Gently with the Innocents (7 page)

‘I . . . I needn’t have told you about that coin. I was trying to give you some help. Now you turn on me. I don’t like it. Inspector Gissing wouldn’t treat me like that.’

‘I’m not Inspector Gissing,’ Gently said.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Bressingham said.

‘Oh yes,’ Gently said. ‘A fair question. Did you fix that visit or not?’

‘I didn’t!’

‘Can you prove it?’

Bressingham looked at him wildly.

‘Say by showing you were somewhere else,’ Gently said. ‘An alibi. For the 27th.’

‘An alibi . . . !’ Colour came rushing back into Bressingham’s cheeks. ‘Of course – I’m a bloody fool! You scared me so much I couldn’t think.’

‘You do have an alibi?’

‘My God I do. I was up in town on the 27th. It was the meeting of the Antique Dealers Guild. I wasn’t back here till the small hours.’

‘Proof?’

‘Yes!’ He turned quickly to a shelf on which was stacked a raffle of papers. Diving into them eagerly he pulled out a journal which had been folded back at a certain page. He smacked it on the counter before Gently.

‘Look – a report of the meeting on October 27th – and yours truly mentioned by name! Proposed by Thomas Bressingham, that the sharing of stands shall be permitted at the Antique Fair. Isn’t that proof?’

Gently glanced at the report. The meeting had begun at 7.30 p.m. Judging from the number of resolutions passed, it had probably maundered on till after eleven.

And Bressingham, shocked by the sudden stab of suspicion, nearly had to have this perfect alibi dragged from him.

‘Yes . . . proof.’ Gently grinned at Bressingham.

‘You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?’ Bressingham said gruffly. ‘Suppose I couldn’t have proved it?’

‘I’d probably have believed you.’

‘Yes – I’ll bet!’

Gently kept grinning.

To smooth his ruffled feelings, Bressingham opened a small cabinet and poured two whiskies from a cut-glass decanter. One he pushed across the counter to Gently, at the same time giving him a reproachful look.

‘Cheers! I still think you’re a bastard – but I can see that perhaps it was necessary.’

‘Cheers. Am I forgiven?’

Bressingham chuckled and wagged his shoulders.

They drank. Bressingham leaned against the shelves, staring out at the dark courtyard. Flurries of snow were skittering against the panes and chasing each other across the flagstones.

A woman, a hooded bundle of clothes, came briefly to the window to stare at some rings; then the snow won and she dodged away again, hugging a shaggy fur bag to her side.

Gently finished his drink.

‘You still want to help me?’

Bressingham twinkled. ‘Not sure that I do! But yes, I do – for old Peachey’s sake. I’d like to help even the score for him.’

‘Look . . . I’ll put some cards on the table. Another coin has turned up in that house. It’s a medal, actually, a papal medal, worth around fourteen hundred pounds.’

Bressingham whistled softly. ‘Deep waters.’

‘Yes – and this is what I find interesting. The medal is also medieval, also in Extremely Fine condition. In fact, another collector’s piece, and only the fourth known example. The other three are accounted for. And there have been no thefts of coins lately.’

Bressingham took another nip from his glass. ‘The dates may not mean very much,’ he said. ‘You get collectors specializing in a period – medieval gold, if you own enough oil-wells.’

‘But . . . a collection.’

Bressingham nodded. ‘It certainly begins to look that way. And if old Peachey had it, he’d have had it honestly, which points only to one thing. Is that the theory?’

‘That’s the theory.’

‘My goodness . . . after all these years!’

‘But is it credible?’

Bressingham emptied his glass, remained a few moments gazing at it.

‘You’ve got me into a corner,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say about that. Of course, it’s possible. In troublesome times it was common to stash one’s gelt under a floorboard.’

‘Let’s take one troublesome time,’ Gently said. ‘Was there any religious foundation at Cross?’

Bressingham nodded. ‘A Benedictine house. But it was neither large nor rich.’

‘Where was the site?’

‘Don’t think it’s known, and I’m pretty well briefed in local history. At a guess I’d say it was close to the Mere. The monks usually built where fishing was handy.’

‘No connection with Frenze Street?’

Bressingham shook his head. ‘I think we can forget the monks,’ he said. ‘I know that Harrisons is ages old, but my dealer’s nose says we’re off the track.’

‘Let’s get to the house, then. What do you know about it?’

‘Not very much,’ Bressingham admitted. ‘We have a Town Plan of 1742 which shows it having bigger grounds than it does now. They ran through to Thingoe Road in those days, mostly a plantation and some formal gardens. There’s a sketch in the library, circa 1750, showing the house with a backing of beeches and conifers.’

‘How did it get its name?’

‘No mention of that anywhere. As a matter of fact, Harrison isn’t an indigenous name in these parts. It doesn’t occur in the town rolls, feet of fines or church registers – though the latter aren’t much help. They only go back a couple of centuries.’

‘So?’

Bressingham shrugged. ‘It blew in from somewhere. Once upon a time there was a Harrison of Harrisons.’

‘He must have made an impression.’

‘It was perhaps just his being a foreigner. Cross is clannish enough today – the Lord knows what it was like then!’

Gently nodded. The solution was probable. Being a well-to-do ‘foreigner’ was enough to make a mark. And certainly (x) Harrison must have been well-to-do to buy the old place in its heyday. One could visualize it crisp and newly decorated with its screen of tall trees, its plentiful servants, who were no doubt housed in the amplitude of the lofts. And the formal gardens, requiring gardeners, and the carriage and horses with their quota . . . yes, he needed to have money, that mysterious foreigner with the name that had stuck.

He found Bressingham watching him quizzically.

‘Look . . . this is a bit of cheek on my part . . . I’ve the curiosity of the devil. Have you searched the house yet?’

‘Not a proper search.’

‘Well . . . if you want a ferret. I mean, this is just my line of country. I really do have a nose for it, and I know the local domestic architecture backwards. If there’s anything there, I’m sure to spot it.’

Gently shrugged. ‘If there’s anything there! The theory is that it grew some wings on the night when Peachment was pushed downstairs.’

‘But you don’t know that.’

‘It’s a fair guess.’

Bressingham’s magnified eyes stared eagerly.

‘Forgive me – but on present evidence, you can’t be sure there was anything in the first place. There are these two pieces, that’s all, the Edward angel and the medal. They may be part of a collection, or they may be a red herring.’

Gently chuckled. ‘Well?’

‘Well – we can do better than that. If we find a hiding place, at least we know there was something hidden to begin with.’

‘And we might deduce something from the cache.’

‘Exactly. You might find old Peachey’s prints. And some more of that odd wrapping-paper – perhaps even with coin-impressions on it.’

Gently grinned broadly at the chubby little man. ‘You’ve clearly missed your vocation,’ he said.

‘It’s cheek, I know, but when you stop to think—’

‘All right, I’m sold. When are you free?’

The snow had a blizzardy touch in it when Gently stepped out in the courtyard again. All day the weather had been slowly worsening and the temperature edging lower.

Tomorrow was December, and there was Christmas round the corner . . .

In town, the weather wouldn’t notice so much; here, it was bleak like the open fields.

Gently shoved his way into a newsagent’s for a copy of the paper Bressingham had shown him. A sulky-faced girl, who’d been cuddling a radiator, came forward reluctantly to serve him.

‘
Eastern Evening News
.’

‘They’re all gone.’

Didn’t his voice proclaim him a ‘foreigner’?

‘Give me a tin of Erinmore, then.’

She took his money without a word.

A little town, with winter closing on it: all foreigners go home.

Turning into the street, he was almost knocked down by boys racing coatless through the snow. He recognized Dinno. The youngster dodged him, bawling, ‘When are y’going to pinch Cokey, mister?’

‘Come back!’ Gently called.

But Dinno laughed jeeringly and bolted on into the darkness. He heard them whooping and jeering in the distance till the scurrying wind swept the sound away.

A little town . . .

One felt a relief in pushing through the George’s revolving door, exchanging suddenly the snowy night of Cross for the suave civility of a hotel. Here at least they welcomed foreigners, and were always glad to see them!

‘Any calls for me?’

‘No, sir, but . . .’

The manager’s wife nodded towards the lounge. Through the swing doors Gently could see young Adrian Peachment sitting tensely beside a rather pretty girl.

Gently grunted. More hand-holding!

‘Better send in tea for three.’

‘Yes, sir.’

And she actually smiled as she took his snow-caked coat and hat . . .

When young Peachment talked he had a sort of jerk which might one day develop into a twitch. Jeanie Norton, his girl-friend, was obviously smitten with him and watched him with intent, smiling earnestness.

‘I thought since I was up this way – I’d better, well . . . report in, sir.’

Or, what was more likely, he had been persuaded to by the neat-featured Jeanie.

‘Why? Your movements have not been restricted.’

‘Oh no, sir. But I still thought—’

‘Why are you up here?’

‘To see Jeanie. We’re . . . well, you know . . . I’m often up here.’

And here at Cross, along with his Jeanie, the provincial touch was even stronger. His military jacket notwithstanding, you knew you were talking to a native.

Lighting his pipe, Gently studied the young man. Had he been tempted to dismiss him too quickly? Adrian Peachment was certainly an easy answer to a number of puzzling questions. He, alone, had talked with the old man. He, alone, was familiar with the house. He would know his uncle’s habits, too, better than any outside watcher. And his alibi? Give him half an hour – the p.m. estimate was not precise – stretch it a little, and he could still have been back in his flat by ten p.m.

But, on the other hand, if he were guilty, why had he come to Gently? Some sort of contorted cunning? A compulsion not to leave well alone?

‘I thought that Jeanie . . . it’s important, isn’t it?’

Jeanie was looking at Gently and blushing.

‘What about Jeanie?’

‘Well, she can tell you . . . the time I left, I mean! On the evening Uncle was killed.’

So this was it! Young Peachment had been worrying about that alibi, perhaps realizing it wasn’t quite watertight after all. Jeanie, determined not to be flustered, fixed her hazel eyes on Gently, sitting very straight, legs firmly folded, hands placed together on her lap.

‘We . . . we’d had a row.’

‘What sort of a row?’

The wrong question! Jeanie flinched slightly.

‘It was . . . does it matter?’

‘Oh, I think so. As Mr Peachment says, this is important.’

Jeanie shuffled her hands a little. ‘All right, if you really have to know. It was about . . . well, the truth is . . . I suppose you’d call me a little old-fashioned.’

‘He wanted you to sleep with him.’

‘Yes . . . no! It wasn’t quite so . . . not like that. He wanted me to spend a weekend in town – Christmas shopping. That’s all.’

‘Staying at his flat, of course?’

‘Well . . . yes. But it didn’t have to mean what you’re thinking. And anyway . . . perhaps it’s the way I’ve been brought up. I know everyone does it these days, but . . .’

An old-fashioned girl – she was quite charming! And she’d probably turn out to be a handful. Her voice had that little edge of righteousness that ought to have been a warning to Peachment. But perhaps he wanted to be dominated? There didn’t seem a lot of buck there.

‘When did the row happen?’

‘In the afternoon. Adrian went to visit his uncle. Then we drove out . . . I don’t know. Rattlesham Heath, I think it was.’

‘Did you go with Adrian to his uncle’s?’

‘No. I waited in the car. Old Mr Peachment was queer about people, he didn’t like them coming in the house.’

‘So Adrian wasn’t there very long?’

‘No. About twenty minutes, I suppose.’

‘More like quarter of an hour,’ Adrian Peachment said. ‘I . . . well, we never had much to talk about.’

Gently nodded. That was understandable. One could visualize long moments of helpless silence – the old man with nothing left to say, the young man despairing of saying anything. Yet Adrian had still persisted with these visits.

‘What rooms did you go in?’

Adrian Peachment hesitated. ‘The kitchen, I think . . . he was in the kitchen. Then . . . oh, yes, he took me up to the store-room. He didn’t say why. He was like that.’

‘Which is the store-room?’

‘It’s the room up the stairs.’

‘You mean the stairs he fell down?’

Adrian Peachment stirred nervously. ‘This was in the afternoon – three o’clock. It’s got nothing to do—’

‘But he took you into that room?’

Gently drew steadily on his pipe. Always, one came back to the room . . . Yet it was a room you could take in at a glance – no panels to tap, no suggestive features.

‘Think back carefully. You were in that room. Tell me exactly what you saw in it.’

‘Well . . . nothing.’

‘Take your time. Go over the whole room in your mind.’

Adrian Peachment stared unhappily, giving now and then his little jerk.

‘I’m sure . . . nothing! Uncle never used it. You see, it was upstairs . . . it wasn’t convenient . . .’

‘The chair. The table.’

‘Yes, well . . . that was all.’

‘How long had they been there?’

‘I think . . . always! At least, the chair . . .’