Landed Gently (3 page)

‘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
snobbery
, 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.

I
T 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 seemed 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.

‘Just one thing, Gently.’ Sir Daynes flashed him a warning look. ‘We’d better get it straight – there’s been no suggestion of foul play. Personally I can’t think of anyone at the Place who’d want to do this young fellow an injury, and I don’t want you poking around as though someone had. You don’t mind me being frank?’

Gently shook his head.

‘Good,’ said Sir Daynes with satisfaction. ‘This is going to be a delicate business, and I want to handle it in my own way.’

Two cars stood parked on the terrace as the Bentley came sweeping up, both of them Wolseleys of the type favoured by the local constabulary. Under the
restrained
portico stood a constable, slowly rocking on his heels, looking like an icicle in spite of his buttoned-up topcoat. He marched stiffly down the steps and opened the door for Sir Daynes.

‘Woolston, is it?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s me.’

‘What the devil is the meaning of this cavalcade, Woolston?’

The constable looked bewildered. ‘It’s Inspector Dyson, sir. He’s got the surgeon and Sergeant Turner with him.’

‘What the blasted hell for? Someone pinched the Crown jewels? And get inside that door, man. You can guard it quite as well in the hall.’

Up the steps strode Sir Daynes, Gently and the
squashed constable in his wake. The hall, unlit today, looked shadowed and gloomy, but just as they entered there was a hissing flash, and a lurid light reached momentarily to the distant corners. At the foot of the stairs stood a group of six men in an irregular semi-circle, one of them playing with a camera and tripod. In the centre of the semi-circle lay a still, dark, sprawling starfish, near it a navy blanket, which had apparently been used as a cover. Sir Daynes stormed up to this group like a lion pouncing on its prey.

‘Dyson!’ he barked. ‘Dyson! What in the blue blazes is all this tomfoolery?’

A tall, thin-faced man with buck teeth spun round as though he had been bitten.

‘Ah – ah – I beg your pardon, sir?’ he stammered.

‘This!’ fulminated Sir Daynes, with an inclusive sweep of his arm. ‘What is it, man? What are you playing at? Why have you got these fellows here?’

Poor Dyson gaped and swallowed and ran a tongue over his divorced upper lip. ‘I – I – we were called in, sir. Matter of routine …’

‘Routine be beggared! Do you have to turn out a homicide team to take particulars of an accidental death? Why, man, a blasted constable would have done. Wasn’t I there, living right next door? Why didn’t you get in touch with me?’

‘Well, sir … Christmas Day …’

‘Don’t talk to me of Christmas Day, Dyson!’ Sir Daynes was withering in his wrath. ‘As far as the police are concerned there’s only one day – a
twenty-four-hour day – and I happen to be the chief of police in these parts. Now get these men out of here. When they’re wanted,
I’ll
send for them. You stay here – and you, Dr Shiel. The rest of you get back to your duties or your Christmas pudding – whatever it was you were pulled away from.’

‘But, sir—’

Dyson made a desperate effort to get a word in.

‘You heard my orders, Dyson!’

‘Sir … Dr Shiel …’

‘I have already asked Dr Shiel to remain.’

‘But, sir … the circumstances …’

It looked rather as though Dyson was going to catch another blast from the Broke thunderbox. Sir Daynes’s chin came up and his eyes sparkled pure fire. But just then a slim figure detached itself from the outskirts of the group and intervened between the inspector and his fate.

‘Excuse me, Daynes, but I believe we cannot dispose of this matter quite so simply.’

It was Somerhayes, his handsome face pale, a dry flatness in his cultivated voice.

‘Eh, eh?’ Sir Daynes turned from the flinching Dyson. ‘Henry – didn’t see you there, man. Damn it, I’m sorry this place has been turned into a bear garden for you – blasted mistake, man. I’ll soon have them out.’

‘There has been no mistake, Daynes.’

‘What? Of course there’s been a mistake.’

‘No, Daynes. The inspector came at my request.
You will appreciate that as a magistrate I had no option but to take what steps seemed necessary.’

Sir Daynes stared at the nobleman as though he had taken leave of his senses. Somerhayes managed to summon up a frosty smile.

‘I omitted to tell you on the phone, Daynes, that I had some doubt as to the way in which Earle came by his injuries.’

‘Doubt?’ echoed Sir Daynes.

‘Yes. I could not feel certain in my mind.’

‘But you said he’d taken a tumble, and if that’s where you found him, by George’ – Sir Daynes poked a finger at the spreadeagled body – ‘then he
did
take a tumble. You aren’t going to tell me that somebody pushed him?’

‘No … I don’t think he was pushed.’

‘Then what are your doubts about?’

Slowly and without emotion Somerhayes pointed to the skull. The body was lying on its face, the head twisted to one side. Clearly visible at the upper part of the back of the skull was a broad, depressed fracture running in a vertical line. Sir Daynes stared at it grimly, making sure he was missing nothing.

‘Well? What’s so mysterious about it? Didn’t he fall far enough?’

‘To fracture his skull – yes. But what caused a fracture like that?’

‘Why, man, the answer’s obvious. He struck it on a stair. With eighteen or twenty marble stairs to pick from, it’s a wonder he had any skull left.’

Somerhayes shook his head. ‘There are two things against it, Daynes. The first is the vertical line of the fracture. I cannot think how he could have fallen to have struck his skull backwards and sideways against a stair-edge. The rest of the skull, you will observe, has only abrasions.’

‘Balderdash!’ snorted Sir Daynes. ‘Why shouldn’t he have struck his head sideways? Anything’s possible when a feller comes careening down one of those things.’

‘It may be.’ Somerhayes made the ghost of a bow. ‘The second point, perhaps, will seem more
convincing
. It occurred to me when I first saw the body, and Dr Shiel has come to the same conclusion
independently
. We find it difficult to understand how this comparatively broad fracture could have been caused by impact with one of these comparatively sharp stair-edges.’

‘That is certainly so, Sir Daynes,’ put in the police-surgeon, a gaunt-featured Scot, promptly. ‘I cannot see at all how the laddie could have done it. If there had been some railings, now, or a good stout ornamental flim-flam of some sort at the foot … but as ye see, the stairs just swell out till they reach the sides of the nook. Nothing’s here at all to make a dunt like that.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion!’ Sir Daynes’s square jaw set in an obstinate line. ‘You can’t say for certain that a stair-edge wouldn’t do it. He might have had a particular type of skull. A blow with anything might have sunk it in like that.’

‘No, sir, no, sir.’ The Scot sucked in air through his lips. ‘That’s clean against all the tenets of a very exact science. I will give you my opinion now. I’ll not move from it in a court of law. It’s a blunt weapon like a club or bortle that put out the light of yon poor fellow, and no amount of chaffering will make it into a stair-edge.’

Sir Daynes blasted this rebel in silence for a moment, but the Scot, seasoned to the attacks of many a defence counsel, was no apt subject for brow-beating. The baronet turned his attack on the imbecile Somerhayes.

‘I suppose you’ve got something tangible to support this – this flimsy piece of medical evidence?’

Somerhayes silently shook his head.

‘No idea who’d want to do it – no evidence about how it was done?’

‘Nothing, Daynes, I’m afraid. Naturally I conducted a brief inquiry among the inmates of this establishment, but nothing relevant has come to light. As far as I can discover the lieutenant was very popular with my household, including the domestic staff. I, personally, found his society refreshing, and he was a great favourite with the
tapissiers
and our
chef d’atelier
. I am unable to imagine any motive whatever for his death.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Sir Daynes triumphantly. ‘And neither am I, Henry – neither am I. It’s the most preposterous piece of twaddle I ever heard of. A man everyone likes takes a tumble down some stairs, and because he cracks his skull one way and not another everybody starts assuming there’s been foul play.
Blasted morbidity, that’s what I call it. And you heard nothing – found nothing?’

‘No, Daynes.’

‘Not even a club or bortle?’ Sir Daynes gave the Scot a leer.

‘Nothing of the sort has been discovered about the immediate scene of the tragedy. My butler-valet, Thomas, found the body when he was passing through the hall shortly after seven this morning. He
immediately
aroused me, and together we searched the hall and the galleries for any indication suggestive of what had occurred. We were both familiar with the precise disposition of the contents, but we could find nothing unusual or out of place.’