Gently Where the Birds Are

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Better let her, then.’

  ‘But . . . sir!’

  Gently drew Aspall aside.

  ‘She’s claiming that Sternfield shot himself. I want the results of the tests before I talk to her.’

  Aspall’s mouth dropped. ‘Is that possible . . .?’

  ‘Quite. There were signs of tattooing. I thought he might have been shot in a struggle, but he could equally well have done it himself.’

  ‘Then there’ll be no charge . . .?’

  ‘Just for harbouring and concealing. And she can plead the harbouring was done under duress.’

  Aspall, looking bemused, went to give orders. Miss Stoven was winched up after Rushmere. Then the chopper slanted away over the marshes, leaving behind it a gracious silence.

  ‘The reporters are down at the sluice, sir . . .’

  Also, it seemed, one half of Grimchurch! Gently kept Dick Middleton close beside him and hustled him quickly into a car. But a statement there’d have to be now . . .

  ‘Chiefie, we’ve got to catch the evenings!’

  ‘Listen then . . .’

  They crowded round hungrily, with notebooks shoved almost into his chest.

  ‘The warden, Rushmere, has been injured by the discharge of a shotgun. He has been airlifted to Eastwich and General Hospital. The injury is not fatal.’

  ‘But Chiefie, who shot him?’

  ‘No other person is involved.’

  ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘Rushmere is assisting us.’

  ‘Do you expect to make a charge?’

  Gently’s face was quite blank. ‘We are in a position to make charges of a minor character.’

  ‘Aw . . . Chiefie!’

  He jumped into the car with their dismay still buzzing about his ears, and the driver scattered them by backing smartly, his wheels jetting sand.

  Dick Middleton was goggling at Gently.

  ‘Is that true, sir . . . about the charges?’

  Gently grunted. ‘Don’t count any chickens – and keep away from reporters!’

  ‘But sir, you did say . . .’

  ‘I said nothing, and if you’ve any sense you’ll say the same.’

  At The Fisherman’s Rest he called for a drink before settling down with the phone. He dialled the Yard and his office extension: almost at once he got Dutt.

  ‘Nothing new from Wimbledon, Chief . . .’

  ‘What I’m interested in is bank notes!’

  And it was a fact. That morning they’d collected thirty thousand pounds from Liverpool Street Station.

  When Miss Stoven was fetched back from Eastwich, Gently had leisure to check his impressions. Belying the photograph, her eyes were hazel, and her hair, though dark, had gleams of red. But it was styled in the same helmet, and the face it enclosed was just as pugnacious. Of medium height, she had a sturdy figure, suggesting formidable prowess at tennis.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Stoven.’

  ‘First, I want to say something.’

  She’d come into the incident room attended by a policewoman. It was late afternoon, with another frost pending; the fire was burning clear in the iron grate.

  ‘If Philip dies, I intend to sue you.’

  Her stance as she stood before Gently was aggressive. Also seated in the room were Aspall and a second policewoman, a shorthand writer.

  ‘You hold us responsible?’

  ‘Yes, I do! Philip has told me how you bullied him. Quite obviously you were trying to break him down, to make him confess to what he didn’t do.’

  ‘And you yourself are in no way to blame . . .’

  ‘I to blame!’ Her indignation was handsome.

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Stoven.’

  Her eyes flamed at him, then she dropped on the chair placed for her. Gently regarded her mildly.

  ‘Now . . . about your innocence! I’ve been reading Sternfield’s letters.’

  ‘My God, is nothing—!’ She almost choked. ‘But I could’ve expected it, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Sternfield wasn’t too intelligent, I’d say.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear your ideas about Eric!’

  ‘He was easily led. And you did the leading.’

  ‘That’s a filthy insinuation to make.’

  ‘But it’s true . . .’

  She glared at him bitterly, her expressive mouth hooped. Her nose was ever-so-slightly snubbed, giving her face a peculiar piquancy.

  ‘Very well, then. But you don’t understand. Eric wasn’t the same as other people. He’d never had a family to belong to. He always felt himself an outsider.’

  ‘So you took pity on him.’

  ‘Yes – why not? At least I could understand his problem. Eric was imaginative. He created a fantasy world, and I didn’t mind being one of the actors. It was a game, that’s all. That’s what his letters were about.’

  ‘You were his goddess.’

  ‘Never mind that!’

  ‘I don’t think it was quite such a game to Eric. I think it was more like a reality. A reality that one day he’d try to make happen.’

  Ka Stoven twisted angrily.

  ‘Isn’t that the crux of it?’

  ‘When it got too serious, I choked him off.’

  ‘But by then the damage was done. And the game you played with Sternfield led eventually to his death and to what happened today.’

  ‘But I couldn’t know that!’

  ‘Still . . . who’s to blame?’

  She shook her head fiercely. ‘You’re just distorting it. I was good to Eric, good for him. You said yourself that he wasn’t too intelligent.’

  Gently nodded. ‘Not too intelligent. A young man who lived in a world of fantasy. Who was driven by a compulsion to make it come true. Why did you give that young man your gun?’

  ‘I didn’t. He stole it.’

  Her eyes were brilliant, and she’d jerked up straight in her chair. For a moment, the policewoman’s pencil had ceased to travel: now it started off again.

  ‘That’s not very likely.’

  ‘But he did! One day I missed it from a drawer at the flat. And Eric had always been fascinated by the gun. He denied it, of course, but I knew he’d taken it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, months ago. While I was still living in Wimbledon. And it couldn’t have been anyone else, because no one else had been to the flat.’

  Gently leaned back, his eyes narrowed. ‘And of course, you reported the theft to the police?’

  ‘How could I, without giving Eric away? And anyway, he might have brought it back.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that he might use it.’

  ‘No. To Eric the gun was a symbol. Somehow it made him feel tranquil, more integrated. It gave him the feel of my sort of world.’

  ‘And that’s what he wanted.’

  ‘Yes – of course. He was envious of my background. Of my having a father who went shooting, and took me with him. Eric wanted to share it.’

  ‘The gun was a key . . .’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘And you thought he wouldn’t use it?’

  She stared sulkily for a moment, then dashed her hair back with disdain.

  ‘All right, I was stupid about Eric – not the doctor of souls I was picturing myself! Perhaps you’ve been stupid at times too, like when you put the pressure on Phil. But that’s all I was, stupid, thinking I knew how Eric worked. When he turned up at the cottage on Thursday I was never more taken aback in my life.’

  Gently’s nod was reluctant. ‘What did he want from you?’

  ‘I’m not sure he knew that himself. It must just have begun to dawn on him what an impossible position he was in. He was babbling at one moment about bribing the fishermen to take him across to Holland, at another about marrying me and going off to live in Skye. But in the end he was on his knees, just begging me to let him stay at the cottage.’

  ‘Of course . . . he had the gun.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t th
reaten me.’

  Gently steepled his fingers. ‘He had the gun! What he meant to do with it neither you nor I can be certain.’

  She looked surprised, then somewhat scornful. ‘If you’re trying to help me, thanks very much. But I prefer to tell the truth, and I hope your stenographer is getting it down.’

  Gently sighed. ‘. . . wasn’t outwardly threatening. Perhaps we can let it go at that!’

  The shorthand writer scored a line, then hastily inserted fresh text.

  ‘So what did you decide?’

  Miss Stoven shrugged. ‘Nothing. I mean, what was there to decide? Poor Eric’s plans were quite crazy, he simply wasn’t the sort to be on the run. It was a question of him facing up to what he’d done, only he wasn’t ready for that, then. So I just calmed him down, fed him, stuffed him with aspirin, and put him to bed.’

  ‘Very commendable.’

  ‘It was human, at least.’

  ‘Why didn’t you then ring the police?’

  Her eyes were large. ‘What good would that have done? I told you that Eric wasn’t ready for it.’

  ‘But that’s scarcely the point!’

  ‘I think it is. For him to make the decision was of critical importance. It was the solitary positive act left to him, and to have prevented it would have been criminal.’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Gently waved dismissingly. ‘But I take it that Sternfield wasn’t seeing it your way.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And so you brought in Rushmere.’

  ‘Phil is a man who can understand.’

  Some coals fell from the grate, and Aspall rose to deal with them. Miss Stoven sat broodingly, head tilted, her hair swung forward beside her face. There were lights in Purlins across the road, but the curious of Grimchurch had gone home. On the other hand one heard occasional murmurs from the saloon, where the reporters had collected.

  ‘When did you tell Mr Rushmere about Sternfield?’

  ‘I told Phil the next morning. He was very concerned. Apparently I could get into trouble simply by having Eric there. I suppose that’s true?’

  ‘Quite true.’

  She tossed her hair. ‘Yes – it would be! But I could scarcely throw him out in the emotional state that he was in. Phil wanted to talk to him, but I wouldn’t let him. I thought it would only alarm Eric further. But then in the evening Dick came round, and he must have caught sight of Eric through the window.’

  ‘You realized that.’

  She nodded scornfully. ‘You may have noticed that Dick isn’t much of an actor. And later on, Lionel rang me with a very suspicious invitation. So we were in trouble. Dick is jealous about me, I knew he wouldn’t let it drop. Somehow we had to make Eric see sense before Dick came prowling round again.’

  ‘By offering to surrender himself.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She gave her hair a brisk touch.

  ‘So then . . . did Rushmere see him?’

  ‘First I had to prepare Eric. That wasn’t easy. He was in such a funk that he would scarcely leave the bedroom. He just wanted to hide, like an animal, pulling the bedclothes over his head. I felt I wanted to slap him, give him a shake – get the spunk back in him somehow.’ She stared fiercely. ‘Well, I talked him into it, then I went to fetch Phil. When we got back, Eric was sitting in the parlour, all on a tremble. He had the gun.’

  ‘The time?’

  ‘It was nearly lunchtime. Say a quarter-past twelve.’

  ‘Was he pointing the gun?’

  ‘Not really. He was just fiddling with it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She stirred slightly. ‘Phil . . . he’s a very spiritual person. He’s been through it all himself, he knew better than I did how Eric was feeling. He talked to him beautifully, sensitively, and Eric began to listen. I’m sure that Phil could have got him through it if he’d only had more time. I kept quiet. What bothered me was that I knew we could soon expect Dick. He’d think I was out and come snooping round, and then if Eric spotted him he’d blow up again. It was all too late . . . I should have let Phil come on Friday, as he’d wanted.’

  ‘Did you see Middleton?’

  ‘Not then.’

  ‘How long was Rushmere talking to Sternfield?’

  ‘Most of two hours.’ She leaned forward, her eyes intense and large. ‘Phil had begun to put it to him that the only way out was acceptance. That if he ran he’d be running from himself, and then he’d never be free. And Eric was responding, I’ll swear it, he was beginning to come round. His hands weren’t twitching so much, his eyes were steady, fixed on Phil’s. A little more time . . . that’s all it needed! Perhaps no more than another hour. Eric wasn’t a criminal and wouldn’t have become one. What he needed was a friend.’

  Gently slowly nodded. ‘Then?’

  ‘Then we heard that wretched siren. Something seemed to click in Eric’s face and he jumped up and rushed out of the cottage. We ran too. Phil was shouting, telling him not to be a fool. When Phil was nearly up with him, Eric put the gun to his head and fired.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  Ka Stoven sat silently, her eyes closed, quite still. Then she drew back her head and faced Gently. ‘By the gate.’

  ‘You could see what happened?’

  ‘Yes. I saw Eric fall. Phil knelt beside him. He picked up the gun. Then he jumped up and waved me to go in.’

  ‘And did you?’

  She nodded. ‘I went behind the hedge. But I could still see what was going on. I saw Dick come running out. He stood staring down at Eric.’

  ‘What else did he do?’

  ‘Nothing that I saw. But I’m told he took a photograph.’

  ‘Why didn’t you see that?’

  ‘He had his back to me. Phil didn’t see it, either.’

  ‘Where was Mr Rushmere?’

  ‘He was hiding in the bushes. He didn’t know it was Dick, until I told him.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She looked away, frowning. ‘Then we had to decide what to do. Whether, if we went to the police, they would condescend to believe us.’

  ‘Quite obviously you decided they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, Eric was shot with my gun. And when Dick saw the body the gun was missing. Then there was the money to suggest a motive.’ She smoothed her thigh. ‘I wanted to report it, but Phil argued it would get me into deep trouble. And it was safe to cover up, since Dick didn’t know Eric, and the police were unlikely to trace him to Grimchurch. Poor Eric had no relatives, of course. I was probably his nearest to a next of kin.’

  ‘That must have been a comfort to him.’

  She snatched her head. ‘There wasn’t really much time to spend arguing. Dick had obviously gone off to tell Lionel, so we had to get Eric away quickly. Phil got my car out. I fetched a towel to stop Eric bleeding in the car. We got him into the back and covered him over with a rug. Then Phil tidied up where he’d been, and we drove poor Eric to Phil’s place. We put him in Phil’s boot and drove on down to the reserve. That was our alibi, of course – that we were watching birds at the time.’

  ‘And later Rushmere – interred – the remains?’

  Her stare for a moment was smouldering. ‘Phil also read the burial service over them. He buried Eric in the small hours of Sunday morning.’

  ‘What about the gun?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why didn’t he get rid of that too?’

  Her shoulder moved. ‘It got left in my car. I didn’t find it there till Wednesday. Then I was on my way to Sussex, to spend a few days away from this mess. Also, to drop the money in London. We didn’t want it traced back here.’

  ‘So . . . where is the gun?’

  ‘I hadn’t time to be clever. I simply threw it in the loft. No doubt you’ll think me naive for keeping it, but it was my gun. Daddy gave it to me.’

  Gently nodded. ‘Then you drove away to Sussex . . .’

  ‘Yes, to my printer’s. Phil thought it wisest.’

  ‘What brought you b
ack, Miss Stoven?’

  She eyed him wonderingly. ‘The papers. Did you think I’d leave Phil to face it alone?’

  She wrote her statement and signed it, after a few hesitations on the count of style. Throughout the interrogation she had never once changed colour or made a nervous move or gesture. Now she capped her pen and rose with the same mindless poise.

  ‘Are you charging me?’

  ‘That will have to be considered.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m free to go?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you’re free to leave the district. Otherwise we’ve done with you for the moment.’

  She paused delicately. ‘And Phil?’

  ‘His case will be considered too.’

  Her gaze was level. ‘He’s been under great strain. He may not have known the nature and quality of his acts.’

  Poker-faced, Gently nodded to the door. ‘And while you’re at it, steer clear of those pressmen! If you still have friends you’d better stay with them, until you’re less of a hot property.’

  ‘I’m staying with the Middletons. Dick invited me.’

  ‘Then give him my sincere respects.’

  Miss Stoven left, and one of the policewomen went out to order refreshment. About them, the private room exhibited the disorders of a day of battle. Ashtrays were over-flowing, papers scattered, beer mugs deposited on the piano. Inside the door, a delta of mud spoke of the traffic of many feet.

  ‘Tea and muffins all right, sir . . .?’

  Aspall was sitting deep in thought. Not till he’d got round a dripping muffin did he venture communication. Then he sighed.

  ‘I don’t know, sir . . . there’s something in what she said about the nature and the quality.’

  ‘What you do now is your affair.’

  ‘I know, sir. But I would like your opinion.’

  Gently dabbed his chin. ‘Forget the harbouring charge. You’re never going to make it stick.’

  ‘But the concealment, sir?’

  ‘That’s different. It can go according to book.’

  ‘What’ll happen about that, sir?’

  Gently hunched. ‘It rather depends on the bench! I’d say a suspended sentence for Rushmere, and a wigging for Miss Stoven.’

  Aspall drank tea in a meditative way, the cup lingering at his lips. When a policewoman handed him the muffin dish, he selected one mechanically.