‘Yew mean they’re ordinara people?’
‘Yes… ordinara people.’
‘Onla suffns pushed’m into’t.’
‘Suffns pushed, and they’ve pushed back.’
Thatcher turned the dinghy with his oar and it floated gently into the mill-dyke. Above the sluice-gate, grotesque, sun-bleached, rose the ruined paddle-wheel, like a symbol from a lost world.
‘So yew aren’t realla agin’m…?’
‘No… I just want to stop them.’
‘Yew’re goin t’give’m another push.’
‘It isn’t me who does the pushing.’
The dinghy touched on the bank. Thatcher shipped his oars with a quick, suddenly irritable movement. Gently continued to sit trailing his fingers. About the mill there was an air of unnatural quietness.
‘W’here she is, dew yew want to see her.’
Thatcher’s voice had taken on a roughness. Gently nodded, but didn’t stir.
‘Would there be any works left in her?’
Thatcher silently tied the painter.
Reluctantly, Gently climbed out on to the bank. In front of the mill it was firm and clear. Behind and beside it a thick growth of bush willow hid the surrounding marshes, but just here it was rough, hummocky turf.
‘Tha’s the door dew yew’re goin in.’
Thatcher had climbed out too and was standing close behind him.
‘Mind y’head as yew go through… they dint build it t’take six-footers.’
Gently went forward towards the gap and Thatcher followed a pace in the rear.
But before they could enter there was an interruption. The smart, uniformed figure of Superintendent Walker emerged from the mill. And along with him, ducking their heads, came five other people — Mrs Lammas, Paul, Pauline, Hansom and Dutt.
An assembly of eight, they stood staring at each other on the hummocky turf in front of the mill.
‘Gently, I’d like to know what the devil you’re playing at!’
The super began angrily and then broke off, aware of an undefinable tension which had somehow sprung up.
What was it? What had happened?
Everyone was standing there like statues!
‘Gently, I might as well tell you…’
Gently wasn’t listening to him. Nobody was listening to him. Pauline Lammas had covered her face, Paul was staring frantically in front of him, his mother’s eyes were ferocious burning coals. But why? What was causing it? Nobody had as much as spoken a syllable!
‘Gently…’
The super glared from one to another, desperately trying to comprehend the unbearable strain. It couldn’t last, this! Something would have to give somewhere. They stood as though rooted by a frightful supernatural power — Gently too, poised on his toes, and Thatcher, looking as though he had seen the devil.
And still it went on!
Sweat began beading on the super’s brow.
He wanted to say something, to take charge somehow. But his throat had gone dry and his brain seemed paralysed. He looked at Hansom. Hansom’s mouth was open to its fullest extent. He looked at Dutt. The sergeant had a sort of grinning frown on his face. Had they all gone mad? Was it the super who was mad?
‘Someone… somebody!’
He couldn’t recognize that croak as his own.
‘I’m asking you…!’
It might have been a scene from another planet.
And then, very, very slowly, something did begin to happen. At first it was little gasping coughs, almost as though somebody were muttering to himself, but then it increased both in volume and pitch.
Paul was laughing. But what laughter!
With his lips drawn tight across his teeth, he was sending out great rippling screams of laughter, laughter that iced the blood in the super’s veins.
‘Stop it — stop that row!’
Paul only shrieked the louder.
‘Slap his face… we’ve got to stop him!’
It didn’t occur to the super to slap Paul’s face himself. He daren’t move either… now! He was petrified like the others. Instinctively he knew that a movement would trigger off something.
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’
From bank to bank the crazy laughter echoed.
In the hot afternoon sun the super shivered and sweated at the same time. Was nothing going to break it? Would it go on for ever?
If only one understood… if one knew who…!
When the end came, it was almost an anti-climax. The enormous tension snapped as inexplicably as it had begun. There was a cry from Dutt, a sudden flurry of movement. A heavy body went one way and a silenced. 22 Beretta the other.
At the same moment, as though part of the same mechanism, Mrs Lammas struck her son a blow on the face, a blow that well nigh felled him to the ground.
‘Get the cuffs on him, Dutt!’
‘Yessir. You bet, sir!’
Gently had not been tender and Thatcher was in no condition to resist. Over by herself Pauline Lammas was sobbing brokenly, Paul was gasping and holding his face. Mrs Lammas stood exactly as she had stood during the whole incident. Her eyes were fixed on Thatcher as though she would turn him into stone.
‘But who in the hell is this fellow?’
The super spoke dazedly, still trying to catch up.
Gently motioned to Dutt.
‘Get him up on his feet.’
‘I’m asking you, Gently!’
‘In a minute — get him up!’
It was anti-climax now and still incomprehensible. The super couldn’t place Thatcher. He just didn’t belong in those handcuffs!
‘You understand what I’m saying?’
Thatcher was breathless, but he understood.
‘Very well, I take it you do — and you must know what to expect! I hereby charge you, James William Lammas, with the murder of your chauffeur, Joseph Hicks, and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence.’
A bemused silence followed this statement. It was so completely bizarre, so unreal. Yet Thatcher wasn’t trying to contradict the charge and the silenced Beretta lay bearing mute witness on the trampled turf.
‘You’re crazy… it couldn’t be him!’
Hansom found his tongue.
‘Lammas was a slim type — this bloke could give him five stone. And he was ten years younger! I tell you there isn’t any resemblance.’
‘That’s right, Gently!’ Hansom had taken the words out of the super’s mouth. ‘I’ve seen Lammas’ photograph and he wasn’t remotely like this chap.’
Grimly Gently approached the heavy-breathing Thatcher. A clumsy finger hooked into the seamy waistcoat and ripped off the buttons from top to bottom. Then it was the turn of the twill shirt, and then the cotton vest.
‘There… that’s how he got the figure!’
