Alan Hunter - Gently in the Sun

‘There… but it isn’t very good, I’m afraid.’

Simmonds had fetched a framed satchel from the tent. Keeping the flap between Gently and himself, he pulled out a sheet of rough-surfaced drawing paper. On it, at about half life-size, was a portrait head of Rachel.

‘Actually, I’m better with a brush.’

‘Here — hand it over to me.’

Gently grabbed the sheet impatiently and turned himself to shade it from the sun.

It was a rubbed atmospheric drawing; it differed surprisingly from the photograph. The face was the same, the features were rendered accurately, but the expression was quite other than that captured by the camera. A maternal expression… was that possible? Apparently it was, if one could rely on Simmonds. The dark eyes were now tender, generous, beneficent. The lips, relieved of sensuality, had an unconsious little smile. Yet there was nothing idealistic in the manner of the drawing. If anything it was heavy, due to an uncertain technique. At twenty-two the artist was still fumbling for adequacy: whatever he had brought out had been achieved accidentally.

‘Let me see the rest of them.’

‘Rest of them… do you mean?’

‘This isn’t the only one — you’ve got a whole bagful. Just hand it over, and I’ll sort them out.’

Simmonds was reluctant but he made no objection. Like a well-brought-up child he handed Gently his satchel. Then he stood by, slightly flushed, his chestnut hair hanging over his forehead. Again he was like a child, one who had passed up a good essay.

‘Excepting that one they’re from memory.’

There were fourteen drawings, of a single subject.

‘As you see, when it comes to paint…’

A canvas, depicting Rachel wearing only the lower half of a bikini.

‘But don’t think for a moment.’

‘How long did it take you?’

‘Take me?’

‘To paint this. It wasn’t done from memory!’

Gently planted the canvas carefully on the forks of the baulk of driftwood. Simmonds wasn’t making a mistake when he supposed he was best at paint. Colour was clearly his forte; he could make it burn and scintillate. There were overtones of Gauguin in this Rachel among the marrams.

It’s done from life, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘It is! And not at one sitting — or lying, to be precise.’

‘Suppose I were to say…’

‘Just stick to the truth.’

‘All right then, if you insist. I suppose I’ve got to tell you.’

But now he was shaking, for all his assumed composure. His coolness was too unnatural and he was appearing to notice it. Strangest of all, he had become apologetic, he seemed to want to please Gently, and as he talked he kept throwing the detective little ingratiating glances.

‘It was she who suggested it, that first time we met. I did the first sketch I showed you, and she wanted me to do an oil. So then we arranged it. She came whenever she could. We went a good way up the marrams, of course, so that people wouldn’t see her.’

‘And naturally, you made love?’

‘No! That’s just what you mustn’t think. Never once was there anything like that, even though she took her top off.’

‘You simply got on with your painting.’

‘Yes, that was the idea.’

Gently gazed at the eloquent canvas. Was it within the bounds of credibility? Had the little fool sat there, staring, painting, and never once gone over to try his luck with her? It wasn’t a sisterly pose, that one of Rachel’s. It could hardly have been made more provocative had she tried. One leg was crooked voluptuously, one lying straight, her breasts pouting skywards, her black hair sweeping the sand. And almost sliding from her hips the bare apology for a garment.

‘How many times altogether?’

‘Six, including the first.’

‘Then why did you tell Inspector Dyson two?’

‘She was murdered, wasn’t she? I didn’t want to get involved.’

Simmonds shivered, even as he tried to give one of his winsome looks. His hazel eyes followed Gently with spaniel-like eagerness.

‘On what days did you meet her?’

‘The first time was Monday… that was last week. Then again on Wednesday and Thursday, Saturday, Monday…’

‘And Tuesday — go on.’

Simmonds winced as though Gently had struck him.

‘I know — I was going to say it! But it was only in the afternoon.’

‘What time do you say she left you?’

‘At — at half past four, I think.’

‘The painting was finished. Why didn’t you give it to her?’

‘It wasn’t dry, and I wanted to touch it up.’

‘And the rest of the day?’

‘It’s in my statement.’

‘You mooned around the beach and went to bed sharp at eleven.’

Simmonds still struggled for a smile but the result was wry and tremulous. He wanted to please so much… if only Gently would let him! There was nothing, his eyes seemed to say, which couldn’t be explained and understood.

‘Didn’t you ever want to be her lover?’

Gently was turning over the various sketches. A few of them had the madonna-like look but none of them the fiery passion of the photograph.

‘No it wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like, then? You tell me.’

‘She was simply a model.’

‘Lay off it! I know better.’

‘Well of course, if you mean…’

‘Five days you were watching her. Five days she was lying there, naked, waiting. And you want me to believe…’

‘It’s true. You’ve got to!’

‘But you wanted to, didn’t you? It’s only human nature. There were times when it was hard to keep your brush moving — times when you were only dabbing around on the palette. But you tell me there was nothing in it — what was up? Wouldn’t she let you? Kept you sitting there looking and being a good boy?’

‘But honestly, I tell you…’

‘Pretended you were too young?’

‘Believe me, you’ve got it wrong! It wasn’t like that at all.’

Gently shrugged, shuffled the sketches and slipped them back into the satchel. Simmonds was all but wringing his hands in his efforts to convey his good faith.

‘You’ve got to see — she was friendly. I haven’t got a lot of friends! At home it was impossible. I did the only thing I could. Now, for over a year… can’t you see what I mean? Other people don’t understand me… she… since my mother died…’

‘You were fond of your mother, were you?’

‘She understood me!’

‘How old was she when she died?’

‘People thought she was my sister.’

‘And that’s why these drawings?’

‘… drawings?’ He flushed hotly. ‘It’s not that — you can’t get it straight! — though perhaps, in a way…’

‘Still, it’s interesting, isn’t it?’

Gently slid in the canvas after the sketches. For a moment, as he buckled the straps, his eye dwelt strangely on the artist. Below them now the Bel-Air youngsters were ragging and rolling in the sand; the motor sailer was out of sight, the Swedish vessel replaced by a tanker. The sun, at long last, was taking definite steps westward.

‘I’ll keep these for the moment — they’ll be taken care of. In the morning I’ll want a fresh statement. Is that understood?’

‘If you like I’ll write it out.’

‘It wont be necessary. Just make certain there’s nothing else that you forgot to tell Inspector Dyson.’

He left Simmonds standing helplessly with new expostulations on his lips. Coming towards them with an eager step he could see the reporter of the Echo. And by the net store, though well out of earshot, the owner of the Keep Going had his eye on them.

Except possibly up in the marrams, there was nowhere private at Hiverton.