Free Gently Instrumental by Alan Hunter Page B

Frank Parry. That angle just went out of the window.’
    ‘Sir . . . ?’
    ‘We’re back with the natives.’
    Leyston’s ruled-off face grew longer. ‘Does that mean Mr Meares, sir?’
    ‘It means a solo for the Cello – after a few bars from Second Violin.’
    Leaving Leyston to gape, he strode through the hall and out of the hotel porch. The Rolls was just being backed, with its front wheels crossed in a crazy-looking lock. They straightened again: the Rolls whispered forward, Hozeley aloof in his high seat. He spared no look for Gently but, God in a Machine, turned the corner and tickered away.

CHAPTER SIX
    T HE HAZLEWOOD HOUSE , brick and roughcast, stood facing a lawn bleached the colour of parchment, and a white Alfasud nestled in a car port before the doors of a multiple garage. But Miss Hazlewood was out, her mother told them: she was helping to prepare the church for the Festival. A cared-for blonde, she offered them a drink and seemed half sorry to see them go.
    ‘Plenty of cash there, sir,’ Leyston muttered, as they tramped back down the tarmac drive. ‘Maynard Hazlewood has a finger in contracting. His wife is a cousin of Dr Capel.’
    ‘Just one happy family,’ Gently grunted.
    ‘Yes, sir. The brass are pretty close in Shinglebourne.’
    ‘Close enough to close ranks when it comes to trouble.’
    ‘You might say that, sir,’ Leyston said, carefully.
    A cluster of cars shared the lime-shaded park at the west end of the church, and electricians were unloading speakers and rolls of cable from a van. The several doors of the church stood open; people were issuing in and out. From the interior, unexpectedly, came a sudden trill of piano notes.
    ‘There’ll be recitals here most of the week, sir . . .’
    They pushed in, jostled by the electricians. The church was a large, light, wide building with a timbered roof and broad aisles. Few of the windows had stained glass and the sun was pouring in unchecked; the church smelled equally of incense, paraffin, polish and dried musty prayer books. Perhaps because it lacked coolness it gave the impression of being a worn-out building, of having been perversely kept patched and cobbled when its true usefulness had departed.
    ‘There’s Miss Hazlewood – at the piano, sir.’
    An ebony-cased grand stood near the screen. Two men in overalls were adjusting its position while a girl stood by them, finger on chin. Behind, in the chancel, women were shining brasses, and others were arranging floral displays. Then there were the electricians on tall ladders and nurserymen staggering up the aisles with pot plants.
    ‘That’s Capel’s gardener.’ Gently’s eye had fallen on a bald crown bending over a tray of fuchsias.
    ‘Yes, sir – he’s the verger here, William Crag. He’s David Crag’s grandfather.’
    ‘Is that so?’
    It offered one more link in an already extensive chain. If the doctor had wanted to plant beguiling information, there was his instrument, dead-heading the fuchsias. But Leyston had read Gently’s thoughts.
    ‘I doubt if there’s be anything comic with him, sir. He’s a bible-thumper of the old school, always ready to quote a text at you.’
    ‘So the smiting of sodomites might appeal to him.’
    Leyston shook his head, unsmiling. The elder Crag, straightening from his labours, paused to give them a hard stare.
    They continued up the aisle. By now the piano had arrived at a definitive location, and Laurel Hazlewood stood at the keyboard sounding critical chords and trills.
    ‘Miss Hazlewood?’
    ‘A moment, please.’
    Her face intent, she went on playing. At last with a final dab she stood back to survey the intruders.
    ‘Is this going to take long?’
    Laurel Hazlewood regarded them with earnest, greenish-brown eyes. She had elvish, rather gamin features, with short, auburn hair and a freckled complexion. Her figure was light and trim and her voice plangent but cultivated. She was twenty-four; she wore a plain sleeveless top