Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

‘Where did she spend her holidays?’

Mrs Askham was vague. ‘I let her off when we were abroad, she usually preferred it that way. Then after the war started we spent most of the time at Trecastles, and she never seemed to want a holiday. But perhaps that was Harry’s doing.’

‘How do you mean?’ Gently asked sharply.

Her eyes wondered at him again. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. He was always keen to keep her near him.’

It fitted perfectly. He had spirited her away from all her pre-expedition contacts, had carried her off to his castle in Wales and had held her there incommunicado. By contrivance or a hefty bribe, he had secured her consent to this: and it was only an ill-timed kiss in a shelter that had brought the arrangement to an end. How had it been managed after that? Davies, the housekeeper, suggested the answer. He had set up house for Paula in Caernarvon and had perhaps endowed her with an annuity. And now, eighteen years later, Fleece had shown cognizance of this development. His mysterious trips into Wales now throbbed with a blatant significance. But why had Fleece waited to use his knowledge until the reappearance of Kincaid? What subtle condition had been fulfilled, and who had it driven to take drastic action? Not Askham, he was dead; blackmail couldn’t reach him any longer. But there was Stanley, the father-figure, who might have inherited the Met. L secrets…

‘You said you had little to do with your husband’s business affairs, Mrs Askham.’

‘That’s perfectly true, if it helps you. Though I’m not entirely a fool in business.’

‘You place great faith in Mr Stanley?’

‘Mr Stanley is my best friend. He and Harry were at Oxford together and they were more like brothers than most brothers I know.’

Gently’s tone was deferential. ‘This may seem irrelevant, but it could have a bearing on the subject of my inquiries. Did your husband have any business anxieties?’

‘It certainly does seem irrelevant.’ Mrs Askham let it hang for a moment, her eyes half interrogative, half scornful. ‘However, I suppose you have a reason for asking, and I came here to be helpful, so I’ll answer the question. Yes, he did appear anxious about something.’

‘To do with the business?’

‘I presumed so. I wasn’t entirely in Harry’s confidence. But in latter years he seemed rather harassed, and that I believe had an effect on his health. But whatever it was could not have been serious, since the firm has suffered no setbacks. I checked particularly about it with Clarence. He could think of nothing that should have worried Harry.’

‘Your husband knew Arthur Fleece, I’m told.’

‘Did he? He knew all sorts of people.’

‘Can you remember any visits Fleece made him?’

‘No. I’m sorry. I have a bad memory for faces.’

Gently opened a drawer and took from it the photograph he’d obtained from Mrs Fleece. He pushed it across the desk, watching Mrs Askham intently.

‘Did this man ever visit your husband?’

Her eyes flickered. ‘No. I’m sure of it.’

‘It isn’t a face that’s easily forgotten.’

‘I warned you. My memory for faces is bad.’

‘Then why are you sure he didn’t visit your husband?’

‘I… oh well, perhaps I was being too positive. But I don’t remember him, I can assure you of that. And you’re right about the face. It really gives one the shivers.’

She smiled dismissingly and rose to her feet, retrieving the sharkskin bag and the gloves; the duchess who’d more than done her duty and who now intended to seek other diversions.

‘I’m afraid I shall have to be getting along. I have an appointment to keep at Andre’s. I’m reposing in you the strictest confidence, Superintendent: not a whisper of our little chat to the Press.’

He nodded vaguely. ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Askham.’ He rose and accompanied her to the door.

‘I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly and you’ve been very kind. I shall tell Clarence he’s quite mistaken in his views about our police force.’

When she’d gone, when the door was closed, Gently stood for a few moments thinking; then he chuckled and went to the window to watch the blue Rolls drive away in the rain.

It was half an hour later when Evans returned, and Gently was sprawled at his desk again, nursing another cup of coffee. The Welshman began sniffing as soon as he stepped into the room, and after a sharp look round he glanced suspiciously at Gently.

‘That’s not Gold Block, man, I do know,’ he said.

‘Chanel.’ Gently pretended to leer. ‘There’s still some glamour left in being in homicide.’

‘You’re telling me, man. And I only let you out of my sight for five minutes. Tell me, what would be my chances of getting a transfer to the Central Office?’

Gently waved an airy hand. ‘It needs personality,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll give you the scandal in a minute. Tell me the news from Somerset House.’

Evans dropped down on the chair which had lately been occupied by Mrs Askham.

‘There isn’t any, man,’ he said. ‘News disgusts them over at that place.’

‘It’ll require a day or two, will it?’

‘You take the words out of their mouth. Nearly laughed at me they did when I told them I’d be waiting. I see now why you went to Dorking. The long way round is down the Strand. We’ll be lucky to hear from them by next year’s Eisteddfod,’

‘They handle a deal of business, of course.’ Gently sipped at his coffee. ‘But as it happens it doesn’t matter. I’ve a feeling that trail can be written off.’

‘You’re on a new scent. I can smell that.’

‘It’s just a whiff that came in from the bank. But it brought some other smells along with it and I’m still trying to sort them out.’

He outlined his interview with Mrs Askham, and Evans listened to him in silence; but it wasn’t difficult to read the expression that slowly developed on the inspector’s face. Here was ground for fresh hope. Kincaid had not eluded them yet. The excitement grew in Evans’s eyes, and at the end he exclaimed:

‘Then we’re back, man. We’re back where we started. It’s just the way I had in mind. Kincaid did see his wife in Caernarvon — and as a result of it, he murdered Fleece!’

‘On the facts it’s possible.’ Gently sounded discouraging.

‘But goodness, you can’t miss it, it fits them like an old shoe. Fleece had been at her, he was going to marry her; that was the reason for his divorce. Then away comes Kincaid and learns about it, and the rest just follows on natural.’

‘But why should Fleece want to marry Paula Kincaid?’

‘Because she knows something. That’s what it will be. She knows something that didn’t matter as long as Kincaid was dead, but when he came back Fleece had to marry her to be safe from her evidence.’ It was a good point; Gently considered it.

‘But what could it be that she knew?’

‘Something to do with what happened on Everest.’ Evans gave him a sapient nod. ‘You think a moment. There’s no harm in supposing that Paula Kincaid was once his mistress. We keep looking at it from Fleece’s angle and there’s no call for that at all. It may have been her who wanted Kincaid away. It may have been her who persuaded Fleece to do it. Then, when it was done, she pulls up her stakes and disappears; to avoid answering awkward questions and perhaps giving herself away. Wouldn’t that be a good reason for her taking a job with Mrs Askham? And for staying in Wales too, after Mrs Askham sacked her?’

‘Then why was she worrying Fleece?’

‘Do you ask, man, with Kincaid back? He was spreading an awfully suspicious story, and scouring the country for his wife. Perhaps Fleece wasn’t worried at first, not till he’d talked to Paula Kincaid; and perhaps it was her who was doing the worrying; perhaps it was she who suggested the divorce. It would be unnatural if Kincaid had not suspected his wife, but once she’d married Fleece, well then they’d be fireproof.’