by Alan Hunter
Dutt wriggled impatiently. ‘She might know a whole lot else, sir!’
‘She might, Dutt, and she might not. Don’t forget that she’s on her father’s side in this. If she knew enough to put the finger on someone there’s no reason to suppose she wouldn’t do it … even if it were someone in the family.’
‘But she must know all about what Mr Lammas was going to do, sir. If we crack into her now she may come across, and then if we can pick up Miss Brent …’
‘Perhaps, Dutt, perhaps. Did your platform Romeo notice what happened to Miss Lammas and Miss Brent after the key was passed?’
‘Yessir, in a manner of speaking. They goes off down the station to where there’s three or four buses parked and Miss Lammas sees Miss Brent into one of them.’
‘You checked where they were going?’
‘Of course, sir, automatic. One was going to Cheapham, one to Summerton and one to Sea Weston.’
‘Cheapham and Sea Weston!’ Gently stared in surprise. ‘That’s a fascinating set of buses, Dutt …! But it gives us two to one on the coast. If I were a betting man I’d take odds on Linda Brent being tucked away in a seaside bungalow, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yessir. Now, do we pull in Miss Pauline …?’
Gently considered at length over the strawberries he was dipping in sugar. All the time his eyes were fixed on that diminutive foil-wrapped tube.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll trouble Miss Pauline at the present juncture.’
‘But if we can find Miss Brent—!’
‘That’s a job for you.’
‘For me, sir?’ goggled Dutt.
‘Yes – you’re specializing in this angle! Go back into town and beat around the estate-agents. Try the ones near Lammas’ office for a start and then work outwards. Names won’t be important, but dates and people will. You’re looking for a rented furnished property, probably in the Summerton-Sea Weston area, let as from Friday, key picked up by a certain young female … say Friday lunch-time. It’s mere routine, Dutt.’
Dutt groaned and rolled his eyes pitifully.
‘Also, you can take this stuff in for checking …’ Gently waved to the tube, his package and the strip of rayon, ‘… me, I feel a poetic mood coming on.’
‘You feel a whatter, sir?’
‘A poetic mood, Dutt. I feel it’s time that Mr Paul and myself got down to a session of mutual illumination.’
The drowsy brilliance of the hot June afternoon seemed made to display the charm of ‘Willow Street’. White walls under crisp reed thatch, ebony columns of timber, lattice-windows open wide, it nestled like a rare bird on the dipping slope as Gently swung out of the rhododendrons and braked to a stop. Around it the willows hung, completely still. The air itself seemed trembled to a stillness. Only a swallow-tail butterfly sailed, regal and self-assured, to disturb the spellbound sun-hush.
The gardener appeared from somewhere, roused by the sound of the car pulling up. He was a cadaverous, elderly man clad in a collarless twill shirt, black waistcoat and grey Derby trousers. Gently nodded and he came over.
‘Anybody at home?’
‘W’yes – no … I don’t rightla know.’
He turned about to peer into the open garage, which was empty except for an expensive-looking motorcycle.
‘Daresay the missus have gone to Narshter – tha’s her day for it. Miss Pauline, I can’t answer for. Mr Paul, he’s fishin’ in the broad, dew yew want him.’
‘Whereabouts in the broad?’
‘W’now, how should I know that? Yew’ll ha’ to go an see.’
‘Can I borrow a boat?’
‘There’s plenta in the boot-house.’
Gently shrugged and locked the Wolseley, but as the gardener turned away he asked:
‘You weren’t here last night, I suppose?’
‘Ah. I was pickin black currants an’ one thing another.’
‘Did you notice anyone go out?’
‘I hear Mr Paul go off, tha’s all.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘W’ … about eight o’clock time.’
‘And when did he come back?’
‘Not while I was here, an that was nigh on ten.’
The house was so silent as Gently went by that it might have stood empty for a century. Every window was open, every door ajar. He could hear an alarm clock ticking as he passed below the kitchen. Rounding the corner, however, he nearly tripped over the lumpish-faced maid. She was lying in the sun with her skirt pulled back, and jumped up indignantly at Gently’s sudden appearance.
‘I neffer did – and what are we to be expecting next, I should like to know!’
‘Don’t let me disturb your siesta!’ Gently forced back an impish grin.
‘Come into people’s private gardens – sneak up on them from behind—!’
‘I’m only going to borrow a boat. There’s no need for you to get up.’
The maid shook herself like an outraged hen and followed him into the boat-house. It was a big, gloomy place, lit only from the entrance, and extending under at least half of the building above. It smelled sweetly of naked timber and floating oil. In the basin surrounded by a splined platform lay a husky-looking teak launch, one of the local Class half-deckers, a National, a pair of skiffs and a dinghy. Gently selected the dinghy and stepped into it with the confidence of one not unfamiliar with the habits of small boats.
‘What time did Mr Paul get in last night?’
The maid pouted at him defiantly.
‘I suppose he did get in before you went to bed …?’
‘Oh yes he did, Mr Nosey, and not so late either, it was.’
‘What excuse did he give for going out again?’
‘Who said he went out again, after I took him his malted milk in bed, too!’
Gently pulled loose the painter and pushed himself out of the boat-house with a scull.
The broad at this end had an air of exclusiveness contributed to by a number of rush and reed islands. These not only served as a screen but also deterred the near approach of the thronging holiday-craft. In the secret waterways between them flourished superb water-lilies, while there was an air of tameness about the population of coots, water-hens and great-crested grebes. Gently surveyed these fastnesses with a jaundiced eye. He was suddenly struck with the size of the task of finding one particular human being, even on a medium size broad.
But the luck of good detectives was with him. Paul Lammas had not ventured far on that blazing afternoon. Two hundred yards from the boat-house Gently perceived the bows of a dinghy sticking out past a tangle of rushes. Rowing a little nearer, he could see a fishing-rod and the tip of a stationary float. A little nearer still and Paul came into view. He was lying on cushions in the back of the dinghy, head cradled in his arms, staring into the blue of the sky. Gently let his own boat glide silently in and bump against the other.
‘That’s a fine way to catch fish!’
Paul started forward out of whatever dream he was in.
‘You …!’
There was something terribly feminine about his delicate features and fine, soft hair. Today he was wearing a fawn linen shirt and grey-green slacks, his jacket lying rolled in the bows. Feminine … but with a difference.
‘Why have you come here looking for me?’
Gently shipped his sculls without replying and grabbed himself a handful of reeds around which to loop his painter. Paul watched him fiercely.
‘I wanted to be alone … surely that was clear enough?’
‘They told me you were fishing.’
‘I am – and I want to fish alone!’
Gently grinned and settled himself with his pipe.
‘There isn’t any bait on that hook, for a start … mind if I have a look? Then again, if you got on the shady side of these reeds …’
‘What is it you want – you haven’t come here to teach me how to fish!’
Gently nodded and applied himself t
o Paul’s rod and tackle. He was probably fishing too shallow – the float could go up a bit! And one caught precious little with a piece of weed for bait.
Paul was sitting up straight now. He was staring at Gently with an expression of mingled anger and apprehension.
‘If you think I’ve got anything to tell you, then you’re very much mistaken!’
‘What’s in that tin … maggots?’
‘I tell you you’re wasting your time!’
‘Let’s try a cast over here, where there’s a bit of shade.’
Furious, Paul bit his small mouth together and sat watching while Gently made a cast. Now he’d got that rod in his hand, the man from the Central Office seemed to be forgetting him entirely.
‘Look … I knew that was the place to try.’
The float was shuddering excitedly.
‘Now – there it goes. And it isn’t a little one! Here, you’d better land it … I’ve just remembered I haven’t got a licence!’
Paul snatched the rod out of his hand and played the fish in. It was a handsome sharp-headed bream, clean-looking and full of jump. With considerable expertise the young man slipped a landing-net under it, lifted it aboard and disengaged the hook. Then he threw it straight back into the water and put the rod well out of Gently’s reach.
‘Now …! Perhaps we can learn what Scotland Yard is here about.’
Gently extended his hands. ‘First things first! Where did you go on your motorbike last night?’
‘I went for a ride.’
‘A ride – not again?’
Paul looked at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean – not again? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘Not really …! Where did you go?’
‘To Starmouth. And I can prove it.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘About eleven, I believe.’
‘And you spent the night in bed?’
‘Has it broken a local bye-law?’
Gently brooded a moment over his pipe, then his mild glance sought Paul’s.
‘Look! I’ve pretty well made my mind up about this business – but not quite. There’s a whole lot of features that keep getting in the way, and I’ve got to know which of them belong and which of them don’t. And I think you could tell me – if you stopped looking on all authority as your natural enemy!’
The young man’s flush sprang burning in his cheek.
‘I’ve told you before—’
‘Yes, I know what you’ve told me before. But things have moved on a bit since then – enquiries don’t stand still, you understand. And what you told me isn’t good enough any longer … that’s what it amounts to.’
Now he looked hard at Paul.
‘We don’t have to be enemies, remember.’
There was a silence between them broken only by the puffing of Gently’s pipe and the jewelled twitter of a reed-warbler somewhere close at hand. Fifty yards away a pair of grebes watched them suspiciously, swimming flat and jerky on the water. Then there was the slightest of chuckles and the grebes had vanished.
‘You mean I’m not under suspicion?’
Gently’s head barely moved to indicate the negative.
‘It was absurd all along – you couldn’t have thought that I did it!’
‘But you’ve made a bad impression.’
‘I don’t care. I’m just not the type!’
It was true, and in more ways than one. Gently tried to conjure up the picture of the frail young man manoeuvring the enormous remains of Cheerful Annie.
‘And if I’m not under suspicion, why can’t you just leave me alone?’
‘I’ve told you … because you’ve got some important information.’
‘And I say I haven’t, so what are you going to do about it?’
‘First, I’m going to tell you just where your mother stands in this business.’
There was no doubt about it being a shock. Paul’s cheek was a barometer to his emotions that a child could read. But Gently was in no hurry to press home his advantage; he puffed contemplatively for a while, his eyes dwelling dreamily on the golden-shadowed stars of the water-lilies.
‘You know … your mother fits the bill rather neatly.’
Paul’s teeth were almost chattering and he had to fight to keep a countenance.
‘I ask you … as one intelligent person to another … don’t you think your mother would be capable of homicide as a last resort?’
Now he had to put his hand on the counter to steady himself.
‘As I read her character it is completely implacable. She has a psychopathic will-power, a destructive will-power. I feel reasonably certain that she would sooner destroy a person than relinquish her hold on him.’
‘No!’ gasped Paul. ‘You don’t understand – she’s had to stand up for herself, that’s all. She isn’t what you say!’
Gently shrugged. ‘You should know …! But to me, as an outsider, that’s the picture. And we have there the motive. Her husband is trying to escape. You’ve got a motive too, but yours isn’t nearly as strong … neither, as you will remember pointing out, are you the type!’
Paul choked, his eyes fixed wildly on the Central Office man.
‘Of course, at first we couldn’t show that your mother knew anything about Linda Brent or your father’s plans to disappear. That made your mother’s position reasonably safe. We might suspect it, but we couldn’t show it, and it’s only the things you can show that impress a jury. But now, I’m afraid, we can show it too.
‘By lunch-time on Friday your mother had all the relevant facts but one.’
‘But she didn’t – she couldn’t have known!’
‘Your father’s whereabouts? No – not at lunch-time! But she took steps to discover it … another point for the jury. And then there’s the matter of the fingerprints on the drawer which contained the gun – her’s of course, superimposed on your father’s – and her lies about her movements – it’s a pretty formidable list!’
Paul’s state was truly pitiable. His shaking made the dinghy vibrate till it produced fine, shivering lines on the glassy surface.
‘She wouldn’t have shot him … she didn’t know anything about the gun!’
‘What do you have to know about a double-action automatic, except to point it and pull the trigger?’
‘She’d have to load it … she couldn’t do that.’
‘Wouldn’t it be loaded, when it was kept handy to deal with burglars?’
‘But she couldn’t … I tell you she couldn’t!’
Gently hunched a shoulder, as though it didn’t matter either way.
‘That won’t be the charge, in any case. We know who pulled the trigger. The charge your mother will face in dock will be conspiracy to murder, and if you think Hicks will shield her, you haven’t followed many cases of this sort! And incidentally, we’ve got Hicks nicely netted. He’s probably under arrest by now.’
‘Stop!’ croaked Paul, scarcely able to speak.
‘I thought you should know the situation.’
‘It isn’t true … you’ve got to listen!’
‘On the facts, we shall have to make a charge.’
‘No … listen to me … only listen! I’ll tell you all that happened on Friday!’
Gently turned to look at him, sitting shrunken and crouched in the stern of the dinghy.
‘Ah!’ he murmured. ‘I was hoping that you would.’
The story that Paul told was as pathetic as its narrator. He hadn’t known a thing about his father’s projected disappearance until the quarrel late at night. For him, the tragedy had been on quite a different key. Even now he seemed unable to get the matter out.
‘You see … she met him at a party.’
His mother had a lover.
‘His name is Henry Marsh … he’s a solicitor in Norchester. Heaven knows what she sees in him! I could tell him for a cad at a glance.’
But his mother had fallen for him, and he for
her. There had been a head-over-heels romance lasting three months and during that time Paul’s heart had accounted for quite a number of weeks’ absence from the university.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘She met him at Christmas … it was going on till Easter.’
‘Did they keep it under cover?’
‘I suppose so … anyway, I knew about it!’
‘What about your father?’
Paul shrugged feebly. ‘I couldn’t say what he knew.’
From the beginning Paul had been suspicious and before long he had had a row with his mother. It was then he was made to realize that he had slipped into second place. His mother wouldn’t listen to him. His old influence with her had vanished. For the first time in his life he felt the icy wind of neglect seek out his pampered ego and after astonishment and self-pity had run their course he reacted in strict character.
‘At first I threatened to commit suicide, but she wasn’t impressed by that. Then I told her I would inform Father unless she stopped seeing him. It was this that put an end to it – for the moment.’
It would, of course. Mrs Lammas had no intention of either losing or being lost by her husband. A love affair was all very well while it remained a gay flourish to the pattern of life. It was not very well when it threatened to disrupt that pattern, to demolish reputations, to liberate a bondman. So Mrs Lammas had yielded, or at least appeared to yield. When Paul was around she no longer drove off to her discrete rendezvous.
Gently wondered what sort of certificate Paul would get from his mother’s specialist the next time National Service reared its ugly head.
‘But you weren’t satisfied?’
‘No … I knew the difference in her manner towards me! Once we were everything to each other, nothing could come between us. Now she was cool, so horridly cool! How can I describe it? She no longer confided in me and I felt I could no longer confide in her. All the little things that pass between people who love one another! And I knew I couldn’t trust her. She had put me outside her heart. I was sure she would tell me the biggest lie without a grain of remorse.’
So it had become an armed peace between mother and son. Outwardly, everything was the same. Inwardly, they spied upon each other, two enemies, each watching to catch the other at a disadvantage. And Paul couldn’t be away from Cambridge all the time.