Summer Season

by Alan Clark

  ‘Now let’s just get one or two things straight, shall we, Mr. Crane? You are employed here to teach Mr. Gevaert’s young son Paul?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So Mr. Gevaert would have found out pretty quickly from his son if you hadn’t been working on that morning.’

  ‘Well, actually on that morning Paul had gone to the dentist’s.’

  ‘So you had the morning free?’

  ‘Not really. I was meant to be correcting exercises and things.’

  ‘I see.’ His tone was heavy with disbelief. ‘Now you say she gave you this scarf?’

  ‘Yes. You see, the idea was that I would wave it out of the window if Mr. Gevaert found out that I had been away.’

  ‘And what could she do if he had found out?’

  The answer was ‘Put the heat on Gevaert’. But the surrounding explanations would be too laborious and incredible. Could I, should I, have a shot at explaining the relationships, the suspicions? Would he believe me, or would he simply regard it as one more predictable step in the behaviour pattern of a person whom he obviously regarded with, already, deep suspicion?

  ‘Er—officer …’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Crane?’

  ‘Nothing; no, it’s nothing actually.’ He had leaned forward so eagerly, and at the same time had seemed so sinister, that I had been seized by the conviction that he was expecting me to say something like ‘Let me tell you all about it’ or ‘I’ll make a clean breast of it, then’, or whatever it is that criminal persons say when they break down.

  Fearful of the consequences of his disappointment at being told, instead, a complicated and improbable story involving Gevaert’s alleged lust for Kitty, I shut up.

  ‘It’s best for all concerned to come out with things openly,’ he said.

  Should I tell him of my suspicions of Mrs. Roydon? Of the inexplicable stirrings in the garden late last night? ‘There is one thing. You may think me very stupid——’

  ‘No one is stupid who co-operates with us to the best of their ability, Mr. Crane.’

  No. It was no good. This man was too impossible. If I was to convince anyone it must be one of his superiors, an inspector or superintendent or something. For the time being I’d just stall. ‘She could look after herself, you know.’

  ‘Could she now!’ he said. Then suddenly he went all matey again, after-the-ladies-have-left-us; brandy-and-cigars.

  ‘Ever try anything there?’

  ‘No,’ I said, wishing that I had and feeling annoyed that no one in the entire world would believe me.

  ‘Look here, Mr. Crane,’ he said, very genially indeed and rising to his feet, ‘I’ll just hang on to this if you don’t mind.’ He put Kitty’s scarf into his pocket. ‘Now what I think the best thing would be is if you’d just make a little statement, eh?’

  ‘Statement? Statement? But that’s just what I’ve been doing, surely?’

  ‘A written statement.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Purely for our records, of course. We’ll just slip along the road to the station—it’s easier there, as we’ve got all the forms and things on hand.’

  ‘But what about? I mean, I’ve told you everything I know. I mean, of course I’m delighted, it just is I don’t quite see how I can be of much more help really as I don’t, didn’t——’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Crane, it’s simply a matter of getting a written account of your movements on the day that she disappeared.’

  12 * Under Suspicion

  The next day was Friday. Black Friday, without a doubt, I thought, as I looked up from the complicated time-chart on which I was working and watched little Paul picking and, intermittently, chewing his nails.

  It was likely, moreover, to be followed by black Saturday and black Sunday (the festival parade, on account of its religious overtones, was being held that Sunday evening). The point being, it seemed to me, that there was no apparent limit to the extent to which things could deteriorate up to the moment of my arrest for Kitty’s murder and the short, disagreeable journey from the prison to the court. It would be Lewes Assizes, I supposed, with crowds of enraged women booing and hammering against the sides of the police Wolseley.

  Chambers—for such, it seemed, was the somehow rather ludicrous name of the sergeant who had interviewed me—had been less friendly and altogether more clinical and automative during the second phase at Westerlea police station.

  I had made my ‘statement’, stumblingly and with long contradictory passages of an illiteracy that seemed, as it was woodenly read back to me by a constable, hardly credible. Feeling like someone under the influence of a truth drug, I had signed it, and Chambers had said, as I got up to leave:

  ‘You’ll be remaining in the district, Mr. Crane, I presume?’

  ‘Yes; mmm.’

  ‘Good; then if we need any more help from you we know where to find you.’

  Like some small, feeble, vegetarian beast of the field that has been cornered I snapped:

  ‘I doubt very much whether there is any further help that I can give you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ he had said, and feigned preoccupation with the papers on his desk. The constable had shown me out.

  Now, that morning, I had set out on a very large piece of foolscap paper a number of names, and sentences, all of which seemed, if they did not end with, at any rate to demand, a question mark. At the head of the sheet I had put:

  Someone in the lounge?

  This did seem to me to be an important question. I distinctly recalled hearing someone moving about in the lounge on entering after my morning walk with Kitty. It was unlikely that this person could have had any active role in Kitty’s disappearance, although it was conceivable if he had left immediately afterwards. However, if I could establish his identity it would narrow the field of suspects. Not that ‘field’ didn’t seem rather too copious a word to cover the three names that were dotted about in a series of main-verbless phrases in front of me. These were:

  Mrs. Roydon. In garden?

  Mrs. Roydon. Evening walk?

  Mrs. Roydon. Look at hands. (A long diet of contemporary newsprint had conditioned me to accept the fact that Kitty had been strangled.)

  Mrs. Roydon. Evidence of mental unbalance in previous history. (This would be a tricky one to find out, wouldn’t it? But perhaps I could get Gevaert to wax confidential at some stage.)

  Then Pick: Pick, extent of current association with Kitty. Pick, opportunity. Pick, sly. Pick, evidence of former lecheries. (Here again I was going to be rather up against it in my investigations of local history. None the less, a snoop round the church might be rewarding. I might even turn up a spot of pornography stuffed under a cushion or at the back of a drawer in the vestry.)

  Finally, of course, there was Gevaert: Gevaert, MOTIVE (underline three times). Gevaert, shifty. Gevaert, strong. Above all there was Gevaert, Cumber?? I attached a great deal of importance to this last query. If I could establish beyond doubt that he had been there on that afternoon that was an important step forward, for his purpose must have been disreputable otherwise he would surely have responded to my greeting. Conversely, if he could put up a watertight alibi to cover this period and, even better, show himself to have been the occupant of the lounge on the morning of Kitty’s disappearance, then I could concentrate all my energies on investigating Mrs. Roydon.

  The big problem was how to break down the resistance of all these people and get some facts out of them. Perhaps if I softened them up with some knowing anonymous letters? And followed these up with one to Sergeant Chambers? The police always paid great attention to anonymous letters, didn’t they? However, a little unearthing of facts seemed to be indicated before I actually committed my opinions to print.

  ‘Paul,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Guiltily, he snapped out of his half-hour daze. ‘I was thinking, I was trying to puzzle this out.’ His whine rose in indignation. ‘This sentence seems sort of funny, I can’t understand——’

>   ‘No, it’s all right, don’t worry, I mean you’re doing all right. No, what I was going to say is what are they thinking about this Kitty business?’

  ‘Well, they don’t say much. At least they sort of shut up when I’m there.’

  ‘Your father’s had several talks with Sergeant Chambers, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh no, not really. They had a talk once, but he told Daddy that the police have a good idea about who it is.’

  There was a silence during which I could feel little Paul’s small dark eyes watching me eagerly. O.K., I thought, for a wild instant, if they think I’m a child-murderer how about this? I might throw myself at him, slavering, foam-flecked, gnarled hands outstretched. That’d teach them. Why didn’t I do just that thing? Answer: because I wasn’t a child-murderer. And why did they continue to allow me to remain alone for long periods with this unpleasant small boy? Meanness, of course, came into it, they were anxious to get their money’s worth before I was arrested. But also and very largely because they too realized that I wasn’t a child-murderer. The inexorable logic of this fortified me somewhat.

  ‘At least that’s what Daddy says,’ said Paul.

  ‘Ho hum,’ I went on, ‘and what’s your aunt’s attitude in all this?’

  ‘Auntie Fleur? She says she knows who it is, but she won’t tell anyone at the moment, just drops hints, sort of thing. But actually I heard her ringing up the policeman this morning and asking if she could see him again.’

  This item of news, arriving almost simultaneously with the appearance, in the street below, of Riddle-Brede, brought a return of my choking, walled-in feeling. The major, and magistrate, looking even more choleric than I had remembered, was walking slowly up Scattercrumb Street in the company of another black-uniformed person wearing the flat peaked cap and indeterminate number and style of shoulder pip that indicated a high rank (Inspector? Superintendent? Chief Constable?) in the police force. They were in earnest conversation. From time to time they would halt, and one of them would, it seemed, explain or emphasize something to the other, who in turn would nod his head sagely.

  When they came to a point opposite Pyedums they stopped again and Riddle-Brede pointed up at the house. As I ducked nervously out of sight, I caught the policeman’s eye, which in some nightmarish way seemed to be looking directly into my own. I remained immobile for some long seconds, gradually screwing up a faint deferential smile which he did not return or acknowledge in any other way.

  ‘Well, the period’s nearly over, Paulie,’ I said. I felt a desperate wave of claustrophobia rising over me. I had to get out, move about, think, breathe, drink iced water. ‘Nothing till dictée at four o’clock.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he replied. ‘We’re all going on this boat with Uncle Oliver, don’t you remember? And then there’s the rehearsal in the evening at Chandler’s Yard. It’s going to be super.’

  ‘How stupid of me, I forgot.’ It was true that Gevaert had made some announcement to this effect at breakfast. ‘Well, don’t forget I’m expecting some thing really hot stuff on the Corn Laws tomorrow morning.’

  It was jolly good of me, I thought, to be so conscientious about Paul’s education under all these terrible pressures. Far from helping me, attention to such minor details seemed only to emphasize the terrifying dreamlike character of the basic situation. As I paced about the lounge, the thought occurred to me—always a sign of ultimate desperation—that I might telephone my parents and put before them a sort of bromide-based version of things.

  But, anyway, they would have read about it in the papers by now, wouldn’t they? While avoiding, so far, the more obvious forms of innuendo, the dailies had contrived none the less to suggest most effectively an atmosphere of vice, blackmail, and lunacy forming the background to Kitty’s disappearance.

  ‘… of very good family.’

  ‘… lived alone with her mother.’

  ‘Mrs. du Chair was too distraught to speak about it.’

  ‘… Mrs. du Chair spoke to me today, as one mother to another.’

  ‘… never had any real boy-friends.’

  ‘… had many boy-friends.’

  ‘… shy, quiet-spoken.’

  ‘… friendly, vivacious.’

  They were all agreed on Kitty’s sexual attractions, however. The most usual picture was a pert, pig-tailed version with a strong delinquent glint, but the Sketch had scooped (presumably from some flame in the town) a full-length snap of Kitty in a bathing dress. Mrs. du Chair herself, looking suitably wan and tragic, stared bleakly into the middle distance from every ‘popular’ front page. Here, however, the Express had scored by showing a huge and ludicrously uncomplimentary photograph of her emerging from the doorway of her house in Scattercrumb Street in, apparently, a high wind. The upper half of her body was twisted round in indignant surprise, while her skirt was blowing fiercely against her thin legs. Her face, touched up, I suspected, to seem even whiter than it was, gave her the appearance of some crazy nun. ‘A mother in torment’ was the caption.

  I was standing in the centre of the room looking at this with a very faint smile on my face when Gevaert came into the room.

  ‘Aha, Mr. Crane,’ he said. (‘Mr.’, that was bad!) ‘You see that this tragic business is receiving the maximum of publicity.’

  I had been holding the newspaper inside out and in the course of folding it properly I began to make a great deal of noise. One of the loose centre pages fell out and on to the floor; a sub-headline caught my eye: ‘Kitty: Police question lorry-drivers.’

  ‘The Press seem to have got on to it very quickly,’ I said, peevishly.

  ‘Such is the pace of modern life,’ said Gevaert. ‘But see how this tragic business makes all our small problems here seem quite transitory.’

  ‘No, but I mean nothing’s really happened yet, after all, has it? Kitty may simply have run away; there’s no reason to suppose that she has come to any harm.’

  He looked at me in a rather peculiar way and opened his mouth, then, apparently changing his mind, he said: ‘Be that as it may, we here must continue with our trivial businesses. This evening there is to be a dress-rehearsal of the festival parade; we shan’t actually be parading in the streets, of course, but Pick wants as many of the participants’ (spitting badly here) ‘to come down to Chandler’s Yard where we shall see if the costumes are available, decide on the order of appearance and so forth.’

  I knew the phrase that he was going to use next, but it didn’t make it any less nasty when he said:

  ‘So I hope that you’ll be coming down also, Crane, to lend a hand if need be.’

  ‘What about the afternoon? You said something about our escorting Paul on this boat thing. …’

  ‘H’m, yes. I dare say that a few hours on the water would do none of us any harm. I gather that the—er—trainees are coming down by coach from London and rendezvous is at the landing-stage at Appledore. My veive’s brother and myself will be going over by car after lunch.’

  13 * An Afternoon on the Water

  The craft was called Warwick. She had seen better days. The crew, such as they were, had quarters amidships in a sort of fo’c’sle over the engine-room. Through the dirty glass of the wheelhouse a grizzled seafaring man looked upon us with a rheumy eye. He seemed neither to have the desire nor the ability to communicate more closely.

  Standing by the gangplank was Bannister. Like Ponsonby, he was wearing shorts, but in other respects his appearance was a complete contrast, being dirty and rumpled. ‘I thought you were never going to get here,’ he said. His eyes twinkled merrily in a creased, pucklike face.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Ponsonby. And, lowering his voice: ‘How’s it going? How are they?’

  ‘Oh, very good, really.’ Bannister sidestepped and motioned us across the gangplank. I had a feeling he was glad to be on dry land again. ‘They were a bit lively coming down in the coach, but I think they’ve quieted down now.’

  ‘Quiet’ was the kindest word, I felt. T
hose of the occupants who could be seen on deck were divided into two separate and mutually contemptuous groups. The Scouts were for’ard, the ‘children from less settled backgrounds’ aft. Among this latter group I could see one or two shapely nymphets in tight jeans. The boys were raffishly dressed; several of them sported socks that appeared to have been dyed with luminous paint.

  I looked at Gevaert. He had his eye on this group. ‘There does not seem to be much activity,’ he said. ‘Is there no curriculum vitae?’

  ‘Soon put that right.’ Ponsonby flounced along the gangplank. ‘Cast off, Bunny, there’s a dear, and heigh-ho for the rolling deep.’

  As I stepped aboard, a murmuring, indistinct but, it seemed, resentful, was audible from below decks.

  ‘How many—er—juveniles have we got with us?’

  Bannister had cast off, and the coil of rope which he threw landed at my feet. ‘About sixty,’ he said. He seemed almost to be chuckling. ‘See you tonight, then. Coaches here at six fifty-five.’

  Tonight! We had nearly five hours to go. ‘I thought you said it was an afternoon’s cruise?’

  Ponsonby didn’t hear me. ‘Full speed ahead!’ he screamed. He was hammering on the fo’c’sle glass. ‘Full speed ahead!’

  The Warwick slid out into the dark waters of the military canal, her single diesel thumping, to the accompaniment of a loud and derisive cheer from the juveniles. I got a feeling that I was not going to enjoy the voyage so much.

  Below decks the atmosphere was close. Many cigarettes had been, and were being, smoked. I was standing outside the ‘Saloon, first-class passengers only’, and a very big Scout indeed came through the door.

  ‘There’s some fair birds in there,’ he said.

  I thought he smelled of drink. But the boat was ‘dry’, surely?

  I pushed the door open again. There was a great deal of smoke in the room; a juke-box was playing; many young people were jiving, laughing, screaming.

  All these activities stopped within a few seconds of my entry. The youths, their pale faces shiny with sweat, glared at me with open hostility, the girls with that special brand of coquettish insolence which I always find disturbingly attractive. Only the music—it was ‘Wheels’, a tune I rather like—went on. If I had had a pair of six-shooters on my belt I could have strode across to the bar, if there was a bar, and ordered a shot of hard likker, if there was any hard likker.