Alan Hunter - Gently through the Mill

‘Let’s get it straight… we’re talking about the Thursday evening, are we?’

Jimpson nodded, swallowing at the same time.

‘When according to Mr Blythely you showed up at ten — and remained in the bakehouse until seven the next morning?’

‘Yes, sir, but…’

‘But Mr Blythely is a liar?’

‘No, sir — I didn’t say so!’

‘Then what am I supposed to believe?’

‘He — he wasn’t in there at the time.’

Gently folded his arms on the table and appeared to consider the hotel-plate sugar bowl. Was this the something he had been looking for, the little crack in the solid Lynton defence?

Jimpson was writhing in his chair, haplessly aware of the significance of what he had blurted out. In the background the radio continued its programme of calypsos.

‘Go on — tell me what happened. I suppose it’s no use asking why you didn’t tell this to Inspector Griffin?’

‘I didn’t want him to know… Mr Blythley, I mean! And he didn’t say nothing about having been out…’

‘Did he tell you not to mention that?’

‘No, but I thought…’

‘Never mind about that, just get on with your story.’

It was simple enough and easily corroborated. Jimpson had met his girl, Jessie Mason, when she had finished her shift at the Globe Cafe at half past eleven. Her way home took her past the mill. He had slipped out and intercepted her. At her house, ten minutes away, he had exchanged greetings with her father, and had been back in the bakehouse at just on midnight. And during all that time Blythely had been absent, neither did he return until half an hour later.

‘You’re sure of those times?’

‘Yes, I was looking for a chance…’

‘He went out shortly before half past eleven?’

Jimpson nodded his head.

‘Where did he say he was going?’

‘He didn’t say nothing.’

But he had gone out into the yard, Jimpson thought, because there had been no squeak from the broken hinge on the door to the shop. After waiting a few minutes he had ventured into the yard, and not seeing Blythely, had hurried out to meet Jessie.

‘Was he in the habit of going out like that?’

‘No, he wouldn’t never leave the bakehouse as a rule. Once you’ve got the dough rising…’

‘What did he say when he came back?’

‘Nothing, he didn’t.’ Jimpson looked sideways.

‘Go on, Ted!’ urged Jessie. ‘You said you was going to tell him everything.’

‘Well…’ Jimpson hesitated. ‘He was something upset, that’s all I can say. First off he was quiet, then afterwards he let me have it. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.’

‘Had he seen you go out?’

‘Not him, or I’d have heard about it.’

‘What was he angry about?’

‘Every mortal thing I did.’

Gently slowly nodded, still watching his sugar bowl. This had to be true in substance… unless there was a conspiracy against Blythely! But there might be an explanation, sufficient if not innocent: Blythely might have had the misfortune to go out on business he wanted to keep quiet.

‘You corroborate this?’

Jessie’s pretty flush came back. ‘Of course I do — it’s every word the truth!’

‘What’s your father’s job?’

‘He’s a gardener with the Corporation.’

‘Up late last Thursday, wasn’t he?’

‘He always waits up when I’m on the late shift.’

‘Where did he become acquainted with Mr Blythely?’

‘He hasn’t never met him that I ever heard of.’

‘A betting man, is he?’

‘No fear! He’s very strict about everything like that.’

He would be, naturally, if he was employed by the Lynton Corporation…

Out of the corner of his eye Gently saw Fuller’s Consul draw up, hesitate, and then turn carefully into the mill-yard gate. The miller climbed out, reaching after him a leather briefcase. As he closed the door his eye fell on the cafe window: for a moment he stood quite still, an expression of blankness on his bold-featured face.

‘Just before Mr Blythely went out… what happened then?’

‘We were getting up the dough…’

‘Did you hear the hinge squeak, for instance?’

‘I wasn’t listening for it.’

‘What was Mr Blythely doing?’

‘He was kneading the…’

‘Which trough was he using?’

‘The one near the door.’

Fuller came suddenly out of his trance and flung angrily into his office. Even in the cafe one could hear the slam of the door. His face appeared a few seconds later, peering over the screen, along with it that of his not-unattractive clerk.

‘Who else was around that night?’

‘Who…? Nobody!’

‘Who was in the yard when you got back?’

‘I tell you-!’

‘You didn’t go straight into the bakehouse, did you?’

‘Yes, I did!’

‘What’s the quarrel between Mr Blythely and Mr Fuller?’

‘There isn’t no quarrel — they get on all right together!’

Gently shrugged and drank off the rest of his coffee. He was giving poor Jimpson a rough sort of a passage, but then he shouldn’t have been such a silly young…

‘What else haven’t you told the police?’

‘Nothing, I tell you!’

‘Why did you come to me just now?’

‘Jessie and me… she thought I ought to!’

‘What have you got against Mr Blythely?’

‘Nothing I haven’t! He’s all right to me…’

‘You’d better think carefully if there’s anything else you want to tell me.’

The cafe now was practically empty; Gently’s waitress stood at a distance by a sideboard, pretending not to be interested. A sunny West Indian voice from the radio was unfortunately spoiling her chances of eavesdropping.

‘Cricket, lovely cricket…

At Lord’s where I saw it!’

Only one customer was left, but he, as it happened, was sitting at the table immediately behind Gently.

‘You can add nothing, Miss Mason?’

‘Only that Ted’s telling you the God’s truth.’

‘You must have passed the junction of Cosford Street with Fenway Road — did you notice anyone making use of the back passage to the drying-ground?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Or anyone about there?’

‘No.’

‘A parked car, perhaps?’

She shook her head and then stopped herself. ‘There was a car there, come to think of it. I noticed one standing off the road just down Cosford Street.’

‘What sort of car, Miss Mason?’

‘I don’t know — I just saw it. It hadn’t got no lights on.’

‘A saloon car, was it?’

‘I suppose so. I just saw it standing there.’

Gently sighed to himself. If only women paid more attention to cars…! But there it was, another tiny fact, to fit, it might be, a final pattern.

‘Righto… that’s all for just now, though I shall probably need a statement from both of you later.’

A bit shakily they rose from the table — it had been a good deal worse than either of them had expected! Jessie stuck her hand defiantly into Ted’s, and wordlessly they passed out through the doorway.

Young love…

Wouldn’t she make him a very good wife?

‘Waitress — I think I’ll have some tea this time!’

Gently turned about and tapped the shoulder of the customer behind him.

‘Don’t be shy, Mr Blacker… come and sit at my table. I feel we could profitably discuss the situation.’

Why had Gently’s mood changed, out of all proportion to the progress he was making? He couldn’t have given the answer himself, certainly not in the cold terms of an official report.

Nothing else had changed in the small cafe or the street outside. Over in his office Fuller was still peering across his screen, further along Mrs Blythely had lifted the latch of the shop door and now leant, elbows asprawl, scanning a lunchtime paper at her counter. From the loudspeaker above the serving-hatch the calypso singer continued to celebrate the deeds of ‘those little pals of mine’: