Gently to a Sleep

by Alan Hunter

He watched it, conscious of her eyes on his back and the irregular sound of her breathing. Not until the bridge stopped did he go to the stairs to call: ‘Inspector!’

  FOUR

  ‘PARK HERE FOR a spell.’

  The gaff-rigged yacht had found a berth not far from The Steampacket; her crew, clearly a pair of old hands, glanced up at the Cortina, but continued their meal-getting.

  The weather was neither warm nor cool, though even modest activity could raise a sweat. Summer was hesitating; midway through August, they’d reached a sort of meteorological plateau.

  ‘Could you hear what we were saying?’

  ‘More or less, sir.’

  Ives was still dragging on a cigarette. He’d come up from the hall looking slightly furtive, and said nothing as they coasted down to the quay.

  ‘There was nobody about below and I reckoned you’d want me to listen-in . . . so I crept back up the stairs. I heard most of what she said.’

  ‘A frank exchange . . .’

  Ives sifted smoke. ‘You talk about dirty washing, sir! First the old man accuses her of poisoning, then she comes right back with rape.’

  ‘You think it was fiction?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. But there is a point I’d like to make. If I was going to take a stab at rape, I wouldn’t pick a dame with biceps like she’s got.’

  ‘She was just getting back at him.’

  ‘I’d say so, sir. She wasn’t going to tell you before a witness. And she was hedging about what other people knew – except her husband, who’s sure to back her up.’

  ‘At the same time . . .’

  Gently’s eyes puckered. Ives took a couple of impatient drags. Aboard the yacht a kettle whistled, to be picked up and decanted into a teapot.

  ‘Of course, sir, I realize there’s plenty of motive.’

  ‘Have you heard scandal about her before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘She’s a lot of woman. And her husband isn’t much of a man.’

  Ives was silent.

  ‘What I’m saying is this . . . she has certainly got favours out of the old man. Whether by blackmail, as she claims, or other means, is open to question. Now suppose, after being a favourite, she sees Best threatening to take her place . . . a woman perhaps with very few scruples.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say the old man had a point?’

  Ives stared at the yacht, saying nothing. A passing cruiser was pulling up wash; automatically, without glancing at the cruiser, one of the yachtsmen placed a hand on the teapot.

  Then, as the yacht stopped rocking, he picked up the teapot and began to pour.

  ‘So . . . let’s consider a different angle. Also in the picture is Mrs Swafield. And you can add the younger son Noel . . . he was being helpful with the coffee and brandy.’

  Ives inhaled powerfully.

  ‘He’s been done, sir.’

  ‘Noel Raynes?’

  Ives nodded. ‘The City police copped him in possession of cannabis. His brother had to cough up seventy-five quid.’

  ‘His brother paid?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You wouldn’t catch the old man shelling out. As far as Walter Raynes is concerned his youngest son is a non-starter.’

  ‘Was he ever in the firm?’

  ‘Not him, sir. He lives with his woman in a flat in the city. She’s a painter too. They scrape some sort of living – no doubt with handouts from brother Clive.

  ‘The impression you get is that now he’d be glad enough to come in out of the cold, but the old man isn’t having any. Master Noel had his chance and flunked it.’

  Gently brooded. ‘And he’s close to his brother?’

  Ives took a drag. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So that, if Clive Raynes got to be a partner, he might bring in Noel Raynes on his coat-tails.’

  In silence Ives regarded the yachtsmen, who had settled to their meal. Some ducks, of which a number haunted the waterfront, had paddled up to see what they could cadge.

  ‘Right . . . then we’ll keep Master Noel in view. Meanwhile we’ll have a word with Mrs Swafield.’

  Not without reluctance, Ives stubbed his cigarette and backed the car off the quay.

  He drove back by the station and joined a road that crossed the marshes. Narrow and full of curves, it ran between lines of pollard willows. On the left one could see the yard, ahead a house low-lying among willows; of plaster and glazed pantiles, it stood by the river, quite alone.

  ‘The old Ferry House . . . it used to be a pub. The ferry was closed after the war.’

  As they drove closer, it became apparent that the house stood below the level of the river. Before it, a protective dyke-wall had been lawned and set with weeping-willow; in a wet-dock lay one of the Raynes motor-yachts, its name, La Chimère, painted large on the coaming.

  The road became a gravel drive ending between house and frontage. There was parked a Triumph 2000. From the door of the house, a slim dark-haired woman watched them.

  ‘Mrs Swafield . . . ?’

  She’d awaited their approach, standing posed in the heavy-framed doorway. She inspected them with cool eyes, her fine-lined face calmly expressionless.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m Mr Scott.’

  There wasn’t a flicker in the face. Pale-skinned, eyebrows plucked, it suggested the mask of a fashion-model. Her straight hair was brushed back and secured with a comb; she wore silver earrings in pierced ears and bracelet and ring to match.

  Large and naked, her brown eyes stared at Gently’s without once winking.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If it’s convenient I would like a few words. Just a routine measure to tidy up one or two queries.’

  ‘What would they be?’

  ‘Some have arisen which I’m sure you would wish to have settled.’

  ‘About Ronald Best?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Still her eyes stared on, unwinking.

  ‘I may as well tell you that you were expected. I am perfectly aware of your purpose here. I would be within my rights to refuse to answer questions. I am certain that would be the advice of my solicitor.’

  Gently gazed back steadily.

  ‘Is that what you intend to do?’

  ‘No. Because if I did you would assume I had something to hide.’

  ‘Then perhaps . . . ?’

  It was almost hypnotic, the way she could keep her eyes so fixed. For once in a long experience, Gently was on the point of being stared down.

  ‘Very well then. But please understand that I reserve my right to be silent.’

  ‘Of course.’

  At long last she broke the rapporte, nodding to the lawn.

  Steps took them to the upper level, where chairs stood about a rustic table. There too a canopied settee was positioned to face the upstream river reach.

  On the opposite bank a road departed from the disused ferry-landing; further up cruisers were moored and an angler fished from a dinghy.

  Yet though peaceful, the scene had wildness, its tone set by the tidal river: rough banks and hurrying water; also the marshes, stretching without track.

  ‘No doubt you’re fresh from a session with Florence.’

  Mrs Swafield had chosen the settee. Swinging idly, she waited for them to pull up two cast-iron chairs.

  Shrugging, Gently said: ‘I expect you’ll have heard . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. Father doesn’t keep much to himself. And Florence being Fred Lane’s daughter makes her an obvious choice of targets.’

  ‘Would that be his only reason for picking on her?’

  Mrs Swafield gave her attention to the river. Across at the landing, a pair of sandpipers were running and bobbing by the water’s edge.

  ‘Florence is a . . . forceful personality. She is apt to speak and act rashly. Sometimes that gives offence and may lead to backbiting and gossip. But I know of no other reason why Father should single her out.’

  ‘Then the gossip is probably unfounded.’


  ‘Perhaps you had better treat it with caution.’

  ‘Including, for example, that touching The Pines and the events of eight years ago.’

  Her glance was quick. ‘Did my father . . . ?’

  ‘I’d sooner ask the questions, Mrs Swafield.’

  Momentarily her eyes were hot; then they returned to the foraging sandpipers.

  ‘Purely for the record . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, Florence and he used to be great friends. And Clive too – at the time you speak of I believe Father had high hopes of him. Then, when Florence bore Clive a son, she was the apple of Father’s eye . . .

  ‘It was about then when he gave them The Pines, which originally he’d bought for himself.’

  ‘They were friendly . . .’

  ‘Oh quite.’

  ‘Which is scarcely the situation now.’

  ‘No.’ Imperceptibly, she’d begun to swing the settee faster. ‘People change. To be frank, Father expected too much of Clive. Clive is an efficient man of business, but no one would call him a ball of fire. Father chose to be disappointed. He refused to have Clive in as partner.

  ‘Florence of course was always pushing for it, and so their relations became strained. Florence has a temper; in a fight with Father, she’s capable of giving as good as she gets.’

  ‘There was gradual alienation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It didn’t happen suddenly – eight years ago.’

  Mrs Swafield halted the settee with a jerk; her stare across the river was rigid.

  ‘I think I’ve said enough about that! What you choose to believe is your own affair. But whatever it is, you may take it from me that Father’s suspicions are completely groundless.’

  ‘They arise from no special grudge.’

  For answer, she merely began swinging again.

  A launch came ploughing up the reach, its wash drawing fingers along the reeds. Wash curled along the quay-heading and slapped at La Chimère’s tall sides. The big boat eased a little back and forth, her motion limited by spring-lines.

  ‘What was your personal feeling about Best?’

  The swing of the settee kept an even tempo. The sandpipers had gone, disturbed by the launch, but their place had been taken by a sad-looking coot.

  Sidling at the waterline, it turned over dead weed without, apparently, finding much of interest.

  ‘Ronnie had ability, that goes without saying. It was easy to see why Father favoured him.’

  ‘A flair for design . . .’

  ‘Not only that. He had the sort of toughness that Father appreciates. And Father was right, of course, in wanting to bring him into the business. But what we couldn’t stomach was Father’s making him a gun to hold at the head of the rest of us.’

  ‘That threat was real.’

  She nodded. ‘We couldn’t expect any mercy from Ronnie. No doubt you’ve been told how Clive hired an investigator . . . after that, it was open war.

  ‘Clive would have gone for one. I don’t know about Johnny, he keeps a low profile. Arthur has always stood by Clive, and with him there was a personality clash. Before Ronnie turned up, Arthur was the man most likely to have come in with Father.’

  ‘In fact, your father’s infatuation would have led to a shake-out of two of the family.’

  ‘Yes. And even now Ronnie’s gone, Father is still trying to use him as a weapon. Of course his accusations are futile and can’t be substantiated for a moment. But they are a symptom.

  ‘If he persists in them, there is only one course left to us.’

  ‘You mean an order of restraint, with powers of attorney.’

  Mrs Swafield’s attention stayed with the coot.

  ‘Did you notice any signs of depression about Best?’

  From upstream a sail had come into view. A dinghy with class-insignia, it was trotting along goose-winged, jib boomed out. Because its crew were lying in the bottom, only their heads were for the moment visible.

  ‘Ronnie had private troubles.’

  ‘But nothing serious . . . ?’

  ‘Who knows how they affected him? Actually he wasn’t a person to show his feelings. He was reserved as well as being tough.’

  ‘Did he try to be friendly?’

  ‘At first perhaps, before his true colours showed. Only knowing who he was always made it awkward – his mere being here was an insult to Mother.’

  ‘He made no headway with any of the family?’

  She paused as the dinghy drew level. Now one could see that the boy-and-girl crew had their arms about each other, their lips joined.

  ‘Carole, of course, is soft-hearted. If Father has a favourite then it’s her. She was quite chummie with Ronnie to begin with . . . and Johnny never puts himself out.’

  ‘What was Mrs Clive Raynes’s attitude?’

  ‘Florence . . . ?’ She waited till the dinghy had passed round the bend. ‘Frankly I’m not a great friend of hers, so I’m probably not in a position to say.

  ‘Certainly Clive never had any love for him, and Arthur was always hostile. For my part, I saw very little of him, except when I was visiting Father.’

  ‘On those occasions he seemed quite normal.’

  ‘Perfectly, as far as I could tell.’

  ‘You noticed nothing different on the night of the dinner?’

  ‘I don’t recall giving him much attention.’

  ‘Though . . . you sat by him?’

  The settee stopped swinging; Mrs Swafield’s eyes fixed on his. Their dark, unshifting gaze a little suggested that of a weasel’s.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  Gently hesitated. ‘Mrs Clive Raynes.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She sat stiffly, her smooth face a shade paler.

  ‘Then perhaps she told you who sat on his other side?’

  ‘I didn’t need to ask. Your father remembered.’

  ‘I’m glad he did.’

  The settee swung again, but now with short, jerky movements.

  ‘What else did my sister-in-law have to say?’

  Poker-faced, Gently leaned closer.

  ‘What really interests me is this! That either of you accepted a place beside him.’

  Her heels dug at the turf.

  ‘That was how it was arranged!’

  on.

  ‘But weren’t you allowed to choose your own places?’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘Mrs Raynes.’

  ‘Mother! She wouldn’t have known what was going on.’

  For once Mrs Swafield’s stare had flickered, while her fingers flexed in her lap. But the reaction was momentary. With a slight toss of her head she regained her air of poise.

  ‘In fact there never is very much option. Clive always sits beside Mother. Carole sits beside Father and Johnny beside her. Then Arthur tends to sit by Clive to give him support when needed – and, naturally, I sit by Arthur, which happened to put me next to Ronnie.

  ‘On the other side Noel sat beside Johnny, which left Florence with no choice.’

  ‘Because she was last to take her place?’

  ‘Probably. But that would arise from the order of our entry. Father and Ronnie went in first and Ronnie took a seat opposite Father. Then the rest filled in, leaving the two places between Johnny and Ronnie. Presumably Noel preceded Florence and chose the chair beside John.’

  ‘So it happened quite by chance.’

  ‘Oh quite. To the best of my memory.’

  ‘By the merest accident, you sat one on each side of him.’

  Mrs Swafield said nothing.

  Downstream a siren whooped; Mrs Swafield let her gaze stray in that direction. Shortly, the superstructure of a trader appeared from behind the Raynes-Marine sheds. A London River boat, she was deep-laden and carried a deck-cargo of timber; as she approached water dragged towards her and La Chimère surged heavily against her moorings.

  She motored by, leaving heavy swell to bound along the qua
y. When the commotion eased, a sluggishness in the water suggested that ebb was giving way to slack.

  Mrs Swafield’s gaze returned to the ferry-landing.

  ‘Am I to understand you share Father’s suspicion?’

  The wash, though apparently expended, came again to slap at La Chimère.

  ‘In view of the inquest I find that fantastic. I must suppose there are facts of which I am ignorant. Clearly you are insinuating that either Florence or myself administered some . . . substance . . . at the dinner. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘I’m gathering facts, Mrs Swafield . . .’

  ‘Yes, and I would have thought the facts were convincing! At that dinner about which you are so curious the opportunity to commit such a crime was nil. We could scarcely sprinkle arsenic on his plate or give his trifle a squirt of strychnine. All this was happening at a well-lit dinner-table, under the eyes of Father and everyone else.

  ‘So what do you suggest – bearing in mind that what the analyst discovered was simple aspirin?’

  ‘Perhaps . . . when the coffee was being served . . .’

  ‘The coffee!’

  ‘Might that not present an opportunity?’

  Very precisely, she swung the settee while keeping her eyes on the other bank.

  ‘Naturally, the coffee comes readily to mind . . . a noxious substance would quickly mix with it. Also, the flavour of coffee would disguise any suspect bitterness. Then, according to your sister-in-law . . .’

  ‘If this is her theory I don’t wish to hear it!’

  ‘She merely told me that when the coffee was served, it was handed round by several people.’

  In her lap, Mrs Swafield’s hand played a rhythm of silent notes. Now her face was angled away from Gently, her gaze on the Raynes-Marine roofs.

  ‘Did she tell you who handed the cups?’

  Gently contented himself with a shrug.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she did. You would have asked her, and somehow my name would get mentioned. And this much is true – I don’t deny it – I passed on the cups to Clive and Arthur.

  ‘But when you asked her who handed his cup to Ronnie, didn’t she have a sudden lapse of memory?’

  ‘You are implying . . . ?’

  ‘In so many words – it was Florence who gave him his cup! She and Noel were fetching cups from the trolley, and Ronnie got his last of all. That I remember with great clarity, because she slammed it down and spilled some.