Gently Down the Stream (6 page)

‘So do I, Miss Lammas,’ returned Gently without expression, ‘but we do our best, don’t we …?’

She flashed him her brightest smile and made an impeccable exit.

‘Har, har,’ said Hansom unhumorously, ‘she was always a one for acting, indeed to goodness!’

Gently got up and went over to the french windows. ‘But it’s the casting that’s the problem, isn’t it …?’

‘What about my little house – that explains a few things.’

‘It might, if it exists.’

‘How do you mean – if it exists! It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Lammas is working on a vanishing act, so he buys himself a hideaway. His little train trips are spent furnishing it and maybe establishing a nice new character for himself.’

‘And that’s where we’ll find the secretary?’

‘You can bet your life on it!’

‘Then why hasn’t she come forward? She must have read the newspapers.’

Hansom waved his hands exasperatedly. ‘Can’t you use some imagination? She’s probably sitting tight with the deeds of the place and maybe the cash too. Handing them over isn’t going to resurrect Lammas – so what would you do, chum?’

Gently nodded a grudging assent. ‘But if he sent her off with the cash, what motive had Hicks to bump him off?’

‘He needn’t have known the cupboard was bare. And I’m still not convinced there wasn’t anything between him and the secretary.’

‘But why did Lammas send for Hicks – if he did? He knew full well that whatever Hicks was party to would go straight back to Mrs Lammas.’

‘
If
he did – that’s the number one query!’ Hansom brooded brilliantly. ‘
If
he did, then my guess is he was aiming to lay a false trail of some sort, like getting Hicks to take him some place where the hideaway wasn’t.’

‘Why should he bother?’

‘Well, he seems to have been a pretty crafty planster so far.’

Gently shook his head with slow decision. ‘The bit that doesn’t fit in anywhere is the week he spent on the yacht … it just wasn’t necessary on the facts we’ve dug up. His false trail started at the beginning of that week. What made him hang around the neighbourhood till the end of it?’

‘Christ! Let him be human. He was having a honeymoon.’

‘There were safer places to do that. It was a risk, however little he was known.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he sent for Hicks. Someone recognized him, so he had to cover his tracks again.’

‘No … it doesn’t sit square in the picture. We haven’t got the reason yet.’

Hansom sniffed meanly and tore off a light for his
second whiff. ‘Anyway, you won’t mind me following up this hideaway angle just in case I’m being right somewhere?’

Gently grinned and blew out his colleague’s match.

‘It’ll keep you out of mischief, won’t it?’ he replied.

P
AUL LAMMAS WASN’T quite so petite as his mother, but otherwise he was very, very like.

Dark, slender, he had the same big brown eyes and fragile features, the same low, clear voice. And he moved the same way, quickly and nervously, though always with grace. The difference about him was difficult to pin down. It was something in his manner rather than his appearance. Mrs Lammas struck one as icy, Paul as though he concealed a secret fire; her emotions were rigidly controlled, his seemed at the point of spilling over. He was wearing a dark-red linen sports shirt with ash-grey jacket and trousers in gaberdine. His rope-and-canvas sandals matched his shirt. He came into the room so quietly that nobody could have sworn to seeing him enter.

‘I am Paul Lammas. My sister informed me that you were ready to question me.’

Gently turned round from the veranda where he had been basking and watching the yachts.

‘That was kind of her. I hadn’t really made up my mind.’

‘If you want Mother I will go and fetch her.’

‘No, don’t bother. I daresay your sister knows best.’

He came back out of the veranda. Paul Lammas stood quite still, watching.

‘Sit down, Mr Lammas, if you please …’

‘Thank you. But I’d rather stand.’

‘We may be some little while, you know …’

‘All the same I’d rather stand, if it isn’t breaking immutable regulations.’

Gently shrugged and seated himself heavily at the table. He seemed in no hurry to begin. He emptied his pipe in the ashtray, filled it slowly and expertly, sucked it once or twice to test the packing and then lit it at some length. Even then he appeared to hesitate before getting down to business.

‘You’re a poet, they tell me …?’ he remarked, patting down the ash on the pipe with a yellowed forefinger.

The young man flushed.

‘I don’t see how that comes into it.’

‘It doesn’t; there’s nothing culpable about it. I’m just one of those people who read poetry from time to time.’

Paul Lammas looked at him as though he thought it unlikely.

‘Of course, you wouldn’t have seen anything of mine. It’s only been published in
Panorama
and the
Eastern
Daily Post
, and a little book I brought out myself.’

‘Did it sell?’ inquired Gently naively.

‘I suppose you’d say it didn’t – and judge it entirely from that point of view!’

‘Oh, I don’t know … the provinces are hardly the place to peddle poetry.’

‘It’s not a question of whether it sells, anyway. And one doesn’t
peddle
poetry, as you’re kind enough to put it.’

‘Then how do people like me get to see it?’

‘They don’t – and it doesn’t matter. Creation is the only thing that signifies.’

Gently nodded. ‘I heard it in a play somewhere … but the author wasn’t sad because it pulled in some audience.’

‘That’s the cynical view one would expect!’

‘It struck me that the other view was the cynical one … but we’d be all day arguing about it!’

He felt in his baggy pocket and pulled out a small package, which he laid on the table. Hansom rocked back out of a fit of ennui to examine it. But Gently left it wrapped up in front of him.

‘Well … we’d better check off that motorbike ride of yours, I suppose. Why aren’t you at Cambridge, by the way?’

‘I was sick. Mother wanted me at home.’

‘You look all right now. When did you come home?’

‘Last Saturday week … she sent the car for me.’

‘Did you see your father?’

‘No. I didn’t get here till tea-time.’

‘Right you are … now tell me about the ride.’

Paul Lammas straddled his feet on the deep-piled carpet and launched into his account without hesitation. He had spent the day lying in the hammock in the garden. After tea he had felt restless and had got out his motorcycle. At first he had thought of going to the coast, but it was getting a bit crowded at this time of the
year, so instead he struck inland. He gave rough details of his route. He had set out at about seven and got back at about a quarter to ten. He had been as far as Cheapham, which was thirty miles away.

Gently jotted down some figures.

‘It gives you an overall average speed of about twenty-two miles an hour … did you stop for a drink, or were you just taking it easy?’

‘I was riding for pleasure, not trying to break my neck. You know what the side roads are like.’

‘But you didn’t stop for a drink or anything like that?’

‘No, I
didn’t
stop for a drink. I am not in the habit of drinking at public houses.’

Gently clicked his tongue. ‘And you a poet, too! But you remembered your route well.’

‘I happen to know the roads around here.’

‘Then you’ll be able to go through it again … on this Ordnance Survey.’

He pulled open the package which had so much intrigued Hansom. It contained a brand-new one-inch OS map of the district.

‘Here we are … where we’re sitting … and there’s Cheapham over on the other side. Now you can show us properly, Mr Lammas.’

The young man came up to the table slowly but quite confidently. He picked up Gently’s pencil as though to demonstrate his complete unconcern. If there was a slight hesitation at this fork or that, it was no more than might be expected of one retracing the precise route of a casual evening run.

‘There you are – as near as I remember.’

‘Thank you, Mr Lammas … it must have been a pleasant little ride.’

‘I pride myself on knowing the quieter parts of Northshire.’

‘I see you took the Tackston road … I’ve an idea I went fishing there many years ago. Did you see any anglers as you crossed the bridge on Friday?’

‘There were two or three. I stopped on the bridge to watch them.’

‘Were they having good sport?’

‘I suppose so. I wasn’t there long.’

Gently sighed and brought something else out of his pocket.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘why don’t you read your papers? They started demolishing that bridge a week ago … the Tackston road has been closed since Monday.’

Paul Lammas flushed violently and dropped the pencil from his fingers.

‘You’re trying to trap me – that’s what you’re doing! Mother warned me what you would do—!’

‘Mrs Lammas warned you?’ Gently’s eyebrows rose. ‘Have you been discussing what story you should tell us?’

‘It
isn’t
a story!’

His voice rose to a scream.

‘I can’t remember exactly – why should I remember? I wasn’t thinking what I was doing just riding along with my mind a blank!’

‘Then why did you pretend to remember?’

‘To satisfy you! That’s all – that’s why! I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied if I said I didn’t remember. It’s
beyond your comprehension to understand that one may be doing a banal thing like riding a motorcycle, with one’s mind miles away. So I had a guess at it. I tried to think where I probably went. I didn’t believe you would be so pathologically suspicious as to set a trap over such a simple little thing. But it’s a lesson to me, I assure you. I shall think twice what I tell to policemen in the future!’

‘Hmn.’

Gently regarded him stolidly.

‘At least it’s a curious way to ride such a lethal instrument as a motorcycle … where did you really go?’

‘To Cheapham – only I don’t remember how I got there.’

‘It wouldn’t have been by way of Ollby – with your mind miles away?’ struck in Hansom sardonically.

‘It’s the
truth
!’ screamed Paul, turning on him wildly. ‘It
is
, I tell you – it
is
!’

‘All right, all right!’ Gently waved a pacific hand. ‘There’s no need to get worked up about it, Mr Lammas … if you say it’s the truth we’ll duly note the fact. Now why not sit down and try to be a little more accurate and helpful?’

Paul glared at him in defiance for a moment, but he was trembling violently and needed the seat. He sat down. Gently gave him time off while the map was refolded.

‘Do you smoke, Mr Lammas?’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘I was going to offer you a fill, if you smoked a pipe.’

‘Thank you, but I only smoke my own brand!’

Gently shrugged and slipped the map back in his pocket.

‘Getting back to Friday night … you arrived in ahead of your mother, I understand.’

‘I did. I hope it wasn’t a criminal act.’

‘How long ahead of your mother?’

‘About four or five minutes. She had gone for a run to Sea Weston – she
often
goes for a run to Sea Weston!’

‘I wasn’t asking for details of your mother’s movements, Mr Lammas … she joined you here in the lounge, did she not?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What happened then?’

‘We talked, of course. I daresay we smoked and read.’

‘Of what did you talk?’

‘I really don’t remember.’

‘Come, come, Mr Lammas … the servants have ears too.’

Paul glanced at him with sudden apprehension, but the words that came to his lips were repressed.

‘We know there was a row … I’m asking you what it was about.’

‘But there wasn’t a row – that’s absolute moonshine!’

‘Call it what you like.’

‘I tell you there was nothing of the sort! Mother and I have never rowed in our lives. What on earth should we have rowed about? It’s a lot of kitchen tittle-tattle!’

Hansom swooped forward in his chair. He wasn’t even pretending to be bored.

‘Look … in words of one syllable! Suppose you went out and bumped off your old man. Suppose your mother had a hunch and tailed you to Ollby. Suppose she worked on the chauffeur and got him to act the fall-guy. Wouldn’t that add up to a conversation piece when you next got together?’

Gently had rarely seen such ghastly pallor in a human face. The young man’s eyes seemed almost black against the mask of white.

‘You don’t … you
can’t
… believe that!’

‘Why not? It fits the facts!’

‘But it’s ludicrous … you
can’t
!’

He was swaying as he sat. Every moment Gently expected to see him pitch forward on to the floor. But he didn’t. He fought it off. With his small mouth compressed till it was practically invisible, he forced the colour back into his cheeks. It was an effort of pure will.

‘What you say is untrue … there isn’t a grain of truth in it!’

‘We’re not saying there is.’ Gently threw a fierce glance at Hansom. ‘The inspector was merely emphasizing that this is a case of homicide and that prevarication may be dangerous. He had no other intention.’

Hansom made a face and rocked back into neutrality.

‘But we would still like an answer to the question … what was the occasion of the difference with your mother on Friday night?’

‘I’ve told you; there wasn’t any difference.’

‘Then the servants were lying to us?’

‘Yes. If they say there was. Lying or using their imagination too much.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘We talked, didn’t we? We discussed the traffic and the way Sea Weston was being spoiled by trippers.’

‘Then why did you not say so when I first asked?’

‘You didn’t give me time to remember – you started accusing us of having a row.’

Gently sighed and reached out for a fortifying peppermint cream.

‘Your memory is certainly an oddity … but then, I’m not used to dealing with poets! Let’s try some background stuff. What was Hicks doing all day?’

‘What he usually does.’

‘Go on. Tell me.’

‘Well … he washed the cars down – drove my sister to the office – did some shopping in town for Mother. In the afternoon I imagine he was taking it easy. Pauline caught a bus back and nobody else called him out.’

‘You saw a lot of him, I’m told.’

‘I did, but I didn’t persuade him to kill my father.’

‘That is not the suggestion, Mr Lammas. It would be helpful if you confined yourself to answering a question. Was Hicks on good terms with your father?’

‘Nobody was on good terms with him.’

‘Wasn’t there some question once of Hicks being dismissed?’

‘There was no question about it – Mother engaged Hicks. Otherwise he would have gone long since and the cook and the maid with him. My father’s authority here was fortunately limited.’

‘I don’t have to ask what was your own attitude towards him.’

Paul shrugged.

‘I’m not hiding it, am I? He wasn’t wanted here and he knew it.’

‘That matter of going into the business …’

‘Yes – that was a spoke in his wheel he didn’t forget! I can’t make you understand. You’re simply policemen and it wouldn’t make sense to you. There are two powers in this world, one for beauty and one for ugliness. My father stood for ugliness, sordidness – spiritual blindness, if you know what I mean. And into this he would have drawn me. Oh yes! It was to be a matter of course. I was his son, and he could do what he liked with me. As if, for one moment, I should have dreamed of burying my life in the filthy, parasitic business of wholesaling!’

‘Parasitic? It offended your political principles?’

The young man glanced at him jeeringly. ‘All politics are a racket … of course, my
father
was a politician! A Liberal, mind you – the height of bourgeois timidity. He was too soggy to be a thorough-going Tory or a thorough-going Communist, or even a Socialist. Just a milk-and-water Liberal!’

‘That’s not so terrible … I should probably be one myself if I wasn’t a policeman. Did your father put any pressure on you to enter the business?’

‘Moral pressure – he hadn’t anything else. Oh yes, he argued himself black in the face!’

‘Did he threaten to cut you out of his will or anything like that?’

‘Why should that bother me? Mother and I have plenty of money.’

‘But did he?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘And what else?’

‘There was nothing else he could do.’

‘You are a minor, Mr Lammas. Your father had certain powers. I should be interested to know, for instance, what was to have been done about your National Service … now, I take it, comfortably postponed until you leave Cambridge?’

The flush crept back into Paul’s cheek.