by Alan Hunter
‘Was your room satisfactory . . . everything all right?’
He seemed to be angling for a chance to talk. At last he retired to a small table by the wall, where sat a smartly dressed woman, doubtless his wife.
The music played, and Gently ate, but the manager’s officiousness had done its job. Eyes were perpetually turning to him from other tables; voices were lowered, there were nervous laughs.
The manager also kept staring uneasily, sometimes with his fork half-way to his mouth. His wife, on the other hand, paid no attention, either to Gently or the manager. She was sharply good-looking, perhaps part-Jewish, and ate her food with an air.
‘Fruit salad or trifle, sir?’
‘I’ll have the fruit salad.’
On another table, two couples were eyeing him silently. One of the men was flush-faced and severe-looking. The other had horsey features and a pronounced Adam’s apple.
‘Cream, sir?’
Gently nodded. ‘You have a full house tonight,’ he said.
The waitress flashed him a smile. ‘It’s a Friday night, sir. We always get them in at the weekend.’
‘Who are those people by the window?’
‘That’s our town clerk, sir, the serious one. Mr Wade. And Mr Drury, he’s the auctioneer and estate agent.’
‘With their wives?’
‘Yes – of course, sir!’ The waitress sounded quite indignant.
Gently smiled to himself. Not much doubt about what was in the minds of Messrs Wade and Drury! However delicate Docking’s probing had been, they must have had an idea of which way the wind blew. And now they sat vulnerable, under Gently’s eye, each with his frail vessel beside him: on pins in case he should saunter across and begin again where Docking left off . . .
Covertly, Gently studied the two women, a trendy-looking blonde and a fulsome brunette. The latter had her back to him, but when she leaned forward she revealed shapely hips and a weight of bosom. The blonde was taller, firmer, twiggier, and wore her hair in an elaborate set. She caught Gently’s eye, and her eyes went large; then Wade snapped something and she looked away sulkily.
A handful there!
But would Berney have been the first one? Somehow, you got the impression that Wade had learned to live with it.
Drury, by contrast, looked a man who might bear a grudge; a tall, stringy fellow with a long, hectoring face. Also, Drury was a horseman and a patron of the Rising stable . . . but he had a foolproof alibi, Gently recalled: Tuesday was sale-day at Low Hale.
No . . . on balance, he’d leave the Wades and Drurys to digest their dinner . . .
‘Where would you like your coffee, sir?’
Gently hesitated. ‘Is there somewhere private?’
‘There’s the Little Lounge, sir. Not many people go in there.’
‘Bring it to me there, then.’
He was tired of being the centre of attention! On the way out, he glanced at Mrs Drury. She had a pretty face, but foolish eyes.
In the Little Lounge he disturbed a couple who’d been necking on the settee, but after a few quiet minutes they departed, leaving him sole possession. His coffee came. He settled down comfortably with a copy of the local evening paper. But then, almost immediately, there came a tap at the door, and the manager appeared, bearing a bottle of Cognac.
‘On the house, sir – for a distinguished guest.’
The manager himself had clearly been drinking. His hands shook as he put down the salver and poured out Cognac in two glasses. He handed one to Gently with an exaggerated flourish, then raised the other, slopping some of it.
‘Your health, sir . . . if I may.’
Gently grunted and lifted his glass. The manager gulped down his own in one, as though it were a small drop of a considerable ocean. He eyed the bottle waterily.
‘Your dinner, sir . . . satisfactory?’
‘Quite satisfactory,’ Gently said, putting down his tasted glass on the salver.
‘Yes, sir . . . well . . . we have an excellent chef.’ The manager made a vague little gesture with his glass. ‘A first-class man . . . he came last year. That was before the takeover, of course.’
‘I see,’ Gently said. He rustled his paper.
‘Yes, before the takeover,’ the manager said. ‘We were a Berney’s house . . . though of course, you’ll know that. I dare say . . . well, that’s your business, isn’t it?’
Gently looked at him. The manager winced slightly. He hovered swayingly, his thick lips parted. ‘I mean, you consider everything . . . well, it stands to reason.’ He licked his lips. ‘There’s my horse,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a horse . . . you know that?’
No,’ Gently said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, I’ve got a horse,’ the manager said, breathing heavily. He made the same little gesture with his glass, then picked up the bottle and slopped out more Cognac.
‘More for you . . . ?’
Gently shook his head. The manager gulped some and looked round for a chair. He sat down suddenly, his knees close to Gently’s, then stared for a while at his tremulous glass.
‘Yes, a horse . . .
‘What colour?’ Gently said patiently.
‘What . . . ? He’s a bay, a light bay. Not that I keep him here, of course. He’s over at Brunton, at a friend’s farm. A five-year-old . . . thirteen hands. Over at Brunton, that’s where he is.’ He drank the rest of the glass. ‘Used to come here,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Who . . . ? Charlie Berney. Well . . . that stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, in those days he owned the place . . .’ The manager jerked his glass. ‘Acted like it, too. Like he owned the place and everything in it. I could see you giving some of my customers a look . . . true enough. You weren’t far out.’
‘You didn’t like him,’ Gently said.
The manager wagged his head, sucking in air. ‘Charlie Berney. But what could I do . . . ? He was the boss around here, wasn’t he? So he comes in here . . . I hold my tongue. I mean, it’s a good house, there’s good money. In this business you have to stay in line . . . you can see that, can’t you?’
Gently nodded. The manager reached for the bottle. Behind him, the door opened silently a few inches. Gently found himself staring at the smartly dressed woman whom he’d tagged as the manager’s wife. She gazed at him unwaveringly for a moment, then silently closed the door again.
The manager drank.
‘People don’t realize . . . you don’t know much about this business? You’re never free . . . seven days a week . . . a couple of hours off if you’re lucky. So what can you do . . . ? I mean if I neglected it . . . well, you can’t. It’s got to go on. So if people take advantage, if you can’t trust them . . . well, you’re caught. Can’t you see?’
‘Yes,’ Gently said.
The manager drank. ‘Oh, he had her,’ he said. ‘He bloody had her. All those times she wasn’t at her mother’s when I rang up . . . it stands to reason.’ He trembled suddenly. ‘And him still coming in . . . every evening, you understand? And me knowing, and him knowing I knew. The bastard. The bugger. Only what could I do . . . ?’
‘What did you do?’ Gently said.
The manager swayed his head, his stare glassy. Then his thick lips began to crumple.
‘Bloody nothing,’ he said.
Gently rose, went to the door, opened it and glanced into the passage; then he closed it again and returned to the manager, who sat kneading his glass between his palms.
‘Let’s get this clear,’ Gently said. ‘You’re telling me you had reason for hating Berney. You’ve also told me you own a horse. All you need to show now is opportunity.’
‘Opportunity . . . ?’
‘What were you doing Tuesday?’
The manager scarcely seemed to take it in. ‘Tuesday . . . I don’t remember. Tuesday is sale-day. The farmers . . .’
‘Was your wife here?’
‘Rachel . . . ?’ He licked his lips, but they stayed dry. �
�I had to tell you . . . can’t you see that? I knew you’d find out about the horse . . .’
‘So what were you doing on Tuesday?’
‘I was here . . . it’s an extension . . .’
‘Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Yes . . . an extension. I can never get out on a Tuesday.’ He swallowed the last little from his glass. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘Don’t think that. It was all over a year ago. But I know you wouldn’t come here for nothing . . . not a man like you, straight to the William . . .’
Gently sighed to himself and sat again. For a moment a present seemed to have been dumped in his lap. But plainly the brandy-soaked man in front of him was just one more conscience-pricked Berney cuckold . . . provided like Drury with an asbestos alibi by Tuesday’s having been a sale-day.
‘And it was all over – a year ago.’
The manager gave some exaggerated nods. ‘Rachel . . . well, I never had it out with her. But of course . . . I mean, it stands to reason.’ He looked wretchedly at Gently. ‘We don’t sleep together. I’ve got a room across in the wing . . . ever since. It can’t be the same . . . Christ knows how we’ll finish up.’
‘But Berney stopped coming here.’
‘No, oh no. He was coming here after that, the bastard. He brought the Stogumber girl here . . . or she brought him, I don’t know quite how it was. Then there was her brother, and the old man’s cousin . . . they’d all come here in a party . . . Rachel, she wouldn’t come down, but me of course . . . you see a hell of a lot, in this game.’
He paused to lick his lips again; his eyes rolled a little, then straightened.
‘Tell you something . . . this is what I reckon. She’d given him a hoist with his own gear.’
Gently checked. ‘How do you mean . . . ?’
The manager nodded his foolish nods. ‘Take my word for it. She’s got a bun . . . but who was the baker, I’d like to know? Not Charlie Berney . . . I’ll swear to that! I mean, the way she treated him was a joke. And he couldn’t see it, the stupid bugger . . . but I could see it, I tell you straight!’
Gently sat very still. ‘She was deceiving him . . . ?’
The manager giggled knowingly and groped for the bottle. ‘She was giving him a hoist . . . that’s rich, isn’t it? One bastard fathered on another, and him innocent as a babe . . .’
He poured more Cognac, chortling tipsily, with moisture beading on his pickled nose. He drank. His swimming eyes tried to settle on Gently’s, but kept missing them, going past them.
Gently got up and went out to the foyer, where there was a pay-telephone for customers. He fed in a coin and dialled the police station. A few seconds later he was connected to Docking.
‘Listen,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve been talking to a genius, a man who can see the obvious when it’s in front of him.’ He wedged himself more firmly into the booth. ‘Forget Berney’s woman. Tomorrow, we’ll be hunting for a man.’
CHAPTER NINE
THE OBVIOUS . . . ! And, after he’d slept on it, it remained no less obvious. With the morning sun slanting into his bedroom, Gently lay luxuriously checking over the points.
Now there was logic in that clapped-up marriage, in the mysterious behaviour of a playboy brewer, in the conspiracy of Lachlan Stogumber and the unwidowlike character of his sister . . .
Berney had been hoist. A middle aged Casanova, he’d been twisted round the finger of the haughty Marie. Dazzled by a sudden, miraculous complacence, he’d run his neck straight into the noose. And he’d been hoisted: the doughty warrior had become the gull of a young girl; learning too late that he’d been pre-cuckolded, was a mock-husband: a joke.
Gently stirred comfortably amongst the bedclothes. Starting from there, all the rest fitted! They had probably even a short-list of Berney’s suspects, comprised by the names of those invited to his party. Because the party stood out as an evident ploy. It had been contrived to discover Marie’s lover. Uncharacteristically subdued, Berney had stayed in the background, waiting, watching for the unguarded exchange – which, it turned out, wasn’t to come, since the contemptuous Marie had stuck close to her brother and Redmayne all evening. It was only later she’d made her slip: letting Berney get a glimpse of that damning sonnet.
Gently paused in his thoughts. What exactly had Berney seen? It didn’t have to be the type copy which his wife had produced for the police. Once Mrs Berney realized that her domestic had talked, she could easily have provided herself with a duplicate from her brother’s typewriter. But if there had been an original – say in manuscript, and signed – wouldn’t Berney have known from that the identity of her lover? Which apparently he didn’t, because the next day he’d set his trap to find it out. Gently frowned. Either the typescript was the original, or it was copied from one that was similarly anonymous . . .
One way or another – it had settled Berney! He certainly hadn’t believed that the sonnet was her brother’s. Sick with jealousy, he’d pretended a message calling him to London on business. To make the opportunity more inviting he’d invented a need to stay the night in town; then, after booking in at Starmouth, he’d gone straight to the heath to keep watch.
So far, so good: but here one came to the crux of the mystery. Why had Berney been so inflexibly confident that the rendezvous would be on the heath? He had made the opportunity himself, so there could have been no prior arrangement for him to be privy to, and if he didn’t know the lover’s identity and place of residence, he couldn’t tell if the heath was convenient or not. Yet he appeared to have had no doubts. He had stationed himself unhesitatingly at the entry to the heath. And sure enough, his quarry had turned up, and he had followed her to the meeting-place . . .
Gently reached his pipe from the bedside cabinet, filled it and applied an absent match. As though – this was it! – Berney had guessed who his man was, and on Tuesday was seeking positive proof. He had guessed – and guessed rightly: the lover was going to come over the heath. He was a man who lived on the far side of the heath, who was familiar with the heath: and a riding man.
Gently closed his eyes and puffed. Before him he saw spread again Docking’s map: the two red crosses – not so very far apart – and the heath ranging beyond, to Clayfield. Doubtless Marie had driven on to the heath and had concealed her car at the survey point. She couldn’t drive fast on the rough track, so it was possible for Berney to follow her on foot. Or perhaps he’d hung back, knowing where she must park, and had watched her movements from far off – closing in then, by cutting across, when she began to head for the valley. However it was, she led him to the spot, and to that spot had come the horseman: across the heath. From some compass-bearing on the distant perimeter he’d ridden in . . .
From Clayfield?
Clayfield was farthest, but that didn’t put it out of reckoning. Even on a hot day, at an easy pace, a horse could cover the distance in half an hour. And Rising had horses. He was acquainted with the Stogumbers. His wife, Jill, had taught Marie to ride. He was perhaps the sort of man Lachlan Stogumber might abet against the debauched brewer whom his sister had made use of. Stogumber might even have helped Rising with the sonnet, and typed it himself in case Berney did see it . . . that would square well with the young poet’s character, and account for his confidence that Gently couldn’t disprove his authorship. On the other counts, Rising had been at the party, and Rising had no checkable alibi . . .
Gently blew smoke at the slanted sunlight. Moving now to the other end of the heath! There – it stood out – was the Home Farm, in distance nearest to the place of the meeting. And there was the horse, the killer horse, already with a maimed groom to its record – unridable by anyone but Creke, by his own witness – though the man was almost certainly a liar. Not that Creke rated high as a suspect. One couldn’t imagine him attracting Marie. His literary talent was probably zero, he hadn’t been at the party, and his alibi was sound. It was the horse that didn’t have an alibi, though Creke had done his best to provide it with one: the huge
horse, with its satanic temper . . . ready to the hand of a man who dared.
And of course, there had been a man who’d dared.
Gently felt for the matches and relit his pipe. Occupying middle ground, between the Home Farm and Clayfield, the Manor House looked across the heath to the sea. A mile up the road from the stallion’s stable. Say a couple of minutes in a bouncing Renault. A Renault, whose small, close wheels might have left narrow tracks under the trees by the stable . . .
Gently smiled to himself. It fitted almost too well – supposing his hypothesis was the right one. On every count, from alibi to literacy, Redmayne qualified as the hot suspect. It went further. He was an inmate with Marie before her hasty marriage to Berney – and, according to her brother, was exactly the type to whom Marie would feel attracted. Redmayne, as a poet, would probably be a traditionalist. Redmayne had access to Lachlan Stogumber’s typewriter. Redmayne, beyond doubt, would get the poet’s backing in any collision with the law. And to this one could add that Marie sought his company at the party, perhaps in defiance of her husband’s gorgon gaze . . .
A hot suspect? Well . . . yes! But there was one tiny flaw in the argument. Gently impatiently struck another match and puffed rank smoke towards the ceiling. If Marie Stogumber had been pregnant by Redmayne, what was to stop her from marrying her lover? The affair with Berney would have been superfluous if Leo Redmayne had been the man. Possible to think up explanations, like Marie marrying Berney in a fit of pique . . . but probable? Gently shook his head. A fit of pique rarely led to such rashness.
He glanced at his watch. It showed five past eight. He pulled over the telephone that stood on the cabinet. When Docking came on he sounded brisk and mettlesome, as though he’d just stepped out of a cold shower.
‘Don’t wait for me,’ Gently said. ‘Carry on with checking the party guests. And remember, today we’re not pulling punches – we need to get that list sorted.’
‘Sir,’ Docking said eagerly. ‘I’ve been giving it some thought, sir, and there’s one name on the list that really stands out.’
