by Alan Hunter
Gently twitched a shoulder. ‘The female principle.’
‘Ah.’ Capel nodded. ‘I see I’m dealing with rather more than a plain copper. But sailing’s as much in the family as music. My son and my wife are both sailors. And Tom, our Viola, owns the boatyard – that’s his daughter out there. Marion.’
‘I see . . . all in the family.’
Capel’s laugh was tickled. ‘Yes, Leslie does have an eye for Marion. But he’s at Guy’s, you know. Second year.’
‘And Mr Hozeley – does he sail?’
‘Walt? Never. He prefers to watch.’
‘To listen to the cadence.’
‘Aha. You obviously know something about his music.’
Capel hummed a jaunty air, his fingers dancing on the desk; then he sighed regretfully.
‘But you haven’t come here about his music.’
‘I’m ready to talk about it.’
‘No doubt. But what you’ve come about is the man.’ He tilted his odd face. ‘Leyston wants to nail Walt,’ he said. ‘That’s preposterous, but it’s true. And somehow, we’ve got to stop him.’
‘We?’ Gently said.
Capel’s eyes were quick. ‘Have you talked to Walt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what’s your opinion?’
Gently jogged his shoulders. ‘I’d sooner hear yours.’
Capel gazed at him, grey eyes probing. ‘My opinion and yours are the same,’ he said. ‘Walt’s a pederast, he’s a genius and he’s quite incapable of hurting anyone.’
‘Is that my opinion?’
‘Yes.’
He rose and took some steps down the room.
‘What music of Walt’s do you know?’ he asked.
Gently took a seat on the corner of the desk. It was a large room with tall windows: almost as idiosyncratic as its owner. Between bookcases of natural oak hung row on row of framed photographs, each depicting a prehistoric stone circle, or occasionally a single stone. A metal-framed cabinet contained clinical clutter, a display-table pebbles and shells. Then there was the half-model of Lapel’s sloop, mounted on teak and hung over the desk.
‘I know the Beach Suite. I have the tape.’
‘Yes, the Beach Suite,’ Capel said. ‘That was the start of things for Walt. Before that nobody had ever heard of him.’ He made a gliding movement. ‘I don’t have to remind you that Shinglebourne had its presiding genius. Till now, Walt has been in the shadow of greatness, we couldn’t see him. The Beach Suite changed that.’
‘Your presiding genius promoted him.’
‘Yes. He got him a spot on the Proms. But even then’ – Capel hoisted his shoulders – ‘I have to admit to being one of the blind. Old Walt is so modest. And the Suite was so new – new in a technical sense, I mean. Genius is rum. You need time to mature to it, to let it modify your responses. It wasn’t until we started rehearsing the Quintet that I realized where we were. But I knew then. You can’t play Walt and be oblivious of his quality.’
Gently nodded. ‘A second Shinglebourne Orpheus.’
‘Oh, you can’t compare genius. You must just be thankful for it.’
‘And perhaps . . . protect it?’
Capel’s glance was sharp. ‘Yes. Why not?’
Gently hunched. ‘Let’s get to Virtue! What’s your opinion of him?’
‘Virtue.’ Capel gestured. ‘Virtue was a predator, the type that preys on people like Walt. A predatory egoist. You had to be dazzled by sex not to see it. Believe me, Freud was no fool when he placed such emphasis on sex. It’s the underground spring that flows every moment and tends to burst out at the smallest obstruction. It’s sex that roughhews our ends, rationalize them how we may. Walt’s stream had taken the alternative channel. Which left him vulnerable to Virtue, but inspired the Quintet.’
‘And Virtue’s stream?’
‘Virtue was debased. He was a promiscuous bisexual.’
‘Can you be certain of that?’
‘Quite certain. He merely preyed on men because it was easier.’
‘So there could be a woman in it somewhere?’
Capel pulled a face. ‘It’s always possible. Though I have to admit that I think it’s unlikely. Laurel, our Second Violin, loathed him.’
‘I imagine Hozeley would keep a tight rein on him.’
‘Oh, yes. Your old queens are more jealous than women. If Virtue was up to something on the side he would need to have been very clever.’
‘Yet wasn’t that the inference?’
Capel hesitated. ‘Old Walt thinks otherwise, you know. And with all due allowance for his infatuation, I must cautiously agree with him. Virtue’s insinuations weren’t specific. They sounded rather off the cuff. He wanted to hurt Walt. It had been building all the evening, till at last he let fly with the unforgivable.’
‘But . . . why?’
Capel mimed blankness. ‘Perhaps Walt had simply got on his nerves.’
‘But – if Virtue was the predator you suppose – wouldn’t he have been too cunning for such tactics?’
Capel shook his head and was silent.
‘What I’m getting at is this,’ Gently said. ‘If the break-up was final, as your statement suggests, then there must be another man in the picture. Hozeley, of course, would deny that. But so apparently do you.’
‘Oh come now,’ Capel smiled. ‘Cautious agreement was all I said. And if there is another man in the picture, I haven’t seen any sign of him yet.’
‘Let me sketch you his portrait,’ Gently said. ‘He would be a man of substance and reputation. A public figure. Possibly a man whose conduct is subject to professional scrutiny.’
Capel laughed outright. ‘It won’t do, you know. Virtue wasn’t even a patient of mine. And if I was a candidate for Sodom, I would scarcely be practising on my doorstep.’
‘Nor would you deceive a man you so much admire.’
‘It wouldn’t be in my nature,’ Capel smiled.
‘Or whose genius you might seek to protect.’
Capel smiled and dipped his head.
He sauntered back to the desk and hitched himself on the corner opposite Gently’s. His eyes were still smiling but his mouth was set straight. He sat casually, like a big animal, one leg extended and one bent, his head a little to one side, his hands hanging loose.
‘Do you think I had a finger in it?’ he said.
Gently stared at him before replying. ‘I think it might have crossed your mind to take some action,’ he said.
‘But killing him?’
‘Someone killed him.’
‘It doesn’t have to be one of us. Homosexuals stick their necks out. It could have been a spur of the moment killing.’
‘Not this one.’
‘All the same, killing would be rather an extreme measure.’
‘Are you suggesting it was manslaughter?’
Capel smiled and raised his hand in a disclaiming gesture.
‘What I’m wondering,’ Gently said, ‘is why you and Friday didn’t leave with the others. Hozeley went, Meares, Miss Hazlewood, but you and Friday stayed on. Why? Why didn’t you go home to, say, warn your wife to expect Hozeley?’
Capel pretended to duck. ‘That’s one that Leyston missed out on! And the answer is quite damning. Tanya was out on Tuesday evening.’
‘Your wife was out?’
‘Yes. You might call Tanya a music-widow. She was playing bridge at the Walkers’. She didn’t get in till past eleven.’
‘So if you needed an alibi, you wouldn’t have one?’
Capel aped an idiot grin. ‘Not a ghost of one. Leslie is in London, and the day of the live-in domestic is over. But to be specific, I was pretty certain that old Walt would take his time, and meanwhile I preferred a drink with Tom to going home to an empty house.’
‘A convivial drink.’
‘More or less. Though of course we did have things to mull over – like how to put the stuffing back into Walt and stop the performance going up the spout
.’ He swung towards Gently. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying so, that’s still the number one priority – how we can deliver to the world a piece of music that surpasses even the Beach Suite.’
‘It takes precedence over murder?’
‘Yes – for me. Virtue is dead, you can’t help him. And it would only compound the crime to let his death interfere with the performance. That would be spiritual murder on top. And somehow I intend to prevent it.’
Gently stared. ‘But you’ve lost your soloist.’
‘Oh no.’ Capel jumped from the desk. ‘Heaven help me if I ever put my faith in a vessel as leaky as Virtue. Of course he could play, he could play our heads off – and Walt wrote the part especially to suit him. But the situation was a bomb. It could have blown up at any time in the past few weeks.’ He fell into a sudden squat before Gently. ‘I kept an understudy up my sleeve.’
‘An understudy . . . !’
‘Uhuh.’ The angled face grinned up at Gently. ‘I organized a copy of the score and sent it to Leslie in London. Leslie plays cello in a group at the hospital and knows a lot of solid players. He passed the score to a fellow called Davies, who’s been rehearsing the part for a month. He’s an intern, but he can get time off. I’m hoping to introduce him tonight.’
‘Then . . . you knew all along you could dispense with Virtue?’
‘I knew we were fireproof if he called off.’
‘That it was safe to deal with him.’
‘Don’t be naughty! Who we really had to deal with was Walt.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘Walt’s reaction was critical. We couldn’t just give his protégé the push. All we could do was to be ready and try to persuade Walt to carry on.’
‘Which was the situation on Tuesday.’
‘Yes. And still the situation today.’
‘Except that now it isn’t complicated by Virtue.’ Capel unfolded from the floor. ‘Well – I didn’t kill him.’
He went round the desk and took from a drawer a silver box containing cigars. He offered them to Gently; Gently declined. Capel lit one and breathed smoke. Then he lapsed on the desk again and sat smoking and swinging his free leg.
‘So what about Walt?’
Gently shrugged. ‘Perhaps we can leave him on the shingle.’
Capel nodded. ‘I felt certain you were going to see it that way, in the end. And Leonard, he went off with Laurel. You can ask Marion what time her father got home.’
‘When did you leave The White Hart?’
‘At ten. It gives me over an hour adrift.’
‘You went with Friday?’
‘Only to the corner. Tom lives at the other end of The Street.’
Gently studied him through the cigar smoke. Capel’s grey eyes leered. There was something Mephistophelean about the slanted head, straight nose and protruding chin.
‘Want me to go on?’
‘It’s up to you.’
Capel took a firm puff. ‘My house here in Saxton Road is only about half a mile from Walt’s. I could have been there in ten minutes, ringing his doorbell like a maniac. Virtue comes out – What’s the fuss? Quick, old Walt has stabbed himself. Virtue rushes after me and when we get in the lane I clobber him.’
‘Clobber him . . . ?’
Capel hesitated. ‘Wasn’t that a good guess?’
‘What would you clobber him with?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll leave you to fill in that bit.’ He shaped smoke. ‘So it’s all over within fifteen minutes of my leaving Tom. When Tanya gets in I’m watching television in my slippers and a haze of smoke – Good rehearsal, Pooh? I explain – I’m a little worried about old Walt. But Walt turns up on cue, and the Good doctor and all go to bed.’ He swung his leg. ‘How many marks?’
‘Why did you clobber him in the lane?’
‘Huh?’ Capel’s eyes were keen.
‘With a tale like that you could have taken him anywhere.’
‘Oh well!’ He rocked gaunt shoulders. ‘It was all rather improvised, you know. I wanted to get on with it, and the lane was quiet. It seemed a good idea at the time.’
‘But you’d need a weapon. Where did that come from?’
‘I seem to have a blind spot about that.’
‘Something hard and heavy.’
‘It’s no use. That bit has got displaced from my mind.’
‘But you struck him with something.’
Capel shook his head. ‘I must have picked up something on the way there. Perhaps a stake from somebody’s fence, or an empty bottle. I don’t know.’
‘Then it wasn’t you who knifed him?’
‘What?’ Capel’s eyes jumped to Gently’s.
‘If he’d been knifed.’
Capel looked away, drew a little quickly on the cigar.
‘But he wasn’t – was he?’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘No. You practically admitted he was clobbered.’
‘I admitted nothing.’
‘Then you played me along, pretending I’d got the right idea!’ He puffed a few times and stubbed the cigar. ‘Well, you’re better at this game than I am.’ His eyes became mischievous. ‘And anyway, I told you that our first priority was protecting Walt.’
‘It isn’t my first priority.’
‘You’ll never admit it, but you’re batting for the angels just the same. I may be a child in your forensic clutches, but I know my man. You’re no Himmler.’
‘Who did go after Virtue?’
Capel slid from the desk. ‘Would you say it was too early for a drink?’
Gently sighed. ‘Not if it’s beer!’
Capel reached over and pressed a button.
A maid brought the beer, which was chilled and bobbing with ice cubes. An attractive girl, she was perspiring in a pink housecoat and little else. Capel had loosened his collar and tie and draped his jacket over a chair. He ran a playful finger down the maid’s spine: she jerked away, but obviously liked it. He sent Gently a leer.
‘Down with sodomy. But alack, Phyllida’s a patient.’
‘It must be frustrating.’
‘Drink your beer. I was only making a point.’
They drank. Whoever was losing out on the summer, it wasn’t the brewers. Beer had suddenly become a necessity, like newspapers or soap. Capel, sprawling now on a chair by a window, sipped from his glass in large gulps. He looked more youthful than ever with his firm throat showing through the open collar.
‘Do you expect to be here for the Festival?’
Gently drank, then shook his head.
‘What made you mention manslaughter?’
Gently drank again. ‘Did I mention it . . . ?’
‘Yes – you did! Were you fishing, or do you really know something?’
Gently drained beer past ice cubes. ‘Probably fishing. What’s the idea of all those photographs?’
‘What—? Oh!’ Capel peeled off the chair. ‘That’s my hobby horse. Did nobody tell you? I see the idea has cropped up elsewhere now, but I think I was first in the field.’
‘But what idea?’
‘It struck me one autumn when I was spending a week in the lakes. I was visiting Castlerigg on one of those mizzly, chilly days that we’ve forgotten. I stood staring and wondering at the stones – they seemed so remote from human purposes. A roofless temple? In that climate? And why had the stones been left in the rough? Then it came to me in a bang: I was looking at a prehistoric launch site.’
‘A rocket launch site . . . ?’
‘What else? I’ve visited Woomera, you know. And this was perfect – a low, broad hill in a wide basin of mountains. All stone circles are astrally aligned and give the impression of being left unfinished – which would be the case if they were intended to support a superstructure of more perishable materials. That would have vanished, with all its accessories, leaving only the foundations for us to muse over.’
Gently crunched an ice cube. ‘It’s a theory.’
‘Yes, but look –
it’s susceptible to proof! All it needs is a programme of circle excavation by people briefed to look for the right things.’
‘And what would they be?’
Capel counted on his fingers. ‘First, a high incidence of iron oxide in the soil. Second, traces of fusion and extreme heat and residual ash. Third, any bronze artefact that doesn’t fit an established pattern. If enough of these were found on enough sites, it would be difficult to explain them by alternative theories.’
Gently drank. ‘All that sounds familiar. I’m looking for much the same things every day – moral rust, signs of high temperature and behaviour that doesn’t fit established patterns.’
Capel’s eyes were lively. ‘And have you found them here?’
‘Perhaps a little of all three.’
‘Oh dear! Not the first?’
‘Wouldn’t you say there were traces – if somebody is covering up for a killer?’
Capel came slowly back from the photographs. Now his grey eyes were still. He revolved his empty glass between his large palms.
‘So – what will you do now?’
Gently drank. ‘Follow your suggestion. Excavate more sites and eliminate the alternative theories.’
‘But you’ll lay off Walt?’
‘I’ve done my digging there. I may have to check back on my results.’
‘I don’t mind you suspecting me, you know.’
Gently put down his glass. ‘That’s what worries me.’
He went, leaving Capel staring. At the door he surprised Miss Friday; she blushed and stood back awkwardly, then went into the routine of ushering him out. When he drove away she was still gazing after him: and so was Adam with the rake.
CHAPTER FOUR
ADDERS – WHAT TO Do If Bitten. The notice was pinned to the police station notice board, next to a red and yellow poster setting out the Festival programme. Hozeley’s Quintet was billed No. 1, on Saturday at eight at the George V Hall: The Shinglebourne Chamber Music Quartet with soloist Terence Virtue (clarinet). Gently grunted as he read it: let no man programme for the morrow! Some adder had intervened, up there by the heath, with a bite too keen for sweet tea and tourniquets . . .
