Gently through the Mill csg-5 Read online

  ‘If it wasn’t to do with Taylor, Mr Fuller, you’d better have a cast-iron story to tell!’

  The miller shuddered as though he were being whipped, but the obstinate pout of his lips set tighter. Blacker hadn’t talked, that was the sheet-anchor he was clinging to. Gently could suspect what he liked… but Blacker hadn’t talked!

  ‘Look — where did you see this before?’

  Gently shoved the gold cross into the wretched man’s hand.

  ‘I–I haven’t ever seen it!’ Fuller shrank away from it sensibly. ‘I don’t understand-’

  ‘And you wouldn’t know where I found it?’

  ‘No! How should I know?’

  ‘Though it was amongst the barley-straw in the hayloft?’

  ‘I tell you — how should I know!’

  This time the barb had caught something. Gently could feel the tug at his line. The desperation was seeping back into themiller’s tone, a ghastly look had come into his eyes.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Fuller! We’ve got very comprehensive records of criminals like Taylor. He happened to have been a Roman Catholic — not a very good one, perhaps, but a man likely to have carried one of those things about.

  ‘It could have been his — what have you got to say to that?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t his?’

  ‘I mean — no, I’ve never seen it before!’

  ‘But even so, you’ve got an idea how it came to be in the loft — it was dropped in a struggle, wasn’t it? Taylor’s struggle for his life!’

  The mixture of fear, despair and frustration in Fuller’s look was difficult to analyse, but it was a long way from being the simple emotion of conscious guilt.

  ‘You’ve got it wrong — he — he wouldn’t have carried one!’

  ‘Indeed? So you knew Taylor?’

  ‘No! But a man like that — he wouldn’t have been religious!’

  ‘I disagree, Mr Fuller. Some crooks are very religious.’

  The miller bit his lip and stared agitatedly at the floor. He seemed to be being wrenched by two contrary forces, two equal powers which prevented him from articulating.

  ‘This cross… it might be anybody’s…!’

  Gently shrugged with expression.

  ‘I mean… kids… a tramp — the door’s never locked! Why imagine, for instance… it might have been there…’

  ‘It’s anybody’s but Taylor’s, in fact?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but…’

  ‘But you want to give that impression?’

  ‘No — but why jump to the conclusion…?’

  Why indeed, when the miller had so unmistakably recognized the cross, and was trying his hardest to throw doubt on its ownership?

  ‘Of course, it could have been dropped by the murderer.’

  Gently took back the cross and held it poised in front of him.

  ‘In strangling there’s always a struggle — even when the victim is a small man! Unless you know precisely where to press — and Taylor’s strangling was bungled — it takes an unexpected length of time to do a man in. Stranglers often panic and begin making mistakes…’

  He had made a mistake himself. He had forgotten the presence of Miss Playford. The attractive clerk, the colour blanched from her cheeks, suddenly slipped forward from her chair and collapsed untidily on the floor.

  ‘Inspector, that was completely uncalled for!’

  Pershore was on his feet in a minute, spluttering his safely grounded indignation.

  ‘You had no right, sir, whatever — your methods, if one may call them methods-!’

  ‘All right — let’s see to the lady!’

  ‘But you had no right to employ such despicable-’

  ‘For heaven’s sake shut up — fetch some water, if you want to be useful!’

  He was angry with Pershore and angry with himself. For the second time that afternoon he had slightly misplayed a promising card. Fuller was on his knees by his clerk, chafing her hands and murmuring reassuringly. Now the spell was broken — Gently had lost his opportunity!

  ‘In spite of the threat you have seen fit to offer-’

  ‘Take this glass, sir. There’s a tap by the bakehouse.’

  ‘At whatever personal risk, I feel bound in duty-’

  ‘If you don’t mind, we’ll discuss it later.’

  Pershore snatched the glass from him and stalked toweringly out of the office. Gently found a cushion and stuck it under Miss Playford’s well-shod heels.

  Twice in a row… it was too much of a bad thing! If he went on like this it was time for his retirement…

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fiery red sun had broken through slated sky, touching the teatime streets with rosiness. There was no warmth in the phenomenon. It made the east wind feel colder than ever. Like an inflamed and warning eye the sun peered down the comfortless streets, threatening to bring storm and wrack in its wake.

  People were hurrying homeward, dour and silent as they had been all day. Along with the streets and buildings they seemed driven into themselves; nothing merged, nothing harmonized, everything was separate and alien to everything else.

  Lynton…

  ‘Just a coffee, please, waitress!’

  Was it different in the summer? Perhaps… when the sun burned down! Or was it always like this, always at loggerheads with itself — was that the peculiar essence of the town?

  ‘Do you belong to Lynton, miss?’

  ‘Me? No, I come from outside.’

  ‘Like it here, do you?’

  ‘It’s a bit slow, sometimes.’

  ‘Ever think of moving?’

  She hadn’t, not really; but her young man was wanting to get a job in Cambridge…

  Dutt had arrived, riding a massive constable’s bike. He had parked it by the mill gate, in everybody’s way, and was now leaning beside it and gazing absorbedly at the mill.

  In the office, Pershore was haranguing his tenant. Gently had left him at it ten minutes ago. Miss Playford, feeling revived, had been sent home early, after resisting Fuller’s offer to drive her in his car.

  All the same, she’d been quite thrilled by his fuss when bringing her round.

  Gently swallowed his coffee quickly, seeing Blythely enter the shop. The last card in his hand — and this one had to be played according to Hoyle!

  They were checking up the till, he and his wife. The bread and rolls had all gone from the trays, the glass shelves in the windows carried little but soiled doyleys. Expert in everything appertaining to his trade, the baker could estimate his day’s work to a few teacakes…

  Gently put down a coin and took his hat. As he was crossing the street Mrs Blythely had advanced to drop the latch on the shop door.

  ‘Just a minute — I want to come in!’

  Her eyes met his through the glass, startled. Blythely, saying something, came over behind her, and with a pettish shrug she opened the door.

  ‘Actually, we’re closed, Inspector-’

  The pettishness of the shrug found an echo in her voice. The shop, though empty, still smelled of cakes and pastries, while the air continued warm from the bakehouse round the corner.

  ‘You can see what we’ve got left — there’ll be nothing else till tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not here as a customer, Mrs Blythely.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late today? We’re going to the pictures!’

  ‘My regrets. I won’t keep you longer than necessary.’

  Blythely, out of his working togs, certainly seemed uncomfortably dressy. He was wearing a thick black suit of provincial cut, and a gold Albert peeped out of his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Like she says — it’s a bit late. Can’t you keep it for the morning?’

  His glossy collar must have been purgatory to him.

  ‘We don’t often get out, and the wife looks forward to it — and what’s more, you had all I can give you this morning.’

  Gently shouldere
d the door closed and dropped the latch. What was it that made this uncouth man so impressive? A yokel, he looked, a country-town yokel, and yet — if Lynton really wanted a mayor…

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the shop?’

  ‘It’s a little public, perhaps.’

  ‘I’ve no business that can’t be…’

  ‘Possibly Mrs Blythely…’

  The same applies to her.’

  Gently shrugged and found a bentwood chair for himself, reversing it in his customary manner. Mrs Blythely, sulky-faced, took possession of another, but her husband continued to stand under the fuse-boxes by the door.

  ‘Now, about Thursday night…’

  It was useless watching Blythely’s expression. He only had one, and that was carved on his face as it might have been on oak.

  ‘Some information has reached me which affects your statement.’

  The eyes alone were changeable, but you only caught them in occasional, wary flashes.

  ‘But first I want to ask you something which may seem a little personal… by the way, do you wear that watch-chain all the time?’

  ‘Hmp!’ Blythely grunted. ‘I do — it was my father’s.’

  ‘Do you mind if I see it?’

  Reluctantly the baker hooked his watch out of his pocket. The chain was a long one and opulently doubled. Besides the gold half-hunter there depended from it two seals and what appeared to be a masonic charm; they slowly revolved as Blythely held them suspended.

  ‘Isn’t there something missing from it?’

  ‘Missing? What should be missing?’

  ‘You take your religion seriously, Mr Blythely. Some people would carry a token of it.’

  The quick eyes fell on him a moment, thrusting, exploring. Then they returned to the watch with its little garnish of ornaments.

  ‘We place no faith in graven images, if that’s what you mean. They are the sign of the Whore and not of the Word which is Life.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to graven images, just the token of your belief.’

  ‘I have no token but the Word and the Hope in Jesu.’

  ‘Not even one like this?’

  Gently produced the gold cross.

  ‘It seems to belong to that chain of yours, Mr Blythely… one would not be surprised to find it attached there.’

  If the baker was unimpressible his wife was not. Her caught breath and instinctive gesture betrayed immediately her recognition of the object. But Blythely gave no sign. He merely reached out a clumsy hand for it.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I’ll tell you… does it happen to be yours?’

  ‘I want to know where you found it.’

  ‘First, I’d like you to answer my question.’

  There was no rushing Blythely. He was like a pillar of insensible rock, standing there, feet planted, in his shapeless black suit. He had no handle, you felt, you could bring no pressure on him. It was like trying to manipulate one of the elements…

  ‘Suppose it was mine, then?’

  ‘In that case, when did you lose it?

  ‘I didn’t say it was mine — I said suppose.’

  ‘You must answer me yes or no, Mr Blythely.’

  ‘I do or I don’t, but there’s no must about it.’

  Gently swung round to the baker’s wife.

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me, ma’am — remembering how quickly you recognized it!’

  ‘I!’ — she threw a helpless look at her husband — ‘I don’t know about it — it could be anybody’s. There’s nothing on it, is there… just a plain cross?’

  ‘At least you thought you recognized it.’

  ‘How could I, when there’s nothing on it?’

  ‘By being familiar with it, Mrs Blythely — as you would be if your husband wore it on his watch-chain!’

  She shook her head stupidly and pretended to stare at the cross. Blythely was turning it about as though to make quite sure it carried no distinguishing marks.

  ‘I can tell you it isn’t mine.’

  At last, a positive statement!

  ‘My wife would be telling you a lie if she told you she had seen me wearing it.’

  ‘And neither of you know to whom it belongs?’

  ‘Like she says, there’s nothing on it.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same thing, Mr Blythely.’

  ‘You can’t be sure with a thing like that.’

  Prevarication, but not a lie — that was the baker’s answer to an awkward question. It was a game which could go on all night, and probably never get him into a corner. And his wife, too… she had learned something of the gentle art!

  ‘Very well — we’ll leave it for the moment. It’s something else which I came to see you about.’

  Blythely handed back the cross and returned to his impassive stance by the door.

  ‘You tell me you spent all the night in the bakehouse, the night of last Thursday and Friday. At the most you went out to the toilet — isn’t that how the statement ran?’

  ‘I said I went out to the toilet.’

  ‘But you didn’t go anywhere else?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said I didn’t.’

  ‘All the same, you gave that impression!’

  Blythely bowed his head slightly but made no other reply. At times one had the idea he was deaf, so little did anything said to him seem to register.

  ‘As a matter of fact you did go somewhere else, didn’t you? You were out of the bakehouse for an hour, between half past eleven and half past twelve. Before you deny it I should tell you that I have spoken to your assistant, and that the time has been established pretty exactly. Have you any comments to make, Mr Blythely?’

  An expert in atmospheres, Gently was surprised by this one. To the closest observer the baker had provided no clue to the emotions which were governing him. Yet now there was something, and that something wasn’t fear; suddenly, one was aware of a monumental agony.

  ‘I wasn’t going to deny it. What you say is the truth.’

  The flat tone of the admission stung like a whiplash across the face.

  ‘So you agree that you were absent-’

  Gently broke off, catching sight of Mrs Blythely swaying ominously where she sat. Not another interruption like that — the first one had been costly enough! He was really being dogged by the in-and-out propensities…

  ‘I think your wife is feeling faint!’

  Blythely didn’t waste as much as a glance. More than ever he had the appearance of something carved from a block of wood.

  ‘Your wife-’ Gently got to his feet. Plainly he would have to be the one to render assistance. She was crouching now over her knees, her breath coming in gasps, but her husband was paying no more attention than if she had been in another world.

  ‘Henry-!’

  Was he deaf in fact?

  ‘Henry — oh Henry, help me!’

  She might as well have applied to the counter or the door.

  Gently wavered, uncertain what to do. The baker’s wife, though stricken, seemed to be in no danger of passing out, and he had an idea that she would resist if he offered her any aid…

  ‘Mrs Blythely-’

  ‘Henry!’

  ‘This time there was panic in her voice, a sort of hysteric wildness.

  ‘Henry, in God’s name-!’

  Now a flicker did pass over the averted countenance.

  She burst into tears and sat hugging herself in a frenzy of abandonment. Out in the street they must have been able to hear her, because the passers-by began to stare through the big plate-glass windows.

  ‘Henry — Henry!’

  Could a stone have resisted that ring of desolation? But the baker never shifted, never changed his blank expression; less and less did he seem to be acting in the same scene.

  Gently was frankly nonplussed. Between them, they had edged him quite out of it. From being a police interrogation the reins of which were in
his hands it had developed into a domestic drama in which he was an embarrassed third party.

  ‘Mrs Blythely — pull yourself together, ma’am!’

  Regardless of him she sobbed and moaned.

  ‘You — can’t you do anything, instead of just standing there?’

  He should have known it was pointless trying to bully Blythely.

  Yet the affair had to be terminated somehow, if it were not to get out of hand. Already a group was collecting on the pavement beyond the window.

  Quickly there would be others — and then, perhaps, a constable! In the end he would have to walk out and leave his most promising lead to grow cold…

  ‘You’re coming with me, the pair of you!’

  He didn’t stop to think what he would do if they resisted. Grabbing Blythely with one hand and snatching up his wife with the other, he propelled them through the shop and shoved them up the stairs beyond.

  Muted by the plate glass, he heard the comment of the audience on this arbitrary curtain-pulling…

  ‘Henry… forgive me, Henry!’

  The actors had been moved, but the situation was continuing. Lit by the rosy sunset, Blythely’s parlour had an angry, melodramatic appearance. It might have been a special stage-set for just such a scene as this.

  Blythely, erect by the window, had his face darkened by the weird light behind him. On the dumpy settee Clara Blythely lay prostrate, by accident in a pose which would have pleased a producing eye.

  ‘I’m so ashamed, Henry… so ashamed!’

  Who could mistake the purport of the scene? It was classic in its simplicity, its principals were typecast. The pity of it was that Griffin wasn’t here to enjoy the triumph of his acuteness.

  ‘I was mad — you’ve got to believe me! I wasn’t myself… it was somebody else!’

  There was the Husband, there the Wife — hamming it, if anything; a good producer would have toned it down a little.

  Wearily Gently seated himself and sought the consolation of his pipe. Had it been so simple, then, the crucial problem of Taylor’s demise? The rest, that didn’t concern him. It was a mystery, and it could stay so. This was the compass of the brief he held and here, apparently, the inconsequential answer!

  Did it even matter who else knew what, guiltily or cunningly, according to their nature?