Alan Hunter - Gently through the Mill

‘Do you belong to Lynton, miss?’

‘Me? No, I come from outside.’

‘Like it here, do you?’

‘It’s a bit slow, sometimes.’

‘Ever think of moving?’

She hadn’t, not really; but her young man was wanting to get a job in Cambridge…

Dutt had arrived, riding a massive constable’s bike. He had parked it by the mill gate, in everybody’s way, and was now leaning beside it and gazing absorbedly at the mill.

In the office, Pershore was haranguing his tenant. Gently had left him at it ten minutes ago. Miss Playford, feeling revived, had been sent home early, after resisting Fuller’s offer to drive her in his car.

All the same, she’d been quite thrilled by his fuss when bringing her round.

Gently swallowed his coffee quickly, seeing Blythely enter the shop. The last card in his hand — and this one had to be played according to Hoyle!

They were checking up the till, he and his wife. The bread and rolls had all gone from the trays, the glass shelves in the windows carried little but soiled doyleys. Expert in everything appertaining to his trade, the baker could estimate his day’s work to a few teacakes…

Gently put down a coin and took his hat. As he was crossing the street Mrs Blythely had advanced to drop the latch on the shop door.

‘Just a minute — I want to come in!’

Her eyes met his through the glass, startled. Blythely, saying something, came over behind her, and with a pettish shrug she opened the door.

‘Actually, we’re closed, Inspector-’

The pettishness of the shrug found an echo in her voice. The shop, though empty, still smelled of cakes and pastries, while the air continued warm from the bakehouse round the corner.

‘You can see what we’ve got left — there’ll be nothing else till tomorrow.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not here as a customer, Mrs Blythely.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late today? We’re going to the pictures!’

‘My regrets. I won’t keep you longer than necessary.’

Blythely, out of his working togs, certainly seemed uncomfortably dressy. He was wearing a thick black suit of provincial cut, and a gold Albert peeped out of his waistcoat pocket.

‘Like she says — it’s a bit late. Can’t you keep it for the morning?’

His glossy collar must have been purgatory to him.

‘We don’t often get out, and the wife looks forward to it — and what’s more, you had all I can give you this morning.’

Gently shouldered the door closed and dropped the latch. What was it that made this uncouth man so impressive? A yokel, he looked, a country-town yokel, and yet — if Lynton really wanted a mayor…

‘Shall we go upstairs?’

‘What’s wrong with the shop?’

‘It’s a little public, perhaps.’

‘I’ve no business that can’t be…’

‘Possibly Mrs Blythely…’

The same applies to her.’

Gently shrugged and found a bentwood chair for himself, reversing it in his customary manner. Mrs Blythely, sulky-faced, took possession of another, but her husband continued to stand under the fuse-boxes by the door.

‘Now, about Thursday night…’

It was useless watching Blythely’s expression. He only had one, and that was carved on his face as it might have been on oak.

‘Some information has reached me which affects your statement.’

The eyes alone were changeable, but you only caught them in occasional, wary flashes.

‘But first I want to ask you something which may seem a little personal… by the way, do you wear that watch-chain all the time?’

‘Hmp!’ Blythely grunted. ‘I do — it was my father’s.’

‘Do you mind if I see it?’

Reluctantly the baker hooked his watch out of his pocket. The chain was a long one and opulently doubled. Besides the gold half-hunter there depended from it two seals and what appeared to be a masonic charm; they slowly revolved as Blythely held them suspended.

‘Isn’t there something missing from it?’

‘Missing? What should be missing?’

‘You take your religion seriously, Mr Blythely. Some people would carry a token of it.’

The quick eyes fell on him a moment, thrusting, exploring. Then they returned to the watch with its little garnish of ornaments.

‘We place no faith in graven images, if that’s what you mean. They are the sign of the Whore and not of the Word which is Life.’

‘I wasn’t referring to graven images, just the token of your belief.’

‘I have no token but the Word and the Hope in Jesu.’

‘Not even one like this?’

Gently produced the gold cross.

‘It seems to belong to that chain of yours, Mr Blythely… one would not be surprised to find it attached there.’

If the baker was unimpressible his wife was not. Her caught breath and instinctive gesture betrayed immediately her recognition of the object. But Blythely gave no sign. He merely reached out a clumsy hand for it.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I’ll tell you… does it happen to be yours?’

‘I want to know where you found it.’

‘First, I’d like you to answer my question.’

There was no rushing Blythely. He was like a pillar of insensible rock, standing there, feet planted, in his shapeless black suit. He had no handle, you felt, you could bring no pressure on him. It was like trying to manipulate one of the elements…

‘Suppose it was mine, then?’

‘In that case, when did you lose it?

‘I didn’t say it was mine — I said suppose.’

‘You must answer me yes or no, Mr Blythely.’

‘I do or I don’t, but there’s no must about it.’

Gently swung round to the baker’s wife.

‘Perhaps you can tell me, ma’am — remembering how quickly you recognized it!’

‘I!’ — she threw a helpless look at her husband — ‘I don’t know about it — it could be anybody’s. There’s nothing on it, is there… just a plain cross?’

‘At least you thought you recognized it.’

‘How could I, when there’s nothing on it?’

‘By being familiar with it, Mrs Blythely — as you would be if your husband wore it on his watch-chain!’

She shook her head stupidly and pretended to stare at the cross. Blythely was turning it about as though to make quite sure it carried no distinguishing marks.

‘I can tell you it isn’t mine.’

At last, a positive statement!

‘My wife would be telling you a lie if she told you she had seen me wearing it.’

‘And neither of you know to whom it belongs?’

‘Like she says, there’s nothing on it.’

‘That’s not quite the same thing, Mr Blythely.’

‘You can’t be sure with a thing like that.’

Prevarication, but not a lie — that was the baker’s answer to an awkward question. It was a game which could go on all night, and probably never get him into a corner. And his wife, too… she had learned something of the gentle art!

‘Very well — we’ll leave it for the moment. It’s something else which I came to see you about.’

Blythely handed back the cross and returned to his impassive stance by the door.

‘You tell me you spent all the night in the bakehouse, the night of last Thursday and Friday. At the most you went out to the toilet — isn’t that how the statement ran?’

‘I said I went out to the toilet.’

‘But you didn’t go anywhere else?’

‘I wouldn’t have said I didn’t.’

‘All the same, you gave that impression!’

Blythely bowed his head slightly but made no other reply. At times one had the idea he was deaf, so little did anything said to him seem to register.

‘As a matter of fact you did go somewhere else, didn’t you? You were out of the bakehouse for an hour, between half past eleven and half past twelve. Before you deny it I should tell you that I have spoken to your assistant, and that the time has been established pretty exactly. Have you any comments to make, Mr Blythely?’