by Alan Hunter
Lawrence blushed deeper. ‘I wasn’t suggesting doing it tomorrow!’ he said. ‘And I don’t see why it should upset Jenny. It wasn’t something new I was springing on her.’
‘Then why is she in a mood?’
‘I don’t know!’ Lawrence blurted. ‘We’ve been for a stroll round by the bridge. I haven’t been able to say anything right.’
Edwin clicked his tongue sympathetically. ‘We’re all under a bit of strain,’ he said. ‘The axe is being sharpened for this weekend. Jenny was expecting to find Adrian here when she got back.’
Jennifer gulped the rest of her drink and came forward slowly to the centre of the room.
‘But that’s just the point,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting him. I knew he wouldn’t be here.’
They all stared at her.
‘But how?’ Maryon said.
Jennifer shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Oh, nothing I can tell you. Just a sort of sadness. I’ve been feeling it all day.’ She dropped down suddenly on the sheepskin hearthrug, and sat with arms clasped round her knees. ‘I guess I’m psychic, that’s all. But I don’t think Adrian is ever coming back here.’
‘Just wishful thinking, my girl,’ Maryon said. ‘Adrian will never miss his big scene.’
‘No,’ Jennifer said. ‘It isn’t that at all, Mums. I just can’t explain the way I feel.’ She twisted the belt of her jersey dress. ‘Of course, I’ve been fed up with what’s going to happen. I’m not like you, taking it as it comes. I can’t bear the idea of him throwing us out. But this is different – I can’t help myself. I’m suddenly terribly sad about Adrian. I look at this room, all the things of his in it, and I feel he’s never coming back to them again. I don’t want to feel sad – because I hate him! But I do, I can’t help it.’
Silence for some moments. Jennifer sat staring.
‘Well, it could be like that,’ Edwin said, awkwardly. ‘Perhaps Adrian felt he played his big scene last week, and that any encore would be an anticlimax. So now he is retiring into Olympian disdain. After all, his lawyers can take care of it.’
‘Rubbish,’ Maryon said promptly. ‘That’s not Adrian. Last week was only a curtain-raiser. He was setting us up for something, a real humdinger. He’d never let a lawyer steal his thunder.’
‘He could be ill, or something.’
‘Adrian’s never ill.’
‘Well, it can’t have been an accident. We would have heard.’
‘Too convenient, anyway,’ Maryon said. She broke off, her eyes suddenly large. ‘Oh, it’s all rubbish!’ she said. ‘Jenny, you’re an ass. You’re not psychic, you’re just eighteen.’
Jenny hugged her knees, saying nothing. But continuing to stare, all the same. Then the bracket-clock struck, in the corner, and Lawrence got hastily to his feet.
‘I think I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I need an early night.’
Nobody pressed him to change his mind. He paused in front of Jennifer; Jennifer ignored him. He ducked his head clumsily, and went. They heard his footsteps retreating.
‘You’re not serious about him, Jenny, are you?’ Maryon said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jennifer said broodingly. ‘He isn’t such a drag all the time.’
‘But, my lamb, he’s penniless.’
‘So what are we?’
‘That’s exactly the point!’ Maryon cried.
‘Oh, hold on, now,’ Edwin said. ‘Lawrence has talent. He’ll make the grade.’
‘Anyway, you’re too young,’ Maryon fretted. ‘My goodness, just out of High School. And he doesn’t know what he wants either. You two are murder for each other.’
Jennifer jumped up. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I’m due for an early night as well.’
‘Wait!’ Maryon cried. ‘I want to talk to you!’
But Jennifer ran out of the room.
‘Oh, wretched girl!’ Maryon fumed. Then she caught Edwin’s eye. ‘And you, you egg her on!’ she nagged. ‘Oh, that girl needs a father!’
Edwin rocked his shoulders. He rose, stretched, and went across to the french windows. Outside, now, it was completely dark, with no moon in the heavy sky. The cedar was invisible. But, behind it, the sable reef of the Chase just etched a horizon.
Edwin closed the french windows and drew the curtains.
‘Do we take it he won’t be coming?’
‘Oh, I’m tired of thinking about it!’ Maryon said. ‘Nothing can change it. What will be, will be.’
Edwin came to the settee, where she sat, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Then he dropped down beside her, and laid his arm on her shoulders.
‘It won’t be so bad. I know I’m a frail reed, but I’m not hard up at the moment. And you’ll be getting shot of all this falsity. It never was worth it, Maryon, ever.’
‘Of course, it’s lovely to be noble,’ Maryon said.
‘In any case, it may not happen. Adrian may have a change of heart – or his precious Nina may drop him.’
Maryon shook her head firmly. ‘I know how actresses tick, remember? When he’s done all he can for her, she’ll drop him then. Not before.’
‘So then to hell with him and all his works.’
She gave a sudden, deep sigh. ‘Do you really love me?’
‘As best I can. Pretty much.’
She laid her head against him. ‘Someone ought to.’
He kissed her, warmly but gently, and she snuggled closer to him. For a while they sat so, quite still, listening to the subdued ticking of the clock. At last, she rested her hand on his knee.
‘No, he won’t be coming now,’ she said.
He placed his hand over hers. ‘Shall I stay?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes.’
And the night grew darker still, the warm, moonless, June night, with its odours of stock and honeysuckle, and the resin of many pines. And the night creatures went their ways, the timid deer from among the snowberry, the mousing weasel, the squeaking hedge-pig, the bloody stoat and the humping badger. Moths rustled where the night-flowers bloomed, the birds of the night chirred and hooted. Along the heath the twisted pines watched the silent, blank road. And some slept, and some waked, and some were sleeping that should be waking. On a dark night of June.
CHAPTER TWO
FOUND DEAD IN CHASE
Yesterday the body of a middle-aged man was found in a remote part of Latchford Chase. The body was found in a vehicle.
Police are withholding the man’s name until the relatives have been informed.
It is understood that death may have been accidental.
BODY IN CHASE
Police have still not named the man found dead in the West Brayling area of Latchford Chase on Sunday.
The body was discovered by a Forestry officer when he passed the spot on a routine patrol.
The vehicle is described as a motor-caravan and it was equipped with a gas stove. The police are said to have taken possession of a gas bottle and a length of hose.
Yesterday a police spokesman said that death may have been accidental.
MAN FOUND DEAD IN CHASE NAMED
ADRIAN STOLL IN CARAVAN TRAGEDY
Today Latchford Police named the man found dead in the West Brayling area of Latchford Chase as Adrian Stoll, the well-known film director, whose country home is at East Brayling.
Mr Stoll’s body was found in a blue caravette which he often used when filming on location.
It is believed he was filming wildlife in the Chase shortly before the tragedy occurred.
The discovery was made on Sunday morning by Forestry Ranger Jack Larling, who noticed an unfastened gate and went to investigate.
Police took possession of the caravette and of a gas bottle and a length of hose. A spokesman said they had not ruled out the possibility of accidental death.
Mr Stoll was expected home at the weekend. He was not known to have health or financial worries.
The police wish to hear from anyone who saw the caravette in the neighbourhood of Wa
rren Ride on Saturday evening.
The vehicle is a dark blue Volkswagen, new model with a white elevating roof, registration number WCL 496 K.
Anyone with information should contact Latchford Police, or their local police station.
Mr Stoll, who was 55, bought East Brayling Lodge in 1965. His work as a director took him far afield, but he regarded East Brayling as his home.
Equally experienced with film and theatre, he was also admired for his work in television. He made his name with the award-winning film The Pythoness, based on the Goncourt prize novel by Jacques Armande. Recently he directed the musical Chairoplanes, which is currently playing at a West End theatre.
On Saturday he had put in a full day’s work rehearsing a play at B.B.C. Television Centre.
In 1951 Mr Stoll married the film actress, Rosalind Rix. The marriage was dissolved fourteen years later, when Miss Rix went to reside in Hollywood. She was given custody of their child, Marcus.
Mr Stoll’s cousin, the novelist Edwin Keynes, also lives at East Brayling.
ADRIAN STOLL – INQUEST ADJOURNED
FOUL PLAY: ‘WE HAVE TO CONSIDER IT’
The inquest into the death of film director Adrian Stoll was adjourned at Latchford Coroner’s Court today, at the request of Latchford Police.
In reply to a question by the Coroner, Mr T. C. Deepdale, Latchford C.I.D. Officer Detective Inspector Herbert Metfield said that in cases of this sort foul play was always a possibility. ‘We have to consider it,’ he said.
He was unable to comment further at this stage, but confirmed that investigations were proceeding urgently ‘here and elsewhere’.
Evidence of identification was given by the dead man’s cousin, novelist and critic Edwin Keynes, of Deerview Cottage, East Brayling.
Also in court were ex-actress Maryon Britton and her daughter Jennifer, who reside at East Brayling Lodge.
Miss Britton, in a short interview, said that Stoll was expected at the Lodge last weekend. Unless he was working abroad, he usually spent his weekends at home.
Asked about his hobby of filming wildlife, she said it was well known to his friends. On another occasion he had spent a night in the forest filming deer.
This time he had said nothing about his intentions, but that was quite in character. ‘Adrian often did things on impulse – he was such an “alive” person.’
At B.B.C. Television Centre, a spokesman agreed that they had assisted the police with information.
The inquest has been adjourned until July 2nd.
The conference on the Stoll case was booked for 11.30 hours on 27 June. When Gently arrived at the office of the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), he found him already closeted with two men. One Gently knew: Detective Inspector Lyons, a young Met officer of reputation. The other was a fleshy-looking man in his early forties, wearing a new suit in which he seemed uncomfortable. Behind his desk, the Assistant Commissioner sat conning a typed document, with aloof disapproval. He looked up.
‘Aha – Gently.’
Gently nodded. He found himself a chair. Lyons, he noticed, was looking bored: the other man was quietly sweating.
‘Let’s get the introductions over. Lyons, Gently, you know each other. Gently, this is Detective Inspector Metfield, who is in charge of the case at Latchford. Metfield, meet Gently. You’ll learn either to love him or hate him.’
Metfield grinned nervously and reached out his hand. He had thick, jowly features and untidy dark hair.
‘They still remember you at Latchford, sir,’ he said. ‘That job with the dope and the motorbike kids.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ the A.C. cut in sharply. ‘But we’ll leave the reminiscing till later. Gently, what we need from you is your celebrated intuition, because these two gentlemen have come to an impasse. Inspector Lyons is persuaded that the crime originated in town, while Inspector Metfield is convinced that chummie is a local. And I, personally, can’t decide. So now we await the wisdom of Solomon.’
Gently shrugged massively. ‘Am I assigned to the case?’
‘Yes,’ the A.C. said. ‘You most certainly are.’
‘Then may I ask a fundamental question. Do we know, for a fact, that Stoll was murdered?’
The A.C. stared at Metfield. So did Lyons, coming out of his fit of ennui for a moment. The provincial Inspector goggled a bit, his fleshy mouth working, as though seeking nourishment.
‘Well, the fact is,’ he came out at last, ‘we’re not what you might call right down certain. Not one hundred per cent. It could have been suicide. That’s why we’ve played it close to our chest.’
‘It couldn’t have been an accident?’ Gently suggested.
‘No, no. Oh no,’ Metfield rumbled. ‘No, it was a set-up job. Somebody had turned that van into a killing-bottle.’
‘Perhaps you’ll describe it. I’ve only seen the papers.’
‘Well, it was like this,’ Metfield said. ‘There was a bottle of gas stood outside the van, and a hose leading from it to a vent in the roof. The van was locked and the windows were closed, there was just this vent in the roof open. The gas is heavier than air, of course, so it filled up the van till it spilled through the vent.’
‘Where was Stoll?’
‘In his sleeping-bag, sir. He’d undressed and turned in. There’s a double bunk running aft, over the engine, and he’d made it up and turned in.’
‘And the keys?’
‘In his trouser-pocket. We had to break in when we got there.’
‘No suicide note?’
‘No, sir, nothing. Though there was paper in his briefcase, so he could have written one.’
Gently brooded. ‘You say the windows were closed. Wouldn’t that be unusual on a warm night?’
‘Yes, sir – yes,’ Metfield said quickly. ‘I did give a bit of thought to that, sir. One of our constables owns a caravette, so I put the question to him. He reckoned that with an elevating roof, and just one man, a single vent open would be sufficient. You’d want to keep the windows closed if you could, sir, on account of the midges. They’re wicked among the trees.’
‘I see,’ Gently said.
Metfield dabbed his brow. ‘But then there’s the stove to consider, sir. If it was suicide, why would he bother to bring along a hose and an extra bottle? He could just have turned on the stove, inside. That would have done the job as well. I can’t see him making up the bunk and getting undressed with a hose puffing gas on him from the roof.’
‘Not without a reason,’ Gently said.
Metfield stared blankly. ‘Well, he wouldn’t, sir. And another thing. There’s a spare bottle in the stowage, so if he’d wanted to play games, why not use that?’
‘Did the third bottle match the other two?’
‘No, sir. And I’ve queried the makers about it. But they could only tell me it was a recent issue in the southeast area, which includes London.’
‘And no dabs, Gently,’ put in the A.C. pleasantly. ‘Apparently the surface of a gas bottle doesn’t take them.’
‘The hose?’
‘It’s from Woolie’s,’ Metfield said. ‘I’ve got some myself, for hosing the car down.’
Gently paused, then gave a mandarin nod. ‘Very well. We’ll assume that Stoll was murdered. You’ve broken into the van and found the body. Let’s hear how it goes from there.’
Metfield dabbed again. ‘It’s like this, sir. For one, it happened near Stoll’s house. Maybe there’s no direct road there, but it’s only three miles off as the crow flies. Then, for two, there’d been no robbery, and there was plenty in the van to pinch – a Hasselbladt movie camera, worth over a thou, and seven hundred quid in his wallet. For three, there was the spot itself, which points to intimate local knowledge.’
‘How intimate?’ Gently said.
Metfield wriggled. ‘I was going to explain, sir. It’s a place called Mogi’s Belt, after a dog that got killed there in a pheasant shoot. It’s a plantation of big Scots pines, running alongside the Forestry pr
operty. But it happens to lie in the Battle Area, and Stoll should never have gone there at all. There’s a wire mesh fence, six feet high, and a notice about unexploded bombs, and a gate secured with a chain and padlock – and none of it seems to have bothered Stoll.’
‘It would have bothered me,’ the A.C. commented. ‘You can get your leg blown off in those places.’
Metfield looked sly. ‘That’s just my point, sir. Somehow, Stoll had got to know it was safe. Because the Army don’t use it. They never have used it. It’s cut off from the rest of the Area by a bog. The Forestry have tried to get permission to fell there, but you know what it’s like trying to deal with the Army.’
‘But then how did Stoll get in?’ Gently asked.
‘Easy,’ Metfield said. ‘Through the gate. He not only knew it was safe to go in, but he knew the padlock was broken, too. And what I’m saying is this: it called for special local knowledge, on the part of both Stoll and the chummie. Because chummie couldn’t very well follow Stoll in there – he wouldn’t want to turn up till several hours later.’
The A.C. delicately swung his glasses. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I like it.’
‘But wait a minute, sir!’ Lyons broke in indignantly. ‘Chummie could have got his information from the same source as Stoll. Stoll wasn’t local, though he had a house there. Somebody must have told Stoll. The same person could have told chummie – or chummie might have had it from Stoll himself!’
The A.C. wagged his finger. ‘Hush, Lyons. You’re jumping the gun. Just now we’re considering the case for Latchford. And the Inspector has only reached three.’
Metfield dabbed gratefully. ‘I’m coming to it, sir. Though first I’d like to clear up another matter. We know why Stoll was where he was because we’ve developed the film from his camera. He’d been photographing the badgers, which have a sett there, and knowing that again needed local knowledge. The Forestry Trail pamphlet mentions the badger-gate, but it says nothing about the sett. Yet Stoll had marked its position on his copy, along with the position of the fence-gate.’