Alan Hunter: Gently through the Mill

Gently tapped at the door of the office and entered.

The man with the dark bushy hair was standing at the door of the screen talking, but he broke off and closed it as his visitor came in.

‘Can I do something for you?’

‘I’d like to have a talk…’

‘Oh — you’re from the police, are you?’

‘Chief Inspector Gently, C.I.D., Central Office.’

Griffin was right again, the man impressed one unfavourably. A quick flush had come over his bold features and his brown eyes darted away uneasily.

He was not unhandsome; he was about fifty. Without being tall he looked muscular, his shoulders broad and a little rounded.

He had a tenor voice with a careless provincial accent.

‘I heard they’d called the Yard in, but I thought they’d have finished with this side of it.’

‘We always like to make our own check… Mr Fuller, is it?’

‘That’s right — I’m the boss here.’

‘I’d like you to show me round the mill, Mr Fuller. But first I wanted to have a private talk with you.’

‘Mary!’

Fuller turned his head and jerked out the word. The rather pretty girl whom Gently had seen from the cafe came to the door of the screen.

‘Mary, be a sport and fetch my Mills and Milling from the bookstall… I’d have a tea break, too. I shan’t be wanting you for half an hour.’

Mary took the hint and departed, not daring to throw a glance at Gently. Fuller watched her disappear round the corner before motioning Gently towards a chair.

‘You’ve talked to Inspector Griffin, of course?’

Gently nodded and seated himself.

‘Well, I don’t know what else I can tell you, though I’ll be happy to help all I can.’

He was putting a bold front on it, but a child could see that he was nervous. He was having to stop his mouth from twitching and his eyes moved restlessly from object to object. Instead of sitting he remained leaning awkwardly against the screen.

‘With regard to keys, Mr Fuller…’

‘They’re with me and Mr Blythely — oh, and Mr Pershore, he could have a set.’

‘You mean the owner of the property?’

‘Yes — he might have some, don’t you think?’

‘Mmn.’ Gently didn’t sound impressed. ‘But they wouldn’t be strictly necessary?’

‘Not to get into the mill. There’s three or four busted windows… we’ve had kids roaming round there before. The engine-room needs a key, but that’s about all, I reckon.’

‘Isn’t it rather tempting providence?’

‘It’s the same with every mill.’

‘Do you close the gates, for instance?’

‘There’s no point in it. You can get in through the drying-ground at the back.’

So the mill had been wide open, beckoning to any passer-by. Late at night you could have run a car into the yard, provided Blythely didn’t hear you from the bakehouse.

‘You don’t remember any strangers about the place?’

‘I can’t say I do.’

‘It seems credible to you that a stranger could have got in and dumped that body in the hopper?’

‘If they could get into the place what was to stop them dumping the body?’

Nothing, of course. Nothing at all. But why then was Fuller nervous? Was it just a natural reaction towards being questioned by a policeman, or was it something other and more interesting?

‘They tell me you’ve got quite a good Midland League side at Lynton.’

Fuller’s eyes found him quickly, alarmed at a question the drift of which he couldn’t fathom.

‘Yes, it’s not bad. They won the East Counties Cup on Friday.’

‘You didn’t see the match, naturally.’

‘How could I, with all this business going on? In any case, we work on Good Fridays.’

‘You follow them, though, do you?’

‘I suppose so, when I get the chance.’

‘Do you have a flutter sometimes?’

‘A flutter?’

Fuller could sense a danger which he was unable to identify.

‘I don’t bet a lot, if that’s what you mean. Just a quid now and then on something I fancy.’

‘You prefer to watch them, I expect.’

‘I do, as a matter of fact.’

‘Were you at Newmarket, for example, when they ran the Spring Handicap three weeks ago?’

‘I — no — yes, yes, I was! But what the devil has that got to do with it?’

Gently shook his head indifferently. ‘Nothing, I dare say. Unless you chanced to meet up with Taylor and his pals on the racetrack.’

Fuller didn’t do what he expected, jumping in with protestations of innocence. Instead he remained quite silent, his flush deepening and his lips tightened to control their quivering.

The pounding of the engine across the yard seemed to be vibrating the whole universe.

‘Would you believe me if I said I didn’t?’

‘Why not?’ Gently shrugged. ‘I’ve got no evidence.’

‘I didn’t, you know — I was there with my wife! She’ll swear I was with her every damned minute.’

‘Then I won’t press the point.’

‘But you don’t believe me, do you?’

‘It is immaterial for me to believe what I can’t prove, Mr Fuller.’

Again he was expecting an outburst and again it failed to come. The miller relapsed into an angry silence and stood digging with his nail at a crack in the varnished screen. Outside, two men in dusty denim jackets went lurching across the yard with a coomb sack of grain between them.

‘Can we go over your statement, perhaps?’

‘It’s been gone over — time and time again.’

‘All the same, I’d like my personal impression.’

‘I tell you they’ve had it all — Griffin’s never stopped getting at me.’

‘Wasn’t it at six p.m. when you locked the mill up?’

There was something there, and Gently went after it pitilessly. Griffin had smelt it with his conscientious nostrils, and now Gently had caught the selfsame odour. It was unlikely but it was there — and in the first instance one simply took up the pursuit.

‘What happened when you arrived at The Spreadeagle?’

‘I had some beer and played a game of darts.’

‘And after that?’

‘We had our dinner. It went on till midnight. A lot of people made speeches — you know the sort of thing. A bit near the knuckle, and smuttier as they went on.’

‘You were at table till midnight?’

‘I won’t swear to the hour.’

‘You were not absent, I mean?’

‘I — well, I may have gone to the toilet.’

After dinner the affair became a little more muddled. Almost everyone was drunk or well on the way. There had been more speeches and songs and somebody danced on a table-top. Two revellers passed out and several were being sick in the toilet.

‘You didn’t pass out, though?’

‘No, but I was sick. We had lobster at dinner and it sometimes disagrees with me. I had to go out into the yard to retch and get some fresh air.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Oh — when we got up from dinner. It was all right when I was sitting but it hit me when I got up.’

‘You were out there alone?’

‘Is it usual to retch in pairs?’

‘How long were you out there, Mr Fuller?’

‘My God, you don’t think I timed it! I was there half an hour, perhaps — longer, it might have been. When I came back in I had a glass of tonic water. If you don’t believe me you’d better ask the waiter.’

‘So it was approximately from twelve to half past, was it?’

‘I said before that I couldn’t swear to the time.’

‘According to the proprietor the dinner was over by half past eleven. Would that mean that you were absent for an hour?’

‘Nothing of the sort! It was half an hour at the most.’

‘The Spreadeagle is only five minutes’ walk from here.’