‘What’s wrong with the shop?’
‘It’s a little public, perhaps.’
‘I’ve no business that can’t be…’
‘Possibly Mrs Blythely…’
The same applies to her.’
Gently shrugged and found a bentwood chair for himself, reversing it in his customary manner. Mrs Blythely, sulky-faced, took possession of another, but her husband continued to stand under the fuse-boxes by the door.
‘Now, about Thursday night…’
It was useless watching Blythely’s expression. He only had one, and that was carved on his face as it might have been on oak.
‘Some information has reached me which affects your statement.’
The eyes alone were changeable, but you only caught them in occasional, wary flashes.
‘But first I want to ask you something which may seem a little personal… by the way, do you wear that watch-chain all the time?’
‘Hmp!’ Blythely grunted. ‘I do — it was my father’s.’
‘Do you mind if I see it?’
Reluctantly the baker hooked his watch out of his pocket. The chain was a long one and opulently doubled. Besides the gold half-hunter there depended from it two seals and what appeared to be a masonic charm; they slowly revolved as Blythely held them suspended.
‘Isn’t there something missing from it?’
‘Missing? What should be missing?’
‘You take your religion seriously, Mr Blythely. Some people would carry a token of it.’
The quick eyes fell on him a moment, thrusting, exploring. Then they returned to the watch with its little garnish of ornaments.
‘We place no faith in graven images, if that’s what you mean. They are the sign of the Whore and not of the Word which is Life.’
‘I wasn’t referring to graven images, just the token of your belief.’
‘I have no token but the Word and the Hope in Jesu.’
‘Not even one like this?’
Gently produced the gold cross.
‘It seems to belong to that chain of yours, Mr Blythely… one would not be surprised to find it attached there.’
If the baker was unimpressible his wife was not. Her caught breath and instinctive gesture betrayed immediately her recognition of the object. But Blythely gave no sign. He merely reached out a clumsy hand for it.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I’ll tell you… does it happen to be yours?’
‘I want to know where you found it.’
‘First, I’d like you to answer my question.’
There was no rushing Blythely. He was like a pillar of insensible rock, standing there, feet planted, in his shapeless black suit. He had no handle, you felt, you could bring no pressure on him. It was like trying to manipulate one of the elements…
‘Suppose it was mine, then?’
‘In that case, when did you lose it?
‘I didn’t say it was mine — I said suppose.’
‘You must answer me yes or no, Mr Blythely.’
‘I do or I don’t, but there’s no must about it.’
Gently swung round to the baker’s wife.
‘Perhaps you can tell me, ma’am — remembering how quickly you recognized it!’
‘I!’ — she threw a helpless look at her husband — ‘I don’t know about it — it could be anybody’s. There’s nothing on it, is there… just a plain cross?’
‘At least you thought you recognized it.’
‘How could I, when there’s nothing on it?’
‘By being familiar with it, Mrs Blythely — as you would be if your husband wore it on his watch-chain!’
She shook her head stupidly and pretended to stare at the cross. Blythely was turning it about as though to make quite sure it carried no distinguishing marks.
‘I can tell you it isn’t mine.’
At last, a positive statement!
‘My wife would be telling you a lie if she told you she had seen me wearing it.’
‘And neither of you know to whom it belongs?’
‘Like she says, there’s nothing on it.’
‘That’s not quite the same thing, Mr Blythely.’
‘You can’t be sure with a thing like that.’
Prevarication, but not a lie — that was the baker’s answer to an awkward question. It was a game which could go on all night, and probably never get him into a corner. And his wife, too… she had learned something of the gentle art!
‘Very well — we’ll leave it for the moment. It’s something else which I came to see you about.’
Blythely handed back the cross and returned to his impassive stance by the door.
‘You tell me you spent all the night in the bakehouse, the night of last Thursday and Friday. At the most you went out to the toilet — isn’t that how the statement ran?’
‘I said I went out to the toilet.’
‘But you didn’t go anywhere else?’
‘I wouldn’t have said I didn’t.’
‘All the same, you gave that impression!’
Blythely bowed his head slightly but made no other reply. At times one had the idea he was deaf, so little did anything said to him seem to register.
‘As a matter of fact you did go somewhere else, didn’t you? You were out of the bakehouse for an hour, between half past eleven and half past twelve. Before you deny it I should tell you that I have spoken to your assistant, and that the time has been established pretty exactly. Have you any comments to make, Mr Blythely?’
An expert in atmospheres, Gently was surprised by this one. To the closest observer the baker had provided no clue to the emotions which were governing him. Yet now there was something, and that something wasn’t fear; suddenly, one was aware of a monumental agony.
‘I wasn’t going to deny it. What you say is the truth.’
The flat tone of the admission stung like a whiplash across the face.
‘So you agree that you were absent-’
Gently broke off, catching sight of Mrs Blythely swaying ominously where she sat. Not another interruption like that — the first one had been costly enough! He was really being dogged by the in-and-out propensities…
‘I think your wife is feeling faint!’
Blythely didn’t waste as much as a glance. More than ever he had the appearance of something carved from a block of wood.
‘Your wife-’ Gently got to his feet. Plainly he would have to be the one to render assistance. She was crouching now over her knees, her breath coming in gasps, but her husband was paying no more attention than if she had been in another world.
‘Henry-!’
Was he deaf in fact?
‘Henry — oh Henry, help me!’
She might as well have applied to the counter or the door.
Gently wavered, uncertain what to do. The baker’s wife, though stricken, seemed to be in no danger of
