by Alan Hunter
‘I repeat, that if you have business . . .’
‘Perhaps a few words may not be amiss.’
‘In that case you’d better come to my office. This is scarcely the place for confidential conversation!’
They followed him into the block. His office was across the landing from his father’s. Expensively furnished, it had more the air of a reception-room than a place of business.
A Wilton carpet covered the floor; club-chairs were ranged round a low table. On the walls hung watercolour drawings of river scenes, and a model motor-yacht occupied a glass case.
‘Leave us, Elizabeth.’
A staid-faced woman left her typewriter and went out. Clive Raynes dithered for a moment, then took his seat at a stylish desk.
Up here the din of the yard was muffled; the window in fact faced towards the river. One could still see the slipways however, and quays moored with smart craft.
‘Please sit . . . if it is of any interest, I have been informed of your true identity!’
Shrugging, Gently accepted one of the club-chairs; Ives sat himself in another.
‘Also, I may say, I have been advised of the action you have taken . . . in the best interests of justice, you will no doubt tell me! Though whether you can make that good . . .’
He stared hard at Gently, then nervously caught up a pen from the desk.
‘Speaking for the family . . . as their representative . . . you will allow I have a right to know . . .’
Gently merely stared back blankly. The pen in Clive Raynes’s fingers shook; he put it down hastily and rested his hands on the desk.
‘Look – we can talk frankly! I realize that during your investigation . . . certain things that were dead and buried – well, every family has its skeletons! But, at the same time . . .
‘You were talking about impressions . . . impressions that could be mistaken, depending on your source of information.’
‘What impressions, Mr Raynes?’
‘About the situation here! Mostly, I’m sure, obtained from my father – with whose character you cannot be very familiar. Not that I intend, even for a moment . . .
‘All I wish to make clear is this: that the tragedy here has upset my father, impairing his full responsibility . . .’
In agitation, he grabbed a paperweight and shuffled it from hand to hand. His narrow face was twitching, his eyes held averted.
‘I understand you are taking measures.’
‘No – merely a matter of seeking advice! Under the circumstances . . . certain pressures . . . in common prudence, we could scarcely do less.’
‘Perhaps you supposed the threat would suffice.’
‘Believe me, all that was spoken in anger! In fact, for my part . . . though the family in general . . . we were forced to consider the effect on the business
He sprang up suddenly, still clutching the paper-weight, his weedy body quivering. Struggling to get out the words, he gabbled:
‘I have never . . . never! . . . hated my father.’
‘Yet you are ready to declare him incompetent.’
‘No. Quite the contrary! I stood out against it – at most, I would only agree to an injunction.’
‘You, and you alone, took his side.’
‘Yes – whether you give me the credit or not!’
‘Overlooking any injuries he may have offered you?’
‘You must believe this – I have never hated him.’
He banged down the paperweight and, all of a tremble, took shaky steps across the room. After staring at one of the watercolours, he dropped on the nearest chair.
‘Oh, your scepticism doesn’t surprise me! All the old gossip will have been raked up. And it suits your book . . . my father’s slander is specifically aimed at Flo and myself.
‘Heaven knows I’ve had enough to put up with – beginning with the contempt he’s always shown for me! Yes – even as a child. Being small and ailing, I couldn’t hold my own with the other boys . . .
‘Then at school I thought it would please him if I came first in my class . . . nothing of the sort! It simply confirmed that I was my mother’s son, not his . . .
‘And so it’s gone on. I trained in managership – that should have come by natural talent! I run this business like a piece of clockwork – but I’m not a designer, not a market analyst. Nothing is good enough . . .
‘And on top of that . . .
‘Yes, I have reason to hate my father! But the fact is . . . believe it or not . . . at the bottom, I’ve always admired him.
‘I can’t help it . . . I despise myself! . . . especially when I remember how he treats Mother . . . yet, there it is . . .
‘And Ronnie Best was another in Father’s mould. However bitterly I resented him, still, I knew that Father was right . . .’
Quiveringly, he drew his small shoulders up straight and fixed pinpoint eyes on Gently. His face was of a type it might have been difficult to put an age to – anything, perhaps, between forty and seventy.
‘Nevertheless you opposed your father’s choice.’
‘Because, I assure you, I had no option. The family would never have tolerated Ronnie . . . it could only have led to total disaster.’
‘To such action as you are presently contemplating.’
‘To complete, irrevocable break-up. Even among ourselves . . . this firm can be damaged. Whatever action was taken would have been calamitous.’
‘Apparently . . . an irresolvable crisis.’
‘I can only repeat, a disaster.’
‘At least, as long as Ronald Best remained a factor . . .’
Clives Raynes stared with straining eyes.
‘What was it your brother wanted, then?’
‘My brother . . .’ The twitch in his cheek was uncontrollable. ‘If it’s any concern . . . with such accusations! . . . naturally, he came to consult me.’
‘I don’t recall your brother’s being accused.’
‘We are all included in this monstrous suspicion! It seems that last night, without any grounds . . . at least, none that could have been available then . . .’
‘He claims that I accused him?’
‘It was tantamount to that – with all your cross-questioning about the coffee! And of course dragging Flo into it too . . . no doubt that Flo is your primary target.’
Gently gestured. ‘And your brother was concerned . . . ?’
After a pause, Clive Raynes got up. Unlocking a desk drawer, he took out a flask, poured a measure of brandy and tossed it back.
Even then there was little colour in his cheeks; nor could he restrain the distressing tremble.
‘Noel . . . he’s an obvious victim, isn’t he? Along with Flo he’s the most vulnerable. Complete with police-record . . . a palpable failure . . . even living with a woman he isn’t married to . . .
‘But once again, it isn’t his fault! If Father had treated him with more understanding . . . if he’d paid for some training, even. But with Father once you’re out, you’re out . . .’
He slumped at the desk again, sitting hunched over elbows. Above the tumult of the yard sounded hooting; a trader was passing by the quay.
‘Noel defied Father . . . that was his crime. It isn’t fair to regard him as a failure. Noel has talent . . . perhaps that’s why Father . . . with training, Noel might have become a top designer.
‘Only he wouldn’t! He set his face against it, defied Father and went to London. Heaven knows how he scraped a living, because even now, when he sells a picture . . .’
Gently jogged his shoulders. ‘I’m suitably impressed by your brother’s hard lot! But I was also impressed by his sudden departure when I found him conferring with you.’
‘That isn’t true!’
‘You say he came to consult you?’
His hand was straying to the paperweight again. If anything, his cheeks were paler now than before he’d had recourse to the brandy.
‘Last night you interrogated Noel . . . how
do I know what methods you used! . . . but you trapped him into certain answers . . . about matters wholly unconnected . . .’
‘Indeed . . . ?’
His hand closed on the paperweight.
‘Yes . . . about what happened after the dinner . . . though how that affects . . . it scarcely seems possible . . . yet somehow you implied by your behaviour . . .’
‘Wasn’t your brother first to leave after Best?’
‘No one is trying to pretend otherwise.’
‘Followed by the Meesons, then yourself and your wife?’
‘Yes . . . there is nothing at all to conceal . . . !’
‘Describe to me what happened.’
‘What . . . what happened . . . ?’ The hand clutching the paperweight was quaking. ‘As a matter of fact . . . nothing! . . . at least, only . . . perhaps some conversation
‘Had the Meesons gone?’
‘Yes . . . actually, we saw their car drive away . . .’
‘How many cars did that leave on the sweep?’
‘I . . . the truth was . . . Flo was rather excited . . .’
‘According to your brother, he drove away before you did.’
The paperweight slipped, to be grabbed again.
‘Yes . . . I suppose! . . .’
‘Did he or didn’t he?’
‘Yes . . . yes . . . I seem to remember . . .’
‘At that point, he left?’
‘. . . yes! Now you put it to me . . . I can recall . . .’
The nerve that twitched in his face was pathetic, and he kept his face turned, trying to hide it. Though the desk was by no means large it made him seem tiny, like an undernourished schoolboy.
‘Not that any of this matters in the slightest, because . . . if for some reason . . . if it seems important . . .’
‘Yes . . . ?’
‘He was waiting at The Pines . . . when we arrived . . . his car . . .’
‘He was waiting for you!’
‘He . . yes! But of course he didn’t want to tell you . . . after all . . . in so many words! . . . though being hard up is scarcely a crime . . .’
The paperweight slipped and was allowed to lie: Clive Raynes’s hand was a trembling claw. Gently said nothing; in his chair, Ives stirred, then was still again.
‘Flo . . . he’d parked up the road . . . Flo went in to the children . . . then, when I’d put the car away . . . we sat in his car for a while . . .
‘He explained to me . . . I don’t know! . . . it takes Flo some time to get the children settled. Naturally I said nothing to her . . . when I went in, she was just coming down . . .
‘So, you see . . .’
He faltered into silence, head dropped over the desk. From a shed outside came a screeching sound, as though someone were rasping an edge of steel.
‘And your brother called to – remind you – of this?’
‘Yes . . . ! As you say, he was greatly concerned
‘He felt his movements were not sufficiently explained.’
‘Yes, in view of the importance you seemed to attach . . .’
‘Then why didn’t he stop to explain them himself?’
‘He . . . we felt . . . unless the matter came up . . . in which case . . . it must be obvious! . . . nobody likes to admit borrowing money . . .’
‘What a pity your wife is unable to confirm this.’
‘I . . .’
The twitching face seemed dragged to Gently’s. The mouth hung loose; for perhaps two seconds he sat shaking, eyes defenceless.
‘Speaking for the family, I demand . . . !’
‘What else was it your brother told you?’
‘He . . . nothing . . . !’
‘Then why bother to lie for him?’
‘He . . . this is . . . I demand to be told . . . !’
‘To be told what?’
‘Please . . . !’
The word came out almost as a groan. Clive Raynes was holding tight to the desk but nothing could prevent the shaking of his body.
Mercifully the scene was interrupted; without warning, the office door swung open. Standing huge in the doorway, Walter Raynes leered down at his trembling son.
‘Putting the screw on you, is he . . . !’
His eye was alight with mockery. After a moment, he beckoned to Gently:
‘Come on! You’ll never get offered a drink in here.’
‘I was listening to all that outside – saw you talking to him down below!’
Bubbling over with a fey sort of animation, Walter Raynes splashed whisky into two glasses.
‘Do you know something? Listen to this! They were all set to take out an injunction . . . first thing this morning, as soon as the court opened for business!
‘And now you’ve snookered them – no chance of that with an exhumation on the table! You should have seen Swoff’s face . . .
‘And you did it on your own – I didn’t mention exhumations to you!’
Snickering to himself, he tossed down a drink and at once refilled his glass. After swallowing another mouthful, he demanded:
‘So now you’ve done it, what’s the answer?’
‘As yet we haven’t received the report.’
‘No matter – it’s done, and that’s what counts! It’s got them on the run . . . my loving son Clive was sweating his heart out in there . . .
‘They’ll be at each other’s throats, you’ll see. They won’t have time for the old man. And now you can lean on them . . .
‘From what I heard, you’ve already got Master Noel on the jump.’
Gently sipped. ‘We have no firm evidence.’
‘So what if you haven’t? It makes no odds. Whether you hang it on them or not, you can put the squeeze on till the pips squeak.’
‘And is that all you want?’
‘Let them sweat for Ronnie! If it stops at that . . .
‘You’re not drinking!’
He finished his second drink and poured a third. But some of the fizz was draining out of him. He dropped on his swivel chair, giving it a swing towards the window.
‘Look – you had plenty to go on, didn’t you? He wasn’t dug up on my say-so! And if you can’t find anything now . . .
‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
Gently sipped and said nothing.
‘Because if it is – but I can’t believe that! Ronnie was poisoned . . . just give me the wink, and I’ll bring in a specialist for a second opinion.’
He gulped more drink; it was beginning to show in a mist on his brow. Suddenly his face had a haggard look, lines sagging, mouth drooped.
‘Don’t think I’m made of wood, either . . . digging him up was no joke! If there’d been another way . . . with a man like you, they might have coughed up something in any case.’
‘The exhumation was bound to follow.’
‘Only . . . if it does happen you’ve drawn a blank! Then I’d really have my back to the wall . . . if that’s the case, I’m a done man.’ He drank rapidly. ‘Give it to me straight! Do you expect to find something, or not?’
‘We are waiting for the report.’
‘But you’ll have an idea.’
Gently shook his head and drank.
Walter Raynes swung his chair away from them and sat staring, his glass neglected. From behind, his shoulders looked particularly massive, sloping powerfully from the heavy neck.
The phone rang.
‘For you.’
At the other end was the local constable: Doctor Wittard had arrived at The Steampacket and was waiting to deliver his report in person.
As Gently hung up, Raynes’s eyes clung to him.
‘That was to let you know . . . ?’
‘Not yet.’
Defiantly he reached for the bottle; unlike his son’s, his hand didn’t tremble.
NINE
WITTARD WAS WAITING in the private room with a pot of tea in front of him. His heavy face wore a complacent look, but his eyes were bruised with f
atigue.
‘Well . . . I think I’ve sewn that one up – if you’ll forgive the mot juste! Actually, I got a result earlier on, but I wasn’t jumping to conclusions this time.’
He’d brought with him a smell of carbolic and he exhibited a scrubbed appearance. Beside him lay a document-case; he was wearing the same clothes as the night before.
‘Get to business, then!’
‘It’s a pleasure. Though I’m not sure you’ll like what I found. Some of you policemen are going to have a field-day while I’m tucked up, sleeping it off.’
Resignedly, Gently took a chair: this after all was the pathologist’s party! His reputation in question, he’d toiled through the night with his scalpels, hooks, test-tubes . . .
‘Can I offer you tea?’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘Well, I found Best in excellent condition. Putrefaction only just setting in and the organs much as I’d left them.
‘I made a start with the common narcotics – working outwards, you might say – and then, around five, when the birds were piping up, I got a positive result.
‘Atropine . . . !
‘I really can’t blame myself for missing it the first time.’
‘Atropine!’
Wittard nodded eagerly. ‘Enough to see off a small family. Present in the stomach, liver and blood-samples, and almost certainly taken with his last meal. Does that make you happy?’
‘Atropine . . . sulphate?’
Wittard’s chuckle was humourless. ‘Nothing so convenient! No – uncompounded – the raw stuff. Got from crushing Atropa belladonna.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Quite. You’ll find a full account in my report. And, if I may say so, it fits your specification to a “t”.
‘A powerful narcotic poison, readily masked by super-added aspirin, too bland in flavour to be detected when given in coffee.
‘I don’t know who you have your eye on, but he must be a joker of some intelligence.’
‘No question of accident – say of Best’s handling a specimen?’
‘Not with the amount I found in the body.’
‘It was certainly administered prior to the aspirin?’
‘Yes. The degree of absorption requires it.’
Seeing Gently’s dismayed face, Wittard grinned.
‘Well you wanted a murder . . . and now you’ve got one! I’m sorry if my findings have blighted your life, but that’s how it goes in this game.’
