Gently at a Gallop (11 page)

Gently puffed. ‘Do you have a map?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Docking climbed to his feet again and went to the filing-cabinet. He brought a two-and-a-half-inch O.S. map and spread it on the desk in front of Gently. It took in the complete section of coast with Low Hale down in the right-hand corner. To the left was Clayfield, at the centre top High Hale, in the middle the long run of the heath.

‘Mark it up – where the body was found, where Berney concealed his car.’

Docking took a red pencil from the desk tray and deftly applied two crosses.

Gently shrugged. ‘There’s your answer. Berney was in the wrong part of the heath. In fact, the body was found in the wrong path of the heath. It’s way off the line between Clayfield and the Manor.’

‘Yes, but just a minute, sir,’ Docking said. ‘We don’t know how much Berney knew. He might have overheard something, the time, the place. He must have been pretty certain they were meeting on Tuesday.’

‘Seems a lot to overhear,’ Gently said. ‘And the trysting-place is still a long way from Clayfield.’ He trailed a finger across the map. ‘It’s more on the line from High Hale village.’

‘But, sir – that’s just right!’ Docking faced him excitedly. ‘Remember, she let on she was picking up the kids from school. Well, there isn’t a school at Clayfield. The kids from there go to Hale.’

‘So?’ Gently said.

‘She came over in the car, sir, so she’d have it there to pick up the kids later. Then she took the car up on the heath and walked across to the valley to meet Stogumber.’

‘With Berney right on the spot to follow her.’

‘Yes, sir. She’d have to drive at a crawl, on the heath.’

‘Berney,’ Gently said, ‘being psychic, and thus knowing Mrs Rising would come that way.’

Docking coloured. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. But Berney must have heard something. He got the day right. He wouldn’t have done what he did just on the chance of something happening.’

‘Unless . . . somehow . . . he knew he was on a certainty.’

‘Don’t see how he could have guessed about it, sir.’

‘And I don’t see how he could have come by the information,’ Gently said. ‘Unless, of course, someone told him.’ He puffed a little, then shook his head. ‘There are too many loopholes,’ he said. ‘If Mrs Rising was using a car, why bother to go on the heath at all?’ He pointed to the map. ‘Look – that road to the Manor. It keeps on westward, at the back of the heaths. Then it’s joined by this track coming down from Clayfield . . . impossible to get a car along there? She could have picked up Stogumber, or he her, and then gone off in the woods somewhere. I’d say they were a better prospect for lovers in this sort of weather.’

‘She had to be at the village by a quarter to four, sir.’

Gently shrugged. ‘Not much of a problem! The point is that she needn’t have come on the heath if she were driving, and if she were riding there were nearer places to meet Stogumber.’

‘Perhaps there were special reasons for this place,’ Docking said.

‘Perhaps,’ Gently said. ‘Make a suggestion.’

Docking stared resentfully at the map for some moments, then sighed and tilted his brown bottle. Waters, who’d finished his bottle a while back, edged closer to the desk for a glimpse of the map.

‘Sir, it’d be the right place for Berney to meet her,’ he ventured. ‘If we know the woman was Mrs Rising.’

Gently favoured him with a small smoke-ring. ‘We’re not even sure of that,’ he said. ‘Which brings us back to square one, as Mr Lachlan Stogumber predicted. Berney wrote the poem, made the assignation, was surprised by the injured husband. With the addition that his wife certainly knew about it – which means she may have passed on the information.’ He looked from Waters to Docking. ‘Any advance?’

Waters looked blank. Docking shook his head.

‘Three theories,’ Gently puffed. ‘And we don’t like any of them . . . as though somehow we’d got on a wrong track.’

Docking cleared his throat. ‘It comes back to this, sir. There’s a woman in the case, and we’ve got to nab her. If she isn’t Mrs Rising, we’ve got to prove that, and then start looking elsewhere.’

‘Find the woman . . . !’

‘Yes, sir. And I’m pretty sure in my own mind that we’ve found her.’

Gently smiled up at him through wreaths of smoke. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll work on that.’

He left Docking waiting for a report on the lead theft and drove to the Royal William for a shower and dinner. The hotel had a busy air. Its rather small yard was packed with Capris, Ventoras and similar vehicles. In the soft-lit dining-room, barricaded in a corner, a trio was playing a selection from
The Arcadians
, and sweat shone beneath the powder of the waitresses as they hastened between the tables and the swing doors to the kitchen. The manager was on the look-out for Gently. He was a plump, jowled man with a toper’s complexion. He ushered Gently ostentatiously to his table and hung about while the waitress took the order.

‘Was your room satisfactory . . . everything all right?’

He seemed to be angling for a chance to talk. At last he retired to a small table by the wall, where sat a smartly dressed woman, doubtless his wife.

The music played, and Gently ate, but the manager’s officiousness had done its job. Eyes were perpetually turning to him from other tables; voices were lowered, there were nervous laughs.

The manager also kept staring uneasily, sometimes with his fork half-way to his mouth. His wife, on the other hand, paid no attention, either to Gently or the manager. She was sharply good-looking, perhaps part-Jewish, and ate her food with an air.

‘Fruit salad or trifle, sir?’

‘I’ll have the fruit salad.’

On another table, two couples were eyeing him silently. One of the men was flush-faced and severe-looking. The other had horsey features and a pronounced Adam’s apple.

‘Cream, sir?’

Gently nodded. ‘You have a full house tonight,’ he said.

The waitress flashed him a smile. ‘It’s a Friday night, sir. We always get them in at the weekend.’

‘Who are those people by the window?’

‘That’s our town clerk, sir, the serious one. Mr Wade. And Mr Drury, he’s the auctioneer and estate agent.’

‘With their wives?’

‘Yes – of course, sir!’ The waitress sounded quite indignant.

Gently smiled to himself. Not much doubt about what was in the minds of Messrs Wade and Drury! However delicate Docking’s probing had been, they must have had an idea of which way the wind blew. And now they sat vulnerable, under Gently’s eye, each with his frail vessel beside him: on pins in case he should saunter across and begin again where Docking left off . . .

Covertly, Gently studied the two women, a trendy-looking blonde and a fulsome brunette. The latter had her back to him, but when she leaned forward she revealed shapely hips and a weight of bosom. The blonde was taller, firmer, twiggier, and wore her hair in an elaborate set. She caught Gently’s eye, and her eyes went large; then Wade snapped something and she looked away sulkily.

A handful there!

But would Berney have been the first one? Somehow, you got the impression that Wade had learned to live with it.

Drury, by contrast, looked a man who might bear a grudge; a tall, stringy fellow with a long, hectoring face. Also, Drury was a horseman and a patron of the Rising stable . . . but he had a foolproof alibi, Gently recalled: Tuesday was sale-day at Low Hale.

No . . . on balance, he’d leave the Wades and Drurys to digest their dinner . . .

‘Where would you like your coffee, sir?’

Gently hesitated. ‘Is there somewhere private?’

‘There’s the Little Lounge, sir. Not many people go in there.’

‘Bring it to me there, then.’

He was tired of being the centre of attention! On the way out, he glanced at Mrs Drury. She had a pretty face, but foolish eyes.

In the Little Lounge he disturbed a couple who’d been necking on the settee, but after a few quiet minutes they departed, leaving him sole possession. His coffee came. He settled down comfortably with a copy of the local evening paper. But then, almost immediately, there came a tap at the door, and the manager appeared, bearing a bottle of Cognac.

‘On the house, sir – for a distinguished guest.’

The manager himself had clearly been drinking. His hands shook as he put down the salver and poured out Cognac in two glasses. He handed one to Gently with an exaggerated flourish, then raised the other, slopping some of it.

‘Your health, sir . . . if I may.’

Gently grunted and lifted his glass. The manager gulped down his own in one, as though it were a small drop of a considerable ocean. He eyed the bottle waterily.

‘Your dinner, sir . . . satisfactory?’

‘Quite satisfactory,’ Gently said, putting down his tasted glass on the salver.

‘Yes, sir . . . well . . . we have an excellent chef.’ The manager made a vague little gesture with his glass. ‘A first-class man . . . he came last year. That was before the takeover, of course.’

‘I see,’ Gently said. He rustled his paper.

‘Yes, before the takeover,’ the manager said. ‘We were a Berney’s house . . . though of course, you’ll know that. I dare say . . . well, that’s your business, isn’t it?’

Gently looked at him. The manager winced slightly. He hovered swayingly, his thick lips parted. ‘I mean, you consider everything . . . well, it stands to reason.’ He licked his lips. ‘There’s my horse,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a horse . . . you know that?’

No,’ Gently said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, I’ve got a horse,’ the manager said, breathing heavily. He made the same little gesture with his glass, then picked up the bottle and slopped out more Cognac.

‘More for you . . . ?’

Gently shook his head. The manager gulped some and looked round for a chair. He sat down suddenly, his knees close to Gently’s, then stared for a while at his tremulous glass.

‘Yes, a horse . . .

‘What colour?’ Gently said patiently.

‘What . . . ? He’s a bay, a light bay. Not that I keep him here, of course. He’s over at Brunton, at a friend’s farm. A five-year-old . . . thirteen hands. Over at Brunton, that’s where he is.’ He drank the rest of the glass. ‘Used to come here,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Who . . . ? Charlie Berney. Well . . . that stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, in those days he owned the place . . .’ The manager jerked his glass. ‘Acted like it, too. Like he owned the place and everything in it. I could see you giving some of my customers a look . . . true enough. You weren’t far out.’

‘You didn’t like him,’ Gently said.

The manager wagged his head, sucking in air. ‘Charlie Berney. But what could I do . . . ? He was the boss around here, wasn’t he? So he comes in here . . . I hold my tongue. I mean, it’s a good house, there’s good money. In this business you have to stay in line . . . you can see that, can’t you?’

Gently nodded. The manager reached for the bottle. Behind him, the door opened silently a few inches. Gently found himself staring at the smartly dressed woman whom he’d tagged as the manager’s wife. She gazed at him unwaveringly for a moment, then silently closed the door again.

The manager drank.

‘People don’t realize . . . you don’t know much about this business? You’re never free . . . seven days a week . . . a couple of hours off if you’re lucky. So what can you do . . . ? I mean if I neglected it . . . well, you can’t. It’s got to go on. So if people take advantage, if you can’t trust them . . . well, you’re caught. Can’t you see?’

‘Yes,’ Gently said.

The manager drank. ‘Oh, he had her,’ he said. ‘He bloody had her. All those times she wasn’t at her mother’s when I rang up . . . it stands to reason.’ He trembled suddenly. ‘And him still coming in . . . every evening, you understand? And me knowing, and him knowing I knew. The bastard. The bugger. Only what could I do . . . ?’

‘What did you do?’ Gently said.

The manager swayed his head, his stare glassy. Then his thick lips began to crumple.

‘Bloody nothing,’ he said.

Gently rose, went to the door, opened it and glanced into the passage; then he closed it again and returned to the manager, who sat kneading his glass between his palms.

‘Let’s get this clear,’ Gently said. ‘You’re telling me you had reason for hating Berney. You’ve also told me you own a horse. All you need to show now is opportunity.’

‘Opportunity . . . ?’

‘What were you doing Tuesday?’

The manager scarcely seemed to take it in. ‘Tuesday . . . I don’t remember. Tuesday is sale-day. The farmers . . .’

‘Was your wife here?’

‘Rachel . . . ?’ He licked his lips, but they stayed dry. ‘I had to tell you . . . can’t you see that? I knew you’d find out about the horse . . .’

‘So what were you doing on Tuesday?’

‘I was here . . . it’s an extension . . .’

‘Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Yes . . . an extension. I can never get out on a Tuesday.’ He swallowed the last little from his glass. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘Don’t think that. It was all over a year ago. But I know you wouldn’t come here for nothing . . . not a man like you, straight to the William . . .’

Gently sighed to himself and sat again. For a moment a present seemed to have been dumped in his lap. But plainly the brandy-soaked man in front of him was just one more conscience-pricked Berney cuckold . . . provided like Drury with an asbestos alibi by Tuesday’s having been a sale-day.