He had his back turned to the miller, and Gently’s back was peculiarly unexpressive. As for his tone of voice, it contained nothing but an interest in Fuller’s typewriter…
‘Government departments are very conservative, you understand.’
He was tapping away afresh with two clumsy fingers.
‘We’ve been using the same make since typewriters came in — a lot of taxpayers’ money going all in one direction! For typing reports-’
Fuller threw down his file. ‘If you’ve come here for something-!’
‘Tabulation isn’t a “must”, but it’s useful for paragraphing.’
‘I’ve seen the lunchtime paper!’
‘As a rule we like the larger typeface.’
The miller clenched his fists and groaned. Like his foreman, he was finding it far worse to be ignored than to be attended to by Gently. If you knew where you stood, that could be bad enough; but to be treated as though you were already in the bag…!
‘It was one of them, wasn’t it?’
The typewriter rattled.
‘And this morning I was fool enough to tell you-’
In fact, that he’d been driving past the spot at midnight last night, alone.
The bell tinkled, and Gently pulled out his sheet. It may not have been a brilliant piece of typing, but such as it was it seemed to find favour with the man from the Central Office. He laid it across the typewriter and studied it fondly. From a back view, at least, he appeared to be completely absorbed.
‘May I give you some advice?’
Offhandedly he threw out the question. Fuller, his lips tight in a bitter line, lifted his head to stare savagely at the bulky shoulders.
‘Why not tell me the truth… now, without going any further? I know pretty well that you had nothing to do with either of the murders.’
The response was astonishing: Fuller began to weep. He collapsed against the desk and covered his face with his well-cared-for hands.
For two minutes by the pendulum clock he simply sobbed, foolishly, unconvincingly. And yet there was something terrible about this man behaving like a child.
‘My wife-!’ His broken voice sounded silly; he knew it and broke off, fighting to gain control.
‘How can you understand-?’
That, too, seemed to have no meaning.
Gently had crumpled his sheet of typing and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. Mary, coming in streaming, was bundled promptly out again minus the thermos she had been clutching. As an added precaution Gently shot the bolts of both the side and the street doors.
‘If I tell you… it’s impossible! Nobody would believe-’
In a corner cupboard were the office cups and saucers. The coffee, steaming hot, had milk and sugar already added.
‘Here… drink this!’
Gently shoved a cup into the miller’s hand.
‘I don’t want any-’
‘Drink it!’
The miller did as he was bid.
Like a fish in an aquarium, Mary was staring through the glass panels of the side door. But then the rain got the better of her curiosity and she disappeared in search of cover. They were isolated by the downpour. The little office seemed entirely cut off.
‘How do you pay your men?’
‘-my men?’
Fuller repeated the words vacantly.
‘Yes. Do you cash a cheque, for instance?’
‘Mary… she sees to it. She takes a cheque when she goes to lunch on Fridays.’
‘She has a list, has she — so many fivers, ones, tens, etc.?’
‘Not fivers of course, just ones, tens, and silver.’
‘It was the same last week?’
‘Except being Good Friday…’
‘Has Blacker been after you for money?’
The miller shuddered. ‘No… it was just being foreman.’
Gently nodded and sipped his coffee. Deadened by the rain, the naphtha engine’s beat sounded remote and subterranean. It had something of the quality of a barbaric drum-roll.
‘You know that red morocco attache case of Mr Pershore’s?’
‘I’ve seen him carry one.’
‘Was he carrying it on Thursday?’
‘Yes, he had it with him.’
‘Was it in his hands all the while?’
‘I didn’t see him put it down.’
‘What was Blacker doing at the time?’
‘Him and Sid… they were feeding grain.’
‘That night, which way did you come from the Spreadeagle?’
Fuller shuddered again and looked for somewhere to stand his coffee cup. His hands were trembling so much that it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped it.
‘You know then…?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘But if only you could understand!’
He was near tears again, huddled up there against his desk.
‘To be frank, wasn’t it amateurish? Two people got to know about it.’
‘-two?’
‘Blythely knew. He was watching the whole time.’
The blood rushed back into the miller’s cheeks. He stared wildly at Gently as though challenging the truth of the assertion. Then he dropped his eyes to the floor, red to the tips of his ears.
‘Oh, my God, what a mess!’
The words came in a hoarse whisper. Making no reply, Gently poured himself some more coffee from the thermos. In London, in Paris, who would have turned their head at such a business? But here, in Lynton… yes, it was a mess all right!
‘Why haven’t you arrested me?’
‘It isn’t breaking the law.’
‘But being there at the time… the keys… everything…’
‘It would have helped if you’d told me the truth in the first place.’
‘You’d never have understood…’
That was his leit-motif. In fact, Gently had seen the pattern repeated a score of times. An attractive woman, a man bored and rebellious — add the opportunity, and what other answer was there? It was only the background…
‘She… she wanted a baby.’
Awkwardly, Fuller was trying to tell him.
‘They’ve never been able to — Blythely, too — he’s got queer ideas! And Clara… you’ve only got to look at her. Can’t you imagine what it must be like for her?’
A passionate woman tied to a stone-cold man.
‘How did it happen?’
‘God knows! It was always round the corner. Then one day when I was alone she came into the office with
