‘It could have been his — what have you got to say to that?’
‘Nothing!’
‘You mean it wasn’t his?’
‘I mean — no, I’ve never seen it before!’
‘But even so, you’ve got an idea how it came to be in the loft — it was dropped in a struggle, wasn’t it? Taylor’s struggle for his life!’
The mixture of fear, despair and frustration in Fuller’s look was difficult to analyse, but it was a long way from being the simple emotion of conscious guilt.
‘You’ve got it wrong — he — he wouldn’t have carried one!’
‘Indeed? So you knew Taylor?’
‘No! But a man like that — he wouldn’t have been religious!’
‘I disagree, Mr Fuller. Some crooks are very religious.’
The miller bit his lip and stared agitatedly at the floor. He seemed to be being wrenched by two contrary forces, two equal powers which prevented him from articulating.
‘This cross… it might be anybody’s…!’
Gently shrugged with expression.
‘I mean… kids… a tramp — the door’s never locked! Why imagine, for instance… it might have been there…’
‘It’s anybody’s but Taylor’s, in fact?’
‘I didn’t say that, but…’
‘But you want to give that impression?’
‘No — but why jump to the conclusion…?’
Why indeed, when the miller had so unmistakably recognized the cross, and was trying his hardest to throw doubt on its ownership?
‘Of course, it could have been dropped by the murderer.’
Gently took back the cross and held it poised in front of him.
‘In strangling there’s always a struggle — even when the victim is a small man! Unless you know precisely where to press — and Taylor’s strangling was bungled — it takes an unexpected length of time to do a man in. Stranglers often panic and begin making mistakes…’
He had made a mistake himself. He had forgotten the presence of Miss Playford. The attractive clerk, the colour blanched from her cheeks, suddenly slipped forward from her chair and collapsed untidily on the floor.
‘Inspector, that was completely uncalled for!’
Pershore was on his feet in a minute, spluttering his safely grounded indignation.
‘You had no right, sir, whatever — your methods, if one may call them methods-!’
‘All right — let’s see to the lady!’
‘But you had no right to employ such despicable-’
‘For heaven’s sake shut up — fetch some water, if you want to be useful!’
He was angry with Pershore and angry with himself. For the second time that afternoon he had slightly misplayed a promising card. Fuller was on his knees by his clerk, chafing her hands and murmuring reassuringly. Now the spell was broken — Gently had lost his opportunity!
‘In spite of the threat you have seen fit to offer-’
‘Take this glass, sir. There’s a tap by the bakehouse.’
‘At whatever personal risk, I feel bound in duty-’
‘If you don’t mind, we’ll discuss it later.’
Pershore snatched the glass from him and stalked toweringly out of the office. Gently found a cushion and stuck it under Miss Playford’s well-shod heels.
Twice in a row… it was too much of a bad thing! If he went on like this it was time for his retirement…
CHAPTER NINE
Fiery red sun had broken through slated sky, touching the teatime streets with rosiness. There was no warmth in the phenomenon. It made the east wind feel colder than ever. Like an inflamed and warning eye the sun peered down the comfortless streets, threatening to bring storm and wrack in its wake.
People were hurrying homeward, dour and silent as they had been all day. Along with the streets and buildings they seemed driven into themselves; nothing merged, nothing harmonized, everything was separate and alien to everything else.
Lynton…
‘Just a coffee, please, waitress!’
Was it different in the summer? Perhaps… when the sun burned down! Or was it always like this, always at loggerheads with itself — was that the peculiar essence of the town?
‘Do you belong to Lynton, miss?’
‘Me? No, I come from outside.’
‘Like it here, do you?’
‘It’s a bit slow, sometimes.’
‘Ever think of moving?’
She hadn’t, not really; but her young man was wanting to get a job in Cambridge…
Dutt had arrived, riding a massive constable’s bike. He had parked it by the mill gate, in everybody’s way, and was now leaning beside it and gazing absorbedly at the mill.
In the office, Pershore was haranguing his tenant. Gently had left him at it ten minutes ago. Miss Playford, feeling revived, had been sent home early, after resisting Fuller’s offer to drive her in his car.
All the same, she’d been quite thrilled by his fuss when bringing her round.
Gently swallowed his coffee quickly, seeing Blythely enter the shop. The last card in his hand — and this one had to be played according to Hoyle!
They were checking up the till, he and his wife. The bread and rolls had all gone from the trays, the glass shelves in the windows carried little but soiled doyleys. Expert in everything appertaining to his trade, the baker could estimate his day’s work to a few teacakes…
Gently put down a coin and took his hat. As he was crossing the street Mrs Blythely had advanced to drop the latch on the shop door.
‘Just a minute — I want to come in!’
Her eyes met his through the glass, startled. Blythely, saying something, came over behind her, and with a pettish shrug she opened the door.
‘Actually, we’re closed, Inspector-’
The pettishness of the shrug found an echo in her voice. The shop, though empty, still smelled of cakes and pastries, while the air continued warm from the bakehouse round the corner.
‘You can see what we’ve got left — there’ll be nothing else till tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not here as a customer, Mrs Blythely.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late today? We’re going to the pictures!’
‘My regrets. I won’t keep you longer than necessary.’
Blythely, out of his working togs, certainly seemed uncomfortably dressy. He was wearing a thick black suit of provincial cut, and a gold Albert peeped out of his waistcoat pocket.
‘Like she says — it’s a bit late. Can’t you keep it for the morning?’
His glossy collar must have been purgatory to him.
‘We don’t often get out, and the wife looks forward to it — and what’s more, you had all I can give you this morning.’
Gently shouldered the door closed and dropped the latch. What was it that made this uncouth man so impressive? A yokel, he looked, a country-town yokel, and yet — if Lynton really wanted a mayor…
‘Shall we go upstairs?’
