Gently to the Summit (15 page)

‘I’d like you to consider those two payments
together and in conjunction with what happened on Everest. I think you will come to a certain conclusion. I think your son has already done so.’

‘I didn’t know—!’

Askham flung round, a truly ghastly look on his face. He stared in horror at his mother, who regally inclined in his direction.

‘Henry. You’d better leave the talking to me.’

‘But you don’t understand! I had to tell him—’

‘You are over-imaginative, Henry.’

‘But this … this …!’

‘You must control your nerves, boy. You should try to be more reserved in public. Superintendent, you will kindly excuse him. As an only son he’s been spoiled, I’m afraid.’

Askham groaned and pulled away from her. She sat still and unmoved. Her hands lay quietly on her lap and the muscles of her mouth were unstressed. After a moment she resumed calmly:

‘I missed the point of your last question. I thought that what happened on Everest was beyond any sort of proof.’

‘You are familiar with accounts of it, then.’

‘Oh yes. Is that discreditable?’

‘And with the version Kincaid gave?’

‘One could scarcely escape that.’

‘How would you interpret it, Mrs Askham?’

‘I’m not certain that I want to. But if it were proved, then I should say Kincaid had reason to murder Fleece.’

‘You may take it as being proved.’

‘Oh, really?’ Her chin was lifting again. ‘Then a
conviction is almost certain. I suppose I should congratulate you, Superintendent.’

‘And those two sums of money are proved. Your husband paid for that expedition. And he paid Fleece when he returned. And he caused Paula Kincaid to vanish.’

‘You are wrong. Completely wrong.’

‘And Fleece knew something else, didn’t he? Your husband went for a ride on a tiger, and the tiger came back: he came
for you
.’

‘Stop it … stop it!’ Henry Askham sprang up, his eyes wild and his hair dishevelled. ‘I can’t stand it, I tell you, I can’t! I shall go mad … you’ve got to stop it!’

‘Henry.’ Her voice cut like a knife.

‘And you. You. You knew all about it! Knew that Father – oh, my God! I can’t stand it – I shall go mad!’

‘Henry, be silent.’

‘I can’t … I can’t!’

‘You will control yourself this moment.’

‘I’m finished. I just can’t take it.’

‘It isn’t true, Henry.
It isn’t true
.’

Neither of them had seen Gently’s finger on the bell-push, nor noticed the door swinging silently open. He came in looking perplexed, his intense eyes switching about him, the brown suit he’d worn in the cells crumpled and badly needing a press. Then he heard the voice of the seated woman. His eyes grew wide, he began to tremble. He took a stumbled step forward and gave a little sobbing cry.

‘Paula …
Paula!
’

Mrs Askham whirled to her feet. He was standing with his hands outstretched towards her.

Was it altogether real, the tableau enacting in that room, painfully extending itself to moments, a scene in which every actor had dried? The spindly man with his appealing hands and tears rolling down his cheeks, the thunderstruck woman with ghost-seeing eyes, the staring young man backed against the cabinet? It seemed to hang breathlessly on the brink of unbeing, as though a sudden movement might sweep it away: dissolved and cut by its own emotion like a celluloid shadow from the screen.

Then slowly Mrs Askham turned her back on Kincaid.

‘Paula!’

The movement drew him after it. But he seemed to be shackled, he could advance only one foot. He stopped. He became as motionless as before.

‘Paula. Oh, look at me!’

She wouldn’t. Her face was bitter. She wasn’t seeing Gently, though her eyes faced straight towards him.

‘Paula, I love you. It’s never changed. I love you, Paula. I love you!’

Her mouth opened before she spoke. Finally she said:

‘It’s no use, Reg.’

‘But, Paula, I love you. I want you!’

‘No, Reg. It’s no use.’

‘Paula, listen to me. I’m rich now …’

Her lips twisted. ‘And I’m poor!’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He came another step. ‘I’m rich, Paula. Don’t you hear? We’ve got money now. A hundred thousand! I brought it back with me from Tibet.’

A hundred thousand …! Gently saw the pitying expression that passed over her face. What was a hundred thousand to Mrs Askham: would it melt one splinter of her ice? She’d tossed the sum away on trifles, some fresh bloodstock, a new yacht; and that little man in his scrubby suit thought he was going to tempt her with such a bagatelle! The anger blazed. She swung on Kincaid:

‘Are you blind to what you’ve done?’

‘Paula …!’ Her rage pushed him backwards, his lips quivered and fell dumb.

‘Don’t you realize you’ve made me a pauper – me, a millionairess; stripped this very gown from my back; taken the ring off my finger?’

‘But Paula, listen …’

‘Listen. Listen! Will that do any good now? Will it make me Harry’s widow again? Confirm my title to his estate? You’ve ruined me, Reg, that’s what you’ve done. You’ve practically tossed me into the street. And now you insult me with your pretty charity, your childish sentiment and your hundred thousand! What must I do about it – kiss you? Throw my arms round your neck?’

‘Paula … I don’t understand …’

Her savage laugh made him wince.

‘Don’t you? But Dicky Askham will understand, and so too will his lawyers. I had to fight that wastrel
before, Reg. He contested the will right through the courts. And what sort of case do you think I’ll have now – as Harry’s mistress, with Henry his bastard? I’ll be fortunate to get a pittance: a beggarly percentage of your wonderful fortune. And Harry’s son can sweat in the works while his uncle squanders his father’s money …! And you’ve done it by walking in here, Reg, only by looking at me and saying, ‘Paula.’ Paula was dead and Paula was buried – and you, you’re the stranger who’s made me poor!’

She flung away again with vehement passion, her eyes sparkling and blind. Kincaid stood as though entranced; crushed, broken by her piercing anger. For several seconds he couldn’t speak. He seemed to have died inside his body. Then insensibly something began to return, the lamp of his glazed eyes lit again.

‘Paula …’

Her shoulders snatched at him, willing him to have done.

‘Paula, I didn’t know … I couldn’t guess that I would do you an injury.’

‘But you have, Reg. And I hate you for it.’

‘No, Paula. You mustn’t hate me.’

‘But I do. I do.’

‘You’re angry with me. Only angry.’

She stamped her foot, and to Gently’s surprise he could see a tear trembling under her lashes. But her lips were pressing tight and her chin thrust well forward.

‘I want you to go now, simply go.’

‘Not without you, Paula. Never.’

‘Reg, you must.’

‘Don’t ask it of me. I love you, Paula. You’re all my life.’

‘I’ve not been faithful.’

‘I understand that.’

‘You must suspect me.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘I’m a hard bitch, Reg. You can ask my son,’

‘You’re Paula Kincaid. You’re my wife.’

What had come over him? He had suddenly transcended the eccentric character by which they had known him; even his voice had a deeper tone and his weedy figure appeared more substantial. And as his stature grew, Mrs Askham’s lessened, her commanding presence was whittled away. From being a priceless doll with a vice-royal manner, she was rapidly diminishing into something like a woman …

‘Listen, Paula. Why is this money important? What have you ever bought with it that has helped you to be happy? Has it made people love you? Has it made you less lonely? Has it stood to you as a husband since the man who took you died? If I’ve lost that for you, I’ve brought you something else, Paula. I’ve brought you a love that’s never altered, through all the bitter times past. And I’ve all the money we can ever need, more than we need with each other. Then why is your money so important? Why does losing it seem so hard?’

‘It’s no use, Reg; we’re strangers. You don’t know me now.’

‘I
do
know you.’ He came closer, standing right by her side.

‘I’m unforgivable. I know that.’

‘No, Paula. You’re always forgiven.’

‘I’ve got to hate you …’

‘You can’t do it.’

‘I
must
hate you. I
must
…’

Then the tears came. Quietly, without any sobbing. Making her feel unseeingly for her handkerchief to dab to her eyes.

‘You’re not to touch me,’ she said. ‘You’re not to touch me, Reg …’

She didn’t break down at all. But that would probably come later.

I
N THE MIDDLE
of the proceedings arrived the Caernarvonshire Chief Constable, who had been warned by his spies that some development was afoot. He was a tall ex-Army man and the owner of a finely waxed moustache, and he evidently knew Mrs Askham and looked rather perturbed at finding her there. She gave no sign of knowing him, however; it was left to Evans to acknowledge his entry. Then after some whispering he took a chair in the background, there to make what he could of the goings-on.

Gently was questioning; that was inevitable. His slow, flat voice laid query to query. He was covering ground unfamiliar to the Chief Constable and having apparently small connection with Fleece’s murder. Really, the only suggestion of it was the presence of Kincaid; and that alone brought a frown to the Chief Constable’s brow. The man was looking bumptious, quite different to when he was brought there. And if he was being properly guarded the fact was very little in evidence.

‘And you first saw Fleece when?’

‘I think it was twenty-eighth September.’

This was another perplexing point; it was Mrs Askham who was answering the questions. She’d also been crying, the Chief Constable was sure of it, her make-up was in a ghastly mess; and her tone, though clear, was low, so that he needed to lean forward to catch the responses. What had this London fellow been doing to her, the wealthiest woman in North Wales …?

‘What was his purpose in visiting you?’

‘Reg.’

‘A question of money?’

‘No. Me.’

‘He made a proposal?’

‘If you can call it that.’

‘And your son knew?’

‘Yes. He was there.’

‘What steps did you take as a result of the visit?’

‘I consulted Clarence. He knew who I was.’

‘What suggestion did Mr Stanley make?’

‘None. There was nothing we could do.’

‘So you agreed to the proposal?’

‘I daren’t not agree.’

‘Did you know your son went looking for Kincaid?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what for?’

‘Yes. A bribe. We were desperate.’

Presumably Gently was adding it together, and Evans too, from his intelligent attitude; but a freshly arrived Chief Constable was finding it difficult to pick
up a cue. At last he drew out an amber cigar-holder, lit a cigar, and sat nursing his knee. The thing to do now was to think up an apology, something to smooth down the ruffled La Askham …

‘And now we’ll have your son’s statement.’

Good lord, was there more of it? The Chief Constable touched his watch and looked meaningly at Evans. But no, there were no dissentients, this extension seemed understood. La Askham left the seat and her son took his place. And young Henry, he too was looking under the weather. He wasn’t nearly as fierce as the C.C. remembered him. Altogether his appearance was decidedly hangdog, though with his driving habits he was no novice at these parties …

‘Put in your own words what happened on Monday.’

‘I … for certain reasons I wanted to meet Mr Kincaid. I’d heard from our housekeeper that he was staying in Caernarvon, so I went there to find him, and afterwards to Llanberis …’

Then, for the Chief Constable, the world abruptly ceased to turn. This was no simple statement: it was a full-dress confession. In horror he sat listening, with his cigar going cold on him; heard the damning words uttered in Henry Askham’s halting voice.

‘So I decided to wait there … in case I should see him …’

‘Say where it was you waited, please.’

‘On the cairn at the summit. I sat down because I felt dizzy …’

‘What made you feel dizzy?’

‘I’ve got a bad head for heights …’

And then the worst, or what was so near it that the worst must be inferred: a transparent evasion of a guilt that screamed aloud. A damned-good grilling must get the rest of it, of that there was no question. The case was made. Henry Askham was the self-confessed murderer of Fleece.

But the strangest part of it was the lack of emotion that accompanied this frightful revelation. Nobody appeared very much concerned, not even the
droop-figured
culprit. Gently was looking mildly bored; Evans had a distant, meditative expression; Mrs Askham was scarcely listening; and Kincaid was gawping at Mrs
Askham
. Did nobody care any longer about
self-confessed
murderers, even when millionaire-apparents, sons, and voiders of capital charges? It seemed they didn’t. In fact, the atmosphere was wholly unaccountable. The C.C. felt like pinching himself to be assured that he didn’t dream …

Now Mrs Askham had stirred herself.

‘Then may I take it there will be no charge?’

That was the question. The C.C. found himself staring with open mouth at Gently. There
had
to be a charge, and yet … before Gently could speak, he knew it. It was part of the craziness he had stumbled into, the prevailing pattern of derangement.

‘I don’t think a charge will be necessary. But there is something I have to say to you.’

It was too much. He was reading them a lecture on the heinousness of false witness. Like two naughty children, they listened, the proud La Askham and her
fiery son, the one with submissive and downcast eyes, the other with a look that was near admiration. After this, the C.C. gave up. There could be no more attempt at intelligent appraisal. It mattered little that the Yard man was about to release his cherished prisoner; that was purely a formality. Open the cells. Let them all go.

And Kincaid:

‘I feel greatly in your debt, Superintendent. Not only for clearing me of the charge. It goes much deeper than that.’

They were shaking hands; they all shook hands. It might have been an old chum’s reunion. Then Kincaid offered his arm to Mrs Askham, and Mrs Askham laid her gloved hand on it …

When Gently returned to the office he found the C.C. seated behind the desk; with a perceptible stiffness in his bearing and a resolute gleam in his eye. He pointed to the seat of interrogation, sniffed and angled his moustache.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a man can be told what’s going on in his own division?’

Gently sat, feeling for his pipe.

‘It’s a long story,’ he replied.

But it was simple too, for all stories were basically simple; the story of a rich man’s enticement of a poor man’s wife. Of the corrupting power of large possessions, of the cropping of dragon’s teeth, and the ultimate destruction of a guilty one when no man pursued him. Simple and moral, if morals still lingered
in a well-explained world. Simple anyway, like truth. A dramatic testimony for five players.

‘Mrs Askham was very generous in filling in the minor detail.’

She had been; though wouldn’t ‘confessed’ have been the word that best described it? Deliberately, never glancing at Kincaid, in her low, steady voice, she had rehearsed without excusing every incident of that long-ago. A confession, yes, and more: a revelation of herself. A picture of the woman as she was, pitilessly drawn for Kincaid to see. His blind devotion had made her honest, she’d felt compelled to render account. At least she would tender a rigid integrity to his
unconditioning
acceptance.

‘She married Kincaid in the first place because she thought herself pregnant by Askham. They had had a brief affaire, very much a boss-employee relation. But after the marriage a change took place. Askham had taken a second look at her. He saw that her husband was deeply in love with her and it suggested that he’d thrown something away. He began to fall in love with her himself. Soon it was no longer enough for her to be his mistress. He grew jealous and possessive and wanted Paula entirely, he saw in Kincaid an interloper, a mere gesture to the proprieties.

‘Towards the end of nineteen-thirty-six the situation became more critical, since Paula was really pregnant this time and there were reasons why Kincaid could not have been the father. A divorce was out of the question; it would have had business repercussions for Askham; and he wouldn’t hear of an abortion even if
that had been practicable. The only relief from the dilemma lay in the proposed Everest expedition, and this was languishing from lack of funds and want of an experienced leader. But Askham could provide it with both, and this he did, in strict secrecy. He did more. He suborned that leader in an effort to prevent Kincaid from ever returning. Fleece was serviceable, he was ambitious. It needed only a bribe to do the trick. The money was promised. Fleece agreed. Harry Askham had found a solution.

‘Paula was naturally not informed of this second and criminal part of the arrangement. She knew only that Askham had put up the money and had influenced Fleece to lead the party. The bribe was substantial. It enabled Fleece to set up business on his return. His wife remembers him receiving the money and being delighted with himself about it.

‘He was subtle, and from a professional standpoint one must admire the way he handled the job. He manoeuvred the assault, he worked his opening, and he brought back a story that was easy to believe in. It fitted Kincaid’s character neatly, for he was just the man to continue alone. And it was accepted; people
questioned
Fleece’s judgement, but his integrity went unchallenged. There remained a little matter of a lost climbing rope, but that passed unnoticed in the excitement of the moment.

‘When news of the tragedy reached England, Askham acted without delay. It was not to be supposed that Paula was greatly stricken with grief. By an apparent miracle, her troubles were over and she could
be united to her affluent lover, so she let him carry her off to Wales, where they were married by special licence. From Wales she never stirred until after the birth of her son Henry, and then she moved in circles remote from all who knew her as Mrs Kincaid. She had always been a person of refinement. She took care now to adapt herself to her environment. Askham married her for love, but he never had cause to regret it.

‘Fleece returned and established his business and seemed content with his one bite at the cherry: in fact, with the guilt so evenly distributed, the prospect of blackmail was practically excluded. When Askham died the position was unaltered. Mrs Askham was his legitimate though harassed legatee. She had to fight for her rights. His brother Richard pressed her hard; but she won her case, and was safely installed in her millions.

‘Then the impossible happened. The grave gave up its dead. From ten thousand miles and a dim memory Kincaid came stalking into the Asterbury. He had changed; he was hard to recognize; his manner was eccentric: and distrait; but from the moment he began his story Fleece, at all events, had no more doubt. Kincaid alone could know those facts and to know them branded the man as Kincaid. It was hardly surprising that Fleece lost his head and started a suit to discredit the intruder.

‘He soon found it again, however; Fleece was a man with both eyes open. It may have been Kincaid’s anxiety to trace his wife that revealed to Fleece his great opportunity. I imagine he’d kept an eye on the
Askhams. He knew just how vulnerable was Paula’s position. And Kincaid could recognize her, that was a fair gamble, though it was highly unlikely that she would put it to the test. It was a situation that was tailor-made for blackmail. Fleece went to Wales and stated his demands.

‘He wanted everything, her hand and her fortune. The small matter of his being married could be adjusted quite easily. For a year or two now he’d known that his wife had a lover, and his divorce was a formality which he put in hand directly. His position was unassailable and he revelled in his power. He made no bones about discussing the affair before her son. They were helpless. Their choice lay between Fleece and relative poverty. Any compromise they suggested he brushed insolently aside.

‘That was the situation on Monday, with one significant development: Kincaid was in Caernarvon. He had been seen and recognized by Mrs Askham’s housekeeper. His presence there then may have been fortuitous or it may have been contrived as a flick of the whip, but he was there, and that circumstance gave rise to a desperate plan. Henry Askham would seek him and confide to him the situation. He would offer him an unlimited bribe to declare himself an impostor. Askham sought for him in Caernarvon and was directed to Llanberis, and there discovered that Kincaid had bought sandwiches and had set off again up the Pass. Askham guessed, and guessed wrongly, that Kincaid had gone up Snowdon, and rather than miss him he went up also, taking what he judged to be the same track.

‘You’ve heard his statement. He arrived at the summit a little ahead of the Everest Club party, and seeing them coming he decided to wait in case Kincaid should be among them. Because he was giddy he sat down on the cairn, which had the effect of concealing him, so that neither Heslington nor Fleece were aware of his presence when they arrived. But he saw them, especially Fleece. His hatred flared at the sight of him. To his tormented brain this was part of a plot, Fleece had come there to rendezvous with Kincaid. When Fleece went down to the edge and stood watching he was presumably on the look-out for his man, and Askham would have been less than human if a certain idea hadn’t occurred to him.

‘But there were two things against it. One was Askham’s poor head for heights. I believe he would never have dared to go where Fleece was standing then. The other was the structure of the cairn, which, as you may know, is built of loose rock. It would have been physically impossible for Askham to have got down off it without making a noise and attracting Fleece’s attention. And the distance between them was about forty-five feet, and Fleece was a powerful and heavily built man; so murder was out. I was convinced of that as soon as I had a chance to examine the place.

‘What, then, happened? Askham was left with his original plan to pursue. Kincaid was coming, or so he thought, and with luck he might be intercepted. But by now Askham’s nerves were so tattered that he was unfit for even this course, and after rising to his feet he lit a cigarette in an attempt to smooth them down.
Then he took a step forward, and made a clatter. Fleece turned to see Askham standing above him.