To the north the sandhills stretched away to a soaring mound that marked the Ness, and southward, past the sprawl on the beach, to a bluish haze which was probably Starmouth.
He lit his pipe and looked around him. It was a lonely spot with a spirit of wildness. A lot of beach and a lot of marrams… why did everyone cluster within a stone’s-throw of the gap?
Between the line of hills and the first scant pasture would be two or three hundred yards of marram. It consisted of mounds and holes and ridges and was colonized by the grass and a few sea-favouring plants. Rabbits there would be, there, natterjacks, lizards. From time to time a bare foot would step on an adder. But there was no shade at all. No shade for miles. The sun roared down on the marrams like a celestial blowtorch.
He shook his head and set off again, for the village. He had come further than he intended in his walk along the tideline. Ahead of him, in an endless series, stretched the summits of the sandhills, their tawny flanks soft and hot, their grass rough and spiteful. Who ever came that way unless it was Nockolds, the poacher?
As he blundered among the last of them he smelt an unexpected savoury odour: someone was frying sausages — out there, on the marrams! But the mystery was quickly solved. He had stumbled on to Simmonds’s encampment. Over a spirit-stove set between beach cobbles the artist was cooking his evening meal.
‘You’ve got a nice little spot here.’
Gently fanned his face with his hat. Simmonds, after a quick look at him, continued poking and turning his sausages. The compliment was not unmerited. The camp site really was well chosen. A flat-bottomed depression on the top of a hill, it almost hid the tent without at all obstructing the view. Also it was handy for the village, though still remote from the daily hurly-burly.
‘This isn’t my first camp.’
There was a touch of pride in the young man’s voice.
‘I spend all my holidays this way. Last year I was painting in the Snowdonia area.’
‘Alone, are you, always?’
‘An artist doesn’t want company.’
‘What does your girlfriend say about it?’
‘I don’t happen to have a girlfriend.’
Gently looked round for a seat and chose a baulk of sun-whitened driftwood. While Simmonds was talking he had lit a second stove and placed a billy of water over it. Now he forked the sausages on to a plate and added boiled potatoes from a smaller billy.
‘You’ve come to ask me some more questions, have you?’
His movements were self-conscious but he was well in control of himself.
‘If it isn’t too hot!’
‘That’s something I’m used to.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘It’s a matter of training oneself.’
Gently nodded and smoked silently, letting the artist get down to his meal. On the beach below he could see some of the Bel-Air youngsters, three of them in the water and the rest tossing a ball about. Simmonds sat cross- legged before the taped-up flaps of his tent. He ate with a deft fastidiousness, sprinkling salt from a little tin.
‘I only spoke to her twice, you know.’
‘You’ve the advantage of me. I didn’t speak to her at all.’
‘You don’t mind me going ahead with my tea?’
‘Good heavens no. I had mine at four.’
The tent, the stoves, the utensils, the site, they all bore witness of tidiness and method. Within the tent one could see a pile of precisely folded blankets. Against the inner pole stood the canvas at which Simmonds had been working that afternoon.
‘Among other things, there’s the view from here.’
It was something which hadn’t escaped Gently’s notice. You could see the village, the beach, the marrams, and part of the track leading inland from the gap. The boats, however, were not included. They were obscured by the line of the hills and by the net store.
‘That’s Hazey Mere, away at the back there. You can make out the sails of the yachts on most days. Beyond the Ness is Sea Weston lighthouse, this way the water tower at Castra. And when there’s rain coming up you can see Starmouth quite plainly — in fact, for subjects, I need only turn the easel round.’
‘It sounds an ideal pitch.’
‘I found it two years ago.’
‘You’ve camped here before, then?’
‘Only once, over a bank holiday.’
‘When did you first meet Rachel Campion?’
‘Last week. It’s in the statement I signed.’
Gently knocked out his pipe, grinding the ashes under his sandal. Simmonds had finished his sausages and was emptying tinned rice on to a fresh plate. Beyond the bathers, but inshore, chugged a smart motor sailer. Further off was a white-painted vessel with a yellow funnel.
‘Tell me exactly how you met her.’
‘She came and watched me — while I was painting.’
‘Here, do you mean?’
‘No, higher up the marrams. I was painting the Ness and that great big sandhill.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember. It was one of the silly things that people always think are clever.’
‘And then?’
‘She sat down and watched me. I don’t like people doing that. In the end I simply packed up — it was nearly lunchtime, anyway.’
‘And she came back with you?’
‘Yes. As far as the gap. I had to go into the village to pick up some bread and some methylated.’
There was no doubt about his composure — or about the nervousness under it. It was a curious amalgam with an undertone of brittleness; he was like someone grasping a nettle or going deliberately to stand on a precipice. In a way it was touching, in a way it was droll. He was trying to be grown up while in fact he was still largely a boy.
‘One thing I can tell you — she wasn’t just what they’re making her out. She was intelligent, too. She knew something about art.’
‘I thought she said something silly?’
‘Yes, but that was just at first. Then she told me about a Braque exhibition she’d seen and asked if I liked Rouault. As a matter of interest, Rouault is one of my influences.’
‘That was certainly intelligent of her.’
‘She knew Dali, too.’
‘I take it that you admired her.’
‘Well… I don’t know about that!’
He finished the rice with a flush on his tight, well-drawn features. Then, the water having boiled, he measured in tea and removed the billy.
‘Can I offer you a cup?’
‘I think I could manage one.’
It was served in an aluminium mug which burned the lips, but had the strong fragrance of tea made in camp- fire fashion.
‘No, she wasn’t just… one of those, if you understand my meaning. She was beautiful, I admit, but that’s not the same. And she was friendly, too. She was easy to talk to. With women, as a rule… she was different from other women.’
‘When was the other time you spoke to her?’
‘A day or two later. It was the same as the first time — she came to watch me painting. To be quite honest’ — Simmonds hesitated awkwardly — ‘I made a pencil sketch of her. I didn’t tell that to the other man.’
He waited for Gently to say something, but when he didn’t, rose uncertainly to his feet. Gently sat with
