Gently with Passion, page 17
‘So you thought you’d come out to give me a treat like, did you?’
With a sob of terror she wrenched at the oars and sent the dinghy away on a different course. She heard his laugh and the dip of his oars as he took up the pursuit, skimming after her easily with long, lazy strokes.
‘No, you won’t get away like that, my lady . . .’
Pulling one stroke to her two, he was travelling faster than she was. The double-ender looked huge, its bows boiling through the water, and it was coming at her at an angle as though he meant to ram her. She twisted the dinghy round again but he anticipated the manoeuvre. He could turn his big boat with a single stab of the oar. In her desperation she was digging deep or missing the water altogether; it was too easy for him. She hadn’t a chance of getting away from Fulcher.
‘Can you swim, my girl? Like you can slap a man’s face?’
Once more she made a turn, doubling like a pursued animal.
‘That’s a pity now, isn’t it, wasting all that energy?’
She ground her teeth together. She pulled with the last ounce of her strength.
Then she saw that he was certainly preparing to ram her, and she knew that this time she would be unable to prevent it. The double-ender was surging towards her under all the power of his arms, his face showing as a pale splodge as he looked over his shoulder, judging it. She gave a cry. There was an impact, a sudden whirl and clamour of oars. She was thrown on her back into the fore-part of the dinghy. A hand grabbed her and she was heaved screaming on to some sort of platform, while behind her she heard Fulcher swearing and the thud and splash of frenzied strokes.
‘All right . . . you can stop bawling.’
She tore herself free from the man who was holding her. Almost immediately something tripped her and sent her sprawling to the floor. A light was dimly shining on her through the open door of a boat’s cabin. It was the cabin of the houseboat: and the man was George.
THIRTY
‘YOU’D BE THE better for a drink, wouldn’t you?’
George gravely stooped and helped her to her feet. He had such an air of matter-of-fact about him that her impulse to go on screaming died abruptly. But she stood trembling, and as far from the cabin door as she could. Her dazed mind was still struggling to comprehend this turn of events. Out in the darkness, growing ever fainter, sounded the splash of Fulcher’s oars, then the silence of the night seemed to close in around them.
‘M-my dinghy . . . what happened to it?’
‘It drifted off, I’m afraid. But it won’t go very far and I can fetch it for you later.’
‘But I w-want it. Now!’
He shook his head decidedly. ‘What you want is a drink first of all, and a moment to get over your scare. I’ll fetch you a brandy. You had better sit down.’
She obeyed him uncertainly, her legs far from steady, and he vanished into the cabin, to return in a moment with two glasses. He handed her one. It contained three fingers of brandy.
‘That better?’
She nodded, taking it down in gulps. George stood leaning against the doorway, sipping his drink evenly. He looked wretchedly solid, standing there, seeming to bludgeon her with reassurance, and yet . . . how did she know that she wasn’t in a worse situation than ever?
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you had better tell me just what was going on out there.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’d say it does. He was all set to sink you.’
‘He – he’s got a grudge against me. I wouldn’t let him do my garden.’
‘Hmn. And what were you doing out here at this hour, in any case?’
A spark of rebellion snapped in her, doubtless assisted by the brandy. ‘I don’t have to tell you that! It’s none of your business.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you? There’s a bit of undertow to this case. I would say that you know something and don’t want to tell the police. And Fulcher comes into it somewhere. Is he trying to put the bite on you?’
She stared helplessly at the feet planted so firmly in the doorway. As usual he was on the mark, his instinct sure and undeceivable. Behind his comfortable practitioner’s manner lurked the bright steel of the lancet and she was positive that he would use it with a firm hand and no pity.
‘Suppose I am in trouble. You’re a fine one to talk, aren’t you?’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that the police have their eyes on you, too.’
He glanced at her speculatively. ‘Naturally, they wanted a statement from me. I was here, on the spot.’
‘Perhaps that’s why they’re so interested.’
He finished his drink and chose a seat on the far side of the well. There his face was in the shadow and she could see very little of him. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘Lea-Stephens was struck with an oar. It left the marks of rivets and copper sheathing. The police were checking on it this afternoon.’
‘An oar . . . ?’
‘Yes, an oar . . . like the ones in your dinghy. In fact, your dinghy seemed to interest them. They took plaster casts of your blades.’
A whirling sensation affected her head, she felt again the urge to begin screaming. Her voice was shrill as she faltered:
‘But that’s crazy . . . ridiculous!’
‘The police don’t seem to think so.’
‘How could . . . it’s fantastic! . . . why should I want to hurt Keith?’
‘I believe they have got hold of the idea that you were revenging yourself on him.’
If she didn’t scream it was only because she was on the verge of a faint, because the lamplight from the cabin was beginning to fuzz and sway about. It couldn’t be, they couldn’t think it: it was too wildly, naïvely impossible . . . it was like the idea they had had about Jeff Simpson – you only had to think, to consider a moment. And yet he had taken that seriously too, the icy inspector with his condemning eyes . . .
‘You have to remember that they look at every aspect of a case.’ George was talking again from the darkness he’d retired into. ‘They collect the facts while trying not to jump to conclusions, then they fit them to this person, that, and the other. It isn’t merely a question of seizing the obvious and proceeding with that. They try to get the whole picture before they move in a case.’
‘But they can’t – they can’t believe such a ridiculous thing!’
‘It isn’t ridiculous, you know. It’s a fairly shrewd choice. You had an opportunity which you made for yourself, and evidence of motive is public property. You had been cruelly jilted and you took your revenge on Lea-Stephens.’
‘But I didn’t – you can’t believe it. You’re a reasonable person!’
She could see his head shaking. ‘I don’t want to believe it, of course . . .’
‘You can’t, George, you can’t! It’s too ludicrously fantastic!’
‘I’m sorry, Stella.’
‘You can’t!’
‘You might have . . . well, people do have blackouts, don’t they?’
She stared towards him wildly, feeling her reason slipping from her. Was it possible for him to believe it – a person apparently so sober-minded? But if he could believe it, what chance did she stand with the inspector? Could she herself believe in her innocence . . . had she done it, as he was suggesting?
‘No!’ she cried out. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t, George. I never thought of such a thing . . . and on that night . . . I couldn’t have! And the police don’t know – they don’t know what I know!’
‘They know everything, Stella.’
‘No – they don’t know this!’
It came out. She couldn’t stop herself. The words tumbled off her tongue. She had to kill that terrible doubt that she could hear in his voice. She spared herself nothing, she poured out the truth as she knew it. She told him everything about Keith, about Simon, about Fulcher. And he sat completely silent, listening, never interrupting her once. He let her talk and talk and talk until there was nothing more she had to tell him. A motionless figurehead, he sat listening in the shadows.
‘But I’m not telling the police. They will find out, they must do. I couldn’t bear it, George. I couldn’t bear their questioning. I just want to be out of the way. I want them to get it over quickly. They don’t need me, Simon’s father can tell them . . .’
George stirred at last in his shadows. He rose massively to his feet; and then she was struck with a frightful uncertainty about what she had done. She had told him, but she had no idea what part he played in all this . . . had she once more, in her terror, stepped straight into a trap? He stood before her.
‘So you are going to let the police figure it out, are you?’
She nodded mutely, her eyes wide, trying to read his expression.
‘And suppose they don’t?’
‘But they will. As soon as they find Simon’s father . . .’
‘What makes you think that he would put his son in the dock on a murder charge?’
‘He . . .’ She stopped. ‘But you don’t want me to tell them, do you, George?’
He said nothing. He merely stood with his inscrutable face turned towards her.
‘In fact, it isn’t true that they think I did it. It’s all a lie. You told me that to make me tell you what I knew.’
‘It wasn’t quite a lie . . . it was an idea the police considered.’
‘And now you know . . .’
‘Mmn.’ He nodded. ‘I think I have all the facts.’
‘George, what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to advise you to amend your statement.’
‘But I won’t. I’m not going to tell the police!’
He smiled sadly at her. ‘You’ve just told them.’
THIRTY-ONE
SHE DIDN’T AT once take his meaning, but when she did the colour rushed to her face. She sprang quickly from her chair and backed off behind it, her eyes fixed on his in anger and consternation. His smile still lingered. He made a placating little gesture.
‘But I’m quite harmless, you know . . . and I might well have been a doctor. I’ve been told so by a man who is a good judge of character.’
‘You – you are a policeman?’
‘I have to admit it.’
‘All the time – a policeman – watching, planted here!’
His smile grew broader. ‘No, I haven’t been planted here. We think we’re competent, but we could hardly guess that a crime was going to be committed. I’m simply here on my holidays.’
‘But you’re one of them. One of those.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not even that. I’m only a stray from Central Office.’
She echoed his words: ‘Central Office!’ She knew well enough what they signified. The Central Office was what most people would think of as Scotland Yard. So he was more than a mere policeman, he was probably a name, one known to the media. Small wonder that the local inspector had shown interest in her acquaintance with George!
‘And that’s why . . . why you’re incognito?’
‘Because I’m a policeman?’ He looked at her ruefully.
‘Because – because you’re known. Because your name would mean something.’
His shoulders moved. ‘It’s just a fad. I don’t mind so much really. And anyway, there are plenty of people in these parts who know me.’
‘Well, I don’t. So perhaps you’d better tell me who you are.’
‘Can’t you think of me as George, and let it go at that?’
Stella shook her head. ‘Tell me.’
‘All right then – if I must! I’m George Gently, a Chief Super with a taste for the quiet life.’
‘Then why did you pretend to be a doctor?’
‘Well . . . that was your idea! And I thought I would play along, in case you didn’t approve of policemen.’
‘Why should you bother about that?’
‘Even policemen have feelings, you know.’
Among the tangle of her emotions she felt a stupid prick of vanity and she paused, a little startled by this frivolous intrusion. She came out from behind the chair, where she had sought symbolic protection. She glanced at George questioningly, and then looked away.
‘I’d love a fag if you’ve got one. I came away in rather a rush.’
‘I’m sorry. I ought to have offered you one before.’
He went to rummage in the cabin, and this time she followed him. She was conscious of his browned, square-tipped fingers as he held her a light.
She smoked. He lit his pipe and added wreaths of smoke to hers. For a while he stayed silent, eyes fixed on a picture across the cabin. In a fresh bout of inconsequence she found herself comparing him to Sherlock Holmes, but if he did his thinking by pipes then this was evidently a one-pipe problem. When he came out of his abstraction he grinned at her and struck a fresh light.
‘We’ll let your dinghy drift. It’s probably safe in a reed bed.’
‘Then how do I get back?’
‘The answer is that you’re staying here. With one murderer and one minion out hunting your scalp you’ll do best to stay put. I can offer you a choice of cabins.’
‘And in the morning?’
‘Then we’ll go to Staybridge to amend your statement. I don’t mind telling you that your testimony is going to clinch this case for them.’
Her terror returned. ‘Oh God, I can never face Simon in court.’
‘Give your imagination a rest, Stella. It’s a sadly overworked faculty.’
He brewed them cocoa while she shamelessly smoked another of his cigarettes. She tried to go loose, to let the sudden panics drain out of her system. Then she found that she wanted to cry and she kept snivelling and rubbing her eyes, and all the time she was wondering about George: he still looked bewilderingly like a GP. How would she ever sleep again? How could she forget things for long enough?
He showed her to her cabin and lit the gas-lamp for her. When he had gone she didn’t try not to cry any longer. She buried her face in a pillow and sobbed until she was exhausted, and at the end of her tears she must have fallen asleep.
George let her sleep late. She was grateful to him for that. At nine he woke her with a freshly made cup of tea. He had been out early, she learned, and had recaptured her dinghy; he had also rung the police at Staybridge and a car would collect them at eleven.
‘I shall be taking your statement myself, if that’s any comfort. I thought you would prefer it so I arranged it with Inspector Kirkham. I’ve also made other arrangements—’ he shrugged an indifferent shoulder – ‘things we conferred about yesterday. He and I are much of a mind.’
She sank her head. This would be his way of telling her of Simon’s arrest. So she was safe again, free again, the time of terror was over. She wanted to ask him if Fulcher had been warned to stop persecuting her, but she felt unequal to talking about it and ate her breakfast in silence. That would be all straightened out . . . and anyway, would she be staying on here?
She washed their dishes and George dried them, his pipe in his mouth; and he too seemed preoccupied and unwilling to say much. She caught him watching her once or twice in his contemplative way, but he made no comment and only gave her a tiny smile. She had thought that Woody’s face was unreadable but compared with George’s it was an open book.
At ten to eleven they set out in George’s dinghy, which sported a Seagull, he sitting at the helm and Stella perched in the bows. It was a short trip up the channel to one of the Broad’s numerous landings, and waiting there as promised stood a shiny police Rover. With it waited the sergeant who had helped interrogate her yesterday; he came forward to take their line, but Stella cut him with great unction. As George was shutting down his engine he and the sergeant held a muttered exchange, but of this Stella was able to gather only a few snatches.
‘. . . got him first go . . . tried violence . . . the cuffs . . .’
‘Did he ask . . . ?’
‘Not yet . . . haven’t charged . . . questioning . . .’
They were secretive, almost guilty about it, with their backs turned to Stella, and when the engine kicked to a stop they got into the car without more ado. Ten minutes later they were driving up Staybridge High Street, where it seemed that only moments before Stella had been wandering with Keith. They came to the police station and parked. The sergeant ran round to open the door for them. Stella noticed that he seemed to have a tremendous respect for George.
‘In the waiting room, Chiefie . . .’
He led them into the building, past a desk manned by a uniformed sergeant, up to a door in the hall. He gave George a nod. George said:
‘If you will just wait in here, Stella . . .’
Obediently she entered the room, and heard the door close behind her. She looked about her. She stifled a cry. She was alone in the room with Simon.
THIRTY-TWO
HE JUMPED UP from his chair – not handcuffed, that was apparent, nor bearing any particular marks of violence on his person. He came towards her belligerently, his grey eyes flashing, and thrust his foot against the door which she was attempting to re-open.
‘And a fine exhibition you’ve made of yourself!’
‘Simon . . . don’t touch me! I’m going to scream, Simon!’
‘I’m not going to touch you, you flaming idiot.’
‘I’ll scream, Simon. I will!’
‘Then scream your silly head off.’
She backed away, shuddering, leaving him in possession of the door. What had happened – what was going on? Why had they put her in with him like this? She threw a desperate glance at the window, but though it was open it had bars: she had no recourse but to scream, and to scream would precipitate his attack . . .
‘For God’s sake let me out, Simon!’
‘So that you can make a fool of yourself again?’
‘I didn’t know – I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know that George was a policeman.’
‘Oh – so you blurted it out to him?’
