by Alan Hunter
Gently growled to himself. Everyone was jumping to that conclusion! His boss at the Central Office, for one, in the course of confidential briefing. Raynes was a cunning fox: make no move without the clearest evidence. Perhaps the facts merited cautious probing, but take nothing at all for granted . . .
And hadn’t his chat with Raynes confirmed that, his observation of the man?
‘There’s a bust-up coming there, sir.’
Ives was taking a different road back. Over fields of stubble, divided by hedges, one saw a church nested in trees.
‘It’s got to a state where something must happen . . . the old man’s working it up to a crisis. Either he’ll drive them out of the business, or else they’ll . . .’ He let it trail.
‘You mean they’ll “take steps”.’
‘I’d say they had a case, sir. You can’t call the way he behaves normal. The drinking too . . . and the way he treats his wife. I don’t see Mrs Raynes standing by him.’
‘These accusations being his last resort.’
‘Well, sir, that’s the way I look at it. He’s trying to scare them into toeing the line or clearing out. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Unless, perhaps . . .’
They were passing cottages, a shop, a barn-like chapel. Threaded along the ridge above the waterfront, their outlook was to the fields.
Yet the church stayed distant. Without a neighbour, it peered from the grove of dark trees. Half a mile off at least, the site was an island in acres of stubble.
‘Is that where Best is buried?’
Ives darted a look.
‘Yes, sir . . . buried in the family plot.’
‘Any houses behind the trees?’
After a pause, Ives shook his head. ‘None, sir.’
They came to a junction; then, on the skyline, the pine trees made their ragged pattern.
Soon, steeply below them, one could see the bridge and flow of brown water; also a canal, running dead straight to a vanishing point in the distance.
The Pines, Clive Raynes’s chalet, was built of grey brick and charcoal tile. Cautiously modern, it had an asymmetrical gable with a veranda and steps. To the side of the house was a patio and the white tiles and blue water of a swimming-pool. There, on a sun-lounger, lay a woman in a swimsuit with a glass and books beside her.
Hearing the car, she sat up and removed sunglasses she’d been wearing. After a pause she picked up a robe and came across to the car.
‘Yes . . . ?’
The question was to Ives; it was accompanied by a hard stare. A woman of forty, she had honey-blonde hair and bold, strong-boned features.
Though dressed only in the swimsuit she was wearing a necklace of amber beads. Her build was sturdy; big breasts sagged as she pulled the robe over her shoulders.
‘This is Mr Scott, ma’am . . .’
‘So I assumed.’
Deliberately she turned her stare on Gently. Her voice, plangent and deep, had an edge of cutting disdain.
‘Mrs Clive Raynes . . . ?’
‘Let’s not waste time. I’ve just had a phone call from my husband.’
‘In that case—’
‘No, listen to me! I know who you are and what your game is.’
‘Perhaps if I explain—’
She jerked her head.
‘Do you think I don’t know what my father-in-law has been saying? He’s out to destroy me – Clive – all of us. And you’re the tool he’s brought down to do it!
‘Well, it won’t work. We’re not such fools as to lie down and let you trample on us. So you may as well get back in that car and take yourself off the premises!’
Her eyes flashed and, at her sides, her hands were curled aggressively. Tall, robust of figure, she was plainly used to getting her own way.
‘Naturally . . . I’ve talked to Mr Raynes.’
‘Yes – and Clive is consulting his solicitor.’
Smiling, Gently nodded. ‘That’s his privilege! But till now I’ve heard only one side of the story.’
‘That’s the side you were brought down to hear.’
‘My brief is to listen to both sides.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Still . . . wouldn’t it be a pity if you missed the chance to tell me yours?’
Florence Raynes stared her indecision; her mouth had taken on a pout. Insolently, she looked Gently up and down before retorting:
‘You don’t want to hear it!’
‘I understand your father-in-law bears you a grudge.’
‘Yes, and no doubt you’d like to know why.’
‘If you would condescend to tell me . . .’
She plucked at her beads.
‘Well, that’s something you couldn’t use against me!’
Gently watched her, saying nothing.
‘Exactly how much has the old man told you?’
‘Merely the circumstances.’
‘That I can imagine . . . and perhaps it would be a pity if I missed my turn.’ She toyed with the beads. ‘You’d better come up, then. What I have to say can’t be told out here.’
‘If you’d like your husband to be present . . .’
‘Oh, no thank you. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.’
Turning, she led them up the steps and opened a door to a first-floor lounge.
* * *
Occupying the entire floor, the lounge reflected the asymmetry of the gables. Varnished beams supported a white-painted ceiling that slanted steeply, almost to the floor.
Windows were at either end and each had its door, veranda and steps; also there was a spiral stairway that connected the room to a hall below.
The floor was polished and laid with rugs; chairs and settee had broad-weave upholstery; other features were a bar, a television on a wall-bracket, hi-fi equipment and long, painted bookcases.
On the high wall opposite the slanting ceiling were framed prints of Chinese figures.
‘Dare I offer you a drink?’
For a moment at a loss, Florence Raynes strode to the bar and set up glasses.
Gently, meantime, had strolled down the room to stare through the lower windows.
Here the view of the marsh seemed particularly limitless, an infinite recession to the wide sky. A couple of miles off, where the canal vanished, one could just see a ribbon-like high-level bridge.
Below, the river departed eastwards between rough, reeded banks; to the right the swing-bridge. Boats passed on the river and, tiny as insects, up and down the canal.
‘What do you think of it?’
She’d come to his shoulder, gazing too with possessive intentness. Briefly her arm touched his; then she handed him his glass.
‘The canal is a short cut. It joins up with the river going south to Lothing . . .
‘Can you see that pale patch, with what looks like flint walls? That’s the Roman camp of Bryndo-num.’
‘A unique view . . .’
‘Indeed. But one we may not enjoy much longer.’
‘You may not . . . ?’
‘We don’t even have a lease. Like everything else, it belongs to Walter Raynes.’
Impetuously she turned to Ives.
‘If you don’t mind, Inspector! This involves family skeletons, and I’d sooner talk to Mr Scott alone.’
‘I beg pardon, ma’am—’
‘Oh, you needn’t worry. I shan’t seduce him or scream murder. So please take your drink down to the hall – you’ll find plenty of cigarettes and magazines.’
Reluctantly, Ives beat a retreat, and they heard his footsteps die on the stairs. Florence Raynes waved to chairs; she put her drink down untasted.
‘This is difficult . . .’
She ran beads through her hands.
‘I don’t know quite how to tell it to a stranger . . . but sooner or later you’re bound to find out, so what’s the use of beating about the bush?’
Leaning forward, her breasts prominent, she said:
; ‘It’s eight years since my father-in-law, Walter Raynes raped me.’
‘Do you mind if I smoke . . . ?’
‘No, of course not.’
At once she was searching about for an ashtray. Finding one, she passed it to him with a hand that was quite steady. Then she resettled her legs, composing the robe with a touch.
‘Do you wish to talk about it?’
‘Why not? It’s the only way you’ll understand.’
‘It happened rather a long time ago . . .’
‘But not so long that it’s been forgotten.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘Since it happened he’s hated me – in fact, it’s upset him with the whole family. No doubt the reason he took to Best was because Best didn’t know – or didn’t care.’
‘You’re saying that before this happened . . . ?’
She nodded. ‘Once, Clive was on the best of terms with his father. He’d have become a partner as a matter of course – and that would have meant Noel coming in, too.
‘Even I got on with him. I knew he was difficult and led Mrs Raynes a wretched life, but . . . well, he was certainly a character, and he made a point of being nice to me!
‘Yes, times were different then . . .
‘The whole family used to go cruising together. Mostly trips on the rivers, but quite often to Holland or Denmark. It was quite usual. I loved cruising, was always ready for a trip.
‘So one day when he suggested a spin, I went off without a second thought.’
‘And that was how it happened . . . ?’
‘I must have been crazy, but it was only for a flip up the river – an engine-test, he said. We were to be back in time for tea.’
‘On a moving boat . . . ?’
‘Well, no – not quite! There’s a mooring dyke a few miles up-river. It’s private – belongs to a farm. Only the farm is a long way off.
‘He turned in, saying we’d brew up . . . but as soon as we were moored he was trying to seduce me. And when I resisted he got me down on the bunk . . . in the end, he did what he wanted.’
‘Couldn’t you have prevented it?’
‘He’s as strong as a bear! And there was nobody to hear me if I screamed . . .
‘Of course, I fought him as long as I could, but he was like a madman. I was scared what he might do.’
On her face was a faint flush, though her hands lay relaxed on her knees. Staring at Gently she said emphatically:
‘That was what changed everything.’
Hunching, Gently lit his pipe. In the distance of the marsh, a siren hooted. There was motion, barely perceptible, by the high-level bridge: a train.
On the scale of a millipede it crept in slow silence along a line that paralleled the canal.
‘You informed your husband, naturally.’
She nodded. ‘It was a terrible shock. Clive wanted to report it to the police, but I couldn’t face that – not many women can!
‘As for the old man, he just shrugged it off – it was all in a day’s work to him.’
‘Your husband confronted him with it?’
‘Of course.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘I wasn’t present at the row that followed. In the end it was all hushed up – I doubt if the others really know what happened.
‘But . . . well . . . the old man had to pay! We weren’t going to let him get away with it entirely. And the price was this place, which he’d bought intending to build a house for himself.
‘Only what we couldn’t get out of him was a lease . . . so we’ve got nothing on paper at all.’
She reached for her glass and drank, eyes directed at the train. Though the tone of her voice was bitter her manner was quite controlled.
‘Of course he’d love to get us out of here – and this wretched business has given him an opportunity. No doubt he considers we got it by blackmail, so by blackmail he means to get it back.
‘You’ll see. If there’s a chance of him winning, you’ll be sent about your business – suitably recompensed, I have no doubt.
‘But he’ll pull a string, and back you’ll go.’
Now her tone was edged with venom and she flashed a disdainful look at Gently. Heavy and expressionless, he lounged in his chair, taking smoke in even puffs.
The train, which had thirteen coaches, had slowed and was dragging up the ramp to the swing-bridge. Almost every coach appeared empty though one, the buffet car, was nearly full.
At a snail’s pace it rumbled on to the bridge and immediately entered a deep cutting; coach after coach vanished and the rumbling ended in a murmur. Then a signal-arm rose.
At last, Gently took a pull from his glass.
‘I appreciate your confidence, Mrs Raynes . . . ! But that was not the information I came for.’
She eyed him levelly. ‘I dare say not. But it was the information I intended to give you.’
‘What I particularly wished to ask you relates to the dinner given by your father-in-law. At table you were seated beside Ronald Best.
‘Who was it handed him his coffee?’
Florence Raynes sat perfectly still.
Below on the river, boats were passing. One, a yacht with a clumsy gaff-rig, was having to make tacks over the tide.
Because of the clumsiness of other helmsmen it was twice forced to miss stays; eventually, it hauled up at a mooring dolphin, the bridge having failed to respond to signals.
‘Well . . . ?’
‘Thank you very much! That tells me where I stand, doesn’t it?’
On each cheek was a burning spot and her eyes were flashing at Gently.
‘I agreed to talk to you to put my side – that was how you wheedled your way in here! And now it turns out that all the time you were waiting your chance to set a trap.
‘Well, no thank you. I won’t play. You’ll have to get your dirt from the old man. And if you think for one moment that I will co-operate, you still have to learn who you’re dealing with!’
Gently puffed. ‘It’s a simple question.’
‘Yes – and one you’re hoping will damn me! Only it happens that I couldn’t tell you anyway – because, simply, I don’t remember.’
‘Who sat on his other side?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?’
‘Oh – you’re too clever!’
She snatched her face away and sat jerkily oscillating the glass.
‘If you must know – Greta.’
‘That’s Mrs Swafield?’
She nodded at the slopping drink.
‘And – while we’re about it! – you could do worse than give her the benefit of your attention.
‘She had no reason to love Ronnie. Arthur’s been getting too big for his boots. He and Ronnie were daggers drawn, and you can guess who’d have come out on top.’
‘Then perhaps it was she who handed Best his coffee?’
‘It could have been . . . anyone at all! Norah had left it perking on the trolley. Mrs Raynes poured it, then we handed it round.’
‘We . . . ?’
‘All right – me for one! And Noel, after he’d helped to serve the brandy. But we were simply carrying the cups to the table, and who handed who what I don’t remember.’
‘You and Noel – after he’d helped to serve the brandy.’
Florence Raynes’s mouth snapped shut. But she was striving with herself to keep calm; after a moment, she took a firm sip.
‘This is crazy! Of course, I understand you have to put your stupid questions. But you know as well as I do that my father-in-law’s allegations are ridiculous.
‘Yes, we all resented Ronnie . . . he was like a sickness that had happened to the family. But what we were concerned with at the dinner were the imbecilities of the old man.
‘We knew too well what he was trying to do. He had the partnership agreement with him at the table. If there were poisoning in question, it would have been the old man, not his bastard son.
�
�But all that’s absurd. No one was poisoned. Ronnie Best walked out there as healthy as any one of us.’
‘To commit suicide . . . ?’
‘That was his affair! Unless you’re claiming that we drove him to it.’
She drank quickly. Down by the bridge, the yacht had decided to lower its mast; a figure in shorts was paying out the foot-tackle while his mate guided the mast into crutches.
When it was down, they tidied the raffle of canvas and shrouds with a couple of tyers; then one pulled the engine over while the other, at the bows, cast off from the dolphin.
In all, it may have taken five minutes: the yacht gathered way slowly against the ebb.
‘After Best left . . . what happened then?’
‘There was a row, as I’m sure you’ve been told. To be candid, what was really at issue was whether we applied for a legal injunction.
‘We had every reason. What the old man was doing was jeopardizing the family interests. It could be represented that he was no longer capable of managing the firm’s affairs.
‘Of course he wouldn’t listen – simply laughed at us – swore we didn’t have a leg to stand on.
‘I don’t mind admitting that I lost my temper – especially when Clive seemed to be hanging back!’
‘Who was first to leave?’
Briefly she hesitated. ‘Well, it wasn’t us, if that’s the idea. Probably Carole and John . . . no, just a moment! I think it was Noel.’
‘Noel on his own?’
‘Naturally. The woman he lives with wasn’t invited.’
‘Followed by the Meesons?’
‘Yes, and then us. We left Arthur and Greta still at it.’
‘Can you approximate the time?’
‘It would have been about nine, because when we got back our baby-sitter was watching the news.’
She breathed a little quicker.
‘Only this is sheer nonsense, because what do you imagine people were doing? I assure you that everyone drove straight home – what we had on our minds wasn’t going after Ronnie.’
‘Best being merely . . . ancillary . . . to the crisis.’
Her stare was bleak. ‘Yes. And the crisis, as you call it, has still to be resolved – with you as one of the pawns in the game.’
Defiantly, she stood up. Sighing, Gently rose also. Out of pure bloody-mindedness, it seemed, the yacht having passed through, the bridge had begun to open.
