Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

‘But you got that too, eventually.’

Overton gave his little laugh. ‘Yes, we did. And when you learn how you’ll think I should be the last person to sneer at miracles. It simply came through the post — a banker’s order for ten thousand pounds; there was no warning, no fanfares, no conditions, and no name. It had a note enclosed with it to say what it was for and praising our spirit of adventure, but expressing a wish to remain anonymous. We don’t know to this day who patronized our expedition. We could only thank him through the Press, and carry a flag to represent him.’

‘That was a very large sum to be made over so lightly.’

‘Yes, wasn’t it? The man would need to be a Docker or somebody.’

‘Who signed the banker’s order?’

‘Oh, a firm of solicitors in the city. We tried to pump them of course. But they wouldn’t breathe a word.’

‘What were their names?’

‘I don’t remember, though I could probably find out. Is it important?’

Gently shrugged. ‘Yes… I feel we ought to know it.’

‘I’ll go through my files at home. I’m pretty certain to have a note of it.’

Gently lit his pipe, thinking, still feeding Overton with questions. Could it fail to be of significance, this second mysterious provision of money? Someone had financed the expedition. Someone had set up Fleece in business. Were the odds very long against them having been the same person? And if this were so, what had been their object, and who could afford such Croesusian tactics? One thought immediately of Mr Stanley and of the industrial empire lying behind him. Was he the mover? Gently considered. He’d checked on Stanley the previous evening. He was a widower; he’d married the daughter of a well-known sporting brewer. She had died in nineteen-fifty and there could be no ambiguity in her case, but supposing the plot had lain elsewhere, in some latent threat to the giant firm? And Fleece, on two occasions, had tapped that potential, exploiting a dangerous secret he’d learned; and with the return of Kincaid had tried again, but this time had lost his life in the attempt. Could that be the pattern of it — the Nemesis which waited for Fleece on Snowdon?

‘Fleece led the expedition, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was the eldest member of the party. He’d been to the Alps for several years and he was a sound man on ice.’

‘Was it he who suggested the expedition?’

‘Not a bit of it. At first he was one of the sceptics. But then, when things were hanging in the balance, he seemed to change his mind and grow enthusiastic. That was a turning point, I don’t mind telling you. It occurred just before we received the money. Fleece had a flair for organization, and his coming in like that gave us all fresh heart.’

‘Did you know him well at that time?’

‘I suppose I did, in a sort of way. We both belonged to the Fell and Rock Climbers Club. Most of the expedition were members of that.’

‘What was your personal impression of Fleece?’

Overton lit a fresh cigarette before replying. ‘Personally, I didn’t take to him much.’ He inhaled once or twice. ‘But he had lots of good qualities. He made an excellent leader, and we couldn’t have done without him.’

‘What were some of his bad qualities?’

‘Oh, nothing really bad. He was a little chilly, that’s all, and inclined to be calculating. Rather liked his own way and didn’t care how he got it. But remember that’s speaking personally, so don’t hold it against him.’

‘Was he friendly with Kincaid? They both worked for the same firm.’

‘He was neither friendly or unfriendly, as far as I can recall it.’

‘Did he visit Kincaid’s house?’

‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. He was the lone wolf type and didn’t much go in for visiting. But I was pally with Kincaid myself, he was such a peculiar and uncommon bird. And the oddest thing he ever did was getting hitched to Paula Blackman.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Why?’ Overton closed one eye and nodded. ‘She was a prize packet, was Paula. One of the marry-go-round brigade.’

‘A good-looker, I’ve heard.’

‘She had beauty, and more. She was a girl with ambitions, quite the wrong sort for Kincaid. I suppose he talked her into marrying him because he had the gift of the gab. But I’ll never believe it could have lasted, not if it had been put to the test.’

‘She had a roving eye, had she?’

‘No; not especially that. I never did see anything that struck me as suspicious. But it was her type, you know, she was the edible social-climber. And Kincaid was no summit for ambitions of that sort.’

‘Who broke to her the news of Kincaid’s death?’

‘Heaven knows. I tried to see her, but she’d vanished when I got back.’

‘Would you know her again if you met her?’

‘Well… I might and I might not. I can’t honestly visualize her features, but something about her might jog my memory.’

Silently Gently produced the photograph he had borrowed from Mrs Fleece. He handed it to Overton, who accepted it with interest. He took his time over examining it, holding the photograph at different distances, but one could tell from his expression that no penny had dropped.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to recognize this lady.’

Gently retrieved it. ‘How many of the others had met Paula Kincaid?’ he asked.

Overton considered a moment. ‘One has to bear in mind that Kincaid wasn’t terribly popular. There was probably only myself and Fleece — oh yes, and Ray Heslington.’

At that name Evans perked up, but Gently was only nodding his head indifferently.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now I’d like to run through again what happened on Monday…’

Gently had lit his pipe and both the others were smoking incessantly, filling the studio, in spite of its spaciousness, with a heavy miasma of smoke. Below them in Bedford Place the traffic droned a restless litany, and the weak noonday sun cast its shadows towards Russell Square. London: the rampired heart of it, protected by miles of sunned, sooty walls; a world away from the swept helm of Everest and the choughs that echoed their cries by Snowdon…

‘Fleece was wearing a red windcheater, so we had no difficulty in picking him out. It was sunny, with a cool southerly breeze, and the visibility was a hundred per cent. We started off around ten-ish, intending to take the ascent easily, most of us choosing the lower route down by the llyns and the old copper mine. Heslington and Fleece preferred the Pyg Track and Heslington set out a little in advance. There are two or three paths which begin that route. Fleece chose a different one to Ray’s.’

Before him Gently had a large-scale map of the Snowdon theatre, a fierce brown-tinted piece of cartography full of swirling lines and fretted teeth. Overton pointed to the chopped lines which indicated the tracks which had been taken: desperate thoroughfares they looked, fit for goats and sheep only.

‘The Snowdon group is a rough horseshoe stretching from the Lliwedd round to Crib Goch, a pretty useful lot of rocks taking one with another. It encloses Llyd Llydaw there, which is crossed by a causeway, and in a lap higher up is the Glaslyn, which drains into Llydaw. Now the Pyg Track runs here, along the footslopes of Crib Goch, and as you can see it’s a good deal shorter than the llyns route. In fact I was just pulling up to the Glaslyn when I caught sight of Heslington; and by then he was on this ridge joining Crib-y-ddysgl to the Wyddfa.’

‘Are you positive that it was Heslington?’ Gently interrupted.

Overton hesitated, his eyes distancing. ‘I thought it was Heslington at the time. True, he was wearing nothing distinctive, just the usual rambler’s trim, but my automatic reaction was “There’s Ray up ahead.” Then, after I reached the Glaslyn, I saw Fleece’s windcheater on the Zigzags, which are the series of traverses here stretching from the Glaslyn to the top of the ridge. I waited for the others to come up with me before I started on the Zigzags, and by that time Fleece had gained the ridge and gone up along it towards the summit. I saw the windcheater show once or twice where there were gaps among the rock-rims.