Gently Down the Stream

by Alan Hunter

  Gently nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘Did Hicks know where they were going?’

  ‘No. He had not been told.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have mentioned meeting Paul outside?’

  Mrs Lammas bit her lip.

  ‘I knew nothing of Paul’s escapade until I got home!’

  ‘Then that was really all that happened?’

  ‘Yes. Now you know about everything.’

  Gently looked at her ponderingly, and then at the despairing Marsh.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘I wonder, Mrs Lammas …!’

  The telephone rang. It was Hansom reporting nothing from ‘High Meadows’. Almost as soon as Gently laid it down it rang again, and this time it was Dutt.

  ‘I got it, sir … it’s in the bag! I found the place at the fifteenth flipping time of asking!’

  ‘What’s the address, Dutt?’

  ‘Beach Lane, Summerton, sir. It’s a summer bungalow, like what you said.’

  ‘Well … get along over! We’ll go and have a breath of sea air.’

  ‘Yessir. Right away, sir. Be with you in just ten minutes.’

  Gently hooked on the phone again and sat staring at the desk in front of him. Then he turned to Mrs Lammas and Marsh.

  ‘Righto, then. That’s all for today! I won’t say I’m satisfied, because it’d be a long way from the truth. You’ll be good enough not to leave the district. I say this without prejudice, Mr Marsh! I’d like you to hold yourself ready for further questioning.’

  Mrs Lammas picked up her bag and gloves. She beckoned to Marsh with a frosty smile.

  ‘Why bother to conceal anything now?’

  He tried to smile back at her.

  ‘It’s bound to be in the papers – we may as well make the best of it.’

  Somehow, Marsh couldn’t echo the buoyancy of his client.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘I GOT A FEELING we’re near the end of the trail, sir!’

  Gently grinned at his colleague’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I wish I had that feeling … but this case keeps making a fool of me.’

  They had had tea in the canteen at Headquarters and were now bowling along in the Wolseley under the unquenchable sun of late afternoon. Right through the Broads ran the road. It crossed three rivers, skirted two broads and opened up on either hand, huge vistas of mysterious marshland. Sails pocked and pointed the blue-gold embroidery. The towers of forgotten windmills stood out like castles of Faery. It was a strange land, a poetic land, a land burgeoning with fable and supernatural story.

  And, as a matter of fact, the fishing was good wherever you chanced to drop a line …

  ‘You say this bungalow was only taken for three weeks, Dutt?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Booked by phone on April 5th.’

  ‘Then he was only planning to stay there till the dust died down.’

  ‘Or p’raps it was the best he could do, sir. April hisn’t exactly early for booking holiday accommodation.’

  They could see the marram hills now. Silver among the green, they peaked and undulated like a tiny range of mountains closing in the horizontal country. Beyond them fretted the invisible North Sea, lazy, treacherous. Before today it had found its way through those grass-whispering ramparts.

  ‘It’s no good, Dutt – I can’t get a grip on the thing!’

  He’d never been so far with a case without an intuition.

  ‘There’s four of them in it and it might be either one. Or all four together – or several combinations! I suppose we’ll wind up hanging that chauffeur, if we can ever lay hands on him.’

  ‘You thought to bring a gun, sir?’

  Dutt obviously had a theory of his own.

  ‘Yes – I brought one! Here, you might as well take it. But if you think we’re going to raise Hicks …’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we might at that. I’m getting to where nothing would surprise me.’

  ‘If he ain’t hopped it he’s here, sir,’ Dutt retorted doggedly, ‘and since we know he ain’t hopped it, well, here he must be.’

  Gently sighed to himself and slowed down to take a turning.

  The village showed up, dark, sun-dried brick clustered round a lofty flint-faced tower, nestling in the lee of the marrams. There was scarcely a tree that threw shade. Those that did were scant and dragged backwards by the eternal east wind. Beleaguered by stony fields and sandy heath, Summerton fronted one like an island fortress.

  ‘Where would Beach Lane be?’

  ‘Keep yew right on, bor, an yew ’on’t miss it.’

  They threaded the twisted village street and came out beyond. An unsurfaced track meandered over the last two hundred yards to the marrams. There it sprawled off left, getting rougher at every yard, and three shanty bungalows lay scattered like dropped toys.

  ‘Hssh, sir! This last one is it!’

  Gently parked the car at some distance.

  From the far side of the hills they could hear the dull rumble of breakers mingled with the screams of children, but from the three bungalows came neither sound nor movement. Some towels lay drying in the sun, a bathing-cap hung from a nail.

  ‘Everyone’s on the beach.’

  They went in through a tumbledown gate. It was a poor, neglected little place, obviously put up for letting. Both doors were invitingly ajar and it took not more than fifty seconds to ascertain that three small rooms and a kitchenette were empty. Gently opened the only wardrobe. Two dresses and a costume! And the underwear in the plywood drawers was very strictly feminine.

  ‘So much for Hicks, Dutt! And look here, in the sink – one cup, one saucer, one plate and one knife.’

  ‘I just can’t understand it, sir,’ said the crestfallen Dutt. ‘I’ve been working it out, sir, and I could’ve sworn we’d nab him here—!’

  ‘It’s that kind of case, Dutt. It’s got a down on theory.’

  ‘But facts is flaming facts, sir!’

  ‘I know they are … only you’ve got to have all of them. Now put that gun away and let’s see if we can pick up the coy Miss Brent.’

  But the coy Miss Brent did not need picking up. She appeared at that moment, coming over the sand-hills. Beautiful and aloof, a striped beach-wrap over her ruched bikini, she swung herself gracefully over the soft-sand track. Then her eyes fell on the two men. She froze into instant immobility. Like a vision of Aphrodite, the coy Miss Brent stood framed in the June sea-sky.

  ‘You are Miss Linda Brent?’

  Gently had no doubt. Even behind sunglasses the heart-shaped face and straight black hair were the counterpart of the photograph he had never ceased to carry. And anyway … no, there could be no doubt!

  ‘Yes … I am Miss Brent.’

  Her voice was pitched high.

  ‘We are police officers, Miss Brent … we are investigating the death of your late employer, Mr James Lammas.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And we think that you can help us.’

  The age-old phrases! Gently had watched their effect on so many people at one time or another. But here there was fear, mortal, stultifying fear, as though he had announced a present execution. She could scarcely get down off the sand-hill.

  ‘You had better get dressed, Miss Brent.’

  ‘Of course … yes … I understand.’

  ‘We shall require you to accompany us to Police Headquarters at Norchester.’

  ‘Naturally … I understand.’

  But did she understand, as she stood there trembling like a leaf? Her eyes seemed fixed on the sordid little bungalow, as though that alone was real in a world turned to horror.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better pack a few things.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Only part of her was answering.

  ‘We may have to detain you. You had better come prepared for that.’

  She moved forward mechanically, as though he had touched a button. The beach-wrap had half fallen from her shoulder, but she made no effort to replace it. Dutt nodded to
his superior.

  ‘She knows what went on!’

  Gently shrugged and felt for his pipe. He couldn’t quite place it, that paralytic fear. She must have all the answers. She’d got an alibi that would stand up. The most they could pin on her so far was obstruction. Or … was it?

  He glanced up sharply at the bungalow.

  ‘If she’d pinched the money … that would take some explaining!’

  ‘She knows about the rest, too, sir,’ retorted Dutt positively.

  ‘But the money would tie her in – there’s nothing else to be so scared about.’

  ‘She knows, sir, she just does! You can see it writ up all over her.’

  ‘Then we’re back with her and the chauffeur.’

  ‘We always was, sir, ’cording to the way I reckon.’

  Gently frowned in the evening sunlight. Why did nothing ever fit together in this confounded case? But Dutt was right, as far as that went. Guilty knowledge was written all over her. Once more you had to ditch a theory and accept a hard, unwelcome fact.

  ‘Come on … let’s take this bungalow apart. If the money’s here we might as well find it.’

  Excepting the bedroom, they took it apart. The poor little place was singularly unadapted for concealing secrets. Even the floor, that historic receptacle for caches, was rendered innocuous by the building being raised on piles, while an Elsan in the closet ruled out another favourite hiding-place.

  ‘It’s the bedroom or nothing!’

  Gently snorted his disappointment. He didn’t want Linda Brent scared like that – it was making hay of any intuitive feeling he might have had about the case. Unconsciously he had been ruling her out. Unconsciously, he had accepted a certain pattern that didn’t require her as a principal. And now the wretched woman insisted on obtruding herself in his calculations – making bad worse, and the perplexing baffling.

  He pounded ferociously on the warped panel of the bedroom door.

  ‘Miss Brent! Have you dressed yet?’

  Miss Brent did not reply.

  ‘Miss Brent – be good enough to answer!’

  A faint whispering sound was all that could be heard.

  Struck with sudden apprehension, Gently seized and rattled the handle. The door was bolted. He wasted no more time. The bulkiest shoulder in the Central Office crashed through the flimsy woodwork and sent the door reeling inwards.

  ‘Gawd!’ exclaimed Dutt, ‘she’s been and gorn and done it!’

  On the floor, her head against a portable-gas fire, her beach-wrap draped over both, lay Miss Brent. And the gas fire was unmistakably turned on.

  They carted her outside. She wasn’t dead. A bout or two of artificial respiration brought her round, shuddering and moaning. She kept her eyes tight closed, but tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her mouth worked continually in sobs that didn’t come.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me die … why didn’t you … why didn’t you …!’

  ‘You must try to pull yourself together, Miss Brent.’

  ‘I want to die … why didn’t you let me die!’

  ‘You have behaved rather foolishly. There’s no need for this sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t want to be hung … why didn’t you let me die!’

  Dutt saw the tired expression that came over Gently’s face.

  ‘Shall I run down and phone for an ambulance, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Dutt … she’ll have to have a check-up.’

  ‘And a man to keep an eye on this place?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  They carried her back into the bungalow and Dutt went off in the Wolseley. She lay quite still on a couch, tucked up in a couple of blankets. Gently went into the kitchen. ‘A mild stimulant’, the textbook said. He filled up the kettle and brewed a pot of the stimulant in question.

  ‘Here … do you think you can manage this?’

  She put out a shaking, automatic hand.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done this, you know … it isn’t going to help you.’

  She sipped the tea without replying, almost as though what he said didn’t register. Her eyes were still glazed with tears. Her lips twisted and trembled over the edge of the cup.

  ‘At the worst, it was worthwhile to see it through.’

  Now she was looking at him.

  ‘There’s a lot you wouldn’t have to answer for. That’s absolutely certain! Whatever the rest is, you don’t have to throw in the sponge yet.’

  Big, staring eyes looking at him from a frenzied inner world, a lonely world, a hopeless world. Eyes which saw nothing but horror.

  ‘Tell me!’

  The words seemed to be spoken for her.

  ‘Have you got him?’

  It was hard to believe she knew what she was saying.

  ‘Who?’ whispered Gently. ‘Who is it you’re referring to?’

  In some way there was a shift of expression in the very depths of those haunting eyes. A shutter closed somewhere. He had lost a momentary contact with her naked confidence.

  ‘You don’t know!’

  A sort of ethereal triumph was welling up.

  ‘You don’t know, and I shall never tell you!’

  ‘Miss Brent!’ Gently cursed himself for the slip he had made. ‘Miss Brent … it is in your vital interest to tell us all you know!’

  She wasn’t listening.

  ‘Unless you cooperate, you will be in a very serious position.’

  A fey smile shone through her tears like hectic storm sunshine.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. You may hang me, if you like. I shall never, never tell you!’

  ‘Please consider what you are saying.’

  ‘You may hang me, if you like!’

  It was too late. He had let her know what she wanted. There was a positive radiance in the beautiful, tear-flooded face. And as she saw him about to frame another question her lips tightened and she feebly shook her head.

  He didn’t know – and she wasn’t going to tell him!

  Gently covered quite a lot of ground up and down that meagre lounge during the half-hour it took the ambulance to arrive. Never had a case seemed such an unholy mess to him. There was so much that was coherent, if you shut it up in airtight compartments. But once you took it as a whole … Then it stopped being coherent. Then it became like a job-lot of pieces out of several different puzzles, with odd bits everywhere that wouldn’t fit at all. Yet there was a governing principle somewhere. There had to be! However square the facts looked, one knew that at a certain moment on Friday evening they formed a complete and unbroken circle.

  What wasn’t he seeing, in all that hotch-potch of motive and opportunity? What was the dynamic factor that he kept passing over, time and again?

  Right at the beginning he had had a hunch that something obvious was staring him in the face. It was time now he saw it! Hadn’t he got all the facts?

  ‘There’s only the shover to pick up now, sir,’ Dutt reminded him soothingly. ‘We must get him soon – it only stands to reason.’

  Gently grunted without conviction. Somehow, the chauffeur had never impressed him as being more than a cipher in the business.

  ‘He’s got the worst motive of the lot of them. He may have guessed that Lammas had some money on him!’

  But that was no reason. As often as not it wasn’t the motive that made the murder. People kill for the most pitiful of motives, often so petty and obscure that one could hardly believe in them. Lammas had once checked Hicks and that was quite enough for motive. It could rankle for years until it found an opportune moment.

  ‘Anyway, this is too clever. There’s intelligence and character behind what went on here.’

  Such intelligence as Marsh had, for example. Or Paul. Or Mrs Lammas. Or all three in conjunction … what sort of murdering conference had taken place at ‘High Meadows’ that evening, while the ‘loyal and discreet’ Hicks stood by, the perfect tool, the perfect fall-guy? Marsh, to gain a rich bride! Mrs Lammas, to foil an escaping husba
nd! Paul, to lay for ever the spectre of National Service and an honest job! It was just a happy coincidence that killing Lammas would be pleasant work for Hicks also.

  But then there was this damned woman here, somehow up to her neck in it. Gently cast a none-too-friendly glance at the still, apparently sleeping form on the couch. In what possible capacity could she have been of the faction? And which was the ‘him’ she was carrying the torch for? Not Marsh, that was certain. It rested with Hicks and Paul. And Paul was the one you were compelled to cast for the part. And if she knew it was Paul, then Paul must have communicated with her … it was the only way she could possibly know.

  Gently came to a full stop in his restless pacing.

  They hadn’t found any letters … but Paul had been out on his motorcycle yesterday!

  ‘Stay here – I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He went striding out of the bungalow.

  Next door a family party had just returned from the beach. They were a middle-aged couple with three young children and they were spreading out towels and costumes, and shaking the sand out of their shoes.

  ‘Just a minute! I’d like a word with you.’

  They all looked round at him.

  ‘I’m a police officer making certain investigations … you may be able to help me.’

  After some moments of suspicion, they were almost over-helpful. No detail was so trifling, but one or other of them could add it to the tally. Yes, they could remember Miss Brent arriving at the bungalow on the Friday. It was just after little Ernie had cut his foot on a piece of glass, by deduction just after 8 p.m. and he ought to have been in bed … oh yes, she was quite alone and carrying two cases, she was, and wearing one of those posh dresses and etc., etc.

  ‘She hasn’t left the bungalow since she came?’

  No, of that they were certain. They had palled-up at once. She hadn’t any side, though she did speak la-di-da. They had even had meals together and gone shopping in the village … the kids were quite attached to her, she’d put some plaster on little Ernie’s foot and bought them all ice-creams.