Alan Hunter - Gently through the Mill

‘If it’s about the money, that’s what I earned, do you hear! I’ve been saving it up… Mr Fuller, he give me a bonus!’

Surely this should interest Gently, unless he was in some sort of a trance!

‘It’s my wages, that’s what it was… I get sixteen pound a week! I’ve been keeping my eye on that scooter since the other side of Christmas. Why don’t you ask me proper if you want to know? Look, I can’t stop here any longer!’

Nevertheless, he seemed very reluctant to go, though by now his clothes were dragging from him like dishclouts.

‘Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying…?’

It was almost a whine, a plea to be noticed.

‘It’s the truth, I tell you, those fivers come in my pay envelope! Why can’t you say something, ’stead of just sitting there?’

A smoke-ring appeared perfectly around Gently’s pipe. Blacker could see it circling as it drifted tenuously towards the roof. Cursing, he turned and ran slopping into the engine-room — the swine had wanted him to get wet, that was all that could explain it!

Shaking himself like a dog, he stood between the two doors and scowled at the rainbound Wolseley.

When at last Gently made a move it was for the side door of the miller’s office, but having entered by it he seemed no more disposed to begin business than before.

First, he had got a little wet — that had to be seen to! He contrived to upset the whole office while putting his raincoat to dry on the backs of two chairs. Then he wanted a towel — hadn’t anybody got one? And what about some hot coffee? Surely… with the cafe so close!

If there had been any work going on, it was disrupted by this time. Apart from anything else he had annexed the chairs — two for his raincoat and one for himself. And now that Mary had gone out, wrapped to the eyes, he was amusing himself by tapping out test sentences on her typewriter — surely a Yard man had better things to do with his time?

Fuller, without a dash of colour in his cheeks, got a file out of a cabinet and pretended to be looking through it. Having nowhere to sit he leant against his desk, but somehow he couldn’t find a posture which was comfortable.

‘We’re getting some of these.’

Fuller started at the sound of Gently’s voice.

‘They’re re-equipping some of the offices… a few of us got together. As a rule it’s all done by contract, but we got permission to indent for this model.’

He had his back turned to the miller, and Gently’s back was peculiarly unexpressive. As for his tone of voice, it contained nothing but an interest in Fuller’s typewriter…

‘Government departments are very conservative, you understand.’

He was tapping away afresh with two clumsy fingers.

‘We’ve been using the same make since typewriters came in — a lot of taxpayers’ money going all in one direction! For typing reports-’

Fuller threw down his file. ‘If you’ve come here for something-!’

‘Tabulation isn’t a “must”, but it’s useful for paragraphing.’

‘I’ve seen the lunchtime paper!’

‘As a rule we like the larger typeface.’

The miller clenched his fists and groaned. Like his foreman, he was finding it far worse to be ignored than to be attended to by Gently. If you knew where you stood, that could be bad enough; but to be treated as though you were already in the bag…!

‘It was one of them, wasn’t it?’

The typewriter rattled.

‘And this morning I was fool enough to tell you-’

In fact, that he’d been driving past the spot at midnight last night, alone.

The bell tinkled, and Gently pulled out his sheet. It may not have been a brilliant piece of typing, but such as it was it seemed to find favour with the man from the Central Office. He laid it across the typewriter and studied it fondly. From a back view, at least, he appeared to be completely absorbed.

‘May I give you some advice?’

Offhandedly he threw out the question. Fuller, his lips tight in a bitter line, lifted his head to stare savagely at the bulky shoulders.

‘Why not tell me the truth… now, without going any further? I know pretty well that you had nothing to do with either of the murders.’

The response was astonishing: Fuller began to weep. He collapsed against the desk and covered his face with his well-cared-for hands.

For two minutes by the pendulum clock he simply sobbed, foolishly, unconvincingly. And yet there was something terrible about this man behaving like a child.

‘My wife-!’ His broken voice sounded silly; he knew it and broke off, fighting to gain control.

‘How can you understand-?’

That, too, seemed to have no meaning.

Gently had crumpled his sheet of typing and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. Mary, coming in streaming, was bundled promptly out again minus the thermos she had been clutching. As an added precaution Gently shot the bolts of both the side and the street doors.

‘If I tell you… it’s impossible! Nobody would believe-’

In a corner cupboard were the office cups and saucers. The coffee, steaming hot, had milk and sugar already added.

‘Here… drink this!’

Gently shoved a cup into the miller’s hand.

‘I don’t want any-’

‘Drink it!’

The miller did as he was bid.

Like a fish in an aquarium, Mary was staring through the glass panels of the side door. But then the rain got the better of her curiosity and she disappeared in search of cover. They were isolated by the downpour. The little office seemed entirely cut off.

‘How do you pay your men?’

‘-my men?’

Fuller repeated the words vacantly.

‘Yes. Do you cash a cheque, for instance?’

‘Mary… she sees to it. She takes a cheque when she goes to lunch on Fridays.’

‘She has a list, has she — so many fivers, ones, tens, etc.?’

‘Not fivers of course, just ones, tens, and silver.’

‘It was the same last week?’

‘Except being Good Friday…’

‘Has Blacker been after you for money?’

The miller shuddered. ‘No… it was just being foreman.’

Gently nodded and sipped his coffee. Deadened by the rain, the naphtha engine’s beat sounded remote and subterranean. It had something of the quality of a barbaric drum-roll.

‘You know that red morocco attache case of Mr Pershore’s?’

‘I’ve seen him carry one.’

‘Was he carrying it on Thursday?’

‘Yes, he had it with him.’

‘Was it in his hands all the while?’

‘I didn’t see him put it down.’

‘What was Blacker doing at the time?’

‘Him and Sid… they were feeding grain.’

‘That night, which way did you come from the Spreadeagle?’

Fuller shuddered again and looked for somewhere to stand his coffee cup. His hands were trembling so much that it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped it.

‘You know then…?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘But if only you could understand!’

He was near tears again, huddled up there against his desk.

‘To be frank, wasn’t it amateurish? Two people got to know about it.’

‘-two?’

‘Blythely knew. He was watching the whole time.’

The blood rushed back into the miller’s cheeks. He stared wildly at Gently as though challenging the truth of the assertion. Then he dropped his eyes to the floor, red to the tips of his ears.

‘Oh, my God, what a mess!’

The words came in a hoarse whisper. Making no reply, Gently poured himself some more coffee from the thermos. In London, in Paris, who would have turned their head at such a business? But here, in Lynton… yes, it was a mess all right!

‘Why haven’t you arrested me?’

‘It isn’t breaking the law.’