Gently With the Painters (6 page)

‘Did they do that on Monday?’

‘N-no, I think they went straight down, and it struck me that Mrs Johnson was looking a bit peevish. I watched them across the marketplace, with Stephen chattering away to her; but she hardly said a word to him, and when she did, he seemed put out by it. Something’s upset her, I said to myself, and I remember thinking it might have been her husband. Anyway, poor Stephen was getting the edge of it, and that’s maybe what made him so angry later.

‘Well, I went down into the bar after that – we’d got a darts team coming, and I like to watch a darts match. Now and then there was a knock on the shutter for drinks, but I soon got rid of them and latched up the door again.’

‘Did you catch anything of what was going on down here?’

Dolly stared for an instant at her revolving beer. ‘They were going on about Mr Wimbush, how he’d used the
wrong colours. It’s always something like that – they never seem to do anything right! If I painted any pictures I wouldn’t show them to that lot …’

‘Could you hear Mrs Johnson?’

‘Oh yes, she was at it. Though I can’t remember anything she said, not particular. But I thought the same thing – she was upset about something; she sounded spiteful, you know, as though she wanted to take it out of someone.’

‘How many times did they knock for drinks?’

‘Two … three times, I think it was.’

‘And each time you served them you could hear Mrs Johnson?’

‘Yes, I told you …
and
later on! That was the time when the big row started – half past nine, as near as makes no difference. Me, I was washing up a few of the glasses, and Father was having a Guinness along with Bob Samson. It went off sudden, if you know what I mean. They’d been right quiet just a minute before. Then I heard Stephen Aymas shout something out, angry-like, and before you could say it they were all carrying on.’

‘What was it that Aymas shouted?’

‘That I can’t tell you. I was listening to what father was telling Bob Samson. But later on I heard him bawling that somebody wasn’t genuine, and then that they were a liar and hadn’t ever told the truth.’

‘Who do you think he was referring to?’

‘Why, Mrs Johnson, of course. You could hear her shouting back at him, though naturally, not so loud.’

‘And did you hear what she said?’

‘No, but she sounded more spiteful than ever. You can
lay your hand to your heart that she was the one who set it off. Well, then father switched on the wireless and turned it up as high as it would go – Edmundo Ros, it was, and Victor Silvester after that. The boys went on with their darts match, though it was putting them off a bit … they’re a useful lot from the Grapes, they went a long way in the Shield …’

‘Did you hear anything else that was said?’

Dolly shook her head. ‘There wasn’t much chance. And by the time we’d hung the cloth up, they’d managed to cool themselves off a bit. I went down after their glasses. She’d gone by then, had Mrs Johnson. Those that were left were still muttering to each other, but they dried up when they saw me.

‘I asked them what all the fuss was about – like I told you, I know them pretty well; but they shrugged and put me off, said I wouldn’t understand it anyway.’

‘Was Aymas still in the cellar then?’

‘He was leaving just as I was going down.’

‘You couldn’t give me the time, precisely?’

‘Near enough twenty to eleven, I should think.’

Which was almost exactly on cue, if Aymas intended to follow Mrs Johnson – though whether the moment was propitious for offering lifts was a point which a good defence counsel would snatch at. But then, such an offer might not have come into it. The idea of that lift was still hypothetical. And in the meantime a case was slowly tightening around Johnson: they could now show some motive and the appearance of a prior plan.

‘In the morning I’d like you to come along and sign a statement.’

‘To the police station, you mean?’ Dolly looked a little concerned. To have a chat over a beer in the cellar of the George was, apparently, poles apart from the same thing at HQ. Gently grinned at her consternation:

‘I give you my promise not to eat you …’

Still, she looked as though she thought that she might have been mistaken in him.

The bar, when he returned upstairs, had several more customers in it, and the radio over the cigarette display was playing a Grieg dance. A game of darts had begun, played with private sets of darts: it was plain that the sport was taken seriously by the George III patrons.

The publican touched his arm: ‘There’s three of the playmates over there …’

He motioned with his head towards a table near the door, at which was sitting Phillip Watts in the company of two older men. One of them, from Mallows’s description, Gently recognized to be Baxter, and the other, by his smart appearance, he guessed was the bank manager, Farrer. As he studied them Watts looked up, and his eyes
encountered
Gently’s; after a word to his two companions he rose and signalled to the detective.

‘Can I offer you a drink, sir …?’

Gently went over to them, shaking his head.

‘If I may, sir, I’d like to introduce you … I’ve just been telling them about this afternoon.’

They were, as Gently had supposed, the man from the bank and the poster painter, and it soon transpired that they had a grievance to air. Both their cars had been impounded by the machinations of Stephens; Baxter, who lived far off the bus routes, was particularly biting in his complaints.

‘I assume that the police
do
have these powers, but all the same, given a modicum of low-grade intelligence …’

He was just as Mallows had limned him, with a small, bony head and greying hair; he spoke in a dry and scratchy manner and wore steel-rimmed glasses over deprecating eyes. The pipe that he ‘whiffed’ at, giving successive little puffs, had a flat round bowl and a spindly stem.

‘I suppose it’s what you’d call routine,
Superintendent
…?’

Gently found himself taking a little better to Farrer. He was a good-looking man of not more than forty-five, and though his smile was probably professional, he was at least making use of it.

‘You realize that we are obliged to do these things.’

‘Of course, Superintendent. But you can’t expect us to like them.’

‘I could probably arrange some transport for you gentlemen.’

‘No, no, don’t bother. We’ll see it out now.’

He took the opportunity of asking where they had parked their cars on the Monday, though Farrer’s, he knew already, had been on the Haymarket. Baxter’s, it appeared, had been there also, and after a moment or two’s thought Farrer was able to confirm this.

‘Do either of you remember where Allstanley put his?’

Farrer pulled himself up short, but Baxter was not so discreet:

‘Allstanley comes from Walford – he’d have to come in along St Saviour’s.’ And he whiffed with his pipe stuck out at a defiant angle.

But when it came to the meeting itself there was a
conspiracy of silence. A curious sort of uncomfortableness seemed to descend on all three of them. It was as though they felt ashamed of the scene which had taken place, and had tacitly agreed to forget all about it.

‘I think I ought to tell you that this is important! I am already aware that Aymas quarrelled with the deceased …’

Farrer admitted that the two of them had disagreed about a picture, but at the same time insinuated that it could hardly be called a quarrel.

‘Yet they were shouting at each other?’

‘Aymas’s voice is naturally loud.’

‘Didn’t he call the deceased a liar?’

‘He’s called me one, too, before now.’

Baxter flatly observed that Aymas was ‘naturally
choleric
’, but permitted nothing else to escape past his pipe. As for Watts, he could take a tip from his elders and betters; he simply chimed in assentingly to whatever the others said …

The encounter was broken up by the appearance of Stephens, who had apparently come out looking for his errant senior. The young Inspector had a gleam of excitement in his eye, and it was easy to divine that he was fraught with red-hot information.

‘Could you come back to Headquarters, sir?’

Gently grunted and rose, nodding his
congé
to the three painters. Since it was too much to expect that Stephens could keep his news till they had returned, Gently took care to steer him the least-frequented way thither.

‘What’s it about – did you find something in one of the cars?’

‘Yes, sir, that is to say, no sir. But I’ve found something
else! You remember that there was a chummie called Aymas, sir?’

‘Aymas!’ Gently couldn’t keep the interest out of his voice.

‘Yes, sir, Aymas. One of those who had a car. Well, he hasn’t got it now, sir – he sold it to a firm of breakers. And he sold it on the Tuesday morning, right bang after the murder!’

Gently gave a soft whistle. ‘Have you managed to get hold of it?’

‘That’s the devil of it, sir. The breakers have gone and broken it up. But I’ve got a man over there, and they’re trying to identify the parts, and in the meantime I’ve taken the liberty of pulling in Aymas for questioning.’

And there was another trifling matter, one which Stephens had almost forgotten. He remembered it only as he was whisking up the steps to HQ:

‘Oh, and someone rang you, sir – a person by the name of Butters. He wouldn’t state his business to me, and he wants you to ring him back.’

I
NSPECTOR HANSOM, THE
Lion of Police HQ, had departed to his home shortly after six p.m. He had left a note, however, with the sergeant at the desk, and this was handed to Gently as he passed through with Stephens.

‘I thought you’d like to have the low-down on Butters, who rang a couple of times while you were out this afternoon. They’re an old county family, used to have the stuff in pots, and they still carry quite a bit of pull about the place. Butters himself is a pal of Sir Daynes Broke. Naturally, we’d be obliged if you soft-pedalled with him.’

Gently grinned to himself as he folded the note away in his wallet. Sir Daynes, the county Chief Constable, was also a pal of his own. It was probably as a result of this common denominator that Butters had insisted on
speaking
to Gently – rejecting, perhaps ungraciously, the respectful overtures of Hansom. But what had Butters got to do with the demise of Shirley Johnson?

Aymas was sitting alone in the charge room, looking ready to eat a dragon, and he sprang passionately to his feet as Gently peered round the door.

‘What the hell do you think all this is about—!’ His powerful frame shook with anger and defiance.

Gently shrugged and closed the door again: there was an excellent treatment for angry young men. It consisted of protracting their stay in the charge room, and during a long experience, Gently had rarely known it to fail.

‘Good … let’s go into Hansom’s office. It’s time we discussed the details together.’

Stephens was reluctant, but deferred to his senior. His hands were soiled with black grease and he had an oil smudge on his nose.

‘You drew a blank on the rest of them, did you?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. Though Baxter’s brakes aren’t up to standard …’

‘Where did Allstanley say he parked on that night?’

‘Behind the taxi rank, sir, on the island near the
marketplace
.’

‘Any verification?’

‘Yes, sir, the taxi drivers. He often parks there and it gets in their way.’

So that closed the account of the group members who owned cars, leaving Aymas standing out as the only likely customer. His car had been near the spot if not actually standing on it, and the nearest way to it from the bus stop led directly across the car park.

‘It raises one or two problems, though …’ Gently filled Stephens in on this. ‘He could hardly have stabbed her in his car, so why did he sell it to the breakers?’

‘He might have had blood on himself, sir, and then traasferred it to the car.’

‘It’s a possibility, of course – only there wasn’t a lot of blood.’

But the point might still be settled by a lucky find at the breaker’s yard, though the fact that the parts had been dispersed would weaken the evidence if it came to a case. It would be necessary to prove to the hilt that they had, in fact, come from Aymas’s car.

‘I’ll give you the rest of the dope on Aymas …’

Stephens heard him with eyes that glinted; it was plain from the youngster’s enthusiasm that he was abandoning his theory of blackmail. Now it was clearly a
crime passionel
, a case of sudden and irresistible impulse. Shirley Johnson had quarrelled with her passionate lover, and with the first weapon to hand he had stabbed her to the heart. Didn’t the facts support this thesis? Hadn’t they the grounds of an open-and-shut case?

But even as he was building it up, Gently was slowly rejecting the idea. Could it be that Stephens’s enthusiasm had sounded a still, small note of warning for him? It was altogether too simple – it didn’t harmonize as it should! There were undertones everywhere that produced an overall chord of dissonance. He had got so far into the business that he was beginning to feel it intuitively; it was no use selecting some facts from it to make a pattern that jarred with the remainder.

‘It might be best to wait a little …’

‘You mean, we’re not going to charge him tonight?’

Stephens, whose mind had been racing ahead, sounded as disappointed as a child.

‘Oh … we’ll put him through the hoop and see how much we can squeeze out of him. But don’t expect him to break down and dump confessions in your lap. For the rest, it depends on tying in his car, and unless you can do that,
the Public Prosecutor won’t look at it. Now give me the phone – I want to hear what Butters can tell us.’

The number was on the Lordham exchange, and this, at eight p.m., seemed difficult to contact. The Grieg dance which Gently had heard persisted in running through his head, conjuring up, quite irrelevantly, a picture of the rainy Bergen hills. And below them, in the fish market, knives were flashing on the busy slabs, while down the quay, beyond the Tyskebryggen, the
Venus
or the
Leda
waited …

‘Lordham one-five-eight.’

‘This is Superintendent Gently.’

‘Ah! I’m very glad to hear it. I’ve been trying to get you since lunch, sir.’

It was indeed a ‘county’ voice – a blend of Eton and the hunting field; one imagined that its owner was wearing spurs, or at the least, was flicking a dog whip.

‘My name is William Butters and I am acquainted with Sir Daynes Broke. He has always given me to understand that one can talk to you, Superintendent.’

‘Is it about the death of Mrs Johnson?’

‘Yes, it most certainly is. I have what I feel to be some vital information, and I would like you to call on me without further delay.’

Gently made a face at Stephens. ‘Couldn’t you tell me over the phone, sir?’

‘No, Superintendent, I couldn’t. It involves some highly personal explanations.’

In spite of his brusqueness a note of anxiety had crept into Butters’s voice – it was as though he wanted to ask a favour, and didn’t know quite how to set about it.

‘You are busy, sir, I am sure, but I am positive that you
won’t be wasting your time … this may well affect the whole case. It is essential that you should see me at once.’

‘Then if you would care to drive over, sir …’

‘No, I’m afraid it won’t do.’

‘Then if you could give me a little idea …’

‘No, Superintendent. You
must
come here.’

There was obviously no help for it, and Gently hung up with a sigh. Stephens, who had divined the state of affairs, was watching his senior’s expression anxiously. Gently gave him a grin:

‘You don’t have to wait for me, you know. Just carry on with Aymas according to the rules they gave you at Ryton.’

‘You mean me … I’m to interrogate him?’

‘Why not? It’s all good practice.’

‘But I thought, sir – since a charge is so near—’

Gently chuckled and punched the younger man’s shoulder.

The drive out to Lordham took him through familiar country, it being at Wrackstead that he had arrested Lammas, the burnt-yacht murderer. There, and at
Lordham
Bridge, the moorings were busy with pleasure craft, and Gently needed to drive slowly through the careless crowds of yachtsmen. The address he had been given was The Grange House, Lordham, a premises not to be found without a due amount of inquiry; he was directed down narrow lanes which seemed to have lost their
raison d’être
, and it was by following his instinct that he at last arrived at his destination. It was a moderate-sized property of Regency period, and stood palely among trees on a slope
above the River Ent. A portico with an elegant flight of steps graced the front, commanding a panoramic view of the sedgy, twining river. Its decoration, Gently noticed, was not in first-class order, and there were signs of neglect in the rather fine terrace gardens. The garage doors stood apart to reveal a highly polished Rolls, but it was a Rolls of a period which predated the Second World War.

He parked his Riley on the notched tiling in front of the garage, and made his way to the portico, of which the door was also open. Then, quite unconsciously, he threw a glance at the upper windows – to find that a pair of frightened eyes were staring down into his. It was only for a second. In the next, they had disappeared. From such a glimpse he had been unable to register either the sex or age of their owner. An instant later a curtain was pulled, though actually this was quite unnecessary; the room behind it was already darkened by the subdued light of the evening.

‘Superintendent Gently, is it?’

He found himself staring blankly at Butters. The man had approached him down the steps and was offering his hand with mechanical politeness.

‘I’m glad that you decided to call … I’m afraid this interview has been delayed too long. But perhaps if you are a family man, you will appreciate my position …’

Gently shook hands and mumbled something in reply – had they been an illusion, those fear-struck eyes? Butters led him into the house and along a wide, deserted hall, ushering him finally into a room which had a faintly mouldy smell. It was large, and period-furnished, but there were pale areas of damp on the wallpaper.

‘Can I offer you a drink to begin with …?’

Butters closed the door carefully behind him. He was a man of sixty or over and had a flushed and alcoholic face. His figure had probably once been athletic, but now was thickening and running to fat. He wore a suit of Donegal tweed of which the waistcoat seemed too small for him.

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have one myself … I always talk better with a drink in my hand. But you’d better sit down, Superintendent. This … I’m afraid it may take a little time.’

Obediently, Gently took possession of a petit point easy chair, one of a set of half a dozen which stood about the handsome room. Butters seated himself in another and swallowed down some brandy and water. From the slight tremulousness of the glass, Gently suspected that it was not his first.

‘Have you ever been to Norway?’

Once again, Gently was staring blankly. It was the merest coincidence, of course, and yet he couldn’t help feeling struck by it …

‘It’s a first-rate country for fishing, and I’ve been up there several times. You take the Bergen Line out of Newcastle – it gets you across in nineteen hours.’

‘Is this to do with Mrs Johnson, sir?’

‘Yes, and you’ll see how in a minute. But let me tell the tale my own way … it puts me out when people ask questions.’

Gently held back the ghost of a shrug and fixed his gaze on a French Empire clock. In Butters’s manner there was too much of the club bore: one could hear his ‘county’ tones droning on into the night …

‘I was there in ’53 at a hotel in Stalheim – just Phoebe and myself, the girls were in Switzerland that year. I can recommend the hotel if you’re up that way – usual incompetence with meat dishes, but that’s the same everywhere. Well, I was fishing one day some miles out of Stalheim, and I dropped into the local
pensjonat
for a spot of
middag
. I was put on a table kept reserved for another Englishman, and this other fellow turned out to be Johnson.

‘We fell to talking, of course – a treat to hear your own tongue; I can
snakker
a bit of the native, but only enough to get along with. He told me where he came from and the line of business he was in. Then we got on to the war, and fishing yarns, and places we’d been to …’

The upshot of it had been that Butters had taken a liking to Johnson. He had invited him back to his hotel and introduced him to Mrs Butters. Then, their holidays ending together, they had travelled back in company, first by coastal steamer to Bergen and then on the
Venus
home to Newcastle.

‘Well, just at that time I was selling my Lynge property, in fact it was already in the hands of an agent. But the local men are much too slow, Superintendent, all they know about selling are these nasty little bungalows …’

And so, quite naturally, he’d handed the job to Johnson, and Johnson had come up trumps by the end of a fortnight. He’d produced a retired company director from
somewhere
in Sussex, and what was even better, had got an advanced price from him.

‘It was a genuine deal, sir?’

‘As genuine as that clock! Nobody can have any complaints about the way he does business. He’s keen, sir,
and he’s got the brains, and he knows where to find the buyers. He’s moved off a lot of stuff that had been hanging fire for years.’

‘And you recommended him, did you?’

Butters had done, with enthusiasm. He had commended this pearl to his wide acquaintance of ‘county’ people. As a result Johnson’s business had flourished like a bay tree, and he had established a monopoly in the selling of cumbersome properties.

In the meantime, he had cultivated his personal relations with Butters, and had become a familiar visitor at Lordham Grange House. They had fished and played golf and gone sailing in Butters’s half-decker, and when Butters went into town, Johnson would take him to lunch at the Bell.

‘And that’s how it’s been going on …’

Butters sounded a little petulant; he had already poured himself another brandy and water. Several times, it had seemed to Gently, the man had shied away from something painful, and now he had come to a halt with the matter still unbroached.

‘You met Mrs Johnson, did you?’

Butters made some sort of a gesture – half turning, as he did so, so that his eyes avoided Gently’s.

‘Yes … that’s just what I want to tell you, but … damn it! I don’t know where to begin. It’ll all come out, I suppose – be plastered across the Sunday papers …’

He came to a stop again, and this time Gently forbore to prompt him. It was, after all, a voluntary statement, and Butters had a right to a sympathetic hearing. And, if what Gently guessed was correct, then Butters was showing a good deal of courage …

‘You understand that we’re a county family – not a rich one, I don’t say that. But we’ve got a certain position to keep up … connections, too. We’ve got a lot of connections.

‘My wife, for example, is a sister of Lady Kempton’s – I met her in ’23 at the Faverham Hunt Ball. And Cathy, she’s married to one of the Pressfords, and Elizabeth’s husband is a nephew of Lord Eyleham. Not that that matters – I’m not a snob, either! And though Johnson has no family, I’ve never held that against him. But the other was a shock, I don’t mind telling you, especially when I first saw it staring out of a paper …’