became like a job-lot of pieces out of several different puzzles, with odd bits everywhere that wouldn’t fit at all. Yet there was a governing principle somewhere. There had to be! However square the facts looked, one knew that at a certain moment on Friday evening they formed a complete and unbroken circle.
What wasn’t he seeing, in all that hotch-potch of motive and opportunity? What was the dynamic factor that he kept passing over, time and again?
Right at the beginning he had had a hunch that something obvious was staring him in the face. It was time now he saw it! Hadn’t he got all the facts?
‘There’s only the shover to pick up now, sir,’ Dutt reminded him soothingly. ‘We must get him soon — it only stands to reason.’
Gently grunted without conviction. Somehow, the chauffeur had never impressed him as being more than a cipher in the business.
‘He’s got the worst motive of the lot of them. He may have guessed that Lammas had some money on him!’
But that was no reason. As often as not it wasn’t the motive that made the murder. People kill for the most pitiful of motives, often so petty and obscure that one could hardly believe in them. Lammas had once checked Hicks and that was quite enough for motive. It could rankle for years until it found an opportune moment.
‘Anyway, this is too clever. There’s intelligence and character behind what went on here.’
Such intelligence as Marsh had, for example. Or Paul. Or Mrs Lammas. Or all three in conjunction… what sort of murdering conference had taken place at ‘High Meadows’ that evening, while the ‘loyal and discreet’ Hicks stood by, the perfect tool, the perfect fall-guy? Marsh, to gain a rich bride! Mrs Lammas, to foil an escaping husband! Paul, to lay for ever the spectre of National Service and an honest job! It was just a happy coincidence that killing Lammas would be pleasant work for Hicks also.
But then there was this damned woman here, somehow up to her neck in it. Gently cast a none-too-friendly glance at the still, apparently sleeping form on the couch. In what possible capacity could she have been of the faction? And which was the ‘him’ she was carrying the torch for? Not Marsh, that was certain. It rested with Hicks and Paul. And Paul was the one you were compelled to cast for the part. And if she knew it was Paul, then Paul must have communicated with her… it was the only way she could possibly know.
Gently came to a full stop in his restless pacing.
They hadn’t found any letters… but Paul had been out on his motorcycle yesterday!
‘Stay here — I’ll be back in a moment.’
He went striding out of the bungalow.
Next door a family party had just returned from the beach. They were a middle-aged couple with three young children and they were spreading out towels and costumes, and shaking the sand out of their shoes.
‘Just a minute! I’d like a word with you.’
They all looked round at him.
‘I’m a police officer making certain investigations… you may be able to help me.’
After some moments of suspicion, they were almost over-helpful. No detail was so trifling, but one or other of them could add it to the tally. Yes, they could remember Miss Brent arriving at the bungalow on the Friday. It was just after little Ernie had cut his foot on a piece of glass, by deduction just after 8 p.m. and he ought to have been in bed… oh yes, she was quite alone and carrying two cases, she was, and wearing one of those posh dresses and etc., etc.
‘She hasn’t left the bungalow since she came?’
No, of that they were certain. They had palled-up at once. She hadn’t any side, though she did speak la-di-da. They had even had meals together and gone shopping in the village… the kids were quite attached to her, she’d put some plaster on little Ernie’s foot and bought them all ice-creams.
‘She wouldn’t have had any visitors?’
No, she’d always seemed rather lonely.
‘Yesterday evening, for example?’
It was quite impossible, since they had all gone to a travelling film show in the village hall together.
‘One more question… it’s about the mail. Does the post office deliver up here?’
It did. It came in the mornings. Every morning they had a letter from their daughter Marge, who they’d left at home.
‘And Miss Brent has had letters?’
Miss Brent had had none. She had looked out for the postman, but no letter had ever arrived.
Gently left them to shake out their sandals.
Had the luck of good detectives forsaken him?
On the other side of the sand-hills the children’s cries and booming combers sounded mocking beneath the sun.
There was sadness in the mien of Superintendent Walker, a brooding, angry sadness born of hunches that hadn’t paid off. This was the second time it had happened and it was damaging to his morale. On the first occasion Gently had been unofficial, which had been a sort of excuse for disregarding him. But on this occasion he had come with full credentials and there was no excuse of any kind. Success, success alone, would have justified the strong man of the City Police in shoving Gently aside. And success, alas, had not come his way in any measurable degree. After a day of hard marsh-frisking, cordons and road-blocks, he was still a Hicks-less super. He had even begun to despair of ever laying hands on that elusive customer. And for this he had said harsh words, for this he had ridden the high-horse, for this he had risked the rap on the knuckles he would undoubtedly get from a Gently-fancying Chief Constable.
‘Come in!’
It was Hansom, looking apprehensive at the rasping tone of the summons.
‘He’ll be in in a moment… just parking his car.’
‘Is the Brent woman with him?’
‘Nope… they carted her off to the Northshire and Norchester.’
The super drummed viciously on his desk-top.
‘Well, he nearly let her slip through his fingers, didn’t he!’
But there was no latent triumph in Gently’s face as he and Dutt came into the office. Rather it was an absent-minded expression… he hadn’t been saying a word during the drive into town.
‘Sit down — make yourself at home!’
The super’s sarcasm was intended to warn and give notice.
‘You know what luck I’ve had — I don’t need to tell you. There’s just one small item that my ham-fisted methods have brought to light, and which wouldn’t have turned up in any other way — that’s it, on the chair.’
He pointed to a dark garment and a peaked cap of similar colour. Gently picked them up. The garment was obviously a chauffeur’s jacket, cut in navy-blue serge, and it had some rubbed-out staining on the left shoulder and back. There were also a few spots on the left side of the cap, similarly rubbed out.
‘Where did you find these?’ Gently’s voice betrayed his interest.
The super made an ironic gesture. ‘Where does everything pop up? They were in a derelict shack in the carrs, about half a mile above Upper Wrackstead.’
‘On which side of the river?’
‘On the side opposite from you.’
Gently pulled out his map.
‘I’d like the exact position.’
The super showed him impatiently. Hadn’t he already investigated it?
‘There aren’t any prints, if that’s what you’re thinking about.’
‘What’s this line running up here?’
‘It’s a dyke from the river.’
‘There’d be room to take a boat up?’
‘There might, if it was small enough.’
‘What about access to the road?’
‘It’s like you see — about quarter of a mile from this by-road between Wrackstead and Coleshill. It’s a rough
