Landed Gently (14 page)

‘Johnson might have come back …’ murmured Gently apologetically, but the baronet shook his head peremptorily and put a hand on the Central Office man’s shoulder.

‘No good flogging that horse any more … I can see what I can see! We’re going to hang a Feverell, Gently, and no Johnson will save his skin. Mad, he was, mad, and perhaps he’ll get away with it. But into the dock he’s going, like the most beggarly killer before him. It doesn’t need a United States colonel to show me the way of duty.’

Gently fumbled around in his pockets. Somewhere there should be a forgotten peppermint cream! An abashed Dyson, shaken by his chief’s distress, made officious arrangements of the gear on the table.

‘Get Mrs Page in, Dyson.’

The baronet came out of his momentary stupor.

‘We’ll have to have her statement first – needn’t go into details. Don’t suppose the feller’ll run away until we’re ready for him.’

A constable made a move towards the door, but Gently stopped him with a gesture. ‘If you don’t mind … I’d rather you didn’t call Mrs Page for the moment.’

‘What?’ demanded the baronet. ‘Why? Why not?’

‘It’s a difficult question … All this case is a bit involved. There are some psychological oddities about it that don’t quite square, not to mention some of the hard, irreducible facts …’

Sir Daynes didn’t jump down his throat, as he would have done of yore. He was relearning his respect for the apparently vague and unofficial ways of Gently. Also, there might be some excuse for not immediately pursuing that thorny path of duty …

‘Well?’ he prompted, with moderated severity.

‘I’m not sure … I’m not happy about it. I’d like to talk to Mrs Page myself before you have her in here. And Somerhayes too … I can’t quite pin that fellow down. We’ve had two bouts already, and each time he’s slipped through my fingers. I’ve got the impression that it’s going to be the best out of three.’

‘You mean you think he’ll confess?’

‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth.’

‘Then what are you after?’

‘I’m not sure of that either.’

‘Damn you, Gently!’ exploded Sir Daynes, with a flash of his old fire. ‘Why do you want to hang it out, man – why not put us out of our misery?’

Gently shrugged into his ulster and brought out his last, fluff-engrained peppermint cream.

‘It’s a personal matter,’ he said. ‘It has been all along.’

D
OROTHY, MRS PAGE’S
snuffling personal maid, re-admitted Gently into the dainty little
northwest
drawing room. Her mistress was dressing, she told him, she would inform her that the inspector wanted to see her. Left alone, Gently prowled about the room in the habitual way of detectives the world over. He wasn’t looking for anything … but anything that might be looked for he wanted to see. In the present instance there was nothing, except indications of the character of the occupant. An exquisite, almost precious taste was exhibited by the furniture, the pictures and the ornaments. On the wall opposite the fireplace, quite by itself, hung a tapestry recognizable as one of Brass’s designs. It was worked in restrained tints of blue, green and yellow, and depicted a formalized group of two nymphs being chased by a faun, the golden-white flesh colours among the big, arbutus-shaped leaves giving the piece a dreamy, ideal character. The books in the case were a small collection
of current reading-matter. They suggested a fondness for the more romantic productions of current literature. On a low stand or plinth in a corner stood a piece of modern sculpture, a primitive torso in beech; it had no arms and no legs above the knee, but the vigorous trunk seemed to have a strange, independent life of its own. Gently was still examining it critically when the door opened and Mrs Page swept fragrantly into the room.

‘Oh – Inspector! You wish me to make my statement now?’

She was rather hectically dressed in a leaf-green gown, the swept shoulders of which made Gently shiver.

‘You – you will have told Sir Daynes, of course?’

She was trying to be poised and relaxed, but the fund of composure with which she entered the room was forsaking her by leaps and bounds.

‘I had lunch with … He told me … Naturally, it was a great relief !’

Only she looked about as relieved as a concert-tuned fiddle.

Gently sighed softly to himself and motioned her to a chair. She felt for it with her hand, her eyes never leaving his face. He closed the door she had left open and stood with his back to it, film-fashion, listening for an instant to the oppressive silence.

‘Who else is in this wing besides ourselves and the maid?’

‘I – nobody. Nobody at all.’

‘I’ve taken the precaution of bolting the door from
the state apartments … There’ll be an outer door, will there? Do you know if that’s unbolted?’

‘No … I mean, it’s bolted. Inspector—’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Of course – it’s never open!’

‘Right … I find it necessary to see to these things.’

He left the door and brought his chair over to the fire, and turned it back-to-front as he had done on the previous occasion.

‘Now, Mrs Page – this time I want it with no holds barred. We’ve come to the stage where only the truth is good enough – not bits of it, not slants of it, but the whole truth, and damn anybody’s feelings! You understand that?’

She nodded at him frightenedly.

‘You know what your cousin told me, and you must know what we’re thinking. As the facts stand at the moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if Sir Daynes arrests him before the day is out.’

‘He – he’s been behaving … very strangely.’

‘I’m glad you appreciate that.’

‘At lunch, I couldn’t understand … Oh, Inspector, I don’t know what to think, I don’t – I don’t!’

‘Would you be good enough to describe what passed between you at lunch?’

She clasped her hands together and sat looking at them, lying on her knee. ‘He told me … what he told you. And after that – I just can’t explain it! – he seemed to be saying goodbye. Oh, Inspector, it can’t be true – you don’t believe it – tell me you don’t!’

Tears flooded up in the beautiful eyes, and she dabbed at them fiercely with an embroidered
handkerchief
.

‘He told me that I’d be taken care of – that I wasn’t to fret about anything that happened. I’d just got to – got to hold my head high – and tell the truth – that was all that mattered. Oh, what can I think – what can I believe?’

She couldn’t hold the tears back now. They came surging up in great sobs, and soon she was crying helplessly without any effort to restrain it.

‘I’ve known so much of it – so much! I don’t want to go on – I’m tired of it – I’m tired of trying. Once it all seemed worthwhile … Now, I don’t want to go on!’

Gently compressed his lips and remained silent, arms crossed over the chair-back. A hideous business – a cruel, pointless business! What ironic power had set this tragic mechanism ticking on a quiet Christmas morning?

‘Why couldn’t I have done it – why can’t you arrest me?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Page—’

‘It was my fault … I should be the one to pay the penalty!’

‘I’m afraid the law won’t look at it like that.’

Her tears subsided at last. She wiped her reddened eyes with the inadequate rag, and twisted it repeatedly through her clenched fingers. She had a dulled, beaten expression.

‘Well … what can I possibly tell you?’

Gently made her look at him. ‘To begin with, how much did you leave out of what you told me before?’

‘I didn’t leave anything out.’

‘I think you did. I think you must have done.’

‘But no – you didn’t let me. I told you all, as I promised
him
I would.’

‘There’s something vital somewhere …’

‘Honestly, Inspector – what reason have I got to lie now?’

There was a ring of conviction about her tear-husky voice, and the eyes faced him squarely. He gave the shadow of a shrug.

‘All right – it’s something you don’t know about! We’ll take your statement again, right from the beginning. And think, Mrs Page, think with all your might and main. Nothing you can say now will injure your cousin very much, but it might very well be that there’s a chance somewhere …’

In a low, hopeless voice she began to go over it. Only too plainly, she was convinced that it could do no good. Gently sat crouched like a Buddha, listening, listening, testing each phrase for a new and illuminating connotation.

‘When did Earle first pay you attention?’

‘On that very first day …’

‘What day was that?’

‘It was a Thursday, about halfway through
November
.’

‘Who was with you at the time?’

‘They were all there … It was in the workshop.’

‘What else happened that day?’

Questions he didn’t know why he asked, aimless, irrelevant questions. But they kept her mind searching and foraging over the memories of those hours, adding detail to detail, weaving thread after thread into the vague tapestry …

‘Is it true that you’ve never looked at a man since your husband died?’

‘Yes … quite true.’

‘Johnson never made a pass at you?’

‘No – of course not!’

‘What about the others?’

‘There’s been nothing like that.’

‘Young Wheeler, for instance?’

‘No. Certainly not.’

‘Brass said he made a pass at you.’

‘If he did, I’d forgotten it.’

‘Do you know anything of your cousin’s plans?’

‘No … except that he only lives for the workshop.’

‘Earle hung around all the women – was he specially interested in the little blonde girl?’

In the end she seemed to go stupid with the endless probing of the questions. Her answers came
automatically
, as though he were applying a stimulus to a brain that, without will, was obliged to react to them.

‘Wouldn’t you have looked round the gallery?’

‘No. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘There were two people on it who both saw you.’

‘I didn’t see them. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘What did your cousin say to you about Earle?’

‘We didn’t discuss him.’

‘Who did discuss him?’

‘Nobody, in that sense.’

‘In what sense, Mrs Page?’

‘In the sense of being interested in me.’

‘Did your cousin know you walked out to the folly with him?’

When he let her do the talking it was very little better. The more she was obliged to dwell on the circumstances, the less hope could she find of her cousin’s innocence. And the helpless acceptance of this had something horrible about it. It seemed to destroy some vital principle in her. She sat in the chair, leaning forward and swaying slightly. It would have been a relief now to have seen her burst into tears.

‘I want to know
everything
about your relations with Earle!’

‘There is nothing to add. I have told you
everything
.’

‘You have told me that you made it publicly clear that you were not interested in him.’

‘I can only repeat that. It is entirely true.’

‘But you had tête-à-têtes with him, Mrs Page, and they would not be so guarded. Can you truthfully say that nothing passed between you then which a third party might construe as an interest, a deep interest – perhaps
more
than an interest?’

She rocked back, looking at him, the semblance of alertness returning to her lustreless eyes.

‘But – but there was no third party …’

‘How do you
know
that, Mrs Page? How do you know you weren’t being watched?’

She stared at him, the colour beginning to rise. ‘That is ridiculous – I can’t believe it, Inspector!’

‘But suppose it were true – suppose you were under surveillance – what would that third person have seen, and believed, and perhaps acted upon?’

‘No!’ she exclaimed, throwing up her hand as though in defence. ‘It’s too horrible – I can’t believe it. He – he would never have done such a thing!’

‘But if he did – what would he have seen? That is the crucial point, Mrs Page! A man has been murdered. Why? What did he do? On the facts we’ve had so far, a warning word would have sufficed – at the most, he might have been turned out of the house! But no – he was murdered – in someone’s calendar, he had committed an unforgivable sin. And you want me to go on believing it was because he was throwing himself against the unshakeable rock of your virtue – just that, and nothing more! The man would have been laughed at, not killed. He would have been the jest of the party, not a mark for a murderer’s bludgeon—’

‘Stop!’ cried Mrs Page hysterically. ‘Stop – I can’t go on listening to you!’

‘He was your lover – wasn’t he?’

‘No – never—’

‘Then he was just going to become it.’

‘I tell you – oh stop, stop!’

In a frenzy she threw herself on her knees in front of him and seized hold of his arms.

‘Oh God, if I’ve done wrong, I’m being punished – I’m being punished, and I deserve it! But don’t go on saying those things – they aren’t true, and perhaps they never would have been!’

Gently painfully averted his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m truly sorry, Mrs Page. But I want the truth, and I mean to have it … If you loved Earle, you would want it that way.’

She hadn’t loved Earle, she persisted, and Gently believed her. But she had been dangerously and powerfully attracted by him.

‘It isn’t an easy thing to admit … some men have an impossible fascination for me. I’ve always been afraid of myself, even when I was married. I live up to a certain pattern of myself – everyone believes in it – but underneath that I’m sometimes no better than … well, than a whore. My cousin, of course, knows about it. He knows I was nearly sent down from Girton. And though I loved Des so much … well, once it happened then, too.’

And her husband had died, and she had taken it as a judgement upon herself. From that day onward she had placed an icy barrier between the widowed Mrs Page and the world of men. To begin with it wasn’t difficult. She had been desolated by the loss of her husband. For a time, at least, Somerhayes had been almost her whole acquaintance. When eventually she began to pick up the strings of her life again, she felt confident that she had governed her weakness, and that the lesson she had
had was a permanent one. The men she met had no strong attraction for her. It had been easy to repel any advances by her frigid manner and the invocation of her dead husband. Surely and determinedly, she had accepted the permanent status of a faithful widow, and thus she was known to all except Somerhayes.

‘I was growing up, you see! When Des died I was only twenty-six, and emotionally, I suppose, a good deal younger than that. But I grew up fast. I learned to keep my balance and to resist temptation. It isn’t so terribly difficult, that … just an attitude of mind! You can think yourself into anything, and think yourself out again. It’s easy to blame the flesh for the indiscipline of the mind. And I had Henry to help me. He was like a devoted brother all the time. At the end of two years, I felt certain I had outgrown the failings of my youth … My personality had matured. I was no longer an adolescent.’

Brass had been the big test. He belonged to that class of men whom she had previously found irresistible. He had wasted no time in making a pass at her, and here she had lacked the support of Somerhayes, who, being an idolatrous admirer of Brass, had more or less passed his blessing on the connection. But her hardly won virtue had shakily triumphed. Brass was resisted, and bearing no malice, had settled down comfortably to the role of friendship. Lovemaking, after all, was a somewhat marginal detail as far as the artist was concerned …

‘Did he know he had this attraction for you?’ pondered Gently.

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he did – there isn’t much you can hide from Les! But he saw I didn’t want it, and that was enough. Les is very genuine, you know, once you see through his artistic flummery. Ever since then we’ve been on the best of terms.’

Confirmed by this victory, and with the addition of Brass to her trusted intimacy, she felt assured of her new measurement with life. The invitation to Merely had come just at the right time. She had begun to be bored by her comparatively inactive existence in Chelsea. The association with Somerhayes and Brass, the two people most respected by her, coupled to an existing new venture in which she could develop her latent ability for business, was exactly what she required to satisfy her desire to be doing something. She had thrown all her enthusiasm and industry into the establishment of the workshop. She had conducted a market-analysis, opened relationships with the large furnishing and interior decorating firms, fought a one-woman war to convince buyers that tapestry was really worth an economic price, arranged an
exhibition
, and secured widespread press notices. The past eighteen months had been a delirious whirl of activity. There had been no time to brood over personal relations. The venture was succeeding; the market was beginning to open out; a second section of the outbuildings was already being adapted for another six looms.