Landed Gently csg-4

by Alan Hunter

  The room had warmed up, and Gently had left the hearth for a seat by the deep, stone-framed window.

  ‘State of mind…’ Brass swung round to him, a return of last night’s cynicism in his lively eyes. ‘Well, he was in a bad state of shock, of course. There isn’t much toughness about his lordship. He was as white as a sheet and as quiet as a dolmen. He showed me the bash, asked me if I knew anything, and then left me on guard while he ghosted off to tinkle you blokes.’

  ‘Would you say that his lordship was very fond of the deceased?’

  Brass gave a little chuckle. ‘He wasn’t one of his ames intimes, if you know what I mean. But he was fond enough of him, just as we all were. Being American had something to do with it.’

  ‘How do you mean, Mr Brass?’

  ‘Why, his lordship is one of those types who find something mystical in the idea of America — it’s a symbol, you understand; it stands for spiritual youth and virility. Over here we’re bankrupt and done for. We’ve been at it too long; we’re suffering from hardened arteries. I daresay his lordship could feel the same way about Russia if his politics didn’t prevent it.’

  ‘Feller always had queer ideas,’ grumbled Sir Daynes, still guarding the hearth. ‘Turned Liberal when he was a young fool at Oxford — upset his father, I can tell you. Never been a Whig in the family since George the First.’

  ‘And you think Earle’s being American inclined his lordship to favour him?’ Gently persisted.

  ‘Certain of it.’ Brass waved his hand.

  ‘It would not have been held against him, for instance, if he had been making overtures to his lordship’s cousin?’

  ‘Janice?’ Brass’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the young heathen was making up to her?’

  ‘It did occur to me, Mr Brass.’

  The artist guffawed his amusement. ‘Good Lord, what impressions people get. You don’t know your young American, Inspector. You don’t know Janice, either. Our little sex-delinquent exercised his charm on every frail, broad and doll who came within yards of him — including the housekeeper, who is no Ninon. You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Inspector.’

  Gently shrugged. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘En tout cas, he wouldn’t have got any change out of Janice. She’s still carrying Des Page’s torch. She’s a Feverell too, you know — they take things to heart in that family. You can take my word for it that Janice P. is man-proof.’

  Gently nodded indefinitely. ‘But supposing his lordship had formed a certain impression… his reactions would have been favourable?’

  ‘On the surface, anyway, I don’t see why not.’

  ‘But under the surface, Mr Brass?’

  The artist made a wry face. ‘Christ knows what goes on under the sixth lord’s surface! I don’t know, and I’m not going to be led into hazarding guesses. I’m eating his salt, anyway. It doesn’t become me to tell tales out of school.’

  ‘This is homicide, you know…’

  ‘That’s why it’s dangerous to gossip.’

  ‘Anything pertinent is not gossip.’

  ‘Let’s say I’ve got nothing pertinent, and call it a day.’

  Gently shrugged again and turned to peer out at the advancing twilight. Sir Daynes made some noises that to the knowledgeable betokened dissatisfaction.

  ‘You’re not holding anything back, eh… mistaken sense of loyalty and that?’

  ‘Damnation no! Didn’t I tell you at the beginning of this session that I’d got nothing for you?’

  ‘Just want to be sure, man… understand a thing like that.’

  Brass departed as indeflatable as he had come, and Sir Daynes, wrenching himself from the matured and beautiful fire, joined Gently at the window. For a moment he stood there in silence, contemplating the dreary prospect, then he flashed a glance at the Central Office man that was the reverse of friendly.

  ‘Confound it, Gently… lay off Somerhayes,’ he mumbled, sotto voce. ‘I can see what you’re getting at… man and his pretty cousin. But it won’t do, I tell you, and what’s more I don’t like it. Things look black enough now for the poor feller… and I’m damn certain he’s in the clear.’

  Gently hunched himself deeper in the ulster, which he hadn’t taken off.

  ‘I’m not getting at anything… I’m just following the ball,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I don’t like the way it’s rolling.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do, either. But one thing is certain enough, if you follow it to the end… you’ll come to a point where a murderer’s bludgeon struck an innocent head.’

  Sir Daynes snorted. ‘There’s another thing certain. I ought to blasted well order you back to the Manor to keep Gwen company! Hrmp, hrmp. I suppose it’s Mrs Page you want to see in here next?’

  An interesting tray had been brought in soon after Brass was dismissed. It bore several bottles of varying silhouettes, a selection of glasses and some slices of iced cake reposing on a napkinned salver. This caused some awkwardness for Inspector Dyson, who had a strong sense of duty; but a proper ruling from Sir Daynes quickly relieved the situation, and soon two constables, one inspector, one chief inspector and a chief constable were fortifying themselves against the season and making good any gaps that might have appeared since lunch-time. Within bounds, it was a festive scene. The glamour was extended when permission was given to smoke, and Sir Daynes distributed the high-calibre contents of his cigar-case. One did not often see five policemen, two of them in uniform, puffing Havanas while they solemnly partook of vintage port and mellowed liqueurs, and some surprise was to be looked for in the face of Mrs Page when she appeared through the door. Sir Daynes hurried over to her and put a fatherly arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, m’dear, don’t be alarmed. Only keep you a few minutes, y’know… Somerhayes just sent in a snifter to keep our spirits up.’

  Mrs Page smiled, but it seemed to Gently that it required an effort. There wasn’t much colour in her transparent cheeks, and about her eyes, so like and yet so unlike her cousin’s, ran the suspicion of two dark circles. She sat down boldly enough, however, and Dyson, hurriedly getting rid of his cigar, was put a little out of countenance.

  ‘Like some sherry, m’dear… cherry brandy, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you, Sir Daynes. We have been drinking in the lounge.’

  ‘Bad business, eh? Bad business! Impossible to imagine who’d want to do any harm to a likeable young feller like that.’

  Mrs Page bit her beautiful lips, and for a moment it looked as though she would burst into tears. The moment passed; she sat very upright. Sir Daynes, pulling up a chair, placed himself deliberately between her and Gently.

  ‘Now just give the inspector your full name and age and address, m’dear… that’s the ticket. Be twenty-nine for some years yet, eh? Now all you have to do is to tell us what you know about the feller, and anything you can remember about what happened after he came here…’

  From the way she spoke it sounded as though she had been rehearsing it. For all she could do, it would come out in little rushes of pre-composed phrasing. And the tenor of it was exactly what they had heard before. With minor variations, it was the identical account given by Somerhayes and Brass. The artist had talked scoffingly of him the day after the lecture had been delivered. On the weekend following, driving a rattle-trap Buick he had borrowed from a friend, Earle had parked on the Place terrace and manfully rung the front-door bell. He had made mixed impressions. The tapissiers were an absorbed and conservative little community, and Earle, though he had charm, had very little tact. But his enthusiasm was genuine enough, and so, too, was his talent, and after another visit or two the tapissiers had taken him to their hearts. Somerhayes had shown a liking for him from the outset.

  ‘Must interrupt, m’dear, but what about a feller called Hugh Johnson…? What was his attitude to Earle?’

  ‘Johnson?’ Mrs Page hesitated awkwardly. ‘Well, he migh
t have been the exception, I suppose. He’s a Welshman, you know… very clever and all that, but rather… well, introspective, I suppose you’d call it. He’s apt to sulk a bit.’

  ‘Nurse a grudge, would he?’

  ‘I don’t think he would forget one in a hurry.’

  ‘Sort of feller who might turn nasty?’

  ‘I… wouldn’t like to say that. He’s quick, of course, soon fires up and all that… and sullen — that’s the word for it. He broods over things for days. But he can be a dear, too, when he likes.’

  ‘Hah. And he took against Earle?’

  ‘He was a little surly towards him. He felt that Earle had displaced him with Brass. To a certain extent that was true.’

  ‘Complained about it, did he?’

  ‘Oh no, Hugh was much too proud to complain. But he had some things to say about Americans being all talk, and cutting things like that. And he used to snub Earle unmercifully, which was a sheer waste of time… Earle being…’

  Mrs Page broke off, and from the sinking movement of her head as well as the sudden rise in her voice, Gently judged that she was again struggling on the verge of tears.

  ‘There, there,’ mumbled Sir Daynes. ‘Shocking affair, m’dear, shocking. Take your time. Got all day. Dyson, stub that confounded cigar-butt… Smoke’s getting in the lady’s eyes.’

  The head rose again, and after a pause Mrs Page was ready to go on. Once more the short-hand constable’s pencil commenced whisking down the page. They had been very much looking forward to having Earle with them at Christmas. At first there was some doubt as to whether he could get leave, but the easing of the current political tension had enabled the Sculton CO to grant one or two passes, Earle’s amongst them. He had long planned his day of Christmas shopping in London. He had wanted Mrs Page to accompany him, but she had been prevented from doing so by the necessity of clearing up the business-end of the workshop before the Christmas break.

  On the morning after his arrival he had been at his most exuberant; he had dominated the breakfast-table with his account of his visit to London, and directly afterwards had dragged Les and herself away to the workshop to help him set up the loom for his famous cartoon. After lunch he had wanted to stretch his limbs and look at the park. She had consented to walk with him as far as the folly, from which there was a striking prospect of the house and the lake, and on the way he had talked a great deal about his home in Missouri, and about his people, and about the sort of Christmas they would be spending there. He had also talked of a projected visit to Missouri that he was trying to persuade Les to make with him in the autumn, and which he wanted her to undertake also. His lively behaviour at the party Sir Daynes himself had been witness to. When the party broke up, the various members of it had retired in the order already vouched for, and she had first heard of the tragedy when her personal maid brought in the tea at eight o’clock.

  ‘Fine,’ exclaimed Sir Daynes at the end of the recital. ‘That’s all we wanted to know, m’dear, you’ve given us a perfect model of a statement. Wish everyone could be so precise, eh? Lots of people can’t. But that’s all we want to know, and you can run along now…’

  The words froze on the baronet’s lips as he became aware of Gently looming up on his flank.

  ‘Yes, Gently?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘Just one small point…’

  Sir Daynes drew in his breath wickedly, but he could think of no good reason for applying a veto.

  ‘Well?’ he rapped.

  ‘At the party last night… Mrs Page, his lordship and the deceased were alone for a short time. Could Mrs Page oblige us with a description of the conversation which took place?’

  ‘Confound it, man! Already had that from Somerhayes. Young feller was still carrying on about Missouri, wasn’t he, m’dear?’

  ‘Yes — he was.’ Mrs Page was staring at Gently with something like fear in her large eyes.

  ‘Mmn… and after that… when you were leaving, and the deceased accompanied you to the door?’

  The eyes jumped open wide. ‘My cousin didn’t tell you that! I didn’t — I-’ She broke off, turning imploringly to Sir Daynes. ‘He didn’t accompany me to the door — I left him talking to my cousin. Ask him, Sir Daynes, he’ll tell you that it’s true!’

  Nobody in the room could have mistaken the baronet’s slightly delayed reaction. He weighed in quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

  ‘’Course it’s true, m’dear — suggestion’s downright preposterous!’

  ‘You’ve only to ask my cousin-’

  ‘Not necessary, m’dear. Take your word any day.’

  ‘The inspector is entirely mistaken.’

  ‘The inspector,’ said Sir Daynes feelingly, ‘has been a mistake all along — hrmp, hrmp! I mean, we’re all human, m’dear, always have to allow a margin for error!’

  Mrs Page left the room hastily, and the baronet glared warningly, first at Dyson and then at Gently. By the latter he was met with a far-away smile, and the Central Office man’s lips formed a word which only Sir Daynes could hear: ‘Touche!’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ bawled Sir Daynes. ‘Fetch in that feller Johnson, and let’s see if we can’t get a grip on this business!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The lights had been on all the afternoon; the atmosphere, grown mild and expansive, was pleasantly tinctured with the smoke of cigars. Before they had drawn the curtains patterns had appeared on the single panes, and the brightness of the fire corroborated this wintry phenomenon.

  ‘Damned pond’ll get frozen,’ muttered Sir Daynes to Gently, forgetting his antagonism as he remembered their common addiction. ‘Don’t suppose you skate, do you? I can fix you up with a pair. Gwen likes to have her twiddle on the ice, but I’m not much of a skating man myself.’

  ‘We can fish through a hole, perhaps…’

  ‘Ha, ha, not on this pond, m’boy. When the ice gets set it’s sacred to Gwen. Woman would never forgive me if I started knocking holes in it.’

  ‘You can fish more often than you can skate, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s the argument I’ve had used against me for the past thirty years.’

  ‘There’s more frost on the way, sir,’ put in Dyson through his teeth. ‘I heard the one o’clock news, sir. There’s a cold airstream moving in from Siberia.’

  ‘Blasted Russians again… stoke up that fire! D’you reckon the Cold War’s a plot to make us use up our coal reserves?’

  The fire was built up to its teeth by the time Johnson arrived. The Welshman gave it an appreciative glance, as though the rigours of a trip through the state apartments had immediately preceded his entry. He was a man of medium height, and his build was that of a boxer. He had broad, slightly rounded shoulders tapering quickly to narrow hips, his arms were long in proportion to his height, and his hands were bony and hard-looking. His head, of which the skull belonged to the long, narrow variety, sat closely on his shoulders; his hair was dark, his eyes darker, and there was a livid blue tattoo-mark on his weathered-looking forehead.

  ‘Hugh Llewellyn Johnson, thirty-eight, and my family lives at Merthyr.’

  ‘You are a tapestry-weaver, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Aye, that I am, though I was ten years in the mines.’

  ‘That’s where you got that birthmark, eh?’ interpolated Sir Daynes, with suspicious casualness.

  ‘Oh yes, I did — you can always tell a miner. I got that one in Gwrw Pit in 1940.’

  ‘Hit on the head, eh?’

  ‘Man, I was bloody well buried — did you never hear of the Gwrw? Two days we were down there, and never heard a sound. The dead men were lying with us. There’s some who lies there yet.’

  ‘Hmn. Nasty experience, what?’

  ‘It’s one I won’t forget.’

  ‘Sort of thing to give you dreams, and that?’

  ‘Sometimes I dream I’m down there still, and wake up tearing the clothes off my limbs.’

  Sir Daynes rubbed his han
ds with a sort of grisly satisfaction, and leaned back comfortably in his chair.

  ‘Suppose you never get blackouts — that sort of thing?’

  The ex-miner shook his head.

  ‘Ah well… get on with your statement, man. Tell the inspector what you know about the “deceased”.’

  Johnson’s statement followed the now-familiar pattern in its early stages. He had been working at his loom when Earle had been brought into the workshop for the first time. Johnson, who was an artist as well as a weaver, was at work on a tapestry from his own cartoon picturing the Glaslyn and Yr Wyddfa, and Earle, with his customary tactlessness, had taken it upon himself to assure Johnson that the colour-values were incorrect. Johnson had thereupon catechized Earle on his knowledge of colour-values, more especially as applied to tapestry and the uncertain art of dyeing. Earle had been obliged to admit his profound ignorance, at least touching the two latter.

  ‘Took him down a peg, did you?’ enquired the subtle Sir Daynes.

  ‘Oh yes, a good peg or two. He knew nothing whateffer of dyeing and sunlight tests.’

  ‘Sent him off with a flea in his ear, eh?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly, he wasn’t a man you could handle like that. But I read him a good sermon, that I’ll warrant you. By the time I had done he knew a good deal more about tapestry than when I had started.’

  Nevertheless, Earle had got off on the wrong foot with Johnson. It was easy to see that the Welshman found it difficult to forgive the reckless strictures on his expert art. When he found himself being neglected by Brass, till then his constant admirer and teacher, the grudge, already in being, was fanned into active dislike.

  ‘I don’t mind admitting I could neffer get on with the man. Americans within reason, I say, but this one was a plain nuisance about the place. He was always upsetting the womenfolk, man; there wasn’t half of the work done when he was around. And he had no respect for his betters at all. You would think he was a Royal Tudor at least, the way he carried on.’

  ‘Not so big, either, but you could have put him down, eh?’