Gently with the Innocents (2 page)

Peachment leant forward, watching closely while Gently slid the contents from the envelope. It contained a rather crude gold medallion, not quite geometrically round. On the face was the bust of a large-nosed man surrounded by a semi-legible inscription in Latin, on the verso a dove and a wreath of laurel leaves. It was about as large as a crown.

‘Careful . . . please!’ Peachment whispered.

Gently shrugged. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘Something over a thousand . . . I’ve just had it valued. It’s a Papal medal of Innocent III.’

‘Nice,’ Gently said. ‘And there were more?’

‘Yes, more. A lot more. I found that one hidden in the book-room at Harrisons – whoever killed him didn’t find it.’

Gently laid the medal on the side-table. Really, this case had got some life in it! People had been killed, and would be again, for much less than the price of that single gold piece. He looked at Peachment. Peachment was anxiously gazing at the medal lying on the table.

‘It’s Extremely Fine, you see. If you scratched it—’

‘What makes you think there are more?’

‘The legend, of course.’

‘The legend!’

‘Yes.’ Peachment’s eyes jerked to his almost indignantly. ‘There’s a legend about Harrisons – I told you, it’s a queer sort of old place. There’s supposed to be treasure hidden in it. A hoard of gold. Anyone’ll tell you.’

‘And that – that’s part of it?’

Peachment nodded. ‘How else could Uncle have got that medal? He could never have bought it – they’re rare anyway – and Uncle didn’t have that sort of money.’

‘Let’s get this straight,’ Gently said. He took a few short puffs. ‘Are there any grounds for this beautiful fable, or is it just the usual village tale?’

‘I believe it—’

‘Very likely! But is it backed by any facts?’

Peachment shrugged his lean shoulders feebly. ‘Actually . . . if you put it like that . . .’

‘Just so.’

‘But wait a minute. There’s something else I have to tell you. It’s the way Uncle behaved that last afternoon. He was . . . you know . . . excited about something.’

‘Go on.’

‘Yes,’ Peachment said. ‘Excited. At the time I didn’t really notice. It was just a duty visit. I was impatient – wanted to get back to Jeanie. He was’ – Peachment’s large hand sawed – ‘all . . . bubbling, you understand? Like – like a cat who’s swallowed a canary. He kept smiling and grinning to himself.

‘Then there’s what he said as I was leaving . . . oh, I know it’s nothing to go on! But it was the way he held on to my hand, the sort of triumphant look he gave me.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said, ‘‘Boy, don’t sell this place when I’m gone. There’s more here than dust and old rotten beams.’’ And he kept shaking my hand all the time.’

‘Hm.’

Gently took more puffs. Did Peachment honestly think he would swallow this? Perhaps the young man was realizing how thin it sounded, because he added earnestly, ‘I’m sure . . . positive . . .’

Gently grunted.

‘So this is the theory. Your uncle had found a hoard of gold. He keeps it to himself, but someone finds out, and they beat him up to make him tell where he’s hidden it.’

‘Yes – that’s it.’

‘And this is all your evidence?’

‘The medal – yes. But where else . . . ?’

‘It’s too thin.’

‘But the medal . . . I tell you—’

‘You should have shown the medal to the local police.’

Peachment’s dark eyes rounded despairingly.

‘Look, sir, I know – I
know
I’m right! That medal’s a rarity. I took it to Seaby’s. They say there’s only two more like it. I didn’t take it to the local police because . . . well, they’re against me enough now. But Uncle was murdered, and there has to be a reason – and that’s the reason. I
know.’

Gently picked up the medal again. Its rough heaviness was convincing. Purely as gold . . . Perhaps the medal, anyway, deserved a little looking into.

‘Who was your uncle?’

‘He – he was nobody.’

Again the anxious look as Gently fondled the medal.

‘What was his job?’

‘He kept the harness-shop. But he retired from that ten years ago.’

‘He owned – what was it – Harrisons?’

‘Yes. He and Aunt Agatha had always lived there. She died soon after he retired. He lived all alone. A bit . . . eccentric.’

‘He didn’t collect these things?’

‘Good Lord, no! He’s got a few old books and things.’

‘What sort of books?’

‘Nothing on coins. Old books on horses, local history.’

‘Are you in possession?’

‘Well . . . more or less. He didn’t leave any will. There’s still some lawyer’s business to go through. All this happened a month ago.’

‘Did he have many friends?’

‘No . . . I told you. He lived alone, scarcely saw anyone.’

‘Housekeeper? Char?’

Peachment shook his head. ‘A recluse . . . that’s the word I wanted.’

‘So you’ve no idea who might have killed him?’

Peachment said bitterly, ‘I’m the suspect.’

‘Right.’ Gently put down the medal. He drew out his pocket-book and began scribbling. ‘Here’s your receipt. I’ll keep the medal. I’ll see that proper inquiries are made.’

‘You’re going to . . . keep it?’ Peachment looked dismayed.

‘Of course. Like you, I’m curious about its provenance.’

‘But—’

‘Well?’

‘It’s all right, I suppose . . . only, please . . .’

‘I’ll take care it’s properly handled.’

He took a note of Peachment’s address. The young man lived at St John’s Gate. He worked for Lutyen and Marshall, estate agents, a large firm of good standing.

At the door he hesitated, then stuck out his hand. ‘I’m grateful, really . . . I mean, suspected like that.’

‘Don’t be so sure you’re out of the wood.’

‘Fazakerly was right . . .’

Gently said nothing.

He came back into the den and stood some moments by the fire. Outside he could hear the Mini being started and, after some buzzing, being driven away. A curious business, an odd young man! An old man’s face on young shoulders. One could see through it to the recluse uncle, the lonely old harness-maker in his mouldering house. A medieval face . . . and a medieval coin – or did Innocent III go back yet further?

Gently relit his pipe. But was there in fact a case here? Old men did fall down stairs and die. A fractured skull, a clutch of bruises, they were sufficiently commonplace in such an event. The locals, anyway, hadn’t pushed the matter, as they would if there had been evidence of theft. And the coroner, obviously he’d been satisfied . . . only uncertain about how the old man came to fall.

Just one of those tragedies that happen too often to the elderly who live alone.

And yet . . . he stared again at the thick, bulge-edged medal, with its grotesque portrait, its uneven lettering.

Coming to a decision, he hooked up the phone.

‘Trunks. I want Merely 25. It’s a Northshire number.’

As he stood waiting he could hear the rain beating faster and a drop or two hissed on the coals in the grate.

‘Merely 25.’

‘Superintendent Gently.’

‘Good Heavens . . . Gently!’

He took the phone to his chair. Sir Daynes Broke, the Northshire Chief Constable, rarely came to business in the first five minutes.

‘. . . my first twenty-pounder on Sunday . . . live-bait, y’know, no twiddling with spoons . . . Gwen’s here, she’ll want a word with you . . . when are you coming for a day with the pike? . . .’

Then at last, as an afterthought: ‘You’re ringing about something . . . ?’

Gently gave him a summary of what Peachment had told him. Sir Daynes listened with little cluckings, but didn’t interrupt till Gently had finished.

‘Yes, well . . . know about it, of course. Fact, Lindsay, the coroner, is a chum of mine. Says there’s no doubt the old fellow took a tumble – thin skull, y’know. He was getting on.’

‘And the local Superintendent?’

‘Chief Inspector. Fellow called Boyland. He’s all right. He’s not too happy, but there’s nothing to go on. Doesn’t like the nephew – that’s a fact.’

‘What about this treasure?’

‘Oh, poppycock. Stories like that about Merely Manor.’

‘But there is this medal.’

‘Won’t be worth much. I collect them, y’know. What d’you say it is?’

Gently told him. There was a slight pause at the Merely end of the phone.

‘Innocent III?’

‘So Peachment says. And the inscription reads
INNOCENTI III
.’

‘Describe it to me.’

Gently described it. He had a feeling that Sir Daynes was holding his breath.

‘That’s dashed queer.’

‘Is it worth much?’

‘My dear Gently, it’s almost priceless. There are only two or three known examples. How did old Peachment get his hands on one?’

Gently smiled at the spitting fire. This was young Peachment over again! But clearly the old harness-maker’s house at Cross held one mystery. Unless . . .

‘Of course, we’ve only the nephew’s word about where he got it.’

The phone made irritable noises.

‘Doesn’t matter where he got it, man. We still want to know where it came from.’

‘It’s in Extremely Fine condition.’

‘You’re making my blasted mouth water!’

‘But doesn’t that suggest . . . say, a collection?’

‘Now you’re making a little sense.’

Gently prodded the medal where it lay on its envelope.

‘I’ll check, of course, if one is missing. Seaby’s will know where they are . . . if there are only three, it shouldn’t take long. But suppose none of the known ones are missing?’

‘Then you’ll grill that nephew silly.’

‘But if he’s telling the truth?’

Sir Daynes made throat-noises. ‘Yes . . . begin to see what you mean.’

‘A collection . . . a fabulous collection . . . perhaps other semi-unique pieces. Maybe nothing to do with the legend, but certainly something to do with Peachment.’

‘But a theft like that—’

‘It may not yet have been discovered.’

‘But there’d be records of such a collection.’

‘Not if it were put together illicitly by someone buying stolen coins.’

Sir Daynes honked and hawed a little. The smile was still on Gently’s face.

‘So what do we do, man?’

‘It’s up to you. I think, on balance, perhaps Peachment was murdered.’

‘Hrmph! And I’d certainly like to see that medal.’

‘I could bring it along. If I got the case.’

When he hung up the smile was a grin. He poured himself a Cognac and sat down to drink it. Then he picked up the phone again, raked off a number, propped the receiver under his chin.

‘Gently . . . send me a car, will you? I have some property that should be under lock and key.’

Half an hour later, when the car arrived, the rain was changing into snow.

C
ROSS WAS
a slushy, two-and-a-half-hour drive up the A’s 12 and 140, with dimmed headlights and wipers grinding at a dirty mist all the way. You turned off at Broome, a village with a handsome coaching-inn, and a murderous mile later ran into the outskirts of the little town.

On another day it would have been charming. It was built on a slope beside a small lake. Across the lake you saw Georgian houses forming a crescent around the lake shore.

Water Street, the principal thoroughfare, spread out and divided at the top of the slope, showing off handsome gables and facades and the Ionic portico of the Corn Exchange.

A piece of Old England! But you needed to come back in June. Just now it was huddled in a dirty gloom which the glowing shop windows seemed to make more dreary. Pedestrians’ breath smoked and they pulled away from cars that hissed past the narrow pavements. A few grimy pigeons huddled into the nooks of the Corn Exchange.

Gently held second all the way up Water Street, where vans parked regardless of yellow lines. At the top he pulled in beside a fishmonger’s. The man at the slab was grinning with cold.

‘Where’s the police station?’

‘Keep a-goin’. Take the second on the left.’

He stared curiously for a moment, then turned and began jigging and chafing his fingers.

The police station was a worn-out building with a date on a plaque, 1905. It was built of dark red brick and an inferior freestone which was flaking off round doors and windows. Gently parked in a slot near the steps. He entered a dank hall with a tiled floor. A huge, bulging, green-painted radiator stood clear of the wall and wheezed unhappily.

‘I’d like to speak to Chief Inspector Boyland.’

The young constable at the desk was slow to attend to him. Then, learning his name, he blushed childishly and collided with a chair as he came round the desk.

‘This way, sir. I’ll just . . .’

They went down a corridor laid with balding blue lino. The constable tapped hastily at the door at the end, opened it a little to hiss, ‘Sir . . . he’s arrived, sir!’

Gently went in.

‘Inspector Gissing. He’s in charge of the case.’

Gently shook hands with a heavy-faced, benevolent-looking man. Boyland himself was plump and jowled and had a thin moustache which looked out of place.

‘This business about a medal . . .’

They’d both been drinking beer, though the glasses had been hurriedly pushed to one side. A plate with crumbs on it lay on the desk. Presumably Gently had disturbed their elevenses.

‘It’s a bit out of character, don’t you think? I mean, old Peachment wasn’t worth a bean. There’s only the house, and that’s falling down.’

He was plainly embarrassed and trying to talk his way out of it.

‘Any more of that beer?’

‘What . . . what . . . ?’

‘I’m feeling a bit dry after my drive.’

Boyland stared at him round-eyed a moment, then chuckled and pulled open a drawer of his desk.

‘Sorry . . . didn’t know . . . you being such a nob.’

‘And a couple of sandwiches would go down.’

In the end he was sitting in Boyland’s chair with a glass of nut-brown and a full plate beside him, while Boyland sprawled fatly on the edge of the desk and Gissing leant comfortably against a radiator.