Landed Gently csg-4 Read online

  ‘But don’t get me wrong when I call that female average, Gently. No, sir! There ain’t nothing average about the second cousin of a real live lord. You mix with the aristocracy, huh?’

  ‘Not habitually, Earle. I just run across them now and then.’

  ‘Guess you’ve seen some of those classy dames, duchesses and suchlike?’

  ‘An occasional duchess, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, a lord’s second cousin don’t rate as high as a duchess, of course, but the quality is there all right, don’t you forget it. I guess once you’re in on the blood, you’re in, and it don’t signify how many removes you come out at. Wouldn’t you say that was a fact?’

  ‘Guess you would, Earle, at that.’

  ‘And, man, this one surely is a peach — and nobody’s kidding nobody. Janice Elizabeth Augusta they call her, Feverell that was, Page that is. Married to a surgeon, she used to be, but he cashed his chips a couple of years back.’

  ‘And she’s living with her cousin now?’

  ‘She is too. Which is how Lieutenant Earle came to make her acquaintance. I guess you never did try your hand at tapestry-weaving, Gently?’

  ‘Tapestry-weaving?’ Gently stared at this abrupt and apparently irrelevant switch of subject.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said. Tapestry-weaving. Me, I didn’t know it was still going on till maybe a couple of months back. My old man runs a newspaper back in Carpetville, Missouri, and either I go on the paper when I come out or else I don’t. Well, if I don’t I aim to be a painter — they reckon I’ve got talent in New York, where I studied some — but now I’ve seen this tapestry-weaving slant I ain’t so sure as I was. You follow me OK?’

  Gently blinked a little. ‘Could be,’ he conceded, ‘but what’s tapestry-weaving got to do with Lord Somerhayes’s second cousin?’

  ‘I’m coming to it. I just wanted to put you square with the set-up. Now a couple of months back there’s one of those culturals going on in camp, and this guy Brass comes along to chew the rag about tapestry. Well, that was all news to Lieutenant Earle, who used to figure tapestry packed up about the time bows and arrows went out. But no, sir, not a bit of it. Seems like they’d been turning it out steadily all the time. And this guy Brass, who’d spent a year or two in Paris, had got a workshop good and busy right there in Lord Somerhayes’s house. Well, Lieutenant Earle got mightily curious about this business. He got himself invited in to see how the stuff was cooked up. And now he’s taking lessons just as often as he can get there, and wondering whether the USA couldn’t use a tapestry workshop.’

  ‘And Lord Somerhayes’s second cousin?’

  Earle waved his big hands.

  ‘They’re all knee-deep in the racket. I guess she helps with the business side. This Brass guy reckons Lord Somerhayes went off the deep end about something that happened in the House of Lords, can you imagine it? So he takes up this tapestry notion by way of giving the House of Lords the air. Sure thing he never sets foot in there these days, though I guess they get along pretty fine without him.’

  Earle brooded a moment, frowning at the two inches of ash on the end of his cigar.

  ‘He’s a queer sort of buster, the lord. I just can’t get around to figuring him out. But Lord Chesterfield didn’t have nothing on him when it comes to class, and time you’re a lord I guess you’ve a right to act strange. Wouldn’t you say that was a fact?’

  Gently grinned at the American’s puzzled countenance. ‘I think you would, Earle,’ he said, ‘I think you’d definitely say it was a fact.’

  Onward thundered the Northshireman through the frost-sharp night. London was far behind them, only now and then did a cluster of lights shine out from the jet-like blackness, or a station briefly startle them with its astral flight. In the swaying compartment it was warm and drowsy. Several times Gently nodded off, to be brought back to consciousness by the sudden rasp of a bridge under which they had flashed, or the roll of the coach as it tore round a curve sharper than usual. Finally he must have dropped right off. He was wakened by a hand shaking his shoulder, and opened his eyes to see Earle standing by him, parcels piled high in the American’s arms.

  ‘End of the track, Gently… Guess you won’t get any further on this wagon.’

  ‘Norchester, is it?’

  ‘That’s what it says on the boards.’

  Gently stretched himself, rose, and began pulling down his cases. Earle was having trouble opening the door with such an armful.

  ‘Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Gently. Reckon we’ll have to skip the handshake. You wouldn’t know where I pick up a train for a whistle-stop called Merely?’

  Gently smiled into the distant reaches of the night.

  ‘It’s this one on the opposite platform. Get a move on or we’ll lose it.’

  ‘Hey,’ exclaimed Earle, ‘you wouldn’t be coming that way too?’

  ‘I would, Lieutenant. All the way to Merely.’

  ‘But jeez, there’s nothing there except the station-hut and the lord’s!’

  ‘There’s also the Manor House, Lieutenant… you must have overlooked it. I’ve got the impression that you and I are going to extend our acquaintance.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘ Your morning tea, sir?’

  Gently prolonged the voluptuous moment of wakening in a superbly warm and comfortable bed. Off duty, that was the happy thought that came to him. No need to leap suddenly from the nurturing bowers of sleep, to race through his toilet, to plunge into the chaotic morning Underground. He was off duty, and miles away. Out here, waking up was a pleasure worth tasting and lingering over.

  ‘You didn’t answer, sir, so I took the liberty of bringing it in.’

  He opened an eye. A neat little maid in uniform stood by the bed smiling at him. She was carrying, not a cup, but an interesting-looking bed-tray on which he could see, inter alia, copies of The Times and the Eastern Daily Post. He dragged himself up the bed a few points to receive this consignment. The atmosphere of the room was pleasantly warm, and he remembered with appreciation that the amenities of Merely Manor included central heating.

  ‘How’s the weather outside?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a nip in the air, sir, but it’s quite dry.’

  ‘Pike weather, would you say?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir, but the master and some of his friends have got some big ’uns this last week or two. Will you want your bath run, sir?’

  ‘Mmm… all hot. By the time I’m through here it’ll be about right.’

  The maid dropped a polite little curtsey and tripped away into the bathroom, from which direction Gently could soon hear the steady swish of water, and see the occasional tendril of steam. He unbonneted the pot and poured himself a fragrant cupful. Under a plated cover he found some fingers of toast; on a plate were some wholemeal biscuits. He chose the former, and dismissing yesterday’s resolution, settled down to peruse his papers.

  Christmas… that was the subject! On the back page of The Times was a large photograph of King’s Cross looking like an illimitable bargain-basement at a peak period. The local paper, not to be outdone, had contrived a panoramic shot of Norchester Thorne Station in a similar state of chaos. QUEUES AT ALL THE LONDON TERMINI — Biggest Exodus Ever; LARGEST TEMPORARY POST OFFICE STAFF; STILL SOME TURKEYS LEFT — Consignment from Eire; 100-FOOT XMAS TREE; BRITISH RAILWAYS RUN 200 EXTRA TRAINS; T ROOP-SHIP ARRIVES FROM MIDDLE EAST… Gently surveyed it all with a benevolent smile. Up here, it was like a well-calculated performance laid on for his especial benefit. No longer was he a part of it. No longer was it an anxious time of probable trial and tribulation. Sipping his tea, he could savour the whole business as an idle spectator, with undercurrent thoughts of a day to be spent pike-fishing…

  ‘It’s all ready for you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you… what’s your name?’

  ‘Gertrude, sir. Gertrude Winfarthing.’

  ‘That’s a nice name, Gertrude. Well, thanks again!’

 
She bobbed out, still smiling, and Gently, setting the tray on a bedside table, lowered his feet on to the gratifying pile of a Wilton carpet. He paused there a moment, letting his eye run round the gracious room. By and large, this was how things ought to be. A wide, lofty, well-lighted chamber, with a moulded drop-ceiling, panelled walls, a great sunken sash window and white enamelled woodwork. The carpet went flush to the walls; the velvet curtains hung from ceiling to floor. The bed, disdaining the beggarly excuse of functionalism, spread extravagant panels of natural oak at head and foot, and the matching wardrobe standing near it seemed quietly to rejoice in its spreading amplitude. What was wrong with idle riches? There were times when one deserved them. Man, as the ancient writer had shrewdly noticed, could not live by bread alone.

  Disdaining his slippers, Gently plodded across to the bathroom and was soon up to his chin in delicately scented water.

  He had seen Sir Daynes the night before, but Lady Broke had already retired, and he met her now at breakfast for the first time. She was a tallish, large-framed woman of something over fifty, with greying hair, quick, green-brown eyes and a Roman nose, which gave her a quite unmerited appearance of severity. One expected to hear her bark in the manner of her formidable husband, but she did not, she had a soft, confiding voice; one saw very quickly that a great deal of sensitivity lay behind the austere countenance.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. I hope you’ve forgiven me for not being up to welcome you last night.’

  She smiled at him as she gave him her hand.

  ‘I’d been very busy, you know — you’d be surprised at the preparation that goes on here! Even now the children have grown up and left us, there seems as much to do as ever. Were you properly looked after?’

  Gently liked her straight away. They were soon chatting together like old friends. Before Sir Daynes put in an appearance she had shown him letters from her son Tony, a young officer in the Malaya Police, and her daughter Elizabeth, who had married a Canadian and was now living in Toronto.

  ‘There’ll be cables from them too, either today or tomorrow. It’s so strange, Inspector, to think that both my youngsters should be at the ends of the earth, while I go on here just the same, getting ready for another Christmas. This is the first time we’ve been quite on our own, you know. I was so glad when Sir Daynes thought of asking you down.’

  ‘I am honoured to be invited, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, that was inevitable. My husband has got a “thing” about you, Inspector. But be frank — weren’t you a little annoyed by his high-handed way of getting you down here, right on top of Christmas? Personally I should have been furious if he’d done something like that to me.’

  Gently grinned amiably. ‘Of course, knowing Sir Daynes-’

  ‘Enough said, Inspector. My husband has been a chief constable for too long, isn’t that what you’d say? But do sit down and begin your breakfast. It’s quite useless waiting for Daynes.’

  Sir Daynes joined them at the marmalade stage, looking very crisp and new-minted. To Gently, he had always been the type par excellence of a county chief constable. Going six feet, he was still, at sixty, a strong, commanding figure without one of his grey hairs missing. His face was powerful, a large, straight nose, heavy grey brows, cropped moustache and distinguished lines about the eyes and mouth. There was a great deal of width across the cheekbones and jaw. The large head looked patriarchal and ripe with sapience. Though case-hardened supers had been known to wince when Sir Daynes was in full cry, Gently had several times had occasion to notice the absence of bite behind the baronet’s bark.

  ‘Morning, Gwen, morning, Gently.’

  Sir Daynes was carrying a deckle-edged sheet of writing paper, over which he was frowning absentmindedly.

  ‘Hmn.’ He sat down, still staring at it. ‘Henry Somerhayes. Wants us to go over there.’

  ‘Henry?’ queried Lady Broke, pouring coffee into his cup.

  ‘Hmn. Informal party. Tonight at seven thirty. Why couldn’t the blasted feller have thought about it earlier?’

  He dropped sugar into his coffee and shot a sharp look at Gently. ‘You wouldn’t be the reason, I suppose? He’s made a special point of mentioning you.’

  Gently began to shake his head, but then he remembered Lieutenant Earle.

  ‘I travelled down with a guest of Lord Somerhayes… my name may have been mentioned to him.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. You’re a blasted lion in these parts, man. Well, what do you say to a Christmas Eve with his lordship?’

  Gently acquiesced, and Sir Daynes drank his coffee. From his attitude it seemed that he did not approve too highly of his neighbour.

  ‘Henry Somerhayes is a curious person,’ ventured Lady Broke. ‘We think it is a great pity he didn’t marry, inspector. He’s very much alone in the world.’

  ‘Curious!’ snorted Sir Daynes. ‘Damned unhealthy, I’d call him. But there you are, a man’s got a right to do what he thinks fit with himself.’

  ‘Oh come now,’ returned his wife, ‘you’ll give the inspector a totally wrong impression of him. I’m sure that if Henry could find himself the right woman he’d be quite a different sort of person. When you’ve lost all your family, as he has, it makes you broody and apt to take things to heart. And really you’ve nothing against him, Daynes, except his retreat from politics.’

  ‘It’s enough,’ said Sir Daynes, ‘that and the crowd he’s got up at the Place these days. But I won’t say any more. Gently can take him as he finds him. Let’s talk about the fishing, and forget Henry until this evening.’

  They talked about the fishing. Sir Daynes was a live-bait practitioner, and Gently a spoon-man, and between them they managed to consign Lord Somerhayes to oblivion inside five minutes. An hour later, booted and armed, they set off through the December gloom for Merely Pond, where Gently had the good fortune to prove the efficacy of the spoon up to the hilt.

  ‘Damned detectives ought to make good fishermen!’ observed Sir Daynes enviously as Gently gaffed his sixth fish. ‘But I tell you, man, you’ve struck a lucky day. Blasted pike aren’t looking at live-bait, for some reason. Another day they wouldn’t look at a damned spoon.’

  Gently smiled agreeably as he inserted the disgorger.

  The frost was setting in sharp as they returned to the Manor. Redbrick Georgian, it glowed warmly in its setting of tall beeches, smoke rising straight from its twisted stacks, lights shining comfortably in the high windows.

  ‘Wish we hadn’t got to shift…’

  Gently was thinking so too. Glutted with their sport, and tired, it would have been pleasant to spend the evening chatting by the wood fire in the Manor lounge.

  ‘Damn that feller Somerhayes! Ought to have told him we couldn’t make it.’

  ‘After all, it’s Christmas…’

  ‘Some people take advantage of it.’

  But after a whisky Sir Daynes felt better about the business. He began remembering Christmases when the old lord had been alive. From that it was a short step to bragging about the Place, the finest thing Kent ever did, and to wanting Gently to see it and judge with his own eyes. By the time they had had tea, and Lady Broke had exerted her soothing influence, Sir Daynes was in a mood of charity suitable to a Christmas Eve party.

  Gently could never remember exactly what had been his first impression of Lord Somerhayes. The meeting took place in the great hall of Merely Place, and the great hall, for those who had never seen it, was apt to set aside mere humanity while it consolidated its regal impact. It was all the more stunning for being unexpected. Driving up in Sir Daynes’s Bentley, Gently had made out little of the outside architecture of Merely except its size, which the lighted windows had intimated. The headlights had picked out a plain, rather flat-looking Doric portico as the Bentley swung round on the terrace, and through a single door beneath this they had been admitted by a manservant. It was then that a sparely built man of about forty had come forward and welcomed them with a little, self-conscious smile
; but against the sudden soaring divinities of the great hall he had faded into a spectral undertone.

  It was a vast, magical rectangle of space, perhaps as high as it was long, and more than half its length in width. Far overhead rose a great coffered ceiling, bewildering in its perspective, narrowing at the far end to a clasping, semi-circular apse; supporting this was a range of fluted Corinthian columns, linked at their base by richly gilt wrought-iron pales, and beneath them a glowing foundation of polished marble decorated with Hellenic friezes, embracing beneath the apse a fall of curved steps that seemed to flow down from the marble portal above. The detail was no less rich than the broad features. The plasterwork of the ceiling, the triumphant frieze above the columns, the illuminated azure and gilt secondary apse above the portal, all these contributed like so many matching trumpet voluntaries to the overpowering vision of the whole. Here, surely, was one of those rare examples when the genius of a great artist found its full and unqualified expression, the fortunate one occasion of an ambitious life.

  At all events, it bowled Gently over. His impressions of what followed were vague. They were led through a tremendous suite of rooms, icy as the tomb, and came at last to a less magnificent but decidedly warmer chamber where a yule log burned on the hearth, and a handful of people paused in their conversation to observe the newcomers.

  ‘What will you drink, Mr Gently?’

  Gently was startled to find a pair of sad, grey-blue eyes staring fixedly into his.

  ‘Oh — a whisky, please.’

  ‘Good. You will like this whisky. I have it sent down each year from Edinburgh. May I recommend a petticoat-tail to go with it?’

  ‘Yes… yes, please.’

  ‘They are also sent down from Edinburgh. They are baked by Mackie to a special recipe.’

  Equipped with liquor and shortbread, Gently was marshalled with Sir Daynes and Lady Broke to meet the other guests. Already he had an inexplicable feeling that Lord Somerhayes was distinguishing him in some way. It was not so much a matter of attention, for Somerhayes distributed it evenly; but in the manner of it there was a distinct singularity that Gently was at a loss to place.