Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

Outside the police station three cars were parked, one of them being Heslington’s borrowed Austin-Healey. He sat in it reading a paper and wearing a surprisingly drab windcheater, but of course he was playing a different role: he was the Bearded Mountaineer. Near him stood Askham’s red M.G., its owner lounging beside it, and an empty Vauxhall which no doubt belonged to Overton. The cast for the production were punctually assembled.

As they parked Heslington lowered his paper and saluted them with a scowl. Askham kept his back towards them; it was a trim back in a tweed sports jacket. They found Overton in the station chatting climbing with the inspector, and he sprang up smilingly as Gently entered. He offered his hand and a congratulation.

‘You’re lucky. This is just the weather we were getting on Monday. You could hardly have better in the middle of October.’

The inspector, a grey-haired man with a scar on his cheek, drew Gently to one side for a private confabulation.

‘That young fellow out there. The one with the M.G.’

Gently nodded. ‘I can guess. He’s your Basil Gwynne-Davies, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, you know about him then?’

‘We’ve begun to get acquainted. I’m hoping to know him rather better in a few hours’ time.

‘I’ll wait, then. I thought I’d speak to you before I had him on the carpet.’

Overton also wanted a word. He’d been measuring Gently’s build and dress.

‘I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’d recommend making the ascent from here.’

‘We’re taking the route from Pen-y-Pass.’

‘Of course, if that’s the one you want. Though if you aren’t used to scrambles of this sort you’ll find the Llanberis… well, less dramatic.’

‘Thank you for the advice.’

‘Don’t think I’m trying to come the “old hand”. But if you could borrow a pair of boots… and possibly a haversack and a sweater…’

They set out again in two cars, the one from Caernarvon and Overton’s Vauxhall. In the boot of the former was a pile of gear which the Llanberis inspector had lent them. Gently had said nothing to Heslington or Askham — in fact, he’d said very little at all. Now he sat poker-faced and hunched, with even his pipe lying cold in his pocket.

At the Gorphwysfa Hotel at the head of Llanberis Pass they parked the cars beside a cart-track where the route to the Wyddfa began. As an introduction the road had been impressive. Mountains had risen steadily on each side of it. Particularly to the right, which was the Snowdon side, had the rock cliffs towered dizzyingly overhead. And now they were come to the top of the pass a wide valley opened below them, a vast concavity of sunlit space in the bottom of which there glittered a river. On the other side a road slanted to the south and seemed to have been scribed there with a tilted rule.

Evans had rung the hotel from Llanberis, so packs of sandwiches had been prepared for them. Gently donned his boots in the lounge. They were a formidable pair and were a size too large for him. His raincoat and sweater went into the haversack along with his sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. He felt, as he clumped outside again, a little ridiculous with his paraphernalia.

‘Listen to me for a moment, then we’ll be on our way.’

He could feel Overton eyeing him critically: his boots were probably laced up wrongly. Heslington’s expression was faintly contemptuous, Askham was staring at the ground. Evans, in an undertone to Williams, was still laying plans for the apprehension of Mrs Kincaid.

‘As you’ve been told, we’re going to reconstruct what happened on the Wyddfa on Monday, or get as near to it as we can on the available information. We shall ascend by the route used by the majority of the club members and at the summit we shall re-enact what I think took place there. We are obviously short of some important people.’ Gently paused to give emphasis. ‘We’re short of the victim, Arthur Fleece, and the man who has been charged with his murder. For that reason there will be stand-ins. Fleece I shall represent myself. And the place of Reginald Kincaid will be taken by Henry Askham.

‘That’s all. I would like you to lead the way, Mr Overton.’

Askham was facing him squarely now, if Gently wanted to catch his eye. He took a half-step forward, as though intending an angry protest. But Gently ignored him. He wouldn’t even look. Settling his haversack on his shoulders, he tramped off heavily after Overton. Askham was left standing indecisively until a tap from Evans made him jump.

‘You heard what the superintendent said, man?’

Askham got going with a toss of his head.

The cart-track was unsensational and appeared to descend rather than rise, giving no indication of how it was to reach the invisible summit. To the left the ground fell away without urgency into the valley, and ahead of them and to the right were grassy slopes on which sheep were feeding. A toy-like power station lay beneath them, fed by a plunge of organ-like pipes, and these alone, in their perfect recession, suggested a more impressive terrain beyond.

Their order of march seemed to fix itself immediately. Overton went striding away in the lead. Gently came next, slouching in his mighty nailed boots, followed by Heslington, Askham, and the two local policemen. Heslington was keeping his distance deliberately; he dawdled along to prevent himself from catching up. In a similar way Askham was spacing himself behind Heslington, and behind him Evans and Williams went side by side. As odd a collection, surely, as ever climbed up Snowdon: and for as odd a reason as would ever be given.

Soon the track bore to the right and circled round Llyn Teryn, a small pool beside which stood some tumbledown cottages; then it bore right again, up a bit of steeper going, and then at last they had a prospect of what Snowdon kept in store for them. Overton waited for Gently and gave him a breakdown of the scene. The gaunt peak to the left of centre was indeed the mysterious Wyddfa. It was bounded on one side by the dark Lliwedd with its springlike veins of white quartz, and on the other by Crib Goch, a saw-edged razor against the sky. Under these lay Llyn Llydaw, a lake of long, wavy reaches, crossed below them by a granite causeway which had probably served the old copper mine. The ruins of the latter stood over the water. They looked grim and forlorn, a shattered venture.

‘On the other side, you’ll see, we shall begin to make some ground. We’ve been toying with it till now. We began at eleven hundred feet.’

Gently grunted, glad to rest his boots: he’d begun to wish he’d stuck to his brogues. The others were coming up the rise in a straggle with Evans and Williams well to the rear. They were talking animatedly together; Evans was making gesticulations.

‘Is our time the same as yours was on Monday?’

Overton checked with his watch. ‘A bit behind it, I’d say.’

‘We’d better get on, then. I want the timing close.’

‘It’ll be all right. We started later on Monday.’

He lit a cigarette and then started off again. Gently followed. He let Overton lead by the same distance as before. Across the causeway they went, along the shore, past the desolate mine buildings; over increasing deserts of fallen rock and up a steady sharpening of the incline. Then again the swing to the right, getting brutally steep this time, with below to the left a whitened torrent that foamed down from the lonely Glaslyn. They were certainly making ground; Gently could scarcely keep pace with Overton. The shattered rocks were taking it out of him and making the sweat roll down his brow. And beneath them the llyn was falling away, and beside them the empty space grew emptier, encroaching upon his plainsman’s resolve not to be intimidated by the mountains…