Free Gently Instrumental by Alan Hunter

untidy grey hair reaching to her collar, her large but fine hand holding the cigar. And strangely, he seemed in his place, among those people babbling many tongues, though alone and regarding only the sea, though apart: he seemed at home. They were his disciples, if they knew it or not, and to each he could speak a familiar language. The heavy, slumped smoker in his solitary corner was the key presence in that room.
    ‘Just an ice and peach to follow.’
    The rest of the tables were emptying now. Lunchers were sauntering out to their cars, the Renaults, Citroëns, Volks and Alfas. Hozeley was almost at the end of his cigar: he dabbed it in the tray near him. But still he sat on. A waiter, passing his table, paused enquiringly, but went on his way.
    ‘I think he’s waiting for us, sir.’
    ‘Did anything new come up when you saw him?’
    ‘Not apart from Crag, sir. He was acting vague. I thought perhaps the doctor had overdone the dope.’
    More than likely; and perhaps that accounted for his immobility now. Or perhaps he was merely waiting for them to leave, in hope of avoiding a fresh encounter.
    They finished their lunch. A waiter poured coffee: from the corner of his eye Gently saw Hozeley rise. Slowly, the big man collected his jacket, put away his lighter, and started towards them.
    ‘I wish to speak with you.’
    ‘Please sit down.’
    ‘I would sooner it was somewhere more private.’
    His blue eyes fixed on Gently’s determinedly and his tone was calmly resolute.
    ‘Very well. Where do you suggest?’
    ‘We can use the private lounge.’
    ‘Why not the Music Room?’
    Hozeley’s mouth twitched. ‘If you prefer it we can go there.’
    Gently drank his coffee. They followed Hozeley from the dining room into a passage, then into a well-proportioned room fitted with sound equipment and a stage. Four music stands stood on the stage, with a grand piano pushed back behind them. Chairs were stacked along a wall and others scattered about the room. The walls were lined with dyed hessian, the floor carpeted with spongy matting. A range of thickly curtained windows looked out on the coast road and the sea. The room had a close, dead feel: it smelled faintly of hessian and cigar smoke.
    ‘Were you here earlier?’
    Hozeley nodded.
    ‘What for?’
    ‘I was . . . trying to remember.’
    He crossed the room, opened a window and stood inhaling the fresher air.
    ‘You know that Henry wants to bring in an understudy.’
    ‘Is that all you have to tell me?’
    Hozeley shook his head. He came back from the window, hesitated, sat himself on the edge of the stage.
    ‘Since it happened I’ve been so . . . confused. I couldn’t bear to think about it quietly.’ He touched his chest. ‘Something in there was scattering my thoughts. I was living in chaos.’
    ‘And now?’
    Hozeley drew a deep sigh. ‘Now, I think I may have got over it. I came here to force myself to relive it – to see it with someone else’s eyes.’ He spread his hands. ‘Of course I was infatuated. I can bear to say that now. Terry was never truly fond of me, never disinterested in his kindness. His talent blinded me. I longed to cherish it, to keep it always by me. And so I believed what I wanted to believe . . . that Terry responded in all truth.’ His eyes met Gently’s squarely. ‘I am responsible for what happened here. The blame for it lies in my egotism. Yes – I knew what I was doing.’
    ‘You were scarcely responsible for Virtue’s character.’
    ‘But I was responsible for holding him prisoner.’
    ‘In Virtue’s eyes, you were the sucker.’
    ‘Does that absolve me?’ Hozeley sank his head. ‘I accept all you say about Terry. He was dishonest and predatory. But perhaps at least he was more honest than I, in casting my folly back in my teeth. That was his most-loving deed. He dispelled the mist from my eyes.’ He brushed back a lock from his face. ‘What he did here was deliberate,’ he said. ‘That is what I wanted