Gently Where She Lay

by Alan Hunter

  I grunted. ‘You can depend on that. We don’t permit private vengeance.’

  ‘But you can’t stop me asking questions, not with my own neck sticking out. You think you’re a bloody fine detective and me, I’m just a stupid rep. But we’ll see, mate, we’ll see. I may be there ahead of you yet.’

  I turned on him quickly. ‘Does that mean you know something?’

  ‘Me?’ He sneered. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘What else did you ask Miss Rede?’

  ‘Nothing that you wouldn’t have thought of first.’ He smeared his foot along the side of the outline. ‘So I wanted to know about Viv’s boyfriends. Who she was seeing, going to bed with. Things a husband likes to know.’

  ‘And Miss Rede told you?’

  ‘Told me nothing. Swore Viv wasn’t having men.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Eff-all else. Some biddy called out, and Pam hooked it.’

  I gave him a bleak stare. ‘You won’t be seeing that girl again.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I say. Not her or any other of the girls.’

  Briefly his eyes were dangerous, then he dropped them and took a kick at the outline. ‘So you’re the boss,’ he said. ‘Big man. You’ll go to heaven when you die.’

  ‘And you can forget about asking questions.’

  ‘Why not lock me up now?’

  ‘Because when I do it will be to keep you there.’

  He met my eye, but said nothing.

  I tramped-out what was left of the outline and motioned Selly through the gap. We headed back towards the town, silent, Selly a pace or two ahead. He turned when we neared the golf-club pavilion.

  ‘Am I still supposed to be stuck with you?’

  ‘You are free to go.’

  ‘Thanks so much. Being seen with you helps nobody’s image.’

  He diverged to pass south of the pavilion, where some members stood talking near their cars. I continued to the upper harbour road. I saw no more of Selly at that time.

  I fetched the Cortina and drove by the Major’s house. No red Mini was parked before it. I proceeded to the school; there stood the Mini. I went up and knocked on the door of Miss Swefling’s office. She received me icily.

  ‘I hope this is not to become a habit, Superinten-dent.’

  ‘My apologies. I am wondering if you will do me a favour.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I need to ask Miss Rede a couple of questions. You will help me very much by letting me ask them here, in your presence.’

  She thought about it coolly. ‘I take it this is nothing to the girl’s prejudice?’

  I met her eye. ‘Not directly.’

  ‘I see. You are very frank. And if I refuse?’

  ‘Then I shall have to ask Miss Rede to accompany me to the police station.’

  ‘In fact, I have no option.’

  ‘I would sooner it was done this way.’

  She allowed me some moments of her displeasure, then pressed a button on her desk. Pamela was fetched. She had changed back from her tennis clothes into school uniform. When she saw me she turned pale and swayed, and seemed half-inclined to faint; but she recovered and went to the chair which Miss Swefling had placed by her desk. She sat tremblingly. Miss Swefling touched her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t be upset, girl,’ she said. ‘The Superintendent is going to ask you some questions, but you needn’t answer them if you don’t want to.’ She gave me a ferocious stare.

  ‘Only two questions,’ I said. ‘First, did you tell anyone this afternoon that your uncle was acquainted with Mrs Selly?’

  Pamela shuddered, her eyes dragging on mine, her face a white blur under them. Miss Swefling’s arm tightened about her: Pamela’s head began to shake.

  ‘Second, were you aware of their acquaintance?’

  Her eyes rolled: I thought she must faint. She felt for Miss Swefling’s arm; then the motion of her head became a nod.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT THE POLICE station I talked to Eyke, using him as a sounding-board for my ideas. He was predictable. As between Selly and the Major, his bias was all towards the former. It was almost like this: if the Major was the culprit, Eyke didn’t very much want to know about it. Selly would do. There was a case against him, and the tidy thing would be to set it in motion. Eyke’s man, Sergeant Campsey, had returned from Eastwich and his report by no means favoured Selly. The waitress at The Bull didn’t remember him, and the prostitute, Royce, told a variant story. She’d had a meal with Selly at The Bull, but then she’d left to keep a date with a client. Selly, she supposed, had remained at The Bull until he rejoined her, at her flat, shortly before ten p.m. Thus Selly was covered by nothing that would raise doubt in the minds of the average jury. Meanwhile, Eyke’s coverage of the Common houses had produced neither suspect nor information, so that, setting aside my inconvenient nominee, the ball remained firmly with Selly. The Major was mine, Eyke gently insinuated; he and Wolmering wanted no part in him.

  Selly . . . or the Major? I was trying to get a fix, an intuitive nudge, towards one or the other. Usually in a case I can find myself leaning towards one or another of the available alternatives. An essential faculty: there is too often a point where probabilities balance. Then you’re on a plateau, and unless something is stirring beyond the bare facts you have come to a stand. And this time, apparently, nothing was stirring; I was being left aloof on my plateau. Could it be that I wasn’t fancying either the Major or Selly, but was moving unconsciously towards some third solution?

  At dinner at the Pelican I let my mind wander among the other possibilities, trying to discover if it was secretly finding a favourite for itself. It lingered awhile with Miss Swefling (who was undoubtedly my best outsider), but I was obliged to concede that this was due less to suspicion than to my good opinion of her. Not a criterion, of course. I have met several murderers whom I liked. If sympathy and antipathy were a fair test I would be happy to settle for Selly. No: what I was seeing in Miss Swefling was a blend of strength and generosity which even under pressure would resist the temptation to seek an answer in violence. For her it would be no answer, but an even less tolerable alternative. Scandal, personal disaster, she was equipped to meet, but not the self-judgement that would follow violence. I dismissed her and moved on into more remote country. The girls: they were closest to Vivienne; didn’t instinct twitch a little there? Certainly three of them had returned to school, where they were supposedly confined during the critical period, but my knowledge of the school and its grounds suggested there was small certainty of this. They could have slipped out, to be met by Pamela, who had no precise alibi, and then have met Vivienne, perhaps by the Common, or even at the cottage if she had returned there. A possibility. And violence was already an element in their relation. Vivienne’s body had borne no lash-marks, but there certainly would be shoulders that did. Had they turned on her, in a sadistic frenzy, and perhaps not realising what was happening to her? Holding her down, say, under a quilt, until the significance of her stillness horrifyingly registered? I kept this picture in my mind while I recalled my interview with the girls, trying to fit it to their attitude, the ring in each voice. But it faded. They were too poised. No horror of that sort was weighing down on them. With the insouciance of the young they were perhaps more intrigued than gravely shocked by what had happened to Vivienne. But what came into my mind now, in this connection, was the change in Pamela this afternoon. The poise had gone when she was talking to Selly and had become sheer panic in her encounter with me. The difference had to be Selly. Was Selly then a threat? To be seen talking to him a fatal circumstance? She too had lied about the extent of their acquaintance, though she might be allowed more excuse for that than Selly. I let myself dwell on the scene at the fence, the sharp image of the frightened girl: slim, vulnerable, large-eyed, looking younger than her age in the short dress. A person in shock: Selly had shocked her; had started some unbearable line of thought; something new, which hadn
’t been there when I had spoken to her the previous evening. And directly I could hear his bullying growl and the crucifying words he’d thrown at her: Your bloody uncle did it, didn’t he? And now I’m supposed to carry the can! The bastard. I could feel my hands clenching. But there was a corollary I daren’t overlook. Why had his assertion seemed so devastating to Pamela unless it squared with facts already in her possession? She heard, she believed; in desperation she denied that her uncle was acquainted with Vivienne Selly. But when I had come, with my apparent omniscience, the admission had dropped from her like a ripe fruit. If I’d asked for more I would probably have got it; and of course, there had to be more.

  So my soliloquy ended where it began. I rose and went to the call-box in the foyer. I rang the Major.

  ‘Superintendent Gently. I’d like a few words with you this evening.’

  A pause. ‘Do you mean at the police station, sir?’

  ‘No. You’ll find me in the lounge at the Pelican.’

  Another pause. ‘Very well, sir. I will present myself in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Is your niece at home?’

  ‘My niece has gone up to her room. Did you wish to speak to her?’

  ‘Not now.’

  With luck, Miss Swefling would have repaired some of the damage.

  Reymerston was sitting in the lounge and he greeted me with his quick smile. I felt an urge to go over and talk to him: someone normal, a friend from outside. The case was riding me a little. I wasn’t proud of what I’d done to Pamela. I didn’t want to follow it up by trampling on her uncle and I hoped she didn’t know I’d called him out. But I was a policeman: I gave Reymerston a tight grin and chose a chair near the doors. Reymerston shrugged faintly, looked a moment, then picked up a paper and ignored me.

  I smoked a pipe. The Major arrived. He had taken five minutes longer than he’d said he would; he was spruce and smelling of after-shave lotion, but there was a flutter in his manner. He looked uncertainly round the lounge, which was filling up as dinner ended.

  ‘Do we talk here, sir?’

  I shook my head. ‘I think we’ll stroll round to the cottage.’

  ‘The cottage?’

  ‘Mrs Selly’s cottage.’ I took a key from my pocket and showed it him. He blinked at it.

  ‘But . . . is that quite proper, sir?’

  ‘Would you rather not go to the cottage?’

  ‘No, of course! I was simply wondering . . .’

  ‘I assure you it is quite in order.’

  He gave his monocle a touch. ‘Very good, sir. If that’s the plan of campaign. But before we take this liberty with the dead, perhaps you will join me in a drink.’

  I stared a moment, then shrugged. The Major preceded me into the bar. He ordered a brandy for himself, and I accepted a small Scotch. When they came, he half-made the gesture of touching his glass to mine, but then checked himself awkwardly and took a quick gulp instead. I drank silently. The waiter who’d served us was the one who’d made the statement about seeing Vivienne. I noticed him staring at the Major and myself and once he passed close to me. But he didn’t say anything. The Major drained his glass.

  ‘I’m ready sir.’

  We went out into the quiet evening town, with the Major, who was almost a head shorter than I, bobbing along briskly, and punctiliously in step.

  ‘The best time of the day, sir.’

  I grunted. The shot of brandy was giving him Dutch courage. I wished the Scotch would do the same for me: I was less and less relishing the job ahead.

  ‘Have you been to Wolmering before, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Most charming spot on the whole coast. Settled down here seven years ago. Never regretted it. Never.’

  A little quiver in his voice. He was gazing ahead, not looking at me. Whatever had happened, back at the house, he must know that something critical had developed.

  ‘This is my time for an evening walk . . . lovely air we have here. Sun lighting up the sea. Wouldn’t want to change anything.’

  ‘Do you always take your walks alone?’

  ‘What? Yes. My own company. Lady wife a trifle lame, doesn’t walk so far these days.’

  ‘And your niece?’

  He bobbed a few paces. ‘Niece has friends of her own age, sir.’

  ‘So it’s always alone.’

  ‘Sir.’ He stuck his chin out, was silent.

  We reached the green. I was walking outside him, and now I deliberately fell back. We passed the baroque house and its neighbour, passed the cottage adjoining Seacrest. He hesitated, partly glanced at me, then came to a stand at the right door. I took out the key and handed it to him. He unlocked the door. His hand was quivering. I ushered him in ahead of me, recovered the key, closed the door.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’

  ‘The lounge.’

  This time the hesitation was longer. We were standing at the head of a long hall which led to an inner lobby and the kitchen and scullery. A door left gave access to a front room and there was a second door further along; to the right some graceful though narrow stairs rose steeply and turned on to a landing. I gave the Major a gentle nudge: he turned instinctively towards the stairs. Of course. The lounge was upstairs. Vivienne Selly had wanted to see the sea . . .

  Again at the landing he chose the right door, though here it was a simple piece of logic. We entered a square, modest room of which the focal centre was its single sash window. A low coffee-table had been placed below it and the chairs and settee faced this direction. The furniture was good but not modern, suggesting that the Sellys had bought it with the house. A peaceful room: it smelled faintly of cigarette-smoke, and an unemptied ashtray stood on the coffee-table. I lowered the window. It admitted the soft whisper of the sea.

  ‘Please sit.’

  I remained by the window; the Major chose a chair at a little distance. He leaned back in it and tried to seem at ease, but appeared to have trouble finding a position for his hands.

  ‘Now, please tell me what happened on Monday.’

  ‘On Monday . . . ?’

  ‘The day you wrote to Miss Swefling.’

  ‘I! I wrote to her?’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  His eyes avoided mine; his hands were wandering.

  ‘You wrote a letter warning her against Mrs Selly. It contained information that proved to be correct. Presumably you came by that information on Monday – and it wasn’t confessed to you by your niece.’

  ‘Did Pamela tell you that?’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘I wish to know, sir, what my niece has been saying.’

  ‘I suggest you ask her.’

  ‘But I am asking you, sir!’

  ‘And I am not obliged to give you an answer.’

  His hands stiffened: the brandy was staying him; he had caught hold of an excuse for indignation. Pat on cue came his riposte:

  ‘And I am not obliged to answer you either, sir.’

  I sighed to myself. ‘You don’t wish to explain to me.’

  ‘I am not aware I have anything to explain.’

  ‘You would prefer that I act on my suspicions.’

  ‘You, sir, may do . . .’ He let the sentence trail expressively.

  ‘Please listen carefully,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid your niece is very disturbed. I think it is likely that she was unable to face you this evening. Frankly, I don’t want to be forced into questioning her, and I’m hoping to find some way to avoid it.’

  ‘I forbid you to question her!’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘But I can forbid her to answer, sir. And what is more I can hire a lawyer. We don’t have to submit to your persecution.’

  ‘Exactly who will your lawyer represent?’

  ‘We, us: my niece and I, sir.’

  ‘I doubt if your niece will have much need of him.’

  ‘Sir, I shall do what I think fit.’

  Words boldly spoken. But
his eyes missed mine, his hands were back to their old tricks. At this point, carrying it through, he should have stalked out, not remained weakly sitting to invite fresh attack.

  ‘I think we’ll go next door.’

  ‘What . . . where?’

  ‘Into the room adjoining this one. Naturally, certain items were removed for tests, but now they have been replaced exactly as we found them.’

  His eyes were horrified, tremulous. ‘Is this necessary . . .’

  ‘Have you some objection?’

  Unwillingly he shook his head. I moved from the window: he rose unsteadily.

  Once more I made him go before me. The door of the bedroom opened on darkness. The window, a small one, had been hung with heavy curtains which fitted close and excluded all daylight.

  ‘Switch on the light.’

  His hand faltered, reached out. But nothing followed the click of the switch. It couldn’t: the bulb had been removed, had doubtless been missing for many a day.

  ‘No – the other light.’

  ‘I – I’ll pull the curtains.’

  ‘The light please, Major Rede.’

  I nudged him. He stumbled into the darkness. A little later, a dim red glow lit the room.

  I closed the door. The light came from a table-lamp which had been swathed in a red fabric; it stood on a mantel-shelf opposite the door, and was barely sufficient to make the room distinguishable. In the centre was the bed. It was a low double divan with neither head nor foot-board, draped in red velveteen and furnished with a bolster and a number of cushions. Ropes of soft nylon were attached to each leg and the horsewhip lay among the cushions; bed and cushions were tousled and crumpled, and the tail of each rope had been formed into a slip-knot. Around the bed were placed three pouffes. There was a padded chair, also fitted with rope. The only other furniture was the tallboy, which bore the ashtray, dirty glasses and decanter of whisky. The air, though stale, had a powdery fragrance, and underfoot the carpet felt padded and springy.