Gently Down the Stream

by Alan Hunter

  ‘I know, sir … but this lot here might’ve waited till Monday before running to the Yard. It wouldn’t’ve hurt them to do a bit more of the donkey work.’

  Gently shrugged and felt in his pocket for his pipe. He was feeling much the same himself. It was glamorous weather for a fishing expedition and he had sat up the previous evening greasing a new-pattern line he had just bought …

  ‘Anyway, Dutt, it’s a case that bristles with leads. We shan’t be groping around for them.’

  ‘That’s one blessing, sir.’

  ‘You might even say there’s too many, from one point of view …’

  A police Wolseley came shooting round the corner from the garage and pulled up with the merest squeal of tyres. Out of it jumped Hansom.

  ‘We’ve got you some digs, though they aren’t very grand … everything’s taken out there at this time of the year.’

  ‘They’ll do,’ said Gently philosophically. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘It’s a bungalow at Upper Wrackstead Dyke, about a mile and a half from the village.’

  ‘Same side as Lammas’ place?’

  ‘Good Lord no! Only the toffs live that side.’

  Dutt lugged the suitcases into the car and they set off through the Sunday-still streets. It was about eight miles to Wrackstead, eight miles of gently undulating, partly wooded country, where fields of tall wheat and barley shimmered in the sun and dog-roses prinked the hedges. Hansom indicated a beech avenue leading off to the right.

  ‘You go down there to the Lammas’ place.’

  ‘It’s a good way from the village?’

  ‘Hell, yes. Right at the end, with a frontage on the broad. There are several other places down there with river frontages, but Lammas’ is the only one on the broad. I reckon he had the most money.’

  ‘Who lives in the other places?’

  ‘All Norchester people who’ve made a pile.’

  ‘And Ollby Dyke – where would that be from here?’

  ‘Oh, that’s five or six miles downstream. The trading wherries used to use it before the road killed them. It’s been neglected for years and all grown up with alder carrs – you couldn’t pick a better spot for some homicide.’

  They came to the river, a long reach flanked with wooden boat-sheds, irregular quays and backed by tall trees. The sun flashed off the water like liquid gold. There were crowds of limp-sailed yachts and lazy-moving motor cruisers. A humpback bridge of ancient brick and stone switchbacked them straight into the village and Gently called a halt while he investigated the possibilities of the local tobacconist.

  ‘He’s gunning for the chauffeur, is he?’ jerked Hansom jealously to Dutt, in the great man’s absence.

  ‘The Chief Inspector never jumps to conclusions,’ replied Dutt guardedly.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the chauffeur, Lammas must have committed suicide … I can’t see how the family ties in, apart from being liars.’

  Gently returned with his haul of Navy Cut and they continued through the village. It was an unfortunate place, grown up round the boat-letting industry: it comprised the worst styles of the twenties and thirties in a surprising variety. But it was small – it had that to recommend it. At the railway station it was knifed off sharply and the road proceeded to Upper Wrackstead in rural purity.

  Arriving there, it was met by what seemed like a cart track and the Wolseley rocked violently as it nosed down between high hedges to the river-bank below.

  ‘Here we are,’ sneered Hansom. ‘The Grand Hotel of Upper Wrackstead … I told you you ought to stop in town.’

  Gently viewed the solitary brick-and-pantile cottage without concern.

  ‘I like to be at the centre of things if possible …’

  ‘You’ll be at the centre here – and how!’

  But Gently was already pushing up the path to the cottage.

  It was primitive, but there were compensations. One of them was the late lunch which Mrs Grey, their hostess, had been thoughtful enough to lay on. And she didn’t ask questions, Gently noticed; that was a point in any landlady’s favour. One might do worse than to come down here for a spot of fishing sometime.

  But if Mrs Grey wasn’t curious, the rest of Upper Wrackstead made up for her. There was a houseboat colony in the Dyke alongside and the arrival of a police car stirred it up like an ant-heap tickled with a stick.

  ‘Lot of loafers!’ grumbled Hansom, scowling at them through the window as he stood drinking a country-size cup of tea. ‘Look as though they’ve never seen a policeman before!’

  Gently surveyed them more mildly.

  ‘I suppose they all come off the boats?’

  ‘If they don’t they’re living in holes in the ground … there’s nothing else at Upper Wrackstead!’

  ‘Just at the moment, I’m rather interested in people who live here on boats.’

  Interested or not, they were due to run the gauntlet. An admiring audience of nondescripts were collected about the car and as the three policemen came out they were the cynosure of at least twenty pairs of eyes.

  ‘Coo – they’ve come to ’rest ole mother Grey!’ exclaimed a ragged urchin, half-jeering, half-serious.

  ‘No they ha’nt – they’ve come to take your mother away ’cause her old man’s a burglar!’ cried another.

  ‘Johnny, you keep your trap shut!’ shouted a tall slatternly woman, making a grab at him. But Johnny eluded the grab and dodged round the back of a plump, shiny-faced virago, whose face was turning an angry red.

  ‘Here she is, mister!’ he shouted to Gently. ‘She’s the one you’re looking for’ – and then, continuing in a sing-song – ‘My ole man’s a burglar – my ole man’s a burglar – my ole man –!’

  At which point a clout on the ear from the red-faced one sent him howling to his mother’s skirts.

  ‘Hold it!’ exclaimed Gently, seeing that the quarrel was about to continue at a higher level. ‘This isn’t the way to behave on Sunday!’

  ‘Vicious!’ screamed the slattern. ‘She nee’nt have give him one like that!’

  ‘I’ll give you one, much less him!’ riposted the fat woman, brandishing her fist.

  ‘And your ole man is a burglar!’

  ‘You ha’nt got an ole man – kids an all!’

  ‘Say that again!’

  ‘I’ll say it twice-times over!’

  ‘Go on – just you dare!’

  ‘Me dare! I dare say a few other things, too!’

  ‘WHOA!’ interposed Gently, coming suddenly between the intending combatants. ‘You’ve got company, ladies – you just aren’t supposed to carry on like this under the eyes of the law!’

  There was an undecided moment while the light of battle still blazed on both sides, then the crisis passed and the slattern edged away with a muttered: ‘Her ole man is a burglar, whatever anyone say!’

  ‘And so he is!’ cried the fat woman over Gently’s shoulder. ‘And s’pose he is, what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘As long as he isn’t on our current wants list …’ murmured Gently.

  The fat woman gave him a wink. ‘He’s doing time, don’t you worry … they pulled him in eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Your name Packer?’ inquired Hansom from the rear.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the fat woman, turning to him. ‘You should know – it was you what give the evidence at the ’sizes.’

  ‘And were you living here then?’ queried Gently.

  ‘Me? Course I was! Spent me whole married life on the ole Muriel over there.’ She pointed with her thumb to a dilapidated wherry lying moored, or rather stranded, in the Dyke.

  ‘Then you know the other residents …?’

  ‘Every last one of them.’

  ‘You’d know, for instance, if there were any newcomers in the colony?’

  ‘You bet I would – Pedro here come last.’

  ‘Pedro?’

  Gently turned to inspect a shrinking figure which tried to hide itself behind the o
ther bystanders.

  ‘Here – come on, Pedro!’ exclaimed the fat woman. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you. He’s an Eyetie, mister, ex-prisoner of war he is. Sort of lives on the old Muriel with me while me old man’s in the country.’

  Pedro grinned sheepishly in acknowledgement. He was something over thirty, tall but rather slight, with curly dark hair and frank grey eyes.

  ‘Don’t speak a sight of English now,’ added the fat woman maternally, ‘but he’s a good boy, all the same.’

  ‘And when did he arrive?’

  ‘’Bout Easter. I’d say.’

  ‘And there’s been nobody since?’

  ‘There’s Ted over there – Ted Thatcher, he come here about the same time.’

  ‘Nobody recently – yesterday, say, or late Friday night …?’

  The fat woman paused, a gleam of intelligence dawning in her small black eyes.

  ‘Now I’m with you, mister … it’s Joe Hicks the shoofer you’re after, i’nt it?’

  ‘You know Hicks?’ enquired Gently in surprise.

  ‘Know him? Course I know him! I’nt it his aunt there you just been calling on?’

  ‘You mean Mrs Grey?’

  ‘Who else’d I mean?’

  Gently cast an interrogative glance at Hansom, who simply shrugged and looked owlish.

  ‘And this Joe Hicks, when did you last see him?’

  She wrinkled her shiny brow. ‘Wednesday was his day … yes, that was it. He dropped in and brought his aunt some vegetables – don’t ask me where he got ’em – and afterwards we had a sing-song. Pedro here is a master-boy with a concertina.’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘W’ yes – you don’t think he’d come back here after what happened, do you?’

  ‘He has to be somewhere …’ Gently brooded. ‘Who else was at the sing-song?’

  ‘Just us lot and Joe.’

  ‘Anybody who wasn’t there?’

  ‘Don’t think so, mister … not apart from old Ted Thatcher, of course.’ She gave Gently another of her winks and dropped her voice confidentially. ‘He’s got a widder, has Ted … he’s away most of the time. Would you think it now, looking at him? What some women’ll fall for!’

  With an inclination of her head she indicated a paunchy, disreputable-looking figure who was hopefully daubing paint on an equally disreputable houseboat, a few yards away.

  ‘There you are … some of the old’ns have got more go than the youn’uns now!’

  ‘And he was the only one who wasn’t at the sing-song?’ persisted Gently.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Gently made as though to stroll over to him, then paused.

  ‘When did he come back?’

  ‘What, Ted? Well there you’ve got me … he’s a sly ole bird. He just come creeping in in that ole dinghy of his, and go creeping out again … I reckon you’d better ask him, mister.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gently, ‘I will.’

  There was an impatient snort from Hansom, but it was disregarded. Gently went across to the decrepit houseboat and stood admiring it as though houseboats were a grand passion in his life …

  ‘Brightening it up a bit?’ he inquired unhurriedly.

  The painter dipped his brush and scrubbed some more paint into a weathered strake before replying.

  ‘Ah …’ he said indifferently.

  ‘She hasn’t had a lick lately, I’d say.’

  ‘No more she ha’nt, bor, no more she ha’nt.’

  ‘They tell me you were away on Wednesday,’ pursued Gently, propping himself up against the cabin.

  Ted Thatcher paused and turned about to look at his interrogater. He was a picturesque figure. A man in his sixties, plump, stooped a little, there was still a vitality in his bearing that promised many summers yet. He wore a shapeless brown jacket over a greasy waistcoat that wrinkled over his paunch and some sack-like trousers were stuffed into the tops of much-patched rubber boots. His face was ruddy and broad-featured. He had several days’ growth of grizzled beard, but very little grey seemed to have touched his untidy hair.

  ‘An’ who,’ he asked with heavy sarcasm, ‘are they, bor, if that i’nt too much of a secret?’

  ‘Oh … Mrs Packer could be the lady’s name.’

  ‘That blodda ole whure! I mighta guessed it.’

  He spat contemptuously into the Dyke.

  ‘Well … were you away?’

  Thatcher looked at him sharply.

  ‘Woss it got to dew wi’ yew?’

  ‘I don’t know yet … I was wondering if you could tell me.’

  There was a pause while Thatcher stirred about in a nearly-empty paint-can. Then his eyes jumped up suddenly under strangely bald brows.

  ‘Yew’r a blodda ole copper, aren’t yew, bor?’ he asked gruffly.

  Gently grinned. ‘I blodda am, tew …’

  ‘Blast!’ exclaimed Thatcher in amazement. ‘Yew aren’t agorn to tell me yew come from these parts?’

  ‘I don’t, but I’ve been around them quite a bit.’

  Thatcher’s broad features relaxed a little and then he grinned too.

  ‘Verra well, my man … dew yew think tha’s gorna help yew. I’ve been away above a week, an’ come back Frida. Woss the nex’ question?’

  ‘Have you been very far?’

  ‘Jus’ a little trip in my dingha.’

  ‘Would it be indiscrete to ask where?’

  ‘That would,’ retorted Thatcher stoutly. ‘So yew might as well not ask m’.’

  ‘Let’s put it another way. Was where you were coming from the other side of Ollby Dyke?’

  ‘W’in a general sorta way, yes, it was.’

  ‘And you passed Ollby Dyke on the Friday?’

  ‘I woon’t ha’ got here dew I ha’nt.’

  ‘About what time did you pass it?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno … six or seven o’clock time, woon’t s’prise me.’

  ‘You couldn’t make it about nine, could you?’ broke in Hansom sardonically from behind.

  ‘No, I blodda couldn’t – not for yew nor a dozen like yew!’

  ‘Were there,’ continued Gently patiently, ‘many boats about when you went by?’

  ‘W’ yes … tha’s pretta busy this time of year.’

  ‘Do you remember any of them?’

  ‘Can’t say I dew.’

  ‘Were there any in Ollby Dyke?’

  ‘Not enna yew could see – tha’s tew growed-up.’

  ‘You didn’t see Mr Lammas, for instance.’

  ‘Woon’t know him if I did.’

  ‘He was on the yacht Harrier as you probably know.’

  ‘Nor I di’nt see that neether, so there yew are, ole partna.’

  Gently sighed, and felt in his pocket for a peppermint cream. He was obviously pushing his luck too hard at Upper Wrackstead.

  ‘And what did it buy you?’ jeered Hansom, as they got back into the Wolseley.

  ‘Tingere barbam non potes,’ murmured Gently oracularly.

  ‘Eh?’ gaped Hansom.

  ‘Never mind – it’s a classical tag I picked up somewhere. We’ll leave Mr Thatcher with one of his secrets, shall we?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  SLOLEY’S BOATYARD LAY at the end of a long, low cinder-track, a track which was crowded at each side with yards and bungalows. It consisted of several dry and wet boat-sheds clustered round a cut-in from the river and, on a Sunday afternoon, was deserted by both boats and men. The office was open, however, and Old Man Sloley sat at his desk, a silent figure in frock-coat and peaked cap, his white beard straggling down on the blotter in front of him. He rose stiffly as the three policemen entered.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen … I was expecting a call from you. Have you made any progress in this shocking business yet?’

  He indicated one of the more lurid Sunday papers, which was lying on his desk. ‘BODY IN BROADS BURN-OUT’ was the punch-line on page one.

  Hansom introdu
ced Gently and the old man shook hands. There was an unexpected fragility about him, as though a gust of wind would have blown him away.

  ‘Mr Sloley is ninety-two …’ murmured Hansom in an aside.

  Old Man Sloley nodded, as though to warn them of his perfect hearing.

  ‘This has been a grave shock to me, gentlemen, a very grave shock. This firm has never had a breath of scandal attached to its name before.’

  Gently assured him that no blame could be placed to the account of Sloley & Son, but Old Man Sloley would not be convinced.

  ‘It’s kind of you, Mr Inspector, but you haven’t read the papers; there are cruel insinuations being made. And I assure you, that except for my son I would have refused this let. I was not imposed upon by the gentleman describing the young lady as his daughter.’

  ‘You knew it was not Miss Lammas, sir?’

  ‘No, Mr Inspector, I have not the pleasure of Miss Lammas’ acquaintance. Neither did I know Lammas personally … the people over the river come mostly from Norchester, you know, they are very rarely seen in the village. But it seemed most peculiar to me that these two people should hire what was veritably a single-cabined yacht, and when I saw them I had the strongest misgivings.’

  ‘When did the actual hiring take place, sir?’ asked Gently.

  ‘On the twenty-third of March,’ replied Old Man Sloley, with unpausing precision.

  ‘In March! Is it usual to book so early?’

  ‘That is not early, Mr Inspector, it is late. We are usually fully booked by that date.’

  ‘Was it a personal application?’

  ‘No sir, it was not. Mr Lammas rang this office and inquired what we could offer him for the week in question. As it happened I had a cancellation for the Harrier and he agreed to take it. When I understood that his daughter would accompany him I pointed out that complete privacy could not be had on such a small boat, but he brushed the objection aside. The booking was confirmed by a letter from his business address and a cheque for the deposit.’

  ‘You will have that letter, sir …?’

  The old man opened a drawer and took out a manilla envelope.

  ‘I had it ready, Mr Inspector … I felt it might be helpful to you. Here is also our copy of the booking form, together with a plan of the Harrier and some photographs of her. Please tell me if you need anything else.’