Alan Hunter - Landed Gently

‘His will?’ Gently sat up.

‘Yes — I can see he didn’t get round to it. And that convinces a suspicious mind like mine that there might be a reason for it. Wait a minute, old man, till they’ve brought in your pheasant.’

The serving maid appeared with the dish Brass predicted, and Gently contained himself in some impatience while she performed her various ministrations. Brass watched her with unconcealed interest. She was quite a pretty serving maid…

‘As you were saying before we were interrupted?’

Brass nodded and tossed off his second glass of port.

‘It’s not so much the will — I imagine that’s pretty straightforward. It’s what hangs to it that makes the thing suggestive. You’ve got a fair inkling by now, have you, of where the sixth baron and myself stand with each other?’

‘He appears to admire you very highly.’

‘Admires me — huh!’ Brass gave an expressive snatch of his head. ‘Gently, my son, that cock-eyed page of Debrett worships the bloody ground I walk on — like a damned heathen! He’s got a fix about artists. They do the one thing no Feverell has ever been able to do — make something. And so here I am, the tin god of the last of the Feverells, the sacred calf cherished and worshipped in the high places of Merely — with Somerhayes, of course, my self-appointed priest. Do you ask me now how far round the fellow’s gone?’

‘He’s got a complex character…’

‘Complex is hardly the word, child. If you’d lived beside him for eighteen months… but hell an’-all, we won’t go into that! Just get the picture of Brass the God and Somerhayes the Priest, that’s all you really need to understand. Now Brass Divine all gods excelling has got one bad flaw in his make-up. He’s a little too easy about the come-and-go of cash. Priest Somerhayes isn’t so hot in that direction himself, but by the grace of inferior gods he’s got a cousin who is — and there, my maestro, the plot begins to thicken. Our High Priest can’t content himself with his cousin being a mere lay-sister. Her holy duty is too plain before her. She must take the veil, she must espouse the Church, and by way of endowing the sacred institution, she is to bring with her all the tin, shekels, tenements and messuages yet possessed by the house of Feverell — which is the substance and contents of the will I mentioned to you. Think that one over, sonny, and see where it gets you.’

Gently gazed at his untouched pheasant as though it were something rare and miraculous in the field of ornithology.

‘You mean she’s the heiress to the estate, contingent on her marrying you?’

‘Not contingent, old fellow — at least, not as far as I know. She gets it anyway. It’s the bribe to make me sit up and take notice.’

‘And Mrs Page — what are her views?’

‘Hell! It’s not as crude as that. Janice hasn’t been told — it’s up to Leslie to make the running.’

Gently nodded to the pheasant. ‘And of course, you haven’t made any…’

‘Don’t be so blasted cunning!’ retorted Brass, grinning at him. ‘Do you think I’m made of stone, to sit behaving with a trollop like that in the offing? I made a pass at her for her own sake, long before I got the wink from Somerhayes. But as I told Sir Daynes, she’s man-proof, and it’ll be a year or two yet before there’s anything doing there.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting Earle?’

‘No, I’m not forgetting Earle. That kid was certainly storming the ramparts, but you can take it from me he wasn’t getting anywhere, and never would have done.’

Gently at last made a motion with his knife and fork, but he seemed to be eating without much consciousness of the act. Brass sat watching him with an air of devilment. He cracked a nut to give the Central Office man time to take in the significance of what he had heard.

‘You were sure about Earle… but his lordship wasn’t. Is that what occurred to you when you were thinking it over?’

Brass shrugged massively. ‘Without putting too fine a point on it, as someone said.’

‘In fact he might have taken Earle seriously?’

‘He might. I don’t say he did. But it seemed an idea worth toying with.’

‘Mr Brass.’ Gently looked the artist in the eye. ‘Either you think his lordship capable of letting his obsession get the better of him or you don’t… Which is it going to be?’

Brass laughed gleefully and levered his great body away from the table.

‘This is where I leave you!’ he said, tossing the nut-crackers on the table. ‘Enjoy your pheasant, try some apple foam — and don’t be afraid of that bottle of port. God Brass is going to the workshop. You’ll find him there if you want to talk weaving.’

And he strode out of the dining room, still laughing loudly to himself. But there wasn’t any smile on Gently’s wooden countenance.

Sir Daynes returned, looking, if not cheery, as though he felt he had coped ably with the iniquity of things. Gently met him in the hall, flanked by Dyson and a constable, and the good baronet expressed his apology for having failed to take Gently back to lunch.

‘Said you’d gone up on the roof — wouldn’t be having a game, would they?’

Gently grinned faintly. ‘No — I was up there all right.’

‘Damned odd place to be, but I suppose you know your own business best. Anyway, we popped Johnson in the cooler, and he’ll be remanded tomorrow. Just going to run over the servants to see if we can pick up anything fresh.’

‘Naturally, you won’t have charged him…?’

‘Not yet, man. Probably will do this evening.’

‘Before you do, there’s a couple of small matters worth considering.’

‘Eh?’ barked Sir Daynes, apprehension suddenly gripping him.

Gently hunched himself owlishly in the depths of his ulster. ‘Firstly, Mrs Page has made a statement which supports Johnson’s account of his movements… Secondly, his lordship has made one that practically exonerates Johnson.’

Sir Daynes’s blue eyes opened wider and wider, and by way of support, Dyson’s jumped open too.

‘You said… what?’ gaped the baronet in desperate incredulity.

Gently repeated his thunderbolt without any enthusiasm.

‘But good God, man — we’ve got Johnson — got a case — this is preposterous! What do these people think they’re doing, making irresponsible statements?’

Gently shrugged from his depths. ‘There’s still a loophole… but it’s a small one. On the whole, I think we’d better discuss the matter before we go any further.’

With a lengthened face Sir Daynes led the party back to the milder atmosphere of the interrogation room, and the face was still longer when he had heard what Gently had to tell him.

‘Good heavens!’ he kept interjecting. ‘Good heavens! It’s unbelievable! Can’t call you a liar — good heavens, what a business!’

At the end of the relation he stood rigidly with his face towards the fire. His hands, clasped behind his back, were the only barometer of his bewildered anguish. A long minute passed before he turned. Then he shot a fierce, bitter look at Dyson.

‘Well!’ he rapped. ‘Go on — you’re in charge of this blasted case.’

Dyson wilted a little and sucked his lip under his teeth. ‘Well, sir, it seems to me…’

‘Go on, blast you — what are you stopping for?’

‘It seems to me sir… on the present evidence… that there’s a strong case against his lordship.’

Sir Daynes took a deep breath and bit his lips until he must have hurt himself. The age showed in his rough-hewn features more cruelly than Gently had ever seen it. And slowly, he bowed his head.

‘Yes,’ he muttered through his teeth. ‘Yes, Dyson — quite right, Dyson! There’s a case against him — a strong case — a case a blundering old fool like me ought to have seen all along! Been pointers enough, Christ knows. Been men around me who could see it as clean as a pikestaff. Only I’m an obstinate old fool. I didn’t want to see it, and I wouldn’t. I knew Somerhayes’s father… thought I knew Somerhayes. Time, high time, for an old dotard to retire!’