thrown himself on a chair. He sat clasping lanky knees, face shadowed by light behind him.
‘In the first place, why jump on me? Surely I should be bottom of the list! If Ronnie was poisoned, I’d be the last to know what to use or where to get it.’
‘It could have been provided . . .’
‘What, by Flo?’ He gave his head a scratch. ‘That’s all bosh – because if it was her, she’d never have trusted me to use it. Flo hasn’t much of an opinion of me. I’m just a cross for brother Clive to bear.
‘And, for matter of that . . .’
His gaunt shoulders lifted.
‘For matter of that, she had better opportunity?’
‘Now you’re putting words in my mouth! From your point of view, it could have been any one of the family.’
He rocked himself, hugging his knees, face turned further into shadow. Somehow it gave the impression of an act, of self-conscious exaggeration.
In effect he had well-turned features, a strong nose and square-set brow. Possibly an indecisive chin was concealed by the nest of beard.
‘What I was going to say was this . . . Flo’s character is no more spotless than mine. I don’t know what you’ve learned on your travels, but anyone could put a spoke in her wheel.
‘For instance, have you seen her kids? No?
‘The youngest takes after Clive and Mother – about the eldest you don’t have to ask!
‘Master Michael isn’t just my nephew.’
‘You are inferring . . . ?’
‘He’s the old man’s son. Everyone knows about him and Flo. It went on for a couple of years, with Clive carefully looking in another direction! Then one day he walked in on them – they were on board the old man’s boat.
‘After that it had to stop, but it put The Pines in Clive’s pocket.’
He paused, squeezing his knees.
‘And that’s not all one can say about Flo! If you want the dirt, listen to this – at one time she was rearing to drop them for Ronnie.’
‘She . . . had relations with him?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Noel Raynes’s arms were braced tight. ‘He wouldn’t look at her – for which I don’t blame him! It was she who was making all the running.
‘Ask Greta – she may tell you. Then ask yourself a few questions about Flo.
‘The rest of us had reasons enough to loathe Ronnie, but with Flo it was more personal.’
Gently sat staring for some moments. He’d chosen a chair close to the balcony; equally with Noel Raynes, his face was shadowed by the light behind.
Outside darkness was fast gathering and the bowl of the city growing more amorphous. Stars of red, white and green passed slowly across it, followed by the moan of aircraft engines.
‘Have you nothing to tell me about Mrs Swafield . . . ?’
‘Greta . . . ?’ Noel Raynes took his time. ‘Well . . . I daresay you know that Swoff’s standing in the business is rocky! If you’ve met him you’ll know his problem. Not that Swoff isn’t a good salesman. But he’s been caught with his fingers in the till . . .
‘Yes, you could say that Swoff was vulnerable.’
‘But . . . Mrs Swafield?’
‘Greta’s all right.’ Noel Raynes’s head jerked again. ‘No scandal there, if that’s what you’re after – in fact, I doubt if sex interests Greta.’
‘But power might?’
A second aircraft was trailing its lights over the city; Noel Raynes watched it, eyes invisible. At last he rocked back, making it a gesture.
‘Perh
aps you’ve hit the nail on the head . . . Greta has always bossed the rest of us. She should have been born a boy, of course. Clive and she were born the wrong way round.’
‘She would have strong feelings about your father’s intentions.’
‘No doubt you’ll have formed your own views about that. It’s a fact that she’s always been jealous of Clive, because he’s in the business and she isn’t.’
‘And – of his wife?’
‘That goes without saying . . . and I can see what you’re getting at there. But it isn’t telling tales out of school to say that Greta has a rival in Flo.
‘Flo likes to throw her weight about too – and she’s married to the son and heir. Plenty of ructions
‘Unfortunately, Greta doesn’t have much of a card in Swof.’
He ventured a glance at Gently, then immediately began to rock.
Gently continued to gaze out at the city; from somewhere quite close, a train siren was wailing.
‘And your other sister and her husband . . . ?’
‘Carole and John . . . he’s a dark horse. When you’re setting us up for the chopper, don’t leave Johnny out of the reckoning!
‘He’s a chess-wizard, did you know that? He plays representative chess for the county. But he’s also a wizard with figures . . . too much, perhaps, for everyone’s good.
‘He’s in it deep. I doubt if Father knows all that’s going on round there . . . and Ronnie was no fool. There’d have been a settling of accounts, one fine day.’
‘I understand Mrs Meeson is in favour with your father.’
‘That’s just why he turns a blind eye! So you can imagine that Johnny’s had plenty of scope . . .
‘With him, it might have been more than the big boot.’
Gently nodded, drawing from Noel Raynes another swift look. Below, a patrol-car was creeping past, its blue dome-light winking.
Just then a key turned in the latch and Lynne Taylor entered, carrying a bag. Noel Raynes jumped up.
Lynne Taylor, with an exclamation, switched on more lights.
‘Perhaps now we can run through your movements on the night of Tuesday 10th.’
The scene in the studio-lounge had been subtly changed by the extra lights. The doorway to the balcony had become a frame for a panel of bluish-black, on which the floodlit buildings were etched precisely, none of their radiance spilling over.