Gently Floating (10 page)

‘He’s going to sell it to us,’ David Spelton said.

‘I don’t know nothing about the other,’ Jack Spelton said. ‘I think that’s squit. I’ve never seen anything of it. V’s a good girl. She runs the house for us. We look after her, she looks after us. That’s the way it’s always been.’

‘But I’m attractive,’ Vera Spelton said, behind Gently.

‘You’re a good girl, V,’ Jack Spelton said. ‘You’re a pretty mawther. You’re all right.’

‘Yes, I’m all right,’ Vera Spelton said.

‘So there’s only one more question,’ David Spelton said. ‘Was it one or both of us who did for Harry French? Only we won’t tell you, so of course you won’t ask us, even Jackie could manage a lie about that.’

‘Dave,’ Jack Spelton said. He stopped. A face was peering through the window. The face belonged to Inspector Parfitt, it was frowning tightly to see into the shed. Gently moved to the door, opened it, looked out. Parfitt came along the path. He said quietly to Gently:

‘We’ve found something sir. I’d like you to step round the corner for a moment.’

‘Hmn,’ Gently said. He looked back into the shed. Nobody moved, said anything. He shrugged, closed the door. Parfitt turned quickly to lead up the path.

‘Nearly missed this one sir,’ he said. ‘Just by luck it caught my eye. I was tooling along very slow and I noticed the colour, and it clicked.’

‘Colour of what?’ Gently said.

‘A strand of nylon,’ Parfitt said. ‘I left Joyce here on guard while I went back to the yard to check.’

He turned smartly on to the stretch of rough rond which lay between the Spelton yard and the first bungalow. A young slim fresh-faced man stood on the rond by the water’s edge. Parfitt marched across to him. ‘Here,’ he said pointing downwards. Gently looked. He saw a rotted pile which was trussed to the bank by a steel rod. The head of the rod had a square plate under it and the wood had rotted from the plate and the plate had rusted sharp. In the crevice between the sharpened plate and the rotted wood was snagged an orange strand about an inch in length. Parfitt took from his pocket a coil of thin twisted orange nylon, one end whipped, one end spliced with a soft eye splice. He ran the piece through his hands, stopped, held it out to Gently. A strand of one of the twists was damaged. A section about an inch long was missing.

‘From French’s launch?’ Gently said.

‘The bow painter,’ Parfitt said. ‘They’ve been refitting all their boats with this stuff, it was the colour that made me notice.’ He looked about the rond. He shivered. ‘You think this would be the place?’ he said.

Gently looked at the rond too. It was part dead grass, part grass in tufts. The ground under the grass was baked hard so that looking closely one saw cracks. Behind the rond and the path was the strip of meadow, across the river another stretch of bare rond. The rond across the river was grown rank with reeds but an old blue-painted houseboat was moored to it. Gently said:

‘Who lives on the houseboat?’

‘There’s nobody on it,’ Parfitt said. ‘It’s empty, locked up. I inquired, I couldn’t learn anything about it.’

‘See what you can do,’ Gently said. He took a few steps about the rond. The rond was oven-hot in the sun, the dead grass wiry, unimpressible. The upturned boat which was left there to rot had nettles round it, like the
Kiama.
Her paintless straiks were whitish-grey. An angler had left some groundbait on her.

‘We’ve got an audience,’ Parfitt muttered.

He was looking towards the Spelton sheds. The two brothers and the sister were watching the policemen. They were staring at the rope which Parfitt held.

T
HUS: SUPERINTENDENT GENTLY
had lunch alone at the Country Club, while Inspector Parfitt and Detective Constable Joyce ate sandwiches and continued to prosecute their inquiries. Superintendent Gently had pineapple juice followed by ham salad in which the lettuce was cos lettuce followed by a rum baba followed by strong sweet black coffee accompanied by a small cigar or whiff. He said very little to the waitress who in turn said very little to him. He looked out of the windows at the bridge road quays and traffic and people passing over the bridge. He also looked out of the windows at the cinder path of which the first twenty yards were visible and at various times he saw William Archer crossing the bridge John French visiting the café and the humpty man identified to him as Sid Lidney passing to and fro on the cinder path. The times elapsed in these passages were William Archer’s absence over the bridge one hour John French’s visit to the café thirty-five minutes and between the humpty man’s going and coming one hour fifty-seven minutes. Gently continued at his table until the humpty man’s return. Each time he watched the humpty man closely from his appearance to his disappearance. The humpty man walked with his head down and with a slight roll of his shoulders and giving a slight snatch with his shoulders occasioned perhaps by his short legs. He looked at nobody and spoke to nobody. He wore a cap dragged forward on his head. After he had passed out of sight for the second time Gently sat still for some minutes. Then he rose.

Thus: Superintendent Gently spent a very warm afternoon assisting Inspector Parfitt and Detective Constable Joyce in the prosecution of their inquiries, and learned a great deal about waterside bungalows and the people who hired them and their habits. He found no witness who had seen Harry French on the night of Tuesday August 4th nor any witness who had seen his launch or had seen or heard any disturbance. Neither, in passing, did he find a witness who had seen a late-sailing half-decker, though he talked to several who might have seen it and even to one who knew John French. He did not talk to Rhoda Lidney. She was questioned by Detective Constable Joyce. She had only to tell him that she had spent the evening quietly indoors with her husband, Sid: seeing nothing, hearing nothing, they could ask Sid, he’d tell them the same. ‘Don’t do anything about Lidney,’ Gently said. Nothing was done about Lidney. The owner of the old blue houseboat was not identified, although witnesses declared they had seen a man aboard her. She had no licence, no licence-holder. She had much water in her bilge.

Thus: Inspector Parfitt and Detective Constable Joyce returned to Starmouth with their evidence, and Superintendent Gently ate his evening meal at the Country Club. While he ate lights suddenly sparkled on the canopy of the Cakewalk across the bridge, machinery rumbled beneath the canopy and ‘Valencia’ crashed newborn into the warm still evening. Craft were moored touching and overlapping on the quays and the ronds opposite, tomorrow being handover day with handover time at ten a.m. Crews from these boats wandered over the bridge shouldered about the fairground stood in aimless groups filled the bars and garden of the Bridge Inn sat in the café sought tables in the Country Club. As yet they still wore their boat clothes. They were brown and golden from a fine week. They spoke in Midland accents for the most part also northern accents and some cockney. They moved slowly lingeringly lazily riverlike having time to watch talk get a little drunk on the last night. Some had met Harry French when they set sail some hadn’t even heard he was dead. Their tide was ebbing, tomorrow a new tide would run, ‘Valencia’ changing to ‘Harvest Moon’ changing to ‘Donna Clara’ changing to ‘Ramona’. All this Gently saw while he was eating his evening meal.

Thus: he also saw the humpty man and John French coming out of the café the humpty man looking about him with puckered eyes John French with shoulders hunched his hands in his pockets the humpty man talking John French listening the humpty man motioning with his head several times towards the cinder path John French hanging back the humpty man making gestures talking John French shrugging the humpty man nodding the humpty man turning and going up the cinder path John French turning and going slowly over towards the yard.

Thus: Gently rose from his table and followed John French.

John French continued walking very slowly across the yard and came at last to a side mooring dyke in which several workboats were moored. He stood by the dyke, looked at the boats, kicked some gravel into the dyke, looked at his father’s launch, which was also moored there, scuffed at the gravel, stood. Then after a few minutes during which time his hands had remained in his pockets he removed his hands from his pockets, stooped, untied the outermost workboat and stepped aboard it. He pulled over the engine and the engine started. He steered the boat into the main dyke and towards the river. On reaching the river he pointed the boat downstream and opened the throttle a little further. He didn’t look backwards towards the bridge but forward towards some upcoming craft and so he didn’t see the launch
White Heron
leaving the Country Club dyke near the bridge. He sat by the tiller of the workboat with one hand returned to his pocket. His head was inclined forward. He steered precisely and without attention.

The workboat went through the bungalows and by a small dilapidated yard and by a brick pumpmill tower without sails or cap but with a huge toothed wheel slanted out of the top of it and by the speed-limit signs and by a public staithe dyke to the left and by a brick and thatch cottage below the rond wall which cottage was advertising fresh eggs and so to half a mile of reed ronds behind which black-and-white cattle grazed on grazing marsh and a dyke proceeding to the right towards trees higher ground and a square flint church-tower. John French turned the workboat into this dyke. The dyke twisted like a country lane. It passed the dyke and quays of a yard where were moored a fleet of rosewood-coloured yachts. It passed lawns entered alder carrs entered a small broad with a public quay resumed at the far end of the broad under tall weeping willow trees where a board said Private. Beyond this board it was hemmed with weeping willow trees till it ended at a quay at the foot of a lawn and above the lawn a yellowbrick house and above the house copper beeches. Here John French moored the workboat. He stepped ashore, went straight up the lawn. The lawn was bounded by rhododendrons and azaleas and fuschias and begonia beds. The front of the house which faced the lawn had twin bows with tall sash windows and between the bows french windows and in all the windows slatted blinds. John French didn’t look at these. He crossed a gravel path and turned right. He passed through a garden door into a tiled yard and through a kitchen door into a large kitchen. A woman was ironing in the kitchen. The kitchen smelled of heated linen. The woman was elderly and stout and wore a blue scarf on her head and had on plaid slippers. She tilted the iron when John French came in, looked at John French. He looked at her. The woman said:

‘So you’re back Mr John. I didn’t know whether to have a meal ready for you.’

‘I’d have rung if I’d wanted one,’ John French said. ‘Have they been on the phone again?’

‘Yes, they have,’ the woman said. ‘Your uncle’s been on the phone twice. Being very obstinate you are, he says, you ought to let one of them stay here till it’s all over.’

‘He can go to hell,’ John French said.

‘Well I think he’s right,’ the woman said.

‘He’s not setting foot in here,’ John French said. ‘None of them are. They can all go to hell. They snubbed us enough when my father was alive, now I’m doing the snubbing. They can go to hell. Who else rang up?’

‘Mr Laskey. He’d like to have an appointment, you’re to ring back,’ the woman said.

‘Damned old crow,’ John French said. ‘He’ll make a packet out of it if nobody else does. Anyone else.’

‘No,’ the woman said.

‘Have the police been back here?’

‘No,’ the woman said.

‘Don’t look at me in that way,’ John French said. ‘For heaven’s sake, Beattie, cheer yourself up.’

The woman sniffed, dropped her eyes to the ironing board. ‘I don’t know, Mr John,’ she said, ‘I keep carrying on, I tell myself I’ll stand by you. But I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Beattie,’ John French said.

‘It’s been such a shock, such a shock,’ the woman said. ‘And the way you carry on. It isn’t natural Mr John. Seems like everything’s gone to pieces, I just don’t dare to think about it.’

‘You’ve been up to the village,’ John French said. The woman nodded, sniffing.

‘I know,’ John French said. ‘I know what they’ve been saying to you. You were all right this morning, Beattie, you could look me in the eyes then.’

‘Mr John,’ the woman said.

‘Then if that’s the way you want it,’ John French said. ‘I’m not crawling to anyone Beattie, you can damn well believe what you want to believe. I don’t care, I know what I know. If you want to sling your hook you can sling it. Go on, get out. Just leave me here. Perhaps you think you aren’t safe, I’ll do something to you.’

‘Oh Mr John,’ the woman said.

‘I thought I could trust you,’ John French said. ‘I thought you were someone who knew me, Beattie. I thought I could trust you if nobody else.’

‘It’s been such a shock,’ the woman sobbed.

‘So what’s it been like to me?’ John French said. ‘It’s me who the police are trying to catch out, it was my old man who was hit over the head.’

The woman wept.

‘And now you,’ John French said. ‘The only one I had to depend on. And you’ve turned against me with the rest, you’re ready to leave me to face it alone.’

‘There’s your mother’s people,’ the woman sobbed.

‘I’ve told you I won’t have them here,’ John French said. ‘They’d love to come here pushing me around, but nobody’s going to push me around any more. Just get out if that’s what you want. I’d sooner you did. Then I’ll know where I stand.’

His face was working. The woman sobbed. The smell of heated linen filled the kitchen. John French was trembling and clenching his hands in his pockets. From the tilted iron came simmering noises.

‘Beattie,’ John French said. ‘I didn’t Beattie. I didn’t. I didn’t.’

The woman went on sobbing.

‘I didn’t. I didn’t.’ John French said, ‘Beattie. Don’t you believe me?’

‘Oh Mr John,’ the woman said.

‘It’s just . . . damnable,’ John French said. ‘But I didn’t, Beattie. That’s the truth. Remember it Beattie. It wasn’t me.’