Gently Instrumental (8 page)

Capel chuckled. ‘You’ve been busy with a spade, Superintendent! What you want to know is whether Leonard was telling the truth about Tuesday night.’

‘And?’

‘I must confirm it. Leonard had a dose of false dysentery. He consulted me yesterday morning and I prescribed a kaolin treatment.’

‘Would that have taken you an hour during a busy surgery?’

‘Oh, an hour is an exaggeration.’

‘Not according to my information.’

‘Well, if you say so, Superintendent.’ The line was harmonic for a moment. ‘Of course, I didn’t time Leonard’s consultation and it might have run on for a few minutes. But not for an hour. You will have to take my word for it against your informant’s.’

‘And of course, your discussion with him was privileged.’

‘Strictly between doctor and patient. On which subject I may as well inform you that both Walt and Tom Friday are patients of mine.’

Gently grunted. ‘That would be no excuse in a case of obstruction.’

‘I must bear it in mind,’ Capel laughed. ‘Is that all?’

Gently hung up.

Leyston had been listening anxious eyed: now he regarded Gently with concern.

‘Sir . . . is it true that Mr Meares was with the doctor for an hour yesterday?’

Gently nodded. ‘I put pressure on Friday. His daughter Marion is Capel’s receptionist. Meares was there for over an hour yesterday morning, allegedly in a disturbed state.’

‘Still . . . it might just have been his tummy, sir.’

‘Did you visit the Music Room yesterday?’

‘Yes, I did, sir.’

‘Was Meares’s cello there?’

‘Yes, sir. In its case, standing on the platform.’

‘On every other evening he’d taken it home with him. On this one evening he didn’t. And it was Meares who provoked the row with Virtue by suggesting they drop him for an understudy.’

‘But sir!’ Leyston’s eyes were pained. ‘You’re forgetting that he left the hotel with Miss Hazlewood.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Off Saxton Road, sir.’

‘That’s on the way.’

‘But all the same . . .’

All the same it was a load of nonsense, was what Leyston left his expression to say: you couldn’t believe such stuff about a citizen with the credit rating of Leonard Meares.

‘You think Friday might have been having me on?’

‘I think he might try, sir, if you were pushing him. It’s a fact that he doesn’t love Mr Meares – some fuss about a mortgage that didn’t go through.’ Leyston tested a sideboard. ‘And now we’ve got this lead, sir, the chummie who was asking the Crag boy questions. I reckon that’s more in character with the case – and you did say the Parrys didn’t have an alibi.’

Gently shook his head. ‘We’re still feeling around.’

‘But if we do get a line on Frank Parry, sir . . .’

‘Then we’ll have to think again!’

He grinned wryly and heaved himself from his chair.

The White Hart was quarter of a mile from the police station and Leyston kept silence on the way there. With his jacket over his arm, he made rather an absurd figure in the waistcoat and long sleeves. He wore, Gently noticed, black Oxford shoes of a type scarcely to be found in town, a line perhaps reserved for undertakers. But they suited the style of the man.

As they approached the hotel he gave an exclamation.

‘Hozeley must be in there, sir.’

He pointed to a double line of cars parked on the plain before the hotel. One was distinctive: a black Rolls-Royce that might have strayed from someone’s museum.

‘Is that Hozeley’s?’

‘Yes, sir. It was left him with the cottage.’

‘Does he drive it?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Like you or me might drive a Mini.’

They paused beside it. It was a glorious beast of late twenties vintage, with a carriage-like body, horizontally-slatted radiator and coned wheels with eared hubcaps. Inside there was sufficient headroom and carpet almost to have walked up and down, while the gadgets and instruments on the dash belonged to an era awesomely remote. Nevertheless, it was a drivable vehicle. Just standing by it one could get the feel. Climb in behind that flat steering wheel and height and bulk would fall into place . . .

‘What do you reckon it’s worth, sir?’ Leyston murmured.

‘Too much for it to be left around in public.’

‘Old Mrs Suffling had a chauffeur for it. But Hozeley’s always driven it himself.’

‘Yesterday morning, where did you find it?’

‘Parked out here, sir, like now.’

‘That supports his story.’

‘He could have brought it back, sir. Or someone could have brought it back for him.’

Yes they could: it was not a point that the ingenious doctor would overlook. Gently gave the Rolls a parting nod and turned away.

‘Let’s interrogate lunch.’

In fact the meal was nearly over when they entered the hotel’s spacious dining room, with its tall, broad windows facing the Front and the sea. More than half the tables were vacated and at others they were dallying over coffee. There was an uninhibited chatter of conversation, as though those present were members of a single group.

‘Festival visitors,’ Leyston muttered as they were shown to a table by a window. ‘They come here early to book accommodation. There’ll be nothing left in town by tomorrow.’

‘Is it always a sell-out?’

‘Yes, sir. Everything’s taken for miles around. A lot of them drive up from London each day, and then the trick is to find parking.’

Certainly the clientele appeared more cosmopolitan than one would expect in a country town hotel. Gently took interested stock of the other lunchers as he disembowelled a prawn cocktail. There was chatter in French, in German, even a steady stream of Russian, along with cooing and meticulous English and accents identifiably Scots and Welsh. And exotic types to go with the chatter; smooth, insouciant faces and decorative clothes. At the next table sat a silk-shirted Italian and a dark, svelte female with a yard of cigarette-holder . . .

‘There’s Hozeley, sir.’

Leyston nodded to a corner. The composer sat alone at a single table. Before him was a coffee cup. He was smoking a cigar and staring through a window at the shingle and sea.

‘I think he’s spotted us,’ Leyston murmured. ‘But he doesn’t want to know.’

Gently made a mouth. ‘That’s understandable.’

‘Perhaps we should have another chat with him, sir.’

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Gently said.

‘Well . . . yes, sir!’

‘I doubt if Hozeley will run away.’

Their salad came, with fresh lobster, and Hozeley showed no sign of departing. Once or twice his eye slid towards them, to return at once to contemplation of the sea. A massive but shapeless figure: it could easily have been a woman who sat there smoking, her untidy grey hair reaching to her collar, her large but fine hand holding the cigar. And strangely, he seemed in his place, among those people babbling many tongues, though alone and regarding only the sea, though apart: he seemed at home. They were his disciples, if they knew it or not, and to each he could speak a familiar language. The heavy, slumped smoker in his solitary corner was the key presence in that room.

‘Just an ice and peach to follow.’

The rest of the tables were emptying now. Lunchers were sauntering out to their cars, the Renaults, Citroëns, Volks and Alfas. Hozeley was almost at the end of his cigar: he dabbed it in the tray near him. But still he sat on. A waiter, passing his table, paused enquiringly, but went on his way.

‘I think he’s waiting for us, sir.’

‘Did anything new come up when you saw him?’

‘Not apart from Crag, sir. He was acting vague. I thought perhaps the doctor had overdone the dope.’

More than likely; and perhaps that accounted for his immobility now. Or perhaps he was merely waiting for them to leave, in hope of avoiding a fresh encounter.

They finished their lunch. A waiter poured coffee: from the corner of his eye Gently saw Hozeley rise. Slowly, the big man collected his jacket, put away his lighter, and started towards them.

‘I wish to speak with you.’

‘Please sit down.’

‘I would sooner it was somewhere more private.’

His blue eyes fixed on Gently’s determinedly and his tone was calmly resolute.

‘Very well. Where do you suggest?’

‘We can use the private lounge.’

‘Why not the Music Room?’

Hozeley’s mouth twitched. ‘If you prefer it we can go there.’

Gently drank his coffee. They followed Hozeley from the dining room into a passage, then into a well-proportioned room fitted with sound equipment and a stage. Four music stands stood on the stage, with a grand piano pushed back behind them. Chairs were stacked along a wall and others scattered about the room. The walls were lined with dyed hessian, the floor carpeted with spongy matting. A range of thickly curtained windows looked out on the coast road and the sea. The room had a close, dead feel: it smelled faintly of hessian and cigar smoke.

‘Were you here earlier?’

Hozeley nodded.

‘What for?’

‘I was . . . trying to remember.’

He crossed the room, opened a window and stood inhaling the fresher air.

‘You know that Henry wants to bring in an understudy.’

‘Is that all you have to tell me?’

Hozeley shook his head. He came back from the window, hesitated, sat himself on the edge of the stage.

‘Since it happened I’ve been so . . . confused. I couldn’t bear to think about it quietly.’ He touched his chest. ‘Something in there was scattering my thoughts. I was living in chaos.’

‘And now?’

Hozeley drew a deep sigh. ‘Now, I think I may have got over it. I came here to force myself to relive it – to see it with someone else’s eyes.’ He spread his hands. ‘Of course I was infatuated. I can bear to say that now. Terry was never truly fond of me, never disinterested in his kindness. His talent blinded me. I longed to cherish it, to keep it always by me. And so I believed what I wanted to believe . . . that Terry responded in all truth.’ His eyes met Gently’s squarely. ‘I am responsible for what happened here. The blame for it lies in my egotism. Yes – I knew what I was doing.’

‘You were scarcely responsible for Virtue’s character.’

‘But I was responsible for holding him prisoner.’

‘In Virtue’s eyes, you were the sucker.’

‘Does that absolve me?’ Hozeley sank his head. ‘I accept all you say about Terry. He was dishonest and predatory. But perhaps at least he was more honest than I, in casting my folly back in my teeth. That was his most-loving deed. He dispelled the mist from my eyes.’ He brushed back a lock from his face. ‘What he did here was deliberate,’ he said. ‘That is what I wanted to tell you. Terry was working to a plan.’

‘A plan . . . ?’

‘Yes – a plan.’ Hozeley’s mouth had set grim. ‘At first I was too upset to realize it, but it’s plain enough to me now. He wanted the cottage on his own that night. That was the reason for his behaviour. He knew that if he were outrageous enough I wouldn’t be able to face going back there.’

Gently paused, staring at Hozeley. ‘What led you to think that?’

‘Everything.’ Hozeley stared back. ‘The way it developed, from the very beginning. Terry knew what he was doing. It wasn’t a question of loss of touch. He was deliberately sabotaging the rehearsal by coming in late and modifying his timing. Then when I failed to rise to that he resorted to the most wounding abuse he could think of, telling me finally that he intended leaving me and hinting that there was someone else.’ Hozeley plunged fingers into his hair. ‘I am ashamed to say that he succeeded. His insinuations even implicated the Quartet, not excluding Miss Hazlewood.’

‘She was specifically referred to?’

‘She was glanced at. But the insinuations were preposterous. He was heartily disliked by the other players – even in my blindness I was conscious of that.’

Gently glanced at Leyston, who was looking blank.

‘So what could have been the motive for this plan, then?’

Hozeley gazed wretchedly at the matting. ‘I have to accept there was another man.’

‘Have you any suggestions?’

‘Yes – now.’ His shoulders heaved resignedly. ‘Clearly it was the man who spoke to David on Monday.’

‘Him!’

‘Doesn’t that follow? His interest in Terry was explicit.’

Gently’s stare was less than encouraging. ‘I don’t think it follows at all. We knew nothing about that man except that your gardener has just remembered him.’

Hozeley hesitated. ‘You think David was lying?’

‘I think David was put up to it.’

Hozeley was silent, his mouth drooping. Then he shook his head with decision. ‘No. David is too naive. He would have told me if that were the case. I’m certain that David did see the man, and that he was the man Terry planned to meet.’

Gently clicked his tongue. ‘That’s too convenient.’

‘I’m sorry you should think so,’ Hozeley said coldly. ‘But this is no device of mine, if that is the insinuation.’

‘Did Virtue never speak to you about his past?’

‘If he did, it was confidential.’

‘About people who might have cause to be his enemies?’

Hozeley’s face took an obstinate set. ‘I have told you what I think, Superintendent. Your suspicions are quite unfounded. What is significant is that Terry had a motive in seeking to prevent me returning to the cottage. What it was is sufficiently plain. And further than that I can’t help you.’

‘Then perhaps the doctor can.’

‘The doctor . . . ?’

Hozeley’s eyes came to his quickly. But before Gently could press his advantage the spring-door bumped and a waiter entered.

‘A Chief Superintendent Gently . . . ?’

‘That’s me.’

‘There’s a phone call for you, sir.’

Grunting impatience, Gently followed the waiter to a pay-box in the hall.

‘Gently here.’

‘Greetings, old top.’ The Etonian accents were Pagram’s. ‘I thought you’d like to hear news of some of your grubby friends in town. Les Parry fr’eres, in fact. We made a pass at them with your cadaver. They sang the sweetest little duet, all about a ware-house break-in at Croydon.’

‘Is that straight up?’

‘Like the Post Office Tower. Met. have recovered the loot from Balham. Sorry if it blights your life, old fruit, but now you win one, now you don’t.’