Gently in Trees

by Alan Hunter

  Walling gulped epileptically behind the mug. ‘Yes . . . yes! I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Gently said.

  ‘I did it,’ Walling said. ‘I followed him out there. I waited on a layby on the All, then picked him up as he came by.’

  ‘You knew where he was going?’

  ‘Yes – yes! He’d talked about it the previous weekend. And I knew the place, Mogi’s Belt, because we’d been there before, on a picnic.’

  ‘But still, you tailed him there?’

  ‘Yes! I had to make sure he would go as planned. And then, of course, I waited till he had turned in and gone to sleep. Then I did it.’

  ‘Where did you wait?’

  ‘Oh, in the forest.’

  ‘I would like to know whereabouts in the forest.’

  ‘Yes, it was a layby, a picnic spot. Somewhere just off the road.’

  ‘Which road is that?’

  ‘Well – you know, the road! It goes through the forest to West Brayling. Well, there. It’s a sort of car park, a place to pull off. That’s where I waited.’

  ‘Next to Mogi’s Belt?’

  ‘Yes, next to it. So I wouldn’t have far to carry the bottle.’

  ‘You could show me the spot?’

  ‘Well – yes. But it was dark. I couldn’t be certain.’

  ‘How long did you wait there?’

  Walling jiffled the mug. ‘It must have been an hour or two. Or longer. I had to give him time to do his filming, then pack up and go to bed. I couldn’t see him, of course, from the car, and he might have spotted me if I’d gone closer. Perhaps it was three hours. Or nearer four. I know I gave him plenty of time.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, I did it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll expand on that, Mr Walling.’

  ‘Yes – yes.’ Walling licked his lips, then took a quick swig from the mug. ‘I had the bottle and the hose in the boot. So I carried them through the trees to the caravette. Then I connected the hose to the bottle, led it through a window, and turned on the tap.’

  ‘You led it through a window?’

  ‘Yes, well, a window.’

  ‘Was the roof of the caravette up or down?’

  Walling’s free hand strayed to his hair. ‘It was dark, you see, I don’t think I noticed. Probably up, that would be usual. Though he may have slept with it down. But then, I was nervous. I just pushed the hose in, turned on the tap, and ran off.’

  ‘What colour was the hose?’

  ‘The – the hose?’

  ‘Yes. We have the hose and the bottle on the premises.’

  Walling dragged at his hair. ‘It was just a cheap hose – I bought it with the bottle, at a branch of Halfords.’

  ‘But the colour?’

  ‘Well, they’re all one colour – black, green, even red. I bought two yards – three, it may be. I know I paid fifty pence.’

  ‘You were perhaps too nervous to notice the colour?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Too nervous.’

  ‘Or the colour of the bottle?’

  ‘No . . . wait! The bottle was either blue or green.’

  ‘But not white?’ Gently said.

  Walling’s fingers tightened. ‘Perhaps . . . yes, you could call it white. Or white with some other colour. I really was very nervous.’

  Gently drank more tea. Walling, agitatedly, did likewise. Metfield’s pencil, which had begun so merrily, had ceased to rustle some time earlier. Now he sat staring blankly at Gently, who sat staring meditatively into his mug. After some moments, Gently set down the mug and reached again for the phone.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So I’ll just ring to find out if they want you with an escort.’

  ‘B-but,’ Walling stammered. ‘It’s you who want me! I’ve just m-made a full confession.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Gently said. ‘It was a brave try.’

  ‘But it’s true. I did kill Adrian!’

  ‘You went to Brighton.’

  ‘N-no! I was here.’

  ‘Sorry again,’ Gently said.

  He began dialling. Walling jumped off his chair and darted furiously to the desk.

  ‘Stop it!’ he cried. ‘It’s all a m-mistake. You’ll be sorry for this in a minute!’

  ‘Sit down,’ Gently said.

  ‘I w-won’t! What I’ve said is a death-bed confession. Listen – I, Oscar Walling, killed Adrian Stoll. Those are my very last words!’

  A podgy hand dived into his hip pocket and came out clutching a small automatic. He jammed it against his head. It clicked feebly. Walling fell down in a faint.

  At least, he gave the impression of a faint but it lasted only till Metfield knelt over him and began slapping his cheeks. Then he wailed and struggled to sit up, his mouth drooling and his eyes aghast. Metfield propped him untenderly against the desk, where he sat gaping and moaning. Gently meanwhile had picked up the gun. It was a .22 Browning; it was loaded.

  ‘Do you have a licence for this?’

  ‘I – I . . . no!’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Ugh – ugh – a friend . . .’

  ‘Right. I’m arresting you on an offensive weapons charge.’ Gently toyed with the gun. ‘Or is that what you wanted?’

  Walling swallowed wretchedly. ‘I – I killed Adrian! That was a death-bed confession.’

  ‘Oh no it wasn’t.’

  ‘I was going to kill myself!’

  ‘Then why did you leave the safety-catch on?’

  ‘I – I forgot . . .’

  Gently clicked his tongue. ‘You wouldn’t have forgotten if you’d meant it. People who really mean to commit suicide don’t have elementary lapses of memory. Did Webster give you this gun?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We shall find out anyway. You may as well tell us.’

  ‘No. Oh please, no!’ Walling sank his face in his hands and sobbed.

  Gently sat on the chair which Walling lately had occupied and studied the wretched financier. Walling, in his grief, was a comic figure, and not the less so because the grief was genuine. That was his tragedy. If Walling had been a woman, who would have found his tears comic?

  ‘Listen,’ Gently said. ‘I think you could help me. I’m certain you know who killed Stoll. What you’ve just done was rather foolish, but I can understand you doing it.’

  Walling wailed desolately. ‘It was m-me!’

  ‘No,’ Gently said. ‘It wasn’t you. But you thought that since you were ruined anyway, and going to prison, you might as well confess to this too. Well, that’s understandable, but it didn’t work, and your attempting it raises a question – who were you trying to shield? Who is important enough to you for that?’

  ‘Oh no, no!’ Walling wailed. ‘It’s all a mistake, and I did it!’

  ‘It has to be your daughter.’

  ‘Please, please, no!’

  ‘Then who else?’

  ‘I! I did it!’

  And he howled like a great boy, with tears leaking through his pudgy fingers.

  The phone rang: Metfield picked it up. ‘It’s Keynes, sir,’ he said.

  Gently rose and went to the desk and took the phone from Metfield. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think you’d better come over,’ Keynes said. ‘Something a little disturbing has happened here. It’s about Lawrence. We’ve had a telegram. I think he may not be coming back tonight.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘More or less. But I think you had better see it for yourself.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the Lodge.’

  ‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘I’ll be over.’

  He hung up, and stood a moment staring down at the blubbering Walling. Then he nodded to Metfield.

  ‘Get him up,’ he said. ‘I think he may as well come too.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THEY TOOK THE Wolseley. Metfield drove; Walling lolled by himself in the back. He had stopped crying now and was just looking stupefied, his pal
e eyes staring wide at nothing. He had made no objection to being taken to Brayling, had let them move him around like a zombie: you pushed him, and he went. Impossible to guess what he was thinking.

  ‘Do you reckon we’re back with Turner, sir?’ Metfield murmured, as they left the town limits and sped towards Brayling.

  Gently grunted. ‘We’re back with nothing! It’s more a question of how many.’

  Metfield nodded to the rear seat. ‘He could have been one. And now his conscience is biting him.’

  Gently grunted again, but said nothing. Metfield shrugged and gunned the Wolseley.

  They reached the Lodge. Keynes was waiting for them; he came across as they parked. His eye fell on the dazed Walling, who showed no sign of recognition.

  ‘Hullo! What’s he doing here?’

  Gently gave him a look. ‘Does his presence bother you?’

  Keynes shook his head doubtfully. ‘Not really. Though he looks as though he needs a brandy. I suppose you don’t have any news of Lawrence?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to get from you.’

  ‘Just asking,’ Keynes said quietly. ‘Your facilities for news-gathering are better than mine.’

  He led them inside – Gently first, then the shambling Walling, urged by Metfield. In the drawing-room they found Maryon Britton and her daughter, who was lying on the sofa. Maryon Britton was seated beside her, but she rose quickly as they entered. She stared blankly at Walling for a moment, then moved to confront Gently.

  ‘So all this is nonsense – you’ve arrested him!’

  She indicated Walling with a fierce nod. The action and the tone of her voice startled him out of his stupor, and he winced.

  ‘Mr Walling has been helping me,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes, and we all know what that means! Good lord, you can see it in his face – he has guilt written all over him.’

  ‘Steady, Maryon,’ Keynes murmured.

  ‘No, I’ll say what I think!’ Maryon Britton said. ‘Here they’ve been hounding poor Lawrence to his wits’ end, when they’ve known all the time who the culprit was. We told them who it was – it couldn’t have been us! – yet still they persecuted poor Lawrence. And now they’ve driven him into doing something desperate, just when they’ve arrested the real killer.’ She slipped round Gently to face Walling. ‘You did do it, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘It was you who came down here that night, who killed Adrian. Confess it was you!’

  ‘Maryon, Maryon!’ Keynes pleaded.

  ‘Go on, confess it!’ Maryon Britton cried. ‘You may as well, because he’ll find out anyway. So be a man for once, and say it.’

  Walling was gurgling and rolling his eyes. Now he made a defensive flutter with his hands. ‘B-but he won’t believe me. He . . . he . . .!’ He collapsed on one of the Sheraton chairs.

  ‘You see?’ Maryon Britton demanded. ‘He does confess! And all this business about Lawrence is nonsense.’

  ‘Not if the Superintendent doesn’t believe him,’ Keynes said. ‘And the Superintendent isn’t rushing to deny it.’

  ‘That’s just his cunning!’

  Keynes shook his head. ‘I can’t quite see Oscar in the role, myself. But I can imagine the old lad trying something Quixotic, and perhaps being too naïve to pull it off.’ He flickered a faint smile at Gently. ‘Is that the strength of it?’

  Gently merely stared. ‘Have you reason to think so?’

  Keynes shrugged. ‘Only knowing my Oscar. Nothing more subtle implied than that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care!’ Maryon Britton exclaimed. ‘If Oscar has confessed that will do for me. Because I can’t see Lawrence in the role, either – and he hasn’t confessed. He’s just being hounded.’

  ‘Which is where we came in,’ Keynes said. ‘Maryon, you’ll have to show the Superintendent that telegram.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been on his side from the start!’ she cried. ‘And the telegram is my property, anyway.’

  But she flung away, with regal insolence, and crossed to the handsome bureau-bookcase. She returned with a yellow envelope which she dropped contemptuously into Gently’s hand.

  ‘There. Now see what you’ve done!’

  The telegram originated from a post office in Chelsea. It had been handed in at four p.m., which was rather more than two hours earlier. The text ran:

  I WAS RESPONSIBLE + TRY TO FORGIVE + GOODBYE + LAWRENCE

  It was addressed to Mrs M. Britton, The Lodge, West Brayling.

  Gently stared at it: at Maryon Britton.

  ‘Is there a reason why this should have been sent to you?’

  ‘Reason!’ she snapped. ‘The reason is obvious. He is letting us know that he won’t be back.’

  ‘But why send it to you?’

  ‘Why not to me? Haven’t I been a mother to him all this time?’

  ‘He’s right, Maryon,’ Keynes said slowly. ‘That telegram would more likely have come to me.’

  She stared at him angrily.

  ‘Or Miss Britton,’ Gently said.

  Jennifer Britton stirred on the sofa. She turned over and sat up, parting the hair from her heavy eyes.

  ‘Lawrence is innocent,’ she said dully. ‘That’s why he didn’t send it to me. He sent it here, but not to me. He couldn’t tell me he was responsible.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Maryon Britton scoffed.

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer Britton said. ‘He couldn’t tell me. Because it wasn’t true. So now I know he’s innocent. And you and Edwin can think what you like.’

  ‘Oh, what poppycock!’ Maryon Britton cried.

  ‘Why would he say what wasn’t true?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Because,’ Jennifer Britton said, ‘he knew they thought it, anyway. So he just made it an excuse for not coming back.’

  Keynes was looking curiously at Gently. ‘Are you thinking what I think you are?’ he said. ‘It bothered me too, about Maryon getting the telegram, but I’ve only just begun to realize why.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have sent it to you?’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes. That’s certainly what I would have expected. Lawrence has my car, remember, and I’m confident he wouldn’t have gone off with that. And if he’d left it somewhere for me to pick up, all the more reason for him to contact me.’ He looked steadily at Gently. ‘You might almost conclude that Lawrence had forgotten the address of the cottage.’

  Gently gave a nod. ‘And the style of the telegram?’

  ‘Perhaps a little too tidy,’ Keynes said. ‘Not so much like Lawrence. Rather more like someone trying to suggest a state of mind.’

  ‘A professional touch.’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Look, what is this?’ Maryon Britton demanded. ‘Are you trying to say that the telegram is phoney – that Lawrence didn’t send it at all?’

  There was a groan from Jennifer Britton.

  ‘May I use your phone?’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes – but what in heaven’s name is going on?’

  ‘That is beginning to bother me,’ Gently said.

  The phone was in the hall. Gently rang the Yard and got Lyons’s lieutenant, Sergeant Beales. But just then Lyons himself came in, fresh back from a fruitless trip to Campden Hill.

  ‘Walling’s skipped!’

  Gently reassured him. ‘Look. First, I want a pick-up on Lawrence Turner. Description you have. Driving Hillman Imp, red, index number EVG 701 H. Repeat back.’ Lyons repeated. ‘Second, a search warrant for Webster’s flat. Turner may be there. If not, then most likely in that area.’

  ‘Check,’ Lyons said.

  There was a spell of harmonics while Lyons passed the instructions to Beales. Then he came back.

  ‘The Rosenberg phone call. That seems to be genuine as far as we’ve got.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘I felt it would be. What do we have on Webster’s lodger?’

  ‘Nothing positive. A newsagent near the flat describes a hippie character, age about twenty. Seen several times lately in Webster’s company. Bu
t nothing to show he slept at the flat. Tallish, with a beard.’ Lyons paused. ‘Doesn’t that come near to your description of Turner?’

  ‘Not the hippie bit.’

  ‘He could keep it for town. Have his gear stashed at the flat.’

  ‘Possible,’ Gently said. ‘But not helpful. We need a lodger who wasn’t Turner.’

  ‘A pity,’ Lyons said. ‘Nothing else on Turner. Nobody I’ve talked to has seen him around. But then if he was wearing gear and a wig, people might not connect him with our description. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’d better forget it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lyons said. ‘Well, just an idea. Him being tallish, bearded and around twenty. A bit of camouflage is easy these days.’ He paused again. ‘Any action on Webster?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Gently said. ‘For a start, a tail. If Turner isn’t at the flat I think that Webster can lead us to him. Then I want more detail about Saturday night, when Webster dropped Nina Walling at Campden Hill. The timing. Proof that she really did stay there. Pull in Messiter and grill him.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Lyons said. ‘You think she’s involved?’

  ‘Walling has given me reason to think so.’

  ‘You want her questioned?’

  ‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Just get me the facts and sit on them.’

  He returned to the drawing-room, where they were sitting in silence, and where Walling was now nursing a glass of brandy. Nobody looked up, except Metfield, who had taken a discreet station by the door. Jennifer Britton had sunk back on the sofa, where she lay with half-closed eyes; her mother sat scowling at Metfield’s feet; Keynes was gazing solemnly at his own.

  Gently took a chair by the latter.

  ‘Have you given it some thought?’

  Keynes slid him a little glance, then shrugged. ‘It bothers me as it bothers you. Lawrence wasn’t planning a flit this morning.’

  ‘Then what has happened since?’

  Keynes shook his head. ‘Unless he is playing the same prank as Oscar. Trying to get us off the hook. It would square with Lawrence’s character.’

  ‘But you’re convinced he wasn’t planning it this morning?’

  ‘He wasn’t planning it at all!’ Maryon Britton broke in. ‘That’s too ridiculous. It would mean he suspected us. Lawrence isn’t stupid enough for that.’