Gently Instrumental

by Alan Hunter

  ‘You were scarcely responsible for Virtue’s character.’

  ‘But I was responsible for holding him prisoner.’

  ‘In Virtue’s eyes, you were the sucker.’

  ‘Does that absolve me?’ Hozeley sank his head. ‘I accept all you say about Terry. He was dishonest and predatory. But perhaps at least he was more honest than I, in casting my folly back in my teeth. That was his most-loving deed. He dispelled the mist from my eyes.’ He brushed back a lock from his face. ‘What he did here was deliberate,’ he said. ‘That is what I wanted to tell you. Terry was working to a plan.’

  ‘A plan . . . ?’

  ‘Yes – a plan.’ Hozeley’s mouth had set grim. ‘At first I was too upset to realize it, but it’s plain enough to me now. He wanted the cottage on his own that night. That was the reason for his behaviour. He knew that if he were outrageous enough I wouldn’t be able to face going back there.’

  Gently paused, staring at Hozeley. ‘What led you to think that?’

  ‘Everything.’ Hozeley stared back. ‘The way it developed, from the very beginning. Terry knew what he was doing. It wasn’t a question of loss of touch. He was deliberately sabotaging the rehearsal by coming in late and modifying his timing. Then when I failed to rise to that he resorted to the most wounding abuse he could think of, telling me finally that he intended leaving me and hinting that there was someone else.’ Hozeley plunged fingers into his hair. ‘I am ashamed to say that he succeeded. His insinuations even implicated the Quartet, not excluding Miss Hazlewood.’

  ‘She was specifically referred to?’

  ‘She was glanced at. But the insinuations were preposterous. He was heartily disliked by the other players – even in my blindness I was conscious of that.’

  Gently glanced at Leyston, who was looking blank.

  ‘So what could have been the motive for this plan, then?’

  Hozeley gazed wretchedly at the matting. ‘I have to accept there was another man.’

  ‘Have you any suggestions?’

  ‘Yes – now.’ His shoulders heaved resignedly. ‘Clearly it was the man who spoke to David on Monday.’

  ‘Him!’

  ‘Doesn’t that follow? His interest in Terry was explicit.’

  Gently’s stare was less than encouraging. ‘I don’t think it follows at all. We knew nothing about that man except that your gardener has just remembered him.’

  Hozeley hesitated. ‘You think David was lying?’

  ‘I think David was put up to it.’

  Hozeley was silent, his mouth drooping. Then he shook his head with decision. ‘No. David is too naive. He would have told me if that were the case. I’m certain that David did see the man, and that he was the man Terry planned to meet.’

  Gently clicked his tongue. ‘That’s too convenient.’

  ‘I’m sorry you should think so,’ Hozeley said coldly. ‘But this is no device of mine, if that is the insinuation.’

  ‘Did Virtue never speak to you about his past?’

  ‘If he did, it was confidential.’

  ‘About people who might have cause to be his enemies?’

  Hozeley’s face took an obstinate set. ‘I have told you what I think, Superintendent. Your suspicions are quite unfounded. What is significant is that Terry had a motive in seeking to prevent me returning to the cottage. What it was is sufficiently plain. And further than that I can’t help you.’

  ‘Then perhaps the doctor can.’

  ‘The doctor . . . ?’

  Hozeley’s eyes came to his quickly. But before Gently could press his advantage the spring-door bumped and a waiter entered.

  ‘A Chief Superintendent Gently . . . ?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘There’s a phone call for you, sir.’

  Grunting impatience, Gently followed the waiter to a pay-box in the hall.

  ‘Gently here.’

  ‘Greetings, old top.’ The Etonian accents were Pagram’s. ‘I thought you’d like to hear news of some of your grubby friends in town. Les Parry fr’eres, in fact. We made a pass at them with your cadaver. They sang the sweetest little duet, all about a ware-house break-in at Croydon.’

  ‘Is that straight up?’

  ‘Like the Post Office Tower. Met. have recovered the loot from Balham. Sorry if it blights your life, old fruit, but now you win one, now you don’t.’

  ‘I can live with it,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the thermometer showing back there?’

  ‘Ninety-six. I’m sitting in my pants and Blondie plainly isn’t wearing a bra.’

  Gently hung up. Outside, Leyston waited.

  ‘I’m afraid I had to let Hozeley go, sir.’

  ‘Never mind him now. And forget Frank Parry. That angle just went out of the window.’

  ‘Sir . . . ?’

  ‘We’re back with the natives.’

  Leyston’s ruled-off face grew longer. ‘Does that mean Mr Meares, sir?’

  ‘It means a solo for the Cello – after a few bars from Second Violin.’

  Leaving Leyston to gape, he strode through the hall and out of the hotel porch. The Rolls was just being backed, with its front wheels crossed in a crazy-looking lock. They straightened again: the Rolls whispered forward, Hozeley aloof in his high seat. He spared no look for Gently but, God in a Machine, turned the corner and tickered away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE HAZLEWOOD HOUSE, brick and roughcast, stood facing a lawn bleached the colour of parchment, and a white Alfasud nestled in a car port before the doors of a multiple garage. But Miss Hazlewood was out, her mother told them: she was helping to prepare the church for the Festival. A cared-for blonde, she offered them a drink and seemed half sorry to see them go.

  ‘Plenty of cash there, sir,’ Leyston muttered, as they tramped back down the tarmac drive. ‘Maynard Hazlewood has a finger in contracting. His wife is a cousin of Dr Capel.’

  ‘Just one happy family,’ Gently grunted.

  ‘Yes, sir. The brass are pretty close in Shinglebourne.’

  ‘Close enough to close ranks when it comes to trouble.’

  ‘You might say that, sir,’ Leyston said, carefully.

  A cluster of cars shared the lime-shaded park at the west end of the church, and electricians were unloading speakers and rolls of cable from a van. The several doors of the church stood open; people were issuing in and out. From the interior, unexpectedly, came a sudden trill of piano notes.

  ‘There’ll be recitals here most of the week, sir . . .’

  They pushed in, jostled by the electricians. The church was a large, light, wide building with a timbered roof and broad aisles. Few of the windows had stained glass and the sun was pouring in unchecked; the church smelled equally of incense, paraffin, polish and dried musty prayer books. Perhaps because it lacked coolness it gave the impression of being a worn-out building, of having been perversely kept patched and cobbled when its true usefulness had departed.

  ‘There’s Miss Hazlewood – at the piano, sir.’

  An ebony-cased grand stood near the screen. Two men in overalls were adjusting its position while a girl stood by them, finger on chin. Behind, in the chancel, women were shining brasses, and others were arranging floral displays. Then there were the electricians on tall ladders and nurserymen staggering up the aisles with pot plants.

  ‘That’s Capel’s gardener.’ Gently’s eye had fallen on a bald crown bending over a tray of fuchsias.

  ‘Yes, sir – he’s the verger here, William Crag. He’s David Crag’s grandfather.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  It offered one more link in an already extensive chain. If the doctor had wanted to plant beguiling information, there was his instrument, dead-heading the fuchsias. But Leyston had read Gently’s thoughts.

  ‘I doubt if there’s be anything comic with him, sir. He’s a bible-thumper of the old school, always ready to quote a text at you.’

  ‘So the smiting of sodomites might appeal to him.’

>   Leyston shook his head, unsmiling. The elder Crag, straightening from his labours, paused to give them a hard stare.

  They continued up the aisle. By now the piano had arrived at a definitive location, and Laurel Hazlewood stood at the keyboard sounding critical chords and trills.

  ‘Miss Hazlewood?’

  ‘A moment, please.’

  Her face intent, she went on playing. At last with a final dab she stood back to survey the intruders.

  ‘Is this going to take long?’

  Laurel Hazlewood regarded them with earnest, greenish-brown eyes. She had elvish, rather gamin features, with short, auburn hair and a freckled complexion. Her figure was light and trim and her voice plangent but cultivated. She was twenty-four; she wore a plain sleeveless top with a dirndl skirt and strapless sandals.

  ‘Perhaps a few minutes.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be quick, because the electricians are fixing the mikes. They always get them wrong unless someone is there to tell them.’

  ‘If you’ll step this way.’

  With a show of reluctance she went with them into the south aisle, where the war memorial made a screen between part of the aisle and the nave. Gently pointed to a pew. Miss Hazlewood sat and arranged her skirt over her knees.

  ‘I’ve been reading your statement, Miss Hazlewood.’

  ‘Have you?’ She gave the skirt a touch.

  ‘Now that you’ve had time to think things over I’m wondering if you can add a little to it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘For example, the rehearsal. I’d like to know exactly how the trouble began.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She made a little grimace. ‘Not much mystery about that, I would have thought.’

  ‘It was all Virtue’s doing?’

  ‘Entirely. He simply set himself to wreck us. In the end, it got so chronic that it was pointless going on.’

  ‘And then Mr Hozeley put a stop to it.’

  ‘Oh no. Walt was willing to carry on. But the Quartet had had enough, so we opted out. And that was that.’

  ‘It was a general response.’

  She stared. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Someone said something like: “We’ve had enough!” ’

  Miss Hazlewood considered. ‘I think Terry was being rude to Walt, and then Leonard got up and said something of the sort.’

  ‘After which the row began.’

  ‘Yes . . . that started it. Leonard isn’t a man to tolerate rudeness. Then Tom weighed in, and Terry picked it up. And Leonard said it was time for a showdown.’

  ‘And the doctor meanwhile . . . ?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’ Her peaky face was thoughtful. ‘He’s my uncle, you know – sort of. He’s the one who runs the Quartet. But I don’t remember him saying anything at all, which is unusual for him. Perhaps he thought Leonard was doing all right as spokesman. Anyway, this time he kept out of it.’

  ‘It developed between Leonard Meares and Virtue.’

  ‘Well . . . Tom was giving Leonard support. Tom has a hot temper. Once or twice I thought he was going to clout Terry.’ She covered her mouth. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have said that! But nobody can suspect Tom of anything.’

  Gently grunted. ‘Let’s stick to Meares! Did he happen to mention an understudy?’

  Miss Hazlewood pouted for a moment. ‘Yes. Leonard did suggest it.’

  ‘What was Virtue’s response?’

  ‘He began to get nasty. He asked Leonard if he wanted trouble. He went up to him and stared him in the eyes.’ She shivered. ‘There was something really horrid about Terry.’

  ‘He was threatening Meares?’

  ‘Yes. Tom was getting ready to intervene. But Leonard just stayed cool and contemptuous and refused to let Terry provoke him.’

  ‘Virtue’s actual words were: did Meares want trouble?’

  ‘Yes. He kept repeating them in an unpleasant way. Leonard said he thought that was Terry’s problem, but Terry kept staring at him and asking the same thing. And then I chipped in.’ She jigged her shoulders. ‘That probably didn’t help matters! And Tom was chivvying Walt about replacing Terry – and poor Walt was almost in tears.’

  ‘What did Virtue do then?’

  ‘He got ready to leave.’

  ‘And Meares?’

  ‘Leonard didn’t say any more. After that it was a row between Terry and Walt, with Terry behaving like a street lout.’ Her mouth quivered. ‘It was ugly and vicious. Poor Walt didn’t have any defence. Terry was mocking him, tearing him to pieces. If I’d been a man I’d certainly have hit him.’

  ‘Did no one try to stop him?’

  She shook her head. ‘In the end, Tom threatened to break his neck. But it was too late then. He’d made a jelly of Walt, and said things that could never be forgiven.’

  ‘Things about another man, for instance.’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Hazlewood grimaced her distaste.

  ‘At that moment, who was Virtue looking at?’

  ‘Who?’ Her greenish eyes were round.

  The amplifying system gave a sudden wail and Miss Hazlewood jerked up straight in her pew. The loudspeakers cleared their corporate throat and announced apologetically: ‘Testing, one, two, three . . .’ Then came harsh gritting and a faint ‘Fred, try that one . . .’ before a fruity cough ended the broadcast. Miss Hazlewood started up.

  ‘I must go to see to them—!’

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Hazlewood.’

  ‘But I really have told you everything now . . .’

  ‘I think you can spare us a little longer.’

  Resentfully she plumped down again, kicking at a hassock that impeded her feet. Her sharp, small features had an obstinate set and she fretted at her skirt with a finger.

  ‘Well it was Leonard – if you must know! He seemed to have it in particularly for him. I thought he was doing it deliberately to make mischief between Leonard and Walt. But Walt didn’t notice. He was too upset. All he had eyes for was Terry. And Terry said it could be any one of us, or even a girl – looking at me.’

  ‘Did Meares make any response?’

  ‘Of course not. Simply stared back at Terry with contempt.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘When Terry hinted at me was when Tom told him to clear out.’

  ‘And then he went?’

  ‘Yes – because Tom would have thrown him out if he hadn’t. Tom’s as gentle as a kitten really, but he won’t stand people insulting women.’

  She broke off to stare at an electrician who was trailing a cable down the aisle. The man looped it round a pillar, grinned, and went on his way.

  ‘Tell me what was said after Virtue left.’

  ‘What? We had to rally round Walt, of course. Uncle Henry principally – he’s a doctor, so he’s rather good at it.

  ‘He was trying to persuade him to carry on.’

  ‘He told him that the part was bigger than the player. That he owed it to music, that sort of thing. He bullied him a bit – but then, he had to.’

  ‘Was the understudy mentioned?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, not in Walt’s hearing. Tom thought that Walt would come round and carry on, but Uncle Henry wasn’t so certain. Obviously Walt couldn’t go home. Uncle Henry offered to put him up. Walt decided he needed to be alone and went off, and Uncle Henry let him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That’s about it.’ She flicked a thread from her skirt. ‘Uncle Henry and Tom went for a drink. Leonard and I preferred to go.’

  ‘Together . . . of course.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her finger raked across the material. ‘I take it you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with what happened.’

  Gently’s face was bland. ‘Did you?’

  Her body jerked. ‘No, I didn’t! Good lord, you’ve only to ask Leonard. He can tell you I went straight home.’

  ‘Because he went with you?’

  ‘I – no!’ Blush spots appeared un
der her eyes. ‘As a matter of fact I did offer him a lift, but he said he’d rather walk.’

  ‘You usually gave him a lift?’

  ‘Yes – sometimes. Mostly I suppose, if it comes to that!’

  ‘But not on Tuesday.’

  ‘Look, I went straight home. Ask Daddy and Mummy – they’ll tell you.’

  Gently considered the small, flushed face. ‘What reason did he give – for forgoing your company?’

  ‘I didn’t need a reason. We were all upset. I was glad to be alone, too.’

  ‘He simply said, Not tonight, Laurel.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Her eyes were fierce. ‘If you must know he said he’d sooner walk because he had a call to make on his way home.’

  ‘A call to make . . .’

  ‘Yes! Just ask him, he’ll tell you it’s true.’

  ‘Then he wouldn’t have seen you leave.’

  ‘Yes – I passed him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the bottom of Saxton Road.’

  Gently’s expression was incredulous. ‘That’s convenient, Miss Hazlewood, but Saxton Road isn’t on his way home.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s where I saw him. And he waved, so I know he recognized me.’

  ‘And you of course recognized him.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Her flush deepened. ‘We all know Leonard – Mummy, Daddy. He’s been a friend of ours for years.’

  ‘It was Leonard Meares – down to his clothes.’

  ‘If you like, I can describe them. They were plain in my headlights – a light grey jacket, dark slacks and sandals. Now try to tell me it wasn’t him!’

  Gently didn’t try to tell her. He leaned against the plinth of the war memorial and listened for a moment to the bustle of the church.

  ‘Had Virtue no friends in your little group?’

  Miss Hazlewood was regarding him pinkly. She had picked up a prayer book from the shelf and was riffling the pages with her thumb. She sat very straight. Her small, light body looked almost like a child’s in the vastness of the pew.

  ‘Of course he didn’t.’ Her voice was cross. ‘People like that don’t have friends.’

  ‘Still, you’d been rehearsing for several weeks. He couldn’t have been offensive all the time.’