Gently to a Sleep

by Alan Hunter

  Could it have been to do with Noel Raynes’s alibi, needing the connivance of the old lady – was that why he’d been conjured outside, to give Noel Raynes the opportunity to brief her?

  One remembered Noel Raynes’s confidence when he came out, the distress and feeble remonstrance of Mrs Raynes. And yet . . .

  Was that alibi really so vital . . . didn’t the tension arise from something even more urgent . . . ?

  Conscious of Ives’s apprehensive stare, he snapped out irritably:

  ‘Well?’

  The local man nervously bolted a mouthful to reply:

  ‘Sir, the Chief Constable’s been on the blower . . . !’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘The trouble is we’re undermanned, sir . . . he was asking if we’d got a definite lead. I told him you were following up one at Marsey, but he didn’t sound very impressed . . .’

  Gently growled and swilled beer: he could imagine that conversation! Yet, at the bottom, he knew the top brass was right, that the case had been dying ever since the pathologist . . .

  ‘He thinks that unless we can prove possession, sir . . .’

  ‘Best was certainly poisoned at that dinner!’

  ‘Yes, sir, but without proof of possession . . .’

  Without it the case was dead as last week.

  Frustratedly, Gently grabbed a fresh sandwich and jammed it into his mouth. Proof of possession . . . but even more important was what he’d stumbled on at the church! Fear . . . ? Guilt . . . ? It was something more – a sort of nakedness. Almost . . .

  As though, in the glimpse of the three children and their praying mother . . . just for that instant! . . . he’d encountered the truth.

  The truth . . . but what truth?

  Proving it almost didn’t seem to matter.

  If he could only grasp that, the Chief Constable was welcome to the rest . . .

  Wallace returned, shaking his head.

  ‘Solanum nigrum – the berries fooled him! Though actually it belongs to the same order, so he deserves a couple of points . . .’

  ‘With absolute frankness! Shall we find it?’

  Wallace’s blue eyes held for an instant.

  ‘You see, while it’s not impossible . . . in terms of probability . . . well!’

  He hesitated, but Gently had forgotten him.

  The three children and the praying mother . . .

  With their heads turned, caught in conference . . . she, at a distance, kneeling, praying . . .

  For what? Forgiveness for her children?

  Did she then know . . . perhaps had seen . . . ?

  And they in fear that, at that moment, under the influence of devoutness – weakness, they might think . . . ?

  Ives was summoned and went out. Boats had begun passing on the river again. Jacketless, a mug of tea in his hand, the signalman had come to lean on his rail.

  Life beginning again after lunch . . .

  Life that had faltered when the church door opened . . .

  The three of them caught, while she . . .

  Wasn’t that the plain significance of what he was seeing?

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Ives had come back to stand apologetically by Gently’s chair; with an effort Gently broke from his reverie to stare up at the local man.

  ‘What now . . . ?’

  ‘Old Raynes on the phone, sir. Says he wants us to come up to the house.’

  ‘The old man . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In that same church, would not he and she have stood up together?

  TWELVE

  THE SCIMITAR, ALPINE and Super Minx were parked on the sweep of Walter Raynes’s house; his four children were stood in a group by the coachhouse, at the foot of the steps leading to the flat.

  When Gently caught sight of them their attitudes were revealing; the group was divided into three and one; Clive Raynes, his brother and Mrs Meeson were receiving a harangue from Mrs Swafield.

  Clive Raynes’s figure was drooping; Carole Meeson’s posture expressed doubt. Noel Raynes, hands in pockets, was listening to his sister with nodded approval.

  Hearing the Cortina they turned: four faces instantly alert. Greta Swafield spoke; a moment later they were trooping down the path to the yard.

  Noel Raynes first, Greta Swafield last: it was almost a military manoeuvre. Noel Raynes closed the gate and the handle turned, latching it behind them.

  ‘What do you make of that, sir . . . ?’

  For the rest all was silence about the house. No face appeared at a window, no gardener was at work about the grounds.

  ‘Do you reckon the old man’s trying to pull a new stunt . . . ?’

  Without replying Gently set off the bell. They were admitted by a slattern-faced domestic who carried a tea-towel and smelled of detergent.

  ‘Clear out, Norah!’

  Walter Raynes was waiting at the door of the lounge, glass in hand. The other hand was dug in his sloppy jacket; his face was inflamed with whisky.

  ‘So come on in . . . a drink?’

  ‘I understand you wish to see me.’

  ‘That’s natural isn’t it? I’ve been hearing a few things . . . you must have seen my brats outside!’

  ‘They have been discussing the affair with you . . . ?’

  ‘Let’s say they came and I heard them out! You’ve got them on the run, though all it adds up to . . . Come in here, and let’s do some talking!’

  He slammed the door of the lounge after them and went immediately to pour whisky. The handsome cut-glass decanter was empty; he poured from a freshly-opened bottle.

  ‘Come on . . . we’ve got something to celebrate!’

  Even now his hand was quite steady. Age, dissipation, alcohol seemed to have taken no toll of his stubborn body.

  Though his clothes hung shapeless upon him they only emphasized his powerful limbs; also his contemptuous nature.

  In the first place, Walter Raynes was a rebel . . .

  ‘Listen . . . let’s have it straight from you now! Are you getting close to a pinch, or aren’t you?’

  His eyes were nevertheless watery and the lines of the face showed deep fatigue.

  ‘Is that important . . . ?’

  ‘What—? Drink up! You’ve put your finger on the poison, haven’t you? That’s as much as to say . . . Look, I’ve only their word for it! Am I right, or am I wrong?’

  ‘Poison has been identified.’

  ‘Right . . . identified! Meaning you must have a few ideas. At least, if you’ve talked to the brats . . . Don’t tell me that a man like you . . .’

  ‘We are searching for a source of it.’

  ‘Never mind that! From what I can hear it’s in any hedgerow. What’s more important . . . Look, Ronnie was my son . . . you don’t have to be tight-lipped with me.’

  ‘As yet we have no proof.’

  ‘But you’ll have an idea . . . that stands to reason.’

  ‘The investigation is still in progress.’

  ‘Listen . . .’

  Impassively Gently sipped his whisky.

  ‘All right, then!’

  The pause had been minimal, yet something in Walter Raynes’s manner had changed. Throwing back his drink, he felt for a chair, dropping into it with a gusty sigh.

  ‘So you won’t talk . . . or what’s more to the point, you don’t have anything to say! How far am I out? You’ve got so far, but still you can’t tell if it’s one or the other . . .

  ‘It had to be someone. Ronnie was poisoned, and you don’t get that muck inside you by accident. One or other . . . or the whole litter.

  ‘If it comes to proof, then at least you’ve proved that . . .’

  The bottle was in reach; he poured more drink, slopping it into the glass like water. Through the French doors, near the two old yachts, Gently could see the children again.

  They’d been joined by Swafield and Meeson and appeared to be engaged in bitter argument. Swafield’s face was shiny, his pudgy
hands making violent gestures.

  ‘Listen . . . don’t think I’m blaming you! You’ve done your job, if it comes to that. I said they’d poisoned him, didn’t I, and now you’ve proved it.

  ‘Perhaps that’s enough . . .’

  ‘Just what did they tell you?’

  ‘I . . . what?’ Briefly the swimming eyes were fierce.

  But Gently was staring through the glass doors, having turned his back on Raynes.

  ‘If you’d come to the point for a moment—!’

  ‘Tell me . . . weren’t you married in Hulverbridge church?’

  ‘So what? She was the vicar’s daughter! Did you think she’d get married in a Bethel?’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘As if I’d remember! She was always reading poetry, in those days . . . Tennyson and that sort of stuff – the vicar’s daughter! I was properly taken in. But she had more flesh on her bones then . . .’

  ‘Had she money?’

  ‘That’s a laugh.’

  ‘So then you must have married her from liking.’

  ‘Look . . . why can’t you stick to the point! All that’s water under the bridge . . .’

  Now Florence Raynes had joined the group, having slammed her car in a slot by the office. Half-running, she burst in among them to stand furious before Greta Swafield.

  Clive Raynes hastened to take her arm: Carole Meeson was making placating motions. On a baulk of timber, a little apart, Noel Raynes sat nursing his knees.

  ‘Drink up . . . for Christ’s sake!’

  But as it happened, Raynes was holding an empty glass. Then he’d jumped to his feet with a snarl of anger: Mrs Raynes had entered the room.

  ‘Get out of here . . . you . . . !’

  ‘Walter . . . please! . . . you must . . .’

  Carrying a tray on which there were cups, she stood trembling to the rage of her towering husband.

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘These people . . . they’re visitors . . .’

  She made a grotesque attempt at a smile. But the cups were chattering on the tray and even her knees were on the shake.

  ‘You damned old bitch!’

  ‘Walter . . . !’

  ‘Get out, or I’ll pitch you through the door!’

  Her lips gibbered; like a terrified monkey she crouched over the tray, tiny eyes cringing. Then, dumping down the tray, she grabbed a cup and flew out.

  ‘You should be in a home!’

  Raynes, in a frenzy, lashed out at the door, crashing it shut. Fuming, he stamped back into the room, and a second later hurled his glass at the grate.

  ‘Look what it’s doing to us – all this!’

  He stabbed hands towards Gently.

  ‘Can’t you see? It’s going too far! It never was worth what’s happening here . . .

  ‘In the beginning I had to know . . . somebody had to pay for Ronnie! But now . . . now I can’t stand any more of it . . . everything, everyone’s coming apart!

  ‘It’s driving us mad.

  ‘God knows I want justice, but this . . . this . . . what can you call it? With everything going to pot, as though the ground had been cut away . . .’

  He came down with his fist on a table.

  ‘I’ve had enough – it’s got to stop! Ronnie’s gone . . . he won’t come back . . . somehow, we’ve got to pick up the pieces . . .

  ‘Clive, Noel, the two girls . . . I didn’t choose them, but they’re mine! Perhaps I’ve had a grudge . . . and when Ronnie . . . but now, if I could put the clock back . . .

  ‘I tell you, I’ve had enough! How could I know it would be like this . . . ?’

  Gently said flatly: ‘Yet you’ve been proved right.’

  ‘I wish to God I’d been proved wrong!’

  ‘That was your choice.’

  ‘So I was a fool – but now I know, and it’s time to stop!’

  ‘Only it’s too late . . .’

  Down by the yachts there’d been another shift of emphasis. Florence Raynes had ceased to be the storm-centre, had dropped back into the ranks.

  Now the spotlight was on Arthur Swafield. A gesticulating figure, he faced the others; angry, his blubber-mouth writhing, he kept glancing, waving towards the house.

  Noel Raynes was on his feet; Clive Raynes’s hands were spread in supplication. From Meeson were coming words plainly counselling moderation; Greta Swafield’s stare at her husband was venomous.

  ‘That bloody so-and-so . . . !’

  Walter Raynes too was gazing at the drama going on below. Dragging out his glasses, he focused on the group, breathing hard as he followed their motions.

  ‘That sonofabitch, he’s going to . . . !’

  Swafield had turned towards the house; immediately Noel Raynes grappled with him, to be joined in struggle by the others.

  Bawling, Raynes threw aside his glasses and flung open the French doors.

  Followed by Gently and Ives, he plunged down the path and through the gate into the yard.

  The corner with the yachts was remote from the workshops, being flanked by old sheds, now used for storage.

  Nevertheless, there were sly faces peering round corners and through cobwebbed windows.

  Also from the office-block, towering above the sheds, though its windows were more distant; in fact, where they stood was the original yard, built on land perhaps once attached to the house.

  ‘Swoff – get back to your bloody office!’

  ‘Oh no, Walt. Oh no!’

  Beating off hands that were still clutching him, the fat man stood panting and quaking with rage.

  His collar had been dragged open, the tie pulled into a tight knot. Scratches on his cheek dripped blood and there were livid gouges on his hands.

  Others showed signs of conflict; Noel Raynes was pressing a cut lip. Shocked by the sudden violence, they had drawn together, eyes staring.

  ‘If you don’t clear out, you’re sacked!’

  ‘You and your brood don’t scare me, Walt!’

  ‘One more word and I’ll knock you down!’

  ‘Not in front of two coppers you won’t!’

  Snarling, Raynes aimed a punch from which Swafield danced aside; then Ives dodged in between them to place a hand on Raynes’s arm.

  ‘I shouldn’t, sir.’

  ‘Get out of my road!’

  But Ives was quietly forcing down the raised fist. Swafield meanwhile had drawn back a few paces and stood swaying, fists doubled.

  ‘Listen to me—!’

  ‘Swoff, you’re sacked!’

  ‘Oh no – you can’t shut me up like that.’

  ‘Offer him money,’ Greta Swafield drawled. ‘Swoff has never been known to refuse it.’

  ‘You poisonous bitch!’

  ‘I’m sacking you too, Swoff.’ Hands on hips, she was grinning with scorn. ‘Open your mouth once, and you’ve done with the Rayneses for ever.’

  Briefly the pudgy face sagged; then Swafield turned to Gently.

  ‘Listen . . . these devils can say what they like! . . . but some things you’ve got to draw a line at.’

  ‘You’ve had fair warning!’ Greta Swafield rapped. ‘What I say I mean to stand by.’

  ‘I won’t stick my neck out any longer—’

  ‘Then be prepared to pay the penalty.’

  Again the rubbery mouth hung open, the eyes had a stricken look. Greta Swafield’s eyes were stony: she was crouching forward, fingers curled.

  ‘No . . . it’s got to come out!’

  ‘Then goodbye, Swoff.’

  ‘I don’t care . . . !’ In a sudden return of rage, he shouted: ‘They know – they all know – ever since you let out what he died of!’

  ‘Swoff, I’ll ruin you!’ Walter Raynes roared.

  ‘I don’t care – you can’t stop me! I’ll go along with some things, Walt, but not this . . . Christ, not this!’

  ‘You raving lunatic—!’

  ‘Look – look here!’

  Swafield whirled round
, waving Gently to follow. With a cry Noel Raynes sprang after him, to go stumbling over Ives’s out-thrust foot.

  Gently followed Swafield. Behind the two old yachts was an overgrown plot fenced with box. A mess of grass, docks and bindweed, it was still recognizable as some sort of garden.

  ‘You see – the old woman’s herb-garden! We used to play around here as kids . . . there was a gate . . . we were never allowed through it . . . dreadful things could happen if we went in there.

  ‘And you can guess why . . . you’ve seen the old girl’s eyes. I remember once meeting her after she’d used it . . .

  ‘I’ll never forget. She had eyes the size of pennies . . . looking like something from another planet!’

  Diving in, he led Gently through rubbish where sage and mint still struggled to survive, past tall stems of thread-leaved fennel and overblown parsley, weeping seed.

  But then he came to a halt: one corner of the plot was quite bare.

  ‘My God . . . the devils have been here!’

  Only a small area, it was cleared to the ground. What remained were a few chopped stalks, scarcely protruding through a mat of bents.

  ‘It’s gone . . . they’ve destroyed the evidence! It’ll be floating down the river . . .’

  ‘This is where Deadly Nightshade was growing?’

  ‘Of course! And they’ve beaten us to it . . .’

  Now the others had arrived, forming a silent, hostile semi-circle. With a malevolent glint in her eye, Greta Swafield faced her husband.

  ‘Now do you understand, Swoff?’

  ‘You scheming cow . . . you can’t get away with it!’

  ‘Oh I think so,’ Greta Swafield sneered. ‘Your tale is worth nothing without the evidence. People can think what they like, you know, but what counts is hard proof.’ She glanced at Gently. ‘Isn’t that so, Superintendent?’

  ‘You’ve left the roots – they can be identified!’

  ‘I left nothing,’ Greta Swafield said. ‘This is your picnic, Swoff. The explanations must come from you.’

  ‘From me . . . ?’

  ‘That follows, doesn’t it? You’re the one pitching the tale.’

  ‘But . . . !’

  ‘Just take your time – and explain how it is you know so much.’

  Gaping at her, Swafield had paled; the stricken look was back in his eyes. Behind his sister, Noel Raynes covered his mouth to hide a grin.