almost sneering at the photographer.
‘Is this a recent photograph of your husband?’
Why did spots of colour appear in her cheeks?
‘Yes, quite recent. This summer. It’s the last one I have of him.’
‘Who took it?’
‘Just… just a friend. He wouldn’t like his name brought into it.’
Gently grunted and searched on through the album for a revealing shot of Sarah Fleece. He found one loose in the back, unmistakably a counterpart to that of her husband. It was taken against the same background and showed a similar technical skill, but in this instance the smile of the sitter was unalloyed by any sneer. Sarah Fleece looked radiantly beautiful, her dark hair loosened, her grey eyes sparkling.
‘Your friend is certainly an excellent photographer.’
‘Yes… of course, that’s another of his.’
‘I’ll borrow these two if I may.’
‘Yes, certainly.’ But she seemed reluctant. ‘I’ll get them back again, won’t I?’
‘They’ll be returned in a few days.’
He gravely wrote out the receipt while she was finding him an envelope, then she accompanied them to the door, the receipt still held in her hand. On the steps Gently turned.
‘You’ll be called at the trial, naturally. But would you have any objection to seeing Kincaid in his cell?’
She gave a gasp. ‘No — no! Not that!’
‘You have specific reasons for refusing?’
‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Not the man who did that to Arthur!’
Gently touched the brim of his trilby. ‘We wouldn’t press you, of course, Mrs Fleece…’
Back in the Wolseley Evans tackled their driver about the owner of the sports car, but the circumstances had been against any accurate observation. The man had appeared from the rear of the house and had entered his car on its far side, while their driver had had no reason to be especially curious about him.
‘It was raining like the devil and he’d got his collar turned up; a bloke around five feet ten, light-coloured raincoat and peakless cap. He was medium build and looked light on his feet. His age I wouldn’t like to say. The car was a new Austin-Healey.’
Gently looked at Evans. ‘Does that suggest anyone to you?’
Evans shook his head regretfully. ‘Not a soul, man,’ he said. ‘I was hoping he would tie up with one of the Everest Club people, because she seemed a little tender when you got on to them.’
‘Could it have been Richard Overton?’
‘It could and it couldn’t. He’s about that height and of a medium sort of build. It would help to know about his car.’
‘We’ll check all their cars while we’re at it. We may be throwing away our time, but you can never know too much.’
He directed their driver to Bow Street and then switched on the car’s radio. By the exchange he was connected to the homicide charge-room. He asked for Dutt and was lucky: the Tottenham sergeant had just come in; within moments he had taken over the line at the other end.
‘This is the Kincaid business, Dutt. I want you to run an errand for me. Go over to the Suffolk Hotel in Knightsbridge and check there on a Mrs Arthur Fleece. She’s supposed to have spent the weekend there and I’d like all the detail you can get: what nights, whether visited, and if absent for any considerable period. Her Christian name is Sarah. Over.’
Dutt’s cheerful voice came back to him. ‘Yessir. Mrs Arthur or Sarah Fleece. Where would you like to have the report, sir?’
‘I’ll be in my office in about an hour.’
Next he got on to Information and asked them to contact Dorking. He gave them a resume of Mrs Fleece’s information about her wedding.
‘The church register isn’t enough. I want the details investigated. Especially the Baxter-Blackstable people, and the names of anybody who knew the Amies.’
He switched off, lit his pipe and remained silent for some moments, watching the wet Putney streets as the Wolseley hissed through them; then, as the Thames swept darkly under them, he blew an inquisitive ring at Evans.
‘Come on. Let’s be having it. You’ve got a dozen theories by now
…’
Evans grinned at him, nodding. ‘You knew, I can’t keep my mind still. It’s a disease with us Welshmen; we’ve got unsettled brains. But I was just setting it up in a proper order so to speak; trying to fit it all in and to make out a pattern.’
Gently puffed. ‘It begins at Met. L.’
‘Aye. The three of them there together. Fleece, Kincaid, and Paula Blackman; three small people out of thousands. Now, Fleece and Kincaid probably know each other because they’re both keen on climbing, and they have to be known by some of these other people or they wouldn’t have been chosen for the expedition. By the way, we don’t know much about that, how it was organized and financed.’
‘We’ll talk to Overton tomorrow. He should be able to throw some light on it.’
‘A good idea, man. But to continue. We will take a hypothesis. Fleece is smitten by Paula Kincaid, and Paula Kincaid is not indifferent to him. In the light of that, view the expedition, of which remember Fleece was the leader, and the opportunity it gave him of quietly doing away with Kincaid. There wasn’t any violence called for: Fleece might have drawn a line at violence. But it was as good a way as another and in my book it stands as murder.’
‘Provided,’ Gently inserted, ‘Kincaid’s story is the true one.’
‘Provided that of course. I must admit to prejudice there. Well, Fleece comes back to England to console the widow, and it may or may not be relevant that he came into money just then. But he sets up in business and he marries Mrs Kincaid, and it goes like a song for twenty-two years. Then this fellow turns up, this so-called Kincaid. He has a nasty story to tell and he’s determined to find his wife. What would you expect Fleece to do about it? Why, exactly what he did do. He would try to discredit the man, he’d go to law to stop his mouth. But either Kincaid had a friend or Fleece had an enemy, because someone told Kincaid where to look for his wife. Then it was Everest all over again with, this time, Kincaid as the survivor. Man, it’s justice when you look at it. It’s almost a shame for us to step in.’
Gently said unkindly: ‘You’ve forgotten the cigarette-case.’
‘Oh, but I haven’t.’ Evans faced him in triumph. ‘You worried me about that, so I took special note of it. And I can tell you who dropped it. It was Fleece himself.’
Gently nodded twice, reluctantly. ‘Yes, man. That’s brilliant.’
‘Isn’t it obvious when you think of it? Who else was so likely to have had the case?’
‘It’s obviousness is a little contingent. It depends on the identity of Mrs Fleece.’
‘But either way, man, it’s the answer. It answers the objection about the case.’
Evans sat nursing his triumph as they passed through Chelsea, where the teatime traffic began to build up around them. Then he said:
‘I wouldn’t bank too much on any theory about Kincaid, but I’m telling you now that I have a certain small confidence. He’s going to recognize that photograph; then we’ll confront her with him. And the rest can go hang. We’ll have our case sewn up.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know the identity of Mrs Fleece’s latest?’
Evans chuckled. ‘I would, too. I’m afraid he’s a dirty dog, that one.’
At Bow Street, which was smelling even sootier and damper, Kincaid was fetched from his cell and given a chair. He looked unhappy, but he brightened when his eye fell on Gently; then his expression changed again, to one of pettish irritation. He said:
‘I’ve been talking to my lawyer, and he won’t do what I tell him.’
Gently shrugged. ‘They won’t always. What did you want him to do?’
‘I told you that. I asked him to search for evidence to establish my identity, but he refused point-blank to do it until after my trial was over. I shall change him, of course. I don’t put up with that sort of thing.’
