Gently in the Past Page 9

  ‘Not your attitude towards your Uncle Raymond?’

  He looked up. ‘What’s he been saying?’

  Gently didn’t answer. Paul Tallis stared at him, blue eyes suddenly intent again.

  ‘If you ask me, it’s the other way about! Uncle Ray feels guilty and resents me.’

  ‘Guilty of what.’

  ‘Well – everything. Of stepping into father’s shoes. Six months after father was drowned Uncle Ray had taken over the lot.’

  ‘And that didn’t bother you?’

  He jerked his head. ‘I’m not pretending I didn’t feel it.’ He glanced at a framed photograph of Arthur Tallis, the single picture that hung in the room. ‘Father was a special person. Nobody could replace him. But he was gone. Mother needed some support, and I suppose father’s brother was the next best thing. Well, Uncle Ray is no favourite of mine, but he was mother’s choice, and I was ready to accept him. So I don’t know what he’s been saying, but the hostility isn’t on my side.’

  ‘For example, Miss Quennell had no wild ideas?’

  Paul Tallis was silent for several moments. He’d averted his face from Gently, but the tight drag of his mouth was visible.

  ‘Is this about the inquest?’

  Gently said nothing.

  ‘All right, then! Fiona did hear something odd about that.’ He jammed his hands into the pockets of the denim jacket. ‘And she does have queer ideas.’

  ‘About your uncle?’

  ‘It was nonsense, of course ... she was terribly upset just then. She thought that Uncle Ray was somehow to blame. But you can’t take her ideas seriously.’

  ‘How to blame?’

  ‘I don’t know! That he deliberately got rid of father.’

  ‘Because of something she’d heard from Mr Quennell?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It had to be that.’ He got up suddenly, tormentedly. ‘Look, all this is utter rot! I know Fiona, she’s always romancing – and when she’s upset there are no bounds to it. You can’t take her seriously. I never did. I’m sure Uncle Ray did his best to save father, And Uncle Fred knew it. He was on the spot. I don’t blame Uncle Ray for a thing.’

  ‘The tragedy made no difference to their relations?’

  He hesitated. If anything it brought them closer. Uncle Ray made Uncle Fred boss at the Press, and Uncle Fred was the only witness at the wedding.’

  ‘Just so,’ Gently said.

  Paul Tallis stared at him. ‘Are these the loose ends you’re trying to tie up?’

  Gently made a humoursome face. ‘Not entirely! But it’s always as well to have the whole picture.’ He brought out his pipe. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  Paul Tallis gazed at him a little longer. Then he relaxed his tense pose and dropped down again on the corner of the desk.

  ‘All this is new to me – being put through it by a top policeman! I tell you what, I was going to make some coffee. Would you like some too?’

  ‘Why not?’ Gently said.

  A door opened into a kitchenette-shower-room, in the slanted ceiling of which yawned an uncurtained skylight. Beside a bald sink stood a miniature cooker and on some shelves a minimum of crockery. Paul Tallis plugged in an electric kettle and stood two beakers on the draining-board. From a carton, one of several, he took a jar of instant coffee and measured spoonfuls into the beakers. From the doorway, Gently watched.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Only since yesterday. Actually, you’re my first guest. But I fetched my stuff up last week. I didn’t have a lecture until today.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘There’s a room across the landing. Last year, I was living in student quarters.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Engineering.’

  ‘Not business management?’

  Paul Tallis gave him his shy smile. ‘Perhaps I’ve had my nose rubbed in the Press. Just the smell of it turns my stomach – a mixture of printing-ink, glue, hot metal and raw paper, along with a noise level you’d scarcely credit. So I’ve opted out. My flair is mechanics. For instance, I’ve always done my own car maintenance. That’s my Mini by the gate – souped up, of course: a real bomb.’

  ‘Does engineering stretch to naval architecture?’

  ‘That’s another point. I’d love to design yachts.’

  ‘Wasn’t your nose rubbed in sailing too?’

  His eyes sparkled. ‘That’s different.’

  The kettle boiled and he made the coffee. There wasn’t a tray to carry it through on. Gently took charge of the two beakers; Paul Tallis followed with the sugar and a milk-bottle. You couldn’t help feeling a student too, in that topsy-turvy room where nothing was in its place: where even to find space to set down two beakers you had to shove aside books, pads, a portable typewriter ...

  ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Down below, someone was strumming a guitar. Then there were voices raised in laughter, a sound of feet on the lower stairs.

  ‘So what have you really come about, sir?’

  He was back on the desk, Gently on the chair. The coffee was sweet if nothing else, and Gently’s pipe was drawing comfortably.

  ‘As I said, routine details. We talk to everyone who might be useful. You, because you called at The Uplands on Saturday. Did you deliver a letter, by the way?’

  He didn’t as much tense as go still.

  ‘I didn’t deliver any letter.’

  ‘Think. Weren’t you given a note for someone?’

  ‘No – you’re absolutely wrong!’

  ‘How am I wrong?’

  He had been going to drink, but now he put the beaker down beside him. Gently continued to smoke agreeably, the smoke rising at slow intervals.

  ‘You’re talking about the letter they found on him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘That’s the only letter that interests you. But I didn’t take it. In fact—’

  ‘Yes?’

  Paul Tallis jerked away, a faint flush in his cheek.

  ‘What time were you there?’

  ‘About eleven.’

  ‘Who did you speak to at The Uplands?’

  ‘Fiona. Auntie Ruth. I believe Uncle Fred was down the garden.’

  ‘But principally Miss Fiona?’

  ‘I wanted her to come with me to Portman Road. But she’d fixed up something with mother, and anyway she didn’t want to watch the football.’

  ‘How long were you talking to her?’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  ‘You were alone with her?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you didn’t give her a letter—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But perhaps you did see one in her possession?’

  Now the faint flush had become a stain. ‘Look here! I’m saying nothing to implicate Fiona. I don’t know how it all came about, but I’m certain of one thing, she’s completely innocent.’

  Gently puffed. ‘Then you did see her with one.’

  ‘It could have been anything at all.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘Just an ordinary envelope.’

  ‘With writing on it?’

  His head sank. ‘No.’

  ‘Drink your coffee.’

  Mechanically, Paul Tallis picked up his beaker and drank. The flush in his face was hot and he kept his eyes well away from Gently’s.

  ‘I feel like a traitor.’

  Gently hunched. ‘You want her father’s killer found, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes – especially if he’s dragged Fiona into it.’

  ‘For that, I’m asking you these questions.’

  ‘So what else can I tell you?’

  Gently trailed smoke. ‘Where did you go when you left The Uplands?’

  Paul Tallis drank more coffee, his hot face set in a resentful expression.

  ‘Are you trying to infer ...?’

  ‘I’m inferring nothing. Simply asking for information.
’

  ‘I think you tricked me into telling you about the letter. And it needn’t have been what you think, at all.’

  ‘Then where did you go?’

  ‘You know where I went!’ He was trying to work up indignation. ‘It’s got nothing to do with it. If you’re like this with me, I hate to think how you’ll treat Fiona.’

  ‘Didn’t you drive to Ipswich?’

  ‘Suppose I did.’

  ‘At what time did you pass by the gorse circle?’

  ‘How would I know? Around half-past eleven.’

  ‘I was going to ask if you noticed anyone about there.’

  For a while Paul Tallis stared at the floor, mouth small, eyes scowling; then he took a deep breath and managed a crooked sort of smile.

  ‘I’m sorry! But it’s the way it gets me. I’m worried stiff about Fiona.’

  ‘We’re not trying to harass her, you know.’

  ‘But put yourself in my position. It seems to me you’re trying to get at her – and Uncle Ray too, for the matter of that. As though you suspected some collusion between them, something to do with Uncle Fred’s death. It’s a bit of a shock, really. I never guessed you’d have suspicions like that.’

  Gently inclined his head. ‘Perhaps I haven’t.’

  ‘Then why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘It’s just a job, like other jobs.’

  Paul Tallis shook his head and drank coffee.

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t see anyone. At least, as far as I can remember.’

  ‘A parked vehicle? Perhaps ... a bicycle?’

  ‘You see, I was simply driving without thinking.’

  ‘I expect your mind would have been on the match.’

  ‘Yes, actually.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Manchester United is always an occasion, there’s usually a record crowd for that.’

  ‘Parking problems,’ Gently smiled.

  ‘Unless you know the ropes.’ Paul Tallis looked arch. ‘I was rather naughty. I parked at the station in one of the slots reserved for season-ticket holders. Well, nobody uses them on a Saturday, and the station is handy for Portman Road ... and you can get a ploughman’s lunch at the pub across the road.’ He checked, flushing. ‘Are you a fan?’

  Gently shrugged. ‘A good match, was it?’

  ‘Yes, a cracker – two-nil. Mariner sewed it up with a glancing header.’

  ‘I’d like to have seen that early goal of Wark’s.’

  ‘That too.’ Paul Tallis hesitated. ‘But why are we talking football?’

  Gently grinned wryly. ‘Why not? What time did you arrive back?’

  ‘Oh ... I see! What you want to know is whether I saw anything driving home. Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Still, when did you get there?’

  ‘I suppose it would have been half-past six.’

  He still seemed a little uncertain, sitting slanted on the desk, beaker forgotten in his hand. Gently’s smoke was filling the small room, of which neither of the two modest windows was open. Below the guitar-player had ceased to strum and instead one heard a drone of conversation. The silence in the room had suddenly become awkward, the clutter in it forlorn.

  ‘Look, there is something I must put to you – it’s part of my job too.’

  ‘Anything I can tell you ...’

  ‘I want you to reconsider what you told me about delivering a letter to The Uplands.’

  ‘But I’ve told you the truth—!’

  ‘Listen, this is what I’m asking in so many words. Did your uncle give you the letter to give to Miss Fiona, with certain instructions about what to do with it?’

  ‘As though I’d do such a thing for Uncle Ray ...!’

  ‘But if your mother had asked you, wouldn’t you have done it?’

  He was up off the desk instantly. ‘You just leave my mother out of it!’

  There was a fierceness in the blue eyes now and a slight quivering of the lips. Yet, finding the beaker in his hand a little ridiculous, he couldn’t help reaching out to set it down. Then he became even more self-conscious: his eyes dropped before Gently’s gaze.

  ‘All right then – it’s part of your job ... you have to give people jolts like that! Only it’s all nonsense, and you know it. Uncle Ray would do his own dirty work.’

  ‘He’s capable of it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That isn’t quite the impression you were giving earlier.’

  ‘Oh well ... he’s family, isn’t he?You can’t let the side down in things like this.’

  Gently’s pipe had gone out; he relit it. Paul Tallis stood helplessly by the desk: he seemed to be waiting for some fresh onslaught. But in the end Gently merely rose.

  ‘That’s that, then.’

  ‘You’ve finished with me?’

  ‘Unless you’ve anything else to tell me.’

  Paul Tallis said bitterly: ‘There can’t be much left to tell you. One way or the other, you’d have had it out of me.’

  Smiling, Gently said: ‘Just some of the loose ends ...’

  He dropped his spent matches in a litter-stuffed bin. They went out to the landing. Strangely, Paul Tallis seemed half-reluctant to let him go.

  ‘Are you coming here again ...?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be necessary.’

  ‘I didn’t mind you asking the questions. Really.’

  ‘Just as well!’

  ‘Look ... I’m worried. Fiona ... But you do understand, don’t you?’

  Down below Gently paused on the pavement to appraise the Mini parked there. In metallic blue, it had a spoiler and wide wheels and a fish-tail exhaust that gleamed in the street-light. Psychedelic transfers decorated the body and there was a name: The Time Machine.

  Up in the high window, under the eaves, Paul Tallis’s face appeared, watching.

  SEVEN

  THE MOON, NOW higher and whiter, rode on his right as he drove back, and smoky mist, lying low on fields, here and there leaked across the road. Nevertheless he drove fast. Behind all the calculations of the day had nagged one thought: his phone call in the evening, that precious renewal of broken contact. Already it was late: in France, an hour behind, Gabrielle and Andrée would be thinking of bed; Gabrielle with her ear cocked for the phone, wondering, perhaps beginning to be anxious. And what would he tell her? Should he mention the house? But he knew he would never dare touch on that! At odd moments, since the visit to Welbourne, he’d been fingering his dream, and each time had thrust it aside as impossible. The house was too far out ... except at weekends and on leaves it would have to stay empty and shut up, still a dream, while, at Lime Walk, their real existence would continue and revolve. And yet ... it was already as though his viewpoint were shifting, with London distanced to weekday necessity and his centre of gravity suddenly placed here. Would she want it too? She’d admire the house, but ...? In his mind he decided that, yes, he would perhaps mention it, while ruthlessly avoiding the smallest suggestion ...

  Guiltily he checked his speed, aware with a jolt that he had let it race with his thoughts. Seventy-five! Any lurking patrol would have pulled him up and given him a breath-test. At Stansgate he forced himself to a crawl through the cramped vagaries of the one-way, and found himself passing a long, drab, unlit building that extended the whole length of one narrow street. The Tallis Press. He eyed it distastefully, its Victorian brick and stodgy windows, the gaping gateway with stencilled sign: Loading Bay Straight Ahead. Seven hundred jobs and the boss’s Rolls: but to him merely the facet of a passing conundrum. Reality was the scent of heather and a phone waiting to ring in far-off Mont St-Aignan ...

  And in the end it was almost a frost, that call he’d been waiting all day to make. He’d had to take it at The Gull’s reception counter, with the manager making up accounts at his elbow. Then it had to go through International Exchange, meaning a delay of twenty-five minutes; and meanwhile, it seemed, the entire staff of The Gull had chosen that moment to hang around for a gossip.

  ‘You are
not alone, my friend ...?’

  Scarcely! At the other end it must have sounded like Babel.

  ‘Then I will say it for you. I love you, my friend, and already I am yearning for your arms.’

  ‘Gabrielle ...’

  ‘Yes ...?’

  But even in French he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  ‘Sleep well ...’

  He heard her little chuckle. ‘Perhaps we have better luck next time, hah?’

  Grumpily he pushed through into a bar smoky and noisy at the end of the evening, ordered a pint and sandwich and squatted with them on a bar-stool. A contact so short, so precious! Ridiculous to think of mentioning the house. It was just hearing each other, a moment of illusion, a trying-to-believe that, if one reached out ...

  In the noise and laughter he gulped his beer and bolted the sandwich in chunks.

  ‘You look a bit down in the mouth, old lad.’

  Turning, he found Reymerston standing beside him. The painter was regarding him with a half-smile, an empty glass in his hand. He reached for Gently’s glass.

  ‘Fill them up, Sid.’

  He didn’t take his eyes from Gently’s. As always with Reymerston, you felt immediate rapport, a sensation of sympathetic understanding.

  ‘I take it your sums aren’t coming right yet.’

  Gently grunted: ‘I may have been handed the wrong sums!’

  ‘Naughty,’ Reymerston smiled. ‘But don’t take it to heart. You can always fall back on me if you have to.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘I’m still the leading contender. And I hear you were down Archie’s well today.’

  His eyes twinkled. If he were fishing, there was nothing in his attitude to indicate it; just the amused, relaxed buoyancy that was the trademark of the man. How could one suspect him? Stack the facts how you would, and still they fell down when you looked him in the eye ...

  He paid for the drinks and raised his glass.

  ‘I called in at Ruth’s earlier this evening. She was impressed, you know. Both by what you asked her and what you didn’t. Cried a bit, but not too much.’ He touched his glass to Gently’s. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So what do you two plan now?’

  Reymerston laughed. ‘That’s a leading question. But I’ll take it in all innocence. When she says Yes, I plan to marry her.’