Landed Gently csg-4 Read online

  ‘Janice, you already know Sir Daynes and Lady Broke. This is Mr Gently, the chief inspector from the Central Office. Mr Gently, my cousin Mrs Page, who is kind enough to act as my secretary.’

  As Gently shook hands with the queenly ash-blonde he felt Somerhayes’s eyes covertly watching him.

  ‘Lieutenant Earle’s acquaintance you have already made…?’

  ‘Hiya, you old hound!’ interpolated the irrepressible American.

  ‘… and this is Leslie Brass, the director, I may say creator, of the tapestry workshop. But no doubt you will have heard of Mr Brass and perhaps have seen his pictures.’

  This time Gently was painfully aware of his host’s silent scrutiny, and at the same time he caught a glimpse of irony in the bold green eyes of the artist to whom he was being introduced. Brass had noticed Somerhayes’s curious attitude. More than that, Gently thought he had understood it.

  ‘And these very talented people are the tapissiers who actually produce the tapestry. Miss Hepstall and Miss Jacobs are ex-pupils of Mr Brass. Mr Johnson joined us from Wales. Mr and Mrs Peacock are Lancashire people, and Mr Wheeler comes from Yorkshire.’

  But now the keenness had left Somerhayes’s glance; he did not seem so interested in what Gently would make of the tapissiers. Perhaps, in spite of his graciousness, the nobleman did not regard them as important — his short list terminated with Mrs Page, Leslie Brass and possibly Lieutenant Earle. At all events, he was obliged to relinquish Gently for the moment. Lady Broke claimed him with the acknowledged freedom of a neighbour, and Gently, set at liberty, was immediately seized by Lieutenant Earle.

  ‘Say now, come and meet these nice people properly — neither one of them has run across a man from Scotland Yard before!’

  Gently smiled and joined the group over by the fire. Earle was sitting on a long settee with Mrs Page; Brass, an enormous man with ginger hair and beard, was sunk deeply in an armchair beside them. Gently pulled up a straight-backed chair.

  ‘Now, was I wrong when I said Janice was the next contender for the Miss Universe title, or was I guilty of understatement?’

  Mrs Page blushed slightly but didn’t look displeased. She was a woman in her later twenties and she had the same eyes as her cousin — except that in her case they possessed a vitality and sparkle. The nose was straight and finely nostrilled, the cheekbones high, the complexion exquisitely transparent. She had very beautiful lips and a long white neck, a feature that she emphasized by wearing drooping jade ear-drops from pierced ears. Her figure was moderate but proportioned with exact symmetry, and her voice, pitched high, sounded lively and excitable.

  ‘Please pay no attention to this enfant terrible, Mr Gently — we’re trying to keep him in order, but I doubt whether the President of the United States himself could manage it.’

  ‘Now, Janice, is that fair!’

  ‘You’ve really got to behave, Bill.’

  ‘Gee, and it’s Christmas Eve — don’t fellers ever get the pitching in this doggone British festival?’

  Brass winked at Gently from the depths of his armchair.

  ‘These ruddy young Yankee Casanovas!’ He had a vigorous, vibrant voice with a trace of cockney in it. ‘Sex, sex, nothing but sex. You’ll say it’s all the revolting sex-treacle their radio pumps into them, but is it? Is it? Would the radio, films and other pimps bother about it if they weren’t sure of a psychopathic demand?’

  ‘Say, Les, you’re talking about the Great American Nation!’

  ‘I certainly am, little Don Juan Doughboy.’ Brass ruffled Earle’s boyish locks with a sort of contemptuous affection. ‘God’s gift to corruption with a loud voice — America! The Brave New World with a petticoat rampant! I say your youth is psychopathic, little man; it’s got sex on the brain. And you are a fine example, little Check-with-Kinsey; you prove my point every other time you open your mouth.’

  ‘Now, Les, how can you say these things to me!’

  ‘Why not, petit sex-fiend?’

  ‘Right here, in front of the people!’

  ‘They are rational, mon ami, not one of them comes from Boston.’

  ‘Heck, I give you up!’ Earle turned to Gently with a despairing wave of his hand. ‘This guy just hates the American Nation, lock, stock and spittoon — can you imagine it? I tell him if it wasn’t for America there wouldn’t be nothing interesting going on, like the numbers racket and Billy Graham. But no, he’s dug his toes in. That guy has got no gratitood. Guess it’ll have to wait till I get him down to Missouri and feed him southern-style fried chicken.’

  ‘Is that a recipe for America-haters?’ enquired Gently with interest.

  ‘Why yes, I’ll say it is. The way my momma cooks fried chicken would make an American citizen out of a top-brass Red. You never been to America, Gently?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘It’s always been on my agenda.’

  ‘Sakes, you don’t know what you’re missing! You come down to Missouri — any time, any day. This old buzzard here is going to make the trip next fall, and Janice hasn’t said no to it, leastways not in my hearing.’

  Mrs Page shrugged her shapely shoulders. ‘Bill, you talk too much,’ she said. ‘And if you go on inviting people down to Missouri, you’ll have to charter the Queen Mary to get them all there. Now be a dear and fetch me another sherry — and I’m sure Mr Gently would like to have his glass topped up.’

  ‘To hear is to obey, Princess!’

  Earle jumped from the settee and knelt gallantly to take Mrs Page’s glass from her.

  ‘The Carpetville Heart-Throb!’ grinned Brass to Gently. ‘But the boy has talent, make no mistake. He’s done a cracking good cartoon since he was here last, real tapestry stuff. I’m going to let him use a spare low-warp loom we’ve got here to weave it on. He’s not much of a tapissier yet, but spoiling his nice cartoon will teach him plenty. On the quiet I’m going to have a go at it myself… it’s too good a cartoon to let him waste.’

  ‘I’m afraid this is rather over my head, Mr Brass,’ Gently admitted.

  ‘It won’t be,’ laughed Mrs Page, ‘not if Les gets his claws in you. We live and eat and sleep tapestry here, Mr Gently.’

  ‘So you do, madam, so you do,’ assented Brass sardonically. ‘It’s the only way to produce tapestry. Come up after Christmas, Gently, and I’ll show you over the workshop. You have to get the stink of wool in your nostrils before you can understand tapestry.’

  Gently agreed readily enough. He felt he would like to have a private session with Brass. All the time they had been talking together Somerhayes’s glances had kept wandering in their direction, and Gently was reasonably certain that Brass could offer him enlightenment. What was the enigmatic nobleman’s interest in him? Surely he wasn’t being carried away by the glamour of Gently’s ‘Yard’ tag! Under the cover of filling Dutt’s pipe, Gently unobtrusively quizzed his host, adding detail to his rather confused impression of him. Assuredly there was the stamp of high breeding in his features. The high, straight forehead, the perfectly chiselled nose, the high cheekbones instinct with pride, the thin-lipped mouth, the small, graceful chin and jaw, the neat, close-set ears, all these combined to give an immediate effect of nobility. It was the eyes that spoiled the picture. They lacked the fire that should have brought the whole to life. Large, handsome, evenly set beneath strongly marked brows, their dominant characteristic was a pensive languor, as though the man behind them were tired and brought to a standstill by disillusions. They were the eyes of one who had already accepted his defeat from life.

  ‘Sir Daynes beef much about coming this evening?’

  The cynical look told Gently that Brass had observed the direction of his attention.

  ‘He doesn’t like me, you know. I’m blasted peasantry. If you think the world has moved on much in these parts, you’re ruddy well mistaken. Up here it’s the last stronghold of medievalism.’

  ‘Les, I won’t have that!’ exclaimed Mrs Page with warmth. ‘When did you ever experience any sn
obbery, here at the Place?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t say at the Place, my dear’ — Brass’s cynical look renewed itself — ‘the Place is a beacon-light of social enlightenment in a wicked county world… or something like that! But dear old Sir Daynes gets restive when he has to hob-nob with the hoi polloi. We’re all right in Bethnal Green, but gad sir! Not in the drawing room at Merely.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Les,’ returned Mrs Page. ‘You often mistake people. I’ve known Sir Daynes longer than you, and I assure you I’ve never found him the least bit of a snob.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t, Janice my pet. Why should you, with the blood of the Feverells running in your veins? But if you watch Sir Daynes, you’ll see him wince every time Percy Peacock says “thanking you”.’

  Mrs Page laughed outright. ‘Well, so do I, for that matter — and so do you, when you’re being honest. But I suppose you’re not going to call me a snob, Les, because I speak English? Bill doesn’t, and he’s a Great American Democrat.’

  ‘You taking my name in vain?’ sang the latter, coming up and presenting Mrs Page’s glass with a flourish, which nearly spilled the contents. ‘Don’t deny it — I heard you! My reputation is mud with the Britishers.’

  At the sound of Earle’s voice, Gently noticed Somerhayes’s head turn sharply.

  Supper was served in the adjoining dining room. It was a well-chosen but moderate meal, restrained as though it were intended to look forward to the excesses of the morrow. Gently found himself placed next to his host, but the circumstances led to nothing. Somerhayes attended to him with a sort of earnest graciousness. He seemed always on the point of saying something, without being able to bring it out. And whenever Gently raised his eyes, he was sure to meet those of the other, watchful, apologetic.

  After supper some games were organized. Brass was particularly good at that sort of thing, and he was soon installed as master of ceremonies. For assistant he had Percy Peacock, the comical little bald-headed Lancastrian, while Earle could be relied upon to give zest to any festive undertaking. Even Sir Daynes and Lady Broke were drawn into the fun. Sir Daynes, set to mime a lachrymose crooner, displayed histrionic powers that surprised everyone, including himself. Brass was rather disappointed, Gently thought… the artist had deliberately given Sir Daynes a forfeit that was calculated to make a fool of him. But Brass was soon in the midst of fresh revelry, Sir Daynes with him, and the proceedings went forward like the wedding bell of proverb. Only one person held back. Somerhayes, a glass of port in his hand, stood silently watching by the hearth with its half-consumed log. He had relinquished his command. He had handed over to Brass. Until goodbyes were to be said, there was no more occasion for the master of Merely Place.

  Soon after half past eleven Lady Broke reminded her husband that this was Christmas Eve, not Christmas Night, and the roistering baronet was prevailed upon to adjourn his revels.

  ‘Say, Pop, we’ve sure got to see some more of you!’ cried Earle enthusiastically. ‘What say we get together again for a session on Boxing Day?’

  ‘Young man, I’ve a better idea,’ returned Sir Daynes, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Henry, I shall be most offended if you fail to bring your people over to the Manor the day after tomorrow. That’s a chief constable’s order, man, and as much as your life is worth to dispute. What do you say — will you come?’

  Somerhayes came forward, his thin lips twisting in a slow smile. ‘If it’s an order, Daynes, how can I do myself the disservice of refusing?’

  ‘Yippee!’ whooped Earle. ‘It’s a date, you old horse-thief! We’ll surely set that Manor of yours alight, and nobody’s kidding.’

  Somerhayes turned to Gently. ‘And shall I have the pleasure of another visit from you, Mr Gently, before long? I should be very happy to show you over the state apartments and our workshop.’

  Gently mastered his surprise. There was something very like an appeal in the broken grey eyes.

  ‘Certainly… I’ll be pleased to come,’ he replied.

  Somerhayes nodded his acknowledgement and turned hastily away.

  ‘Well, I must say they’re not a bad crowd, not bad at all,’ boomed Sir Daynes as he gunned the Bentley down the Place carriage-drive. ‘You get ideas in your head, Inspector, and sometimes they take a lot of shifting. That Brass feller is a lad, give the devil his due. And I like that young American, with all his blasted impertinence.’

  ‘Don’t leave out the little blonde girl with the ponytail,’ said Lady Broke. ‘Isn’t it shocking, Inspector, how a man of three score can flirt with a little chit young enough to be his granddaughter?’

  ‘Pooh, pooh! Christmas Eve, m’dear,’ chortled her husband. ‘Once a year, y’know, once a year! And I didn’t notice you holding back when that young Wheeler feller was going round with the mistletoe, eh? But what do you make of Henry Somerhayes, Gently, now you’ve had a good look at him?’

  Gently shrugged invisibly in his voluptuous bucket-seat.

  ‘I’d have to have notice of that question,’ he replied.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was in the middle of breakfast when the telephone call came. Before then, Christmas had proceeded at the Manor with all its customary detail and ceremony.

  Quite early in the morning Gently had been awakened by the sound of stirrings about the house and by distant, smothered laughter. Then he had heard the sound of bells ringing in the direction of Upfield-cum — Merely, nearly two miles off, and Gertrude, looking rather red and mischievous, had knocked on the door to ask him if he wanted to go to early morning service.

  ‘Are Sir Daynes and Lady Broke going?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Sir Daynes will read the lesson.’

  ‘Righto — run the bath. I’ll have my cuppa afterwards.’

  The bath was run and Gertrude departed, after exchanging a merry Christmas with him. By the time he had dressed she was at his door again with tea and a hot mince pie.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir…’

  ‘What is it, Gertrude?’

  ‘Well, sir, just come and see what’s happened outside your door!’

  Gently duly went to see, and there surely never was a more demure Gertrude than the one who pointed out the little sprig of mistletoe that was pinned to the transom. Gently sent the baggage about her business in the approved fashion and appeared below stairs with a Christmas twinkle in his eye.

  Then followed the drive through the dull and frosted Christmas morning, with the slated sky hanging low over the shallowly undulating fields and still, sepia groups of trees. The ploughed land looked pale under the frost; the smoke rose straight from the chimney of cottage and farmhouse. On their way they met nobody except the labouring postman, red-faced and steaming in spite of the nipping air, and for him Sir Daynes pulled up to bestow a Christmas box and the compliments of the season.

  ‘Wonder where Henry went this morning,’ observed the baronet as they were returning. ‘Usually comes to Upfield. Felt sure I’d see the feller.’

  ‘He’s probably gone to Wrentford,’ suggested Lady Broke. ‘It’s a good deal nearer to the Place, Daynes.’

  ‘Blasted high church!’ returned Sir Daynes irrelevantly.

  In the breakfast room a notable fire was blazing, and a Christmas ham, breadcrumbed and frilled, occupied a place of honour on the well-furnished table. But first came the presents, in which Gently had not been forgotten, and then the opening of cards and letters and the cables from Singapore and Toronto. Then the plum porridge was brought in, the same with which the Man-in-the-Moon had erstwhile burnt his mouth, and finally Sir Daynes inserted a knife into that monstrous and delicate ham. At which point, with malicious timing, the telephone rang.

  ‘Damn!’ said Sir Daynes, and laid down the carvers.

  Minutes later he returned, to stand uncertainly in the doorway.

  ‘What is it, Daynes?’ enquired Lady Broke anxiously. ‘Surely they’re not going to call you out today?’

  Sir Daynes shook his head. He seem
ed at a loss to find words. Then he came into the room and stood staring curiously at Gently.

  ‘Of all the blasted things to happen!’ There was something like a tremor in his customarily aggressive voice. ‘That impertinent young American who was going to set the Manor alight… well, he’s dead. They found his body this morning. Seems as though he took a tumble down the stairway in the great hall… I’ve just been talking to Henry Somerhayes, and he’d like both of us to come straight over.’

  ‘I’d sooner have kept you out of this.’

  Sir Daynes was driving viciously, and the Bentley was his car for the job.

  ‘The press have only got to get a smell of you, Gently, and they’ll dream up all sorts of nonsense.’

  Gently nodded gloomily. ‘In addition to which he’s a United States citizen.’

  ‘Exactly, man. There’ll be trouble enough without adding fuel to it. In a way it’s a damn good job it’s Christmas. They won’t be able to print a line until the day after tomorrow. But you can see what they’ll make of it — “American Serviceman Found Dead in Peer’s Country Seat”. What would be the use of telling them that you were simply a guest of mine?’

  Gently nodded again. He felt numbed by the whole business. In a short while he seemed really to have got to know Earle, to have acquired a personal interest in the boisterous young man. And he had been so young. Young, ardent and with all of a fascinating world just opening to him… ‘Either I go on the paper when I come out or else I don’t.’ How long would it be before a cable silenced the festivities in far-away Missouri?

  ‘D’you think he was drunk last night?’

  ‘No… not when we left.’

  ‘He may have got high after that. The post-mortem will tell us something.’

  ‘I don’t think he drank a lot. He didn’t drink on the train coming up.’

  Sir Daynes snorted, as though he felt Gently might have supported such a useful proposition. They whirled through the Place gates and soared zestfully up the serpentine carriageway. The great yellow-brick front of the Place began to reveal itself through the groves of holm oak that Repton had planted there with such apparent casualness.