Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

‘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?’