Gently in Trees

by Alan Hunter

  ‘By the forest . . . ?’

  Jennifer Britton made a face, and returned to her meditation of the ceiling.

  Gently nodded his mandarin nod. ‘So now we’ve followed it through to ten-thirty. No telephone calls, no visitors, and only some premonitions about Mr Stoll. Miss Britton has returned with her friend. There is a car in the yard, and one in the garage. By now, all this waiting would appear to be over, and dispositions for the night about to begin.’ He looked at Keynes.

  ‘Just so,’ Keynes smiled. ‘About then we had given Adrian up. And the circumstance seemed to confirm my theory that my cousin was having second thoughts.’

  ‘So the party began to break up.’

  ‘Yes, sort of. Jenny was having a little fight with Lawrence. Maryon was taking them both to task. So Lawrence decided to shove off.’

  ‘Taking your car?’

  Keynes shook his head. ‘The cottage is less than a mile away. So the cars remained where they were – though one was enough, for your theory.’

  Gently grunted. ‘And then?’

  ‘I went to bed, too,’ Jennifer Britton intoned. ‘In my own little room. Close to the backstairs. At the other end of the house from Mamma’s.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘And then?’

  ‘We sat a while longer,’ Keynes said. ‘Till half-past eleven, I suspect – just giving Adrian a last chance. I suppose we were both thinking he might come very late, intending to catch us in flagrante delicto; but as it got towards midnight that possibility seemed to recede. So we decided I would stay. I went outside to lock my car – it was still there – then I locked up the house for Maryon, and we retired. End of statement.’

  ‘You wish it to end there?’

  Keynes hesitated, his eyes quizzing Gently’s. ‘I’m afraid it will have to. I’m not taking it any further than the bedroom door.’

  ‘I want a complete statement,’ Gently said, ‘going through till you returned to your cottage the next day. With special reference to the hours between midnight and three a.m.’

  They stared at each other. There was still a smile latent on Keynes’s lips, but his eyes were flat and steady, meeting Gently’s without yielding. But the confrontation, if such it was, was ended by a sudden exclamation from Metfield, who jumped hastily to his feet and charged across to the french windows.

  ‘This way, sir!’

  He dived through them, landing in a skid on the gravel outside. When Gently arrived at the french windows, Metfield was sliding to a stop at the far end of the sweep.

  ‘The other way, sir – cut him off!’

  Gently turned to race along the front of the house. He cut round the corner, scattering gravel, and sprinted on towards the yard. A figure came flying out of the yard, saw Gently, halted, seemed about to come on; then Metfield flailed into view and hurled himself on the figure in a crunching tackle.

  ‘Not this time, sonny!’

  The man, a youngster, lay white-faced and gasping on the gravel. He was tallish and sported a full beard, and was wearing a green shirt with a tear in the sleeve.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘GET UP,’ GENTLY said.

  For some moments the young man made no effort to obey him. Metfield, clearly a rugby type, had put all his beef into that tackle. Now his victim lay hugging his stomach and snatching air in gulped breaths. At last he climbed shakily to his feet.

  ‘Are you Lawrence Turner?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘What were you running away from just now?’

  ‘I – I wasn’t running away. I just didn’t want to – want to intrude.’

  Metfield laughed scornfully. ‘That’s a good one! I spotted him listening outside the french windows.’

  ‘No – I wasn’t listening!’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s been here all the time,’ Metfield scoffed.

  The young man kept panting and massaging his stomach. But then Jennifer Britton appeared at the door. She came forward quickly, her eyes flashing, and stood glaring at the policemen like an aroused Alsatian.

  ‘What on earth have you been doing to Lawrence!’

  ‘Just rounding him up, miss,’ Metfield said.

  ‘You haven’t! You’ve been knocking him about. This is another sickening example of police brutality.’

  ‘He was being elusive, miss. We had to collar him.’

  ‘Look – you’ve done him some serious injury!’

  ‘He’s just winded, miss, that’s all!’ exclaimed Metfield, goadedly.

  ‘Oh! You’re worse than the thugs you’re supposed to protect us from.’

  She moved protectively towards Turner, who was beginning to regain control of his breathing. She laid her hand on his arm and stared up into his still-glazed eves.

  ‘Are you all right, Lawrence? What did they do to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing – nothing,’ he said huskily.

  ‘If they knocked you about we can sue them, you know.’

  Turner swallowed and shook his head.

  Now Maryon Britton and Keynes came out of the house. Maryon Britton was looking grim. Keynes sauntered easily towards the group; he slid Turner a quick, compassionate grin.

  ‘Time to be bold, Lawrence,’ he said.

  ‘Did he come here with you this afternoon?’ Gently asked.

  Keynes shrugged and gestured with his hand. ‘Not much point in denying it, is there?’ he said.

  ‘So why didn’t he come in with you?’

  Keynes faded-in a smile. ‘Every man has his reasons. I’m sure that Lawrence’s are quite innocent, though they may not therefore be wise. Shall we go inside?’

  ‘No,’ Gently said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Turner will be accompanying me to the police station.’

  ‘Oh, but you can’t do that!’ Jennifer Britton burst out.

  ‘He will be assisting me there with my inquiries.’

  They stared at him – Jennifer Britton angrily, her mother stonily; Keynes with his smile.

  ‘Perhaps I may have a few words with him first,’ Keynes said quietly. ‘It could help you as well as him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just as his adviser. He’s only a kid of twenty-two, you know.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘If he needs an adviser he will be entitled to call one from the police station.’ He looked from one to another of them. ‘I shall want you there as well, to sign amendments to your previous statements. And I shall need possession of Mr Keynes’s car in order to give it a thorough examination.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘But this – this is so unbelievable!’ Jennifer Britton cried.

  ‘You may be making a bad mistake,’ Keynes said earnestly.

  Maryon Britton looked, but said nothing.

  They left the Lodge in a small convoy, headed by Metfield, who was driving the Imp; then followed the Rapier, driven by Keynes, and finally the Wolseley, with Turner sitting beside Gently.

  Turner had kept his mouth buttoned after that first, brief exchange, and he was keeping it buttoned now, his thin lips compressed and pale. He was a good-looking young man, as far as his looks got past his beard: a tall, though rather narrow, forehead, handsome dark eyes, and a nose of character. His hair and beard were golden brown, and he had a lean, athletic body. His hands, now clasping his sprawled knees, were large, with strong, big-boned fingers. He stared straight ahead throughout the drive, but with empty eyes that were seeing nothing.

  At Latchford police station a reporter and his camera-man were mysteriously lurking on the steps. Metfield drove past them, into the M/T yard, but they were alert for Keynes and the two women. Then it was Gently’s turn. He pulled out round the Rapier and swept into the yard after Metfield, but the camera caught them, with Turner’s hands going up in a foolish attempt to cover his face. Gently slammed to a stop.

  ‘Do you want press attention?’

  Turner shivered. ‘Please . . . no!’

  Gently grunted. ‘We
ll, you’ve got it now! If we don’t crucify you, they will.’

  He hustled Turner through the back door and shoved him into an interrogation-room. Then he hurried through reception, where the other three were waiting, and out again to the steps. The reporter blocked his way directly.

  ‘Chiefie – tell us! Is it a pinch?’

  ‘No, it isn’t! Just public-minded citizens giving the police a little assistance.’

  ‘That was Maryon Britton and her daughter.’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘Who was beardie?’

  ‘He’s an Irish gentleman who thought you were going to take a pot at him.’

  ‘Now, Chiefie, give us a break! He’s helping with your inquiries, isn’t he?’

  ‘Everyone is helping with my inquiries, with the small exception of two present.’

  The reporter’s pencil scuffled over his notebook.

  ‘Chiefie, give us a name, can’t you? We know the other man, Stoll’s cousin, but the lad with the beard is a new face.’

  ‘If he’s got something for us I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Chiefie, that’s as much as to say it’s a pinch.’

  ‘So print it and listen for the bang.’

  ‘Now, Chiefie! Don’t you trust us?’

  Gently turned back into the station. He met Metfield coming in from the M/T yard. The local man was rubbing his hands and he had a glint in his eye.

  ‘Where’s chummie?’

  ‘In the sweat-room. You’d better put a man in there with him. That reporter has snouted him already. He’ll be stop-press in the late editions.’

  ‘Do we take him now?’

  Gently shook his head vigorously. ‘Let’s get those amendments down and signed. Then we can move in on chummie. He seems the sort who could sweat tender.’

  Metfield took a joyous swallow of his tongue. ‘He’s our boyo, sir!’ he said. ‘It came out plain when you were interrogating. Turner is where it all points to.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Gently grunted.

  ‘Yes, sir, it stops with him,’ Metfield gloated. ‘The others are in it, I’ll swear to that, but Turner was the one who turned the gas on.’ He took another happy swallow. ‘Because look, sir, Turner is the one without an alibi. And he was planning to marry the daughter, to cut himself in on the deal. Keynes is maybe the brains, the man with the know-how to set it up – but it was Turner who came back for the car and drove into the forest with the gas. And we’ll break him, sir, that’s certain, and he’ll put a finger on the others. We just have to play it right – we can have it licked by this time tomorrow!’

  Gently stared woodenly at the local man. ‘Did you ever buy a bottle of gas?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ Metfield’s eyes rounded. ‘No, sir, I never did.’

  ‘It works like this,’ Gently said. ‘You pay a fiver for the bottle, and an odd sum for the gas. After that you just pay for the gas, exchanging your bottle for one of theirs. Then, if you’ve finished with using gas, you can get a refund on the bottle, less a percentage for deterioration calculated from the date of the original purchase. Can you get two search warrants in a hurry?’

  Metfield gulped. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Right. I think it’s time we used them – one for the Lodge, one for Keynes’s cottage.’

  ‘B-but are we looking for something special, sir?’

  Gently’s brows lifted. ‘There is of course a contract with every bottle. The retailer enters the date of purchase. We may just be dealing with a careless chummie.’

  Metfield reddened. ‘I should have known about that, sir. But the agent I spoke to didn’t mention it.’

  Gently hunched. ‘Probably a long shot.’

  Metfield bustled away to his office.

  It was early in the evening before they got round to Turner. Low sun was shining dazzlingly through the interrogation-room window. Turner was sitting forlornly at the bare, scrubbed table, which, with three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. But there were paper and pencils on the table, for the better accommodation of co-operative chummies, and during his hours of waiting Turner had made some use of these. He had drawn the two constables who had taken turns at sitting with him. He had drawn the plastic tray on which they had brought him tea and sandwiches. Then he had drawn a memory sketch of, it appeared, the dell in Mogi’s Belt; but now he was just sitting, with his head resting on his hands.

  He didn’t look up when Gently entered with Metfield. Metfield nodded to the constable, who left. The room was stuffy and smelled of floor polish; was unnaturally irradiated by the flashing sun.

  ‘Lawrence Turner?’

  Turner drew a deep sigh and straightened up in his chair. His face was flushed, but that was probably due to the close atmosphere of the room. He looked dully at Gently.

  ‘Stand up, Turner. Turn out your pockets on the table.’

  Turner hesitated, then obeyed; making two small heaps, one from each pocket. In one heap was a pipe, matches, a packet of twist tobacco, a penknife; in the other money, a dog-eared notebook, a stub of pencil, and a ring with two keys. Gently fingered the latter. One was a Union door-key. The other was embossed: Rootes.

  ‘The key of Mr Keynes’s car?’

  Turner nodded, saying nothing. Gently picked up the notebook. It contained sketches, quotations and a few naïve verses. The money amounted to little over a pound. The penknife was a cheap smoker’s knife. The pipe was a charred corncob, which had probably cost forty pence.

  ‘Do you want a smoke?’

  ‘Yes – please.’

  ‘Where did you tear the sleeve of your shirt?’

  Turner dropped his eyes. ‘Well – it was yesterday – I tore it on a nail.’

  Gently took out the envelope containing the fibres he had removed from the gate at Mogi’s Belt. He went round to Turner; he took out the fibres. Plainly they came from the sleeve of the shirt.

  ‘All right. You can smoke now.’

  Turner sagged in the chair again. His hands fumbled with the twist and the penknife, but they were like the hands of a blind man. Gently pulled up a chair, across the table from him. Metfield settled at the end of the table; he laid his notebook open before him, and sharpened a pencil with firm strokes. At last, Turner had his pipe going. Gently leaned towards him over the table.

  ‘Now. What makes you so interested in our business?’

  Turner puffed nervously at the corncob. ‘I-I’m not interested. It’s how I told you. I didn’t want to intrude till you were gone.’

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘I-I was in Latchford.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘That’s not where your shirt was. And there’s a lot of red dust on Mr Keynes’s car. Not the sort of dust you find in Latchford.’

  ‘But that could have been picked up at any time!’

  ‘Like the red stain on the tyres?’

  ‘W-what red stain?’

  ‘The sort of stain you pick up on the track by Mogi’s Belt, after rain.’

  Turner puffed furiously. ‘I don’t know about that! And I’ve never driven a car round there. I’ve told you why I didn’t come in with Edwin, and I don’t have to say any more.’

  Gently leaned back from the table. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You were at Mogi’s Belt this morning. You were spying to see what we were up to, and when you were spotted you ran away. Then this afternoon you drove to the Lodge with Mr Keynes and you saw a police car parked in the yard. Mr Keynes came in, but you didn’t. You hung about outside, trying to eavesdrop. That’s twice in one day you’ve played that trick, and twice you’ve tried to give us the slip. And you’re the driver of a car that was at Mogi’s Belt at about the time Mr Stoll was killed. Of course you don’t have to say any more – and you’ll know best whether to keep your mouth shut. But either you talk, or we shall have to assume that there are very good reasons for your silence. So the ball is in your court. It’s up to you how you play it.’

  The pipe was trembling in Turner�
��s fingers. ‘Are – are you arresting me?’ he faltered.

  Gently folded his arms comfortably and gazed at the wall above Turner’s head.

  ‘Look,’ Turner said. ‘Look – I’m innocent! I didn’t kill Mr Stoll. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t do it – please! You’ve got to give me a chance.’

  Gently shrugged at the wall. ‘Somebody did kill him.’ ‘I know –

  I know – but it wasn’t me! I was in bed – I went straight home. I don’t know anything about it at all!’

  ‘Then why were you spying and trying to avoid us?’

  ‘Because – because –!’ Turner stuttered. ‘I knew you’d be after me, don’t you see? I had to find out what you were up to.’

  Gently grunted contemptuously. ‘How likely!’

  ‘But it’s the truth!’ Turner exclaimed.

  ‘I could believe that someone else put you up to it.’

  ‘No – no! It was because of myself.’

  ‘And why were we going to bother with you?’

  Turner brought hand and pipe down on the table. ‘Because I was alone. I couldn’t prove anything. It was just my word – my word only!’

  And suddenly his flush had turned to pallor, and his eyes were beginning to stare. He lolled sideways, pushing heavily on the table; sweat-beads were showing on his blanched forehead.

  Gently got up hurriedly and shoved open the door. ‘Fetch a glass of water!’ he bawled to the constable. Then he went to wrestle with the paint-sealed window.

  Behind him, Turner was vomiting over the table.

  So now the room was stinking of Jeypine, but at least the window was ajar. Also, Gently had drawn one of the blue cotton curtains to cut out the buzzing glare.

  Turner, cleaned up and hugging a glass, looked damp and fragile amongst his beard. His dark eyes were large and vacant and he sat slumped, one arm supporting him.

  The picture of a killer? Gently shrugged to himself. The young painter had crumpled like wet paper.

  ‘How well did you know Stoll?’

  Turner hugged the glass a little closer. ‘I saw him often, of course . . . I’ve been living at the cottage for a year.’