Gently Instrumental (19 page)

The sun was off Leyston’s office again, which was probably worth a few degrees. Another bundle of sticks, Mason’s haul from Meares’s house, lay waiting on the table like some auctioneer’s job lot. William Crag stumped in and threw down his hat. He dropped his bag and stick on the desk. From his pocket he drew a clean white handkerchief and proceeded to pat his face and bald crown.

‘This blessed weather!’

Gently said nothing. He took his seat behind the desk. Crag finished his toilet and put away the handkerchief; though there was a chair, he remained standing.

‘So you’ve been chastising the sinful, have you?’ he said.

Gently shrugged and stayed silent.

‘Ah. And I reckon his tongue has prevailed, do you wouldn’t have laid hands on my boy. Aren’t I right?’

‘You’re right,’ Gently said.

‘Ah.’ Crag’s pebbly eyes gleamed at him. ‘And now you’re putting the boy through it – on account of some rubbishy watch, they tell me.’

‘Virtue’s watch,’ Gently said.

‘What matter whose – you’re saying he stole it.’

‘Are you saying he didn’t?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes – twice over! My boy isn’t a thief.’ He moved closer to the desk. ‘So what did Dave tell you?’

‘Your grandson insists that the watch was a present.’

‘Then you’d better believe him!’ Crag said violently. ‘Dave would never lie about a thing like that.’

‘Though he lies about other things?’ Gently said.

Crag’s eyes were bitter. ‘Well, never you mind!

Dave’ll be forgiven, in another place.’ He got out the handkerchief again, patted himself and blew his nose. ‘He spoke up, did he?’

Gently hunched. ‘He told as many lies as came into his head.’

‘You weren’t over-harsh with him?’

‘It isn’t my method.’

Crag nodded glumly. ‘I reckon not.’ He stood gazing for a spell, beamy-eyed, his moon-like face wretched. Then he sighed heavily. ‘Well, you can let the boy go now.’

‘Let him go . . . ?’

‘That’s what I said. He never stole that watch, and all.’

‘You don’t seem to understand Mr Crag.’

‘It’s you who don’t understand, my man.’ He levelled a stern stare at Gently and leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Dave was never at the cottage,’ he said. ‘Not when that lot was going on. I laid my stick athwart his stern and sent him hollering home again.’ He pointed to his eyes. ‘I can still use these. And you’ll find the bruise-marks on his behind.’

‘You – sent him home?’

‘Ah, I did. He wasn’t where he could steal no watches. When I was through with Master David there was nothing left but go to bed.’ He picked up the stick. ‘Here. This is the one you should have been looking for. My old dad’s quietening-stick, this is. He was a copper, just like you.’

He handed the stick to Gently. It was an ash stick with a knob that felt unduly heavy. Gently ran his nail across the top of the knob: a silver streak showed. The stick was loaded with lead.

Crag was patting his face again. ‘This heat! It’s enough to make a parson swear. I reckon the Good Lord has got his back turned, leastways he’s busy with other things.’

‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Just a few of my things. You can send the boy’s gear back along with him. I’ve had a word with my sister, that’s Nellie, and she’s coming in to keep an eye on him.’

He dropped suddenly on a chair. A step sounded outside: Leyston’s long face appeared at the door. For a moment he stared at the two men, then quietly withdrew, closing the door. Crag leant elbows on the desk.

‘I never meant to harm him, you know,’ he said. ‘Not above fair and just chastisement, such as the Lord might visit on a sinner. But the Lord was vexed with him and me. The Lord put a stone into his hand. Then I had to guard my head, like my old dad taught me a long time ago.’

‘And Meares . . . he caught you at it?’

Crag paused a long time. He shook his head. ‘I can’t say nothing about Mr Meares, except that perhaps now he’s wishing his sins away.’

‘You can’t – or won’t?’

‘The same thing, my man, for all you’re getting out of me.’

‘You may need his testimony.’

‘Then I’ll want for it. But I shan’t ask him for it, and that’s flat.’

They stared at each other across the desk, across the loaded stick lying on it. Crag’s eyes were slightly protrusive and grey as the shingle: flinten eyes.

‘And . . . the doctor?’

‘No, no, old partner!’ The eyes took on a gleam.

‘Here I am, and I’m your man. But that’s all I have to say.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘It’ll have to do.’ He rose and picked up his bag.

‘And now I reckon it’s time you locked me up, do you’ll be late for your lunch, my man.’

‘S
UPERINTENDENT
. . . ?’

Tanya Capel’s voice had assumed the neutral tones of a trained receptionist and, though faintly, one could catch behind it the evensong of some bird. Gently in fact was lying naked on his bed, having just come out of the bath; a tiny breeze was playing through the window and deliciously drying his damp skin. He mumbled a reply.

‘Henry is back, Superintendent. He would like to see you in say – half an hour? If that wouldn’t put you out for dinner.’

‘It won’t put me out.’

‘You could have a bite with us.’

‘No, but thanks all the same.’

‘In half an hour then? It can’t be later, because

Henry has a rehearsal at eight.’

He clamped the phone down, stayed prone for a moment, then grudgingly swung his feet to the floor. The breeze was coming from a sea already irradiated by the western sun. Its long seams were articulated and dream-like leagues showed on the horizon. Gilded coasters, no longer silhouettes, were moving like chessmen across a board. Evening again . . . and a sky with some blueness. But what hope dared one draw from that?

He dressed, went down to the Marina and drove the short distance to Capel’s house. The Volvo was back, looking dustier than ever, and parked beside it an MGB. The latter also sported a doctor sticker and another that read: Guy’s Resident; Virtue’s understudy, no doubt. The car was untidy and had a doubtful tyre.

‘Henry is in the shower, Superintendent . . .’

Tanya Capel’s smile was less warming this evening. She led him down the echoey tiled hall to a room with French doors into the garden. It was furnished as a library. Its tall, varnished oak bookcases were of the period of the house. On a long, matching table, beside a vase of roses, lay a couple of Uffa Fox quartos.

‘Can I bring you a beer?’

‘Not for the moment.’

‘Henry will only be a few minutes.’

She paused briefly then swept out, leaving a faint odour of sandalwood.

Gently shrugged to himself. Outside, the doctor’s lawn looked greener than most people’s. It was bordered by beds of colourful annuals and by roses denuded of every dead head. A crazy-paved path, bright with rock plants, led to a sundial and a pool, and a square-cut beech hedge hid the kitchen garden and all but the roof of a large greenhouse. A garden where everything grew, everything flowered, kept its place . . . Red Admirals, plentiful that summer, played around the annuals and a rampant buddleia.

‘Ah . . . Gently.’

Through an arch in the beech hedge one could glimpse earthed rows of potatoes, tented frames of runner beans, a wheelbarrow with a hoe leant against it.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Also, by the wheelbarrow, a watering can: large and green, with a long, fine spout that ended in a flattened rose.

‘Shouldn’t we sit down?’

From somewhere in the house sounded the clear, chuckling notes of a clarinet. Gently turned to face Capel who had come forward from the door.

Capel’s greying hair was dank and he was buttoning the cuffs of a fresh white shirt. His angular face wore a cautious smile as he shepherded Gently to one of two chairs that faced the French doors. He took the other and, still smiling, finished his business with the cuffs.

‘Are you going to jump on me from a great height?’ Gently stared but said nothing.

‘I’ve been phoning around, you know, since I got back, so there isn’t any bombshell for you to spring on me. But I sense a certain dissatisfaction – as though pinching my gardener hadn’t made you happy.’ He made a wry mouth. ‘To tell you the truth, it hasn’t made me very happy, either.’

Gently’s stare was inflexible. ‘I’ve come for the truth.’

‘Oh now, now!’ Capel smiled. ‘Jesting Pilate and all that. What more can you possibly need to know?’

‘You’ve got my witness and I want him back.’

‘I don’t think I comprehend, old lad.’

‘You comprehend,’ Gently said. ‘I’m asking you to take the gag off Meares.’

‘Well now, well!’ Capel was keeping his smile amused. He tilted his unusual face and eyed Gently a little askew. The notes of the clarinet sounded again, a long trill, falling and rising. Capel’s eyes switched in their direction and he sketched the phrase with his finger.

‘If I could have your attention,’ Gently said.

Capel shrugged. ‘Carry on, dear soul.’

‘Then listen. William Crag has confessed and his confession will stand up in court. It is confirmed by his grandson and by a positive report on his stick from the lab. But Crag won’t go beyond that. He won’t admit the presence of Meares. And Meares agrees that he was present but won’t admit the presence of Crag. Crag chooses not to involve Meares. Meares won’t bear witness against Crag.’

‘Good for Craggy!’ Capel smiled. ‘But how do you know that Leonard
was
a witness?’

‘I know, because you told me.’

‘I!’

‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘you. Last night you reconstructed the killing exactly as Crag describes it in his statement. You’d talked to an eyewitness – Meares. Meares came to confide to you the morning after. He saw it happen. He told you. You’ve known who the culprit was all along.’

Capel examined his long fingers. ‘I’d be a fool to admit that, wouldn’t I?’ he said. ‘You’d be at my throat with an accessory charge, and Leonard’s too. Isn’t that the game?’

‘But about your gardener you couldn’t care less?’

‘How do you mean – about my gardener?’

Gently grunted. ‘For such an intelligent man you have some amazingly dense moments! If we charge Crag on his confession the charge will be murder with the alternative of manslaughter. If his account is confirmed by a credible witness the charge could be reduced to unlawful killing.’

‘You mean he might get off?’

‘There’s a fighting chance – with the sort of counsel you can afford.’

‘He’s going to have that anyway,’ Capel said slowly. ‘But what about us – me and Leonard?’

Gently stared bleakly. ‘That’s up to Leyston.’

‘You’ll leave it to him – old mutton-chops?’

‘It’s his decision.’

Capel’s smile crept back. ‘I must declare an interest. Leyston’s a patient.’

‘So.’

Capel’s smile became a grin. ‘I think it’s time we had a beer,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a hectic day in committee, and I daresay you’ve been having one, too.’

They drank lager from misted glasses while outside the sun dropped behind the beeches. Quite definitely the sky had a bluer tint, and the sea breeze was stirring the scorched leaves. Down the lawn a wagtail was dipping at the pool. The clarinet had fallen silent. Instead one heard conversation and occasional laughter in another room.

‘I expect you’ve pumped Leonard dry,’ Capel said musingly. ‘He’ll only be sticking at the one point.’

‘We know of his association with Virtue and of Virtue’s attempt to blackmail him.’

Capel drank. ‘Leonard was an idiot. Of course, he should have gone straight to you people. But that, in his case, meant going to Leyston – and Leyston happens to be a customer. Rather off-putting. Then there’s his wife.’ He paused. ‘Have you met Leonard’s wife?’

‘Very briefly.’

‘You may have formed an opinion. Dotty Meares has a destructive personality.’ He took a clinical pull. ‘That’s what’s at the bottom of it, Leonard making himself an ass over Virtue. He’s thick with Laurel, but Laurel was too obvious. Dotty wouldn’t have any suspicions about Virtue.’

‘Meares not being a chronic homosexual.’

‘No more than I am,’ Capel said. ‘There’s a streak in most of us – repressed childhood experiences – but it only surfaces in rare cases. Leonard’s was one of them. He was emotionally obstructed and prepared to accept the female in Virtue. Realization was traumatic, of course. I would pronounce Leonard cured for life.’

‘Did he consult you about that?’

Capel shook his head. ‘Too shamefaced. He told me about it first on Wednesday, to explain what he was doing at the cottage. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, but he was going to give Virtue his deserts, and then brazen it out. Lucky he didn’t – he might have damaged those precious hands.’

‘Instead, his nerves were damaged.’

Capel laughed. ‘He’ll get over that. I’ll have a session with him this evening, and then he’ll be playing like a bird.’ With one hand he mimed the bowing of a cellist. ‘Leonard can play in his sleep, you know.’

‘Tell me what he told you,’ Gently said.

Capel plucked imaginary strings. ‘Skipping the overture and first act, he told me he followed Virtue to the cottage. It was nearly dark and he met nobody. As he turned into the lane he heard voices – angry voices. He recognized Craggy’s citing Sodom and Gomorrah and calling down brimstone. Then he heard the stick whopping and, when he got closer, could see Craggy whacking at Virtue’s backside. That was all bunce as far as Leonard was concerned, so he stayed clear and let Craggy get on with it.’ Capel twanged a single note. ‘Virtue grabbed the flint and screamed that he’d smash in Craggy’s bald head. Craggy dodged a bit, then reversed the stick and let Virtue have it as he was coming in.’

‘And what was Meares doing just then?’

Capel drank slowly, tasting the lager. ‘I should think it happened rather quickly, with old Leonard simply goggling. He’s not a man of violence, you know. It would take him a moment to weigh up what he was seeing.’

‘How many blows were struck with the knob-end?’

‘Just the one. It was enough. Either Virtue had a very thin skull, or there was more in the stick than met the eye.’