Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

‘Are you blind to what you’ve done?’

‘Paula…!’ Her rage pushed him backwards, his lips quivered and fell dumb.

‘Don’t you realize you’ve made me a pauper — me, a millionairess; stripped this very gown from my back; taken the ring off my finger?’

‘But Paula, listen…’

‘Listen. Listen! Will that do any good now? Will it make me Harry’s widow again? Confirm my title to his estate? You’ve ruined me, Reg, that’s what you’ve done. You’ve practically tossed me into the street. And now you insult me with your pretty charity, your childish sentiment and your hundred thousand! What must I do about it — kiss you? Throw my arms round your neck?’

‘Paula… I don’t understand…’

Her savage laugh made him wince.

‘Don’t you? But Dicky Askham will understand, and so too will his lawyers. I had to fight that wastrel before, Reg. He contested the will right through the courts. And what sort of case do you think I’ll have now — as Harry’s mistress, with Henry his bastard? I’ll be fortunate to get a pittance: a beggarly percentage of your wonderful fortune. And Harry’s son can sweat in the works while his uncle squanders his father’s money…! And you’ve done it by walking in here, Reg, only by looking at me and saying, ‘Paula.’ Paula was dead and Paula was buried — and you, you’re the stranger who’s made me poor!’

She flung away again with vehement passion, her eyes sparkling and blind. Kincaid stood as though entranced; crushed, broken by her piercing anger. For several seconds he couldn’t speak. He seemed to have died inside his body. Then insensibly something began to return, the lamp of his glazed eyes lit again.

‘Paula…’

Her shoulders snatched at him, willing him to have done.

‘Paula, I didn’t know… I couldn’t guess that I would do you an injury.’

‘But you have, Reg. And I hate you for it.’

‘No, Paula. You mustn’t hate me.’

‘But I do. I do.’

‘You’re angry with me. Only angry.’

She stamped her foot, and to Gently’s surprise he could see a tear trembling under her lashes. But her lips were pressing tight and her chin thrust well forward.

‘I want you to go now, simply go.’

‘Not without you, Paula. Never.’

‘Reg, you must.’

‘Don’t ask it of me. I love you, Paula. You’re all my life.’

‘I’ve not been faithful.’

‘I understand that.’

‘You must suspect me.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘I’m a hard bitch, Reg. You can ask my son,’

‘You’re Paula Kincaid. You’re my wife.’

What had come over him? He had suddenly transcended the eccentric character by which they had known him; even his voice had a deeper tone and his weedy figure appeared more substantial. And as his stature grew, Mrs Askham’s lessened, her commanding presence was whittled away. From being a priceless doll with a vice-royal manner, she was rapidly diminishing into something like a woman…

‘Listen, Paula. Why is this money important? What have you ever bought with it that has helped you to be happy? Has it made people love you? Has it made you less lonely? Has it stood to you as a husband since the man who took you died? If I’ve lost that for you, I’ve brought you something else, Paula. I’ve brought you a love that’s never altered, through all the bitter times past. And I’ve all the money we can ever need, more than we need with each other. Then why is your money so important? Why does losing it seem so hard?’

‘It’s no use, Reg; we’re strangers. You don’t know me now.’

‘I do know you.’ He came closer, standing right by her side.

‘I’m unforgivable. I know that.’

‘No, Paula. You’re always forgiven.’

‘I’ve got to hate you…’

‘You can’t do it.’

‘I must hate you. I must…’

Then the tears came. Quietly, without any sobbing. Making her feel unseeingly for her handkerchief to dab to her eyes.

‘You’re not to touch me,’ she said. ‘You’re not to touch me, Reg …’

She didn’t break down at all. But that would probably come later.

In the middle of the proceedings arrived the Caernarvonshire Chief Constable, who had been warned by his spies that some development was afoot. He was a tall ex-Army man and the owner of a finely waxed moustache, and he evidently knew Mrs Askham and looked rather perturbed at finding her there. She gave no sign of knowing him, however; it was left to Evans to acknowledge his entry. Then after some whispering he took a chair in the background, there to make what he could of the goings-on.

Gently was questioning; that was inevitable. His slow, flat voice laid query to query. He was covering ground unfamiliar to the Chief Constable and having apparently small connection with Fleece’s murder. Really, the only suggestion of it was the presence of Kincaid; and that alone brought a frown to the Chief Constable’s brow. The man was looking bumptious, quite different to when he was brought there. And if he was being properly guarded the fact was very little in evidence.

‘And you first saw Fleece when?’

‘I think it was twenty-eighth September.’

This was another perplexing point; it was Mrs Askham who was answering the questions. She’d also been crying, the Chief Constable was sure of it, her make-up was in a ghastly mess; and her tone, though clear, was low, so that he needed to lean forward to catch the responses. What had this London fellow been doing to her, the wealthiest woman in North Wales…?

‘What was his purpose in visiting you?’

‘Reg.’

‘A question of money?’

‘No. Me.’

‘He made a proposal?’

‘If you can call it that.’

‘And your son knew?’

‘Yes. He was there.’

‘What steps did you take as a result of the visit?’

‘I consulted Clarence. He knew who I was.’

‘What suggestion did Mr Stanley make?’

‘None. There was nothing we could do.’

‘So you agreed to the proposal?’

‘I daren’t not agree.’

‘Did you know your son went looking for Kincaid?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what for?’

‘Yes. A bribe. We were desperate.’

Presumably Gently was adding it together, and Evans too, from his intelligent attitude; but a freshly arrived Chief Constable was finding it difficult to pick up a cue. At last he drew out an amber cigar-holder, lit a cigar, and sat nursing his knee. The thing to do now was to think up an apology, something to smooth down the ruffled La Askham…

‘And now we’ll have your son’s statement.’

Good lord, was there more of it? The Chief Constable touched his watch and looked meaningly at Evans. But no, there were no dissentients, this extension seemed understood. La Askham left the seat and her son took his place. And young Henry, he too was looking under the weather. He wasn’t nearly as fierce as the C.C. remembered him. Altogether his appearance was decidedly hangdog, though with his driving habits he was no novice at these parties…

‘Put in your own words what happened on Monday.’

‘I… for certain reasons I wanted to meet Mr Kincaid. I’d heard from our housekeeper that he was staying in Caernarvon, so I went there to find him, and afterwards to Llanberis…’

Then, for the Chief Constable, the world abruptly ceased to turn. This was no simple statement: it was a full-dress confession. In horror he sat listening, with his cigar going cold on him; heard the damning words uttered in Henry Askham’s halting voice.

‘So I decided to wait there… in case I should see him…’

‘Say where it was you waited, please.’

‘On the cairn at the summit. I sat down because I felt dizzy…’