Gently Instrumental (12 page)

‘Sir . . .’

Gently followed him out.

‘Sir, we can place Mr Meares on the dunes on Saturday. One of his own staff was at the yacht club and saw him go by at about ten to three. A Herbert Cartwright.’ Leyston’s mouth quivered. ‘And a couple of witnesses saw Virtue on the dunes. Wearing the clothes described by Crag. They saw Crag too, walking his dog.’

Gently’s eyes glinted. ‘A full hand . . . ! Can you lay on a warrant if we need one?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Set it up then.’

He returned to the office and the grim-faced Meares.

‘Now . . . Mr Meares.’

‘I can explain about the cello—!’

‘Oh . . . we’ll leave that for the moment. As a matter of fact, something fresh has turned up. It relates to a man called Herbert Cartwright.’

‘Cartwright?’

‘You know him, of course?’

Meares stared. ‘I should do. He’s my employee.’

‘Then we ought to be able to believe him if he says he saw you on Saturday . . . at ten minutes to three?’

‘He – he saw me . . . ?’

‘So he says. Going past the yacht club towards the dunes. But of course he may have been mistaken, since you said you were . . . where was it? On the heath?’

Meares’s face jerked away abruptly: he sat staring at the chair vacated by Leyston. One of his hands, like a burrowing animal, clutched at the change in his trouser-pocket.

‘I – I can explain that!’

‘I wish you would.’

‘Yes – I seem to have been in error! With all that’s happened since the weekend . . . it must have got confused in my mind.’

Gently glanced at the shorthand-writer. ‘So . . . ?’

It was – it was Sunday when I went on the heath. Not Saturday, but Sunday. Of course, on Saturday I took a walk down the dunes.’

‘You are quite clear about this now?’

‘Yes – yes. Quite clear.’

‘Then our witness who saw you on the dunes with Virtue would not have been mistaken.’

‘Yes . . . no – I mean, he
was
mistaken!’

‘But we have corroboration that Virtue was there.’

‘I can’t help it. I didn’t see him. I saw nobody on the dunes.’

Gently’s shoulders gestured. ‘How wide is it there – the strip of land between the river and the sea? A hundred – perhaps a hundred-and-fifty – yards? How could you have missed him if he was there?’

‘I did.’

‘But how could you?’

‘He may have been on the other side of the dunes . . .’

‘You would not have been aware of him – you, a bird-watcher?’

‘I don’t
care
!’ Meares burst out. ‘I didn’t
see
him.’

Gently took some prowling steps. ‘Perhaps you really are confused,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your alibi for Tuesday is also misdated, and at the time you were somewhere else.’

‘I absolutely deny that!’

‘Then you can help us to prove it.’

‘What—?’

‘By assisting in a little routine. We shall need the clothes you were wearing that evening – purely for corroborative reasons, of course!’

‘And . . . if I refuse?’

‘Why should you? It would put us to the trouble of collecting a search warrant.’

Meares sat very still, his expression tight, his breath coming quick and short.

They didn’t need the warrant. Driven by Leyston, they proceeded to Meares’s house in Friston Road: an agreeable example of stockbroker’s Tudor, with a view of the sea over the town roofs. Meares opened for them. They were met in the hall by a stoutly built lady with blue-rinsed hair. She came to a stand at a distance and stood surveying them with hostile eyes.

‘What’s this about, Leonard?’

Meares’s smile was sickly. ‘Just part of the investigation, my dear.’

‘Who is this with Inspector Leyston?’

‘He’s . . . the man they’ve sent down from town.’

A formidable figure, she remained in the hall while Meares led them up the stairs, and her gorgon gaze was still on them as they crossed the galleried landing.

‘This is my room.’

Of modest proportions, it looked out on a lawn and a coppice. On its walls hung original bird-paintings by Roland Green and Peter Scott. The limed oak furniture was solid, somewhere between period and modern: a spacious wardrobe, dressing table, tallboy, padded-top chest: and a single bed.

‘Now let’s see what you were wearing on Tuesday . . .’

With a sort of feeble defiance Meares pulled open the wardrobe. It exhaled a scent of lavender and exhibited a full rail of suits. Hesitating, he selected a cream tussore jacket and matching slacks, and threw them on the bed. Then, from a shelf below, he took a pair of Italian basket-work shoes.

‘The shirt, I’m afraid, has gone to be washed.’

‘Might it not still be in that chest . . . ?’

Sulkily, Meares went to the chest and fished out a crumpled poplin shirt.

‘Socks . . . ?’

‘If you must!’ He found a pair.

‘Pants . . . ?’

With an awkward jerk he threw them on the pile. ‘And that’s it?’

‘That’s it.’ He stood sullenly by the bed, his mouth drawn small.

Gently nodded gravely. ‘Still . . . simply for purposes of comparison!’ From the chest he took the remaining soiled underwear and dumped it on the bed. ‘Then a suit . . .’ He selected a hanger draped with a light grey jacket and charcoal slacks. ‘And shoes . . .’ There was one pair of sandals: he placed them beside the Italian confectionery. ‘You have no objections . . . ?’

Meares’s eyes were muzzy. ‘You . . . wish me to return with you to the station?’

Gently angled his shoulders. ‘Oh – I don’t think so. We can continue our chat tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow . . . ?’

‘It may be cooler. Just make your arrangements – to be available.’

They drove off with their haul in the boot. For a short distance Leyston was silent. Then, to the road ahead, he said mournfully:

‘That’s got to settle it, sir, him trying to snow us.’

Gently’s smile was distant. ‘Sometimes we win one.’

‘A spot of blood and we’ve got him, sir. Perhaps we ought to have had him back in, and let him sweat it out at the station.’

‘I think he’s better off sweating with Mrs Meares.’

‘Sir . . . ?’

‘And meanwhile I need a soak. Tell the doctor, if he asks for me, that he’ll find me at The White Hart.’

Leyston drove a few yards before echoing: ‘The doctor . . . ?’

Gently nodded to the windscreen. ‘Yes.’

L
EYSTON HAD BEEN
sufficiently provident to reserve a room at The White Hart: one of the best rooms, so that from his bath Gently could ponder the evening sea. Not that much came into view on those tired, grey miles, whose shallow corrugations were now beginning to be yellowed by the westering sun. Still it was luxury. Up to his chin, he considered the ocean’s modest offering: two tiny vessels patrolling the horizon on courses that promised eventual collision. One was a long, low container ship, a shape almost without definition; the other a tall-stemmed tramp, its white-painted superstructure proud and distinct. Through the open window he watched them, while his water slowly cooled to tepid. They failed to collide: the spectacle lost interest. Regretfully, he heaved his dunked torso from the bath.

Next door the phone had remained silent . . . also a luxury, in its way! Yet he gave it a thoughtful stare as he emerged naked from the bathroom. Beside it there stood his tea tray, a mute witness of time passed, while his bath had taken almost an hour . . . He shrugged talcum, and began to dress.

Below they’d already started dinner and he was shown to the single table that Hozeley had occupied. No glamorous Rolls was parked out front in slots now covered by the hotel’s shadow. The spite was going out of the sun, though still it glared on the Ruskinian Moot House: but this was the last flick of the whip. Soon, if not cool, they would at least be sunless.

‘Soup, sir . . . ?’

‘Just an iced lager.’

He tried to drink slowly but found himself gulping it. Around him the tables were filling with the same polyglot crowd as at lunch. A few of the women wore long evening dresses but most hadn’t bothered. And the conversation was languid: even the Russian lady was brooding silently over her Martini.

‘Dover sole, sir . . . ?’

But he couldn’t face it and ordered salad again: crab, this time. It came with a tray of etceteras that he left barely touched. And, while he ate, the shadow on the Moot House grew sensibly higher, until only the glazed pantiles remained burnished and iridescent.

‘They talk of rain on the way, sir.’

Gently eyed the waiter with small enthusiasm. ‘They’ had talked of rain on the way since April, but now, in August, who was believing them?

‘We had a bit of overcast one day last week, sir. Perhaps we’ll get a few drops soon.’

But he spoke to please: the nearest rain was doubtless that drenching the North Atlantic.

‘Bring me an ice!’

He segmented it moodily, still eyeing each new-comer to the room. Also, outside, the cars that were rapidly filling up the slots. On the Front pedestrians still loitered, seeking comfort in the onset of evening, and across the shingle two fishermen were feeding net into one of the boats. Yes . . . evening was coming: another spell of the sun had been endured.

‘Coffee, sir . . . ?’

He grunted.

‘Would it be cooler in the lounge?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s north-facing.’

‘Bring it to me in there.’

He rose, collected his jacket, and passed through the double glass doors. The very faintest of faint breezes was creeping through the lounge’s wide-set windows. He crossed to them. Alone in the room, a man sat reading an evening paper: now he folded it and, smilingly, gestured to the chair next to his.

‘I’ve been talking to old Walt,’ Capel smiled. ‘You know, that man really is a marvel!’

Gently shrugged and accepted the chair, which had the advantage of facing the window.

‘Has he returned to your place . . . ?’

‘No – that’s just it. He’s been talking to me on the phone. He’s decided to lay the ghost – his own words – by going straight back to live at the cottage. He’s persuaded Butty, that’s his housekeeper, to live in until after the Festival, by which time he estimates the ghost will have got tired of walking. Now what do you think of that?’

‘I think that Hozeley’s a man of character.’

‘A survivor – what? But who could have guessed it from the state he was in, even this morning? Believe me he was in shock. I don’t mind admitting that I had doubts if he would ever get over it. And now, like a phoenix arisen, he comes bounding back into the arena. Somehow it makes me feel terribly humble. Beside men like Walt, one is just an infant.’

‘He was here for his lunch.’

Capel nodded. ‘He told me. In fact, that was when the miracle seems to have happened. He spent an hour in the Music Room reliving it, compelling himself to face the truth. Glory be!’ Capel’s rectilinear features took on an awestruck expression. ‘Think of what was going on through there – Walt Hozeley, wrestling with his soul!’

‘Perhaps that’s romanticising it a little.’

‘Then this is a time to be romantic. Believe me, in my trade I see enough of people trying to come to terms with the unbearable. Mostly it’s death, and you’d be surprised how little it seems to mean to most people – as though, in spite of all logic, they had a super-awareness that death is just a phase. But emotional disaster seems less endurable. It undermines the basic personality. If people succeed in clawing back to themselves it’s a matter of months – not forty-eight hours.’

‘This could be the first stage of reaction . . .’

Capel shook his head. ‘Not with Walt. It’s much more of a Zen response – he’s turning his back, and walking on. Now, instead of wanting to scrub the performance, he’s hell-bent on honouring our date. In fact, his only tragedy at the moment is that my man Davies won’t arrive in time for a rehearsal this evening.’

Gently stared through the window. ‘And that’s your . . . only problem?’

‘You know it isn’t.’ Capel rustled his paper. I’ve had Leonard round to see me. It appears that now you’re trying to nobble our Cello.’ He gave a jerk of annoyance. ‘Why couldn’t that bloody fool, my gardener, have kept his mouth shut?’

The coffee came, and from nowhere the waiter spirited an extra cup. He made a gracious ritual of the pouring and dripped cream over the back of a spoon. Two more diners had drifted in, but they sought a settee across the room. The waiter, all smiles, gave a little bob before retiring.

They sipped coffee; Capel sighed.

‘Isn’t it a shame how the heat spoils the flavour? It’s a physiological thing, I think. The taste buds reject a substance unsuited to the local conditions. Tea isn’t so affected – tannic acid must meet the requirements better than caffeine.’

‘At the rehearsal,’ Gently said, ‘what was he wearing?’

Capel tilted his head. ‘Oh – you got the clothes right! The poor devil made a pass at conning you, but unluckily for him you were right on the button. No doubt you acquired the details from Laurel.’

‘Did Crag neglect to inform you about that?’

Capel grinned. ‘Old Bill was livid. It was naughty of Leonard to make jokes about Dave, and bound to raise the waters when Craggy heard of it. Dave is the apple of his eye, you know. He’s been brought up in the paths of righteousness. Bill loves him better than a son, and who offendeth Dave had better watch out.’

‘Are you suggesting that Crag slandered Meares?’

‘Good gracious no.’ Capel’s grin was broad. ‘You don’t know our Adam – he’s the conscience of Shinglebourne. It’s a frank to my character that he deigns to work for me.’

Gently sipped. ‘Meares denies it all.’

‘Wouldn’t you, with the law breathing down your neck?’

‘He was under no pressure when the subject was raised.’

‘That’s being naive – you’ve got us all under pressure.’

‘Yet . . . if he was innocent?’

Capel shook his head. ‘Poor old Leonard has too much to lose. What happened on the dunes could be as innocent as snow but still he would try to avoid admitting it. And really what does it amount to? He met Virtue. That seems to be the whole story. The rest is all Craggy’s dirty-mindedness, provoked by Leonard’s joke about Dave.’