top gave them access to the stairway. It was a narrow brick spiral, its sagging steps lit only occasionally.
‘Here you are, sir… the belfry.’
Gently came out gasping for breath. All around him hung dim shapes, leaving scarcely room to stand upright. Hiverton, apparently, had a peal, a little fortune in bell metal. Five of them hung cheek-by-jowl, but the sixth — Gently stepped back hastily.
‘My God — there’s one of them swung! Didn’t you notice it when you were up here?’
The largest bell of all was pointing its mouth towards the ceiling. A couple of tons at least, it rested poised like a juggler’s bowl: a gentle touch, a sudden vibration, and down it would sweep, crushing all in its path.
‘We’ll have to let it be — the noise might make him lose his balance. Just keep over there, that’s all… and say some prayers as I go up the ladder!’
But he knew the trap door was out, with that bell yawning there beside it. There could be no attack with a crowbar unless one was prepared to be swiped into oblivion. He climbed up gingerly and tried the door. It felt as firm as the walls round about it. Furthermore, one daren’t exert any pressure, since the rungs of the ladder were ancient and worm-eaten.
‘Where were you when you shouted to him?’
‘Up there, sir, where you are now.’
‘But this bell… didn’t it even occur to you?’
‘Bells are a little bit out of my line, sir.’
Gently shivered and made his way down again — he had nearly lost himself a sergeant! And Simmonds, though he wouldn’t appreciate it, was probably lucky still to be alive. But he had burned his boats, the artist. There was no coming at him from within or without. If that was what he’d wanted then he’d done it with a vengeance… he was out of their power: the bloody little fool!
To disseminate its chimes the belfry had four slatted windows. Gently moved across to the one above which he knew the artist was clinging. Through the slats he could see the scene below him, the patient semi-circle of up- turned faces. Another reporter had taken possession of the phone box, and Mears, giving it up, was climbing disconsolately down his ladder.
‘Simmonds… can you hear me?’
He didn’t dare to raise his voice. The thought of that bell behind him was choking back the words in his throat. ‘Simmonds, listen to me! Stop making an exhibition out there. Can’t you see you’re playing to them… can’t you see them waiting there with their cameras?’
From the crowd came a whispering murmur, rather like the stirring of leaves. Something was clearly taking place upon the ledge just over his head. He jammed his face against the slats, but at the angle it was impossible to see anything. At the best he could hear a faint sound that suggested the scraping of a shoe.
‘Get back on the roof, Simmonds — we’ll get you away, I promise you that! There’ll be no more photographers — we’ll keep you here till after dark. They won’t get another look in. We’ll drive you straight back to Norchester. Are you listening to me, Simmonds… can you hear what I say?’
He kept his eyes fixed on the crowd, trying to interpret their reactions. They must surely let him know if the artist made a definite move! But the murmur had died away and a head or two was turning. Whatever he had done was over now, he must have resumed his original posture.
‘Simmonds… I know you can hear me!’
Again that slight scraping and a ripple from the crowd.
‘Don’t give them what they want — you’re letting them drive you into it. Get back on the roof and let them see that you despise them!’
‘It’s too late… too late for that.’
He caught his breath at the sound of the voice. Simmonds was closer than he expected — was he bending down towards Gently?
‘Don’t you understand? They’ve finished me.’
‘Nonsense! Get back on the roof.’
‘No… I’m finished… they’ve murdered me! If you want to hang someone… why not them?’
The ripple of the crowd had increased to a buzzing. They couldn’t understand what it was that was going on. An alert reporter was stealing quietly towards the church door: Gently made a dumbshow to Dutt, who disappeared down the stairway.
‘You’re taking it the wrong way, Simmonds! Can’t we talk it over?’
‘It’s too late, I tell you… there’s nothing else left.’
‘Would you have acted like this if your mother had been alive?’
‘Don’t talk about her! You’d never understand.’
‘She’d have expected better of you.’
‘Please… don’t talk about her.’
Yes, he must be stooping somehow, on his bare six inches of ledge. Gently could see the image of it reflected in several hundred pairs of eyes. He had moved along, and stooped — had he then such a clear head for heights? As though to confirm the guess, one of the photographers took a fresh shot.
‘Can’t you see what it is they’ve done? My life… it’s been taken away! I can’t ever go back again… they’ve destroyed everything that I was. It doesn’t matter if I’m guilty or not. All the same, they’ve finished me off!’
‘And you’re going to let them do it?’
‘It’s done… it’s no use pretending.’
‘There’s your art. Are you forgetting that?’
‘They’ve got that too… everything, they’ve taken!’
‘No.’ Gently shook his head from habit. ‘That’s one thing they can’t take. The rest, perhaps, you’ll have to begin again, but nothing can make you other than a painter. There you’ve got them beaten before they start.’
‘I tell you they’ve killed me. I can never paint again.’
‘That’s what you think now.’
‘It’s true. I’m done for!’
‘You are, if you’re not going to give yourself a chance.’
Gently hung on a moment, uncertain of what he was going to say. He had never been much of a hand at a sermon. For the best part of one’s life one was dealing with trivia, and then, when the need arose… was it the contact he needed?
‘Take a week, take a month, take a year to think it over. There’s plenty of time when it comes to dying. They may have killed something, but that isn’t important. It’s only the past that’s done for: there’s always the future.’
‘There isn’t any future.’
‘Yes there is. It’s always there. And there’s always part of us dying to make room for what’s coming along.’
‘But not in this way.’
‘In this or another. Did you want to stay put, and be exactly as you were?’
‘You’re twisting it… making it seem…’
‘I’m telling the truth, and you know it.’
‘It doesn’t apply!’
‘It applies to all the world.’
If he could only see what was going on above him! The voice, by itself, didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Down below they were quite still, sensing that something was in the balance. From the direction of the stairway he could hear Dutt’s voice in altercation.
‘Are you still listening to me, Simmonds?’
At all events, he must keep him talking. Every minute he could gain was swinging the chance in his direction.
‘Do you think it will bring her back, your doing a silly thing like this? Is throwing yourself off there going to prove that you were innocent?’
‘I don’t care about that now!’
‘Not that someone murdered Rachel?’
‘It doesn’t matter any more… everyone knows that it was me.’
