Gently to the Summit csg-9 Read online

  Gently to the Summit

  ( Chief Superintendent Gently - 9 )

  Alan Hunter

  Alan Hunter

  Gently to the Summit

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a preposterous business.

  As Gently remembered it, it began in the silly season, in August, with a small filler paragraph in the Evening Standard. There was no way of telling that it would go any further and certainly not that it would ever make the national front page. It read as follows: COMIN ’ ROUND THE MOUNTAINS The annual meeting of the Everest Club — the surviving members of the 1937 expedition — was last night interrupted by an unidentified hoaxer. Forcing his way into the Asterbury Hotel, where the meeting was held, he announced himself as Reginald Kincaid, the climber who lost his life on Everest. He insisted that he had climbed Everest but had come down on the wrong side, and had spent the intervening years in the hands of Tibetan bandits. Club Secretary Dick Overton described the story as ‘fabulous’. He added: ‘There is no possibility whatever that Kincaid could have survived.’

  That was all; an amusing titbit for the Londoner’s tea-table, the counterpart of a thousand other crackpot stories. In his official position Gently had to do daily with such people; he could have quoted half a score anecdotes quite as dotty as this one. So he was surprised when, a week later, the matter cropped up again, this time to earn itself a thirty-six-point heading: COMPANY DIRECTOR SUES KINCAID HOAXER ‘Story A Slander,’ Says Former Expeditionist Company Director Arthur Fleece, who led the 1937 Everest Expedition, has instructed his solicitors to sue the man calling himself Reginald Kincaid. He told our reporter: ‘The fellow’s tale is a slur on Kincaid’s memory, besides being a personal slander on myself. It was I who made the final assault with Kincaid, and was the last person ever to see him alive. About fifteen hundred feet below the summit I became exhausted. Kincaid was going strongly and refused to turn back. It was hazardous for one of us to continue alone, but he would not be argued out of it, and I was in no condition to stop him. I managed to stagger down to the assault camp, but Kincaid never returned. The next morning, before we could search for him, the monsoon had broken. There can be no doubt at all that poor Kincaid died on the mountain.’ The man who calls himself Reginald Kincaid is staying in the Beaufort Hotel in Kensington. In a statement to the press he claimed that Fleece separated from him on the mountain, and that he continued the ascent only after searching for his companion. He reached the summit, but in a state of exhaustion and daze. He was unable to remember the route by which he had got there. By mistake he chose the South Col when he began his descent, and fell into the hands of a party of Tibetans who had been tracking a Yeti. He expressed himself as very eager to trace his wife, and asked reporters to print an appeal to her to get in touch with him. Everest Club Secretary, Dick Overton, asked to comment on ‘Kincaid’s’ story, said that it was a tissue of impossibilities from beginning to end. No man could have made an unaided descent of Everest, especially with monsoon conditions setting in. He estimated that at the summit Kincaid would have had only three hours’ supply of oxygen. The account of Tibetans tracking a Yeti was the ‘utterest bilge’. The Tibetans regarded the Yeti as being supernatural. To cap it all, the South Col would land Kincaid in Nepal, and any people he ran into would be Nepalese. When asked if any of the Everest Club members recognized ‘Kincaid’, Overton replied that it was twenty-two years since any of them had set eyes on him.

  The report was accompanied by photographs of Fleece and the alleged Kincaid, the former a bald, smooth-faced man, the latter ascetic and rather vague-looking: there was also a reproduction of a plaque

  belonging to the Everest Club; it bore the likeness of a square-jawed youth and the inscription: ‘Kincaid: First on Everest: 1937’.

  The next stage was more predictable. This was Sunday newspaper stuff. The Sunday Echo scooped its rivals and printed ‘Kincaid’s’ exclusive story. With banner headlines and dramatic artwork the epic was blasted at the world, the Sunday Echo caring nothing about further legal action by Arthur Fleece. And it was a story worth telling, however palpably untrue. Aided by one of the Echo ’s feature-writers, ‘Kincaid’ made an exciting job of it. One read of his terrible struggle on the mountain, his capture by ruthless, bloodthirsty bandits, his wanderings up and down Tibet, his flying visit to the Secret City. A little difficulty might have been encountered in winding up this wondrous farrago, but ‘Kincaid’s’ imagination proved quite equal to the task. In a vivid final instalment he told of a massacre by Chinese soldiers, of his escape with a bag of uncut gems and his fearsome crossing of the Himalayas. At Kathmandu he had sold an emerald and expedited his journey to Bombay; there he had sold the remainder of the stones and shipped on the Kermadec for Tilbury. The series was sold on the spot for publication in book form, and Arthur Fleece, growing angrier and angrier, talked of damages of transatlantic proportions.

  It was at this point, as Gently knew, that the authorities had shown an interest — mildly and apologetically, as though afraid of making fools of themselves. The story was checkable at its latter end and they checked it with care. They also probed about quietly for the true antecedents of ‘Kincaid’. Their results were surprising. They supported ‘Kincaid’ at every point. He could be traced back from Tilbury, to Bombay, to Kathmandu. He had indeed sold some uncut stones and had transferred the money to a London account. And there was no record of his having been in England until he walked off the Kermadec at Tilbury.

  Gently had mulled it over with Pagram, who’d had a hand in the inquiries. ‘So as far as you know he’s telling the truth… he could really be Kincaid?’ ‘My dear Gently, what can one think? His tale is true as from January last. And in December, according to the Foreign Office, there was a rising in Southern Tibet…’

  The affair took a different turn when ‘Kincaid’ went to law himself; not against Fleece but against the Sunday Echo in the shape of its editor and feature-writer. They had, he claimed, grossly distorted and misrepresented his account, had taken no notice of his amendments, and had published a version he had never seen. As soon as this suit became known he was seized on by a television sponsor and was ‘Given a chance to put his viewpoint’ before a panel of three experts. The performance was unedifying; the experts bullied him unmercifully. They produced maps, books, authorities, and a complex table of dates. ‘Kincaid’, a slim, jerky figure with a gaunt, worried face, was as vague and as incoherent as he had ever looked in the photographs. Yes, he realized that it was a miracle that he had got down off Everest. Yes, he understood that one side of the South Col was in Nepal. No, he had been misquoted about the Tibetans tracking a Yeti… they worshipped them, you know. They were on a religious mission… For most of the half-hour he was made to look very small; but then, unexpectedly, he came near to turning the tables. A native Tibetan was produced who could speak no English, and ‘Kincaid’ chatted away to him with fluency and animation. His last act, as he saw the programme was about to be faded out, was to turn appealingly to the camera: ‘If my wife should be watching this programme…’

  His wife! His search for her seemed to be genuine, in any case. He was reported to be spending most of his time in the hunt. Advertisements appeared in the personal columns begging her to contact him, and any interview he gave always ended with the same message. And it was a fact that the real Kincaid would have had no other relatives to appeal to. He was an orphan and his guardian had died before the 1937 expedition. But if Mrs Kincaid was alive she gave no indication of being so, nor did anyone come forward who could tell of her whereabouts.

  Meanwhile, ‘Kincaid’ had found a champion among the Everest Club members; one Raymond Heslington, by profession an archaeologist. Heslington
claimed that after watching ‘Kincaid’s’ appearance on TV he had been struck by a slight scar which showed above ‘Kincaid’s’ right eye. The original Kincaid had been marked by such a scar. Heslington produced a snapshot which he contended would prove it. The snapshot was published in The Times, and a lively controversy arose: the Everest Club divided bitterly over this Question of The Scar. Heslington met Kincaid and put a number of questions to him, and as a result his belief was confirmed and he became a militant crusader. He wrote ferocious letters to the press demanding recognition for ‘Kincaid’, a knighthood at least, and a pension on the Civil List.

  It wasn’t often, Gently reflected, that such a brainstorm struck the capital. While it lasted, you could hear arguments about Kincaid everywhere. He was a madness that got into people, goading them to foolish actions; they took Kincaid like an infection and came out in a rash of folly. But it was too hectic to last long, and in a month it was over. Nothing was settled, nothing was done, and l’affaire Kincaid began to recede. From being a figure of intense interest and a national curiosity, ‘Kincaid’ sank back towards the obscurity from which he had so startlingly sprung. His wife was still unfound, his identity remained a mystery, and only the various lawsuits he had provoked kept his ghost before the public. By October, they had forgotten him.

  Then: Another Climber Killed On Snowdon

  Once again a short paragraph preceded the avalanche. The report had arrived too late, probably, to be dealt with at length, or else the editor had decided not to stir up dust over it.

  Snowdon claimed its third victim in a fortnight today when Arthur Edward Fleece, a company director of London, received fatal injuries following a fall while climbing. A Mountain Rescue Team from Pen-y-Gwryd recovered the body this afternoon. Fleece leaves a widow.

  The morning papers expanded this with some interesting additions, though they were still uncertain about giving it importance. At the time of his death Fleece had been on the Everest Club’s annual outing, one of which had taken place every year since 1937. The ramble had commenced from the Gorphwysfa Hotel, the members suiting themselves about their paths to the summit. Fleece had chosen the Pyg Track and was one of the first to reach the top. He was seen on the ridge approaching the summit by members on the Pen-y-Pass route. Then, as the others were climbing the Zigzags, a cry was heard from the summit, and a moment later Fleece was seen to fall from the precipices on their left. There were no indications as to how the accident occurred. Another member who had reached the summit was unaware of Fleece’s presence there. The papers garnished this account with references to Fleece’s part in l’affaire Kincaid, but the overall impression Gently received was that they were waiting for a Sign.

  It came, twenty-four hours later, vanquishing editorial diffidence. Across the front page rocketed the news: KINCAID CHARGED WITH MURDER OF FLEECE

  By half-past ten that morning Gently knew he’d bought the case. The Assistant Commissioner had sent him a memo desiring a conference at that hour. By a little probing Gently had ascertained that no other case of importance had broken, so he was fairly certain of what was in store when he tapped and entered the A.C.’s office. As he went in a sharp-eyed plain-clothes man who had been sitting there, rose politely. The A.C. beamed at Gently through his tortoiseshell-framed glasses.

  ‘Morning, Gently. Meet Chief Inspector Evans of the Caernarvon C.I.D. Evans, this is Superintendent Gently, one of our principal nutcrackers.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you, sir.’ Evans stuck his hand out eagerly. He was a man of about forty-five and spoke with a vibrant Welsh accent. Gently shook the outstretched hand and nodded to him vaguely; then he pulled up a chair and sat. Evans too resumed his seat.

  ‘It’s the Kincaid business, Gently. As you’ve probably guessed already.’

  ‘Mmn.’ Gently nodded. He fiddled with his pipe.

  ‘We’ve got our man in the cells at Bow Street. He’ll be transferred tomorrow. But in the meantime the Chief Inspector has run into a snag.’

  ‘What sort of a snag?’

  ‘You’d better tell him yourself, Evans.’

  The Welsh inspector leaned forward. ‘It’s like this, sir,’ he said. ‘If this chummie really is Kincaid, then it’s an open and shut case. But if he isn’t — well, then it’s just a lot of blind foolishness!’

  Gently puffed. ‘Isn’t that what it’s been all along?’ he asked.

  ‘I know, man. But there are facts. We couldn’t help but have him arrested.’

  ‘So why has he got to be Kincaid?’

  ‘Why, to give him a proper motive. He’ll get off as easy as pie unless we can pin him down on that.’

  ‘You’ve read the papers, have you, Gently?’ put in the Assistant Commissioner. ‘If so, you must know the story Kincaid has been telling. He as good as said that Fleece abandoned him up there on Everest, which in the circumstances was tantamount to signing his death warrant. There’s your motive: revenge. Provided he really is Kincaid. If he isn’t, there’s only this slander suit for a motive.’

  ‘And it’s not enough!’ Evans exclaimed. ‘We should lose this case for certain. You don’t go pushing people off Snowdon merely because of a slander suit.’

  Gently hunched, leaning back in his chair. It was running to form, l’affaire Kincaid! It worked by a form of chain reaction which led you from one piece of idiocy to another.

  ‘What are the facts, then?’ he enquired.

  ‘They are plain as daylight,’ retorted Evans. ‘If you listen I will go over them in just the order they happened.

  ‘At first it looked like an accident, I don’t mind telling you. There was nothing at all to say that Fleece hadn’t overbalanced or something. He was a climber, that’s certain, and the top of the Wyddfa isn’t treacherous, but it might be he walked down to the edge and contrived to lose his footing there. The only thing at all suggestive was that he wasn’t quite alone. There was this other fellow, Heslington, who must have been up there when it happened.

  ‘So that made me rather careful when it came to taking statements. Heslington, in particular; I had to go through all his movements. I knew, because I had read it, that he was no friend of the deceased’s, and when I put it to him he was frank with me — he didn’t like the man at all. Now, just look at this plan.’

  Evans produced a folded sheet. It was a sketch map of Snowdon summit and the ridges falling away from it. A small rectangle marked the cafe which lay niched in below the top, a circle beside it was the cairn, a hatched line the mountain railway. At the side of the cafe away from the cairn a pencilled cross had been placed, and another at the side of the cairn furthest away from the cafe.

  ‘Do you see where these tracks come up from the Gorphwysfa? There’s the Pyg Track see, it’s the shorter of the two. That was Heslington’s way and he was the first one to the top. When he’d got to the ridge here, he says, the others were down by the Glaslyn. So there he is, at about one o’clock, just arrived at the summit. What does he do? He decides that he might as well eat his lunch. So he goes round the cafe, which is closed in October, and sits down out of the wind, where I’ve put this cross.

  ‘Fleece was behind him on the Pyg Track and he arrived on top about twenty minutes later. We’re asked to assume that he stuck to the track, which passes the cafe on the left. So like that it’s quite possible that Heslington might not have seen him — nor heard him, neither, when he went over the edge. This other cross by the cairn marks the spot from which he fell.

  ‘When that happened the rest of the party were climbing the Zigzags to the ridge. Overton, the secretary, was nearest to the top. He had the sense to take the time — it was one twenty-five — and he called down to the others to make an attempt to reach the body. Then he hurried up the Zigzags and along the ridge to the summit, where he came upon Heslington still eating his lunch. He didn’t waste time on him, but went and broke into the cafe, and from there he phoned down to Llanberis for the Mountain Rescue Team.’

  Evans paused to lick hi
s lips. ‘So far so good. But then we heard something from Heslington which gave the business a different look. While he was sitting beside the cafe he’d seen a third party about there, a man wearing a brown tweed jacket and a pair of grey slacks. Only a glimpse of him he’d caught, just as the man was going away from him: he was on the railway track, here, and running down it like the devil. And this is the interesting part. He puts the time at one-thirty. Which is five minutes, look you, after Fleece took his tumble.

  ‘As you can imagine, I went over the ground with a magnifying glass, but it’s mostly bare rock and there was nothing for me to find. A bit of shale was kicked out where I’ve put the cross, only that told us nothing one way or the other. It was one of my constables who showed the best sense — he climbed up the cairn and had a poke around there. And he spotted this small item.’ Evans dived his hand into his pocket. ‘When you see it, you will think we were a little slow in drawing conclusions.’

  He produced a silver cigarette-case and handed it to Gently. It was of silver, a tubby design which had fallen from favour years earlier. A florid pattern was engraved on it though this was wearing thin, but on an oval plaque in the centre appeared clearly the monogram: RTK. Pasted down inside it was a faded snapshot of a climber.

  ‘Did you find any latents on it?’

  Gently passed it to the Assistant Commissioner.

  ‘No; it was smeary.’

  ‘It’s a poor surface for prints. Was there anything inside it?’

  ‘A couple of Churchman’s No. 1. And we found one he’d lit and thrown away, about a couple of feet distant.’

  ‘You examined them, of course?’

  ‘Oh yes, you bet I did! But there were only smears on them, and just the edges of prints.’

  Gently nodded. He puffed several times without speaking. Chummie had lit a cigarette… thrown it away… dropped his case. And his hands would seem to have been sweating on that cool October mountain. It made an interesting picture: he filed it away in his mind.