by Alan Hunter
‘It’s just another . . . festival piece.’
‘No, Walt.’
‘But Henry – I can’t take it!’
‘You’re upset, Walt. But you know I’m right.’
Walt jumped to his feet: went to stare at a window.
‘God’s bloody pyjamas,’ Tom Friday muttered. ‘I could strangle that snivelling Virtue! Do we know of an understudy?’
Capel touched his nose. ‘If only I can get Walt up to scratch.’
‘Walt’ll come round.’
‘Don’t be too certain. Virtue won’t let him off the hook.’
‘I’ll run that scrubber out of town!’
‘Only,’ Capel said, ‘it wouldn’t cure Walt.’
They stared at Hozeley’s hunched back. In Laurel’s eyes there were tears. Leonard’s face was still pale, had a set, empty expression.
Walt came back.
‘I can’t go home tonight.’ His heavy features were all misery.
‘That’s all right, Walt,’ Capel said hastily. ‘There’s always a bed for you at my place.’
‘I need to think . . . and it’s so hot. I’ll go for a walk along the Front . . . where I can hear the sea. I need some coolness in my brain.’
Clumsily, he picked up his jacket, set his wide-brimmed hat on his locks. Then he shambled out: sixty-one, admitting to eighty when crossed in love.
‘Go after him, Henry!’ Tom Friday exclaimed. ‘The poor old sod is acting desperate.’
Slowly Capel shook his head. ‘Not Walt. He’s a survivor.’
‘You could talk to him.’
‘I’ll talk to him later. Right now he’s best left alone. When he comes in I’ll give him a sedative and a little tot. Tomorrow we’ll talk.’
‘Oh, poor Mr Hozeley!’ Laurel cried. ‘I wish there was some way we could help him.’
Capel gave her a meditative glance, then moved his angular shoulders. ‘Let’s go for a drink.’
‘Not me,’ Leonard said. ‘I’m like Walt. I need air.’ He moved abruptly to his cello and laid it away in its case. ‘I’ll leave this here – on chance.’
‘Yes, do that,’ Capel nodded.
‘I think I’ll go with Leonard,’ Laurel said. ‘Really, it’s too hot for drinking.’
So then they were two, Capel and Tom Friday, standing together in the silent room: with the chairs grouped emptily on the low platform, the evening’s music dead and buried.
‘Tom,’ Capel said. ‘Isn’t sex a bastard. It does for men like drink. It sets them up but it knocks them down. It’s like a fire you can’t control.’
‘Sex is all right,’ Tom Friday said. ‘As long as you don’t have it on the brain.’
‘Walt has it on the brain,’ Capel said. ‘He’s sick with it.’
‘So,’ Tom Friday said, ‘what can we do?’
This, in the Music Room of The White Hart, at the top end of the small town, where it verged into country, when the night of 24 August was beginning. The world turned. Sidelong light flickered across the grey plains of sea. From shadow stepped the houses, the tinder trees, the blackened heaths. Early men walked. In street and road and lane they went their way: gate to gate, house to house, with little clatterings and clinkings. Then one stopped and stood still, stopped between the dawn light and the sun: stopped, in a great silence that strangled song in the birds’ throats. Cruelly the sun came out of Holland on the morning of the twenty-fifth, sharp as a broken bottle. Cars arrived, other men.
CHAPTER TWO
WHAT THE OFFICE smelled of was soot, like a railway waiting room of earlier days. And in fact there was a shuttered-off fireplace, painted over but not otherwise effaced. Inspector Leyston went with the room: a tall, lean man, nearing retirement, dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat and sporting a pair of well-combed sideboards. In shaking hands, he touched his heels together.
‘Didn’t expect them to send us one of the brass, sir.’
Gently grinned. ‘There’s a reason for it. Our Assistant Commissioner is a culture vulture.’
Then, to Leyston’s surprise, Gently rounded his lips and began to whistle: a haunting little theme. And Gently had a twinkle in his eye.
‘Recognize it?’
‘Well . . . no, sir.’
‘It’s from Hozeley’s Beach Suite. They gave it on the Proms last summer, and our AC is something of an addict. Also, it’s been taped by the LSO. Your Walter Hozeley is a Name.’
‘Yes . . . I see, sir.’
Gently sent him an amused look. ‘Got any beer?’
‘You bet, sir.’
‘It was hot work, driving down.’
Leyston set up bottles and glasses – old-fashioned tumblers, heavy and fluted. Through the office window one looked down on a street which the sun was pounding like a hammer. Slung across it was a canvas banner: Shinglebourne’s 27th Festival of Music and Art, 28 Aug–6 Sept It hung unstirred by any breeze.
‘Let me guess why you called us in. There’s too many toes here to tread on.’
Gently had gulped down half a tumbler before Leyston had finished his first sip. Another contrast: he was wearing sandals, a short-sleeved shirt and calf-length slacks, from the hip-pocket of which his wallet bulged. All of which Leyston had eyed almost guiltily.
‘Well . . . I have to admit that, sir.’
‘There’ll be some who are too close for comfort.’
‘Yes, sir. One or two.’ Leyston took a nervous swig. ‘I mean, Dr Capel, sir. He’s my doctor. It’d be a bit awkward to have a go at him. And Mr Meares manages the building society office where I took out the mortgage for my house. Then there’s Friday, he’s the boatbuilder, he looks after my old yacht. Miss Hazlewood I don’t know personally, but her old man is the town clerk.’
Gently drank. ‘And you fancy the whole bunch?’
‘Just Hozeley, sir. But the others are involved.’
‘Very awkward,’ Gently said. ‘My Assistant Commissioner doesn’t see Hozeley in the part at all.’
He drank; Leyston drank. It was what that summer was all about. Though by now the sun was off the office window, still it seemed to pulse through the walls, the ceiling.
‘What do you know about Virtue?’
Leyston’s face was long between its sideboards. ‘He doesn’t have form, sir. Came here from Eastbourne. Been living with Hozeley for six months.’
‘I can add a bit to that.’ From his briefcase Gently hoisted a limp folder. ‘Born at Streatham. Two years ago he was selling cars at a Streatham garage, run by the Parry brothers, Frank and Arthur, who copped three apiece for ringing cars.’ He spread photographs on the desk. ‘Full remission. They’ve been back in circulation for a month. Virtue shopped them. Dodgy alibis. It’s an idea that appeals to the AC.’
Leyston gazed doubtfully, then shook his head. ‘Haven’t twigged them up this way, sir.’
‘Probably a coincidence,’ Gently said. ‘But we’ll leave it on the table. Next we hear of Virtue at Eastbourne. He was employed as a waiter at the Rampton Court Hotel. Occasional stand-in with the orchestra, which no doubt was how he came to Hozeley’s notice. Tried to blackmail a guest, who reported it. Virtue sheered off, no charge. Ring any bells?’
‘Not with me, sir.’
Gently sighed and gulped more beer. ‘We’ll stick with Hozeley then, for the present. Now I’ll take a look at your pictures.’
Leyston handed him a file. A spread of glossies showed the body lying on its back, legs crumpled to the side, arms upflung and head turned to the left. The clothes were trendy: candy-striped shirt, skin-tight slacks and close-waisted jacket. A brushed hairstyle framed delicate features. Lying near the head, a large flint.
‘Was the body frisked?’
‘No sir. Cash and possessions intact.’
‘I don’t see a watch.’
‘He wasn’t wearing it. We found a Timex watch in a drawer of his dressing table.’
‘How much cash?’
‘Three fivers and change. Hozeley says
he gave him twenty the day before.’
‘Robbery no motive, then.’
Leyston shrugged; as though perhaps it hadn’t even crossed his mind.
‘Now the medical bit.’
‘Depressed fracture of the skull, sir, on the left side of the head. Bruising on knuckles of both hands. Bruising on left buttock.’
Gently pondered. ‘It sounds like a fight. But how did he bruise his left buttock?’
‘Might have done it when he fell,’ Leyston suggested. ‘The knuckles too, the way he’s lying.’
‘Was Hozeley examined?’
‘Yes sir. Negative.’
‘I think Virtue defended himself.’
‘He might not have done any damage,’ Leyston said. ‘I reckon he was taken out pretty damn quick.’
‘How active is Hozeley?’
Leyston pursed his lips. ‘He’d do all right with that flint in his hand.’
‘What’s the report on the flint?’
‘Well, negative. But lab says they wouldn’t expect it to pick up much.’
Gently emptied his bottle and drank. Clearly, Leyston was selling himself Hozeley. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising, when the mores of Shinglebourne were so far removed from the mores of, say, Chelsea. Yet already the case was showing holes through which an astute counsel could drive a truck.
‘What’s Hozeley’s story?’
‘What you might expect, sir. He says he went for a stroll on the Front. Says the row with Virtue upset him, that he couldn’t face going back to the cottage. Dr Capel had offered to put him up, but he didn’t arrive there till two hours later. Says he sat on the shingle for a bit, didn’t realize how long he’d been there.’
‘Any corroboration offered?’
‘No sir.’
‘Is it likely that nobody would have seen him?’
‘Well, it was dark,’ Leyston said. ‘But he’s pretty well known, and we’ve talked to one or two people who were about there.’
‘Can you place him at the cottage?’
‘Not exactly, though we do have a couple of likely statements. About a man seen hurrying along Saxton Road at around 9.20 p.m., which would have been the time.’
‘But no identification.’
‘Afraid not, sir. Neither witness got a proper look at him.’
Gently tapped on the desk. ‘Getting back to that rehearsal! What’s your impression of what happened there?’
‘I’ve got the statements, sir . . .’
‘Never mind those. I want you to give me your idea.’
Leyston glanced at the window for a moment, his solemn face blank. He fingered the corner of a sideboard. ‘I’d say . . . it was a sort of lovers’ quarrel, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, that’s how it reads. There was this mention of another man. They say that Virtue was hinting at it, telling Hozeley that he was through with him. Of course, Virtue was playing up as well, trying to wreck the performance on Saturday. Some of the others were rowing with him. But it was really between him and Hozeley.’
‘It began with him playing badly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Which of the others were rowing with him?’
‘Mr Meares and Mr Friday. They were wanting Hozeley to throw him out. But of course he wouldn’t, sir, he was too stuck on him. And then Virtue decided to take off. That was when he really let go at Hozeley and when this other man was talked of.’
‘Any names mentioned?’
‘No, sir. And I haven’t turned up a likely customer.’
‘There’s no question that Hozeley was seriously disturbed?’
Leyston shook his head. ‘No question at all, sir. When he went off he was in such a state that they thought someone ought to go with him. He was acting crazed. And this was only five minutes after Virtue left.’
‘When did the others leave?’
‘Mr Meares and Miss Hazlewood left together soon after Hozeley. Dr Capel and Mr Friday had a drink in the bar, then they left together at around 10 p.m. Hozeley didn’t arrive at the doctor’s until nearly half-past eleven. The doctor says he gave him a sedative and packed him off to bed.’
Gently nodded. ‘And the ETD?’
‘Between nine and midnight,’ Leyston said. ‘The pathologist wouldn’t put it closer. Seems this heat plays tricks with bodies.’
‘He died where found.’
‘Yes, sir. By the gateway of Gorse Cottage.’
‘Right,’ Gently said, rising. ‘Now I think I’m ready to meet the bereaved and the damned.’
They went down to Gently’s white Marina, which stood frying in the sun. Shinglebourne’s main street ran north and south and offered little shade at mid-morning. It was a broad, unusual street, developed in a piece by some mid-Victorian: a double run of small shops and houses that alternated brick fret with voluptuous plaster. A lesser street ran parallel with it, and then the undistinguished Front. All was coeval, on a minor scale, and disturbingly poised between quaint and ugly.
Gently unlocked the car and they paused to let its plastic breath exhale. Leyston, encouraged by example, had removed his jacket, to look even more in period in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. They drove up The Street. No later developments interrupted the dogged Victorian scene. At its top The Street was closed by a red-brick block that squeezed the traffic into narrow thoroughfares.
‘Where is the White Hart?’ Gently asked.
‘At the north end, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘Near the Saxton Road junction. You wouldn’t have passed it, driving in.’
‘When was it built?’
Leyston looked vague. ‘Don’t reckon it’s a new place, sir. But it’s a three-star. All the important music people stay there.’
They turned into Saxton Road. Here at last the Victorian clef faltered. After passing a large but insipid flint church one began to see cheerful Edwardian houses. They peered from behind beeches and parched lawns and drives that led to multiple garages. Saxton Road, Shinglebourne’s link with England, was also the preserve of its affluent. Higher up still the houses were modern; they ended at the golf course and the open heath.
‘On your left, sir.’
Where the houses stopped a lane turned down between hawthorn hedges. It was surfaced with gravel, and within a hundred yards reached a wide, low gate. Behind the gate stood a thatched cottage, partly concealed by thick shrubberies; because it lay lower than the road, one could glimpse the heath lying all around it.
‘Gorse Cottage . . . ?’
‘That’s it, sir.’
Gently drove down and parked by the gate. The cottage was large; it had gable-fronted wings and dormer windows tucked under its thatch. The walls were faced with white plaster and the thatch was reed, crisp and new. Before the cottage a weedless sweep encircled a trim bed of roses.
‘Hozeley can’t be poor,’ Gently murmured.
‘He’s all right, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘Old Mrs Suffling used to own this place. She was his aunt, she left it to him.’
‘No question about the way she went?’
‘Well . . . no, sir!’ Leyston looked alarmed.
Gently shrugged; he got out of the car. ‘Now . . . let’s see the spot where you found him.’
Leyston stood by the varnished gate and traced an outline with his foot. Virtue had fallen just short of the gateway, with his head pointing towards the right-hand post. A little blood which had oozed from the head had later been tidied away, and the embedded gravel had taken no marks. Of the tragedy, nothing remained.
‘What about the flint?’
‘It was holding the gate, sir. Hozeley left the gate open when he drove out.’
Leyston demonstrated how the gate, when opened, would swing slowly shut unless stopped. And of course it had been dark, or nearly so, when the attack had taken place: the assailant must have known of the flint’s being there, and Hozeley knew: QED.
‘Still only presumption, Gently said.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ Leyston sai
d. ‘It was Hozeley who put the flint there only a couple of hours earlier. So he chases back here, catches Virtue, and Virtue provokes him to violence. Then he drops his hand on the flint. I reckon that’s as near as we’ll get to it, sir.’
They were interrupted. From an open window came a frantic outburst of piano-playing, a demented hammering. Someone was batting out the Dead March from Saul.
Leyston rang; the playing stopped. Firm footsteps approached the door. It was opened by a white-haired matron who glared at Leyston, and then retired. Leyston looked hot.
‘Mrs Butley,’ he muttered. ‘I reckon she went with the cottage, sir.’
‘Does she live in?’
‘No, sir. She’s got a little place by the vicarage.’
The lady returned. She led them down the hall and threw open a heavy panelled door. It admitted them to a large room that spanned the entire width of the ground floor. Its ceiling was low and beamed and its windows set deep in massive walls; at the far end a man was sitting at a walnut-cased Steinway grand.
‘The policemen, sir,’ Mrs Butley said bleakly.
Walter Hozeley rose from the grand. He was a large, deep-shouldered man with a head of untidy, grey hair. He had heavy, brooding features and a big, coppery nose, feathery brows, a mouth that drooped and absent, pale blue eyes. He hesitated, then gestured.
‘Thank you, Butty. You may go.’
The voice was clipped and neutral. It seemed to come from a long way off. Leyston stepped forward.
‘Chief Superintendent Gently, sir. He’s in charge of the case now. He’d like to ask you a few questions, sir – just to get things clear in his mind.’
Hozeley peered at Gently. ‘From Scotland Yard?’
‘Yes, sir. From the Yard.’
‘Hasn’t he read my statement?’
‘Well yes, sir, but—’
‘I don’t have anything more to add.’
He stalked to a wing-armchair and sat, his craggy profile turned to a window: Walt, Walter Hozeley, whose large brain had heard the Beach Suite.
Gently hunched. He strolled across to the piano. He began pressing notes with unskilled fingers. It was that theme again, Leyston noticed, at first picked out haltingly, then with more confidence. And at last Gently got it together, was making note follow note in tempo. He played it lingeringly, sensitively, searching for the feeling. Hozeley jumped up.
