Gently to a Sleep

by Alan Hunter

  TEN

  BY MID-MORNING THE sun was hot enough to make Gently remove his jacket. Sleeves rolled, he lolled gloomily smoking as Ives drove them back to The Steampacket.

  No luck . . . !

  To Ives’s suggestion, that they pull in Florence Raynes for a session in the sweat-box, he had applied a prompt veto: still, they had nothing positive to hit her with.

  Yet there had been undertones to that interview . . . not least, a fresh insight into her character! Under pressure she’d come out with Noel Raynes’s name, but then had instantly sought to play it down.

  Also there had been surprise . . . mingled with fear, it had seemed quite genuine. Fear for her own situation certainly, but the surprise? How much had he told her . . . ?

  On a bench outside The Steampacket Wallace sat chuckling over a sprig of some plant.

  ‘Look at this – the first-fruit of your labour! One of your men found it growing by the river.’

  ‘Not A. belladonna . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing like it – at least, only enough to fool a beginner. Actually it’s a garden escape, Impatiens glandulifera . . . also known as Policeman’s Helmet!’

  Gently growled: ‘So what are the chances of anyone making a definitive identification?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll know one if they see it. Just now they’re simply being over-anxious.’

  Nothing else had come in. The Steampacket drowsed in sunny calm. Along the waterfront most moorings were vacated, though the old hands’ yacht still awaited a breeze. The rumble of a train, today sounding more sonorous, seemed to mark with its passage the arrest of the moment.

  A time to be waiting . . . and yet . . .

  What else was going on behind the peace of Hulverbridge? What telephones ringing . . . furtive conferences . . . hasty visits and words of warning?

  Restlessly, Gently was trying to get the picture, to grasp the strings in his hands. And always uppermost the instinctive feeling that, from Florence Raynes, he’d learned something important.

  What was it . . . an intuitive conviction that for the most part she’d told him the truth? Or, more subtly, the ghost of a direction which, even now, he was failing to appreciate . . . ?

  Somehow, he sensed that unless he could put a finger on it, this affair was due to fizzle out!

  The radio buzzed in the Cortina; Ives went to take the message.

  ‘Constable Johnson, sir . . . he’s searching in the area of the churchyard.’

  ‘Has he found something?’

  ‘Just keeping in touch, sir. Apparently some of the family have turned up . . . Mr Clive and his brother, Mrs Swafield and Mrs Walter Raynes.’

  Gently stared. ‘What were they up to?’

  ‘Seems they came to take a look at the grave. Then there was a bit of talk, after which they went into the church.’

  ‘The church . . .’

  ‘The old lady is devout, sir.’

  ‘I doubt if that goes for Master Noel!’

  ‘Perhaps he feels it’s time for a word upstairs . . .’

  Gently growled into his pipe. ‘Come on!’

  The church had little mystery this morning; flooded by sun, it looked blank and seedy. Part-surrounded by limes, their leaves gummy and blackened, it wore an air of intransigent obsolescence.

  Two cars were parked at the lych-gate, Clive Raynes’s Scimitar and Noel Raynes’s old Super Minx. A constable in cap and shirt-sleeves was patrolling the graves; he came to the gate.

  ‘Tell me just what happened!’

  The constable was a youngster with a gingery beard. Looking uncomfortable, he blurted:

  ‘Well, nothing, sir . . . really!’

  ‘How long have they been here?’

  ‘About half-an-hour . . . Mr Noel arrived first, then the others. Mr Clive and his sister got out and had some words with Mr Noel.’

  ‘Could you hear what they said?’

  ‘Well, no, sir! I was across under the trees. But they were talking together earnest-like. Old Mrs Raynes stayed in the car.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I suppose they caught sight of me, sir. So they came across into the churchyard. Mr Clive had his mother on his arm and the other two walked together.

  ‘The old lady was dabbing her eyes. She made them stop to look at the grave. Then they moved off into the church, where they’ve been above quarter of an hour . . .’

  Half to himself, Gently nodded . . . out here, they’d expect to be unobserved! The two brothers and sister Greta . . . with the pious mother along for cover.

  Clive Raynes had received his phone-call: now they really had to hammer out a tale!

  ‘Perhaps we may interrupt their devotions . . .’

  He led the way to the church-porch. There the rusty bird-excluder had been left open, though the ancient oak inner-door was fast closed.

  Gently paused, listening. No sound issued through the bolt-studded door. Softly, he turned the great handle and urged the door open.

  The hinges creaked; at once a low murmur of conversation ceased. Stepping down into the church, he found himself the target of three pairs of inimical eyes.

  Heads close together, the brothers and sister were sitting in pews halfway down the aisle while, at a pew next the pulpit, their mother knelt in prayer.

  Just then, the only sound was the faint mutter of her supplication.

  Clive Raynes rose; his face working, he came quickly down the aisle.

  ‘This . . . this is beyond anything! To break in on my mother at her prayers!’

  ‘Is that what I’m breaking in on . . . ?’

  ‘I insist that you leave this moment! As though it were not enough . . . as sidesman here . . . you will leave at once!’

  Like some enraged child he barred Gently’s entry into the aisle, bony chin hoisted, small-pupilled eyes thrusting.

  Back in the pews, Noel Raynes’s face was sullen in its shag of beard; Greta Swafield’s eyes were hard, her pale cheeks a blur.

  Meanwhile Mrs Walter Raynes’s prayers continued to ascend uninterrupted. Where she knelt, sun streaming through a window laid a patch of rainbow colours.

  ‘This is a sanctuary, I’d have you know . . . even in this day and age! Furthermore . . .’

  ‘Whose idea was it to gather the clan out here?’

  ‘I despise what you say! Until you retire from these precincts—’

  ‘Only one of you at prayer . . .’

  ‘Make no mistake, I shall lodge a complaint . . . !’

  But the exchange was quite meaningless, and both of them were aware of it. What it was doing was providing background to a moment inexplicably critical.

  Yet, how . . . ?

  The atmosphere in the church was almost eerie: metaphorically, everyone was holding his breath, as though conscious of an invisible presence . . .

  ‘For the last time . . . !’

  Were they hiding someone – or something – that spelled damnation? Or was it the mere circumstance of his catching the three of them together?

  Clive Raynes had begun to tremble; the eyes of the other two never left Gently’s; up by the pulpit, their mother mumbled away intercession to whatever power might lend its aid.

  Something was needed to break the spell!

  In the end it was provided by Greta Swafield; rising majestically, she left her pew and swept down the aisle.

  ‘I understand you have made some discovery.’

  Her dark naked eyes bored unflickeringly.

  ‘No doubt you wish to talk to us about it, but this is scarcely the place, is it?’ She glanced to her brother. ‘Let’s go outside. Noel can stay here with Mother.’

  ‘Greta—’

  ‘Oh, come along.’

  She brushed past Gently and went out. Clive Raynes darted after her. Noel Raynes sat pat, his gaze aloft.

  Mrs Walter Raynes, her prayers perhaps answered, had risen from her knees and now was opening a prayer-book.

  Outside, Ives waited at the porch; but the constab
le had resumed his quest for A. belladonna.

  Getting out into the sun again was quite a relief after the charged atmosphere of the church.

  Trailing her brother, Greta Swafield walked firmly down the path to the lych-gate.

  The latter, the gift of a bygone rector, offered benches under a roof of reed thatch; after glancing about her, Greta Swafield stroked a bench with a finger, and sat.

  ‘Well . . . perhaps now you will explain the position!’

  Today her earrings were jade studs; her dress, bushy-skirted with a halter-top, exposed shoulders and a discreet cleavage. She wore a hat with a wide brim in some black shiny material.

  ‘What we’ve heard till now has been rather garbled. On the phone, Clive’s wife sounded quite disturbed. No doubt you felt it your duty to interrogate her, but at least you might have permitted her husband to be present.’

  She slid a look at Clive Raynes, who jerked:

  ‘That . . . in addition to all the rest!’

  ‘Yes – in addition. Because it goes without saying that your behaviour throughout has been offensive.’

  She dealt Gently a malignant stare.

  ‘And now, it appears, you can’t wait to harass us. You are prepared to break in on the family at prayers, seemingly in the hope of some grand discovery.

  ‘You should be ashamed. Your conduct is uncouth, and your explanation had better be equal to it.’

  Gently hunched and set his shoulder against an upright: Ives, in the background was looking quite pink!

  Clive Raynes, cheek on the twitch, was gazing at an inscription carved on the bench.

  ‘Was it you behind your husband’s trying to stop the exhumation?’

  ‘What—?’

  Her eyes stabbed out at him.

  ‘After priming him with Scotch . . .’

  ‘This is perfectly outrageous—!’

  ‘And of course, a conversation with your friendly local coroner.’

  Her eyes were furious. ‘That is contemptible! Arthur is capable of acting on his own. It scarcely needed me . . . and as for Doctor Statham, he’s someone the family have known for years.’

  ‘But you in particular?’

  ‘I refuse to listen!’

  ‘Understandably, in such a situation . . .’

  She snapped her mouth shut. Clive Raynes was shivering and keeping his eyes on the inscription.

  ‘As you may have been told . . . test results were positive.’

  ‘That much at least was made plain!’

  ‘We are at the moment conducting a search . . .’

  From Clive Raynes, a low moan!

  ‘If you mean in Hulverbridge—’

  ‘Where else, Mrs Swafield?’

  Just for an instant her eyes were uncertain. ‘As I understand it – I may be wrong – there was some mention made of Marsey.’

  Gently merely lounged against his upright.

  ‘Is that correct?’

  Gently went on lounging.

  Her stare was penetrating. ‘Then, in that case, I may as well volunteer some information.’

  ‘No, Greta!’

  Clive Raynes’s interest in the inscription lapsed suddenly; imploringly he turned to his sister, face thin with alarm.

  ‘Oh yes, Clive.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake! There is no reason to volunteer . . .’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘At least wait until Rogers . . .’

  ‘In my view, this needs to be said now.’

  Coolly she smoothed her skirt before turning on Gently a look of candour:

  ‘My information is simple. Ever since we were children we have gone bathing from Marsey beach.’

  ‘Bathing . . . ?’

  ‘The beach is a safe one. Father used to take us there on picnics. Now we take our own children, so any recent visit would not be surprising.’

  ‘Then . . . you are familiar with the village?’

  ‘I have no reason to deny it.’

  ‘And such a recent visit was yours.’

  After the slightest pause, she said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘When, Mrs Swafield?’

  ‘Greta – for heaven’s sake!’

  In his agitation, Clives Raynes fastened his hand on his sister’s knee. Distastefully, she removed it and replaced it on his own.

  ‘The Sunday before the dinner. Arthur, myself, Michael and Peter. It was brilliant weather. We spent most of the day there and had a picnic on the sandhills.’

  ‘On the sandhills . . .’

  ‘Does that disappoint you?’ She kept all expression out of her eyes. ‘Of course I know nothing of botany – unlike Florence – but I realize that the sandhills are an unlikely location. Just a place where marram grass grows. There may be other commonplace weeds.

  ‘Actually . . . to find what interests you in Marsey would require very detailed information. The village is mostly marsh and water . . . knowing the beach area is no qualification.’

  ‘Greta . . . please!’

  Mrs Swafield eyed her brother.

  ‘I doubt if this helps the Superintendent very much! And since I have positively nothing to hide, I may as well take credit for volunteering it.’

  ‘But you could be jeopardizing . . . other people!’

  ‘Florence?’ – her tone was cutting. ‘I am sure that Florence has a perfect alibi – or at least, may defy unwarranted suspicion.’

  He gazed with sagging mouth. ‘You aren’t . . . you wouldn’t . . . !’

  ‘Please don’t make yourself ridiculous, Clive. And – while we’re on the subject of alibis – perhaps I should offer one for your brother.’

  Clive Raynes made a sound between a groan and a wail; his small eyes had a sickly look. Mrs Swafield gave her hat a touch and calmly folded hands in lap.

  ‘We saw Noel and his . . . attachment . . . on the beach. They were picnicking there, like us. I believe Arthur strolled over for a word with them. But the attachment I prefer not to notice.’

  Gently’s stare was bleak. ‘You saw Noel Raynes at Marsey?’

  ‘Yes . . . they were there when we arrived. And certainly they never left the beach area . . . not while we were there, at all events.’

  Again Clives Raynes groaned!

  ‘You left before them . . .’

  ‘Well, they may have been just packing up. But you could scarcely suspect Noel of sufficient knowledge . . . or his attachment either, if it comes to that.

  ‘They live for art. To suspect Noel, you would have to presuppose a degree of briefing.’

  ‘As . . . from Mrs Clive Raynes?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ The brim of her hat dipped. ‘As far as I know, there is no special intimacy between my sister-in-law and Clive’s brother.’

  ‘Yet you would infer . . .’

  ‘I infer nothing! I am merely answering questions before you ask them. Yes, we did visit Marsey, our visit was innocent, and I can vouch the same for Clive’s brother.’

  Unobtrusively she smoothed the skirt and slid into a pose of polite attention.

  Gently turned to Clive Raynes.

  ‘What about you! Don’t you have anything to add – now?’

  ‘I . . . I wish to speak to my solicitor!’

  ‘Didn’t you go bathing – on such a fine Sunday?’

  ‘This is . . . no! We took a boat up river. Mother came too . . .’

  ‘You didn’t moor at Marsey?’

  ‘That’s impossible . . . Marsey is on the North Rivers.’

  ‘Let’s switch to the Monday following.’

  Clive Raynes was almost in tears.

  ‘He’d have been at work on the Monday,’ Mrs Swafield said softly. ‘And Monday is my day for town. But driving back I did meet Florence – she had the children in the car with her.’

  ‘She had taken them to Starmouth!’

  The shiny hat dipped. ‘How far is Marsey up the coast from Starmouth?’

  ‘Greta . . . oh, for God’s sake . . . !’


  ‘My poor Clive! Why can’t you let the cards lie where they fall?’

  For an instant he faced her through tears; her eyes were large and implacable. His frail hands were grinding together and it seemed almost that he might strike her. In the end he whimpered and pulled away.

  Just then they heard the church door creak.

  Mrs Walter Raynes was coming out on the arm of her son, who looked huge beside her.

  Mrs Raynes was dressed in a bronze-black costume which might have passed for half-mourning, a beige blouse and a black, boat-shaped hat; at her lapel was pinned a rosebud.

  She came on slowly, eyes lowered, seeming scarcely aware of what was going on. She looked older, weaker than her sixty-four years. One gloved hand clutched the prayer-book.

  Clives Raynes jumped up with an exclamation and hastened to take his mother’s other arm. Sitting her down tenderly on a bench, he gently pressed her tiny shoulders.

  ‘This is making her ill . . . but that wouldn’t concern you!’

  His eyes flared at Gently.

  Appearing dazed, Mrs Raynes had removed her glasses and was dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Then she replaced them and extended a hand, which Clive Raynes instantly grasped.

  Leaning against the upright opposite Gently’s, Noel Raynes sneered:

  ‘I suppose you’re proud of all this! But if Mother’s prayers are answered, you’ve got God against you now as well as the family.’

  ‘Noel, be quiet!’ Mrs Swafield said sharply.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ Noel Raynes leered. ‘With the Almighty in our corner we haven’t much to fear from Ronnie’s ghost.’ He gave Gently an insolent look. ‘Ask me a question.’

  ‘Noel, you’re behaving like a fool!’ his sister snapped.

  ‘Dear Greta!’ Noel Raynes said; and to Gently: ‘Ask me!’

  In silence Gently stared at the leering face.

  ‘You see?’ Noel Raynes crowed. ‘Not a shot in his locker. Even he is put down when Mother starts praying.’

  ‘Take your car and go,’ Mrs Swafield said icily.

  ‘Because Princess Greta has it all in hand?’

  Her dark eyes rested on him twin fires; with deliberation she turned her head.

  Softly, Mrs Raynes had begun to cry, ignoring the consolation of Clive Raynes’s arm. Little dry sobs from her narrow chest, they sounded like whines from a distressed animal.