Alan Hunter: Gently to the Summit

Her reactions were curious; Gently couldn’t quite fathom them. For instance, his question about Kincaid had the effect of relieving a mounting distress. As though it were somehow a safer subject, she added hurriedly:

‘But I knew about him, of course. He used to work for the same people as Arthur, and Arthur told me of his funny ways.’

‘Didn’t you ever see him at the works?’

‘Me? How should I? I never went there. It was before Arthur started on his own, an electrical firm in North London somewhere. I was doing secretarial work for a business agency in Balham — Dyson’s, that was the place. They’ve moved to Lambeth now, I believe.’

‘What was your maiden name, Mrs Fleece?’

‘Amies. Sarah Amies.’

‘And you’ve always lived in Fulham?’

‘Fulham? Never — did I say I’d lived in Fulham?’

‘I understood that your mother lived there.’

‘Oh no; you’ve been misinformed. Actually, I was born not far from Dorking. Then we took the house in Kensington when’ — she shrugged — ‘when Mother’s divorce came through.’

‘And your mother still lives in Kensington?’

‘No. She died ten years ago.’

All this was quite cool and without a sign of hesitation. Now she opened her handbag and lit a cigarette. It was baffling. Her fingers were trembling and she was obviously ill at ease, yet by all the signs this had nothing to do with either Kincaid or her identity. If she was Paula Kincaid, was she so certain of her ground? And if so, what was the subject which was making that little lighter tremble?

‘Where were you and Mr Fleece married?’

She snatched eagerly at the question. ‘At Penwood near Dorking, where my home used to be. My mother had some friends there and I was married from their place — it’s a pretty little church, it’s got an avenue of yew trees.’

‘A white wedding…’

‘Oh, yes. Orange blossom and white lilac. It was at Whitsun, you see, just after the crisis. We’d been going to the Black Forest… it’s such a long time ago.’

‘What was the name of your mother’s friends?’

‘Wait… I’ll remember it in a minute. They were elderly people of about Mother’s age. They lived in a house not far from the church. Baxter or Blackstable… I’m sorry, I’m not certain. Arthur was the one who remembered names…

‘Was your marriage a happy one?’

She faltered at that. For a second or two Gently thought she intended to challenge the question. But she didn’t, she rallied.

‘Oh yes… I think you’d say so. But latterly, of course, Arthur’s been terribly busy.’

‘With business you mean?’

‘Yes, business took up his time. I don’t think he always realized how much I was alone.’

‘Was he away from home often?’

‘Yes; and the children, they’re at school. We’ve twins, you know. A son and a daughter.’

‘But naturally you’d have friends?’

‘Well, that’s not quite the same.’

‘People like — Mr Stanley, for example?’

‘Him?’ She shook her head definitely. ‘We’re not in his class; he’s a millionaire or something. Arthur knew him through the business, but I’ve only met him once or twice.’

‘What about Dick Overton?’

He saw the cigarette shudder.

‘I haven’t met him for years. None of the Everest Club members.’

‘Didn’t you go to their annual dinners?’

‘No — no, they were just for members…’

‘Weren’t you on the ramble last week?’

‘Good God, no! I was here… in London…

‘In this house?’

‘No, not in this house. At a hotel. I wanted a change.’

‘Which hotel, Mrs Fleece?’

‘The Suffolk in Knightsbridge. Does it really matter?’

It did; that was clear from the way she was taking it. Her free hand was on her breast; she had leant forward; her cheeks were pale. She suddenly burst out:

‘What does all this matter, anyway? Kincaid killed him; you know he did. Can’t you leave the rest alone…?’

Gently hunched his shoulders wearily and stared at the darkened panes of the window: Stanley had said the same thing in his more calculated way. Kincaid wasn’t to be probed, he was to remain an enigma; they could hang him or lock him up if they liked, but they mustn’t unreasonably seek the truth…

He said: ‘You were acquainted with your husband for nearly three years before you married him?’

She nodded and he sensed again that he was wide of that which worried her.

‘That’s a long time surely?’

‘He wanted to get on his feet. He left his job after the expedition and set up his own firm.’

‘He had capital, did he?’

‘Yes. He came into some money.’

‘It was left him?’

‘He didn’t tell me… no, I don’t think it was that.’

‘Why don’t you think it was that?’

‘Oh, just the way he spoke about it. He was awfully pleased with himself, as though he’d done something clever.’

‘Was it a loan from someone?’

‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t.’

‘From one of the club members?’

Crash! — he was back in the target area.

‘He had nothing to do with the club members. He only met them twice a year!’ Her eyes flamed. She strained towards him like a bitch protecting its litter. ‘It was just a tradition, that precious club, it didn’t mean anything to anybody. They’d drifted apart. They were strangers. The club bored Arthur stiff!’

‘So you didn’t meet any of them again?’

Mrs Fleece groaned. ‘I told you so.’

‘Not even Dick Overton, with whom you were acquainted?’

‘I simply mentioned his name. It was the only one I could think of.’

Gently hesitated. He wondered whether to press the matter further. There was oil in it somewhere, of that he was certain. But whether it touched on what they had come after was another matter again: he was groping in the dark for facts which were largely undefined. He rose to his feet slowly.

‘There may be other questions, Mrs Fleece.’

‘I suppose so.’

She rose also, smoothing her black widow’s dress.

‘In the meantime I’d like to borrow a good photograph of your husband… one with you on it too, if you’ve got one to spare.’

‘You’re perfectly welcome.’

Without demur she went to a small ebony cabinet and fetched from it an album, which she handed to Gently. It was filled with postcard-size and larger prints showing the usual domestic subjects: mostly herself and the two children, against a variety of backgrounds. In the few which included her husband the photos were less skilfully taken but there was one, a regular portrait, of a much greater merit.

‘A friend of ours did that. He’s exceptionally good with a camera.’

Gently removed it from its mount and spent a moment or two studying it. It showed Fleece full-face, wearing a lumberjack shirt, a piton in his hand, and a slight smile on his lips. His pendulous nose gave a Semitic cast to his pale, oval face; the skull, egg-shaped, made a polished cone above a scanty fringe of hair. His eyes and ears were both small, his neck short, his shoulders bowed. The eyes were light-coloured and looked disparaging. They were 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.