Free Landed Gently by Alan Hunter Page A

description of the conversation which took place?’
    ‘Confound it, man! Already had that from Somerhayes . Young feller was still carrying on about Missouri , wasn’t he, m’dear?’
    ‘Yes – he was.’ Mrs Page was staring at Gently with something like fear in her large eyes.
    ‘Mmn … and after that … when you were leaving, and the deceased accompanied you to the door?’
    The eyes jumped open wide. ‘My cousin didn’t tell you that! I didn’t – I—’ She broke off, turning imploringly to Sir Daynes. ‘He didn’t accompany me to the door – I left him talking to my cousin. Ask him, Sir Daynes, he’ll tell you that it’s true!’
    Nobody in the room could have mistaken the baronet’s slightly delayed reaction. He weighed in quickly, but not quite quickly enough.
    ‘’Course it’s true, m’dear – suggestion’s downright preposterous!’
    ‘You’ve only to ask my cousin—’
    ‘Not necessary, m’dear. Take your word any day.’
    ‘The inspector is entirely mistaken.’
    ‘The inspector,’ said Sir Daynes feelingly, ‘has been a mistake all along – hrmp, hrmp! I mean, we’re all human, m’dear, always have to allow a margin for error!’
    Mrs Page left the room hastily, and the baronet glared warningly, first at Dyson and then at Gently. By the latter he was met with a far-away smile, and the Central Office man’s lips formed a word which only Sir Daynes could hear: ‘ Touché! ’
    ‘What are we waiting for?’ bawled Sir Daynes. ‘Fetch in that feller Johnson, and let’s see if we can’t get a grip on this business!’ 

CHAPTER SIX
    T HE LIGHTS HAD been on all the afternoon; the atmosphere, grown mild and expansive, was pleasantly tinctured with the smoke of cigars. Before they had drawn the curtains patterns had appeared on the single panes, and the brightness of the fire corroborated this wintry phenomenon.
    ‘Damned pond’ll get frozen,’ muttered Sir Daynes to Gently, forgetting his antagonism as he remembered their common addiction. ‘Don’t suppose you skate, do you? I can fix you up with a pair. Gwen likes to have her twiddle on the ice, but I’m not much of a skating man myself.’
    ‘We can fish through a hole, perhaps …’
    ‘Ha, ha, not on this pond, m’boy. When the ice gets set it’s sacred to Gwen. Woman would never forgive me if I started knocking holes in it.’
    ‘You can fish more often than you can skate, I suppose.’
    ‘That’s the argument I’ve had used against me for the past thirty years.’
    ‘There’s more frost on the way, sir,’ put in Dyson through his teeth. ‘I heard the one o’clock news, sir. There’s a cold airstream moving in from Siberia.’
    ‘Blasted Russians again … stoke up that fire! D’you reckon the Cold War’s a plot to make us use up our coal reserves?’
    The fire was built up to its teeth by the time Johnson arrived. The Welshman gave it an appreciative glance, as though the rigours of a trip through the state apartments had immediately preceded his entry. He was a man of medium height, and his build was that of a boxer. He had broad, slightly rounded shoulders tapering quickly to narrow hips, his arms were long in proportion to his height, and his hands were bony and hard-looking. His head, of which the skull belonged to the long, narrow variety, sat closely on his shoulders; his hair was dark, his eyes darker, and there was a livid blue tattoo-mark on his weathered-looking forehead.
    ‘Hugh Llewellyn Johnson, thirty-eight, and my family lives at Merthyr.’
    ‘You are a tapestry-weaver, Mr Johnson?’
    ‘Aye, that I am, though I was ten years in the mines.’
    ‘That’s where you got that birthmark, eh?’ interpolated Sir Daynes, with suspicious casualness.
    ‘Oh yes, I did – you can always tell a miner. I got that one in Gwrw Pit in 1940.’
    ‘Hit on the head, eh?’
    ‘Man, I was bloody well buried – did you never hear of the Gwrw? Two days we were down there, andnever heard a sound.