Gently with the Innocents (11 page)

Gently puffed hard. ‘I suppose it’s possible . . .’

‘My dear sir, it’s the only credible answer.’

‘So then that Latin tag’ – Gently nodded to the door – ‘would you say it was something spicy from Petronius?’

Bressingham stared at the door. In the course of his checking he had pulled it wide open into the room, and now the outer side was lit by a pale snow-light from the window. The light had revealed lettering. In each of two upper panels were lines of small, embossed capitals. They were probably metal, but blackened by age, and one or two half worn away.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ Bressingham exclaimed.

‘Can you read Latin?’ Gently asked.

Bressingham shook his head. He was gazing at the letters in a sort of gap-mouthed stupefaction.

‘Something about the gate of Olympus being difficult?’

‘Heaven knows . . . don’t ask me!’

‘What’s so surprising about them, then?’

Bressingham gulped. ‘They’re so . . . familiar.’

Inevitably, he had to touch the letters, like a blind man going over braille. Then he slipped a pen-knife from his pocket and gently scraped the patina from one of them.

‘Lead . . .’ He went on shaking his head.

‘You’ve seen them before?’

‘Yes – I’m sure of it. And they give me a queer sort of feeling, like I was walking into the past.’

‘They read like a quotation.’

‘But I don’t know any Latin – not beyond
hic jacet
and
fid. def
. It’s a visual thing . . . my memory’s like that. Oh gosh, if only I could remember!’

He stood frowning fiercely at the letters, as though he could will them to give up their mystery. Then slowly he spelled them out, with an accent that was probably execrable.

‘
Difficilis, cels
– four dashes! –
sera, porta, Olympi, . . . Fit, facilis, fidei, cardine, clave, manu.
’

‘And it means nothing?’

‘Nothing. Except that I must have seen it and taken notice of it.’

‘Then perhaps it’s to do with your business.’

Bressingham stared hopefully for a moment, then gave another shake of his head.

A
ND THAT WAS
it. All Bressingham’s mental wrestling wouldn’t recall the provenance of the Latin, though he promised to give the matter no rest until he succeeded in tracking it down. Of his identification of the store-room he remained positive, but that, alas, was academic. Orgy-room or linen-closet, it offered no key to Gently’s problem. It was secure; probably it had no other connection with Peachment’s treasure.

Bressingham felt his failure. He smoked a last, despondent Manikin with Gently. From the glum expression on his chubby face you might have thought he’d just lost on a deal.

‘Well, anyway, we’ve debunked the legend.’

His hands, like Gissing’s before him, were filthy. His neat bow-tie had got aslant and the tails of his muffler hung down to his knees.

‘And yet, I’d swear old Peachey was honest. Anything else doesn’t make sense. You just couldn’t picture him doing a job, especially a big one that needed planning.’

Gently grunted. That was certainly out! If Peachment had been a regular villain, the police would have known about him. Collectors of gold coins didn’t leave them around for casual sneak-thieves to pick up.

‘Could they have been dumped on him?’

Yes . . . more likely. Though it still left a great deal to be explained. It argued that the thieves knew Peachment well enough to trust him, while by all accounts, except for his nephew . . .

Gently shrugged. ‘We only know of the two pieces.’

‘Oh, come now!’ Immediately Bressingham perked up. ‘Two pieces like that. You can trust my instinct. They’re only the tip of a fabulous iceberg.’

‘Then where did it come from?’

‘Ah, that’s your problem. But there’s gold around and I can smell it. Perhaps I’m not so good as I think – you can always have a go at the floorboards.’

It was snowing again when they came out of the house, little dry flurries of small flakes. Across the yard the light was switched out and both doors closed. Gently checked momentarily. Bressingham glanced at him.

‘Do you fancy that fellow . . . or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘You shouldn’t ask,’ Gently grunted. ‘And I shouldn’t tell you. Yes, we fancy him.’

‘Ah,’ Bressingham said. He was silent for a few steps, then: ‘I don’t like him much either. Once I had to chase him out of my courtyard. He was smooching there with a bit of jail-bait.’

‘It doesn’t make him a killer,’ Gently shrugged. ‘By the way, which school does your son go to?’

‘Phil?’ Bressingham looked his surprise. ‘He goes to Cross Central. That’s just over there, across the sale-ground.

He kept looking for Gently to explain his query, but Gently merely unlocked the Sceptre and got in.

At the station Gissing was back from his chat with Ted Ringmer. D.C. Scoles had also come in, and sat drinking cocoa along with his senior. Scoles was a lean, quick-eyed youngster. He quickly rustled up a mug of cocoa for Gently. For some minutes they drank and thawed silently, just three men who’d come in from the cold. Then Gissing drew his hand across his mouth.

‘Don’t know about Ringmer, sir,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Gently said.

Scoles, tipping his mug, looked anxiously over the rim at Gissing.

‘His story checks all right, sir – same as he gave Jeff here – but I reckon he spent some time in the lounge before he went through to the bar to look for Colkett.’

‘He told me a few minutes, sir,’ Scoles said promptly.

‘Yes,’ Gissing said. ‘He told me the same. Then he mentioned a conversation he’d had with the barmaid, about how his horse had come up at Thirsk.’ Gissing paused to drink. ‘So I checked,’ he said. ‘I went over to the Grapes and talked to Dolly. And she reckons he was talking to her in the lounge, for about half an hour, from around seven.’

‘Was it the right evening?’ Gently asked.

‘It was the right horse,’ Gissing said. ‘Irish Wedding in the four o’clock. That’s what he says, that’s what she says.’

‘How does she estimate the time?’

‘Well, with him drinking whisky,’ Gissing said. ‘Seems he got through two double scotches, which she puts down at about half an hour.’

Gently drank some cocoa. This had closed the gap again, though it still left Colkett with over half an hour – and, in fact, he might never have gone back into the Grapes after Ringmer had met him in the toilet. Thus, an hour and a quarter: time to watch, to enter, to kill – and time hastily to hide his loot, if he used the place that came handy. Search the warehouse? Gently pondered. All this had happened a month ago. Yet Colkett could scarcely have got rid of the goods, and he had nowhere but the warehouse to hide them.

‘A pity,’ Gissing said. ‘We haven’t got him nailed, sir. And I reckon we need to before we go after him.’

Yes: it remained suspicion. They had nothing material on Colkett . . . yet.

‘What else have we got?’ Gently asked.

Gissing tilted his mug towards D.C. Scoles. The young man flushed nervously and felt for his notebook – but didn’t, Gently noticed, refer to it.

‘Sir, first I visited Norkett Transport and spoke to William Charlish and Benjamin Tooke. They were the driver and mate of the pantechnicon that unloaded at Hampton’s Warehouse on October 26th. They arrived there at ten minutes to six p.m. and left at twenty minutes to eight. Colkett had been advised there would be a late delivery. He was still on the premises when they left.’

‘What was the load?’ Gently asked.

‘Mostly furniture, sir, and some small machine parts. They’d loaded the furniture at Southampton and picked up the other stuff at Slough.’

‘What happened at the warehouse?’

‘Just routine delivery, sir. Colkett was complaining at being kept late. He showed them where to put the stuff but didn’t offer to lend them a hand. I gathered he was in the office most of the time, but they can’t be positive about that. He was in the office when they finished because Charlish went there for his receipt.’

‘And they left him there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He wasn’t standing by to lock up?’

‘No, sir. They definitely left him there. There was still a light burning when they drove off.’

‘Interesting,’ Gently said. ‘At first, he’s complaining at being kept late. Then, nearly two hours later, he hangs about when he might be getting away. I wonder why.’

Scoles tried to look intelligent.

Gissing cleared his throat. ‘Do you reckon he’d seen something?’

Gently nodded. ‘I reckon he might have done. Especially remembering the view from the office window.’ He drank cocoa. ‘Did Charlish and Tooke see anyone in the yard?’ he asked Scoles.

‘No, sir, I did ask them. There were only some kids playing about.’

‘Kids?’

‘That’s what they said, sir. I reckon they were kids from Thingoe Road. They played around there and in the sale-ground – it sort of keeps them off the road, sir.’

‘When did they see these kids playing about?’

Scoles flushed. ‘Didn’t exactly ask them, sir.’

‘‘‘Playing about’’ – was that the term used?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Scoles said defensively. ‘Those very words.’

Gently stared at his mug for a moment, then shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

‘That’s all about Charlish and Tooke, sir. After that I made some more inquiries about Peachment’s movements.’

The sum of these was small enough. Scoles had worked the areas adjacent to Frenze Street. About all he’d learned was that once in a while people had seen old Peachment out of an evening. On 26 October, nothing. On 27 October – perhaps – his visit to the shop. The latter had been a lucky strike in a blank which would probably now never be filled.

Gently added his own negative contribution of an account of the abortive search with Bressingham. Gissing listened with customary stolidness, a man who expected no gifts from fortune.

‘I don’t know . . .’ He emptied his mug and set it heavily on the desk. ‘I reckon we’ve got to nail Colkett, somehow.’

He caught Gently grinning. He looked perplexed.

The kids had made a slide, smoothing the snow into glassy marble. It was near the pig-pens, where no doubt an area of concrete underlay the snow. Whooping and screaming, they broke into a sprint and hurled themselves recklessly at the hard strip, some flying down it crouched, like speed skaters, others stiff-legged – or on bottoms and elbows. There were ten of them, going at it in a sort of wild group ecstasy. As each one skidded or blundered to a halt he turned and raced back to rejoin the queue. Their cheeks were flushed and their breath smoked, and their voices had a harsh, animal hoarseness. Almost they seemed to be acting a ritual, to be possessed by a snow-madness.

Then they noticed Gently, and the bubble burst. They drew together in a loose cluster. Still panting, they stared at him large-eyed, colts who’d been disturbed in their frolic.

‘Don’t stop for me,’ Gently smiled.

But that was no use: the spell was broken. They kicked a little at the snow and stared aside from him sullenly.

He came up to them. They stood their ground, but cautious, ready for flight. Dinno was in the centre of the group. Alone, his steady gaze met Gently’s.

‘Well, Dinno,’ Gently said.

Dinno’s hands crept into his pockets. His shoulders pulled into a swagger. He was the leader. He knew it.

‘See you got him then, mister,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Gently said. ‘Who, Dinno?’

‘Old Cokey. You took him away. It’s all locked up – we been to look.’

‘Yes, that’s right, mister,’ slurred the pudding-faced boy, who seemed to play the role of Dinno’s lieutenant. ‘Old Cokey’s gone. We been to look.’

‘You took him away,’ Dinno repeated.

Gently shook his head smilingly. ‘I expect he’s gone to lunch,’ he said.

‘Oh, no he haven’t,’ Dinno said quickly. ‘He’s always there dinner-time. That’s right, ain’t it?’

‘Yeh, yeh, that’s right, mister,’ the others chimed in.

‘’Cause we go there and cheek him,’ Dinno said.

‘He come out and chase us,’ said the pudding-faced boy. ‘Suffn mad he get with us, old Cokey.’

‘Well,’ Gently said, ‘I haven’t taken him. You’ll no doubt find him back there tomorrow.’

‘We was going to snowball him,’ said the pudding-faced boy, regretfully.

Dinno stared at Gently with suspicion.

Gently took out his pipe and began to fill it. All of them watched his movements compulsively. There was a blank eagerness in their gaze as though they were witnessing an awesome mystery.

‘So you see quite a lot of Colkett,’ Gently said. ‘I don’t suppose you’re always cheeking him.’

Dinno said nothing. The pudding-faced boy casually stubbed his toe in the snow.

‘What’s your name?’ Gently asked the latter.

He squinted slightly and muttered: ‘Moulton.’

‘Moosh,’ Dinno said.

‘Which is Phil Bressingham?’

‘Pills. He go home to dinner.’

Gently nodded and struck a match. Again it proved a wonderful event.

‘Is he a pal of yours?’

Dinno said nothing.

‘He’s in our class, mister,’ Moosh said. ‘Pills don’t come with us much. There’s him an’ Tubby an’ Jacko Norton.’

‘He’s got some gyppo,’ Dinno said disparagingly.

The others stirred their feet and sniggered.

‘His ma’s a witch. She’s proper gyppo.’

‘He int so bad,’ Moosh said.

Gently puffed. ‘He’d know a bit, wouldn’t he? His father having deals with people.’

They thought about that one carefully, watching the smoke curl over his pipe.

‘You see,’ Gently said. ‘It’s like this. People knew about old Peachey’s money. We want to know how they found out. I thought perhaps you could give me some help.’ He indulged his audience with a small smoke-ring. ‘Didn’t young Pills say anything to you?’

They shuffled a bit and Moosh looked at Dinno. Dinno’s hands worked in his pockets.

‘Pills didn’t tell us nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing we didn’t know, any rate.’

‘But he told you something?’

‘’Bout old Peachey. He was selling some of his gold. Got a big old bag, he said. Full of gold. He was going to sell it.’