Gently at a Gallop (9 page)

‘Well, your cousin,’ Gently said.

‘He’s a bug-hunter. He went out after breakfast.’

‘Went where?’

‘To Stukey Woods,’ said a voice by the door. ‘In search of
Orchis hircina
. May I come in?’

He had opened the door very silently: a tall, ruddy-faced man of around fifty, clad in a bush-shirt with buttoned pockets and carrying binoculars slung from his shoulder. He smiled ingratiatingly. He had smooth, regular features and unassuming hazel eyes. Along with the binoculars hung a botanical collecting canister, and from one of his pockets sprouted an array of ball-pens.

‘I’m the bug-hunter,’ he smiled. ‘Cousin Leo. I saw your magnificent beast parked outside. White, and fitted with R/T. I knew the gendarmerie must be with us.’

‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘Have you just come in?’

‘Just this moment,’ Leo Redmayne smiled. ‘I’ve been in the back woods, towards Clayfield. Still searching for the elusive
Orchis hircina
.’

‘It must be quite an attraction,’ Gently said.

‘Oh, it would be a feather in my cap if I found one,’ Redmayne smiled. ‘But it wouldn’t make a brilliant alibi, would it? And I gather that’s the object of the present visit.’

‘They’ve identified the horse, Leo,’ Stogumber said.

‘Have they?’ Redmayne said. ‘That’s a step forward. Whose was it?’

‘It was Creke’s. But Nat wasn’t riding it at the time.’

Redmayne made a mouth. He looked around, dumped his binoculars and canister in a chair. Then he came forward to the settle. Stogumber shifted his leg, and Redmayne sat.

‘So now it’s alibis,’ he said. ‘Every soul who rides a horse.’ He grinned at Gently. ‘I’m a sitting duck,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even find my
Orchis hircina
.’

‘Where are Stukey Woods?’ Gently asked Docking.

‘Going towards Welling, sir,’ Docking said. ‘That’s beyond Clayfield, about seven miles. Quite a big area of woods there, sir.’

‘And not a soul in them,’ Redmayne smiled. ‘And no special permission from Sir Thomas Booke, who owns them. As an alibi it’s so hopeless that you’re almost compelled to believe it.’

Gently gave him a quick stare. ‘You drove there?’

‘Yes – but that was mid-morning.’

‘You’d park your car somewhere?’

‘At the lodge cottage. But that’s no good either – it’s empty.’

‘What make is your car?’

‘A Renault 4L. The first truly modern car. You can see it yourself in the coach-house – lots of mud, but no blood.’

‘Leo didn’t get back till tea,’ Stogumber said. ‘And I saw him come in from Clayfield way.’

‘Ah, but that was at five-thirty, Jimmy,’ Redmayne said. ‘I’d have had time to circle back there and arrive all innocent. No, you can’t spoil my non-alibi. It would stand up in the courts anywhere.’ He smiled pleasantly at Gently. ‘Opportunity,’ he said. ‘But utterly no motive. Charles was a good friend of mine, and Marie is my favourite second cousin.’

Gently stayed poker-faced. ‘And of course, you’re not a poet?’

Redmayne looked surprised. ‘Would it be against me?’

‘Oh, there’s some nonsense about one of Lachlan’s poems,’ Stogumber said impatiently. ‘Marie was over this afternoon and told us about it.’

‘One of Lachlan’s poems,’ Redmayne said slowly. ‘I wonder how that came into the case. Lachlan shows everything he writes to Marie, but it wasn’t an interest that Charlie shared.’

‘Perhaps you’d answer my question,’ Gently said.

Redmayne laughed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Suddenly, you’ve made it all seem very sinister, as though you were laying one of your famous traps.’ He tapped his fingers on the seat of the settle. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll play. When I was young and foolish I published one of those slim volumes.’

‘Good heavens!’ Stogumber said. ‘I never knew that, Leo.’

‘I’ve taken good care you shouldn’t,’ Redmayne smiled. ‘In this high temple of Apollo I wouldn’t care to admit my indiscretions.’

‘You wrote traditional verse,’ Gently said. ‘Sonnets?’

‘That’s between me and God,’ Redmayne said. ‘It was thirty years ago, near enough. I’m hoping my trespasses have been forgiven. Anyway, what’s the score?’

Gently shook his head. ‘Have you ever ridden Creke’s stallion?’ he asked.

‘That sounds even more sinister,’ Redmayne said. ‘If I admitted it, would you arrest me?’

‘Have you?’

Redmayne shrugged. ‘Once.’

‘By George,’ Stogumber said. ‘Did you stay on, Leo?’

‘About five bucks,’ Redmayne grimaced. ‘It may have been six. Creke was laughing like a hyena.’

‘And it was just that once?’ Gently said.

‘Just that once,’ Redmayne said. He paused. ‘Didn’t Creke tell you?’

Gently stared at him, said nothing.

Redmayne’s fingers tapped the settle again. ‘I don’t think this is getting you anywhere,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a guess at the horse – it was a guess, wasn’t it? But that doesn’t give you a man or a motive. All you’ve got is Charles acting the goat, and getting himself savaged on the heath. Well, he married a Stogumber. Perhaps that’s as much explanation as you need.’

Gently looked at him woodenly. ‘Is this a theory?’

‘Say a comment in passing,’ Redmayne said. ‘There’s a Stogumber family curse, and part of it may have rubbed off on Charles.’

‘Go on,’ Gently said.

‘Well, according to the curse, we either live unhappily or die unnaturally. And Charles was living the life of Riley, so he’d be bound to end badly.’

Gently nodded. ‘And is your life a happy one?’

‘I’m only a cousin,’ Redmayne smiled. ‘But some of my books have had stinking reviews, and if there’s justice, that should clear me.’

Stogumber’s hand moved to his chest. ‘My father was a happy man,’ he said. ‘But I think I’ve worn the curse out. There can’t be much claim on me now.’

Redmayne patted his cousin’s arm. Stogumber slowly rose to his feet.

‘Perhaps you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I have to tidy myself for tea.’

‘That goes for me too,’ Redmayne said. ‘Unless you have some other thrilling questions.’

‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Not just now. But I’ve one or two to ask Lachlan Stogumber.’

Redmayne hesitated very slightly, then his smile renewed itself. He rose. ‘I’ll take you to his study,’ he said. ‘He won’t be pleased to see you, but you mustn’t expect graciousness when you meet a poet.’

A
FAINT ODOUR
of roasting meat was penetrating the hall as they re-entered it. Redmayne checked his step to sniff appraisingly, then he caught Gently’s eye and winked.

‘One of Lottie’s mixed grills, or I’m much mistaken. A pity you’re not staying for a meal.’

‘Lottie . . . ?’

‘Charlotte Greengrass, our housekeeper. She’s been at the Manor since Jimmy’s wife died.’

‘She lives in, of course.’

Redmayne’s smile was broad. ‘Yes, but Lottie will be no help to you. Tuesday is her day off, and one of us runs her into Hale. Our other two domestics come only mornings, and Tuesday isn’t the gardener’s day. Alibis are the devil in the country.’

‘How many cars have you here?’ Gently asked.

‘One each. Mine, you know about. Lachlan has a TR4. Jimmy still runs his old Armstrong-Siddeley.’ He raised an eyebrow at Gently. ‘Pass?’

Gently grunted, motioned him to lead on.

They ascended to the gallery. It formed part of a corridor running the entire length of the house, fairly straight, but with changes of level that required a step or two here and there. Small windows overlooked neat kitchen gardens, orchards, a greenhouse and a backing of tall trees. The inner walls were pierced with panelled oak doors and hung with early nineteenth-century water colours and county maps.

Redmayne turned right and proceeded along the corridor to a facing door at the end. He tapped softly, hesitated, then half opened the door and put his head round it.

‘Her Majesty’s Servants are here, Lachlan,’ he said. ‘They think it was Nat’s horse that killed Charlie. Now they want alibis from all horse-riders . . . is it all right to show them in?’

Gently pushed past him into the room.

‘Chief Superintendent Gently,’ he said.

A tall young man rose from a desk by the window. He drew himself up to his full height: he gazed at Gently.

The room was a wing-room, well proportioned, and panelled throughout with linen-fold panelling. At the front it had a fine bay window with mullioned lattices and window seats. Smaller windows on two other walls broke up rows of natural oak bookcases, and the desk, chairs and a low table were constructed of similar wood. The floor, polished but unstained, was laid with the same rush matting as the hall. The ceiling was of moulded plaster, in a floral pattern, enriched with bosses and heavily corniced.

The young man moved his chair aside. He was slim, and athletic in his motions. He had the same smooth symmetry of feature as his sister, but his hair, worn medium long, had a reddish tint. Like Redmayne, he had hazel eyes, but they were golden-hazel, large and brilliant. Between the three of them was a strong family resemblance, more marked than the resemblance they shared with James Stogumber.

‘So you are the man,’ Lachlan Stogumber said cuttingly. ‘My sister has been telling me about you. I suppose the fact that she has suffered a personal tragedy gives you every right to annoy her.’

‘Oh, come now, Lachlan,’ Redmayne said. ‘These people have to ask their questions.’

‘But they don’t have to be offensive,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘And if they had intelligence enough they wouldn’t need to be.’

Redmayne chuckled. ‘You’d better let them off lightly. I think they’re trying to make bricks without straw. And Lottie’s preparing a mixed grill for tea, so’ – he made a mocking little bow to Gently – ‘the sooner you get shut of them, the better.’

Lachlan Stogumber eyed his relative disdainfully. Then he threw down the pencil he’d been holding.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We pay rates for something, even if it’s to have our time wasted.’

Redmayne grinned at Gently, lingered a moment, then quietly slipped out of the room. Lachlan Stogumber closed a manuscript book that lay open on the desk, turned his chair, and sat. Docking sat modestly by the books. Gently sauntered forward to the desk. He shoved aside some books and papers and sat on the desk, looking down at the poet.

‘Please be comfortable,’ Lachlan Stogumber said icily.

‘Thanks,’ Gently said. He picked up the pencil. ‘Is this your usual weapon?’

‘Is that a relevant question?’

Gently shook his head. ‘Just curious about poets.’

Lachlan Stogumber’s stare was withering. ‘I don’t have time for your curiosity,’ he said. ‘If you have questions to ask, please ask them. I understand you’re checking our movements on Tuesday.’

‘Just routine,’ Gently said. ‘Completing the picture. It isn’t really very important.’ He took a sight along the pencil. ‘But something you can tell me. Why did your sister marry Berney?’

Lachlan Stogumber’s head drew back. ‘Is it any concern of yours?’ he said. ‘What my sister does is her own business. She doesn’t have to account for her actions to you.’

‘Still, it’s unusual,’ Gently said. ‘A lively and beautiful girl like Marie. And a fellow like Berney, old enough to be her father – a man she’d known since she was a child.’

Lachlan Stogumber laughed scornfully. ‘A pity you’re so ignorant of human nature. You think that because Marie is regal and beautiful she’d be interested only in the young men. But that’s precisely the point. She was out of their class. They were too stupid and raw to attract her. It needed a mature, experienced man – one with intelligence, with reverence.’

‘And that describes Berney?’ Gently said.

‘Yes. Charles was the right person for Marie.’

‘In spite of his flaws?’

‘All that was in the past. Marie made a condition about that when she accepted him.’

‘A condition,’ Gently said. He twirled the pencil. ‘People who make conditions usually bargain from strength.’

‘And so Marie did,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘Charles was dementedly in love with her.’

‘But she . . . rather less?’ Gently suggested.

Lachlan Stogumber gave him a fleering look.

‘You see what I’m driving at,’ Gently said. ‘Berney was obviously put on his best behaviour. He was on parole, you might say, he had to be more careful than the ordinary citizen. One slip, and presumably your sister would have filed suit against him. Yet though he loved your sister, the spots ran deep. And he still had his old contacts.’

‘But he didn’t,’ Lachlan Stogumber said. ‘That’s where you’re so pig-headed. It was all over – a clean sweep.’

‘Was it all over on Monday night?’

‘Yes – in spite of your impounding one of my poems!’ Gently held up the pencil between them. ‘Presumably,’ he said, ‘this is for first drafts?’

Lachlan Stogumber’s eyes flamed for a second; then he slewed in his chair to pull open a desk drawer. He lifted from it an Olympia typewriter and placed it on the desk beside Gently. He sat back. Gently reached for a sheet of paper, fed it in and tapped a few keys. The same distinctive, italic type that the sonnet was typed in appeared on the paper. And the paper was the same. An opened packet of it lay on the table, among other clutter.