by Alan Hunter
‘What did you talk to her about?’
‘I told you. I wanted her to come to the football.’
‘That took half an hour?’
‘Well ... this and that! I thought perhaps I could have persuaded her to come.’
‘But wouldn’t you have known she had made other arrangements?’
‘Look, I wasn’t talking to her about the letter. Of course I knew of her arrangement with mother, they fixed it up during the week.’
‘When during the week?’
‘What ...? Thursday, probably, when I was taking a load of stuff to the flat. Mother told me Fiona had been here. I expect it was fixed up then.’
‘Yet still you tried to persuade her to go to the football?’
‘Yes! Look, Fiona often changed her mind. As like as not she would have opted out of that trip. At least, it was worth a try.’
‘And you spent half an hour trying to talk her round.’
‘Oh, hell, hell!’ Paul Tallis beat the pockets against his thighs. ‘So you don’t believe me, do you? Well, I can’t help it. That’s how it was, and that’s all I can tell you.’
‘You could have taken the letter.’
‘I could, but I didn’t.’
‘It probably originated here.’
‘That’s utter rot!’
‘If there were evidence ...?’
‘What evidence could there be?’
Shrugging, Gently said nothing.
‘You’re trying to trap me again,’ Paul Tallis said. ‘You think I know something and I’ll let it out, just as I did at the flat. But I won’t, because I don’t know anything. Not about the letter or anything else. And if I did I wouldn’t cover for anyone ... not after what happened to Uncle Freddy.’
‘Nothing about anything,’ Gently said.
‘Nothing. So stop getting at me.’
After a pause, Gently said: ‘Would you remember your grandfather, Walter Tallis?’
‘My grandfather ...’
For some moments Paul Tallis had stood silent, the hands in his pockets still, shoulders slightly humped. Then he had turned to face Gently with puzzled but cautious eyes.
‘What’s he got to do with this?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Of course I knew him! Naturally, not very well, because he died when I was about four.’
‘Do you remember him dressing up?’
‘Dressing up ...?’
‘Didn’t he have a suit of Lincoln green?’
‘A suit ...?’
‘Like Robin Hood. Complete with an old-fashioned leather quiver.’
Paul Tallis was staring in a frozen sort of way, his neat features set in a half-scowl. He was swaying slightly. He looked round for a chair and dropped into it, rubber-kneed. His voice sounded hoarse.
‘What are you getting at now?’
‘And your father. Didn’t he dress up too?’
‘I don’t understand ...’
‘And your Uncle Raymond. Or perhaps he didn’t bother with dressing up?’
Paul Tallis’s small mouth hung open; he tried to wet his lips with a dry tongue. His eyes clung to Gently’s, huge, like the fearful eyes of a small child.
‘You know ... don’t you?’
‘What do I know?’
‘Uncle Raymond ... you think ...’
‘What about your uncle?’
Paul Tallis swallowed lumpily. He made a great effort to pull himself together.
‘Look, you must tell me how Uncle Freddy died!’
‘He died from a wound in his back.’
‘Yes, but that’s the point, isn’t it? You let me believe he was stabbed with a knife.’
‘I didn’t mention a knife.’
‘But you let me believe ...’ He swayed in the chair. ‘This isn’t playing fair, you know. You’re trying to get me to say something damning, and after all he is my uncle ... and mother’s husband.’
‘Do you remember him using a bow?’
Paul Tallis nodded weakly. ‘When I was young.’
‘And since?’
‘No. No!’
‘But you’ve seen him with one?’
‘I didn’t see anything!’ He made an awkward gesture. ‘You’ve got to understand ... all that was over years ago. When I was a kid they all used to shoot, grandad, father, even mother. They set up a target down in the orchard ... the target is still around, somewhere. Father made me hold a bow with him, but of course I wasn’t strong enough to pull the string. But mother could manage it. Then grandad died, and they didn’t shoot any more after that. It was all a long time ago. And that’s as much as I can tell you.’
‘What happened to the equipment?’
‘There’s the target. I think it’s up in the garage loft.’
‘The bows? The arrows?’
He shook his head. ‘Perhaps they were turned out, or given away.’
‘If the target was kept, wouldn’t they have been?’
He went on shaking his head. ‘I know about the target because once I used it for darts. But I don’t remember any bows or arrows.’
Gently stared at him. He tried to shape a smile. The hapless eyes wouldn’t join in. Yet he couldn’t drag his eyes away: he sat like an idiot, his mouth twisting.
‘How long since you did a job on your car?’
‘My ... car?’
‘Wasn’t it one day last week?’
‘Yes, actually! Points and plugs ... and I checked the timing while I was at it.’
‘Which day?’
‘Well ... Wednesday evening.’
‘In the garage?’
He could only nod.
‘You were using a file?’
‘No, of course not. Just some fine emery ... the points were pitted.’
‘Who else was in there?’
‘Nobody – just me!’
‘Someone at the vice. Using a file.’
He was trembling. ‘No – nothing like that! In fact the others ... they may have been out.’
‘Filing brass.’
‘Oh lord, no! If Uncle Ray had been there, I’d have cleared out.’
‘Instead of which, it was him who cleared out.’
‘I tell you no. I didn’t see Uncle Ray.’
His condition was pitiful. His lips kept trying to smile while his eyes were trapped in a ghastly stare. His wandering hands were ashake, searching, feeling for something not there. It was Gently who broke off the painful séance by going to the window to glare at the reporter. The latter winced, turned away and seemed to find a sudden interest in the harbour.
‘What else did you see?’
‘Nothing!’
‘At precisely what time did you get to Ipswich?’
‘I – I ... it was around lunchtime.’
‘It could have been later. Say after three.’
‘But that’s not true.’
‘It could have been true. Your uncle was up to something suspicious. You thought you’d hang around a little, to see if you could spot what his game was.’
‘But I tell you, I didn’t!’
‘There was this business of the letter. Surely that would have made you curious.’
‘Listen, the letter—’
‘I know. You didn’t take it! And Miss Quennell can’t tell us a different story.’ Gently rounded from the window. ‘When we know so much, what’s the point of your lying your head off? Better get it over! You’ve made your gesture, and now it’s time to think about your own skin.’
‘My own skin ...?’
‘If you’ve guilty knowledge we can pull you in as an accessory.’
‘But – but I would never have helped Uncle Ray.’
‘One day, Miss Quennell is going to open her mouth.’
Just then it was he who opened his mouth, as though giving vent to a silent cry. Then, childlike, he hid his face with his arm; trying to crouch away from Gently.
‘Oh God ... I wish my father were alive!’
He se
emed more like twelve than nineteen.
‘It’s unfair ... so unfair ...!’
You could imagine him in shorts and a round cap with a badge.
And all this while Tallis had never moved from the window of the lounge across the way: humpty-shouldered, face blurred, eyes riveted to the cottage.
‘You don’t believe anything, do you? It’s only what you want to hear! I could tell you all sorts of lies and you’d accept them, if they fitted in ... But the truth, what’s that to you? Only, of course, you’ll get there in the end! But why should it be me ...? It simply isn’t fair. Why can’t you let everything alone?’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘When father died, who bothered then? Yet it might have been murder, you don’t know.’ He gulped. ‘They never found his body.’
‘That was different.’
‘He died, didn’t he? And only two people to say how. But that was all tea and sympathy, while now even Aunty Ruth ...’
‘Mr Quennell’s murderer must be punished.’
‘Oh, of course – it should never have happened! But it’s so unfair ... And everybody’s involved. And I don’t see why it has to be me ...’
‘Are you going to talk to me?’
‘No!’
‘Perhaps you’d better think about that.’
‘I’ve told you everything, all I’m going to ... I only came here to see mother.’
‘You’re in a tricky situation.’
‘I want to see mother! If you’re so certain ... why don’t you take him away?’
He jumped up and went to the window to stare back at Raymond Tallis: for the first time the printer’s figure wavered, seemed to move back a little into the room.
‘It’s like a Greek tragedy ...’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know! Any one. All those people down at the gate ... they’re like the chorus, aren’t they?’
By now perhaps thirty gapers had collected and were standing about in watchful groups. The reporters, too, had begun to filter back, probably having twigged that they’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. A couple more were sauntering up along the wall, beside which a footpath ran to the ferry. One was a cameraman: he took a speculative shot of the cottage and the Mini.
‘All waiting for something to happen ... but all they’ll see is cars leaving.’
‘Won’t that be tragedy enough for someone?’
‘For him, perhaps. And mother.’
‘But not for you?’
Paul Tallis was silent, staring at the crowd, which continued to grow. Eyke had sent a man down the drive; he stood looking self-conscious, a few yards inside the gate. A few late visitors, parking for the beach, lingered curious by their cars. The fishermen, standing apart, were smoking and chaffing each other.
‘For tragedy, it needs something more ...’
Perhaps you could forgive him, being so young.
‘Uncle Ray doesn’t seem up to the part ...’
In his young voice was a touch of scorn.
Eyke entered. He was carrying something; he glanced at Gently, then at Paul Tallis. Shrugging, Gently came down the room and went with Eyke into the hall.
‘Dabs ...?’
‘Afraid not, sir. Just a few blurred smears. But we’ve photographed the impression, and Hopwood came up with these.’
From an envelope he jigged two small objects on to the cottage dining-table. One was a fragment of curled cinder with scorched feather-web adhering to it. The other, though discoloured by fire, was clearly a tip from one of the arrows. But it was pointed; and rubbing a finger over it, you felt the rough surface left by a file.
‘Nothing from the bow ...?’
It’d be all wood, sir. Reckon he broke it up like he said. But these’ll nail him.’
‘Better collect the ash and see what the lab can make of it.’ He paused, then called: ‘Mr Tallis!’
Paul Tallis came out of the lounge. Gently pointed to the two objects. Paul Tallis stared at them, his eyes frightened.
‘Do they mean anything to you?’
‘No – why should they?’
‘They are remnants of an arrow.’
‘An arrow ...’ His stare was fascinated. ‘Oh lord – the incinerator ...’
‘What about the incinerator?’
‘Nothing!’
‘When did you last visit it?’
‘I tell you it’s nothing. On Saturday evening I was clearing out old papers and took them down there to burn.’
‘Who did you see?’
‘Nobody. Just that the fire was still smouldering ...’
‘Do you have a gardener here on Saturdays?’
Fearfully, Paul Tallis shook his head.
Eyke gazed at the young man with a sort of gruesome benevolence. ‘Looks like a full hand, sir ...’ he muttered to Gently.
Desperately, Paul Tallis exclaimed: ‘But it needn’t mean anything! Everybody uses the incinerator – it could have been Mrs Potter.’
‘She’s the domestic,’ Eyke said. ‘Now you know she leaves early on Saturdays, Mr Paul.’
‘But it could have been anyone ... mother ...’
‘Just leave it with us, Mr Paul.’
Complacently, Eyke stroked the two objects back into the envelope, on which identification had already been written. Paul Tallis looked on with a helpless expression. His hands crept back into the blazer pockets.
‘This is really the end for him, isn’t it ...?’
Gently said: ‘We shall need a statement from you.’
‘Yes, of course ... I understand ...’
‘For the moment I want you to stay around – and a word to the wise! Keep away from reporters. You may think I’ve been tough, but those fellows down there will eat you alive.’
‘Yes ... may I talk to mother?’
Gently shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘I only thought ...’
Hunching, he drove his hands deeper into the pockets.
They went out of the cottage. At once faces turned in their direction. The reporters were back in force, silently watching, ready to pounce. Raymond Tallis’s face was still at the window, beside it now the paler smudge of Julia Tallis. Down at the gate the solitary DC looked a lonely figure as he faced the crowd.
‘Better get some uniform men out here.’
‘They’re on their way, sir. I’ve just called in.’
‘What’s at the Quennells’?’
‘I’ve kept a man there.’
‘I want that private road sealed off.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Eyke nodded to the window. ‘Are we going to have them in?’
‘Not quite yet.’
Eyke’s grey eyes questioned.
‘Fiona Quennell makes the nap hand.’
TEN
THE SKY, WHICH earlier had been so brilliant, now was clouding over from the south-west, and a puffy breeze was ruffling the poplars that lined the private road leading to The Uplands. By luck they had intercepted the minibus bringing in the contingent of uniform men, and Eyke had posted two constables with a row of cones to bar the road to the trailing reporters.
At the gate of The Uplands a DC waved them down.
‘Sir, Mr Reymerston is at the house. I didn’t know whether I should let him by, but Mrs Quennell made a special point of it.’
‘How long has he been here?’
‘Half an hour, sir.’
‘Has Miss Quennell come by?’
‘She went out on her bike at half nine, sir, but I haven’t seen her come back.’
‘What about Frank Quennell?’
‘As far as I know he’s at home, sir.’
They drove on in. Beside Ruth Quennell’s Mini stood Reymerston’s blue Renault; and there was also a woman’s bicycle, leaning against the garage wall.
‘Reckon she’s about here, sir,’ Eyke said. ‘Perhaps we should send a man round the back.’
After a moment, Gently shook his head. ‘Either she’s ready to
talk, or she isn’t.’
At the door they were met by Frank Quennell. The young man stood blocking their entry.
‘Look – you’ve got to give us better protection! The press were swarming here yesterday afternoon ...’
‘You won’t be troubled by them again.’
‘But it’s getting so that mother daren’t go out. And the phone never stops ringing ... we’ve had to leave it off the hook ...’
‘Is your sister in, Mr Quennell?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ A gleam came into his eye. ‘So it wasn’t such foolishness after all, was it, having a go at Uncle Raymond! I’m not just a pretty face, you know. I had this business weighed up from the start. Since Saturday he’s been slinking about like a thief, not daring to look me in the eye ...’
‘Mr Quennell—’
‘It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? You just had to ask who stood to gain most. And all you could think about was mother, because she happened to have a friend. Well, who’s looking foolish now? Perhaps another time you’ll give a little credit ...’
Gently stared at the burly young man, whose full cheeks were certainly destined to give rise to jowls.
‘Talking of people who stand to gain! Aren’t you one of those yourself, Mr Quennell?’
‘I – what?’
‘You were your father’s assistant, and I don’t hear of any other active directors. If Mr Tallis should be removed your prospects would appear to be better than good.’
Frank Quennell’s eyes popped. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’
‘It is in your interest to have suspicion fall on Mr Tallis.’
‘Listen, just because it so happens—’
‘I wish to speak to your mother, Mr Quennell.’
Looking shaken, Frank Quennell fell back and permitted Gently and Eyke to enter the hall. Gently knocked at the door of the lounge; it was opened by Reymerston. Ruth Quennell was the only other occupant.
Today the flowers in the grate were Michaelmas daisies and the odour of the room that of Reymerston’s Scotch mixture. Pipe in mouth, he greeted Gently with one of his slow, sardonic smiles. Ruth Quennell sat by the hearth; she was wearing a dark costume, a semi-mourning. She gazed up at Gently as he entered, her eyes full of question.
‘Is it true then ... about Ray?’
‘He is helping our enquiries, Mrs Quennell.’