Gently to the Summit csg-9 Read online

  Overton, with Heslington, had waited at the summit where they were joined at intervals by the others. Heslington had seemed rather quiet and had held back from the conversation. During the interval before the police came they had all gone up to inspect the summit, but according to Overton, who’d been one of the first, they’d found nothing there to account for the tragedy. Nobody, he thought, had gone on to the cairn, nor had anybody lingered about the spot. After some questioning, they’d descended to Llanberis and had given their statements at the police station.

  ‘What was the impression you formed of the business?’

  Gently had folded his arms over the back of the chair; his pipe stuck forgotten from the corner of his mouth and his chin rested squarely on the arms in front of him.

  ‘You mean at the time?’

  ‘Yes. Waiting on the summit.’

  ‘It was confused… an inexplicable accident. When you’ve had such a shock you’re at a loss, you’re not logical. You feel you can’t rely on things making sense.’

  ‘You knew that Heslington had been up there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did… but I simply didn’t connect it. I know Ray well. I’ve known him for years. I may have thought it would look bad for him, but anything else was too improbable.’

  ‘Yet you knew he was scarcely a friend of Fleece’s.’

  ‘Yes, I knew it.’ Overton rocked his shoulders as though to shrug away the imputation. ‘Now it doesn’t matter, so I don’t mind telling you, but they almost came to blows over the Kincaid question. But that didn’t affect the issue. I never doubted Ray for a moment. When he told me he hadn’t seen Fleece it was good enough. I knew he hadn’t.’

  ‘Though you had heard of the divorce pending?’

  ‘Divorce? What divorce?’

  ‘Fleece’s divorce of his wife. Citing Heslington as co-respondent.’

  A silence followed. It was difficult to mistake Overton’s look of alarmed incredulity. His cigarette was held stationary, he sat perfectly still on his chair. For several moments he remained dumb, his eyes large and disbelieving, then they tightened and he made a little flicking motion with the cigarette.

  ‘Now I see where we stand. And I can tell you it makes no difference. I know Ray. If you suspect him, you’re being less intelligent than I thought you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Gently remembered his pipe; he straightened it out and put a match to it. He gave a side glance to Evans as though inviting him to try a question. The Welshman sat stolidly, however, blowing and drawing at his cheeks, and after a puff or two Gently added:

  ‘If we can go back to Everest for a moment…’

  ‘That’s what really counts, isn’t it?’ Overton’s relief was unconcealed. He drew in a grateful lungful of smoke and let it trickle through his lips.

  ‘I’d like to know if you can remember how that final assault came about. Was it according to your schedule, or was the schedule interrupted?’

  Overton nodded. ‘I can guess what you’re driving at there. And the answer is yes. The schedule was definitely interrupted. As we’d planned it, Ray and myself were to have had the first crack at it, with Fleece and Kincaid as the support party if our attempt failed. But the weather looked like breaking up — did, in fact, the next day — and Fleece altered the arrangement so that he and Kincaid went first. He gave his greater experience as the reason. Which was sound enough as far as it went.’

  ‘I’m angling for impressions again. How did you feel about Fleece’s story?’

  ‘Well… I felt bound to accept it, though I thought he’d acted irresponsibly. In no circumstances ought he to have let Kincaid continue alone.’

  ‘What about Kincaid’s version; assuming that to be the true one?’

  Overton shrugged. ‘Assuming it’s true, there can be no doubt about that. Fleece was intending to get rid of him. You can call it what you like.’

  ‘Could they have been separated by accident?’

  ‘Never. They went off on a rope.’

  ‘So that if Kincaid released himself, the rope would be left behind with Fleece?’

  ‘Yes, that follows.’

  ‘ And did he bring a rope back with him? ’

  Overton’s stare was blank for a second, then it snapped into a sudden intelligence as the inference clicked home.

  ‘My God, no. We were one short. There was one missing the next morning.’

  ‘And it wasn’t Heslington’s and yours?’

  ‘It damned well wasn’t. It was Fleece and Kincaid’s.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It had started to mizzle again as a matter of course; that sunshine had been far too fragile; now it had relapsed into a suffused presence behind the ceiling of steady grey. The shadows of buildings were smoothed and softened and the presence of the buildings strangely enlarged, while the railway smell of London streets had sharpened until it pressed upon the consciousness. At Evans’s request they had lunched at a Corner House, a murmuring hall of communal eating; and now they were driving out to Wimbledon, retracing their route of the day before. Evans was deep in a midday paper: his sombre mood had become almost a sulk. The matter of the rope had failed to stir his enthusiasm, it was a frivolous detail, it was almost academic.

  ‘But it happened all that time ago, man.’ During lunch he had condescended to discuss it. ‘Kincaid’s forgotten it, if he ever understood. That’s plain enough now, and I ought to have my head tested.’

  ‘It gives a sound enough motive, taken together with the circumstances.’

  ‘Aye, so I thought. And you’ve proved me wrong.’

  ‘And for the first time it enables us to link Kincaid with Kincaid.’

  ‘That’s bloody magnificent. You job is done, man.’

  So Gently had let it drop, though he felt absurdly pleased with himself. It had been no mean feat, this slipping of a lassoo over Kincaid. A lot of talent had been loosed on it before Gently came on the scene, and up till that moment nothing tangible had emerged from the research. But now it had. That missing rope flashed an unmistakable positive. It underwrote Kincaid’s story with a persuasive flourish. The shadowy past has been penetrated and the shadowy present grown more distinct: this might be only a first step, but it suggested that further steps were possible. And who knew even yet what the value of identifying Kincaid might be? The spotlight had shifted on to Heslington, but it was a purely circumstantial spotlight…

  Evans lowered his paper and gave the Thames a dirty look, but he raised it again as they crawled through Putney. The Welsh inspector had no more doubts, he was seeing the case in black and white; in that curious dance of death his attention was fixed on Raymond Heslington. But Kincaid was still there, he still held the centre of the stage. He remained the dancer whose appearance had set the ballet in motion. Was it possible to dismiss him now as an accidental subsidiary, a monumental introduction to a commonplace finale? Gently involuntarily shook his head. He couldn’t credit that, yet. Now, before he had seen Heslington, he could affirm that his mind was still open. In an hour it might be different, this was what they were going to discover; but as they drove towards Wimbledon the balance was level, though tremulous.

  Hadrian’s Villa, Heslington’s house, was sited actually on the Common, and appeared as a white flat-topped building partly hidden by a grove of birches. It had a courtyard which was enclosed by high pantile-capped walls, and these were pierced by a round-arched gateway and by occasional unglazed windows. The driver parked before the gateway and the two of them got out. Through the wrought-iron gate, which bore an imperial eagle, they could see a formal garden and a colonnade. The paths of the garden were of zigzagged brick, and in the centre stood the statue of a youth, in bronze; the colonnade was reached by a shallow flight of steps and its tiled roof was supported by short, slab-top pillars. Over the gateway was a round stone plaque. Its inscription read: HADRIANVS AVGVSTVS.

  There was a bell-pull and Gently tugged at it, producing a distant, melodious
chime. After an interval a door was opened and a woman came across to the gate. They both stared at her in amazement; she was a surprise for Wimbledon Common; she was dressed in a voluminous scarlet robe which was tucked in at the waist with a belt of leather. On her feet she had drawstring sandals and her hair was piled beneath a copper ring. She was about fifty and had rather hard features. She eyed them coldly but without embarrassment.

  ‘You wanted something?’

  Her voice spoiled the illusion. It was a voice from the wrong side of Aldgate Pump.

  ‘We want to speak to Mr Heslington. We are C.I.D. officers.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s about that, is it? You’d better come in while I go and tell him. Mr Heslington’s a bit particular; he doesn’t like people to come disturbing him.’

  She closed the gate with a slight slam and led them over to the colonnade, her long robe swishing at every step and her sandals shuffling on the bricks. When she’d left them their eyes met and their shoulders lifted in unison. There was no commenting on this: one could only exchange a gesture! Gently glanced round the courtyard. It was all of a piece with the general theme; various round-arched, stump-pillared outbuildings, some miniature holm-oaks and minor statuary. He noticed a pair of modern folding doors.

  ‘Take a look into the garage, will you?’

  Evans sneaked over and tried to open the doors, but they were apparently locked and he was obliged to squint through the window. He returned.

  ‘So what does he keep there. A couple of chariots for the Common?’

  ‘No, man. A Ford Anglia. And a green-and-cream Austin-Healey.’

  ‘Then where the devil-?’ Gently was beginning, when the return of the housekeeper interrupted him. She threw a look at Evans which suggested that she had witnessed his manoeuvre.

  ‘Mr Heslington says he’ll see you, if you’ll kindly step inside. It’s the second door on the right.’

  She flounced rustlingly away.

  A passage ran the length of the house as an interior parallel to the colonnade and its floor was paved with mosaic in a pattern of red and white. Gently tapped at the door, which was painted apple-green, and on hearing a response turned the bronze claw handle. It was like straying on to a theatre set. The room beyond was awe-inspiring. It was some fifteen feet in height and perhaps twenty feet square. The walls were panelled with rusty marble, framed by inlays of alabaster, and a frieze of the same material was rendered with formalized designs in colour. The floor was bare and of warm, veined stone, with a rich mosaic in the centre, and the only furniture was a marble table with gilded legs and lion-claw feet. The room possessed an antechamber on the side opposite to the door. This opened into a conservatory in which grew a vine and some potted shrubs. It also contained some more useful furnishings, a table in bronze, a bench and a couch, and it was here that Heslington stood waiting for them: clad — it was inevitable — in a purple toga.

  ‘ Tempori parendum. Come in and sit down.’

  He was a man who, surprisingly, looked well in a toga. His age was forty-four and his height about five feet ten; he was lean but broad in the shoulder, and his shoulders sloped gracefully. But there was nothing Roman in his features unless it was the slight hook of the nose; he had reddish hair, flecked with grey, hazel eyes and a full beard. His complexion was fresh and his teeth uneven but good, and he spoke in a deep tone with a good deal of resonance. He nodded to Evans but didn’t shake hands.

  ‘I thought you’d settled this business, Inspector. I didn’t expect you to lug me back to it from the public baths in Pompeii.’

  Evans looked startled. ‘From where was it you said, sir?’

  ‘The public baths in Pompeii.’ Heslington pointed to the paper-strewn table. ‘I’d just written myself in. I write books, you know. And I was deep in the baths when Mrs Vincent came to announce you. But never mind, I’m out now; I’m busy towellingmy hair. So if the twentieth century has questions, let the second century hear them.’

  He did it well, but not well enough to conceal his uneasiness, nor to control the challenging glance which he flashed at Gently. The twentieth century was probably closer than the second century liked to admit, and stood in danger of closing the gap with less than senatorial ceremony.

  ‘This is Superintendent Gently, sir. He’s assisting me in the case.’ Evans was curt. He stepped back a pace to leave no doubt who was the principal.

  ‘Really?’ Heslington surveyed Gently again. Now it was with a touch of boredom. ‘I hope I can do something for him besides repeating repetitions. Would you be interested in archaeological reconstruction, Superintendent?’

  Gently hunched non-commitally. ‘I’m always interested in reconstructions.’

  ‘You stand on the site and in the triclinium of an Anglo-Roman villa. The Emperor Hadrian’s I maintain, though I fail to carry a majority.’

  ‘My reconstructions are more modern.’

  ‘After Rome the field is plebeian.’

  ‘All the same, it has its points. I’ve a present interest in cars.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong person, I’m afraid.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m wondering how you run an Austin-Healey in addition to the car you’ve officially taxed.’

  Heslington’s eyes hardened a little but he gave no other reaction. He said: ‘I fail to see how that can interest you. I may have hired or borrowed the car.’

  ‘From whom did you borrow it?’

  ‘Is that really your business?’

  ‘I’m asking you because you’re handy. But I could put the same question to Sarah Fleece.’

  Now there was a reaction, a burning spot on each cheekbone. After a moment’s silence Heslington turned from them and threw himself down on a stool by the table. His toga made the action dramatic, it was at one with the theatrical tone of the setting; a declamation in blank verse might with propriety have followed the move. Gently hesitated, then selected the bronze bench for a seat. Evans chose the couch with an equal diffidence.

  ‘Just precisely what are you after?’ His patronizing condescension had come to an end. His face was bitter. The lines to the mouth were drawn deep and tight. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions. I’ve given you my account of Monday. You’ve made an arrest, so what’s your object in coming scandal-mongering here?’

  A smile loitered on Gently’s lips: that line of appeal was really getting too common! ‘You can call it routine,’ he replied. ‘We’re finding this an unusual case.’

  ‘It may be unusual, but it isn’t doubtful, so you’ve no reason to be offensive. Hound Kincaid if you want to, but don’t come here hounding me.’

  ‘You’re certain that Kincaid is our man?’

  ‘Isn’t it a fact that you’ve charged him with it? It’s an open and shut case, to use your questionable expression. And I’m sorry for it, too. He’s a remarkable man is Kincaid. The whole affair makes me sick and I’d like to forget it ever happened.’

  ‘You’re quite satisfied about the motive. About it’s being an act of revenge?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I was there. I know what happened on Everest.’

  ‘You knew that Fleece intended to get rid of him?’

  ‘I knew it after I’d heard his story. It made me remember a whole lot of things which I’d paid no attention to at the time. But I saw their significance after I’d talked to Kincaid. It made the whole thing as clear as daylight. I understood the delays and the switching of teams, and all Fleece’s little manoeuvrings to get Kincaid on his rope. You don’t have to worry about the poor devil’s motive.’

  ‘Why did Fleece do it, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t want to. Finding it out was like stumbling on a midden in your drawing room. Till then the affair had a certain nobility, it was tragic but left us with an inspiration; then it turned into an ugly mess which seemed to dirty us too. I always knew that Fleece was a blackguard but after that my soul loathed him. And I told him so to his face. I did have that
satisfaction.’

  ‘In fact, it nearly came to violence.’

  Heslington checked himself before replying. He said evenly: ‘You must have read my statement. I said there that I didn’t like him.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same is it? As loathing a man with your soul?’

  ‘It was sufficient for the occasion and the officialese of the document.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be true to say that you’re glad he’s dead?’

  ‘It might or might not be true. But I don’t remember having said it.’

  His eyes met Gently’s steadily and with the hint of a challenge again; it was the look of a man either conscious of his innocence or of the strength of his position. Which was it? With a man like Heslington it was not easy to tell. A bit of a crank he might be, but he was not without strength of character. Gently’s gaze strayed towards the conservatory.

  ‘I’ll put a hypothetical case,’ he said. ‘Suppose Kincaid told the truth in his statement. Suppose it wasn’t him you saw on the railway?’

  ‘But it was.’

  ‘Did you recognize him?’

  ‘I’m nearly certain. It was about his build.’

  ‘The supporting evidence is not strong. And this is the first time you’ve made an identification.’

  ‘But I didn’t know he was in the district, not when I made my statement. At the time nobody was further from my thoughts than Kincaid. But I remembered clearly what I’d seen, the height and build of the fellow, and after Overton had identified the cigarette-case I realized at once who it must have been. And I said so then.’

  ‘Wasn’t that wisdom after the event?’

  ‘Perhaps. I found it convincing enough.’

  ‘But would a jury find it convincing, when so much depends on your evidence? We’ll carry the hypothesis a stage further, as Kincaid’s Counsel will certainly do: suppose your statement was a false one, wouldn’t your identification seem a little convenient?’