by Alan Hunter
‘How much . . . ?’
‘Arthur – come away!’
‘Not till I’ve had my say I won’t! It’s my blood the old man is after . . . don’t you think I’ve known it, right from the start?’
‘You’re making matters worse!’
‘It was me or Ronnie – and now the old man wants his revenge! Well, it won’t be easy. Because I know a thing or two, and if you carry on with this the balloon will go up . . .
‘How much are you asking?’
‘Arthur, you’re drunk!’
‘If he was bought in he can be bought out.’
‘Listen, in a moment I’ll have to have you arrested . . .’
‘No, you listen – I’m talking his language.’
Desperately, the Coroner caught Gently’s eye and nodded his head towards the group of policemen. Gently signalled. At a word from Ives, one of the constables came across.
‘Drive Mr Swafield home and take his car keys . . .’
Bawling threats, the plump man was hustled away. The Coroner stared after him wretchedly, then turned with a troubled face to Gently.
‘I must apologize for this incident . . . but I cannot withdraw my objections.’
‘Understood.’
‘We each have our duty . . .’
From the van, they were beginning to unload the equipment.
Ives introduced the man with the case; he was the district pathologist, a Doctor Wittard. He took Gently’s hand with a firm grasp but confined himself to a stare.
Though the church authorities had been informed they had elected to send no representative. In fact, Hulverbridge being a combined parish, the officiating priest lived at a distance.
Thus those present comprised only policemen and the two officials most closely involved.
Except from the Meesons’, it was unlikely that the glimmer of the Tilleys could be detected in the village.
At half-past midnight all was still, the light breeze having fallen away; at the same time a faint mist had risen, promising a fine day on the morrow.
‘Mason and Fox . . . !’
Best had been buried in a plot adjacent to the church itself; nearby headstones, some obscured by lichen, bore the names of Raynes and Tooley, the latter probably relatives.
It was an old part of the yard where Best’s was the only recent grave. Because of the numerous headstones, there was little open space on which to spread out the plastic sheeting.
‘Better lay all the wreaths together . . .’
Surprisingly, there were quite a number; along with those bearing the cards of the family were a host of others, perhaps from workmates.
Beginning to wilt, they gave off a sickly odour as they were laid aside on another grave.
‘Now the turves . . . treat them gently!’
With spades the turves were peeled from the mound. The sandy soil revealed was dry, there having been no rain since the funeral.
‘Right away, then . . .’
The spades struck together, quickly demolishing the mound. Soil rattled on plastic and the spades chinked as they met pebbles. Then, beneath the mound, they reached soil trampled hard, where the weight of the diggers was required to insert the spades. At head and foot the two men delved busily, their shadows thrown long by the lowness of the lamps.
After watching for a while Gently lit his pipe and strolled to where the pathologist was standing. The latter, who had brought his case into the yard with him, was lounging against the church-wall.
He glanced at Gently but didn’t speak; his full-featured face had a morose expression. The case beside him, of varnished wood, clearly contained tools of his trade.
‘You are here for some special purpose . . . ?’
He seemed half of a mind to ignore Gently; at last with an exasperated gesture, he muttered:
‘This is scarcely a feather in my cap, is it?’
‘You made the original autopsy?’
‘Yes – and furthermore, I’ll stand by it. Aspirin and alcohol are what killed that fellow. I don’t know what else you’re expecting to find.’
‘Of course, your tests would be comprehensive
‘I’m not exactly a first-year student! Barbiturates were found in his possession, but I’d have tested for them even if they weren’t. Believe me, nothing was skimped.
‘Any common toxin must have shown up.’
He set his shoulders against the wall, his square chin determined. Not more than thirty-five years old, he had an air of impatient confidence.
At the same time there had been in his voice a hint of apprehension.
‘Why have you brought your kit with you?’
‘Why?’ He dug himself at the wall. ‘You may not know it, but this is the first time any findings of mine have been called in question! I’ve held this appointment for two years . . . everyone thinks I’m too young.
‘So I’m protecting my reputation. I don’t have room to slip up on this one.’
‘But the kit . . . ?’
‘I’m taking soil samples. Any trace elements I want on record.’
‘Would contamination be . . . likely?’
‘In my view, impossible – which is why I’m taking samples, just the same!’
He settled his shoulders again and scowled at the diggers, who were knee-deep. Ives, from the other side of the grave, was throwing them curious little glances.
Since they’d begun the mist had thickened slightly, enough to suggest haloes round the lamps. Also it was chillier; the Coroner, who was wearing a coat, had turned up his collar.
‘In your view – allowing the supposition! – what sort of poison might have been employed?’
Doctor Wittard plunged hands in pockets and took a breath before replying.
‘In the light of my tests, none at all! Anything obvious or common can be eliminated. But purely as an exercise in probabilities, we’d be looking for a potent and unusual narcotic.’
‘You found no injection punctures.’
‘None.’
‘Oral administration suggests certain features.’
‘It would need to have a disguisable flavour, preferably be colourless, and a liquid.’
‘It was most probably administered in coffee.’
‘Coffee would be the ideal vehicle. It varies in strength and flavour, so that added bitterness, for example, might not be noticed.’
‘You have in mind a specific substance . . . ?’
Doctor Wittard watched the spades.
‘No. And I refuse to speculate further until I’ve had him back on the slab.’
Gently puffed a few times. ‘Still, I think you might speculate this far! That the choice of such a substance would require special knowledge, and its acquisition special opportunity.’
Doctor Wittard checked again. ‘I can guess what you’re aiming at . . . !’
‘Isn’t it a necessary deduction?’
‘Necessary perhaps – but far from certain. And that you’d do well to bear in mind.’
‘You are saying . . . not necessary?’
‘I’m saying—!’ He wriggled his shoulders against the flints. ‘Let me remind you that this is suppositious, and that I stand by my original opinion. If I’m wrong I’ll be the first to admit it, but until then I refuse to conjecture.
‘Only of this you can be quite positive – there will be no omissions to complain of this time.’
Gently hunched, puffing. At the grave, the diggers were taking a break.
Though it was chill they had worked up a sweat, and were removing their tunics to hand to the sergeant.
Digging restarted, with the thud of the spades sounding duller as the excavation grew deeper.
Another sound was the tapping of moths that blundered against the glasses of the Tilleys.
The effect of the mist was to isolate the scene, making it an island in a great blackness; men, lights, gravestones and the looming wall and window of the church.
Not even distantly were there o
ther sounds, like the far-off engine of a car. Beyond the circle of the lights might have been the emptiness of outer space.
Occasionally a spade faltered, when a digger paused to wipe his brow; then the solemn rhythm recommenced, accompanied by the pattering of soil.
After twice hesitating, the Coroner came across to join Gently. Making a third leaning against the wall he murmured, after a pause:
‘My apology was sincere!’
‘Best forget it.’
‘I can appreciate . . . you must feel you have strong grounds.’
Gently grunted, sucking a pipe that had gone out and was growing cold.
‘Of course I admit to some concern. Any positive evidence would change the picture . . . If you have stumbled across—’
‘I am pursuing my enquiries.’
‘Yes, at this stage! I quite realize . . . ‘
He pulled his collar higher, after sending Gently an appealing glance; then he too stuffed hands in pockets and angled his back for a comfortable spot.
‘If you could bring a lamp up closer . . .’
Of the diggers there now showed only heads and shoulders; in the narrow dimensions of the grave they were finding it difficult to co-ordinate their efforts.
Ives stood by, holding up a Tilley; suddenly, a spade struck a different note; for a short while both diggers disappeared and one heard the sound of cautious scraping.
‘Sir, we’re down there . . .’
‘Hold it for a minute!’
Doctor Wittard was first to the grave-side. Impatiently, he waited for the diggers to clamber out, then vaulted down to land with a thump.
‘Hand me in a lamp . . .’
Ives obliged; the light issuing from the ground had an uncanny appearance. Below, Wittard squatted on a part-revealed coffin to spring open his case, in which implements glittered.
Quite shamelessly everyone crowded round to watch – not that the pathologist was doing anything sensational! With a small, bright trowel he was scooping soil from the wall of the grave at the level of the coffin-lid.
This he deposited in a screw-top jar, on the label of which he paused to scribble; then, ferreting with vigour, he dug down beside the coffin to repeat the proceeding at a lower level.
The Coroner regarded his activity with disdain.
‘After such a short time, can you really suppose . . . ?’
Tight-lipped, Doctor Wittard repacked his case and, without assistance, scrambled from the grave.
‘Right-ho – that’s all for me! But let me have him as soon as you can.’
Ignoring the Coroner, he galloped away to vanish quickly from the circle of light.
The Coroner’s shrug was disparaging: ‘Of course, he is rather young for the job . . .’
‘This does happen to be a suspected homicide.’
‘Well, if you say so. But opinion on the circuit . . .’
Work was resumed by a single digger who, using a small shovel, cleared a space round the coffin. Of polished oak, it appeared still new, its brass fittings scarcely dulled.
‘You can send the ropes down now . . .’
Quite suddenly, the affair was changing aspect. From a matter of solemnity it was becoming a job of work to be wrapped up so that one could get to bed.
‘Isn’t there a bier . . . ?’
With a swinging Tilley, the local constable departed to a hut under the trees. He returned pushing a grey-painted vehicle with wheels resembling those of a pram.
Meanwhile the coffin had been hoisted on slings; it was much heavier than its size suggested. Clumsily, four men raised it by the corners and gave it a swing on to the bier.
‘Take it away then . . .’
The wheels of the bier squeaked mournfully under the weight. One before and one behind, they trundled it off to the waiting van.
Then the scene was lit by a single Tilley, the hole with the gear and the mound of soil; grass not too-much trampled, wreaths waiting on someone’s tombstone.
‘Benton and Hicks – you stay to clear up. Try to leave it the way we found it!’
Almost the concluding moves were cheerful, as though they’d all been out on some routine business.
‘Can I by any chance drop you somewhere . . . ?’
The Coroner’s attitude had turned right about; trotting along briskly at Gently’s shoulder, he had an air of deferential bonhomie.
And Ives, who till now had kept his distance, made a point of waiting for Gently by the gate.
‘In the morning, sir . . .’
Like a final comment, the van doors were closed with a double slam.
Car-engines started; still sucking his cold pipe, Gently made his way to the Cortina. Key in hand, he halted, seeing another car parked behind his own. The driver dropped his window.
‘So you really mean business . . . !’
The driver was Noel Raynes. Reflected light from someone’s headlamps revealed his bearded face in a sneer.
‘How did you get through . . . ?’
‘I’m family, you know. The fuzz down the road thought I ought to be here . . . and all very melodramatic it was! Though what you’ll get out of it isn’t so clear.’
Gently dragged stolidly on his pipe. ‘Is it something so very obscure, then?’
‘How do you mean . . . ?’
Another glimmer of light showed his eyes, large and staring.
‘All I’m saying is, if they missed it last time, then they’ve a fat chance of finding it now! And if they did find it . . .’
‘If they did . . . ?’
‘You’d still have to prove who slipped him the dose.’
His engine fired; he backed fiercely, switched on lights and accelerated away. The van, the cars were also leaving, forming a procession heading back towards town.
In the churchyard, the motions of the workers now revealed, now concealed the light.
At the Cortina, Gently relit his pipe.
For a while he listened to the shuffle of the spades.
EIGHT
GENTLY’S ROOM AT The Steampacket faced the river, and he was wakened at last by the rumble of trains; passing at intervals of a few minutes, they were doubtless carrying commuter traffic.
Last night’s mist had been a true prognostic, for sun was brightening the marshes. Black-and-white bullocks trailed along the river-wall, as velvetly-brilliant as a Paul Potter painting. Then, more distant, one saw a Land Rover, bobbing slowly along some track. Also men walking, one behind the other, each carrying rod and gear.
It was nearly nine.
Gently rang, but no message had come in. He made his toilet and went down to the breakfast-room, which he had on his own.
Ives, joining him half-an-hour later, was equally devoid of news; he had rung the pathology lab before setting out, to be told only that tests were still in progress. He accepted a cup of coffee.
‘I can’t help thinking, sir, that by now . . .’
Gently grunted and stoked his pipe; it was around seven hours since the corpse had been delivered!
Was it really such a tricky problem, or had Gently for once put his foot in it . . . ?
Outside an early cruiser was catching the ebb, intent on a quick passage to Starmouth. There was no wind; the sun gave the impression or having only just burned off the mist.
A peaceful, uneventful-seeming morning! One felt it was a day on which nothing could happen. The bullocks, come to a stand among thistles and willow-herb, stood swishing their tails and gazing dully.
‘What happened last night with Noel Raynes, sir?’
Like the bullocks, Gently felt disinclined to give attention. Because after all, in Noel Raynes’s case . . . All one had there were lies and suppositions – nothing, in fact, until the telephone rang! At the moment, it wasn’t worth putting into words.
‘Have you finished your coffee?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let’s pay another visit to Raynes-Marine.’
‘I asked the lab to phone here, si
r . . .’
‘Never mind that – we shall hear soon enough!’
Today Ives was wearing a smart tan-linen jacket, so new that threads were still hanging from it.
Where they parked a big extractor-unit was roaring and puffing air, while from the sheds behind it came a racket of machine tools and occasional echoey shouting.
Through open doors another shell was being urged by a fussing tractor; over at the gantry, two finished craft were waiting their turn to be loaded.
The yard was a controlled pandemonium; workers hurried between sheds; trucks, trolleys jostled and manoeuvred; the jib of the crane stooped and swung.
A controlled pandemonium . . . yet such a short distance from the peace of the village! While, peering from its beeches on the knoll behind, Walter Raynes’s house looked down on it all . . .
‘They aren’t letting it interfere with business, sir!’
The slam of car-doors was drowned by the extractor. What the yard resembled was a self-intent machine in which the workers played the part of robot attendants.
A machine with a will of its own, noisy, violent and absolute . . . yet subject still to a superior will: that of the man behind the high windows.
And when he went, would it continue . . . ? Perhaps for a time by its own momentum!
Then subtly, mysteriously, it would begin to fail, responding to no one’s remedial measures . . .
‘Look sir . . . Mr Clive and his brother.’
The two of them were standing outside the office: Noel Raynes scruffy in smock and jeans, Clive Raynes dapper in a chalk-stripe suit.
They’d been in earnest conversation but now, catching sight of Gently, broke it off; after a quick word passed between them, Noel Raynes jumped in his car and left.
Clive Raynes stood his ground. He watched Gently’s approach with uneasy eyes; though his suit was generously padded, he presented a shrunken, almost freakish appearance.
‘Is it me you wish to see . . . ?’
‘What made your brother take off so promptly?’
‘Noel? I’m not responsible for him.’
‘That isn’t the impression I’ve been getting.’
Because of the general level of noise Clive Raynes’s voice was raised to a pipe; his eyes had opened wide for a moment, the pupils small, staring.
