by Alan Hunter
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE STORM WAS moving inland. As Lachlan Stogumber eased his TR4 down the Lodge drive, Gently, seated beside him, could see the blackest of the wrack lying heavy and low over the heath. The heath itself was dark as pitch, its long cliff-line vague at the edges; silvery veins and bursts of lightning momentarily sharpened it, etching detail. Then the thunder crashed. The rain, unabated, was getting the better of the Triumph’s wipers. Along with them down the drive gushed a small torrent, and a stream was rilling across the village street.
Lachlan Stogumber drove cautiously and with a smoothness that Gently appreciated. He hadn’t said anything since they’d dived through the rain to feed themselves quickly into the Triumph’s cramped quarters. His hands light on the wheel, he stared intently ahead, his attention apparently all on the driving. They hissed steadily through the deserted village, made the turn right for Low Hale.
At the entry to the heath, Lachlan Stogumber slowed.
‘Is this a good place for a talk?’ he said.
Gently was silent. Lachlan Stogumber turned off, drove some yards up the track, parked and switched off. He sat still, looking out at the drenched heath. The rain boomed on the car and flooded down the windscreen. Hatchings of lightning seemed to split sideways, pouring sudden, sick radiance across the black acres.
‘An omen too late,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘We should have had this storm on Tuesday. But I doubt whether the gods would have bothered about Charlie – they didn’t open the graves to portend the deaths of brewers.’
‘It could still be an omen,’ Gently said. ‘And not too late.’
‘Dear me, you’re superstitious,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘I thought all that was left to poets these days. And women, naturally. Logic hasn’t made them fools.’ He lit a cigarette, filling the small car with smoke. ‘You think I can name him for you, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You were marvellously slow getting off the mark with Marie, but now you have the feeling you’re home and dry.’ He grinned. ‘Right?’ he said.
Gently nodded. ‘You know,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘I’m in Marie’s confidence. The world else may not know, but me you can rely on. And yet’ – he inhaled smoke – ‘suppose I don’t know. Suppose, after all, you’re up the wrong tree again. Suppose Marie doesn’t, never did have a lover, and that the child she is carrying is all Charlie’s?’
Gently stared out at the darkness. ‘It’s no use. I’ve spoken to her.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know Marie,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘Marie’s a romantic, a Walter Mitty character. She’ll accept any role you offer her, if it’s suitably dramatic. And I tipped her off. She knew what you wanted. She was all set to play it for you when you arrived. And if I know my sister she laid it on thick, especially with a thunderstorm going for her. Isn’t that what happened?’
Gently’s shoulders twitched.
‘You see, I do know her,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘And the fact of the matter is she’s never had a lover. If the child isn’t Charlie’s, it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Does anything different make sense?’ Gently asked.
Lachlan Stogumber trailed smoke. ‘Not with murder in mind. But don’t you see, murder only came into it because of Charlie’s reputation as a debauchee. Apart from that, his death was an accident – one unusual, but not unknown – and if you allow that jealousy was the cause of his behaviour, then you come back to accident. No actual lover is necessary.’
‘And the writer of the sonnet . . . ?’
‘Myself, of course. Some day you’re going to have to believe that.’
Gently shook his head. ‘That’s where it falls down. I don’t believe it, and I’m not likely to.’
Lachlan Stogumber sighed. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to treat you like an intelligent man. But I’ll make one more effort. You wanted to see my original manuscript, and I’ve brought it for you. Here.’
He felt in his breast pocket and brought out a notebook from which he took a crumpled, torn-out leaf. He gave the leaf to Gently. It bore a copy of the sonnet written in a small, nervous hand. Here and there a differing word or phrase had been struck out and one or more alternatives written above it. It added up to the text which Gently had and was dated with Monday’s date.
‘This is your handwriting?’
For answer Lachlan Stogumber took out his pen. He took the sheet from Gently, smoothed it on the notebook, and signed his name. The writing was identical.
‘Good enough?’
Gently shook his head again. ‘You could easily have manufactured this.’
Lachlan Stogumber laughed ironically. ‘I put the truth in your hands, and still you ask for proof and more proof. Well, proof you shall have.’ He flicked through the note-book and carefully detached another leaf from it. ‘Here’s something you haven’t seen, didn’t know about, couldn’t have guessed at. A second sonnet.’
He thrust the leaf at Gently. Gently stared at him, then at the leaf. In Stogumber’s handwriting, with crossings and corrections, was inscribed another sonnet in the style of the first.
‘Read it,’ Lachlan Stogumber commanded.
‘Why should I bother?’ Gently shrugged. ‘The one is no more proof than the other. They are merely two samples of your handwriting.’
‘They are mine. My poems.’
‘So you tell me.’
‘There is nobody else who could have written them.’
‘Just one poet – for the Stogumber poetry.’
Lachlan Stogumber’s eyes blazed. ‘What do you mean?’
Gently placed the two leaves in his wallet. ‘I would have thought it was simple logic,’ he said. ‘Somebody in High Hale is a poet, but that somebody isn’t Mrs Berney’s brother. So who is he? Who writes the poetry? If it’s one and the same person, it isn’t you. And if it isn’t one and the same person, you didn’t write the sonnets. Which way do you want it to be?’
Lachlan Stogumber’s expression was murderous. ‘It is I – only I – who write my poetry!’
‘Yet you’re trying to take credit for someone else’s poems.’
‘They’re mine, all of them. All mine!’
Gently shrugged. Lachlan Stogumber sat glaring, his mouth dragged in a thin line. The rain kept pounding. Little thin nets of lightning flickered afar off, moving inland. Lachlan Stogumber stabbed out his cigarette.
‘My God, you say dangerous things,’ he said. ‘No wonder Marie wanted to strike you. But that’s policemen the world over – peasants, trying to reduce you to their own level.’
‘Trying to find the truth,’ Gently said. ‘From people whose levels have sunk too low.’
‘Peasants,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘Sadistic peasants. Dressed in authority and hypocritical sentiments. And the truth I told you.’
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Not the truth. I want a name.’
Lachlan Stogumber gave a bitter laugh. He restarted the engine. ‘Try Rising,’ he said.
The light was improving in the sea direction but the rain still sheeted down drearily. A rather battered Morris Oxford Traveller, with a massive towing hitch, was parked at the Manor House behind Gently’s Lotus. Lachlan Stogumber flicked the TR4 past it and braked sharply, raising a scatter of gravel. Gently got out. Lachlan Stogumber pulled the door shut, hesitated, then dropped the window a few inches.
‘Have we finished with you?’
No.’
‘I thought you’d been round all of us now.’
Gently shrugged and ran up the steps to the shelter of the Manor House porch. Lachlan Stogumber stared after him balefully, then raised the window, and sat, engine running. After some moments he revved the engine, circled, and drove back down the drive.
Gently rang; Redmayne opened to him. He greeted Gently with a doubtful smile.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I would have fetched you, but the Wonderful Boy said he wanted words with you. I hope they were civil.’
Gently grunted and stepped past Redmayne into the hall. On a coatstand beside the door he noticed hanging a dripping storm-coat and a wet squash hat.
‘Well, how was it?’ Redmayne smiled. ‘Did you find the lady forthcoming?’
Gently shook his head. Wet, recent footmarks were visible on the matting going up the hall.
‘You’d better come into my den,’ Redmayne smiled. ‘You’re looking draggy round the knees. You can dry off in front of the electric stove, and we can have a drink and some more chat.’
‘Where’s the office?’ Gently said.
‘Office . . . ?’
‘Where James Stogumber does his estate-business.’
‘Oh . . . that.’ Redmayne’s smile tightened. ‘It’s at the back, down the corridor. Did you want to see Jimmy?’
‘I want to see him.’
‘I think he’s engaged just now . . .’
‘All the same,’ Gently said, beginning to head up the hall.
‘Wait!’ Redmayne moved swiftly in front of him. ‘Perhaps I’d better announce you,’ he said.
Without waiting for an answer he hastened along the corridor and tapped at the door on the right. He opened the door guardedly, put his head round it and said something in a low voice; then, still holding the door partly closed, he turned again to Gently.
‘I did tell you the rain would bring us a visitor . . .’
Gently shouldered him aside. In the office, along with James Stogumber, sat the sprawling figure of Creke.
Stogumber was sitting at an old-fashioned desk, and Creke across from him in a stick-back chair. Both of them were staring at Gently but for the moment neither spoke. Gently glanced back at Redmayne. Redmayne grinned weakly then quietly withdrew down the corridor. Gently closed the door. He came into the room. He stood looking from one to other of the two occupants.
‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ he said. ‘Finish your business.’
James Stogumber drew back his head stiffly. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘This is uncouth behaviour, Superintendent. Nobody invited you in here.’
‘People rarely do,’ Gently said. ‘But in my line we have to make our own rules. So carry on as though I weren’t here. I certainly shan’t gossip about your estate business.’
Creke’s dark eyes bored at him. ‘Reckon we’ve finished.’
‘We certainly have now,’ Stogumber said.
‘I believe you,’ Gently said. ‘But there wasn’t much to discuss, was there? Not with all the cards being held on one side.’
Creke feinted a spit. ‘Want to buy a horse?’ he said.
‘This . . . this is going too far,’ Stogumber said, rising. ‘You have no right to force your way in here, Superintendent, and your insinuations . . . they are contemptible.’
Gently shrugged. He looked at Creke. ‘I’d say your horse was too pricy,’ he said.
‘Always was a good horse,’ Creke said. ‘You don’t buy stallions like him for drink money.’
‘What’s he worth today?’
‘About what he’ll fetch.’
Gently nodded. ‘Shall we say a year’s rent?’
Stogumber came round the desk. ‘I won’t have this!’ he said. ‘Nat, I’m sorry, we’ll finish our talk later.’
Creke pulled himself up. ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘No snouty copper ever got change from me.’ He leered at Gently. ‘I’m not selling,’ he said. ‘You’d better take your custom to Clayfield.’
‘Nat!’ Stogumber said.
‘I’m going,’ Creke said. ‘Don’t let his nibs put anything across you.’
He swaggered out, closing the door noisily. Stogumber stood irresolute a moment, then returned to the desk. He dropped into the chair heavily, supporting himself by the desk, and sat breathing quickly and gazing at the desktop.
Gently sat himself in the stick-back chair.
‘I’ve come from the Lodge,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to Marie.’
Stogumber drew himself straighter in his chair. He looked quickly at Gently, then away.
‘A strange young woman,’ Gently said. ‘You don’t quite know if you can believe what she tells you. Or even if she believes it herself. I’m inclined to think your daughter is a hysteric.’
‘Her mother was one,’ Stogumber said. ‘Poor Stella. It ran in the family.’
‘She believes she has a supernatural lover,’ Gently said. ‘One who is invisible.’
Stogumber let his veinous hand rise and fall on the desk.
‘But of course, her lover’s real enough,’ Gently said. ‘Real enough to be responsible for her condition. Real enough to write her amorous poems. Real enough to be hunted on the heath by Berney. He’s flesh and blood, and he has a name – and I’m wondering just how many people know it.’
Stogumber groaned and closed his eyes.
‘I think you’ll be one of them,’ Gently said. ‘You must know who your daughter has been associating with, who came here often, was much in her company.’
Stogumber shook his head.
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘And your son knows too. And your cousin. And Creke, naturally – he tumbled to it. And keeping Creke quiet will be expensive.’
‘Oh, heavens, heavens!’ Stogumber groaned.
‘It can’t go on,’ Gently said. ‘There are too many people in the secret. And we’ll put on pressure. Someone’ll crack.’
Stogumber’s eyes opened wildly. His lips were trembling.
‘So suppose you tell me,’ Gently said.
‘You want a . . . confession?’ Stogumber stammered.
Gently stared at him, saying nothing.
Suddenly Stogumber’s hand reached to his breast and he began to breathe heavily. The drooping flesh of his cheeks had lost colour, his eyes weren’t focusing on Gently. He fumbled with a drawer. He brought out a brandy flask and tipped a little of the brandy into the metal cup. He swallowed it jerkily, leaning on the desk, his eyes watery and seeing nothing. Then he let the cup fall and sat huddled, his hand feeling for his breast again. His eyes found Gently. He shook his head.
‘I’m old,’ he said. ‘A tired old man.’ He made a little choking sound. ‘I deserved better . . . I deserved a daughter with a little love for me.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. Rheum wet his cheeks. ‘Lachlan,’ he said. ‘Did you ask Lachlan?’
‘Yes, I asked him,’ Gently said.
‘Aye . . . Lachlan wouldn’t tell you,’ Stogumber said. His lips fluttered, he bowed his head. ‘The curse . . . it’s on him too,’ he said. ‘Since he was a boy . . . you could always see it. He’s the last, and he’ll never marry.’ He checked, nursing his breast. ‘Leo . . . ?’
‘I’ve questioned Mr Redmayne,’ Gently said.
‘Aye, aye,’ Stogumber said. ‘Leo sees all, but Leo says nothing. So it’s the old man then . . . confess, and die. Well, it’d make an apt ending. Then you’ll bury the business and go home . . . leave the Stogumbers to dree their weird.’
‘Have you ever ridden that horse?’ Gently said.
‘On my better days,’ Stogumber said. ‘It’s possible.’
‘You had a reason to kill Berney?’
‘Aye, to save the scandal. He would’ve come out with it. I couldn’t allow that.’
‘Who told you where to find him?’ Gently said.
Stogumber’s head shook. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘We’ll say I had word he would be on the heath, no matter from where. I could have known if I’d wished it.’
‘One man could have told you,’ Gently said.
‘No,’ Stogumber said. ‘None of that. If I’m to confess, it’s on my own terms. I’ll not be party to involving others.’
He sat hugging his breast, his head tilted forward, the rheum trickling on his leaden cheeks. His words had been coming struggingly, as though the weight of years was crushing his breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gently said. ‘Truly sorry.’
He rose from his chair. Stogumber lifted his head. They looked at each other for several moment
s. Then Gently shrugged and turned away.
Redmayne was stationed in the corridor. His face was blank as Gently came out. But he managed to conjure a ghost of his smile as he led the detective back to the hall.
‘So you didn’t buy it.’
Gently halted to face him. ‘Was I supposed to?’ he asked.
Redmayne made a faint gesture. ‘It sounded credible. The way old Jimmy was giving it to you.’
‘You should know how credible it is.’
‘Perhaps I should,’ Redmayne said. ‘And I can tell you one thing. I wasn’t Jimmy’s informant, which is what you were hinting at in there. I knew what I knew and I saw what I saw, but I was nowhere near the heath on Tuesday. So if Jimmy was tipped about Charlie’s being there, you’ll need to look a little further.’
‘Of course,’ Gently said. ‘I was forgetting. You spent all Tuesday in the back woods.’
‘In Stukey Woods,’ Redmayne said. ‘For the precise record. In praiseworthy search of Orchis hircina.’
‘A faultless alibi.’
‘Quite faultless. One I needn’t prove and which you can’t disprove. But keep me on your list, by all means. I’ve no interest in making it easy for you.’
He stood back from Gently, his eyes sulky, a petulant drag in his mouth; but almost immediately the expression switched, and he was his friendly self again.
‘Look – it’s no use! You have to act like a bastard, but I’m not going to act as though you really were one. What’s happened here is damnable enough without you and I behaving like kids. Suppose we have that drink?’
Gently shook his head firmly. ‘But if we’re being such friends, you can give me some information.’
‘Information about what?’
‘About the Stogumber finances.’
Redmayne’s smile went stiff.
‘It’s an angle I think we’ve neglected,’ Gently said. ‘I understand Charles Berney was a wealthy man. And when wealthy men are murdered it’s always worth checking if there are less wealthy men who benefit. Yourself, for example.’
‘I!’
‘Or James Stogumber,’ Gently shrugged. ‘Or his son, with death duties hanging over him, which cannot be very long delayed.’