Gently in the Past Page 6

‘They’ll be out directly, sir, with a warrant for the property.’

  ‘Give me your opinion. If Reymerston is chummie, how far do you think Mrs Quennell is involved with him?’

  Eyke’s eyes were cautious again. ‘Well, sir, the facts are the facts. Someone had to write that letter, and someone had to plant it on Quennell.’

  ‘You would think her capable of it.’

  ‘I’d say so, sir.’ But Eyke was beginning to frown. ‘Maybe she didn’t know what he had in mind, but she must have known he was up to no good.’

  ‘And now that she does know?’

  ‘She’s standing by him, sir. In for a penny, in for a pound.’

  ‘You’d put your money on it.’

  ‘Well ... yes, sir. Like I say, the facts are the facts.’

  A proper corrective to his vacillations! Moodily, Gently lit his pipe. If the well yielded up what they were looking for the question would be settled, and no more doubt. And yet ... He puffed edgily, feeling his head begin to throb. Confound Reymerston!

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and talk to the colonel’s lady.’

  The road to Welbourne passed between tall elm hedges to emerge in heathland edged with pines. For a time green gorse billowed beside them, with stonecrop yellow at its foot, while spires of weld stood tall along the verges beside spear thistle and mullein. Then they began to see heather between gaps in the gorse; at first a few lively patches, soon whole acres curded with purple.

  Shimmering bluely, the heather rolled away to the sharp green reefs of the pines, trimmed here and there with the dullness of birches or a drift of fawn grass and russet bracken. At close hand it seemed to glitter in the strong, soft sun, and its perfume, warm and honey-like, penetrated even the moving car.

  ‘You’ve caught it right, sir.’

  Gently was conscious of Eyke’s complacent glance.

  ‘It could almost be Scotland ...’

  ‘Suffolk, sir. And in the spring there’s gorse you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘You’ll be a local man,’ Gently said.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Suffolk.’

  And Gently, what was he, driving by Eyke’s purple acres? Not a man of anywhere: just a travelling headache, an actor in someone else’s scene ...

  ‘This is Welbourne, sir.’

  They entered a village where the road drifted down by a long green. Shy, familiar, higgledy-piggledy, the sunned houses descended with it. At the bottom a pond stubbed with willows; a shop and a couple of pubs; and further over, screened by trees, the flint and brownstone of a church.

  ‘Welbourne ...’

  ‘Have you been here before, sir?’

  Something about the place touched a chord. And two years ago he’d been out that way on a case involving a young woman and a bird-warden.

  ‘From Ipswich to Grimchurch, would you drive through here?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the direct route, sir.’

  ‘But you could do?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  And that, no doubt, was the answer.

  ‘Which way is the house?’

  ‘Up here, sir.’

  A road rose obscurely between tidy cottages, passing at once into gorsy heath with barely a car’s-width between the bushes. Wasn’t this familiar too? For a short distance they were still climbing; then they came to a high brick wall with a turning beside it signed: Heatherings.

  ‘They should have a view up here, sir,’ Eyke murmured.

  Gently pulled into the turning. A gravel way skirted the wall for fifty yards before bringing them to open gates. And there, through the gates, stood a picture-book house, fronting the sun with a pair of Dutch gables, its casement windows latched wide and its rusty brickwork mellowly glowing. A picture-book house! Martins twittered in the eaves and the Suffolk sky burned above it. At the front, on a lawn, a woman in slacks was playing with two children, a girl and boy.

  She came across.

  ‘I’m Sarah Jonson. Are you the policemen Jellicoe rang me about?’

  For the moment Gently couldn’t take his eyes off the house: he felt he must devour it, brick by brick. And at once, when he climbed from the car, he was smelling the fragrance of heather again. It was coming on a faint breeze from behind a beech hedge at the foot of the garden.

  ‘Isn’t that heather over there?’

  Sarah Jonson laughed surprisedly. ‘Yes, it is. But I don’t suppose you’ve come just to talk about the heather.’

  She wasn’t an American. A strong-featured woman of not very much over thirty, she was eyeing him with amusement, her children clinging one to each hand.

  ‘But haven’t I seen your picture somewhere?’

  Gently shrugged. Not unlikely!

  ‘Yes, now I remember. You were the policeman held hostage with the Frenchwoman, up in Scotland.’ Her stare became fascinated. ‘Didn’t I read you had married her?’

  ‘Mlle Orbec is now my wife.’

  ‘Well, for gosh sakes, as Larry would say! And here you are, turning up on my doorstep.’

  He found himself grinning, he couldn’t help it: the encounter had been informal from the start. They might indeed have come to talk about the heather, or anything else except the deaths of printers.

  ‘Jason, Donna, you go and play. Mummy has to talk to these gentlemen. Jason, keep on the lawn where I can see you, and Donna, you stay with Jason ...’

  To Gently she said:

  ‘I can guess what you’re here about, but first let’s go in and find us a drink.’

  Iced lemonade was what she offered them, poured from a jug in which the sliced lemon bobbed. The lounge they had entered looked straight down the lawn to a glimpse of a panorama, beyond the beech hedge. A room of agreeable proportions, it was furnished cottage-wise with loose-cushioned oak settle and chairs; framed maps decorated the walls and there were two bookcases, both crammed. Through the open windows one still smelt the heather and heard the burbling of martins from above.

  ‘A fine old house ...’

  Sarah Jonson nodded proudly. ‘Did you notice the tablet over the porch? It was built in 1707, and selling it is going to break Larry’s heart.’

  She had waved them to the settle and herself had taken a chair by the window. Outside the two children sat contentedly playing some game with a length of string.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘For five years. Since Larry moved from Alconbury to Bentwaters. Larry’s older than me, I’m his second wife, and he was planning to live here when he retired. Then this promotion came along. He had to take it, because he’s being groomed for something important in the Pentagon.’

  She got up to show them a photograph of a heavy-faced man with grey, wiry hair: he was taken in uniform, on the left breast of which extended five rows of ribbons.

  ‘Larry was a flyer in Vietnam ... now he’s chairborne, of course. He’s been stationed over here for ten years and never wanted to go back. His ancestors came from these parts. There are Jonsons buried in Middleton churchyard. For him, this house was like a dream come true ... twice, he turned down promotion before.’ She paused to sip. ‘I saw him off on Friday. He had a week’s leave, and we spent it at the Connaught. And that’s why I couldn’t show the house till Saturday.’ She stared hard at Gently. ‘Am I guessing right?’

  It was almost a wrench to get back to business. Seated there in the calm of that sunny room, one felt a dreamy, a timeless detachment. Grudgingly he admitted:

  ‘We check all such details.’

  Sarah Jonson gave him a thoughtful look. ‘When it comes to checking details, isn’t it usual to employ a subordinate?’ She looked away. ‘This doesn’t surprise me, because I have my own thoughts about a certain person. I’m local, you know, the Doctor’s daughter. I get to hear all sorts of gossip.’

  ‘This is simple routine, Mrs Jonson.’

  ‘But you want to know if and when he was here.’

  ‘Perhaps a little more.’

  ‘I can tell you one thing. He
was never interested in buying the house.’

  She took small sips, her eyes pondering. About everything she did there was an air of decision. A doctor’s daughter: and perhaps his receptionist before she became the American’s bride ...

  ‘Do you want me to repeat some gossip?’

  Gently was silent. No answer to that one!

  ‘Then it’s this. Raymond Tallis was his sister-in-law’s lover a long time before the brother was drowned. Do you find that interesting?’

  ‘You tell me it is gossip.’

  ‘Oh, but my source is unimpeachable. I had it from a third party, a patient of my father’s, who had it from Julia Tallis herself. Of course Julia Tallis may have been boasting – I know her, and she’s that sort of woman. But I also know Raymond Tallis, and I wouldn’t put much past him. So I’ve been adding two and two together since I heard about Freddy Quennell. And that’s why I’m not greatly surprised to have a top policeman calling on me.’

  In fact, you are suggesting ...?’

  She shook her head. ‘Wondering is all I’m allowed to do. But since Freddy Quennell’s death, you must admit I have some reason.’

  She sat quite relaxed and all the time had been using an unstressed, conversational tone. You felt she was used to the company of men and to playing her part in their discussions. Out of nowhere he suddenly found himself asking:

  ‘Do you happen to know Andrew Reymerston?’

  ‘Andy?’ She sounded surprised. ‘I know him well. In fact we own some of his pictures. Why do you ask?’

  Gently didn’t answer: as yet, Reymerston’s name hadn’t been given to the press. Sarah Jonson observed him with careful eyes.

  ‘Oh well – you have your secrets, no doubt! But I like Andy, and I can’t think he’s connected with anything as sordid as this.’ She paused, but Gently stayed expressionless. ‘Then perhaps we’d better get on with your enquiries. Yes, Raymond Tallis did come here, and yes, I think his coming here may well have been to give himself an alibi.’

  ‘At what time did he arrive?’

  ‘Let me tell you first that the game began before Saturday.’

  It may have been the benign influence of the house, but Gently was feeling a regrettable lack of urgency. His headache had gone; he was sipping lemonade as cold and good as he’d ever tasted. And somehow the case had taken on an academic colouring, and become something to ponder over at leisure. Or perhaps it was the tang of the heather that had this mollifying effect ...

  ‘You mean the earlier appointment?’

  ‘Yes. The house has been on the market eleven days. Raymond Tallis made an appointment to view for last Thursday week, the same day that Jellicoe put it on offer. But he didn’t show up. We waited in for him all the afternoon. In the evening he rang to apologize, giving business as an excuse, and asking if he couldn’t view the house on a Saturday.’

  ‘He specifically asked for that day?’

  ‘For a Saturday afternoon, to be precise. According to him it was the only time he could guarantee to have free. Well, the following Saturday was out because we were going to be in London, so I arranged to see him on the day I got back.’

  ‘It was a positive engagement.’

  ‘For two-thirty. I was due back on Saturday morning. I saw Larry off at the base on Friday and spent the night there with friends.’

  A positive engagement ... yet hadn’t his excuse to the yacht club been made at the last moment?

  ‘Was he punctual?’

  She shook her head. ‘And I’d rushed lunch through and everything. I’d started to think he was going to play me the same trick as before.’ Her eyes were suddenly probing. ‘But you, you’d know the time, wouldn’t you – the time that Freddy Quennell bought it! Only, of course, you aren’t going to tell me.’

  He had to check a smile. ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘It had gone a quarter past three.’

  ‘What impression did he give you?’

  ‘Have you met Raymond Tallis? He makes even shaking hands with him seem a furtive act. I soon saw that the house didn’t interest him, but I made him go over it just the same. If you like you could say he seemed absentminded. But he was only here for half an hour.’

  ‘Can you remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘A fawn anorak. And no, I didn’t notice any blood-stains.’

  ‘Did he offer an excuse for being late?’

  ‘He said he’d been asked to vet some moorings.’

  ‘Moorings ...?’

  ‘That would be for the yacht club. They’re always short of moorings.’

  Gently brooded over his glass. The times were certainly interesting, but they didn’t yet know when Tallis had left his house. It could have been that he simply hadn’t bothered to be punctual and had given the first excuse to come into his head. At the same time, if the house didn’t interest him, why had he bothered to turn up at all ...?

  He was conscious of Sarah Jonson’s inquisitive eyes.

  ‘Well – wouldn’t you say he had some questions to answer?’

  Now he didn’t try to repress the smile. ‘You must treat these enquiries as confidential.’

  ‘Admittedly I don’t like the man, and I’m not pretending I don’t have bias. But I’m not alone. There are plenty of others who have wondered about his marriage with Julia. It was only six months afterwards, remember, and his brother was lost at sea in calm weather. And Freddy Quennell was the only other man aboard. At least you can’t be surprised if there’s gossip.’

  ‘Still ... you will treat it as confidential.’

  She pouted for a moment, then jerked her head. ‘I’m a senior officer’s wife you know. I listen to gossip, but I don’t repeat it.’ She paused, then added slyly: ‘Now tell me why you asked about Andy Reymerston.’

  Blank-faced, Gently replied: ‘Perhaps because he might like to buy your house.’

  ‘Andy?’ Her tone was incredulous. ‘Andy wouldn’t want it. He’s a loner.’

  ‘That could change.’

  She shook her head positively. ‘Andy has been married, did you know that? But his wife died in an accident, and since then he’s lived like a recluse.’

  ‘No gossip about him.’

  ‘He’s an artist. He lives only for his painting.’

  And that was probably the popular picture of Reymerston, or perhaps one he chose to foster: a man in the shadow of a past tragedy, a painter living only for his art. Gossip hadn’t reached him: such care had he taken, such caution instilled in Ruth Quennell.

  And in a way it was true ...

  Sighing, Gently finished his lemonade and put down the glass.

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘No. But I would like to see over your house.’

  She stared with wide eyes. ‘You really do surprise one!’

  ‘I might just happen to know of a customer.’

  ‘Oh well ... in that case.’

  ‘How much are you asking?’

  ‘Eighty-five thousand. To include the furniture.’

  And trailing a bored Eyke after him, he got to grips with that absorbing house, with the rooms that spread out from the lofted hall and, on the first floor, from a galleried landing. An impossible dream! But he had to live it. As though here he were encountering another self, a self soothed, calmed, expanded, slowed to the peace of this many-summered home. A manner of smiling silence pervaded it, a sensation of ripened living; if there were ghosts they were glad ghosts, offering their welcome, room by room.

  ‘Have you anyone lined up?’

  ‘I’ve had enquiries, but this isn’t the easiest place to sell. It’s larger than most people want and too far out to attract the commuters. Actually, there’s a station not far away, but it’s one and a half hours into town.’

  ‘Any early trains?’

  ‘One that will get you to Liverpool Street by nine.’

  They went outside. At the back, kitchen gardens were enclosed by the wall; at the front, beds bright with late
-summer flowers bordered the ancient velvet of the lawn. Then:

  ‘You mentioned the heather ...’

  She led them to a gate in the beech hedge. Stepping outside, you entered at once into a blueness that seemed electric. Heather, studded with cushions of dwarf gorse in flower, ranged in a descending blue-purple plain, fronting a vista of fields and groves, from which rose the needle spire of a church. Eastward the heather was backed by gorse and bounded by knolls of birch; and that way the colour of the sky reflected a sea only just out of sight. Shadows behind trees were heavy, blocked by the low September sun. Martins swept the heather; then there was the murmur of bees.

  ‘Do you think your customer would be interested?’

  He daren’t answer that: he daren’t!

  ‘I’m sure that Larry would agree to a commission.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ was the best he could say.

  They returned to the car, and Sarah Jonson stood with her children to wave them goodbye. Eyke, who hadn’t spoken a word during the visit, picked up the handset and called in. After a few words he hung up.

  ‘They’ve got a man down the well now, sir.’

  And the best of luck to him. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The press have been trying to contact the Quennells.’

  ‘So leave a man there. And keep them off me.’

  ‘We’ll do our best, sir,’ Eyke said. ‘We’re holding back the announcement that you’ve been called until tomorrow.’ He stared ahead. ‘So do we talk to Tallis, sir?’

  Silently, Gently aimed the car back towards Walderness.

  FIVE

  WALDERNESS’S STREET ENDED fair and square at a shingle slide into the river, where the tide was now ebbing swiftly to reveal mud shoals and rotten piles. On a corner of the salt marsh beside the river stood one or two timber dwellings, perhaps converted from fishermen’s net stores, and a shed that advertised the sale of fish. Then there were the fishermen’s huts and drawn-up boats along the raised bank upstream, and a spindly jetty that drooped over the mud for the use of the foot-ferry passengers. On the opposite shore these features were multiplied, and there the longshore boats were docked; while further upstream one saw boatsheds, the premises of the yacht club, a pub and the masts of yachts.