Blackmail: dirty blackmail. Dispelling Kincaid like a mist, banishing him precipitately from the Wyddfa and back to the probable truth of his statement. It was a bitter moment for Evans as he stood staring at the two on the cairn, a moment of personal revelation which he was too honest to avoid. Out of some different level of understanding Gently had produced this confounding trump card.
‘Then he’s the one who Heslington saw!’
It had perforce to be more of a statement than a query. Once you had grasped the basic fact, the details went tumbling into place. Askham’s height came near to Kincaid’s. His build, his carriage were much the same. Glimpsed from the back at a suitable distance, he would easily pass muster for the man himself. Another point that Evans had missed.
‘Right. We may as well have our meal.’
Gently was climbing down from the cairn with a bland inconsequence of expression. But surely he hadn’t done questioning Askham, when there was so much still to be explained! All the background to that mysterious blackmail, with its deep-set roots and weary entanglements? And at the very least:
‘Won’t you charge him, man?’
‘With what?’ Gently stared at him blankly.
‘Why… I’d say…’ Evans floundered uncomfortably, feeling more and more left out of the picture.
It was a curious meal, the one they ate there, with the Olympian view rolled out beneath them. Except for Heslington, who had missed that scene, nobody had much to say for themselves. And Heslington too soon gave up trying. He could sense that something climactic had occurred. He put out feelers to Overton to find if he, Heslington, were affected, then decided that he wasn’t and got on with his sandwiches. All along there had been a growing air of confidence about Heslington.
More remarkable to Evans was the tie between Gently and Askham, which continued unaffected by the passage of the thunder. The young man had sat down by him still trembling from his ordeal, but he was soon showing more composure, and with it a sort of tremulous regard. Evans felt a twinge of jealousy; he was being ignored by Gently! He was at a loss to find a reason for the irritating phenomenon. In his experience there was little love lost between a chummie and his apprehender, especially when the chummie had been given a dose of treatment like this one.
‘I didn’t know… it was Kincaid…’
Askham had started to mutter something. He swooped on a thermos to pour some coffee for Gently.
‘Down in Llanberis I asked them… so I thought he’d come here. I had to see him of course… and that was the reason…’
And Gently grunted as though it made sense, reaching his hand for the coffee. What had happened? At what point had Evans gone off the road?
After the meal it became increasingly plain that Gently had finished for the present; as of then, the whole excursion might have been a pleasure trip. With Askham slinking in his wake and Overton providing information, he made an appreciative circuit of the top, asking nothing but tourist questions. Then he was ready to go down; he had exhausted the Wyddfa. That single blaze of illumination was apparently all he asked from it. He had somehow been able to foretell it and now he’d got it he was satisfied. It clicked home. Evans knew instinctively that Gently had the whole story.
Did it hinge on what Kincaid knew about the incident on Everest, and Harry Askham’s part in that? Could the answer be so simple?
On the long, dull descent to Llanberis, only a moorland track below Clogwen Bridge, Evans wrestled unceasingly with the problem, giving it all the benefit of his needle-bright logic. He wanted so badly to get there himself, to reach the answer before Gently came out with it; and it had to be staring him in the face somewhere, since he knew the facts as well as the Yard man. Yet the more he grappled with them the more stubborn they became. Without further investigation there seemed no prospect of squaring them. Behind any blackmail must lie a secret, and that secret was buried deep; known perhaps by the Askhams, mother and son, but only certainly by the Kincaids. And not knowing that how could one be so smug and so oracularly self-satisfied as Gently? Or, what was worse, so infuriatingly right? The facts stretched like a wall against any such certainties.
And he was still butting his head against it when they straggled down to the town, past the outlying houses and bungalows and on to the welcoming metalled road. Had he begun to suspect its significance, to plot its position in the Gentlian process; to sense that it was here Gently had turned his back when that wall insisted on barring his way
…? He was staring at Gently very hard. But he was much too proud to ask a question.
‘Where’s the best place to eat in Llanberis?’
Gently was dragging his boots with fatigue. Evans observed it with a consoled satisfaction: here was something Wales had taught the maestro!
‘The Snowdon Cafe is as good as anywhere.’
‘Right. We’ll go there straight away.’
‘What about…?’ Evans motioned to Askham.
‘He’ll come along too. Do you think he climbs on air?’ Evans had a savage glance for the young man but he said no more. It was Gently’s party!
After climbing on sandwiches, one ate like a tiger. That was the immediate lesson that Wales had taught Gently. His body craved food, its furthest extremities cried out for it, and for forty-five minutes he did nothing but empty plates. Then he sighed and felt for his pipe. There was something to be said for climbing mountains! He took a few luxurious puffs before running an eye round his company.
‘I’d like to thank those present for giving me their assistance.’
Was it spoken as a dismissal? Nobody seemed eager to take it up. A subtle bond was linking them together, the unspoken friendship of the hills. It had grown there unawares and had suddenly surprised them with a unity, setting the disparate aside, making evens of the odds. Heslington was the first to speak.
‘Then I can take it you’ve finished with me?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘If you don’t mind, I should like to have it a little more definite. At one stage you came near to accusing me, not without grounds, I’m ready to admit. And I want to make sure that you’re satisfied now.’
‘Quite satisfied, Mr Heslington.’
‘And Sarah. I can tell her?’
Gently nodded, blowing smoke. ‘We shan’t be troubling Mrs Fleece.’
‘In that case…’ Heslington stood up. He felt in his hip pocket for his wallet. ‘I’ll be getting on the road. I want to be back in town tonight.’
He went, with a nod to Overton, his red head jerking when he strode past the window; in the final analysis unexpectedly impressive and with a dignity seen to be sincere. Had he been a red herring? No: not quite. He had held a key piece in that intricate jigsaw. A few moments later they saw him pass in the sports car, but his eyes were fixed on the long road ahead.
‘I suppose that goes for me too.’
Overton’s smile was lazy, and after stretching and flexing his arms he let them drop with a grunt. But he wasn’t tired; you could tell that. His sallow skin gave the wrong impression. The mountain that had squashed Gently flat was only a loosener to Overton.
‘Of course, I’d like to tag along and get to the bottom of this lark, but I only came for the ride, so I’d better follow Ray’s example. Only my car is up the pass.’
‘Sergeant Williams will find you transport.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m not baffled. But I’ve enjoyed the trip all the same.’
He rose, Williams with him; but Gently detained them with a gesture.
‘Just one more question. This one comes from my superior at the Yard. Why do you people want to climb Everest?’
‘Why?’ Overton’s brown eyes danced at him. ‘But I should be here all night if I even started to answer that.’
‘In a couple of words, though?’
‘You’d think me a fool if I told you.’
‘I won’t show it.’
‘All right, then! It’s to get at the soul of the beast.’
And he ducked away from an explanation, towing Williams along after him.
Then they were three; Evans, Gently, Askham sitting in sulky thought, his head bowed over his coffee, his hands clasped under the table. The culprit, if there was a culprit, and Evans very much wanted to think so. But more likely the tormented inheritor of a harrowing patrimony.
He made a last half-hearted effort.
‘My car is here… can’t I go too?’
Gently sternly shook his head. ‘You’re coming back to Caernarvon with us.’
‘You can’t make me. I haven’t been charged.’
‘I’ll soon do that if you’d prefer it. Otherwise you’ll come with us. We haven’t quite finished yet.’
His head drooped over the cup again.
‘You’re going to talk to my mother, aren’t you?’ he mumbled.
It was the same in Wales as in London or in any other police station on earth; the same tidy untidy room with its desk and chairs and filing cabinets. The same smell of floor polish and paper and tobacco smoke that was never dispersed, the identical dingy painted walls, brown linoleum, and tin waste box. All that was different in Evans’s office was the calendar pinned behind the door, which was issued by a Welsh firm with an unpronounceable name and which carried a picture of a Welsh girl in national costume. But the atmosphere was correct. It touched its chord of condemnation.
‘I must admit I was surprised, Superintendent.’
She had swept in finely with her surge of hauteur; driving the atmosphere back with her presence and filling the office with her own. Then she had seen her son, and stopped, making her stand-out skirt rustle. She had fixed her eyes accusingly on his hunched and shamefast shoulders.
‘Oh I see. It’s about Henry, is it. I wondered why you had fetched me out here. And what has my son been up to this time: another car-smash, is it?’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Askham.’
‘I’m hoping it won’t be necessary, Superintendent. If it’s a question of bail we can settle that immediately, and since I have guests to dinner, I should prefer not to be detained.’
‘It isn’t a question of bail.’
‘Not bail. Is it something troublesome?’
‘I’d sooner you sat down, Mrs Askham. It has to do with Reginald Kincaid.’
‘That man. So that’s it.’
She gave her son a harder look. But he was determinedly turned away from her, his face towards one of the filing cabinets.
‘Very well, then. I’ll sit down. I didn’t know we were still on that business. But you will do me a favour, Superintendent, by being as brief as you possibly can.’
She was indeed dressed for dinner and she arranged her billowing skirt with care. She was wearing a gown of pale straw and pearls gleamed dully above its neckline. About her shoulders was a quilted wrap in her especial tint of lilac, and she wore long matching gloves and lilac shoes with incredible heels. Her hair was sculptured rather than brushed and she wore in it a golden, pearl-studded comb.
Gently was cautious with his opening.
‘I’m trying to complete our knowledge of the case. We still need some details about Fleece and Kincaid with reference to the time when you engaged Paula Kincaid. I thought you’d be the person best able to help us.’
‘I see. But what has this to do with my foolish son?’
‘Your son has been helping us, Mrs Askham. He had some information to give.’
‘About Kincaid?’
‘About Kincaid. And a few collateral matters.’
‘My son is imaginative, Superintendent.’
‘We have had occasion to notice that.’
Her eyes had their usual frigid boldness but it was now a little icier, a little harder. They had been fencing from the outset and she was perfectly aware of it. She had no nerves. She knew her strength. She was a perfect mistress of her weapon.
‘Very good. Then what are your questions?’
‘Two of them relate to sums of money. The first concerns the ten thousand pounds with which your husband financed the expedition to Everest.’
‘My husband did no such thing.’
‘But Harry Askham paid that money.’
‘Then it was done without my knowledge.’
‘Why was that, Mrs Askham?’
She made the gesture of flicking her skirt. ‘I wouldn’t necessarily know. I think I told you before that I didn’t meddle with my husband’s business. He was quite generous with his charities.’
‘Even when they were anonymous?’
‘He could also be disinterested.’
‘Surprisingly so, it would seem.’
She let the thrust go by her. ‘And there was a second sum of money?’
‘Yes.’ Gently hit the word hard. ‘Another disinterested donation. We haven’t obtained the figures for this one but it would need to be in the tens of thousands. And it was paid to Arthur Fleece. On his successful return from the expedition.’
‘That I consider to be absurd.’
‘I quite agree. Unless it had a motive.’
‘There could be none.’ Her chin was up, she let her eyes sweep him witheringly. ‘Wherever this man obtained his money, I can assure you it was not from Harry, Harry had obligations to nobody. Certainly not to a sacked employee.’
‘Fleece was sacked?’
‘So I understood. I remember it being mentioned at the time. Some dishonesty in his records. I don’t remember precisely what.’
‘Then there would be a record of that at Metropolitan Electric. Some of the staff would remember the incident.’
‘They might.’ She picked a thread from her skirt. ‘But then again, it was probably hushed up.’
Gently’s nod was caustic. ‘I feel sure it would have been. The air at Hendon seems to have a relaxing effect on memories. But you knew nothing of this payment?’
‘Nothing whatever. It was never made.’
The foil was handsome, but that didn’t betray her into complacency. From the height of her expensive presence, she continued to eye him with alert attention. Henry Askham had straightened a little as though perhaps taking courage from his formidable mother. Evans was sitting in a crouching attitude. He seemed holding himself to spring on something or somebody.
‘I’d like you to consider those two payments together and in conjunction with what happened on Everest. I think you will come to a certain conclusion. I think your son has already done so.’
‘I didn’t know-!’
Askham flung round, a truly ghastly look on his face. He stared in horror at his mother, who regally inclined in his direction.
‘Henry. You’d better leave the talking to me.’
‘But you don’t understand! I had to tell him-’
‘You are over-imaginative, Henry.’
‘But this… this…!’
‘You must control your nerves, boy. You should try to be more reserved in public. Superintendent, you will kindly excuse him. As an only son he’s been spoiled, I’m afraid.’
Askham groaned and pulled away from her. She sat still and unmoved. Her hands lay quietly on her lap and the muscles of her mouth were unstressed. After a moment she resumed calmly:
‘I missed the point of your last question. I thought that what happened on Everest was beyond any sort of proof.’
‘You are familiar with accounts of it, then.’
‘Oh yes. Is that discreditable?’
‘And with the version Kincaid gave?’
‘One could scarcely escape that.’
‘How would you interpret it, Mrs Askham?’
‘I’m not certain that I want to. But if it were proved, then I should say Kincaid had reason to murder Fleece.’
‘You may take it as being proved.’
‘Oh, really?’ Her chin was lifting again. ‘Then a conviction is almost certain. I suppose I should congratulate you, Superintendent.’
‘And those two sums of money are proved. Your husband paid for that expedition. And he paid Fleece when he returned. And he caused Paula Kincaid to vanish.’
‘You are wrong. Completely wrong.’
‘And Fleece knew something else, didn’t he? Your husband went for a ride on a tiger, and the tiger came back: he came for you.’
‘Stop it… stop it!’ Henry Askham sprang up, his eyes wild and his hair dishevelled. ‘I can’t stand it, I tell you, I can’t! I shall go mad… you’ve got to stop it!’
‘Henry.’ Her voice cut like a knife.
‘And you. You. You knew all about it! Knew that Father — oh, my God! I can’t stand it — I shall go mad!’
‘Henry, be silent.’
‘I can’t… I can’t!’
‘You will control yourself this moment.’
‘I’m finished. I just can’t take it.’
‘It isn’t true, Henry. It isn’t true.’
Neither of them had seen Gently’s finger on the bell-push, nor noticed the door swinging silently open. He came in looking perplexed, his intense eyes switching about him, the brown suit he’d worn in the cells crumpled and badly needing a press. Then he heard the voice of the seated woman. His eyes grew wide, he began to tremble. He took a stumbled step forward and gave a little sobbing cry.
‘Paula… Paula! ’
Mrs Askham whirled to her feet. He was standing with his hands outstretched towards her.
Was it altogether real, the tableau enacting in that room, painfully extending itself to moments, a scene in which every actor had dried? The spindly man with his appealing hands and tears rolling down his cheeks, the thunderstruck woman with ghost-seeing eyes, the staring young man backed against the cabinet? It seemed to hang breathlessly on the brink of unbeing, as though a sudden movement might sweep it away: dissolved and cut by its own emotion like a celluloid shadow from the screen.
Then slowly Mrs Askham turned her back on Kincaid.
‘Paula!’
The movement drew him after it. But he seemed to be shackled, he could advance only one foot. He stopped. He became as motionless as before.
‘Paula. Oh, look at me!’
She wouldn’t. Her face was bitter. She wasn’t seeing Gently, though her eyes faced straight towards him.
‘Paula, I love you. It’s never changed. I love you, Paula. I love you!’
Her mouth opened before she spoke. Finally she said:
‘It’s no use, Reg.’
‘But, Paula, I love you. I want you!’
‘No, Reg. It’s no use.’
‘Paula, listen to me. I’m rich now…’
Her lips twisted. ‘And I’m poor!’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He came another step. ‘I’m rich, Paula. Don’t you hear? We’ve got money now. A hundred thousand! I brought it back with me from Tibet.’
A hundred thousand…! Gently saw the pitying expression that passed over her face. What was a hundred thousand to Mrs Askham: would it melt one splinter of her ice? She’d tossed the sum away on trifles, some fresh bloodstock, a new yacht; and that little man in his scrubby suit thought he was going to tempt her with such a bagatelle! The anger blazed. She swung on Kincaid:
‘Are you blind to what you’ve done?’
‘Paula…!’ Her rage pushed him backwards, his lips quivered and fell dumb.
‘Don’t you realize you’ve made me a pauper — me, a millionairess; stripped this very gown from my back; taken the ring off my finger?’
‘But Paula, listen…’
‘Listen. Listen! Will that do any good now? Will it make me Harry’s widow again? Confirm my title to his estate? You’ve ruined me, Reg, that’s what you’ve done. You’ve practically tossed me into the street. And now you insult me with your pretty charity, your childish sentiment and your hundred thousand! What must I do about it — kiss you? Throw my arms round your neck?’
‘Paula… I don’t understand…’
Her savage laugh made him wince.
‘Don’t you? But Dicky Askham will understand, and so too will his lawyers. I had to fight that wastrel before, Reg. He contested the will right through the courts. And what sort of case do you think I’ll have now — as Harry’s mistress, with Henry his bastard? I’ll be fortunate to get a pittance: a beggarly percentage of your wonderful fortune. And Harry’s son can sweat in the works while his uncle squanders his father’s money…! And you’ve done it by walking in here, Reg, only by looking at me and saying, ‘Paula.’ Paula was dead and Paula was buried — and you, you’re the stranger who’s made me poor!’
She flung away again with vehement passion, her eyes sparkling and blind. Kincaid stood as though entranced; crushed, broken by her piercing anger. For several seconds he couldn’t speak. He seemed to have died inside his body. Then insensibly something began to return, the lamp of his glazed eyes lit again.
‘Paula…’
Her shoulders snatched at him, willing him to have done.
‘Paula, I didn’t know… I couldn’t guess that I would do you an injury.’
‘But you have, Reg. And I hate you for it.’
‘No, Paula. You mustn’t hate me.’
‘But I do. I do.’
‘You’re angry with me. Only angry.’
She stamped her foot, and to Gently’s surprise he could see a tear trembling under her lashes. But her lips were pressing tight and her chin thrust well forward.
‘I want you to go now, simply go.’
‘Not without you, Paula. Never.’
‘Reg, you must.’
‘Don’t ask it of me. I love you, Paula. You’re all my life.’
‘I’ve not been faithful.’
‘I understand that.’
‘You must suspect me.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘I’m a hard bitch, Reg. You can ask my son,’
‘You’re Paula Kincaid. You’re my wife.’
What had come over him? He had suddenly transcended the eccentric character by which they had known him; even his voice had a deeper tone and his weedy figure appeared more substantial. And as his stature grew, Mrs Askham’s lessened, her commanding presence was whittled away. From being a priceless doll with a vice-royal manner, she was rapidly diminishing into something like a woman…
‘Listen, Paula. Why is this money important? What have you ever bought with it that has helped you to be happy? Has it made people love you? Has it made you less lonely? Has it stood to you as a husband since the man who took you died? If I’ve lost that for you, I’ve brought you something else, Paula. I’ve brought you a love that’s never altered, through all the bitter times past. And I’ve all the money we can ever need, more than we need with each other. Then why is your money so important? Why does losing it seem so hard?’
‘It’s no use, Reg; we’re strangers. You don’t know me now.’
‘I do know you.’ He came closer, standing right by her side.
‘I’m unforgivable. I know that.’
‘No, Paula. You’re always forgiven.’
‘I’ve got to hate you…’
‘You can’t do it.’
‘I must hate you. I must…’
Then the tears came. Quietly, without any sobbing. Making her feel unseeingly for her handkerchief to dab to her eyes.
‘You’re not to touch me,’ she said. ‘You’re not to touch me, Reg …’
She didn’t break down at all. But that would probably come later.