Alan Hunter - Landed Gently

‘What do you want to know — if I did for our young friend?’

Dyson tried to quell him with a might-take-you- at-your — word look, but it was a pure waste of talent.

‘We’d like you to tell us what you know of the deceased, Mr Brass, and everything you can remember about last night.’

‘I can tell you straight away that I’ve got nothing for you.’

‘We’d like it in the form of a statement, sir, if you don’t mind.’

Brass didn’t mind. He was a born raconteur. Without further prompting, he launched into a racy account of his meeting with Earle at the Sculton lecture, of his amusement at the young man’s gaucherie and enthusiasm, of the American’s impact on the small, closed world of the Place.

‘My trained seals didn’t know what to make of him at first — he spent half his time chasing the females, and the other half telling us how to weave tapestry. Lucky for him he was a natural charm-boy. We could have hated his guts if he hadn’t been. But he soon found out he didn’t know much, and he never minded admitting it. Had ’em all eating from his hand, he did, by the time he’d spent a couple of days with us. And as I’ve said before, many a time, he had some real, hard talent in him. If I could have kept him with me a few years, the name of Earle would have meant something in the dovecotes. But he wouldn’t have stopped over here, so it didn’t signify. He’d got some wild ideas about setting up a tapestry workshop in the States, as though you could learn tapestry in five minutes — then he’d got another idea about transplanting me to Carpetville, Missouri. The kid was full of notions. It’s a pity they’ve gone to pot.’

‘Feller never had a quarrel with any of the whatd ’you- call-’ems — tapissiers?’ enquired Sir Daynes from over his commandeered cognac.

Brass made a gesture with his white, conical fingers.

‘You couldn’t quarrel with a kid like that. He had a born sweetness of disposition. You could rib the lights out of him — I often did — and he’d never dream of taking offence. As far as he was concerned, it was a world without malice. You could club his feelings as somebody clubbed his head, and he would just think it one hell of a lark.’

‘Mmn.’ Sir Daynes didn’t seem to favour the parallel. ‘You can’t suggest anyone who might have had it in for him?’

‘Not a soul, I’d say. Unless it was Hugh Johnson.’

‘Johnson? Who’s he?’

‘A Welsh griffin we’ve got in our outfit. But don’t make a mistake — Johnson wouldn’t have brained the kid. He was just a bit sore because Earle put his nose out of joint. Johnson’s a fine designer, and I’ve been grooming him for stardom. Then Earle came along and I spent a lot of time on him, as a result of which dear Hugh decided to be huffy.’

Sir Daynes was obviously interested. His knitted brow betrayed the fact. ‘Suppose this Welshman didn’t threaten him — nothing of that sort?’

‘Good heavens, no! You mustn’t start suspecting our Hugh.’

‘But he’d got it in for him?’

‘In the mildest possible way.’

‘Hmn,’ said Sir Daynes, and visibly made a note.

Brass continued his statement, which as far as it went corroborated that of Somerhayes. When the party broke up he had left Earle with Somerhayes and Mrs Page. He had gone to his rooms at the other corner of the huge establishment, and as far as he could testify, a quiet and heilige night was had by all. He was wakened by Thomas in the morning at between twenty and a quarter to eight. He found Somerhayes in the hall, about to cover the body with a blanket.

‘Did you form any impression of his… um… state of mind at the time?’

The room had warmed up, and Gently had left the hearth for a seat by the deep, stone-framed window.

‘State of mind…’ Brass swung round to him, a return of last night’s cynicism in his lively eyes. ‘Well, he was in a bad state of shock, of course. There isn’t much toughness about his lordship. He was as white as a sheet and as quiet as a dolmen. He showed me the bash, asked me if I knew anything, and then left me on guard while he ghosted off to tinkle you blokes.’

‘Would you say that his lordship was very fond of the deceased?’

Brass gave a little chuckle. ‘He wasn’t one of his ames intimes, if you know what I mean. But he was fond enough of him, just as we all were. Being American had something to do with it.’

‘How do you mean, Mr Brass?’

‘Why, his lordship is one of those types who find something mystical in the idea of America — it’s a symbol, you understand; it stands for spiritual youth and virility. Over here we’re bankrupt and done for. We’ve been at it too long; we’re suffering from hardened arteries. I daresay his lordship could feel the same way about Russia if his politics didn’t prevent it.’

‘Feller always had queer ideas,’ grumbled Sir Daynes, still guarding the hearth. ‘Turned Liberal when he was a young fool at Oxford — upset his father, I can tell you. Never been a Whig in the family since George the First.’

‘And you think Earle’s being American inclined his lordship to favour him?’ Gently persisted.

‘Certain of it.’ Brass waved his hand.

‘It would not have been held against him, for instance, if he had been making overtures to his lordship’s cousin?’

‘Janice?’ Brass’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the young heathen was making up to her?’

‘It did occur to me, Mr Brass.’

The artist guffawed his amusement. ‘Good Lord, what impressions people get. You don’t know your young American, Inspector. You don’t know Janice, either. Our little sex-delinquent exercised his charm on every frail, broad and doll who came within yards of him — including the housekeeper, who is no Ninon. You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Inspector.’

Gently shrugged. ‘You could be right.’

‘En tout cas, he wouldn’t have got any change out of Janice. She’s still carrying Des Page’s torch. She’s a Feverell too, you know — they take things to heart in that family. You can take my word for it that Janice P. is man-proof.’

Gently nodded indefinitely. ‘But supposing his lordship had formed a certain impression… his reactions would have been favourable?’

‘On the surface, anyway, I don’t see why not.’

‘But under the surface, Mr Brass?’

The artist made a wry face. ‘Christ knows what goes on under the sixth lord’s surface! I don’t know, and I’m not going to be led into hazarding guesses. I’m eating his salt, anyway. It doesn’t become me to tell tales out of school.’

‘This is homicide, you know…’

‘That’s why it’s dangerous to gossip.’

‘Anything pertinent is not gossip.’

‘Let’s say I’ve got nothing pertinent, and call it a day.’

Gently shrugged again and turned to peer out at the advancing twilight. Sir Daynes made some noises that to the knowledgeable betokened dissatisfaction.

‘You’re not holding anything back, eh… mistaken sense of loyalty and that?’

‘Damnation no! Didn’t I tell you at the beginning of this session that I’d got nothing for you?’

‘Just want to be sure, man… understand a thing like that.’

Brass departed as indeflatable as he had come, and Sir Daynes, wrenching himself from the matured and beautiful fire, joined Gently at the window. For a moment he stood there in silence, contemplating the dreary prospect, then he flashed a glance at the Central Office man that was the reverse of friendly.

‘Confound it, Gently… lay off Somerhayes,’ he mumbled, sotto voce. ‘I can see what you’re getting at… man and his pretty cousin. But it won’t do, I tell you, and what’s more I don’t like it. Things look black enough now for the poor feller… and I’m damn certain he’s in the clear.’