Gently to the Summit csg-9 Read online

  There were no lights in any of the windows, though it was now becoming dusk, but a green and cream sports car stood parked beside the roundabout. Gently rang, and rang again. They could hear the sound of the bell clearly; for nearly a minute, nevertheless, nobody came to answer the summons. Then the light was switched on in the porch overhead, a bolt drawn behind the door and the door itself opened.

  ‘Mrs Fleece?’

  ‘Y-yes. Who is it, please?’

  She was a woman whose appearance checked with several firm clicks. Her height was approximately five feet seven, she had a strong-framed, slightly voluptuous figure, her hair was black, but had the sheen of dye on it, and her eyes were of a greyish hazel. She would be forty more or less, and was carelessly dressed in a black button-down frock. Her make-up was heavy and smeared and she had dark crescents beneath her eyes. She dispensed a heavy scent of carnations.

  ‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s about Arthur again…?’

  ‘There’s a little routine which we have to clear up.’

  ‘Yes, naturally. Though I thought the people at Surbiton…

  She stood dithering, as though reluctant to ask them into the house; her eyes frowning vacantly at a spot behind Gently.

  ‘The servants are out… it’s rather difficult. I wasn’t expecting any callers. Up till yesterday I had the children at home here, too…

  ‘We won’t waste much of your time, Mrs Fleece.’

  ‘Oh, I know. You have to do these things.’

  ‘We’re sorry to trouble you at a time like this.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t matter. I’m getting used to it, anyway…’

  At last she made up her mind and stood back from the doorway. They entered, and she led them down a panelled hall and switched on the lights in a room at the end of it.

  ‘If you’ll wait in here, please, I’ll be with you in a minute. I was just seeing to something. It’s the servants’ day out…’

  Evans closed the door softly behind her and then turned to Gently with a grimace. ‘Twenty-two years make a lot of difference, but that’s life for you. It could well be her.’

  Gently nodded. ‘She’d have lost that complexion.’

  ‘Aye. And she’s dyeing her hair for a reason. But you can’t get away from her eyes, nor the figure neither. She’s still a fine woman.’

  ‘I wonder…’

  Gently wandered musingly round the large, pleasant room. It was a lounge, and had big bow windows which faced down the lawns to the river. The furniture was light and modern and over in a corner stood a miniature grand. A long, low couch in two-tone leather was placed back to the window; its cushions were crumpled. Evans was sniffing.

  ‘Can you smell it too, man?’

  Gently nodded again. ‘Yes. Gold Block, isn’t it?’

  ‘Gold Block — that’s it. I couldn’t quite put a name to it.’

  ‘And it’s strictly a pipe tobacco.’

  ‘Goodness gracious! She isn’t a pipe-smoker?’

  Gently smiled at him thinly. ‘We’ll perhaps hear the sequel in a minute.’

  He had hardly spoken when they heard the sports car being started; a couple of full-throated roars, then a scrape of gears and the rattle of gravel. Evans started for the door, but Gently dropped a hand on his arm:

  ‘Take it easy! You’re too late, and it may not be our business anyway.’

  ‘But she had a bloke in here!’

  ‘That’s not one hundred per cent criminal.’

  ‘You don’t know — it might be that Stanley. It might tie in good and proper.’

  Gently shrugged, shaking his head. ‘He couldn’t have got over here ahead of us. Better be a sportsman, laddie. After all, it’s the servants’ day out…’

  Evans relaxed, but he still looked indignant. ‘The deadly wickedness of the world!’ he said. ‘And her old man still lying in the mortuary — due for burial Friday, they tell me.’

  ‘There couldn’t have been much love lost there.’

  ‘You’re telling me there couldn’t, man.’

  ‘It’s a point that’s worth remembering… and perhaps our driver can describe the bloke.’

  When Mrs Fleece rejoined them she was looking inconspicuously neater and she darted a timid glance at them, as though anticipating comment. She chose a straight-backed chair and sat awkwardly, folding her hands in her lap. She said quickly:

  ‘I had to let out the plumber. We’ve been having trouble with the drains…’

  Evans raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the prospect seemed to fascinate him.

  Gently said: ‘We’d like some information about your husband, Mrs Fleece. It’s a painful subject, I’m afraid, but we’ll be as brief as we can. When were you married to him, by the way?’

  ‘When? Oh, in nineteen-thirty-nine.’ She appeared surprised by the question, but she answered it quite readily.

  ‘Had you known him for very long?’

  ‘Well, a year or two, I think.’

  ‘How did you come to be acquainted?’

  ‘I met him at a party my mother gave. Actually’ — she gave her shoulders a twist — ‘he was brought there by a friend of mine. I probably behaved very badly — Sally was awfully cut up, poor girl. But I really couldn’t help it, and it’s such a long time ago…

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Oh, years ago. Before he went on the expedition. They were planning it at the time, so it would be the autumn of nineteen-thirty-six. I remember Arthur taking me somewhere to look at their equipment — odd sort of tents and weird gas-masks, and the most frightful-looking food. It was all very expensive and I could never see the point of it.’

  ‘Did you meet other members of the expedition?’

  ‘I — well, I met some of them.’

  ‘Which ones, Mrs Fleece?’

  ‘Er, well… there was Dick Overton.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I don’t know… there were several. I don’t remember.’

  ‘But you do remember Reginald Kincaid?’

  ‘No. I never actually met him.’

  Her reactions were curious; Gently couldn’t quite fathom them. For instance, his question about Kincaid had the effect of relieving a mounting distress. As though it were somehow a safer subject, she added hurriedly:

  ‘But I knew about him, of course. He used to work for the same people as Arthur, and Arthur told me of his funny ways.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever see him at the works?’

  ‘Me? How should I? I never went there. It was before Arthur started on his own, an electrical firm in North London somewhere. I was doing secretarial work for a business agency in Balham — Dyson’s, that was the place. They’ve moved to Lambeth now, I believe.’

  ‘What was your maiden name, Mrs Fleece?’

  ‘Amies. Sarah Amies.’

  ‘And you’ve always lived in Fulham?’

  ‘Fulham? Never — did I say I’d lived in Fulham?’

  ‘I understood that your mother lived there.’

  ‘Oh no; you’ve been misinformed. Actually, I was born not far from Dorking. Then we took the house in Kensington when’ — she shrugged — ‘when Mother’s divorce came through.’

  ‘And your mother still lives in Kensington?’

  ‘No. She died ten years ago.’

  All this was quite cool and without a sign of hesitation. Now she opened her handbag and lit a cigarette. It was baffling. Her fingers were trembling and she was obviously ill at ease, yet by all the signs this had nothing to do with either Kincaid or her identity. If she was Paula Kincaid, was she so certain of her ground? And if so, what was the subject which was making that little lighter tremble?

  ‘Where were you and Mr Fleece married?’

  She snatched eagerly at the question. ‘At Penwood near Dorking, where my home used to be. My mother had some friends there and I was married from their place — it’s a pretty little church, it’s got an avenue of yew trees.’


  ‘A white wedding…’

  ‘Oh, yes. Orange blossom and white lilac. It was at Whitsun, you see, just after the crisis. We’d been going to the Black Forest… it’s such a long time ago.’

  ‘What was the name of your mother’s friends?’

  ‘Wait… I’ll remember it in a minute. They were elderly people of about Mother’s age. They lived in a house not far from the church. Baxter or Blackstable… I’m sorry, I’m not certain. Arthur was the one who remembered names…

  ‘Was your marriage a happy one?’

  She faltered at that. For a second or two Gently thought she intended to challenge the question. But she didn’t, she rallied.

  ‘Oh yes… I think you’d say so. But latterly, of course, Arthur’s been terribly busy.’

  ‘With business you mean?’

  ‘Yes, business took up his time. I don’t think he always realized how much I was alone.’

  ‘Was he away from home often?’

  ‘Yes; and the children, they’re at school. We’ve twins, you know. A son and a daughter.’

  ‘But naturally you’d have friends?’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite the same.’

  ‘People like — Mr Stanley, for example?’

  ‘Him?’ She shook her head definitely. ‘We’re not in his class; he’s a millionaire or something. Arthur knew him through the business, but I’ve only met him once or twice.’

  ‘What about Dick Overton?’

  He saw the cigarette shudder.

  ‘I haven’t met him for years. None of the Everest Club members.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to their annual dinners?’

  ‘No — no, they were just for members…’

  ‘Weren’t you on the ramble last week?’

  ‘Good God, no! I was here… in London…

  ‘In this house?’

  ‘No, not in this house. At a hotel. I wanted a change.’

  ‘Which hotel, Mrs Fleece?’

  ‘The Suffolk in Knightsbridge. Does it really matter?’

  It did; that was clear from the way she was taking it. Her free hand was on her breast; she had leant forward; her cheeks were pale. She suddenly burst out:

  ‘What does all this matter, anyway? Kincaid killed him; you know he did. Can’t you leave the rest alone…?’

  Gently hunched his shoulders wearily and stared at the darkened panes of the window: Stanley had said the same thing in his more calculated way. Kincaid wasn’t to be probed, he was to remain an enigma; they could hang him or lock him up if they liked, but they mustn’t unreasonably seek the truth…

  He said: ‘You were acquainted with your husband for nearly three years before you married him?’

  She nodded and he sensed again that he was wide of that which worried her.

  ‘That’s a long time surely?’

  ‘He wanted to get on his feet. He left his job after the expedition and set up his own firm.’

  ‘He had capital, did he?’

  ‘Yes. He came into some money.’

  ‘It was left him?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me… no, I don’t think it was that.’

  ‘Why don’t you think it was that?’

  ‘Oh, just the way he spoke about it. He was awfully pleased with himself, as though he’d done something clever.’

  ‘Was it a loan from someone?’

  ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t.’

  ‘From one of the club members?’

  Crash! — he was back in the target area.

  ‘He had nothing to do with the club members. He only met them twice a year!’ Her eyes flamed. She strained towards him like a bitch protecting its litter. ‘It was just a tradition, that precious club, it didn’t mean anything to anybody. They’d drifted apart. They were strangers. The club bored Arthur stiff!’

  ‘So you didn’t meet any of them again?’

  Mrs Fleece groaned. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Not even Dick Overton, with whom you were acquainted?’

  ‘I simply mentioned his name. It was the only one I could think of.’

  Gently hesitated. He wondered whether to press the matter further. There was oil in it somewhere, of that he was certain. But whether it touched on what they had come after was another matter again: he was groping in the dark for facts which were largely undefined. He rose to his feet slowly.

  ‘There may be other questions, Mrs Fleece.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She rose also, smoothing her black widow’s dress.

  ‘In the meantime I’d like to borrow a good photograph of your husband… one with you on it too, if you’ve got one to spare.’

  ‘You’re perfectly welcome.’

  Without demur she went to a small ebony cabinet and fetched from it an album, which she handed to Gently. It was filled with postcard-size and larger prints showing the usual domestic subjects: mostly herself and the two children, against a variety of backgrounds. In the few which included her husband the photos were less skilfully taken but there was one, a regular portrait, of a much greater merit.

  ‘A friend of ours did that. He’s exceptionally good with a camera.’

  Gently removed it from its mount and spent a moment or two studying it. It showed Fleece full-face, wearing a lumberjack shirt, a piton in his hand, and a slight smile on his lips. His pendulous nose gave a Semitic cast to his pale, oval face; the skull, egg-shaped, made a polished cone above a scanty fringe of hair. His eyes and ears were both small, his neck short, his shoulders bowed. The eyes were light-coloured and looked disparaging. They were almost sneering at the photographer.

  ‘Is this a recent photograph of your husband?’

  Why did spots of colour appear in her cheeks?

  ‘Yes, quite recent. This summer. It’s the last one I have of him.’

  ‘Who took it?’

  ‘Just… just a friend. He wouldn’t like his name brought into it.’

  Gently grunted and searched on through the album for a revealing shot of Sarah Fleece. He found one loose in the back, unmistakably a counterpart to that of her husband. It was taken against the same background and showed a similar technical skill, but in this instance the smile of the sitter was unalloyed by any sneer. Sarah Fleece looked radiantly beautiful, her dark hair loosened, her grey eyes sparkling.

  ‘Your friend is certainly an excellent photographer.’

  ‘Yes… of course, that’s another of his.’

  ‘I’ll borrow these two if I may.’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’ But she seemed reluctant. ‘I’ll get them back again, won’t I?’

  ‘They’ll be returned in a few days.’

  He gravely wrote out the receipt while she was finding him an envelope, then she accompanied them to the door, the receipt still held in her hand. On the steps Gently turned.

  ‘You’ll be called at the trial, naturally. But would you have any objection to seeing Kincaid in his cell?’

  She gave a gasp. ‘No — no! Not that!’

  ‘You have specific reasons for refusing?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Not the man who did that to Arthur!’

  Gently touched the brim of his trilby. ‘We wouldn’t press you, of course, Mrs Fleece…’

  Back in the Wolseley Evans tackled their driver about the owner of the sports car, but the circumstances had been against any accurate observation. The man had appeared from the rear of the house and had entered his car on its far side, while their driver had had no reason to be especially curious about him.

  ‘It was raining like the devil and he’d got his collar turned up; a bloke around five feet ten, light-coloured raincoat and peakless cap. He was medium build and looked light on his feet. His age I wouldn’t like to say. The car was a new Austin-Healey.’

  Gently looked at Evans. ‘Does that suggest anyone to you?’

  Evans shook his head regretfully. ‘Not a soul, man,’ he said. ‘I was hoping he would tie up with one of the Everest Club people, becau
se she seemed a little tender when you got on to them.’

  ‘Could it have been Richard Overton?’

  ‘It could and it couldn’t. He’s about that height and of a medium sort of build. It would help to know about his car.’

  ‘We’ll check all their cars while we’re at it. We may be throwing away our time, but you can never know too much.’

  He directed their driver to Bow Street and then switched on the car’s radio. By the exchange he was connected to the homicide charge-room. He asked for Dutt and was lucky: the Tottenham sergeant had just come in; within moments he had taken over the line at the other end.

  ‘This is the Kincaid business, Dutt. I want you to run an errand for me. Go over to the Suffolk Hotel in Knightsbridge and check there on a Mrs Arthur Fleece. She’s supposed to have spent the weekend there and I’d like all the detail you can get: what nights, whether visited, and if absent for any considerable period. Her Christian name is Sarah. Over.’

  Dutt’s cheerful voice came back to him. ‘Yessir. Mrs Arthur or Sarah Fleece. Where would you like to have the report, sir?’

  ‘I’ll be in my office in about an hour.’

  Next he got on to Information and asked them to contact Dorking. He gave them a resume of Mrs Fleece’s information about her wedding.

  ‘The church register isn’t enough. I want the details investigated. Especially the Baxter-Blackstable people, and the names of anybody who knew the Amies.’

  He switched off, lit his pipe and remained silent for some moments, watching the wet Putney streets as the Wolseley hissed through them; then, as the Thames swept darkly under them, he blew an inquisitive ring at Evans.

  ‘Come on. Let’s be having it. You’ve got a dozen theories by now

  …’

  Evans grinned at him, nodding. ‘You knew, I can’t keep my mind still. It’s a disease with us Welshmen; we’ve got unsettled brains. But I was just setting it up in a proper order so to speak; trying to fit it all in and to make out a pattern.’

  Gently puffed. ‘It begins at Met. L.’

  ‘Aye. The three of them there together. Fleece, Kincaid, and Paula Blackman; three small people out of thousands. Now, Fleece and Kincaid probably know each other because they’re both keen on climbing, and they have to be known by some of these other people or they wouldn’t have been chosen for the expedition. By the way, we don’t know much about that, how it was organized and financed.’