Gently through the Mill

by Alan Hunter

  Why were they constrained with Blythely – was it that they suspected something?

  In the window he could see Ted Jimpson sitting bolt upright, his girlfriend watching him with lips which were compressed. Then somebody switched on the radio and the two of them relaxed their pose. A steel band was playing the calypso which Gently had heard tinkled out by Taylor’s cigarette-box.

  ‘A-working all night on a drink of rum,

  Daylight’s come and I want to go home …’

  Gently drained his cup and signalled to the waitress, who was becoming resigned to his periodic refills. The café was emptying as the lunch hour wore on. Fuller, probably, would be back by two.

  ‘You know the miller, do you?’

  ‘Mr Fuller is often in here.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘He had lunch on Good Friday, the day they found the body.’

  ‘Did he have a good appetite?’

  The waitress obviously took this for a joke.

  Now Blythely had turned his back and was going indoors with his jerky, obstinate stride. What would he have done, this man, faced with the situation Griffin had suggested? Was it in his awkward and self-righteous character to have become berserk and to have strangled the adulterer?

  To have thrashed him, perhaps – ‘chastisement’ was the word that came to mind! – Taylor might certainly have had to expiate his sin through the flesh.

  But strangling, that was another matter altogether. It suggested a fixed and calculated intent rather than a sudden outbreak of wrath. In addition to which he would have his wife to cope with. She might have reason to keep quiet – but dared he risk such a secret with her?

  As always, one was brought up by a gross improbability. There weren’t enough facts … that was the long and the short of it!

  Gently helped himself to another lump of sugar and gulped down some more coffee. What was the residue of fact which didn’t seem to link with the rest?

  Well, there was Blacker and his relations with his master, and possibly the relations between the miller and Blythely. And then there was the stable, apparently a sore point with both the last two … though heaven alone knew how that could fit in.

  Blacker, probably, was the most interesting to consider.

  Hadn’t he been made up to foreman on the day after the murder – a man antagonistic to his employer, and of doubtful competence?

  That suggested pressure – and the timing was strangely coincidental. Blacker might have got a hint of something and put two and two together.

  But if Fuller was the man, would he have straightway put the new foreman on emptying the hopper – giving himself, as it were, completely into the fellow’s hands?

  If it came to that, would Fuller have put it there at all? He could so easily have disposed of the corpse in some less damning spot.

  So you were back where you started, floundering among the improbabilities. Wherever you picked it up the case handed you a non sequitur. It had been that way from the beginning, from the moment Taylor or one of his colleagues had lifted the phone and booked rooms in the stainless town of Lynton …

  What could one do, except obstinately watch and wait?

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but Ted …’

  Gently looked up to find Jimpson’s girlfriend standing uncertainly by his table. The blush on her rounded cheeks was becoming, and she had an appearance of wholesomeness, like an apple out of a cottage garden.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Ted here … we’ve been talking it over …’

  Ted Jimpson had wandered into the background, a hangdog expression on his palish face.

  ‘Well, sir, we thought he ought to tell you …’

  ‘Go on, then … I won’t bite!’

  ‘… he wasn’t there that night – not all the time, that is! He come out to see me home. I was working late shift in the caff.’

  Gently sat them down at his table, Jimpson in front of him and the girl to his right. The workers across the way, who had been about to retire into the mill, hesitated to witness this new disposition.

  ‘Let’s get it straight … we’re talking about the Thursday evening, are we?’

  Jimpson nodded, swallowing at the same time.

  ‘When according to Mr Blythely you showed up at ten – and remained in the bakehouse until seven the next morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but …’

  ‘But Mr Blythely is a liar?’

  ‘No, sir – I didn’t say so!’

  ‘Then what am I supposed to believe?’

  ‘He – he wasn’t in there at the time.’

  Gently folded his arms on the table and appeared to consider the hotel-plate sugar bowl. Was this the something he had been looking for, the little crack in the solid Lynton defence?

  Jimpson was writhing in his chair, haplessly aware of the significance of what he had blurted out. In the background the radio continued its programme of calypsos.

  ‘Go on – tell me what happened. I suppose it’s no use asking why you didn’t tell this to Inspector Griffin?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to know … Mr Blythley, I mean! And he didn’t say nothing about having been out …’

  ‘Did he tell you not to mention that?’

  ‘No, but I thought …’

  ‘Never mind about that, just get on with your story.’

  It was simple enough and easily corroborated. Jimpson had met his girl, Jessie Mason, when she had finished her shift at the Globe Café at half past eleven. Her way home took her past the mill. He had slipped out and intercepted her. At her house, ten minutes away, he had exchanged greetings with her father, and had been back in the bakehouse at just on midnight. And during all that time Blythely had been absent, neither did he return until half an hour later.

  ‘You’re sure of those times?’

  ‘Yes, I was looking for a chance …’

  ‘He went out shortly before half past eleven?’

  Jimpson nodded his head.

  ‘Where did he say he was going?’

  ‘He didn’t say nothing.’

  But he had gone out into the yard, Jimpson thought, because there had been no squeak from the broken hinge on the door to the shop. After waiting a few minutes he had ventured into the yard, and not seeing Blythely, had hurried out to meet Jessie.

  ‘Was he in the habit of going out like that?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t never leave the bakehouse as a rule. Once you’ve got the dough rising …’

  ‘What did he say when he came back?’

  ‘Nothing, he didn’t.’ Jimpson looked sideways.

  ‘Go on, Ted!’ urged Jessie. ‘You said you was going to tell him everything.’

  ‘Well …’ Jimpson hesitated. ‘He was something upset, that’s all I can say. First off he was quiet, then afterwards he let me have it. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.’

  ‘Had he seen you go out?’

  ‘Not him, or I’d have heard about it.’

  ‘What was he angry about?’

  ‘Every mortal thing I did.’

  Gently slowly nodded, still watching his sugar bowl. This had to be true in substance … unless there was a conspiracy against Blythely! But there might be an explanation, sufficient if not innocent: Blythely might have had the misfortune to go out on business he wanted to keep quiet.

  ‘You corroborate this?’

  Jessie’s pretty flush came back. ‘Of course I do – it’s every word the truth!’

  ‘What’s your father’s job?’

  ‘He’s a gardener with the Corporation.’

  ‘Up late last Thursday, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He always waits up when I’m on the late shift.’

  ‘Where did he become acquainted with Mr Blythely?’

  ‘He hasn’t never met him that I ever heard of.’

  ‘A betting man, is he?’

  ‘No fear! He’s very strict about everything like that.’

  He wou
ld be, naturally, if he was employed by the Lynton Corporation …

  Out of the corner of his eye Gently saw Fuller’s Consul draw up, hesitate, and then turn carefully into the mill-yard gate. The miller climbed out, reaching after him a leather briefcase. As he closed the door his eye fell on the café window: for a moment he stood quite still, an expression of blankness on his bold-featured face.

  ‘Just before Mr Blythely went out … what happened then?’

  ‘We were getting up the dough …’

  ‘Did you hear the hinge squeak, for instance?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening for it.’

  ‘What was Mr Blythely doing?’

  ‘He was kneading the …’

  ‘Which trough was he using?’

  ‘The one near the door.’

  Fuller came suddenly out of his trance and flung angrily into his office. Even in the café one could hear the slam of the door. His face appeared a few seconds later, peering over the screen, along with it that of his not-unattractive clerk.

  ‘Who else was around that night?’

  ‘Who …? Nobody!’

  ‘Who was in the yard when you got back?’

  ‘I tell you—!’

  ‘You didn’t go straight into the bakehouse, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did!’

  ‘What’s the quarrel between Mr Blythely and Mr Fuller?’

  ‘There isn’t no quarrel – they get on all right together!’

  Gently shrugged and drank off the rest of his coffee. He was giving poor Jimpson a rough sort of a passage, but then he shouldn’t have been such a silly young …

  ‘What else haven’t you told the police?’

  ‘Nothing, I tell you!’

  ‘Why did you come to me just now?’

  ‘Jessie and me … she thought I ought to!’

  ‘What have you got against Mr Blythely?’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t! He’s all right to me …’

  ‘You’d better think carefully if there’s anything else you want to tell me.’

  The café now was practically empty; Gently’s waitress stood at a distance by a sideboard, pretending not to be interested. A sunny West Indian voice from the radio was unfortunately spoiling her chances of eavesdropping.

  ‘Cricket, lovely cricket …

  At Lord’s where I saw it!’

  Only one customer was left, but he, as it happened, was sitting at the table immediately behind Gently.

  ‘You can add nothing, Miss Mason?’

  ‘Only that Ted’s telling you the God’s truth.’

  ‘You must have passed the junction of Cosford Street with Fenway Road – did you notice anyone making use of the back passage to the drying-ground?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Or anyone about there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A parked car, perhaps?’

  She shook her head and then stopped herself. ‘There was a car there, come to think of it. I noticed one standing off the road just down Cosford Street.’

  ‘What sort of car, Miss Mason?’

  ‘I don’t know – I just saw it. It hadn’t got no lights on.’

  ‘A saloon car, was it?’

  ‘I suppose so. I just saw it standing there.’

  Gently sighed to himself. If only women paid more attention to cars …! But there it was, another tiny fact, to fit, it might be, a final pattern.

  ‘Righto … that’s all for just now, though I shall probably need a statement from both of you later.’

  A bit shakily they rose from the table – it had been a good deal worse than either of them had expected! Jessie stuck her hand defiantly into Ted’s, and wordlessly they passed out through the doorway.

  Young love …

  Wouldn’t she make him a very good wife?

  ‘Waitress – I think I’ll have some tea this time!’

  Gently turned about and tapped the shoulder of the customer behind him.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Mr Blacker … come and sit at my table. I feel we could profitably discuss the situation.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHY HAD GENTLY’S mood changed, out of all proportion to the progress he was making? He couldn’t have given the answer himself, certainly not in the cold terms of an official report.

  Nothing else had changed in the small café or the street outside. Over in his office Fuller was still peering across his screen, further along Mrs Blythely had lifted the latch of the shop door and now leant, elbows asprawl, scanning a lunchtime paper at her counter. From the loudspeaker above the serving-hatch the calypso singer continued to celebrate the deeds of ‘those little pals of mine’:

  ‘Cricket she makes so much fun …

  The second Test and the West In’ies won!’

  Yet his mood had changed radically. He had a tingling feeling of suppressed excitement. Something, surely, was on the move … he was beginning to get hold of the end of the stick in his hand!

  ‘Never mind your cup – the waitress won’t mind seeing to it.’

  Blacker had somehow overturned the cup containing the dregs of his coffee, and was now trying to mop them up with a paper serviette.

  ‘You might have given us a warning …’

  ‘I didn’t know you were sensitive.’

  ‘Anyway, I got to get back.’

  ‘I feel certain that Mr Fuller can spare you for a bit.’

  The foreman, recovered from his violent start, didn’t seem unduly discomposed. He lounged untidily into the chair beside Gently and lit a cigarette taken from an old tobacco tin.

  ‘So what do you want to know, then?’

  If anything, his tone sounded complacent.

  ‘Whatever you can tell me.’

  ‘P’raps you think I could tell you a lot, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Blacker puffed deliberately at the cigarette, holding it between his finger and thumb with an air of clumsy affectation. Then he gestured with it towards the window.

  ‘See who’s watching us over there?’

  Gently nodded.

  ‘Don’t think he likes seeing us two together – what are you going to make out of that?’

  The green-grey eyes met Gently’s cunningly and a smirk twisted the weak mouth. There was nothing prepossessing about Blacker – even his ears seemed stuck on as an afterthought.

  ‘How long have you worked at the mill?’

  ‘Six years I reckon – six years too long.’

  ‘There must have been others who’ve worked there longer.’

  ‘Ah, but then I’ve got influence, you see!’

  Gently nodded again, but made no further comment. If Blacker wanted to be clever, he was prepared to give him scope. Meanwhile there was Fuller, frozen behind his screen; at the distance one couldn’t read the expression, but one could see the unnatural pallor …

  ‘The boss and me, we’re like two brothers – in each other’s pockets, as you might say. When it happened he wanted a foreman, why, there I was. “Sam,” he said, “you’d better take over.” Just you ask him if that wasn’t the way of it.’

  ‘And that was on Good Friday?’

  ‘W’yes, why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I understood that Mr Fuller was without a foreman before that date.’

  ‘Ah, but he couldn’t carry on like that – it was too much for him, he had to give in.’

  Blacker was quite happy now, puffing away at his cigarette. His whole clumsy attitude was one of complacency – of patronage, almost. He was conferring favours on Gently.

  As he smoked he tilted back his chair with his heels. His big-boned frame, all knobs, showed up through the dusty drill trousers and jacket he was wearing.

  ‘The boss, now, he’s one of the best … when you get to know him! Some people says he’s got a temper, but don’t you believe it. Nervous he is sometimes – aren’t we all now and then? – but underneath it there’s a heart of gold. I reckon they don’t come better than Harry Fuller, there …�
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  ‘What about Mr Blythely?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Blacker was unprepared for the change of subject.

  ‘I was asking what was your opinion of Mr Blythely.’

  ‘Oh, him! Well, that’s another kettle of fish entirely.’

  The smirk came back to the foreman’s lips, but this time it wasn’t directed at Gently. A private joke it seemed to be, a secret amusement of Blacker’s maliciousness …

  ‘Now he’s a queer bird if you like, with his hymn-singing and Bible-thumping. Don’t drink, don’t swear – you’d hardly believe he did the other thing! Wouldn’t surprise me if he couldn’t, neither, judging by results. Been married twenty years, they have … do you reckon the bakehouse has anything to do with it?’

  Gently merely shrugged and stared absently through the window. Unaware of being observed, the buxom Mrs Blythely was wrapping loaves in tissue for a customer.

  ‘Well, he’s a bloke I’d keep an eye on if I was a policeman. You never can tell where these holy-boys are going to finish up. They keep it all bottled in – don’t tell me that’s natural! – then one of these days … Yes, I’d keep an eye on him!’

  ‘Why did he quarrel with Mr Fuller?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Blacker was brought up short again, letting his chair come halfway forward.

  ‘Didn’t know they had quarrelled – not yet, anyhow. Daresay they will do, though, before they’ve finished with each other.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Blacker looked suddenly wary.

  ‘Why, it stands to reason … old Blythely’s got a nasty tongue. One day he’ll say something that Harry won’t take from him. Harry ain’t no saint, you know, he don’t go round preaching sermons.’

  ‘Likes his pint and his fun, does he?’

  ‘Yes – one of the lads, he is.’

  ‘Might raise a bit of scandal.’

  ‘Well, there you are … that woman who does the letters for him. Though, mind you, she’s a toffee-nosed bitch. Wouldn’t look at the likes of me and the rest of them. But you can take my word’ – Blacker winked knowingly – ‘she wouldn’t say no if the right person asked her. You can always tell about bits of stuff, eh?’