Kerr shrugged. ‘Insofar as I gave it any thought, I felt the police concentrated too much on the motive for the murder rather than the motive for the theft. People murder for all sorts of reasons — the killer might just have been drunk, although I think that’s unlikely — but stealing Gabriel’s notebooks of poetry was much more intriguing.’
‘But they had to be connected,’ Sally Baker argued.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘But they put the cart before the horse — explain the murder and the theft will become clear. I’d have approached it from the opposite direction.’
‘Did you put that to them?’
‘Not directly, but when London gave the all-clear, I suggested they might pass it on as their idea. Not the sort of thing I wanted coming from me; shade too high profile. I don’t know if London bothered.’
‘And what about what’s happening now? In the churchyard?’
‘Guesswork and theorising.’ Kerr lapsed dismissively into jargon. ‘Blue sheet information only, pending confirmation from other sources. Coincidences with Ralph the Talespinner’s story to be noted, but too many alternative possibilities for definite conclusion. Cannot at this stage be firmly linked to central event. No action unless ...’
‘Well I’ve taken action,’ Sally Baker interrupted. ‘Or at least I’ve suggested that Gus Maltravers does.’
‘Then wait. Even totally inexperienced personnel can turn up data. Not likely to recognise it as such, but they report back and ...’
‘Oh, enough, Alex!’ She glared at him crossly. ‘This is Medmelton, not the Riga Corridor. And you’ve been retired for years.’
He laughed. ‘You touch too many nerves. I tell myself it’s a closed book, but my cover story becomes an old man’s compensation. You walk in here with a mystery and I slip on the motley because I still miss wearing it. Forgive me?’
‘Of course, and I understand. If I — or Gus — find out any more, can I talk to you again? Your thoughts might help.’
‘Naturally. Bring your Mr Maltravers round. Tell him I’m a fan and would like to meet him; truth’s always the best cover story. If nothing else, I can make an assessment of him.’
‘We’ll have to be careful.’
‘He’s hardly CIA,’ Kerr pointed out. ‘I’ve perfected the act and he’ll just accept me as a pensioned-off member of Her Majesty’s postal service. If I have any suggestions, I shall put them with garrulous hesitation and a suitable air of diffidence. You will treat me like a beloved antique and Mr Maltravers will be none the wiser.’
He paused for a moment. ‘One final thing before you get back to the washing. What’s your interest? Any ... interface with Patrick Gabriel?’
‘Not the slightest,’ she replied emphatically. ‘I met him ... three times, four at most. I’m worried about Michelle Dean. Remember that I’ve come home and this is my village ... perhaps I’ve become sentimental.’
‘Yes.’ Kerr sounded regretful. ‘It’s not an emotion I can afford to enjoy.’
*
If anything, Maltravers had underestimated the speed and efficiency of Medmelton’s grapevine, although he could have anticipated its capacity for spinning theories of Byzantine complexity from the simple words ‘found out’. By lunchtime thirty of Mildred Thomson’s customers had been given the basic information, amplified with knowing glances and tacit hints, and had hurried away, clutching the news like a relay baton to be passed on as quickly as possible.
‘He’s police, of course. Been sent by London ... Asked Mildred straight out if she knew anything. She didn’t say anything of course, but ... Drove off about ten minutes later. Harry says Special Branch use that make of car ... He was in the Raven last night with Stephen Hart. Kept to themselves, talking. So what does Stephen Hart know? ... Arrived yesterday, and — Peggy Travis saw this from her cottage opposite the church — went into the churchyard and was standing by the Lazarus Tree. She thinks he took photographs ... Tall, thin, light blue eyes. Harris tweed sports jacket, cavalry twill slacks. Suede shoes. About forty. Touches of grey. Oh, no, he’s not one of their hard men. Clever, though. Very polite. Good looking in a way ... Stephanie was behind him in the stores. She reckons he was fishing ... While he was in the pub, Sally Baker spoke to him. They obviously know each other. Might have met in London. It makes you wonder — and you know what her husband was of course ... Went into the churchyard again this morning. Peggy says he wandered round behind the church and came back a few minutes later. He must have been looking at the cottage Patrick Gabriel rented. Empty at the moment. He’s probably gone for a search warrant ... Jim Henderson in the Raven says he was watching people at the bar. No one in particular, but you know who’s always in there at that time of night, don’t you? And Jim’s certain he saw him in Exeter about a week ago ... Listen. When he arrived — while he was in the churchyard, this was — Joy Drabble walked past his car and glanced inside. The way you do. There was a portable telephone on the seat. And an Ordnance Survey map. And a briefcase with one of those combination locks. Looked very official. And a pair of heavy walking shoes in the back. She didn’t notice anything else. It was only a quick glance ...’
By the time Maltravers returned in the afternoon, he could have created no greater buzz of excited interest than the arrival of a UFO. Conscious of the responsibilities of her key role in the matter, the conveniently situated Peggy Travis had been sitting by her front-room window for two hours, telephone by her side. She began to dial the moment his car turned by the church.
‘I think there was somebody with him. Sitting in the back. Pardon? Oh, it would surely have been another man. But he drove past so quickly, I couldn’t see properly. I’ll watch for when they leave again. And Meg Williams was telling me that Ted says he definitely turned left at the main road this morning. He saw him from his tractor. So he could have been going to Plymouth. I once heard that Naval Intelligence has a secret place there. Do you think ...?’
Carrying a guide to Buckfast Abbey (obviously a rendezvous point to meet at least the head of Special Branch), Maltravers let himself in to an empty Dymlight cottage and went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Waiting for the jug kettle to boil, he glanced at the cork noticeboard fixed to one wall above the work surface. It carried the standard contents mixed with individual household touches: Michelle’s homework timetable was pinned on the bottom of a picture of a tiger with the legend ‘Go ahead — make my day’; an old newspaper cutting of events in Exeter with a concert by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra marked in ballpoint; recipes in Veronica’s unreadable handwriting; paper clips in a plastic envelope with a label reading ‘I live here — put me back!!’; money-off coupons and the menu from a Chinese takeaway; a formula for removing grease from clothing clipped out of a magazine; a cartoon of a middle-aged couple with the man saying, ‘Remember when I had charisma and you had a flat?’; a photograph taken at some official dinner, Stephen self-conscious in a hired evening suit, Veronica out of focus.
And another photograph of — steam blossomed from the kettle and he poured water into a mug then returned to the board — a photograph of Michelle cross-legged on the floor of her room, looking up and pulling an instant face at the unexpected camera, open bedside cupboard behind her with ... Maltravers took the picture down and stood under the kitchen light. Her shoulder hid the bottom of the cupboard, but the top shelf was partly revealed; a plastic doll was clearly visible, along with a small black book and something that looked like ... he held the image closer and squinted but could not make out anything else. From the front room, he heard the granddaughter clock chime four; Stephen and Michelle would be home in about fifteen minutes, Veronica not until five o’clock. He put the photograph back and went upstairs. The bedside cupboard was locked and it would be hopeless searching for the key in a room that looked suitable for the attentions of the bomb squad. He returned to the kitchen and fished out the tea bag before taking the photograph down again and turning it over; written on the back was ‘Caught by Ste
phen Hart, the phantom photographer, Michelle practises Buddhism and facial distortions to prove she really is fifteen today.’ The proof that linked Michelle to the discoveries in the churchyard had been staring Stephen in the face for months.
EIGHT
Gilbert Flyte was agitated when he reached home on Monday evening; part of the meticulous pattern which locked his life together had been disturbed. Normally, he left the bank (by long-standing arrangement with Mr Hood) at five twenty-one, just ahead of the rush hour, and was back in Medmelton by eleven minutes to six, in time to change, pour a medium sherry and drink it with the tenth of his fourteen cigarettes a day while watching the early evening news. Dinner with his mother and Doreen began at six thirty, finished twenty minutes later and by seven o’clock-no more than a minute either way — he was ready to walk the dog, stop for two pints of beer in the Raven and be back home by eight to work on his Life of Nelson, which he had begun in 1986; after sixty thousand words, his hero had still not joined the navy. Cocoa would be ready when he went down to watch News at Ten when Mother went to bed and he and Doreen followed her at a quarter to eleven. He read — usually a thriller, sometimes a C. S. Forester Hornblower novel again — and turned off the light at eleven fifteen. Each weekday, the alarm clock went off at seven seventeen. Gilbert Flyte dressed in the appropriate suit for the day (Monday olive green, Tuesday dark blue, Wednesday the small check, Thursday the herringbone, Friday chocolate brown), listened to Today on Radio 4 while he ate breakfast (cornflakes from Easter to the end of September; porridge the rest of the year), walked the dog over an unalterable route and left for work at eight fifty-one, arriving at the bank a precise nine minutes early to make up for the time he left in the evening. So it had been throughout the fifteen years he had been deputy manager, so it would ever be.
But on Monday, a delivery van blocking the side street which was part of his carefully plotted route had delayed him for a critical two minutes and forty-three seconds (he had timed it). Then he had been trapped behind a car transporter which meant the usual three minutes between the supermarket and the charity shop had taken an additional minute and a half. That meant the roundabout was thick with traffic when he reached it, adding another fifty-seven seconds before he could pull out. After that, it had been hopeless. Cars were pouring out of the factory gates when he reached them and two buses added to the congestion. It was nearly six o’clock before he reached the Medmelton turn — and of course Ted’s tractor was on the lane. He arrived home at six eighteen, his life in ruins. As he pulled into the carport, Doreen appeared at the kitchen window, face tense with worry. During the previous twenty-nine minutes, she had convinced herself he must be dead; in her anxiety, she was half aware that the prospect brought a sense of horrified relief.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked as he walked in. Despite the cool of an October evening, a sheen of perspiration lacquered the bald head and the face that looked like one drawn by a child on a full moon. His tiny moustache, trimmed to millimetre precision, twitched. ‘What happened?’
He told her everything; the name of the company that owned the delivery van, its make and colour and a detailed description of the driver, which town the car transporter had come from, precisely how many vehicles he had counted before he had been able to enter the roundabout, the numbers of both buses, exactly how far he had followed the tractor before reaching a passing space. In Gilbert Flyte’s life, this had not been irritating inconvenience; this had been disaster. The evening was now impossible. There was no time for his sherry, he had missed the news and it was six thirty-nine before they sat down to eat. His mother made herself wait until they had all been served, then began to talk.
‘I was in the stores this afternoon, and you’ll never guess what Mildred says has happened.’
The impossible-to-answer question was followed by silence, inviting them to play their roles in the conversation. Already dismayed by the devastation of his life and the state of the steak and mushroom pie, Gilbert Flyte said nothing, so it was left to Doreen.
‘What is it, Mother?’
‘A man.’ Vera Flyte loaded the announcement with significance and stopped again, ancient rabbit features trembling invitingly.
‘What man?’ Doreen asked obediently.
‘From London.’
‘From London?’ Doreen was suitably impressed. ‘Who is he?’
‘Nobody knows.’ She looked straight across the table at her son as she spoke, irritated that she could provoke no response.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Such conversations happened all the time now and Doreen obediently played by the rules.
Her mother-in-law glared at Gilbert, defying him not to take an interest. ‘Asking questions.’
‘Questions about what, Mother?’ Doreen was aware that this news had been carefully kept secret until her husband came home, but that was invariably the case.
Vera Flyte stretched the moment as far as she could by taking another mouthful of food and chewing it thoroughly before producing the first fat morsel of real drama. ‘About the murder. Of that poet.’
‘The murder?’ Abruptly Gilbert Flyte did respond. ‘Who is he?’
‘Well, after he went in the stores, Mildred was talking to ...’
It took her more than ten minutes to recount the complete range of possibilities with her own additional observations and Doreen noticed that Gilbert stopped eating as he listened. Had he suddenly taken all his clothes off and started dancing on the table, it could have been no more incredible.
‘... so, I reckon he’s either a private detective or he’s been sent by the Government. I think somebody somewhere knows something and he’s here to investigate it. People would get suspicious — be on the qui vive — if they sent a policeman in uniform, so he’s here pretending to be visiting Stephen and Veronica Hart.’ Having said several things three or four times, even Vera Flyte could drag it out no further.
‘Fancy.’ Doreen spoke automatically to give her mother-in-law’s story the proper level of respect, but was looking at her husband. ‘Are you all right, Gilbert? Do you want one of your pills?’
‘What?’ Flyte shook himself. ‘No. Of course not. Why should I?’
‘You don’t look too well. Are you sure that ...?’
He interrupted with a rattle of short, snapped-out sentences. ‘It was the journey. Very upsetting. I’m all right. Nothing’s the matter. Why should there be? Dinner late as well. Look at the time. Past seven.’ He stood up, meal still unfinished. ‘Where’s Bobby? He wants his walk. Bobby? Bobby? Here, boy. Good dog. Come on, then.’
Stumpy tail wagging, the wire-haired terrier trotted from force of ingrained habit to the back door where his lead hung on a hook. Flyte clipped it to his collar and was gone.
‘Gilbert’s not had his pudding!’ Vera Flyte’s concern was not for her son’s welfare. ‘There is pudding, isn’t there? On Monday, we have ...’
‘Yes, Mother. It’s all right. I’ll fetch it for you.’ Doreen was looking across to the front window — even on the darkest nights, the curtains were never drawn until after their meal — watching her husband unlatch the garden gate and walk away in the gloom.
‘Good.’ Her mother-in-law’s mind was put at rest. ‘Treacle tart on Mondays. I like treacle tart. With a drop of cream tonight, please.’
‘Cream,’ Doreen repeated absently as she left the table. ‘With the treacle tart. I’ll just get it.’
At least the kitchen was normal, treacle tart ready cut on three dishes, tub of single cream in its correct place in the fridge. But she was shaking as she poured it, unable to cope with the disorientating events of the evening. Late home, everything thrown out of order, meal not completed, Gilbert’s regular, boring, but oh-so-secure behaviour in chaos. And he had looked shocked when Mother started talking about this stranger who’d arrived in the village. This man with an interest in the murder everyone had forgotten about. Cream overflowed the edges of the shallow dish, another little twist of frightenin
g confusion.
*
As Maltravers and Stephen entered the Raven, there was not exactly an instant silence but a distinct frisson of wary attention ran through the bar. Conversation paused then continued in lower voices and several pairs of eyes watched both men cautiously as they ordered drinks. Stephen did not appear to be immediately aware of the atmosphere, but Maltravers had been anticipating it. He had not mentioned either his discussion with Sally Baker or his provocative comments in Medmelton Stores, correctly reasoning that gossip about them would be carefully kept from reaching Dymlight Cottage.
‘Where’s Gilbert tonight?’ Stephen asked as the landlord, Jim Henderson, served them.
‘Not in yet.’ Henderson glanced at the glass-fronted pendulum case clock on the wall. It was nineteen minutes past seven. ‘Strange.’
‘It’s incredible,’ Stephen corrected. ‘What’s happened?’
Henderson shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Excuse me.’
‘Who’s Gilbert?’ Maltravers asked as the landlord turned away.
‘What?’ Stephen was watching Henderson in surprise. ‘Oh, Gilbert Flyte. He’s always here at ten past seven on the dot.’
‘Always?’
‘Never misses.’ Stephen frowned. ‘But Jim doesn’t seem concerned.’
‘Should he be?’
‘He should be, but ...’ Stephen shook his head before explaining. ‘Gilbert’s a psychoneurotic obsessive. Classic case. Bolts the back door before going to bed, cleans his teeth, wonders if he did the door, goes down and checks, reads in bed, worries about the door again, back downstairs. It can go on half the night. His life’s regulated down to the tiniest detail. He walks through that door at ten past seven, drinks two pints from his own personal tankard and leaves at six minutes to eight. They could set Greenwich by him.’
‘What would make him late?’ Maltravers asked.
‘The end of the world.’ Stephen looked at Henderson, now talking to another group of customers, then round the rest of the bar. He raised his voice. ‘Where’s Gilbert got to?’
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