by Alan Hunter
Alan Hunter was born in Hoveton, Norfolk, in 1922. He left school at the age of fourteen to work on his father’s farm, spending his spare time sailing on the Norfolk Broads and writing nature notes for the Eastern Evening News. He also wrote poetry, some of which was published while he was in the RAF during the Second World War. By 1950, he was running his own bookshop in Norwich. In 1955, the first of what would become a series of forty-six George Gently novels was published. He died in 2005, aged eighty-two.
The Inspector George Gently series
Gently Does It
Gently by the Shore
Gently Down the Stream
Landed Gently
Gently Through the Mill
Gently in the Sun
Gently with the Painters
Gently to the Summit
Gently Go Man
Gently Where the Roads Go
Gently Floating
Gently Sahib
Gently with the Ladies
Gently North-West
Gently Continental
Gently at a Gallop
Gently with the Innocents
Alan Hunter
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Cassell & Company Ltd., 1970
This paperback edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013
Copyright © Alan Hunter 1970
The right of Alan Hunter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78033-945-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-47210-463-2 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Cover image by David Woodroffe; Cover by JoeRoberts.co.uk
The characters and events in this book are fictitious; the locale is sketched from life.
Let me add to the above legend that ‘Harrisons’ is a real house. For the purpose of the narrative I removed it from its village and placed it in the town I have called Cross, but a little detective work with this book and a map may suggest its location to the curious. The quotation given in the text is only slightly doctored, and the description of the house is accurate – except for one minor feature.
The house was for sale when I explored it. I believe the price asked was very reasonable.
A. H.
CHAPTER ONE
THE TELEPHONE RANG out in the hall and Gently looked up frowning. Praise the Lord, not tonight – after the sort of day he’d been having!
In Elphinstone Road the rain was still pelting as it had been pelting all day: that chill, penetrating stuff which they kept for the back-end of November. He’d come in sodden, feeling old, and had downed a couple of rum-and-lemons. Mrs Jarvis was out. He’d had to knock himself up a poached egg and a pot of tea.
Now, settled by the fire in his den, he was beginning to feel dry at last, and he didn’t want to know about Assistant Commissioners with bad cases of murder on their minds.
‘For you, sir.’
Mrs Jarvis poked her unexpressive face round the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Didn’t catch his name, sir. Ain’t none of your lot by the sound of him.’
She’d just come in. Her head was swathed in a glinting pixie-hood of grey plastic.
‘All right, I’ll take it.’
Mrs Jarvis sniffed and drew her head back from the door.
Gently hauled the extension phone over.
‘Chief Superintendent Gently . . .’
For a moment he could hear nothing but the sound of irregular breathing.
‘Yes?’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Speak up!’
‘I—please, I want to talk to you.’
‘Who are you?’
The name sounded like ‘piecemeal’: no wonder Mrs Jarvis didn’t get it.
‘So what’s the trouble?’
‘It’s . . . the police . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘They think I’ve murdered my uncle.’
Gently sighed. ‘And did you?’ he asked.
‘No!’
‘So why bother me?’
There were confused sounds at the other end, as though the caller were shifting his grip on the receiver. Gently could hear traffic. The man was probably in a call-box.
‘Look, I must talk to you . . . please! It isn’t as simple as it sounds. Fazakerly told me—’
‘Fazakerly?’
‘Yes. He said you were related . . .’
Gently grimaced. John Fazakerly was a remote connection of his sister’s husband – a ne’er-do-well who had dragged Gently into a case that was none of his business. Not much of a recommendation to quote.
‘I don’t know him, of course . . . my firm sold the lease of his flat. But he’d mentioned you . . . about his wife . . . and I had to talk to someone . . .’
‘And he suggested me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Surely a lawyer would be more appropriate?’
‘But you don’t understand!’
Gently yawned.
‘He said . . . if I were innocent . . . come to you.’
A chunk of coal fell against the bars and lay hissing a geyser of white smoke. In the phone Gently distinctly heard gears being changed. Traffic lights? A junction?
‘Where are you speaking from?’
‘I’m in a call-box. At Tally-Ho Corner.’
‘I see.’
‘Please! If you could give me just ten minutes . . .’
Gently shrugged at nobody. ‘Well, since you’re out here.’
‘I can see you?’
‘For what it’s worth.’
‘Thanks . . . oh, thanks!’
Gently dropped the phone with a grunt.
His name was Peachment, Adrian Peachment, and he gave his age as twenty-six, a rather fey-looking young man with dark hair and shining dark eyes. Not a Londoner. Even over the phone you could spot a broadness in his speech. Yet he dressed in the current semi-military vogue and wore his hair in a nest that brushed his collar. He had parked a Mini with a recent date-letter under the tear-drop lamp across the street.
‘I’m terribly grateful, sir . . .’
He had left with Mrs Jarvis a short alpaca coat and a deer-stalker.
‘Oh, sit down.’
‘I wouldn’t have imposed—’
‘Do you smoke?’
He lit a cigarette jerkily, using a butane lighter.
Gently himself lit his pipe.
‘First, your troubles are none of my business. If the police are dealing with your case I couldn’t interfere anyway.’
‘It isn’t that—’
‘Listen to me! You’ll probably only make matters worse. If you drop something I shall have to report it. You’d be far better off if you talked
to your lawyer. You have one, haven’t you?’
‘Well . . . no.’
‘Why not?’
‘At this stage . . . I didn’t think . . .’
‘What do you mean – ‘‘at this stage’’?’
‘The coroner . . . at the inquest they seemed satisfied.’
Gently breathed smoke, staring at him.
‘Didn’t you say you were under suspicion?’
‘Yes.’ Peachment flicked his cigarette nervously. ‘Only the coroner . . . they’re not sure it was murder.’
Not sure it was murder! Gently chewed on his pipe-stem, eyeing the young man with little friendliness. For this he’d interrupted his snug evening, and the book lying open on the side-table . . .
‘Just give me the facts.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Peachment sat like a woman, his knitted legs turned sideways. He had a young-old face, long, hollow-cheeked, and long-fingered hands with bony joints.
‘You see, they found him dead . . . actually, the milkman . . .’
‘Who?’
‘My uncle, James Peachment. He was seventy, you know, and living alone. They found him dead at the foot of some stairs.’
‘In London?’
‘No. No, in Cross . . . that’s a little town on the Northshire border. Uncle always lived there . . . my family . . . I’m up here now, I’ve a job in Kensington.’
‘What did the report say?’
‘A fractured skull.’
‘So?’
Peachment jigged his cigarette. ‘There was other bruising. On the arms, legs, everywhere. As though someone had beaten the old boy up.’
Gently puffed slowly. ‘This happened in his house?’
‘Yes. It’s a queer old place called Harrisons. Elizabethan, something like that. All beams and passages and funny rooms. Well, the milkman found him at the foot of this staircase. It only goes to an empty room. And nothing taken as far as I knew . . . they made me go through the place, to check.’
‘Had it been broken into?’
Peachment shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t need to break in if they knew the place. One of the back doors opens into a lean-to and doesn’t even have a bolt. Of course it’s mad . . . but that’s in the country. People don’t bother so much there.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Well . . . the police were awkward. You see, I was down there the day it happened. My girl-friend lives there. I called on Uncle. They got my finger-prints off one of the door-knobs. Then there’s the bit about me inheriting – my people are dead, so it comes to me. And, well . . . I don’t have a very good alibi, either. You can see their point. I could have done it.’
Gently eased himself back in his favourite chair. Perhaps there was something in it, after all! With a case like that lined-up against him, you might excuse any man for getting jumpy.
‘What is your alibi, just for the record?’
Peachment’s neck was flushing a little.
‘Actually . . . Jeanie and I had a row. I cleared off back here not long after tea.’
‘And that doesn’t cover you?’
‘No, not really. They say he died about eight p.m. Well, I wasn’t back here till close on ten, and nobody saw me get in anyway. You see, I have a flat.’
Yes, indeed, Gently saw. He blew a couple of casual smoke-rings and gazed at Peachment almost benignly.
‘But they haven’t arrested you?’
‘Well . . . no. I mean, the coroner returned an open verdict. Uncle could have got the bruises falling down the stairs – he could have done. It’s just possible.’
‘Then what’s your worry?’
Peachment’s eyes widened. ‘The police don’t think he died by accident.’
‘What about you?’
‘I know he didn’t. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
He felt carefully in his breast pocket and took out a small, folded manila envelope.
‘This is why Uncle was murdered,’ he said. ‘And the reason why they beat him up.’
Gently took the envelope. The long fingers were trembling as they handed it over. Though small, and folded smaller, the envelope was unexpectedly heavy. Gently weighed it in his hand a moment.
‘A coin?’
‘A medal actually . . . that one.’
‘You mean there are others?’
‘Yes. I’m sure of it. But that’s the only one left.’
Peachment leant forward, watching closely while Gently slid the contents from the envelope. It contained a rather crude gold medallion, not quite geometrically round. On the face was the bust of a large-nosed man surrounded by a semi-legible inscription in Latin, on the verso a dove and a wreath of laurel leaves. It was about as large as a crown.
‘Careful . . . please!’ Peachment whispered.
Gently shrugged. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘Something over a thousand . . . I’ve just had it valued. It’s a Papal medal of Innocent III.’
‘Nice,’ Gently said. ‘And there were more?’
‘Yes, more. A lot more. I found that one hidden in the book-room at Harrisons – whoever killed him didn’t find it.’
Gently laid the medal on the side-table. Really, this case had got some life in it! People had been killed, and would be again, for much less than the price of that single gold piece. He looked at Peachment. Peachment was anxiously gazing at the medal lying on the table.
‘It’s Extremely Fine, you see. If you scratched it—’
‘What makes you think there are more?’
‘The legend, of course.’
‘The legend!’
‘Yes.’ Peachment’s eyes jerked to his almost indignantly. ‘There’s a legend about Harrisons – I told you, it’s a queer sort of old place. There’s supposed to be treasure hidden in it. A hoard of gold. Anyone’ll tell you.’
‘And that – that’s part of it?’
Peachment nodded. ‘How else could Uncle have got that medal? He could never have bought it – they’re rare anyway – and Uncle didn’t have that sort of money.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ Gently said. He took a few short puffs. ‘Are there any grounds for this beautiful fable, or is it just the usual village tale?’
‘I believe it—’
‘Very likely! But is it backed by any facts?’
Peachment shrugged his lean shoulders feebly. ‘Actually . . . if you put it like that . . .’
‘Just so.’
‘But wait a minute. There’s something else I have to tell you. It’s the way Uncle behaved that last afternoon. He was . . . you know . . . excited about something.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yes,’ Peachment said. ‘Excited. At the time I didn’t really notice. It was just a duty visit. I was impatient – wanted to get back to Jeanie. He was’ – Peachment’s large hand sawed – ‘all . . . bubbling, you understand? Like – like a cat who’s swallowed a canary. He kept smiling and grinning to himself.
‘Then there’s what he said as I was leaving . . . oh, I know it’s nothing to go on! But it was the way he held on to my hand, the sort of triumphant look he gave me.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said, ‘‘Boy, don’t sell this place when I’m gone. There’s more here than dust and old rotten beams.’’ And he kept shaking my hand all the time.’
‘Hm.’
Gently took more puffs. Did Peachment honestly think he would swallow this? Perhaps the young man was realizing how thin it sounded, because he added earnestly, ‘I’m sure . . . positive . . .’
Gently grunted.
‘So this is the theory. Your uncle had found a hoard of gold. He keeps it to himself, but someone finds out, and they beat him up to make him tell where he’s hidden it.’
‘Yes – that’s it.’
‘And this is all your evidence?’
‘The medal – yes. But where else . . . ?’
‘It’s too thin.’
‘But the
medal . . . I tell you—’
‘You should have shown the medal to the local police.’
Peachment’s dark eyes rounded despairingly.
‘Look, sir, I know – I know I’m right! That medal’s a rarity. I took it to Seaby’s. They say there’s only two more like it. I didn’t take it to the local police because . . . well, they’re against me enough now. But Uncle was murdered, and there has to be a reason – and that’s the reason. I know.’
Gently picked up the medal again. Its rough heaviness was convincing. Purely as gold . . . Perhaps the medal, anyway, deserved a little looking into.
‘Who was your uncle?’
‘He – he was nobody.’
Again the anxious look as Gently fondled the medal.
‘What was his job?’
‘He kept the harness-shop. But he retired from that ten years ago.’
‘He owned – what was it – Harrisons?’
‘Yes. He and Aunt Agatha had always lived there. She died soon after he retired. He lived all alone. A bit . . . eccentric.’
‘He didn’t collect these things?’
‘Good Lord, no! He’s got a few old books and things.’
‘What sort of books?’
‘Nothing on coins. Old books on horses, local history.’
‘Are you in possession?’
‘Well . . . more or less. He didn’t leave any will. There’s still some lawyer’s business to go through. All this happened a month ago.’
‘Did he have many friends?’
‘No . . . I told you. He lived alone, scarcely saw anyone.’
‘Housekeeper? Char?’
Peachment shook his head. ‘A recluse . . . that’s the word I wanted.’
‘So you’ve no idea who might have killed him?’
Peachment said bitterly, ‘I’m the suspect.’
‘Right.’ Gently put down the medal. He drew out his pocket-book and began scribbling. ‘Here’s your receipt. I’ll keep the medal. I’ll see that proper inquiries are made.’
‘You’re going to . . . keep it?’ Peachment looked dismayed.
‘Of course. Like you, I’m curious about its provenance.’
‘But—’
‘Well?’
‘It’s all right, I suppose . . . only, please . . .’
‘I’ll take care it’s properly handled.’
He took a note of Peachment’s address. The young man lived at St John’s Gate. He worked for Lutyen and Marshall, estate agents, a large firm of good standing.
