CHAPTER THREE
The St George Hotel was one of those modest paragons of innkeeping virtue which, where they occur, are usually played down and kept quiet about; it was unmistakably a good thing.
Another example of the coaching inn, it had an unimpressive plastered front no larger than the average public house. But when you went through into the courtyard you saw the extent of the four sides, and heard without surprise that there were forty rooms available.
Gently lingered at the desk as he and Dutt booked in.
‘Did you have any guests who left hurriedly on Good Friday… they would probably have been here a fortnight or so?’
The receptionist, a dark, strong-faced woman, looked thoughtful and then shook her head.
‘As you see from the book, sir, we had nobody leave over the weekend.’
‘What about these people?’
He showed her the photographs.
‘I can’t be certain, but I don’t think we’ve ever had them here.’
They had roast pork for supper and after it a liqueur brandy with a cigar. Gently leafed through Griffin’s file while they sat in the lounge. It gave chapter and verse for everything the inspector had told him, but added nothing which struck one as being the least bit suggestive.
‘All well — we’ll sleep on it!’
That was often a good recipe. One’s mind sometimes sorted things out during the dark hours.
They retired to spacious rooms with enormous sash windows, and beds so large that you hardly knew where to start on them. And after London, the quietness seemed almost uncanny.
The morning showed grey with a chilling east wind. Gently had ordered three papers and he had got a press notice in each of them. At breakfast he was warned that there were reporters waiting in the hall, and he put on his most wooden expression when he went down with Dutt.
‘Are you expecting to make quick progress?’
‘I can’t say at this stage.’
‘Do you think Ames and Roscoe are in Lynton?’
‘We have no indication.’
‘Taylor double-crossed them, did he?’
‘On the facts the theory is feasible.’
They took some photographs which he knew would portray him villainously, and hastened away to catch the lunchtime editions.
‘Phew!’ Dutt scratched his head and made an expression of comical disgust. ‘They aren’t half keen on this one, sir — we’re going to be in the flipping headlines.’
He despatched Dutt to Headquarters to get a list of the hotels and himself set off in the direction of the mill. It was Wednesday, one of the two market days, which brought an influx of country people. There were more stalls in the square than had been there on the previous evening.
In the Abbey Gardens the east wind was chopping off the cherry blossom, scattering it in drifts about the gravel walks. The dull sky made the town seem frigid and unfriendly. People went about with faces which were glum and set.
An exception was the mill itself, which somehow exerted an air of benevolence. It may have been the jolly thumping of the naphtha engine or the sweet, warm smell of grain; and then there were whiffs of new bread from the bakehouse, and the general disreputable appearance of the whole.
Gently tapped at the door of the office and entered.
The man with the dark bushy hair was standing at the door of the screen talking, but he broke off and closed it as his visitor came in.
‘Can I do something for you?’
‘I’d like to have a talk…’
‘Oh — you’re from the police, are you?’
‘Chief Inspector Gently, C.I.D., Central Office.’
Griffin was right again, the man impressed one unfavourably. A quick flush had come over his bold features and his brown eyes darted away uneasily.
He was not unhandsome; he was about fifty. Without being tall he looked muscular, his shoulders broad and a little rounded.
He had a tenor voice with a careless provincial accent.
‘I heard they’d called the Yard in, but I thought they’d have finished with this side of it.’
‘We always like to make our own check… Mr Fuller, is it?’
‘That’s right — I’m the boss here.’
‘I’d like you to show me round the mill, Mr Fuller. But first I wanted to have a private talk with you.’
‘Mary!’
Fuller turned his head and jerked out the word. The rather pretty girl whom Gently had seen from the cafe came to the door of the screen.
‘Mary, be a sport and fetch my Mills and Milling from the bookstall… I’d have a tea break, too. I shan’t be wanting you for half an hour.’
Mary took the hint and departed, not daring to throw a glance at Gently. Fuller watched her disappear round the corner before motioning Gently towards a chair.
‘You’ve talked to Inspector Griffin, of course?’
Gently nodded and seated himself.
‘Well, I don’t know what else I can tell you, though I’ll be happy to help all I can.’
He was putting a bold front on it, but a child could see that he was nervous. He was having to stop his mouth from twitching and his eyes moved restlessly from object to object. Instead of sitting he remained leaning awkwardly against the screen.
‘With regard to keys, Mr Fuller…’
‘They’re with me and Mr Blythely — oh, and Mr Pershore, he could have a set.’
‘You mean the owner of the property?’
‘Yes — he might have some, don’t you think?’
‘Mmn.’ Gently didn’t sound impressed. ‘But they wouldn’t be strictly necessary?’
‘Not to get into the mill. There’s three or four busted windows… we’ve had kids roaming round there before. The engine-room needs a key, but that’s about all, I reckon.’
‘Isn’t it rather tempting providence?’
‘It’s the same with every mill.’
‘Do you close the gates, for instance?’
‘There’s no point in it. You can get in through the drying-ground at the back.’
So the mill had been wide open, beckoning to any passer-by. Late at night you could have run a car into the yard, provided Blythely didn’t hear you from the bakehouse.
‘You don’t remember any strangers about the place?’
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘It seems credible to you that a stranger could have got in and dumped that body in the hopper?’
‘If they could get into the place what was to stop them dumping the body?’
Nothing, of course. Nothing at all. But why then was Fuller nervous? Was it just a natural reaction towards being questioned by a policeman, or was it something other and more interesting?
‘They tell me you’ve got quite a good Midland League side at Lynton.’
Fuller’s eyes found him quickly, alarmed at a question the drift of which he couldn’t fathom.
‘Yes, it’s not bad. They won the East Counties Cup on Friday.’
‘You didn’t see the match, naturally.’
‘How could I, with all this business going on? In any case, we work on Good Fridays.’
‘You follow them, though, do you?’
‘I suppose so, when I get the chance.’
