Alan Hunter - Gently Down the Stream

‘But she must know all about what Mr Lammas was going to do, sir. If we crack into her now she may come across, and then if we can pick up Miss Brent…’

‘Perhaps, Dutt, perhaps. Did your platform Romeo notice what happened to Miss Lammas and Miss Brent after the key was passed?’

‘Yessir, in a manner of speaking. They goes off down the station to where there’s three or four buses parked and Miss Lammas sees Miss Brent into one of them.’

‘You checked where they were going?’

‘Of course, sir, automatic. One was going to Cheapham, one to Summerton and one to Sea Weston.’

‘Cheapham and Sea Weston!’ Gently stared in surprise. ‘That’s a fascinating set of buses, Dutt…! But it gives us two to one on the coast. If I were a betting man I’d take odds on Linda Brent being tucked away in a seaside bungalow, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yessir. Now, do we pull in Miss Pauline…?’

Gently considered at length over the strawberries he was dipping in sugar. All the time his eyes were fixed on that diminutive foil-wrapped tube.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll trouble Miss Pauline at the present juncture.’

‘But if we can find Miss Brent-!’

‘That’s a job for you.’

‘For me, sir?’ goggled Dutt.

‘Yes — you’re specializing in this angle! Go back into town and beat around the estate-agents. Try the ones near Lammas’ office for a start and then work outwards. Names won’t be important, but dates and people will. You’re looking for a rented furnished property, probably in the Summerton-Sea Weston area, let as from Friday, key picked up by a certain young female… say Friday lunch-time. It’s mere routine, Dutt.’

Dutt groaned and rolled his eyes pitifully.

‘Also, you can take this stuff in for checking…’ Gently waved to the tube, his package and the strip of rayon, ‘… me, I feel a poetic mood coming on.’

‘You feel a whatter, sir?’

‘A poetic mood, Dutt. I feel it’s time that Mr Paul and myself got down to a session of mutual illumination.’

The drowsy brilliance of the hot June afternoon seemed made to display the charm of ‘Willow Street’. White walls under crisp reed thatch, ebony columns of timber, lattice-windows open wide, it nestled like a rare bird on the dipping slope as Gently swung out of the rhododendrons and braked to a stop. Around it the willows hung, completely still. The air itself seemed trembled to a stillness. Only a swallow-tail butterfly sailed, regal and self-assured, to disturb the spellbound sun-hush.

The gardener appeared from somewhere, roused by the sound of the car pulling up. He was a cadaverous, elderly man clad in a collarless twill shirt, black waistcoat and grey Derby trousers. Gently nodded and he came over.

‘Anybody at home?’

‘W’yes — no… I don’t rightla know.’

He turned about to peer into the open garage, which was empty except for an expensive-looking motorcycle.

‘Daresay the missus have gone to Narshter — tha’s her day for it. Miss Pauline, I can’t answer for. Mr Paul, he’s fishin’ in the broad, dew yew want him.’

‘Whereabouts in the broad?’

‘W’now, how should I know that? Yew’ll ha’ to go an see.’

‘Can I borrow a boat?’

‘There’s plenta in the boot-house.’

Gently shrugged and locked the Wolseley, but as the gardener turned away he asked:

‘You weren’t here last night, I suppose?’

‘Ah. I was pickin black currants an’ one thing another.’

‘Did you notice anyone go out?’

‘I hear Mr Paul go off, tha’s all.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘W’… about eight o’clock time.’

‘And when did he come back?’

‘Not while I was here, an that was nigh on ten.’

The house was so silent as Gently went by that it might have stood empty for a century. Every window was open, every door ajar. He could hear an alarm clock ticking as he passed below the kitchen. Rounding the corner, however, he nearly tripped over the lumpish-faced maid. She was lying in the sun with her skirt pulled back, and jumped up indignantly at Gently’s sudden appearance.

‘I neffer did — and what are we to be expecting next, I should like to know!’

‘Don’t let me disturb your siesta!’ Gently forced back an impish grin.

‘Come into people’s private gardens — sneak up on them from behind-!’

‘I’m only going to borrow a boat. There’s no need for you to get up.’

The maid shook herself like an outraged hen and followed him into the boat-house. It was a big, gloomy place, lit only from the entrance, and extending under at least half of the building above. It smelled sweetly of naked timber and floating oil. In the basin surrounded by a splined platform lay a husky-looking teak launch, one of the local Class half-deckers, a National, a pair of skiffs and a dinghy. Gently selected the dinghy and stepped into it with the confidence of one not unfamiliar with the habits of small boats.

‘What time did Mr Paul get in last night?’

The maid pouted at him defiantly.

‘I suppose he did get in before you went to bed…?’

‘Oh yes he did, Mr Nosey, and not so late either, it was.’

‘What excuse did he give for going out again?’

‘Who said he went out again, after I took him his malted milk in bed, too!’

Gently pulled loose the painter and pushed himself out of the boat-house with a scull.

The broad at this end had an air of exclusiveness contributed to by a number of rush and reed islands. These not only served as a screen but also deterred the near approach of the thronging holiday-craft. In the secret waterways between them flourished superb water-lilies, while there was an air of tameness about the population of coots, water-hens and great-crested grebes. Gently surveyed these fastnesses with a jaundiced eye. He was suddenly struck with the size of the task of finding one particular human being, even on a medium size broad.

But the luck of good detectives was with him. Paul Lammas had not ventured far on that blazing afternoon. Two hundred yards from the boat-house Gently perceived the bows of a dinghy sticking out past a tangle of rushes. Rowing a little nearer, he could see a fishing-rod and the tip of a stationary float. A little nearer still and Paul came into view. He was lying on cushions in the back of the dinghy, head cradled in his arms, staring into the blue of the sky. Gently let his own boat glide silently in and bump against the other.

‘That’s a fine way to catch fish!’

Paul started forward out of whatever dream he was in.

‘You…!’

There was something terribly feminine about his delicate features and fine, soft hair. Today he was wearing a fawn linen shirt and grey-green slacks, his jacket lying rolled in the bows. Feminine… but with a difference.

‘Why have you come here looking for me?’

Gently shipped his sculls without replying and grabbed himself a handful of reeds around which to loop his painter. Paul watched him fiercely.

‘I wanted to be alone… surely that was clear enough?’

‘They told me you were fishing.’

‘I am — and I want to fish alone!’

Gently grinned and settled himself with his pipe.

‘There isn’t any bait on that hook, for a start… mind if I have a look? Then again, if you got on the shady side of these reeds…’

‘What is it you want — you haven’t come here to teach me how to fish!’

Gently nodded and applied himself to Paul’s rod and tackle. He was probably fishing too shallow — the float could go up a bit! And one caught precious little with a piece of weed for bait.

Paul was sitting up straight now. He was staring at Gently with an expression of mingled anger and apprehension.