It had started to mizzle again as a matter of course; that sunshine had been far too fragile; now it had relapsed into a suffused presence behind the ceiling of steady grey. The shadows of buildings were smoothed and softened and the presence of the buildings strangely enlarged, while the railway smell of London streets had sharpened until it pressed upon the consciousness. At Evans’s request they had lunched at a Corner House, a murmuring hall of communal eating; and now they were driving out to Wimbledon, retracing their route of the day before. Evans was deep in a midday paper: his sombre mood had become almost a sulk. The matter of the rope had failed to stir his enthusiasm, it was a frivolous detail, it was almost academic.
‘But it happened all that time ago, man.’ During lunch he had condescended to discuss it. ‘Kincaid’s forgotten it, if he ever understood. That’s plain enough now, and I ought to have my head tested.’
‘It gives a sound enough motive, taken together with the circumstances.’
‘Aye, so I thought. And you’ve proved me wrong.’
‘And for the first time it enables us to link Kincaid with Kincaid.’
‘That’s bloody magnificent. You job is done, man.’
So Gently had let it drop, though he felt absurdly pleased with himself. It had been no mean feat, this slipping of a lassoo over Kincaid. A lot of talent had been loosed on it before Gently came on the scene, and up till that moment nothing tangible had emerged from the research. But now it had. That missing rope flashed an unmistakable positive. It underwrote Kincaid’s story with a persuasive flourish. The shadowy past has been penetrated and the shadowy present grown more distinct: this might be only a first step, but it suggested that further steps were possible. And who knew even yet what the value of identifying Kincaid might be? The spotlight had shifted on to Heslington, but it was a purely circumstantial spotlight…
Evans lowered his paper and gave the Thames a dirty look, but he raised it again as they crawled through Putney. The Welsh inspector had no more doubts, he was seeing the case in black and white; in that curious dance of death his attention was fixed on Raymond Heslington. But Kincaid was still there, he still held the centre of the stage. He remained the dancer whose appearance had set the ballet in motion. Was it possible to dismiss him now as an accidental subsidiary, a monumental introduction to a commonplace finale? Gently involuntarily shook his head. He couldn’t credit that, yet. Now, before he had seen Heslington, he could affirm that his mind was still open. In an hour it might be different, this was what they were going to discover; but as they drove towards Wimbledon the balance was level, though tremulous.
Hadrian’s Villa, Heslington’s house, was sited actually on the Common, and appeared as a white flat-topped building partly hidden by a grove of birches. It had a courtyard which was enclosed by high pantile-capped walls, and these were pierced by a round-arched gateway and by occasional unglazed windows. The driver parked before the gateway and the two of them got out. Through the wrought-iron gate, which bore an imperial eagle, they could see a formal garden and a colonnade. The paths of the garden were of zigzagged brick, and in the centre stood the statue of a youth, in bronze; the colonnade was reached by a shallow flight of steps and its tiled roof was supported by short, slab-top pillars. Over the gateway was a round stone plaque. Its inscription read: HADRIANVS AVGVSTVS.
There was a bell-pull and Gently tugged at it, producing a distant, melodious chime. After an interval a door was opened and a woman came across to the gate. They both stared at her in amazement; she was a surprise for Wimbledon Common; she was dressed in a voluminous scarlet robe which was tucked in at the waist with a belt of leather. On her feet she had drawstring sandals and her hair was piled beneath a copper ring. She was about fifty and had rather hard features. She eyed them coldly but without embarrassment.
‘You wanted something?’
Her voice spoiled the illusion. It was a voice from the wrong side of Aldgate Pump.
‘We want to speak to Mr Heslington. We are C.I.D. officers.’
‘Oh, I see. It’s about that, is it? You’d better come in while I go and tell him. Mr Heslington’s a bit particular; he doesn’t like people to come disturbing him.’
She closed the gate with a slight slam and led them over to the colonnade, her long robe swishing at every step and her sandals shuffling on the bricks. When she’d left them their eyes met and their shoulders lifted in unison. There was no commenting on this: one could only exchange a gesture! Gently glanced round the courtyard. It was all of a piece with the general theme; various round-arched, stump-pillared outbuildings, some miniature holm-oaks and minor statuary. He noticed a pair of modern folding doors.
‘Take a look into the garage, will you?’
Evans sneaked over and tried to open the doors, but they were apparently locked and he was obliged to squint through the window. He returned.
‘So what does he keep there. A couple of chariots for the Common?’
‘No, man. A Ford Anglia. And a green-and-cream Austin-Healey.’
‘Then where the devil-?’ Gently was beginning, when the return of the housekeeper interrupted him. She threw a look at Evans which suggested that she had witnessed his manoeuvre.
‘Mr Heslington says he’ll see you, if you’ll kindly step inside. It’s the second door on the right.’
She flounced rustlingly away.
A passage ran the length of the house as an interior parallel to the colonnade and its floor was paved with mosaic in a pattern of red and white. Gently tapped at the door, which was painted apple-green, and on hearing a response turned the bronze claw handle. It was like straying on to a theatre set. The room beyond was awe-inspiring. It was some fifteen feet in height and perhaps twenty feet square. The walls were panelled with rusty marble, framed by inlays of alabaster, and a frieze of the same material was rendered with formalized designs in colour. The floor was bare and of warm, veined stone, with a rich mosaic in the centre, and the only furniture was a marble table with gilded legs and lion-claw feet. The room possessed an antechamber on the side opposite to the door. This opened into a conservatory in which grew a vine and some potted shrubs. It also contained some more useful furnishings, a table in bronze, a bench and a couch, and it was here that Heslington stood waiting for them: clad — it was inevitable — in a purple toga.
‘ Tempori parendum. Come in and sit down.’
He was a man who, surprisingly, looked well in a toga. His age was forty-four and his height about five feet ten; he was lean but broad in the shoulder, and his shoulders sloped gracefully. But there was nothing Roman in his features unless it was the slight hook of the nose; he had reddish hair, flecked with grey, hazel eyes and a full beard. His complexion was fresh and his teeth uneven but good, and he spoke in a deep tone with a good deal of resonance. He nodded to Evans but didn’t shake hands.
‘I thought you’d settled this business, Inspector. I didn’t expect you to lug me back to it from the public baths in Pompeii.’
Evans looked startled. ‘From where was it you said, sir?’
‘The public baths in Pompeii.’ Heslington pointed to the paper-strewn table. ‘I’d just written myself in. I write books, you know. And I was deep in the baths when Mrs Vincent came to announce you. But never mind, I’m out now; I’m busy towellingmy hair. So if the twentieth century has questions, let the second century hear them.’
He did it well, but not well enough to conceal his uneasiness, nor to control the challenging glance which he flashed at Gently. The twentieth century was probably closer than the second century liked to admit, and stood in danger of closing the gap with less than senatorial ceremony.
‘This is Superintendent Gently, sir. He’s assisting me in the case.’ Evans was curt. He stepped back a pace to leave no doubt who was the principal.
‘Really?’ Heslington surveyed Gently again. Now it was with a touch of boredom. ‘I hope I can do something for him besides repeating repetitions. Would you be interested in archaeological reconstruction, Superintendent?’
Gently hunched non-commitally. ‘I’m always interested in reconstructions.’
‘You stand on the site and in the triclinium of an Anglo-Roman villa. The Emperor Hadrian’s I maintain, though I fail to carry a majority.’
‘My reconstructions are more modern.’
‘After Rome the field is plebeian.’
‘All the same, it has its points. I’ve a present interest in cars.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong person, I’m afraid.’
Gently shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m wondering how you run an Austin-Healey in addition to the car you’ve officially taxed.’
Heslington’s eyes hardened a little but he gave no other reaction. He said: ‘I fail to see how that can interest you. I may have hired or borrowed the car.’
‘From whom did you borrow it?’
‘Is that really your business?’
‘I’m asking you because you’re handy. But I could put the same question to Sarah Fleece.’
Now there was a reaction, a burning spot on each cheekbone. After a moment’s silence Heslington turned from them and threw himself down on a stool by the table. His toga made the action dramatic, it was at one with the theatrical tone of the setting; a declamation in blank verse might with propriety have followed the move. Gently hesitated, then selected the bronze bench for a seat. Evans chose the couch with an equal diffidence.
‘Just precisely what are you after?’ His patronizing condescension had come to an end. His face was bitter. The lines to the mouth were drawn deep and tight. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions. I’ve given you my account of Monday. You’ve made an arrest, so what’s your object in coming scandal-mongering here?’
A smile loitered on Gently’s lips: that line of appeal was really getting too common! ‘You can call it routine,’ he replied. ‘We’re finding this an unusual case.’
‘It may be unusual, but it isn’t doubtful, so you’ve no reason to be offensive. Hound Kincaid if you want to, but don’t come here hounding me.’
‘You’re certain that Kincaid is our man?’
‘Isn’t it a fact that you’ve charged him with it? It’s an open and shut case, to use your questionable expression. And I’m sorry for it, too. He’s a remarkable man is Kincaid. The whole affair makes me sick and I’d like to forget it ever happened.’
‘You’re quite satisfied about the motive. About it’s being an act of revenge?’
‘Yes, I am. I was there. I know what happened on Everest.’
‘You knew that Fleece intended to get rid of him?’
‘I knew it after I’d heard his story. It made me remember a whole lot of things which I’d paid no attention to at the time. But I saw their significance after I’d talked to Kincaid. It made the whole thing as clear as daylight. I understood the delays and the switching of teams, and all Fleece’s little manoeuvrings to get Kincaid on his rope. You don’t have to worry about the poor devil’s motive.’
‘Why did Fleece do it, do you think?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t want to. Finding it out was like stumbling on a midden in your drawing room. Till then the affair had a certain nobility, it was tragic but left us with an inspiration; then it turned into an ugly mess which seemed to dirty us too. I always knew that Fleece was a blackguard but after that my soul loathed him. And I told him so to his face. I did have that satisfaction.’
‘In fact, it nearly came to violence.’
Heslington checked himself before replying. He said evenly: ‘You must have read my statement. I said there that I didn’t like him.’
‘That’s not quite the same is it? As loathing a man with your soul?’
‘It was sufficient for the occasion and the officialese of the document.’
‘Wouldn’t it be true to say that you’re glad he’s dead?’
‘It might or might not be true. But I don’t remember having said it.’
His eyes met Gently’s steadily and with the hint of a challenge again; it was the look of a man either conscious of his innocence or of the strength of his position. Which was it? With a man like Heslington it was not easy to tell. A bit of a crank he might be, but he was not without strength of character. Gently’s gaze strayed towards the conservatory.
‘I’ll put a hypothetical case,’ he said. ‘Suppose Kincaid told the truth in his statement. Suppose it wasn’t him you saw on the railway?’
‘But it was.’
‘Did you recognize him?’
‘I’m nearly certain. It was about his build.’
‘The supporting evidence is not strong. And this is the first time you’ve made an identification.’
‘But I didn’t know he was in the district, not when I made my statement. At the time nobody was further from my thoughts than Kincaid. But I remembered clearly what I’d seen, the height and build of the fellow, and after Overton had identified the cigarette-case I realized at once who it must have been. And I said so then.’
‘Wasn’t that wisdom after the event?’
‘Perhaps. I found it convincing enough.’
‘But would a jury find it convincing, when so much depends on your evidence? We’ll carry the hypothesis a stage further, as Kincaid’s Counsel will certainly do: suppose your statement was a false one, wouldn’t your identification seem a little convenient?’
‘Why should my statement have been a false one?’
‘Hypothetically, to avert suspicion.’
‘From me. You mean that?’
‘From the lover of Mrs Fleece.’
Again the tell-tale spots welled up over the areas below the eyes. Heslington jerked bolt upright, disarranging the flowing folds of the toga. ‘Who says… who dares…?’ He found it hard to check this time. It took him a struggle of several seconds before he succeeded in becoming calm.
‘I deny that allegation. I completely deny it.’
‘But taken as a hypothesis it could be useful to Kincaid’s Counsel. Suppose it were true: suppose it could be shown that Fleece had begun divorce proceedings: given that Fleece is a rich man, where would that line of reasoning finish?’
‘There are no grounds for such a hypothesis!’
‘But there were grounds for Fleece’s divorce. It was filed on 16th September. On the day when Mrs Fleece booked a room in the Suffolk.’
‘Oh… God!’
It was still theatrical. He slumped forward heavily over the table, a thrown-out arm scattering papers which floated gently to the stone floor. Evans collected and returned them, but Heslington held his pose unmoved. It was photogenic; it might have served for some dramatic historical painting.
‘Have you any comment to make on that?’
He turned his outstretched hand palm upwards.
‘Do you dispute it?’
‘ Humanum est errare. The truth should be beyond dispute.’
‘Then you see where it leads us?’
‘I see. And I tremble.’
‘Yet you haven’t any comment.’
‘Ought I to have, without my lawyer?’
He drew back slowly from the table, allowing his hand to drag across it; letting it stay there, the arm stiff, while he extended his other hand in a gesture.
‘Listen to me. I admit it all, I won’t abase myself by denying it. I had a presentiment of why you were here, though I did my best to deceive myself. But your hypothesis is false: as false as a late Italian bust. I’ve told the truth about what happened on Snowdon, and in the name of justice you’ve got to believe me. Kincaid was there. I’m sorry for him, but he was there. And he had his reasons.’
Now it was impressive; he had suddenly transcended the air of theatre that surrounded him, producing a hard note of conviction from the soft paste of histrionics. Though he remained with hand outstretched like an amateur Mark Antony, it didn’t detract from the overall impression of his sincerity. Was it genuine, or was he treating them to a superior level of art? Gently studied him with interest, his professional palate tickled. Now Heslington dropped the hand, crisply, letting it hang beside him: signalling almost for the supporting dialogue which had waited on his pause. Gently accepted the cue.
‘We’ll set the hypothesis aside for the moment. When did you meet Mrs Fleece, and how long has it been going on?’
Heslington’s hand stirred feebly. ‘Do we have to go into that? I’ve admitted the fact, and it’s not flattering. Surely the details are unimportant.’
‘Didn’t you know her before she married him?’
‘No, I didn’t. Or it wouldn’t have happened. I met her first two years ago, through some mutual friends. The Rogers, of Surbiton.’
‘Didn’t you know her when she lived in Putney?’
‘Putney? I never knew she’d lived there.’
‘But you used to visit Kincaid in Putney.’
‘Suppose I did. That was before the war.’
‘And you didn’t meet there the present Mrs Fleece?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t. She was never around. You seem to have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Sarah’s home used to be in Kensington.’
‘Could you describe Mrs Kincaid to me?’
Heslington’s shoulders moved faintly under the toga. If he saw any danger in these questions he was masking his awareness of it immaculately.
‘I can’t say I remember her very well. She was about Sarah’s build, perhaps a little thinner. She’d got red hair, though it could hardly have been natural, and a pale complexion, and a rather nice voice. Have you found her yet, by the way?’
‘We have an idea of where to look. But haven’t you seen her since those days at Putney?’
‘Me? I’ve never set eyes on her since.’
Gently nodded: he accepted it. The trailing hand had barely flourished. It was conceivable that Heslington was ignorant of Mrs Fleece’s antecedents. ‘Let’s return to Mrs Fleece, whom you met two years ago. Give me those unimportant details which you seem to find unflattering.’
The story was scarcely original, for it had been acted since the beginnings of time. The two had met and had been attracted and had found casual ways of meeting again. She’d used a particular restaurant in town and had visited her friends on a certain day; then one day a friend was discreet, and the casual element had vanished. And they had found it more than an affaire, more than a clandestine excitement. It had brought into each of their lives a springlike fragrance of a youth forgotten. They were lovers; they had been predestined, they had found and recognized each other; neither of them had experienced love before those thrilling, electric moments.
‘She married Fleece on the rebound from a girlish crush of some sort. He was wrong for her, completely wrong. He was cold and emotionless and a bit sadistic. She didn’t love him: that was impossible, and all he wanted was a presentable wife. She was there to keep house for him, to give him a background, and to bring up a couple of children.’
She’d been starved for companionship and a little warm affection, a woman who’d married in haste to find that life had misdealt to her. She’d accepted her lot and had been a good wife and mother, but the one half of her was suspended; Fleece had frozen it from the start. Heslington, on the other hand, had seemed a dedicated bachelor. His enthusiasms had excluded him from matrimonial inclinations. During the war he had been in the Navy, where he had experienced some light-hearted affaires, but none of these had left a mark on him or suggested that he should change his state. And these two had come together and the spark had fallen. The girl had wakened in the woman and the boy in the man. A new life had spread before them, a new conception of themselves, a new world, a new age: they had fallen in love.
‘To begin with we made all sorts of good resolutions. There were her children to be considered, she was terribly concerned about them. But soon we found that we just couldn’t do without each other. It grew worse as time went on. We knew a break would have to come.’
‘And Fleece? When did he fmd out?’
‘Fleece knew about it almost from the beginning. One of Sarah’s so-called friends must have told him, because he wasn’t deceived for long. We knew he knew from the way he treated her. He was full of innuendos and cutting allusions. He gave me to understand that Sarah would never have the children and he practically defied me to get her away without them. He was a sadist, as I told you. He was really enjoying the situation.’
‘And that went on for two years.’
‘Yes, and he was right, damnably right. Sarah loved me, it was tearing her in two, but she couldn’t abandon her children to Fleece. He didn’t care, he wasn’t fond of them. There was no affection in his nature. They were hers and they looked to her, and she couldn’t bear to let them down. It became hellish. We were trapped and there was no way out for us. To give it up was unthinkable, yet her children bound her to this man. And it was no use appealing to him, any more than to a block of stone: less in fact. The block of stone wouldn’t have played cat and mouse with us.’
‘So that was the impasse his death solved.’
Heslington’s look was intensely bitter. ‘Yes, it did. And I’m not a hypocrite; I shan’t pretend to any regrets. But it wasn’t me who did the solving, in spite of all your hypotheses. I’m a beneficiary, that’s all. And God have mercy on Kincaid.’
‘The benefits are certainly plain enough.’ Gently’s incredulous sarcasm was cuttable.
‘Suppose they are. Does that make me a criminal?’ Heslington stared at him, sitting magnificently straight.
‘I don’t know yet what Fleece was worth, but we can estimate a fair-ish sum. And that of course would have gone down the drain if Fleece had lived to complete his divorce.’
‘And you think I cared about that?’
‘Why not? It was enough to finance a murder.’
‘I’ve money of my own. I earn as much as Fleece did.’
‘Isn’t it a coincidence that Fleece should die a fortnight after filing his divorce?’
At last there were signs of a breakthrough: a little sweat had formed on Heslington’s forehead. That was honest at all events; one didn’t control the activities of sweat glands. He got to his feet.
‘Now listen to this! If it’s coincidences you’re after, tell me why, just give me one reason, why Fleece should file that divorce at all?’
Gently quizzed him through narrowed lids. ‘I wouldn’t know. You’d better tell me.’
‘I wouldn’t know either, but this I know: Fleece would have sat tight till kingdom come. But he didn’t, and that’s the coincidence. He changed his mind very abruptly. He changed his mind directly after Kincaid turned up at the Asterbury.’
Gently shrugged. ‘What makes you think there’s a connection?’
‘Coincidence. Timing. It’s all too pat. That divorce was the biggest shock on earth; it was the last thing that either of us expected. And there has to be a reason for a thing like that. It would need to be something out of the everyday run. Something like a man coming back from the dead, and a lot of publicity: and a lot of questions! It fits too well, there must be a connection. Kincaid returns, and Fleece files his divorce suit.’
‘ Post hoc, propter hoc, as you’d no doubt tell me.’
‘It’s nothing of the sort. It goes further than that. In some way you don’t know about they were mixed up together, and until you find out what it is you’ll never understand this case.’
‘And you haven’t found it out either?’
‘No. Also, I’m not blind.’
‘Hasn’t Mrs Fleece told you?’
‘She knows nothing about her husband’s secrets.’
‘Or you about hers?’
‘What are you getting at now?’
‘I’m trying to get at what you know about Mrs Paula Kincaid Fleece.’
He didn’t take it in immediately, but when he did it was a visible shock. He sank back on the stool with a heavy, clumsy motion. ‘That can’t — that can’t be true. I’ve known them both. They’re different people.’
‘About Sarah’s build, you said. And both addicted to dyeing their hair.’
‘But no… I couldn’t have met Sarah before!’
‘The reason for Fleece’s sudden divorce.’
‘I know it fits, but it isn’t true.’
‘The factor that mixed them up together.’
‘No!’Heslington shook his head with vigour. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I know you have. Sarah has told me all about her life. Why should she have lied to me about that?’
‘She may have her reasons.’
‘You don’t understand! We’re… well, we have no secrets from each other. And you can check it easily; you don’t have to guess. She was married to Fleece at Penwood, near Dorking.’
Gently’s nod was ponderous. ‘Or we can ask the lady herself. In fact, I think we might as well do that. And perhaps you would like to come along with us.’
‘Willingly.’ Heslington rose again quickly, and then he paused. ‘But unfortunately, it can’t be today.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s in Horsham. She’s gone to visit her daughter. You upset her a bit yesterday and she felt she needed cheering up.’
Gently kept on nodding. He felt in his pocket for his pipe.