Gently Down the Stream

by Alan Hunter

  Thatcher wasn’t going to be hurried. He rowed with a slow, steady, waterman’s stroke which made even a dinghy seem monumental. And Gently wasn’t in a hurry. He trailed stubby fingers in the sun-warm water. Two middle-aged men, one comfortably disreputable, the other comfortably respectable, you expected them to pull into the bank at any moment and to get out their rods. Why else would they be sauntering downstream in that antedeluvian dinghy?

  ‘I reckon yew b’long here somehow, bor … yew don’t pick our natter up that easa.’

  ‘W’blast, there’s nothin tew it. I onla got to listen t’soma yew carryin’ on.’

  Thatcher gave a little chuckle and twisted his head appreciatively. Not many foreigners could master the sly, dry North-shire tongue with its pace and familiar lilt and abundance of glottal stops.

  ‘Well then, who was’t, arter all?’ he inquired, lifting an oar to accommodate a patch of floating weed.

  Gently hunched his shoulders lazily.

  ‘We’ll know in a bit … my sergeant is going to pick him up.’

  ‘I’ll have a quid on that was Joe Hicks.’

  ‘I’d take you, too, if I was a betting man.’

  Thatcher chuckled again and rowed on methodically. He wasn’t doing so badly out of Gently, when you came to weigh it up. Fifteen bob in the morning, five in the afternoon.

  ‘But what about all that monna?’

  The thought of cash had recalled the box of notes.

  ‘Aren’t the kids goin to ha’ that now, when yew’ve got the bloke yew want?’

  Gently fed himself a peppermint cream. ‘It’s still stolen property.’

  ‘But blast – yew can stretch a point! Yew know their ole man’s dewin’ time.’

  ‘They’ll be taken care of … don’t worry about that.’

  ‘But that monna was theirs. That say so on the box!’

  ‘The person who was being so lavish would have to prove his title.’

  Thatcher rested on his oars. The point really seemed to worry him. His grizzled brows contracted as he wrestled with the problem.

  ‘But are yew pos’tive that was stolen?’ he asked at last, ‘ha yew foun’ out where that come from?’

  ‘W’no, ole partna – but it’s a hundred to one it was stolen from Mr Lammas.’

  ‘Well, there y’are, then!’ A hundred to one was nothing to Thatcher. ‘Dew yew aren’t pos’tive, why not give them little kiddoes the benefit o’ th’ doubt?’

  ‘To be honest, I wish I could … but it isn’t in my power.’

  Thatcher studied him seriously before dipping his oars again. There was a penetration in his hazel eyes surprising in its calm power. ‘Yew got yourself mixed up with a rum lot, bor, I’m buggered if yew ha’nt!’ he observed sadly.

  Gently gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘We’re all a rum lot, bor … there i’nt much t’chewse atween us,’ he replied.

  They had rounded the bend which cut off Upper Wrackstead and entered the long, reed-lined Mill Reach. At the other end was a bend which would bring Wrackstead Bridge and village into view, but the Reach itself gave no premonition of these nearby haunts of men. From a boat, its solitude was complete. One saw nothing but the tall reeds and scrub marsh trees above them. The majestic, rusty brick tower of a ruined drainage-mill pointed, if possible, the sense of remoteness and desolation. Even under a June sun, even in the presence of some passing holiday craft.

  ‘Yew aren’t a-goin’ to tell me yew don’t know who done that job, jus’ when yew’re going to lay hands on him.’

  Thatcher was still puzzling about it. The police worked in mysterious ways!

  ‘I know who did it.’ Gently was talking softly, as though to himself. ‘Only nobody would believe me … unless I produced the man.’

  ‘Then how dew your bloke know who he’s arrestin’, dew yew han’t told him?’

  ‘I’ve told him where he’ll find him. There won’t be any room for mistake.’

  Thatcher brooded on it for a moment.

  ‘Don’t that put yew in a rum position?’

  ‘It could do, I suppose … if I were inclined to let it.’

  Their eyes came together, Gently’s mild ones, Thatcher’s questioning.

  ‘Dew he knew what yew’ve told me, yew might not have so long to go, ole partna.’

  ‘Yes … he’s handy with a gun.’

  ‘Ah, an’ don’t care if he use it.’

  ‘They get handier all the time … that’s the reason one has to stop them.’

  Thatcher slewed round in his seat to bawl out a speeding motor-cruiser. The offending helmsman was completely silenced by such a barrage of pungent English.

  ‘But what sort of blokes d’yew reckon they are, who go about killin’ other people?’

  Now they were getting near the mill and one could see the low, square doorway.

  ‘They’re all a bit twisted … they’ve had a left-handed deal.’ There was a dyke and a sluice-gate, and a sunken houseboat in the dyke.

  ‘Yew mean they’re ordinara people?’

  ‘Yes … ordinara people.’

  ‘Onla suffns pushed’m into’t.’

  ‘Suffns pushed, and they’ve pushed back.’

  Thatcher turned the dinghy with his oar and it floated gently into the mill-dyke. Above the sluice-gate, grotesque, sun-bleached, rose the ruined paddle-wheel, like a symbol from a lost world.

  ‘So yew aren’t realla agin’m …?’

  ‘No … I just want to stop them.’

  ‘Yew’re goin t’give’m another push.’

  ‘It isn’t me who does the pushing.’

  The dinghy touched on the bank. Thatcher shipped his oars with a quick, suddenly irritable movement. Gently continued to sit trailing his fingers. About the mill there was an air of unnatural quietness.

  ‘W’here she is, dew yew want to see her.’

  Thatcher’s voice had taken on a roughness. Gently nodded, but didn’t stir.

  ‘Would there be any works left in her?’

  Thatcher silently tied the painter.

  Reluctantly, Gently climbed out on to the bank. In front of the mill it was firm and clear. Behind and beside it a thick growth of bush willow hid the surrounding marshes, but just here it was rough, hummocky turf.

  ‘Tha’s the door dew yew’re goin in.’

  Thatcher had climbed out too and was standing close behind him.

  ‘Mind y’head as yew go through … they dint build it t’take six-footers.’

  Gently went forward towards the gap and Thatcher followed a pace in the rear.

  But before they could enter there was an interruption. The smart, uniformed figure of Superintendent Walker emerged from the mill. And along with him, ducking their heads, came five other people – Mrs Lammas, Paul, Pauline, Hansom and Dutt.

  An assembly of eight, they stood staring at each other on the hummocky turf in front of the mill.

  ‘Gently, I’d like to know what the devil you’re playing at!’

  The super began angrily and then broke off, aware of an undefinable tension which had somehow sprung up.

  What was it? What had happened?

  Everyone was standing there like statues!

  ‘Gently, I might as well tell you …’

  Gently wasn’t listening to him. Nobody was listening to him. Pauline Lammas had covered her face, Paul was staring frantically in front of him, his mother’s eyes were ferocious burning coals. But why? What was causing it? Nobody had as much as spoken a syllable!

  ‘Gently …’

  The super glared from one to another, desperately trying to comprehend the unbearable strain. It couldn’t last, this! Something would have to give somewhere. They stood as though rooted by a frightful supernatural power – Gently too, poised on his toes, and Thatcher, looking as though he had seen the devil.

  And still it went on!

  Sweat began beading on the super’s brow.

  He wanted to say something, to take charge somehow. But
his throat had gone dry and his brain seemed paralysed. He looked at Hansom. Hansom’s mouth was open to its fullest extent. He looked at Dutt. The sergeant had a sort of grinning frown on his face. Had they all gone mad? Was it the super who was mad?

  ‘Someone … somebody!’

  He couldn’t recognize that croak as his own.

  ‘I’m asking you …!’

  It might have been a scene from another planet.

  And then, very, very slowly, something did begin to happen. At first it was little gasping coughs, almost as though somebody were muttering to himself, but then it increased both in volume and pitch.

  Paul was laughing. But what laughter!

  With his lips drawn tight across his teeth, he was sending out great rippling screams of laughter, laughter that iced the blood in the super’s veins.

  ‘Stop it – stop that row!’

  Paul only shrieked the louder.

  ‘Slap his face … we’ve got to stop him!’

  It didn’t occur to the super to slap Paul’s face himself. He daren’t move either … now! He was petrified like the others. Instinctively he knew that a movement would trigger off something.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’

  From bank to bank the crazy laughter echoed.

  In the hot afternoon sun the super shivered and sweated at the same time. Was nothing going to break it? Would it go on for ever?

  If only one understood … if one knew who …!

  When the end came, it was almost an anti-climax. The enormous tension snapped as inexplicably as it had begun. There was a cry from Dutt, a sudden flurry of movement. A heavy body went one way and a silenced .22 Beretta the other.

  At the same moment, as though part of the same mechanism, Mrs Lammas struck her son a blow on the face, a blow that well nigh felled him to the ground.

  ‘Get the cuffs on him, Dutt!’

  ‘Yessir. You bet, sir!’

  Gently had not been tender and Thatcher was in no condition to resist. Over by herself Pauline Lammas was sobbing brokenly, Paul was gasping and holding his face. Mrs Lammas stood exactly as she had stood during the whole incident. Her eyes were fixed on Thatcher as though she would turn him into stone.

  ‘But who in the hell is this fellow?’

  The super spoke dazedly, still trying to catch up.

  Gently motioned to Dutt.

  ‘Get him up on his feet.’

  ‘I’m asking you, Gently!’

  ‘In a minute – get him up!’

  It was anti-climax now and still incomprehensible. The super couldn’t place Thatcher. He just didn’t belong in those handcuffs!

  ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

  Thatcher was breathless, but he understood.

  ‘Very well, I take it you do – and you must know what to expect! I hereby charge you, James William Lammas, with the murder of your chauffeur, Joseph Hicks, and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence.’

  A bemused silence followed this statement. It was so completely bizarre, so unreal. Yet Thatcher wasn’t trying to contradict the charge and the silenced Beretta lay bearing mute witness on the trampled turf.

  ‘You’re crazy … it couldn’t be him!’

  Hansom found his tongue.

  ‘Lammas was a slim type – this bloke could give him five stone. And he was ten years younger! I tell you there isn’t any resemblance.’

  ‘That’s right, Gently!’ Hansom had taken the words out of the super’s mouth. ‘I’ve seen Lammas’ photograph and he wasn’t remotely like this chap.’

  Grimly Gently approached the heavy-breathing Thatcher. A clumsy finger hooked into the seamy waistcoat and ripped off the buttons from top to bottom. Then it was the turn of the twill shirt, and then the cotton vest.

  ‘There … that’s how he got the figure!’

  Through the tattered garments protruded a stuffed linen bag, expertly moulded into shape and attached with tapes.

  ‘And this is where he got the ten years!’

  Gently pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the corner of Thatcher’s eye. A browny-red stain of greasepaint appeared on the white fabric …

  ‘And if you still aren’t satisfied—’

  He spun savagely on his heel.

  ‘—ask his daughter there, who was prepared to be an accessory for him! Ask his son, who despised his lack of spirit! Or ask his wife, who in effect destroyed him! They’ll tell you who he is – or one of them will!’

  He paused, his eye fixed on Mrs Lammas. The hate that flared at him was like a glimpse of hell-fire. But she didn’t say anything. Neither did Paul say anything. It was Pauline who ran sobbing to throw herself into her father’s arms.

  ‘Daddy – oh daddy! I did my best!’

  Somehow, in spite of the handcuffs, he managed to stroke her short, fair hair.

  ‘I guessed what had happened … I wouldn’t tell them!’

  ‘Don’t cry, little girl.’

  ‘Daddy … I did my best!’

  ‘You’ve always done your best …’

  It was Lammas speaking now. They had heard the last of Thatcher. His voice was inexpressibly soft and kindly, but his eyes were staring vacantly and he didn’t look down at his daughter.

  ‘Oh daddy – oh daddy!’

  ‘Little girl … you mustn’t cry.’

  Gently bit his lip painfully and touched her on the shoulder. She broke away directly, as if acknowledging her powerlessness to resist. He hesitated by the pinioned man.

  ‘But why did you have to do it?’

  Lammas shook his head bewilderedly.

  ‘Christ knows … Christ only knows.’

  ‘You’re a decent sort of chap …’

  ‘I got the idea … it fascinated me. Christ knows! I had to do it.’

  ‘All right then – we know where we are!’

  The super’s bark was unnecessarily biting.

  ‘You admit you’re Lammas – you’ve heard the chief inspector charge you. If you’ve anything to say, just remember that it’s evidence. I’m not paying any attention to that last remark of yours.’

  Lammas nodded without looking at him.

  ‘I intend to make a statement.’

  ‘You can do that back at headquarters, though if you’ll take my advice—’

  He pulled himself up. Policemen didn’t give that sort of advice!

  ‘We’ve got the cars back on the road. Hansom, get this man away!’

  What the super wanted to do was to regularize the situation, but the official note, once lost, seemed strangely unwilling to resume itself. He stood almost to attention as he watched them file away. First there was Lammas, conducted by Dutt and Hansom. Then followed Pauline, her head bent in sobs. Finally came Mrs Lammas and Paul, the latter still looking like a madman. Mrs Lammas walked in frozen state. She was there by constraint … this scene was unutterably beneath her!

  As they disappeared behind the mill the super slowly relaxed from his pose.

  ‘I’ve seen some jobs in my time … I’ve seen one or two!’

  He turned on Gently with a sudden fierceness.

  ‘You’ve made his coffin and screwed him down in it. You swine, Gently … you bloody swine!’

  Gently nodded to the flowing stream. It wasn’t ever much fun, being a policeman.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘NOW WE KNOW why he killed Annie Packer.’ Lammas had made a long, long statement. In the super’s office it was stuffy and warm in spite of two open windows and the obstinate issue from Gently’s sand-blast didn’t improve matters a bit. Down below the evening traffic was still busy in the street. A moment ago they’d been turning out of the theatre. In the pub across the way, no doubt, the cloth had gone up ten minutes ago.

  ‘What else could he do?’

  Gently looked tired and bored, standing by the window. There was a nasty taste in his mouth. He had never been involved in a case he liked less, or been so sickened by his triumph. Yet
Lammas had tried to kill him, too. And at the mill there’d been another bullet with his number on it.

  ‘When she caught him with his clothes off there was only one answer. And that’s why I couldn’t find any blood – he shot her in the cabin.’

  ‘We’ll find some blood – now we know where to look for it. And the bullet too, I daresay.’

  The super hadn’t much kick in him either. He was sitting hunched up, his hands dug into his pockets. It wasn’t the way a super ought to sit, but for once in a while he was looking as though he couldn’t care less.

  ‘D’you think he told the truth about pulling the gun this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes … he couldn’t have gunned the lot of us. I was afraid of what he might do.’

  ‘It’d have saved a lot of money.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘Would you have let him if you could?’

  Gently made a meaningless gesture.

  ‘We don’t play God at our level … it’s higher up you meet the divinities.’

  He pulled on his pipe. It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk. He’d done his job … he’d got to write his report. Apart from that, he’d have liked to have forgotten the whole thing.

  But of course … he would have to tell his tale!

  That’s why the four of them were hanging on there, instead of going off to supper and bed. And in a way, he did want to talk. Just as Lammas had wanted to confess. When you talked you involved other people … you crept back out of the unbearable loneliness of experience.

  ‘How about some coffee?’

  The super pressed a button.

  ‘Let’s have some sandwiches too – come to think of it, I haven’t eaten since lunch-time.’

  Down there, they wouldn’t know anything about Lammas’ arrest until they got the morning papers.

  * * *

  The sandwiches were tongue and the coffee the brand of coffee that only superintendents get out of police canteens. Gently felt better after the snack. There was a sort of humanity in food and drink …

  ‘Now – getting back to the beginning of this affair.’

  He was sitting in his favourite way with the chair back to front. Dutt was stuck away in a corner, Hansom near the desk, his long legs sprawling. They hadn’t put the light on – it wasn’t really necessary.