‘But you’ve got to have proof!’
‘That’s what you can give me.’
‘I won’t… ever…’
‘Hadn’t you better think it over?’
Simmonds covered his face and began to sob. It was the only sound in the overhot room. Dutt succeeded Gently in his researches into Kelly’s; his senior sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the group of card-players.
At the door, in all probability, Mrs Mears was indignantly eavesdropping.
‘You’ll think it’s all lies.’
Gently smiled grimly to himself.
‘I’d tell you… but now… and everyone’s against me. Whatever I say.’
He choked himself with sobbing.
‘Suppose I confess… are they certain to hang me?’
But it was less than a confession when it came to the point, though, if it were true, one could understand the hesitation. Slowly it came out, interrupted by sobbing: Simmonds ran true to form and didn’t need to be led.
‘It’s true… she came back. It was about ten o’clock.’
When, of course, it was dark enough to conceal where she was going. She had got rid of Maurice — did she guess he’d been set to spy on her? — and let herself unobtrusively out of the Bel-Air. Then she had hastened along the beach, which one could depend on to be deserted, and climbed up the sandhill to where Simmonds was nursing his bruises.
There she had remained about an hour, if Simmonds was to be believed. She left just after eleven, returning by the way she had come. Simmonds had gone directly to bed. He admitted that he hadn’t slept well. At some time in the morning, not long after he had heard the boats come in, he had risen with the intention of having a swim before breakfast.
‘You’ll never believe me… what’s the use of going on?’
‘You saw her, then, did you, lying between the boats?’
‘No! That’s why it’s impossible… she wasn’t near the boats.’
‘Where was she then?’
‘Right there… in front of the tent.’
He wasn’t far wrong in anticipating disbelief — Gently stared at him for a long time without opening his mouth. It was an odd sort of tale to tell if Simmonds were guilty, on the other hand, murderers sometimes told an odd tale.
‘In that case, how did she get down to the boats?’
‘I took her there.’
‘You did!’
‘What else could I do? If someone else found her…’
‘Why did you leave her by the boats?’
‘I couldn’t get her any further. She was too stiff and heavy… it was making me sick.’
Gently let him stumble on through the rest of his narrative. There wasn’t much to add to it which was to the artist’s credit. He had slunk back to his tent and tied the flaps to behind him; he’d lain trembling and fearful, even getting back again into his blankets. In an ecstasy of terror he had heard Nockolds approaching. The terrible barking of the dog had warned him that the body was discovered.
‘I’ve always hated dogs… always… always!’
It was a long time before he dared to join the crowd on the beach.
‘Exactly where was that body?’
‘In front of the tent. I could show you.’
‘How far away?’
‘It was’ — Simmonds trembled — ‘it was just where that man was standing, the fisherman… his feet.’
‘In which direction was it pointing?’
‘The head was pointing towards my tent.’
Dutt read over the statement and Simmonds scrawled a signature to it. The whole business had taken them little over an hour. In her kitchen Mrs Mears had brewed an urn-like pot of tea; it was strong and made so sweet that one could nearly stand up a spoon in it. The greens, providentially, had been removed from the stove, though their odour yet clung to the sweltering atmosphere.
‘Where — where are you going to take me?’
Simmonds had an air of docility, a meekness that suggested a well-spanked child.
‘Nowhere. You’re free to go. Just stay around Hiverton.’
‘But I thought…’
‘Well you were wrong! Only don’t try anything foolish. If you take my advice you’ll find some digs in the village. Your stuff can stay here until you’re ready to collect it.’
‘Then you really believe?’
‘Don’t be too sure of that.’
Simmonds shook his head bewilderedly and gulped down the syrupy tea.
At the door there was another crisis — for the first time he saw the reporters. They had risen to their feet and were shuffling together cards and money. Simmonds went a few steps and then came to a standstill, a spasm of violent trembling overcoming his slight body.
‘I can’t go — you mustn’t make me!’
He turned in a panic to where Gently stood.
‘I’d rather be arrested… please! I’d rather…’
‘Unfortunately I haven’t given you the option.’
‘If you like I’ll confess… please, don’t make me go!’
In the end Dutt went off with him, as an alternative to tailing. Mrs Mears had supplied him with the address of a likely lodging. To the last he kept looking back hopefully towards Gently, but the figure which blocked the doorway steadily refused to catch his eye.
CHAPTER NINE
Was there a tempest brewing out of all that heat? Gently had several times glanced at the innocent-seeming sky. The air had a hectic feel and the sun was brassy; a lot of ugly black flies had appeared and were fluttering about everywhere. Thunder-flies, were they? They had the appearance of evil. Their legs were long and shining and their antennae flickered ceaselessly. But as yet there was no sign of thunder, not a scratch on the dusty heavens. Today was like yesterday and probably tomorrow — another scorcher. What could improve on that description?
He dropped in at the Beach Store to buy himself an ice cream. On his way through the village he had encountered a group of fishermen. They were lounging under a wall and smoking their short clay pipes: they watched him in a heavy silence as he drew level with and passed them. Then one of them had spat — had the timing been coincidental? Bob Hawks was one of their number, but like the rest he’d held his peace.
Mrs Neal, too, seemed unfriendly, or at least indisposed for a chat. She had gone straight back to her other customers after she had made his ice cream, though they, like Gently, were served and merely passing the time. He went out feeling that she had let him down in some way. It was possible that she thought he had inspired the article in the Echo.
He followed the example of the fishermen and found a wall under which to sit. He wanted time to think the business over, to try the pieces in their varying patterns. He had a case against the artist, of that there wasn’t a shadow of doubt. If it went before the public prosecutor then a suitable indictment would have to follow.
Only — and here he was back at the beginning — the case against Simmonds didn’t satisfy Gently. Somewhere, somehow, it was failing to click: it was jarring against deep-seated, deeply felt intuition. But what was that intuition and how had he come by it? Alas, that was the very thing which Gently didn’t know. All that he could
