It was straight, steep, regular, rhythmic Northshire rain, which, having struck its tempo, seemed intending to continue till the crack of doom.
The market square, its gutters rushing with water, was as empty as a hosed-out fish barrel. In the streets one met only a few housewives hastening between the shops, their brightly coloured plastic macs glistening under advanced umbrellas.
It was dark, too. The shops had on all the lights in their display windows, usually switched off during the day. Near St Margaret’s Church, where there were no shops worth speaking of, a murky gloom seemed to have settled among the buildings.
As for the pigeons… who knew where they went on a day like this? Probably they had long since congregated in Fuller’s mill, taking charge of one forgotten corner or another.
Gently, who could rarely be bothered with such things, had been obliged to accept the offer of a car.
It had stood most of the morning among the puddles in the mill yard, getting in the way of the lorries which came in for loading.
Then it had disappeared, not long before lunch, going back in the town direction. Fuller from his office and Blythely from his shop had both watched it departing — the one con espressione and the other with none at all.
And still it had rained and rained and rained; you couldn’t shift a yard without huddling into a raincoat and doing up every button.
The sky, a smoky wrack, seemed to rest on the gleaming rooftops. Some of the storm drains had got blocked with rubbish and were spreading aprons of water which they should have carried away.
Going in for lunch, grumpy and depressed, Gently had been obliged to change his shoes, socks, and trousers. He hated the rain, even of any kind, and this bout looked like being the limit.
‘It’s those atom bombs what’s doing it!’
He had exchanged a word or two with the maid who had taken away his discarded clothing to be dried. Logically speaking and according to the scientists… but had they really had such filthy weather in those halcyon days before the Second World War?
Before lunch he went into the bar and warmed himself with a hot rum. From the menu he chose the most solid-sounding dishes, beefsteak pudding followed by treacle tart and custard. Then he topped it all off by having a liqueur with his coffee, and had ordered an expensive cigar to be brought to him.
‘Have you got anything yet?’
There had been singularly little news from headquarters. He had phoned them twice while he had been at the mill.
‘There’s been two more reports in… both negative, I’m afraid.’
Could he have been wrong all along the line about that confounded bicycle?
His morning’s work had done nothing to clarify the situation. He could almost have predicted the result in advance. Fuller had an alibi which checked where it touched — he’d taken a van into Cambridge to pick up some spare parts. But Blythely! — well, he was running true to form. If it was a lie it was such a thin one that it almost compelled belief.
‘Don’t you remember my wife telling you we were going to the pictures?’
Likely, that, wasn’t it — after the emotional crisis Gently had provoked by his visit!
But the baker had stuck to the story, even elaborating it a little. And Mrs Blythely, whom Gently had cornered on her own, sullenly agreed that they had gone to the Ambassador.
‘Very well — describe the programme,’ Gently had challenged the pair of them.
Mrs Blythely had made a fair hand of it, her husband had been vaguer. And neither of them could remember meeting anyone they knew. Once again, by using sheer dead weight, as it were, the baker had shouldered Gently aside…
‘How about that bike — aren’t they through going over it yet?’
‘We’ve only just got Larkin’s prints back, and being in the river
…’
‘There’ll have been grease on the frame.’
‘He seems to have kept it washed down with petrol.’
‘That’s a damn silly thing to do! What about the lot who’re dragging the river?’
‘They rang up half an hour ago and we sent out some thermoses of hot soup.’
He hung up impatiently and dragged at his cigar, which tasted damp. All the leads he’d got his hands on seemed to be frittering themselves away. In the lunchtime paper had appeared a chaste paragraph about a body taken from the river, and if Roscoe hadn’t skipped already, then he would as soon as his eye fell on that.
Meanwhile this rain, boring down like the commencement of some fresh deluge…
‘Do you reckon these could be something, sir?’
Dutt, coming in on his lunch relief, found Gently still brooding by the phone. The cockney sergeant’s boots were squelching and his clothes sagged wetly, but nothing could quite upset the chirpiness of his manner.
‘Have you come into money, Dutt?’
It was a pad of fivers that was proffered to him.
‘I’ve only got it official, sir, pending what you thinks about it.’
‘Where did you pick this up?’
‘At the Central Garage, sir. This Blacker goes in there just now and buys himself a brand new motor scooter, and being as we’re so interested, I thought I’d take charge of the lolly.’
‘A motor scooter!’ Gently whistled. ‘That’s quite an item to be paying cash for.’
‘Yessir. And those notes is new ones — got the same letters, one or two of them.’
Always it seemed to come out of the clouds, but always you had had to work for it. This time he had been squandering Dutt on what seemed a pointless tailing stint, and now, when he was stuck for a move…
‘Get some dry clothes on and have your lunch, Dutt. I’ll take these round personally.’
‘Yessir. And do I go on tailing him?’
‘No — I’ve got a hunch that we’ve got what you were after!’
Abandoning the cigar, he set off on his tour of the banks. It wasn’t a long job in Lynton, where the principal branches were grouped together in streets near the market square. At the third one he made the contact he was looking for.
‘Four of these notes were paid out by us recently. We probably issued the others also, but we haven’t got a definite record.’
‘Who did you pay them to?’
‘Would you mind stepping into the manager’s office?’
The manager was a spare, gaunt-faced individual with cropped grey hair and tired-looking eyes. He seemed a little put out by Gently’s request.
‘I suppose it is absolutely essential, Inspector…?’
‘You are aware that I am investigating a homicide.’
‘At the same time, we try to guard the interests of our clients… publicity, in this case, could be cruelly damaging.’
‘Unless the party is implicated there should be no publicity.’
‘That’s out of the question! He’s our largest private depositor. After twenty years with us I think I can answer for his character. In Lynton his reputation is of the highest.’
‘The less he has to fear, then, from an enquiry of this sort.’
The manager frowned at the documents which lay on his blotter. Plainly, he would like to have given Gently a flat refusal. Homicide was a phrase to toy with, certainly, but when it came to annoying his largest private depositor…
‘The notes in question formed part of a substantial withdrawal. They were collected by our client in person at rather short notice, though of course we were happy to oblige.’
‘How much exactly?’
‘Ten thousand pounds.’
‘When were they collected?’
‘On the twelfth, following notice on the eleventh.’
‘Is it usual for him to withdraw large sums in cash?’
‘Once or twice, it might be… I would have to examine the back records, perhaps correspond with headquarters.’
‘When was the last such withdrawal?’
‘I’m afraid I must have notice of that question.’
‘Let me know as soon as you can, please. And the name and address of this client?’
The manager sighed and gestured helplessly with his narrow shoulders.
‘It is Geoffrey Pershore, Esq., of Prideaux Manor, Prideaux St John. And may I beg, on his behalf, that this matter is withheld from the press?’
But Gently had already taken his hat.
The maid who let him in was a country girl with chubby dimpling features. She left him standing in the lofty but austere hall with its graceful painted stairway at the side.
Coming up the drive, Prideaux Manor had looked a rather chill and forbidding place. The blank, white Regency front with its double row of tall windows struck a desolate note among the dripping and leafless elms.
Seen at closer quarters it was more friendly. The windows came to life, there was warmth in the ornate stone porch; a comfortable proportion established itself among the rectangles which, at a distance, seemed dreary.
Now, inside, one was obliged to acknowledge a graciousness about the house. The stairway alone was a gem of airy elegance. Lit by a high, round-topped window, the hall had a chapel-like atmosphere of peace. The chequered tiles of the floor had not been covered, a solitary bust in a niche gave point to the wall facing the stairs.
‘Will you come this way?’
The maid led him along a white-panelled corridor on the walls of which hung a number of flower paintings in oil. At the end of it he was ushered through the door of a small, period-furnished drawing room.
‘Ah, good day, Inspector!’
Pershore was waiting for him by the hearth, in which a brisk fire was burning. Legs astride, he might have been consciously studying the part of a landed proprietor at home. To his right was a low table bearing a decanter of whisky and an open box of cigars. He was smoking one of the latter, and a half-empty glass stood by the carriage clock on the mantelpiece behind him.
‘What a day we’ve been having…!’
His tone of genial patronage completed the picture.
‘Won’t you give Grace your coat? After your drive, a little whisky
…’
Gently allowed himself to be discommoded of his hat and coat and seated himself carefully on an inlaid Sheraton chair. The room was all of a piece, all strictly Regency. One picture was certainly a Constable, another probably a Crome…
Was it Pershore himself who somehow struck a false note?
‘You have some news for me, Inspector?’
‘There have been some developments.’
‘Ah! I am glad to hear that.’
‘You may be able to help me with some information.’
Savouring his cigar smoke, Pershore looked pleased. This was treating him as he deserved — Mahomet had come to the mountain! He gestured gracefully towards the cigar box, but Gently shook his head.
‘As you are aware, in my opinion-’
‘Do you live here alone, Mr Pershore?’
‘I? I am married, Inspector! My wife is the noted horsewoman-’
‘Is she at home at present?’
‘She is touring America with the English team.’
‘Your domestic servants?’
‘I have three — but really-!’
‘Forgive me for asking personal questions.’
The mayor-elect was not so pleased now. His watery blue eyes regarded Gently suspiciously. What was he getting at, this disrespectful fellow? From the first he had made some quite unwarrantable suggestions…
‘Some bank notes have come into our possession.’
‘Indeed?’
Pershore made the retort sound withering.
‘We have succeeded in tracing four of them. They were issued by the Lynton branch of the National Provincial. It appears that they were paid out to you, sir.’
‘That is not improbable, since I have always banked there.’
‘As part of a rather large sum.’
‘I am not a pauper, Inspector.’
‘At a recent withdrawal. In point of fact, last Thursday.’
His rage was beginning to simmer, you could see it welling up visibly. His fleshy cheeks had turned quite livid, his lips were quivering. For a moment he was at a loss to find a suitable expression for his anger.
‘In the first place, Inspector, this is none of your business-’
‘Under the circumstances, sir-’
‘Under no conceivable circumstances! What I do with my money concerns nobody but myself — I pay my tax, and there is an end of it!’
‘Nevertheless, on this occasion-’
‘On this occasion you are a fool, Inspector.’
‘I require to know to whom you paid that money.’
‘And the answer is simple — I haven’t paid it!’
If he had hoped to dumbfound Gently by this riposte he had entirely succeeded. It was the one answer which the other had not been expecting, and sheer surprise kept him momentarily silent. Pershore, glaring fiercely at him, picked up his glass and gulped down the rest of the whisky.
‘No, sir, I haven’t paid it — how does that square with your pryings and ferretings?’
‘You are positive of that?’
‘As positive as a man can be of his private affairs.’
‘The bank can hardly have made a mistake…’
‘On the contrary, Inspector, it seems to have made two — and as a net result it is losing my account!’
Gently stared uncomprehendingly at the circular period grate. This wasn’t the way it should have gone, at all! An error might have been made in checking the serial number of a single note, but four, selected from thirty-odd others… how was it possible to make mistakes of that sort?
‘You’d better have the whole story, since you’re so interested in my business!’
Pershore was ugly in his triumph and eager to rub it in.
‘No doubt you don’t have much to do with people who have large sums at their command. From your handling of this case, Inspector, I should say that you still have a great deal to learn.’
Could Pershore be lying, so stupidly certain as he seemed of himself?
‘You must know that I am the Commodore of the Lynton Yacht Club — a distinction, I may say, not entirely unearned. We hold regattas on the river — I, myself, own the flagship. But now we are thinking of extending our activities.’
‘Regarding the money-’
‘You will listen to me, Inspector! You came here with a certain question, and now you will listen to the answer.
‘We are forming a cruising section — you understand what that means? Those of us with means are purchasing yachts for sea-going…’
Underlying the bluster, couldn’t one catch the uneasiness, the lived-down fears of a nobody become somebody? That cultivated accent — what was the burr behind it? Now and then, when he was excited, it slipped out tantalizingly. You could be sure of one thing: Pershore wasn’t bred in Northshire…
‘Stanhope got in ahead of me, but he made a bad mistake. The old fool who owned the Natalie wouldn’t take a cheque for the money. Immediately I got in touch-’
‘Don’t you come from the West Country?’
‘What?’
‘Gloucestershire… perhaps Somerset way?’
Pershore froze in the posture he had adopted, his cigar raised to make a point.
‘What has that got to do with it?’
‘Nothing. I was simply curious.’
‘Why should you be curious about that?’
‘It’s a way policemen have.’
Pershore gave him several odd little glances. He seemed thrown out of his stride by this irrelevant enquiry. But finally he flicked the ash from his cigar and went on with his lecture.
‘As I was saying, I got in touch with my bank for a short-notice withdrawal of the requisite sum. In the meantime I sent this Upcher a telegram — unfortunately, he wasn’t on the telephone…’
Was it imagination, or had some of the bounce gone out of him? Occasionally, now, he fumbled for a word.
‘On Thursday I collected the money and sent a further telegram announcing my intention… I was just about to set out for Starmouth when Upcher rang me up.
‘In spite of my telegram he had sold the Natalie! It appears that a third party was interested and took him the money on Wednesday evening.
‘Thus you have your answer, Inspector. You know for what the money was intended and that it has never been out of my hands. Am I wrong in supposing that an apology from you would not be out of place?’
‘Hmn.’ Gently shrugged towards the grate. ‘And the address of this Upcher fellow?’
‘Naturally I will supply you with it. Stanhope, if you intend to persist with this enquiry, you can get in touch with at his offices in Ely Street.’
‘Where’s the money now?’
‘Here in this house. I have a built-in safe.’
‘Shouldn’t we just take a look at it?’
‘If you insist — but under protest.’
To rub in the protest he remained straddling the hearth for a few seconds. Then, without deigning to toss Gently another word, he strode magnificently towards the door.
The safe was in a book-lined study at the other end of the corridor. A false front of books was intended to conceal it, but the facetious titlings on the spines gave away the secret at once to those familiar with such contraptions. A big Chubb’s, the safe lay securely nested in concrete. It required three and a half turns of the key to free its multiple bolts.
‘You see? In this case.’
The door open, Pershore reached familiarly for a red morocco attache case with a gilt monogram which lay on one of the steel shelves. But then, holding it in his hand, his expression changed to one of almost laughable bewilderment.
‘It — it feels empty!’
‘Haven’t you got the key?’
‘Yes, but it’s too light…!’
In a sort of panic he dragged a key ring from his pocket and fumbled at the locks. Inside, the case was lined with scarlet silk. But it contained nothing except the smell of expensive leather.
‘This is fantastic — an outrage!’
The mayor-elect was bubbling with indignation and bafflement. Every cliche of injury came thronging to his lips.
‘In the first place it’s impossible — I shall get in touch with the chief constable! What are things coming to — what are the police being paid for!’
‘Would you mind checking the contents?’
‘I shall write to my M.P.!’
‘At the moment it would help-’
‘This is utterly criminal!’
Shrugging heavily, Gently turned his attention to the safe. Inside, everything seemed to be in scrupulous order. The door was immaculate in its dull green paint. Force had obviously not been used to effect an entry.
‘You are sure that the money was placed in the safe?’
‘Must you be so infernally stupid!’
‘Have you had it open since the money was put in?’
‘I have had no occasion to — the old fool sold over my head!’
‘I would be very greatly obliged if you would check the contents.’
At last Pershore got down to it, still reverberating impotently. He was in such a way that he could scarcely remember what should be there. It was some time before he had established to his own satisfaction that, apart from the money, the contents were intact.
‘Can you describe what you did after you drew the money?’
‘Haven’t I made it clear enough? I put it in the safe!’
‘When you left the bank you drove directly back here?’
‘Yes — I told you. And then I got that telephone call!’
It took time and patience to get information from Pershore. He was raving with the incredible wrong which had been done him. Bit by bit it had to be dragged out, with the chance of an insult at every fresh question.
‘What time did you go to the bank?’
‘How the devil should I know?’
‘On Thursday morning you called in at the mill. Had you the money with you at that time?’
‘I don’t know — ask Fuller. He may have seen me with it!’
‘It’s important that you remember.’
‘For heaven’s sake, talk sense!’
‘Who knew you had it or were going to draw it?’
‘Do you think I’d broadcast a thing like that?’
‘Where else did you go in Lynton that morning?’
‘Nowhere, I tell you.’
‘Did you have a drink at The Roebuck?’
‘No, I did not!’
Slowly but remorselessly the picture was teased into detail. As he put his questions Gently wandered over to the study’s two big windows. Here they were at the back of the house, facing a long stretch of terraced lawn closed by shrubberies. Immediately under the windows were flowerbeds shaped in scallops, but the naked earth, ideal for footprints, was rendered sodden and crumbled by the beating rain.
The windows themselves were wooden sash frames secured by common fingertip catches.
‘When you went to draw the money, where did you park your car?’
‘Honestly, Inspector! Outside the bank.’
‘Were there many people about?’
‘I really didn’t notice.’
‘That attache case is conspicuous. Are you sure you caught nobody eyeing it?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Who opened the door when you returned here?’
‘Nobody opened it — I let myself in.’
‘Then your servants knew nothing about it?’
‘Not unless they saw me go out with the case.’
‘Would that have been probable?’
‘Do you really expect me to remember such things?’
‘Where do you keep the safe key?’
‘Attached to a body-belt, as you are aware.’
‘Was the money ever out of your hands?’
‘Never at any time until I deposited it in the safe.’
‘And you can’t remember whether you drew it before or after you visited the mill?’
‘Not to swear to it, but it might have been after.’
‘How long after you got back did the telephone ring?’
‘Almost as soon as I got in the door.’
‘You kept the case in your hand all the time you were answering it?’
‘I put it on the desk there.’
‘Nobody else was in the room?’
‘Nobody.’
‘You had your eyes on it?’
‘All the time.’
‘And then you put it in the safe?’
‘Yes, just across the room!’
‘Think: did you stop anywhere except at the mill?’
‘I’ve told you already-’
‘May I use your phone, please?’
Pershore watched him loweringly as he dialled the headquarters number. Like many an angry man before him, the mayor-elect had been sobered by the probe of Gently’s interrogation. It was humiliating to be shown how little one really remembered about things…
‘Gently here. Anything come in?’
Through the window came the steady beat of the rain on the lawn and flowerbeds outside.
‘Never mind… get me Inspector Griffin, if he’s there.’
He’d got the meat out of Prideaux Manor: it was up to the local boys to scoop up the gravy. Just at the moment, he could think of much more interesting things to be done.