Landed Gently (7 page)

‘Well, man?’ demanded Sir Daynes impatiently.

‘Can you honestly see Johnson bludgeoning Earle from behind?’

Sir Daynes rumbled and grumbled, but he was obliged to admit that he couldn’t. On all other points the ex-miner added up to the required specifications; on this one he was a miserable failure.

‘No.’ Gently revolved the peppermint cream on his thumb. ‘Johnson simply isn’t the type to strike a cowardly blow in the dark. He’s a boxer, a fighting man. His method of settling scores is to pick a quarrel and throw some punches. But setting that aside … he might have been tempted … If the reason for Earle’s being in the hall was not incidental, it may have been contrived by someone other than Johnson and until we know why or by whom it came about we shall be groping in the dark.’

‘You mean we should disprove his statement about seeing a woman?’ enquired Sir Daynes, with a little more favour.

‘Possibly … it would have a negative value.’

‘Show the feller is a liar, eh?’

‘It wouldn’t be less useful to show that he was not.’

Sir Daynes frowned at the peppermint cream, the
revolutions of which seemed to fascinate him. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said at last. ‘Tell you straight, I think it’ll stir up a stink to no purpose. We’ve got the feller’s statement – he was in the hall at the time of the murder. What the devil does it matter
why
Earle came there, when the blasted fact is that he
did
?’

Gently raised the peppermint cream like a beacon between them. ‘It could just be that Johnson is telling the truth …’ he said.

For a moment longer Sir Daynes stared at the erected sweetmeat, then he swore under his breath and rapped an order to the apprehensive constable. Dyson began to say something, but the baronet shut him up with a look. The peppermint cream, flipped expertly, went to join its multitudinous predecessors.

‘Hah, m’dear,’ whinnied Sir Daynes, as Mrs Page made her reappearance. ‘Little point has come up – nothing important, answer it in a minute. Chief inspector here wants to know something – think I’ll let him pop the question. Know what you’ll say already, but we have to show chapter and verse.’

Mrs Page flickered a smile at him, but it came and went with pitiful rapidity. She was trembling as she sat down; her beautiful fingers moved restlessly over the sleeve of her woollen cardigan. Finally she glanced at Gently, who gave a little shrug and the ghost of a smile.

‘You have a maid who sleeps in your wing with you, Mrs Page?’

‘Yes … I have.’ She looked surprised.

‘Her bedroom is close to yours?’

‘Yes, it’s on the same floor.’

‘Last night after the party … did she help you undress?’

‘No.’ A rush of colour flooded the waxen cheeks. ‘You must understand … she is indisposed. She had a heavy cold, and went to bed directly after tea. She is in bed now. She has been feverish for two nights.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘In fact, last night I looked in on her after I went up.’

‘She would be asleep, would she?’

The colour deepened. ‘You did not expect me to waken her, surely?’

‘I only wished to have your word for it. At that time she was asleep, and nursing a feverish cold?’

‘Yes. You have my word.’

‘You would not have expected her to get up?’

‘No.’

‘And you would certainly not have expected her, Mrs Page, to get up shortly after you looked in, to have dressed herself, to have gone out into the somewhat inclement state apartments?’

Mrs Page gazed at him as though she had been thunder-struck. The colour in her cheeks ebbed and flowed and she clasped her hands tightly together in a vain effort to prevent them shaking.

‘I … No … no … I would not.’

‘And yet, apart from yourself, she is the only inhabitant of that wing, and the only other woman on that side of the house?’

‘Yes … that is true … the only woman.’

Gently nodded mercifully and looked away into the fire.

‘You must know, Mrs Page, that we have a statement to the effect that a woman’s voice was heard in argument in the great hall shortly after one o’clock last night, and that a moment or so later the figure of a woman was seen to emerge from the portal opposite the head of the stairs – it would be from the saloon, wouldn’t it? – and go quickly through the door at the north-west corner of the gallery. Now that particular door would be the obvious choice of a person wishing to return to the north-west wing by the shortest possible route, and the north-west wing is, of course, your own, Mrs Page. We are wondering if you would like to make a comment on this statement?’

The bracket-clock, which might have been a Tompion, impressed its leisurely ticking on the painful silence. From a great distance in the freezing dark outside came the eerie barking of a dog. Each of the five men could hear Mrs Page’s quick-taken breathing.

‘Naturally, you are not obliged to comment …’

‘Exactly,’ weighed in Sir Daynes. ‘Don’t have to say a word, m’dear – think nothing of it.’

‘Though if you do not, certain inferences—’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ bumbled Sir Daynes. ‘No inferences – nothing of that sort. If you’ve nothing to say, take my advice, and don’t say it – just a shot in the dark, m’dear … don’t expect it to help us.’

The effect of this rapid little fire and counter-fire
was only to make more emphatic the silence it interrupted. Mrs Page continued to sit in statuesque wordlessness, the clock to tick, the dog, after an interval, to bark. It almost seemed as though she had lost the power of speech. But then, just as Sir Daynes was gathering his forces for another attempt, she suddenly forestalled him.

‘I really don’t know what comment you expect me to make.’ Her voice was surprisingly steady and normal. ‘If a woman was seen as you describe, then it must have been one of the servants or the weaving staff. It could not have been my maid, and I assure you that nobody came to the north-west wing after I retired last night. Your informant was either mistaken, or else he was spying on two of the servants.’

‘Just so, just so!’ exclaimed Sir Daynes in relief. ‘Nobody came to your wing … that’s what we wanted to know. Lot of poppycock I don’t doubt – couple of servants necking and getting up to mischief.’

Gently shook a relentless head. ‘Isn’t it an odd place for servants to neck? Presumably they have cosier quarters in their wing than are to be found in the saloon at one a.m.’

‘I don’t think it’s odd at all.’ Now she was facing him, the Feverell eyes stiffened with determination. ‘Servants are not so predictable as you seem to suppose. They are capable of all sorts of odd freaks, especially in such a large and comparatively unoccupied house as is this.’

‘Then you think it likely that two of them would be pursuing their odd freaks in that place, at that hour,
after what would have been a tiring day for them, and a few minutes before a murder was committed, Mrs Page?’

‘I think it is improbable but far from impossible, Inspector.’

‘I must beg to differ, Mrs Page.’

‘Then you are left with my alternative hypothesis that your informant was mistaken, Inspector. And now, if you have really nothing else to ask me, I should be pleased to go to tea.’

Gently made a gesture of neutrality and Mrs Page, now quite in command of herself, rose and departed, the gallant baronet ushering her to the door with a volley of deprecations, excuses and assurances. He returned very silently, however, to pace the room with an expression of mighty deliberation on his leonine face. After the third excursion he came to an abrupt standstill where Gently was leaning on the corner of the mantelpiece.

‘All right!’ he barked. ‘All right, Chief Inspector Gently! There are two damned good theories – yours and mine. Yours says that Janice is lying; mine says that Johnson is. And out of the two of them, I’d pick mine every day of the blasted week!’

Gently shook his head sadly. ‘I haven’t got a theory,’ he replied. ‘I’m just following the ball … remember? I’m not responsible for the way it goes.’

 
T
EA WAS SENT
in for the policemen – after Sir Daynes had brusquely turned down an invitation to the Place table both for himself and Gently. It was no makeshift affair. Three maids with two
dumbwaiters
were necessary for its expedition, and the table, that important adjunct of interrogation, had to be arranged in the centre of the room and accept the dignity of a damask cloth for the occasion.

Sir Daynes was patently impatient of such a wholesale interruption. Hestood by the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, pishing and pshawing as silver was laid out, the cake and the trifle installed, crackers dispensed, and a dozen seductively laden dishes set at points of vantage. Then came two bowls of peerless fruit, a dish of mixed nuts, some boxes of dates, Chinese figs, Turkish delight, crème de menthe, chocolate liqueurs and a large case of preserved fruits. Finally, with the baronet at breaking point, a tray on which were several bottles and a box of Coronaswas brought in and placed handily on a side-table.

‘Confound the man!’ fumed Sir Daynes balefully. ‘Does he think we’re giving a party, or some damn thing?’

‘You’ll not be swearing on Christmas Day, Sir Daynes,’ came a reproving voice from without the door.

‘Eh?’ exclaimed the baronet. ‘What’s that? Didn’t see you there, Mrs Barnes.’

‘It doesna matter if you did or you didna, Sir Daynes.’ The little silvery-haired housekeeper took a step into the doorway. ‘It doesna become a man of your standing and principle to be making heathen oaths on such a day, and well you know it.’

‘But dash it all, Mrs Barnes—’

‘Och, there you go again.’

‘I mean – bless my soul! A fine thing at a police inquiry—’

‘You are not quarrelling with your vittels, Sir Daynes?’

Sir Daynes bit back an unholy expletive.

‘Now just take it easy, or you’ll be ruining your digestion. In forrty years there hasna been a man nor mouse in this establishment who lacked his vittels on a Christmas Day, and the good laird will make no exception now …’

Mrs Barnes departed with her minions, leaving a smirk on the face of Inspector Dyson and a broad grin on that of Gently. Sir Daynes tried to quell his rebellious subjects with a display of baronetics, but giving it up as a bad job, ordered an immediate assault on the offending tea-table. It was obeyed with alacrity.
Five appreciative policemen set themselves to expunge all matters of business from their minds until justice had been done to the hospitality of Merely Place. Crackers, alas, were pulled, and caps were worn, and Sir Daynes, forgetting the relative solemnity of the moment, laughed loud and long at a printed joke that for some reason struck none of the others as being particularly funny. He remembered himself immediately,
however
. From the serious way in which he lit his cigar, it was plain that he felt his hilarity to have been out of place. Christmas Day it might be, but it was a grim occurrence that had brought this odd quintet together at its festive board.

‘Ring the bell and get this lot cleared away – we’ve still got the best part of a day’s work in front of us!’

A reluctant constable, Corona in hand, went to do the baronet’s bidding. Soon the table was bared and replaced in its official position, and the room, apart from lingering samples of fruit and confectionery, more in keeping with its temporary character.
Inspector
Dyson reoccupied the inquisitorial seat, his
shorthand
man took office beside him, Sir Daynes straddled the hearth, and Gently, continuing to acknowledge his role of supercargo, retired once more to the seat by the window. But before a fresh victim could be hailed in there was a tap on the door, and Somerhayes entered.

‘I thought I’d look in, Daynes, to make sure that you had been well looked after.’

‘Eh?’ queried Sir Daynes, frowning. ‘Yes, thank you,
Henry – everything first-class. Couldn’t have been better. Compliments to Mrs Barnes, Henry.’

‘If there is anything you would like sent in …’

‘Nothing, man, nothing. We’re damn near bursting at the seams.’

Somerhayes hesitated, as though at a loss to express himself; then he turned to Gently at the window.

‘You are fully occupied here, Mr Gently?’

‘Occupied … ?’ Gently glanced at him in mild surprise.

‘I cannot help remembering that you are a guest who has been unhappily involved in this tragic affair … If you feel you would like to relax for a little while, my library is a very quiet and comfortable room.’

It was said with studied indifference, but both Gently and Sir Daynes caught the curious little undertone of appeal that accompanied it. Sir Daynes fired a sharp look, first at Somerhayes and then at Gently. The latter, after a moment’s pause, rose slowly to his feet.

‘Thank you for the offer … I think I might take advantage of it.’

‘In that case I am glad I thought of it.’ There was no mistaking the eagerness in Somerhayes’s tone. ‘You did not require Mr Gently, Daynes?’

‘Require him? No! Daresay we can get along on our own.’

‘Then I can carry him off with a clear conscience … I would not want to interrupt if he were assisting you.’

‘Damn it, man!’ erupted the baronet. ‘Think the
Northshire County Constabulary can’t handle an investigation on their own?’

Somerhayes smiled humourlessly and retired with his capture.

He led the way down a long, parquet-floored corridor from the grey-panelled walls of which stared down several generations of the Feverell family, their wives and their children. He gestured to them ruefully in passing.

‘Decline and fall,’ he observed. ‘My father hung them there, and I have not had the heart to take them down. This way, if you please.’

Gently shrugged and followed him. They had turned a corner into a small hall, and from here a door decorated with a painted armorial shield gave into the library. Somerhayes, having made way for Gently, closed the door silently behind them.

It was a large, well-appointed room with a
handsomely
decorated drop-ceiling and six tall windows draped with green damask curtains. The walls were completely furnished with glass-fronted mahogany bookcases, about half of them fitted with cupboards below, and a glance at the shelves showed a great catholicity in bindings and periods. Opposite the windows an ashy wood fire burned in a basket in an immense freestone hearth, the mantel of which was ornamented with shields, and above it hung framed several antique maps of the county in their original colouring and gilt. From the ceiling depended two chandeliers, but the only illumination came from a
parchment-shaded pedestal lamp standing near the hearth. At an appropriate distance were arranged two wing-chairs with a table and decanter between them.

‘Please sit down and make yourself comfortable, Mr Gently. Can I pour you a glass of this port?’

Gently shook his head and selected the chair nearest the lamp.

‘You will join me in a cigar, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you … I’ve had rather too many.’

‘Like you, I find they pall if one smokes nothing else.’

Somerhayes poured himself a glass from the decanter and took it to the other chair. In spite of Gently’s strategic positioning, the nobleman’s handsome
features
were indifferently lit, and by withdrawing them slightly he could obscure them in the shadow of the chair-wing.

‘You know, this is not our first meeting, Mr Gently.’

‘Hmn?’ Gently was really surprised.

‘No. Though I doubt whether you would be able to remember the other occasions. But I have been in court twice when you were giving evidence at the Quarter Sessions here, once at the Old Bailey, once at Lewes, and once at the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. So you see, in a manner of speaking we are old acquaintances.’

Gently nodded dubiously. ‘In a manner of
speaking
…’

‘More so, perhaps, than you think, Mr Gently.’

Was there a smile playing round that thin-lipped mouth?

‘As you are perhaps aware, there are few situations which reveal a man’s character and personality so strongly as the occupancy of a witness-box. This is true at any level, but particularly true where such a grave matter as homicide is in question, and where the witness has a great deal of sometimes complex evidence to give, in the teeth of ruthless attacks by the defence counsel. Those are the times which try men’s souls, Mr Gently. They bring to the surface all the strengths and weaknesses, the virtues, the vices, in a phrase, the naked ego of a man. One sometimes sees one’s friends as one would not wish to see them.’

‘I trust I didn’t expose myself too much …’ Gently stirred uneasily.

‘On the contrary – quite on the contrary. It was by being able to observe you in these circumstances that I became so strongly impressed with your personality, Mr Gently. I am not a man who impresses easily. By education and avocation I have learned to treat my fellow men with the greatest reserve and, I am afraid, distrust. But in your case I felt an immediate
confidence
. I felt that there stood a man with a deep and – may I say it? – compassionate understanding of human failings and follies. I felt this so powerfully that I made a point of being present at other times when you were likely to be called, and when I learned that you were visiting the neighbourhood, I took immediate steps to become personally acquainted. I felt, in a sense, that the hand of providence was in the circumstance.’

Somerhayes paused, watching Gently from the
shadow of the wing. The glass of port in his hand glowed ruddily in the fitful firelight, and the same illumination made a livid mask of one side of his face. Gently shrugged an indifferent shoulder.

‘It’s a great pity somebody jogged the hand of providence.’

Somerhayes laughed softly. ‘In a way, yes. But only in a way. Even this unhappy tragedy is subject to the point of view. And what makes you so certain that the hand was jogged, Mr Gently? Could it not have moved deliberately, when a certain propitious assembly of factors was complete?’

‘An assembly of factors …’ Gently’s eyebrows rose.

‘I call it that. You must consider me as being a fatalist.’

‘Me … I’m just a realist.’

‘That is your privilege, Mr Gently.’

‘I can see it in only one way. A young man who I liked has been killed … literally, on the threshold of life.’

Somerhayes’s head dropped a little. ‘I, also, was fond of Lieutenant Earle.’

‘By way of corollary, there’s a killer at large.’

‘And killers must be stopped – you are talking to one who has heard all the arguments. Yet consider a little, Mr Gently. The ways of providence are not our ways. A young man is killed. Another life must be given for his. Will you say outright that the event is devoid of pattern, and that a meaningless brutality has taken place and will take place? I do not believe you can be so
positive. I believe there may be a point of view which, if it does not justify, will at least explain the occurrence and give it significance. We may not need to be divine to understand the workings of divinity.’

Somerhayes raised his glass and drank, and having lowered the glass, looked at it intently for a few moments as though giving Gently time to appreciate the point.

‘And you think you have this … point of view?’

Somerhayes nodded slowly. ‘To a limited extent, perhaps.’

‘And you wouldn’t mind explaining it to me?’

‘I’m not sure that I can, Mr Gently, though it may be that you are the one man who could understand it. But it is very difficult, and very complex.’

A silence fell between them … How complete were the silences in that great house! In this room there didn’t even seem to be a clock to break the cloistered stillness. Gently felt in his pocket for Dutt’s pipe, and finding it unemptied, rose and tapped it out against the smouldering log.

‘Suppose we start at the beginning?’ he suggested. ‘Just tell me how you came to start this tapestry business.’

Somerhayes repeated his soft laugh. ‘You realize, then, that the tapestry workshop was the beginning?’ he asked.

‘It’s where you gave up politics, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes … though it goes back further.’

‘Well, go back as far as you want … I’m here to listen.’

Somerhayes nodded and set down his glass on the table.

‘When I was in my teens – that would be in the Thirties – the world was still something of a place to live in. For me, I mean. For the prospective sixth Baron Somerhayes.’

Gently returned the nod …
He
remembered the Thirties!

‘My father continued to do things in Edwardian style, even up to the war. One was only vaguely aware that a world had changed and a world was dying, and that the standards to which one was born and bred were gravely suspect. Before I went to Oxford I never had any doubt. The social unrest that went on before my eyes did not belong to the world I inhabited. More important, perhaps, were the political events in Europe. They were certainly ominous, and more directly affecting the career of diplomacy for which, following the family tradition, I was being prepared …’

Gently filled his pipe from his magnificent
quarter-pound
tin and settled himself in the comfortable wing-chair. Somerhayes was not watching him now. Retired into his shadow, his eyes were on the sinking fire, his low, balanced, cultured voice seeming to flow from him without effort or conscious direction. Had he ever talked like this before, this enigmatic man with his lost and wistful eyes? Had he ever before drawn in words the pattern of his bewildered life? He was doing it now, talking, talking. Like a film that had never been unwound, it was coming off its spool.

He had gone up to Oxford, certain and sure of himself. The world had been his, wealth, rank and power to come. He was one of the elect. He was one of a chosen race. Far away had been the rotten tooth of envy and the jealous anger of the mob. And there he had met – whom? A young man, working his way through college. An angry young man, an arguing young man, a young man who thrashed the
pretensions
of the callow nobleman with the scorpions of Marx and Engels and Lenin and Shaw. And
Somerhayes
had had no answer to those scathing
propositions
. His naïve
Weltanschauung
had taken no notice of such perverse logic. His defences were scattered, his arguments flattened, his comfortable assumptions buried under an avalanche of vicious, destroying fact. And what was a thousand times worse, he was obliged to admire the person who had bowled him over. Jepson, as his name was, appeared to Somerhayes as the epitome of all he would like to be but was not. In despair he made the comparison – himself, the spiritually bankrupt descendant of a family of social bandits; Jepson, the blazing prophet of a robbed and wrathful people. Could he fail to see that one was a dead branch, the other a new and irresistible shoot, in the tree of history?