by Alan Hunter
‘That was actually mentioned?’
Meares checked. ‘At least, I received that impression.’
‘But . . . would that have been a possible course, when his only support came from Mr Hozeley?’
Meares’s shoulders moved. ‘I may have been misled. Things are said in the heat of the moment. Or Terry may have felt he could rely on Walt even if he asserted his independence.’
‘Or perhaps he had some other iron in the fire.’
‘If he did I could not say what. But the outburst was emotional and confused, it would be unwise to interpret it too strictly.’
‘Yes . . . unwise.’ Gently’s hand dismissed it. ‘And for this reason – Hozeley’s jealousy – you saw Terry infrequently.’
‘Very infrequently. He was rarely allowed down town on his own.’
‘Yet sometimes he must have escaped, naturally.’
‘No doubt he did whenever he could.’
‘Those, of course, are the times that interest us. Especially the occasions of recent date.’
Meares was silent.
‘Can you help us there?’
‘I am . . . trying to remember when I last saw him out.’
‘Within the last few days,’ Gently said. ‘Let’s take an example. Last weekend.’
Meares shook his head. ‘No. I’m pretty certain.’
‘Or narrow it down,’ Gently said. ‘Saturday.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘The afternoon.’
‘No.’
‘At around 3 p.m.’
Meares continued to shake his head in a silence broken only by the creaking of the fan. The PCW’s pencil had ceased to drive and she sat gazing at her pad. Leyston was visibly holding his breath. Gently steepled his fingers, and considered them.
‘Of course, we have a special reason for mentioning that time. We have information that Virtue was out on his own and we are trying to pinpoint his movements. Wouldn’t you have called at Friday’s that day, for instance?’
Meares moistened his lips. ‘No.’
‘You have a yacht there, haven’t you, that he’s repairing?’
‘Yes . . . but it wasn’t towed in till Monday morning.’
‘All the same, you were in the neighbourhood?’
‘No. I wasn’t there on Saturday.’
‘Not down at the south end . . . the yacht club?’
‘No. I was birdwatching – on the heath.’
‘The heath . . . ?’
‘Yes – the heath.’ Meares conjured a weak smile. ‘I’m – well – Mr Birdwatcher, I suppose! I run the local ornithological society.’
‘And you were on the heath?’
‘Yes . . . behind the town. I was there all Saturday afternoon. But it was too hot for birdwatching, really – they were fighting fires, further over.’
‘You were there with some colleagues?’
‘Actually – alone.’
‘But you saw other people on the heath?’
‘No – that’s not the object of the exercise! One goes alone to see the birds.’
‘Nobody saw you?’
Meares gestured apologetically. ‘Unless they saw me without my knowing it. But of course I kept away from the footpaths. I was over by the birches, actually.’
Gently clicked his tongue. ‘That’s disappointing! We hoped you were birdwatching somewhere else. Say on the shingle dunes, south of the town, just a bit beyond the Martello Tower. You didn’t work round there?’
Meares tried to smile again. ‘No, I assure you! Nowhere near it.’
‘Then it wasn’t you who was seen there?’
‘It couldn’t have been.’
‘By someone at the tower?’
‘No. Quite impossible!’
Gently shrugged. ‘A pity! You could have helped to place Virtue for us. He was seen disappearing into the marrams with a birdwatcher said to resemble you. But of course – it wasn’t.’
Meares shook his head while clinging to the tatters of his smile.
Gently collapsed his steeple, let his hands take up a praying position. ‘Let’s see if we can be luckier on a less-debatable occasion! After Tuesday’s rehearsal you left the Music Room in the company of Miss Hazlewood. You declined her offer of a lift and were passed by her in Saxton Road. Is that your way home?’
‘Well . . . no!’ Meares’s hands had coupled together with a jerk.
‘So?’
‘I – I had some idea . . . my cashier lives in Saxton Road.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well . . . a point of business! Something I’d forgotten to check.’
‘That isn’t what you told Inspector Leyston.’
‘No . . . because it wasn’t . . . didn’t seem important!’ His shoulders writhed. ‘I’d got this tummy bug – it had been bothering me all day. Then it suddenly struck when I left the rehearsal, when I was on my way to Maxwell’s. I simply had to find a toilet.’
‘So you returned to The White Hart.’
‘No—!’
‘Wasn’t that the nearest toilet?’
‘Not from where I was.’
‘Near the Tunstall Road junction?’
‘I didn’t stop to consider . . . I just went!’
‘Where?’ Gently said.
‘To the public toilet on the Front. Near the Moot House.’
‘Which is beyond the hotel.’
Meares hugged his hands. ‘I didn’t think . . . I simply made for it!’
Gently dipped his fingers. ‘Doubtless understandable! We’ve all been caught short now and then. And of course you’d prefer the anonymity of a public toilet to exhibiting your distress in the hotel. Nobody did see you, did they?’
‘Well – at the time – you wouldn’t expect . . .’
‘No of course not! And for the next half-hour, no question about your movements.’
Meares’s head drooped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I realize you don’t find this satisfactory. But I can give you no other account. It must stand without corroboration.’
Gently studied him over his fingers. ‘And yesterday,’ he said. ‘Yesterday morning?’
‘I went to consult Dr Capel. Isn’t that what you’d expect me to do?’
‘You went without an appointment and stayed for an hour.’
‘I happen to be a friend and a private patient.’
‘But . . . for an hour?’
‘It wasn’t for an hour! We may have briefly discussed what happened that evening.’
‘It was so important that Capel held up surgery?’
‘There were . . . things that had to be decided. We’d lost our soloist. Walt was upset. Something had to be done to save the performance.’
‘Still . . . for an hour?’
Meares’s hands twisted. ‘Naturally we wanted to go over it again! It had been a shock, we wanted to understand it, how it had come to blow up like that.’
‘You wanted to explain to him your part in it.’
‘Mine . . . ?’
‘The doctor would be curious, surely. When the man who previously had been so friendly towards Virtue turned against him and provoked a crisis.’
Meares stared, his colour changing. ‘But that’s . . . a travesty of the facts!’
‘Wasn’t it you who first took exception to Virtue’s antics? Who brought up the idea of an understudy?’
‘I – I deny that!’
‘But we’ve chapter and verse for it. You weren’t being Virtue’s friend that night. Something had changed. When the moment came, it was you who were first into the attack.’
‘I categorically deny that!’
Gently grunted. ‘And what you’d have to explain to the doctor was this: when Virtue outfaced you with threats and shut you up, what could the substance of those threats have been?’
For the second time Meares took refuge in silence and allowed the fan to come into its own. His mouth slightly parted, his handsome cheeks pale, he sat slumped and gazing, his br
eathing unsteady. Was he beginning to guess that these were opening shots only in a campaign that might stretch to days, and that every position he had seemingly defended would come under attack again and again? The policewoman knew. She was making use of the interval to give her hand a gentle massage. And Leyston knew, squatting on his chair, staring at the buff lino and nothing. A slow destruction . . . with chummie’s lies getting thinner every time he was made to repeat them. And the heat for a bonus: now his face had a nervous glimmer of sweat.
‘Let’s look at it another way.’
Meares started slightly, his moist fingers seeking a fresh grip.
‘Virtue had had enough of being Hozeley’s protégé. He’d decided to opt for independence.’
‘That was only my . . . impression.’
‘He was sick of Hozeley’s jealousy, of being chaperoned day and night, and an attempt to get money out of Hozeley failed. Hozeley was infatuated but he wasn’t stupid.’
‘I – I didn’t know about that.’
‘Didn’t know that Virtue was a blackmailer?’
Gently’s stare was encouragingly mild, but Meares’s gaze faltered, dropped to the desk.
‘No . . .’
‘Oh yes. Virtue had tried these tricks before. But he must have found Hozeley an unsatisfactory mark, with his jealous vigilance and tight purse-strings. So Virtue decided to cut his losses and on Tuesday he gave Hozeley the push. But before he could do that he would need to have found a fresh mark, one who didn’t have Hozeley’s disadvantages. Wouldn’t you say that followed?’
‘I suppose it’s . . . possible.’
‘Knowing Virtue, I’d say it was certain! He’d have a man lined up who couldn’t keep such a check on him, and from whom it would be easier to extort ready cash.’
‘If he was indeed a blackmailer . . .’
‘So who would he pick?’
‘I – I’m not sure I understand . . .’
‘Think about it,’ Gently said. ‘It isn’t difficult. You only have to see it from Virtue’s point of view. He would want a man who was vulnerable – wouldn’t that be the first requirement? A man with something to lose – a marriage, friends, a place in society, a reputation.’
‘Perhaps . . . that’s who he’d choose.’
‘And then, in the second place, a man of substantial income – because it’s no use putting the bite on a man with a thin wallet! In the third place he’d need a man who was susceptible, whom he’d reason to believe he could seduce – and if that man was on short emotional rations it would put the cream on him – as a mark!’ Gently leered confidentially. ‘That’s the recipe. Now let’s see whom it might fit. Take Dr Capel, for example. He seems to have certain qualifications.’
Meares jacked himself straighter. ‘I won’t discuss it!’
‘I realize that you and he are bosom friends. But perhaps you’re right – the doctor strikes one as being too cautious for such a trap. How about Friday?’
‘This is mere hypothesis—!’
‘Friday has a strongly emotional nature.’
‘I won’t sit listening to it!’
‘I think there’s a case there . . . Friday doesn’t have a sound alibi, either.’
‘This way, you could implicate half of Shinglebourne.’
‘Just Virtue’s immediate connection,’ Gently said. ‘I don’t think we need go beyond it. One or other will be the man we are seeking.’ He paused; then shook his head. ‘No. We’ll have to pass Friday, too. He’s tempting, but he doesn’t have a handle – no reputation at stake, no marriage to threaten. The doctor comes closest to the specification . . . and possibly he’d have seen the most of Virtue.’
Meares pulled out a handkerchief and patted his face: but the set of his mouth was becoming stubborn. Deliberately, he wiped his hands before tucking the handkerchief away.
‘All this . . . it won’t get you anywhere, you know.’
Gently leaned back and gazed at his man.
‘There’s nothing you can prove against – any of us! Friday, the doctor or myself. You’ve checked our statements. You can’t disprove them. The rest is hypothesis and suspicion. Now you’re reduced to a – a charade, trying to force us into admissions! Well, it won’t work. We’re no fools: surely you must realize that by now. And I for one have no more time to help you spin out a pointless inquiry . . .’
Gently heard him out unmoved. ‘Let’s come to another matter, then.’
‘What other matter?’
‘Your cello, and why you left it behind on Tuesday.’
‘My cello . . . !’
Gently nodded. ‘I’m told you were in the habit of taking it home. Yet on Tuesday, with further rehearsals in doubt, you left it in the Music Room. Why?’
Meares gaped and his eyes looked sick, but at that moment there came a tap on the door. A plain-clothes man entered to hold a whispered conversation with Leyston. Leyston listened, his eyes hard, then he rose from his chair.
‘Sir . . .’
Gently followed him out.
‘Sir, we can place Mr Meares on the dunes on Saturday. One of his own staff was at the yacht club and saw him go by at about ten to three. A Herbert Cartwright.’ Leyston’s mouth quivered. ‘And a couple of witnesses saw Virtue on the dunes. Wearing the clothes described by Crag. They saw Crag too, walking his dog.’
Gently’s eyes glinted. ‘A full hand . . . ! Can you lay on a warrant if we need one?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Set it up then.’
He returned to the office and the grim-faced Meares.
‘Now . . . Mr Meares.’
‘I can explain about the cello—!’
‘Oh . . . we’ll leave that for the moment. As a matter of fact, something fresh has turned up. It relates to a man called Herbert Cartwright.’
‘Cartwright?’
‘You know him, of course?’
Meares stared. ‘I should do. He’s my employee.’
‘Then we ought to be able to believe him if he says he saw you on Saturday . . . at ten minutes to three?’
‘He – he saw me . . . ?’
‘So he says. Going past the yacht club towards the dunes. But of course he may have been mistaken, since you said you were . . . where was it? On the heath?’
Meares’s face jerked away abruptly: he sat staring at the chair vacated by Leyston. One of his hands, like a burrowing animal, clutched at the change in his trouser-pocket.
‘I – I can explain that!’
‘I wish you would.’
‘Yes – I seem to have been in error! With all that’s happened since the weekend . . . it must have got confused in my mind.’
Gently glanced at the shorthand-writer. ‘So . . . ?’
It was – it was Sunday when I went on the heath. Not Saturday, but Sunday. Of course, on Saturday I took a walk down the dunes.’
‘You are quite clear about this now?’
‘Yes – yes. Quite clear.’
‘Then our witness who saw you on the dunes with Virtue would not have been mistaken.’
‘Yes . . . no – I mean, he was mistaken!’
‘But we have corroboration that Virtue was there.’
‘I can’t help it. I didn’t see him. I saw nobody on the dunes.’
Gently’s shoulders gestured. ‘How wide is it there – the strip of land between the river and the sea? A hundred – perhaps a hundred-and-fifty – yards? How could you have missed him if he was there?’
‘I did.’
‘But how could you?’
‘He may have been on the other side of the dunes . . .’
‘You would not have been aware of him – you, a bird-watcher?’
‘I don’t care!’ Meares burst out. ‘I didn’t see him.’
Gently took some prowling steps. ‘Perhaps you really are confused,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your alibi for Tuesday is also misdated, and at the time you were somewhere else.’
‘I absolutely deny that!’
&nb
sp; ‘Then you can help us to prove it.’
‘What—?’
‘By assisting in a little routine. We shall need the clothes you were wearing that evening – purely for corroborative reasons, of course!’
‘And . . . if I refuse?’
‘Why should you? It would put us to the trouble of collecting a search warrant.’
Meares sat very still, his expression tight, his breath coming quick and short.
They didn’t need the warrant. Driven by Leyston, they proceeded to Meares’s house in Friston Road: an agreeable example of stockbroker’s Tudor, with a view of the sea over the town roofs. Meares opened for them. They were met in the hall by a stoutly built lady with blue-rinsed hair. She came to a stand at a distance and stood surveying them with hostile eyes.
‘What’s this about, Leonard?’
Meares’s smile was sickly. ‘Just part of the investigation, my dear.’
‘Who is this with Inspector Leyston?’
‘He’s . . . the man they’ve sent down from town.’
A formidable figure, she remained in the hall while Meares led them up the stairs, and her gorgon gaze was still on them as they crossed the galleried landing.
‘This is my room.’
Of modest proportions, it looked out on a lawn and a coppice. On its walls hung original bird-paintings by Roland Green and Peter Scott. The limed oak furniture was solid, somewhere between period and modern: a spacious wardrobe, dressing table, tallboy, padded-top chest: and a single bed.
‘Now let’s see what you were wearing on Tuesday . . .’
With a sort of feeble defiance Meares pulled open the wardrobe. It exhaled a scent of lavender and exhibited a full rail of suits. Hesitating, he selected a cream tussore jacket and matching slacks, and threw them on the bed. Then, from a shelf below, he took a pair of Italian basket-work shoes.
‘The shirt, I’m afraid, has gone to be washed.’
‘Might it not still be in that chest . . . ?’
Sulkily, Meares went to the chest and fished out a crumpled poplin shirt.
‘Socks . . . ?’
‘If you must!’ He found a pair.
‘Pants . . . ?’
With an awkward jerk he threw them on the pile. ‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it.’ He stood sullenly by the bed, his mouth drawn small.
Gently nodded gravely. ‘Still . . . simply for purposes of comparison!’ From the chest he took the remaining soiled underwear and dumped it on the bed. ‘Then a suit . . .’ He selected a hanger draped with a light grey jacket and charcoal slacks. ‘And shoes . . .’ There was one pair of sandals: he placed them beside the Italian confectionery. ‘You have no objections . . . ?’
