by Alan Hunter
‘By pokey, I’ve met some cases of obstruction since I came to this perishing island — I’ve met a few, and then some! But don’t nobody think they’re going to get away with the murder of a United States citizen — don’t let them think it for one teeny-weeny little moment — because you want to know something?’
‘I-’ began Sir Daynes, seizing the opportunity.
‘They aren’t!’ blazed Colonel Rynacker. ‘No, sir! Never! Not on your life! Not in this world! Not if the president of the United States has personally to arraign Elizabeth Two by the Grace of God and Senator McCarthy — they aren’t!’
‘Hah!’ got in Sir Daynes crisply. ‘Now if you’ll just-’
‘And no goddam lord is going to save his neck either — I’m telling you. I don’t care if it’s the classiest neck in this and six other peerages — if that’s the neck, by hokey, it’s going to be stretched, and Dwight P. Rynacker is going to stand by and see it done. Now — who are you?’
Sir Daynes extended his hand with simple dignity.
‘I am Sir Daynes Broke, chief constable of Northshire, Colonel,’ he said.
‘You are?’ Colonel Rynacker absent-mindedly seized the hand and began to pump it energetically. ‘Well, let me tell you a few things, chief constable — let me tell you! First off, what in the heck do you mean by obstructing the press in the free exercise of its prerogative in this case, hey? What do you mean by it?’
‘The press?’ queried Sir Daynes, also pumping. ‘Who says the press have been obstructed, eh, eh?’
‘I say they’ve been obstructed!’ boomed Colonel Rynacker, pumping harder than ever. ‘Haven’t I just been talking to those boys out there? Haven’t you just sent a cop to shut down the security on them?’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ countered Sir Daynes. ‘They will receive all the necessary information-’
‘Yeah, yeah — then why aren’t they in on the case?’
‘In this country, Colonel-’
‘In this country you can hush it up!’
‘In this country we do not permit-’
‘It’s a goddam lord, so you put a muzzle on the press!’
‘We do not permit the publication of information which may prejudice the subsequent trial!’ barked Sir Daynes, irritation getting the better part of diplomacy. ‘The press are kept informed, sir. As far as we can do so without prejudice, we give them every facility to report on the progress of a case. But we do not permit the press to obstruct us in the course of our duties, neither do we permit them to publish — and, sir, I may say that they would not want to publish — anything likely to interfere with the free exercise of justice!’
‘Gimme back my hand!’ bawled the colonel, dragging it away from Sir Daynes, who was performing prodigies with it. ‘Great suffering catfish, do you have to dislocate a man’s arm while you’re laying the goddam law down? I had rheumatism in that arm ever since I set foot in this fog-happy corner of nowhere!’
Sir Daynes relinquished the afflicted member, but the light of battle ceased not to gleam in his eye. Colonel Rynacker nursed his arm fondly and made experimental movements with his fingers.
‘Preposterous accusation!’ snorted Sir Daynes.
‘Yeah, I can see it spread over the Herald-Tribune,’ said the colonel.
‘Doing our duty, sir, regardless of rank or nationality!’
‘Doing mine too, chief constable, and don’t try obstructing the United States Air Force.’
‘Obstruction, sir!’ rapped Sir Daynes, rearing up. ‘You seem obsessed with the idea — who in the world is obstructing you, sir?’
Colonel Rynacker’s eye wandered over the stone-cold walls of the marble hall, and returned to the baronet with the ghost of a twinkle.
‘You are, you goddam old war-horse!’ he replied. ‘What d’you mean by keeping a rheumaticky USAF colonel hanging about in this sonofabitch of an icebox — do you want to kill me off before I can get my hooks in you?’
It took a certain amount of Merely Place Scotch and a good deal of hard, factual talking to get Colonel Rynacker out of Sir Daynes’s grizzled locks. The martinet of Sculton Airfield was full of dark suspicion about events at Merely, and much sold on the idea that if Lord Somerhayes was the culprit, it would need the US Military Police to put him well and truly on the spot.
‘Be honest, Bart! Just when was the last occasion that a British lord was strung up on a homicide count, huh?’
Sir Daynes wrinkled his brow, but could think of no such occasion. Gently, on being applied to, was able to suggest the execution of Laurence, Earl Ferrers, in 1760, for the taking-off of his steward, but the two centuries succeeding had been very low in distinguished gallowings.
‘And what’s the answer?’ demanded Colonel Rynacker triumphantly. ‘I ask you, is it logical that these guys knock off a lesser percentage than their neighbours? You tell me that! And if they do knock them off, how come they don’t never get strung up like you and me — what makes me think they’re goddam fireproof?’
He departed at last, appeased if not satisfied, and an anxious Sir Daynes went hot-foot to the scene of the interrogations. Here, alas, there was small comfort to be had. Inspector Dyson had been hammering as directed, but all his smithwork on the weavers had struck out little in the way of sparks. As a body, they had gossipped about Johnson’s weakness for Mrs Page; as individual witnesses, they refused to give positive and undeniable evidence of fact.
‘They’re a confounded trades union — that’s what it is!’ snapped the baronet, wringing his hands anguishedly. ‘Can’t they realize, between them, that we’re trying to pin a blasted murderer? Get Johnson in here — that damn feller has got to talk!’
Johnson came in, looking sullen and dangerous. There was no doubt that by now he had realized the role he was being cast for. He sat down without being asked, and deliberately rolled himself a foul-smelling cigarette. A lesser man than Sir Daynes might have quailed under the vindictive stare the Welshman gave him.
‘Now, Johnson-’ began Dyson, in a brook- no-nonsense tone of voice.
‘Well?’ fired the ex-miner, the word coming like a bullet.
‘I think I should warn you, Johnson-’
‘It’s kind we are!’ interrupted the Welshman, spewing shag-smoke at his interrogator.
Inspector Dyson rose to his feet. He was no mean figure, when it came to comparisons. He leant across the table, his two large fists supporting him, and gave the Welshman the benefit of a grade-one inspectorial drilling.
‘Just before we go any further-’
‘Aye?’ broke in Johnson.
‘We’ll remember where we are, and who it is we’re talking to!’
A little smile turned the corners of the Welshman’s mouth. A dreamy look stole momentarily into his blazing eyes. ‘Ohhh!’ he said, with deceptive softness. ‘The inspector wants to make something of it — yes, he wants to make something of it!’ And he drove a jet of smoke straight into Dyson’s face.
It happened so quickly that there was no time to intervene. The goaded Dyson swept a fist which should have decapitated his seated tormentor. Instead, it swept the air. Instead, something with the jolt of a pile-driver sent him reeling back into his chair.
‘Do you like it!’ roared the Welshman. ‘Do you like my little right hook, man? If you come outside a moment, I will show it to you again — though you will have to be a bloody sight faster, if you are going to see it coming!’
‘Arrest that man!’ bawled Sir Daynes. ‘Gently — Potter! Grab him before he does for someone else!’
‘Before I do for you, more like it!’ shouted the enraged Johnson. ‘Do you think I don’t know, man, what you are trying to pin on me?’
Nevertheless, he was brought to order with the minimum of physical persuasion. That one, beautiful punch out of nowhere seemed to have soothed the overstrung pugnacity of his nature. Dyson was picked up and restored to office, Sir Daynes smoothed his ruffled plumage, and the constable, Potter, stood resting a dutiful han
d on the prisoner’s shoulder.
‘Hrm-hrmp!’ snorted the baronet. ‘You’ve just made a confounded mistake, my man — confounded mistake. Going to commit you forthwith — assault on a police officer. And damn lucky you’ll be if you walk out again in a hurry.’
‘What is that?’ demanded Johnson, the truculence rising again in his countenance. ‘Are you making a charge, man — is that what you would be saying?’
‘I’m expressing an opinion, blast you!’ retorted Sir Daynes hastily. ‘Dyson, get on with the job, and see what this feller has to say for himself.’
Dyson, chastened but ugly-looking, did as he was bid. Certain facts had come to their knowledge, he said, as a result of which they thought that Johnson might like to add to his previous statement. Johnson, perhaps, knew to what he was referring?
The Welshman sneered. ‘I know as well as yourself. You have got out of Wheeler that I think Mrs Page is a fine woman — and who, among those present, will call me a liar?’
‘Our information, Johnson, goes further than that. We are given to understand that you are infatuated with Mrs Page.’
‘Infatuated, he says! There’s a good copper’s word for you!’
‘Do you deny the truth of that?’
‘Aye, unless you can find a better word for it.’
‘You will be advised not to prevaricate, Johnson. Do you deny the truth of it?’
The Welshman looked at him with profound contempt. ‘I have said what I have said. Find me a better word.’
‘Stuck on her, man!’ broke in Sir Daynes impatiently. ‘Sweet on her — in love, by gad! You know what the inspector means.’
‘You have given me the word.’ Johnson was silent for a moment. ‘I need not tell you this, and hard would it be for you to prove it. But I am not a liar, no, and I am not a murderer either, whateffer ideas you have in your mind this moment. So I will tell you the truth, and care nothing what you make of it. I am sacredly fond of poor Mrs Page.’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Sir Daynes, moving closer in his excitement. ‘Sacredly fond, eh? That’s a new way of putting it.’
‘New it may be, but true it is also. I would not have you think that I thought of her wrongly.’
‘But you didn’t like Earle hanging around, all the same, eh?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Feller was a Yank — might not have been so sacred?’
‘I will not conceal that I often thought otherwise.’
‘And that’s why you had it in for him?’
‘That is one reason.’
‘Best one of the lot, eh? Sort of reason that might lead to something.’
Sir Daynes eased back in triumph, leaving the ex-miner to Dyson. It was only by an effort that the baronet was restraining himself from rubbing his hands. Dyson, his prey restored, hastened to apply the coup de grace.
‘May I make a suggestion, Johnson?’
The Welshman said nothing.
‘May I suggest that you now tell us the truth about what happened the night before last?’
‘Read it,’ said Johnson briefly.
‘Read it?’ Dyson was thrown temporarily out of his stride.
‘Read it, I said. Did you not take it down yesterday?’
‘Not what you said yesterday!’ yapped Dyson. ‘I’m talking about the truth. And it wasn’t the truth when you pitched us that yarn about going to the library for a book that night, was it? You’d got a far better reason for leaving a nice snug bed. Do you want me to tell you what it was? Shall I jog your memory about how you got Earle out on the landing?’
‘I am not a liar!’ exploded the Welshman, his anger suddenly flaring up once more.
‘You’re not, aren’t you?’ Dyson was well under way. ‘But I think we’re going to prove otherwise, my fine hot-tempered Welshman. Do you think the police are stupid? Do you think they can’t put two and two together? They can, you know, and a good deal faster than you seem to think. Now — when did you slip Earle that message that Mrs Page wanted to meet him in the great hall?’
‘I have not slipped any message.’
‘Then how did you get him out there?’
‘I did not get him out there.’
‘He was sleepwalking, was he?’
‘I told you, he was arguing with a woman.’
‘You admit he was there, then?’
‘I admit what I have said.’
‘Yes, and you’ve just said that he was there — I thought you said you weren’t a liar?’
Gently sighed to himself and rose quietly from his window seat. He had heard it all before… His whole life seemed to have been spent listening to policemen trying to make bricks without straw.
‘Think I’ll take a stroll…’ he murmured to the absorbed Sir Daynes.
‘Eh?’ replied the baronet. ‘Here, just a minute, Gently!’
He dragged himself away from the proceedings and accompanied Gently to the door.
‘Well — what do you think now?’ he demanded. ‘Hasn’t Dyson got him rocking, eh? And a blasted assault charge for a bonus — feller played right into our hands.’
Gently smiled at Sir Daynes’s enthusiasm. ‘I wouldn’t force the pace too much, though.’
‘Force the pace?’ Sir Daynes sounded incredulous. ‘Why, the feller will talk himself to the gallows!’
Gently shook his head unconvincedly and opened the door. Sir Daynes watched him go, an injured expression dawning on his patriarchal face. He was beginning to understand how certain superintendents of his ken could feel when the Central Office man was treading on their sacred toes.
CHAPTER NINE
Somewhere about the great house thirty or forty people were disposed, but, as always, it seemed entirely deserted. The multiplicity of rooms, their size, the thickness and solidity of the walls, all these contributed to a sensation of emptiness, remoteness and uncanny silence. Referring to his guide, Gently set off to find the south-east wing. His way took him along the entire front of the house, passing through the great hall, and though this must have been one of the principal thoroughfares he met not a soul on his journey.
The south-east wing was vaguely similar in layout to the north-east, and a brief reconnaisance brought him to the room corresponding to the yellow drawing room. He knocked and entered. The five tapissiers sat in a subdued group about the hearth. Closing the door behind him, he went across to the group, and stood for a moment warming his hands at the blaze.
‘Not intruding, I hope?’
‘Naw.’ It was Percy Peacock, the bald-headed little Lancastrian, who answered him.
‘I should think it’s warmer outside than it is in the state apartments.’
‘Ah, it’s a proper boom-noomber out there.’
Gently pulled out Dutt’s pipe, now beginning to lose its rough edge, and filled it with leisurely fingers. They watched him silently. He could guess at the conversation he had interrupted. Three men, three women, diverse in age, character and district, the weavers were one jealous unit when it came to interference from outside. It mattered nothing that Johnson had made himself unpopular. That was purely a domestic problem. When trouble came to him, he was first and foremost a weaver — like the Musketeers of fable, they were one for all and all for one.
‘Got a light, anyone?’
Percy Peacock produced a box of Swan.
‘I got fed up with the interrogation… thought I’d give you people a look. The local boys don’t seem to be getting very far with the case.’
He puffed away absent-mindedly for some minutes, as though his pipe and the fire met all his requirements just then. He could feel them relaxing a little. The reference to ‘local boys’ had set him a little apart from the machinations of the Northshire County Constabulary…
‘Anyone here got a hunch?’
They didn’t rise to it, but then, he hadn’t expected them to.
‘Me, I’m just a visitor… It’s difficult for me to weigh things up. The local lads seem pretty sure of themsel
ves, and perhaps they’re in the best position to judge. This Johnson of yours seems to fly off the handle without much warning.’
Now there was a little stir, and Percy Peacock glanced up at him warily.
‘There’s nowt wrong wi’ our Hugh, except he’s Welsh.’
‘Well, he’s got a deadly right hook on him.’
‘That’s nobbut against him.’
‘It is at the moment… He’s just pasted the local inspector a corker.’
‘Ay?’ exclaimed Peacock. ‘You mean yon object wi’ the teeth?’
‘Inspector Dyson. He took a swing at Hugh.’
Peacock scratched his bald head and tried to conceal his pleasure at this information. One suspected that Inspector Dyson had not endeared himself with the natives…
‘Of course, our Hugh can be obstropulous…’
‘I’m afraid he was guilty of provocation.’
‘At same time, Inspector ought not to have raised his hand to the man.’
‘As you say, he ought not… He’s probably of the same opinion now.’
The atmosphere had definitely warmed up. They had ceased now to watch him with the vigilance of a herd of animals drawn together against a dangerous intruder. Percy Peacock was hiding a grin. Wheeler, the young Yorkshireman, was lighting a cigarette for the ponytailed blonde who had attracted Sir Daynes’s attention. Doris, Peacock’s wife, was encouraging the oval-faced dark girl called Norah to bring her chair nearer to the fire. Insensibly, Gently was merging into this difficult circle…
‘Coom from the Yard, dorn’t you?’
Wheeler glanced at him with naive curiosity.
‘Yes… I’m on holiday up here. Came to do some pike-fishing.’
‘Joost keeping eye on things, like.’
‘Between you and me they think I’m a damned nuisance.’
‘Well, dorn’t run away with t’idea that our Hugh had hand in it.’
‘Mmn?’ Gently puffed indifferent smoke.
‘Might be he took against Bill — dorn’t say he did him in. We knaw our Hugh, and he woona have done a thing like that.’