Gently in the Past

by Alan Hunter

  ‘But he was there.’

  ‘All right, he was! But only to invite Fiona to go to the match with him. Since the Town have begun the season so well, Paul has decided he’s a fan.’

  ‘That would be mid-morning.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I don’t remember what time he left. He had to drive in, then get some lunch. I expect it was around eleven.’

  ‘As far as we know, your son was the only visitor at The Uplands before lunch on Saturday.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t give him any forged letters to deliver – and nor did Ray. You can depend on that.’

  ‘I still need his address.’

  She jerked her head away and stared out at the bright-lit scene. In her agitation the broadness in her speech had become more and more marked. A village girl who had married her boss? Her handsome features were still striking. She half-sat, half-lay on the sofa in a pose that was probably habitual.

  ‘All right; since you’ll find out anyway. He’s got a flat in Bancroft Road, 25E. It’s off the top of Unthank Road.’

  ‘Is there a phone number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Raymond Tallis copped back his drink. All the same he was looking pale, the beard-shadow prominent on his cheeks.

  ‘He had to have it, Ray.’

  Raymond Tallis shook his head: much of the starch seemed to have gone out of him. Almost you began to feel sorry for him, so unhappy did he look.

  ‘Listen, Superintendent ... you’ve got to know something.’ His eyes were puckering, as though in pain. ‘Paul ... he’s a good lad. But somehow we don’t get on together.’ He writhed his shoulders. ‘You must know how it is – a man of the world, with your experience. For all I know you’ve a son of your own, one you wouldn’t like questioned about his father! And Paul ... we don’t hit it off.’ He writhed again. ‘Because of Julie and I. He blames me, you understand? It’s natural enough, when you think about it.’

  ‘He perhaps blames you for his father’s death?’

  ‘No! Oh lord, I’m not saying that. But he could do ... It’s just that from the way he behaves, you’d think he hated me.’

  ‘Paul worshipped his father,’ Julia Tallis said. ‘What happened was a great shock. But I’m sure he doesn’t blame Ray for that. Simply he can’t accept him in Arthur’s place.’

  Raymond Tallis kneaded his glass. ‘He won’t talk to me,’ he said. ‘After the wedding he moved into the cottage. He doesn’t want to see or know I exist. He spent more time with Freddy than me.’

  ‘He’ll get over it, Ray,’ Julia Tallis said. ‘He’s in a foolish phase, but it’ll pass. He’s only nineteen. We must give him time. Perhaps we shouldn’t have married until the year was out.’

  ‘Just now Paul hates me.’

  ‘Give him time.’

  ‘You don’t know what he’ll say if he’s questioned.’

  ‘Ray, you can trust Paul.’

  Raymond Tallis shook his head. ‘Even before this ...’ He humped his shoulders.

  Then his shifty eyes met Gently’s.

  ‘You must be able to see how it is! Only give him a hint of what’s expected, and as likely as not he’ll play along. I’m not saying he’s bad, but he’s got it in for me and wouldn’t mind stirring up a bit of bother. As for what goes on inside his head ...’ His clutch on the glass tightened.

  Was the agitation genuine? That was just the problem – one would never be certain with Raymond Tallis! Automatically you distrusted him, looking for the man behind the act. His misfortune, it might be; but nothing he did seemed completely straightforward.

  ‘I’ll remember what you tell me.’

  ‘He could even be in league with young Quennell.’

  Gently stared. ‘Are they also close friends?’

  ‘I can see them ganging up on me now ...’

  ‘Paul isn’t a particular friend of Frank’s,’ Julia Tallis said smoothly. ‘He and Frank have different interests. Frank doesn’t sail, he plays golf ...’ She broke off. ‘Oh, look – there’s Fiona at the gate!’

  She sat up straight, and waved. Gently turned sharply to look down the sweep. Fiona Quennell was standing with her bicycle, staring up at the house and the windows of the room. The same blank face and dark eyes and motionless, stock-still posture: the gaze was piercing the dullness of the windows and fixed on the people seated within.

  ‘I’ll call her in.’

  Julia Tallis rose, but it was as though she had startled a nervous bird. At once Fiona Quennell jumped on the bicycle and began furiously to pedal away.

  ‘Oh, dear ... that poor girl.’

  Julia Tallis stood watching her out of sight.

  ‘I’m so sorry for her. And there’s nothing one can do. Ruth is the only person she’ll let near her.’

  ‘I’m told it was seeing the letter that disturbed her.’

  ‘Yes, the sight of her mother’s handwriting.’

  ‘Couldn’t it perhaps have been the letter’s contents?’

  After a moment, Julia Tallis said: ‘I haven’t seen the letter.’

  Raymond Tallis was pouring another drink. No doubt about it, his face was pale. There didn’t seem very much left to say. Gently set down his glass, and they went.

  SIX

  ‘SO WHAT DO we make of all that, sir?’

  A few minutes later they were back at The Gull, where as yet the parking was empty and the outside tables deserted. The sun had lost itself behind the village, escaping only here and there between long shadows; but still it lit the marram dunes and yellowed the sea visible between them. From the green, a line of visitors’ cars had departed: it was a moment when the village seemed to pause.

  Gently sighed – what could one make of it? The essence of the business remained unchanged. As with Reymerston, so with Tallis: you were faced with a question of credibility. In the absence of evidence, it went without saying – a scrap relating to either could change the whole picture. But as it stood you were left conjuring with motive and opportunity, and trying to convince yourself that one or other of them ...

  Mechanically he filled his pipe and puffed smoke through the open car-window. You could perhaps believe it of Tallis, if the pressure building up on him had been enough! Suppose something comic about the yachting tragedy – now, of course, beyond eliciting – and Quennell had a powerful lever to bend Tallis to his will. Managing control of the firm he’d got; a majority share-holding he might want; and what else was there? Could it have been the woman who draped herself so winningly on the sofa? He took quick puffs. No doubt about one thing: Julia Tallis had a glad eye. Though married to the boss, she’d carried on with his brother, and probably it hadn’t stopped there. And Tallis, the fool, was infatuated with her, that was pretty obvious too: and if she had flashed a green light, and Quennell had responded, might that not have pushed Tallis over the edge? If, if! Yet from nowhere he was remembering a delicate hesitation of Reymerston’s – he knew, he’d said, a woman who might write such letters as that found on Quennell, but had declined to go further. Julia Tallis. You couldn’t have invented a style that might suit her better ...

  ‘Sir, you nailed his alibi to the wall.’

  But that was going to be the least of the problems.

  ‘And he was properly scared when you mentioned his nephew. I reckon that youngster has got something on him.’

  ‘About the letter?’

  ‘What else, sir?’

  Gently drew and exhaled a long blast. ‘Can you see Paul Tallis willingly involved in a plot against Frederick Quennell?’

  ‘They might have kidded him along about it, sir.’

  ‘So why is he silent now?’

  ‘His mother might be implicated.’

  ‘Mrs Quennell is a suspect. At least you’d think he would drop a hint.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, sir,’ Eyke put on his stubborn look. ‘Young Tallis was the only visitor that morning. It was after he was there that Quennell got the letter, and I’ll swear that Miss
Fiona had a hand in it.’

  ‘She too in a plot against her father?’

  ‘It’s obvious she didn’t know what was in it, sir. That’s why she went off the rails later.’

  ‘And still not a whisper from Paul Tallis.’

  But the fact was that, like it or not, they couldn’t tie the letter to Paul Tallis. It could well have been introduced at The Uplands at a time prior to Saturday morning. More likely it had passed directly to Fiona Quennell, if she it was who had worked the plant, in one of the visits she was quoted as making so frequently to Caxton Lodge. There was evidence of recent contact between her and Julia Tallis in the shopping trip they had arranged: what more likely occasion to prime her in some way, and provide the letter? Yet ... how was she primed? What clever lie could possibly have achieved her innocent compliance?

  Whoever forged or provided the letter, you stubbed your toe against that.

  Eyke, who must have been thinking along the same lines, said: ‘Sir, you keep coming back to Mrs Quennell. If Miss Fiona didn’t pass the letter, then my guess is she saw her mother pass it.’

  Yes: but where did that lead them?

  ‘Are you suggesting a conspiracy between Mrs Quennell and the Tallises?’

  ‘It would have suited her book, sir. You don’t fancy Reymerston, and there’s nobody else in the picture.’

  Gently smoked hard – a logical angle! It took care of the difficulty about Fiona Quennell: on the one side her mother, seeking her freedom, on the other Raymond Tallis his delivery from Quennell. No doubt Ruth Quennell had guessed his predicament, while he was well aware of hers: then one day it had occurred to them that the same solution met both their problems. So they had plotted ... this? Once again, the impalpable question of credibility! Where Tallis was involved, wouldn’t you rather be looking for one of those accidents at sea ...?

  ‘This evening I’ll talk to young Tallis.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Would you like me to advise Norwich?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Just a quiet talk. The less we show our hands the better.’

  Eyke pondered glumly for a moment. ‘What we need now is a break, sir.’

  ‘Paul Tallis may be it,’ Gently said.

  From Eyke’s face, you could rarely tell what he was thinking.

  As ‘Mr Scott’ – his favourite alias – Gently had booked into The Gull at lunchtime; and now, after a wash, he ordered himself an early meal. He requested a copy of the local paper and glanced over the sports page while he ate. Then, as the dining-room began to fill up, he went out again to his car.

  By now it was fully dark, though a big red moon rode on his left. To Norwich was an hour’s drive through a swelling country of field and plantation. One scarcely touched on a village after passing through the narrow streets of Stansgate, and traffic was scarce, though the road was a link with the seaside town of Lothing. At last, from the brow of a rise, he could see the glittering spread of the city, and soon he was coasting down a descent into an outlying suburb village.

  Norwich was familiar; by the inner link road he reached the Chapelfield and Earlham roundabouts, then, cruising along Unthank Road, found the turn-off to Bancroft Road. He drove down to it: it was a short road serving as a link to three cul-de-sac streets. Number 25 was a large detached house facing a gap where steps descended. Cars, many dilapidated, lined the pavements, and lights showed in most windows: flats and bed-sitters. At nearby Earlham lay the concrete sprawl of the University.

  With some difficulty Gently found parking in the gap by the steps, then he crossed the road to the porch and double doors of 25. He went in. Bicycles were crowded in a red-and-white tiled hall, notices were sellotaped to doors, stairs ascended a narrow stairwell. He climbed the stairs to a lumber-stacked landing, found a notice pointing to more stairs; and came finally to a narrow landing lit by a single, unshaded bulb.

  ‘Yes – you wanted me?’

  At an open door a young man had been watching him climb the stairs. Light from the room aureoled his tousled blond hair and silhouetted a slim but strong-boned build.

  ‘Are you Paul Tallis?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Your mother gave me your address.’

  ‘My mother! Is it to do with—?’

  ‘Let’s go inside where we can talk.’

  The young man fell back, and Gently entered a room cluttered with a desk, books and hi-fi equipment; not very large, it had slanted ceilings to a dormer with two small windows. Curtains were undrawn. One looked out on the steps and a glimpse of street below them, then beyond to a wide suburban panorama in which mingled the darkness of trees.

  ‘At least you have a view, up here ...’

  ‘I know about that. But who are you?’

  ‘Me? Just a copper tying up some loose ends.’

  ‘Oh – you’re a policeman.’

  ‘Do shut the door.’

  Why did he suddenly feel so complaisant, like a member of the family come on a visit? Pure sentimentality, perhaps, the sight of this young man’s first steps in independence! The desk in the dormer, the books, the litter, the one chair, picked up at a second-hand dealer’s . . . and somewhere else, no doubt, would be an iron bedstead, with a sleeping-bag and clothes strewn about just anywhere ...

  Taking the one chair, he couldn’t help asking:

  ‘Are you settling in all right?’

  Paul Tallis was staring at him uncertainly. The hair, the blue eyes obviously came from his mother, and from his father the smallish, high-cheek-boned features.

  ‘Look – has anything happened? I mean, if mother sent you—’

  ‘She merely gave me your address.’

  ‘Then ... is it Fiona?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Find somewhere to sit. I just want to talk.’

  ‘But what’s it about!’

  ‘Nothing to get alarmed over. There’s always routine to clear up in matters like this.’

  Paul Tallis stood staring for another moment, then cleared a corner of the desk and sat. He was dressed in a denim jacket and slacks and a shirt wide open at the neck. About him there was a healthy, fresh-air appearance; he moved with a coltish sort of grace. Now, sitting aslant on a corner of the desk, he produced a shy smile.

  ‘All right, then! But who are you?’

  Gently told him who he was.

  ‘My goodness. When you’re an important man, they pull out the stops, don’t they?’

  Gently grinned. ‘You liked Mr Quennell?’

  ‘Yes, I think you can say that. He was Uncle Fred, you know. There’s no relationship, but we’ve always carried on as though there were. It was a bit difficult.’ He glanced timidly at Gently. ‘But I expect you know the ins and outs! I had to try to play the friendly neutral, because I’ve always been fond of Auntie Ruth too.’

  ‘It couldn’t always have been easy.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I suppose it seemed natural to a man like him, and in a way you could sympathize with him. He was a boss-man, a real tycoon. Perhaps Auntie didn’t go in for enough charisma.’

  ‘His daughter couldn’t have approved much, either.’

  ‘Fiona. No.’ Paul Tallis dropped his eyes. Then they jumped back quickly to Gently’s. ‘Fiona is all right, is she?’

  ‘She is still disturbed.’

  His eyes were intense. ‘She wouldn’t let me near her, yesterday.’

  ‘Did you try to talk to her?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But she simply ran out of the room.’ His eyes were penetrating. ‘She’ll be all right, will she?’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ Gently shrugged.

  Paul Tallis hung his head. ‘I expect they’ll have told you about us.’

  ‘I’m told you grew up together.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Paul Tallis said bitterly. ‘She’s like the sister I didn’t have – you knew mother had a daughter too, did you? She would have been the same age as Fiona. Fiona’s more my sister than she’s ever been Frank’s. I shall marry her, of course
. There’s no one else. But now this frightful thing has happened.’ He jerked up suddenly. ‘Have you talked to her?’

  ‘To her mother and brother,’ Gently said.

  ‘But not to her?’

  ‘Not yet to her.’

  His head sank again. ‘Perhaps she’ll never get over it.’

  Below a car passed, and there was sound of more distant traffic; yet the room had an odd silence, tucked up in the roof of that Victorian house. A high room in a high house, it gave a feeling of being suspended in the night.

  ‘I believe she has had nervous trouble before.’

  ‘Yes. At the time when my father was drowned.’

  He said it in a flat voice, his eyes on the naked boards of the floor.

  ‘She was fond of your father.’

  ‘Yes. Father treated her like a daughter too. She belonged to us. But that time she wasn’t as bad as she is now.’

  ‘His death was a shock.’

  ‘She’s never quite got over it.’

  ‘To you too.’

  Paul Tallis said nothing.

  ‘And of course your mother.’

  After a moment, he gave a deep sigh. ‘You’ve spoken to her, you say. That means you know all the background! Well, don’t think I blame her for a moment. I’m very fond of my mother. She was upset, yes, but perhaps what she did was the best thing for her. She needed someone, and she’s got someone. And that’s all there is to it, for me.’

  ‘You feel no resentment.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Yet I’m told that, after the wedding, you moved into the cottage.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He kept gazing at the floor. ‘It seemed a good thing to do at the time. They’d like to have the house on their own, wouldn’t they, and perhaps I felt I’d like to be alone too. Anyway, the cottage is mine – or will be when I’m twenty-one.’

  ‘Were you at the wedding?’

  His shoulder twitched. ‘In a way, you could say I wasn’t invited. It happened on a weekday during term, when I was stuck with an exam. But it was just a registry-office affair. Only Uncle Fred was present. Then they spent a week in Torquay.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Really, it didn’t change anything very much.’