Gently Instrumental Read Online Free

driving in.’
    ‘When was it built?’
    Leyston looked vague. ‘Don’t reckon it’s a new place, sir. But it’s a three-star. All the important music people stay there.’
    They turned into Saxton Road. Here at last the Victorian clef faltered. After passing a large but insipid flint church one began to see cheerful Edwardian houses. They peered from behind beeches and parched lawns and drives that led to multiple garages. Saxton Road, Shinglebourne’s link with England, was also the preserve of its affluent. Higher up still the houses were modern; they ended at the golf course and the open heath.
    ‘On your left, sir.’
    Where the houses stopped a lane turned down between hawthorn hedges. It was surfaced with gravel, and within a hundred yards reached a wide, low gate. Behind the gate stood a thatched cottage, partly concealed by thick shrubberies; because it lay lower than the road, one could glimpse the heath lying all around it.
    ‘Gorse Cottage . . . ?’
    ‘That’s it, sir.’
    Gently drove down and parked by the gate. The cottage was large; it had gable-fronted wings and dormer windows tucked under its thatch. The walls were faced with white plaster and the thatch was reed, crisp and new. Before the cottage a weedless sweep encircled a trim bed of roses.
    ‘Hozeley can’t be poor,’ Gently murmured.
    ‘He’s all right, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘Old Mrs Suffling used to own this place. She was his aunt, she left it to him.’
    ‘No question about the way she went?’
    ‘Well . . . no, sir!’ Leyston looked alarmed.
    Gently shrugged; he got out of the car. ‘Now . . . let’s see the spot where you found him.’
    Leyston stood by the varnished gate and traced an outline with his foot. Virtue had fallen just short of the gateway, with his head pointing towards the right-hand post. A little blood which had oozed from the head had later been tidied away, and the embedded gravel had taken no marks. Of the tragedy, nothing remained.
    ‘What about the flint?’
    ‘It was holding the gate, sir. Hozeley left the gate open when he drove out.’
    Leyston demonstrated how the gate, when opened, would swing slowly shut unless stopped. And of course it had been dark, or nearly so, when the attack had taken place: the assailant must have known of the flint’s being there, and Hozeley knew: QED.
    ‘Still only presumption, Gently said.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘It was Hozeley who put the flint there only a couple of hours earlier. So he chases back here, catches Virtue, and Virtue provokes him to violence. Then he drops his hand on the flint. I reckon that’s as near as we’ll get to it, sir.’
    They were interrupted. From an open window came a frantic outburst of piano-playing, a demented hammering. Someone was batting out the Dead March from
Saul
.
    Leyston rang; the playing stopped. Firm footsteps approached the door. It was opened by a white-haired matron who glared at Leyston, and then retired. Leyston looked hot.
    ‘Mrs Butley,’ he muttered. ‘I reckon she went with the cottage, sir.’
    ‘Does she live in?’
    ‘No, sir. She’s got a little place by the vicarage.’
    The lady returned. She led them down the hall and threw open a heavy panelled door. It admitted them to a large room that spanned the entire width of the ground floor. Its ceiling was low and beamed and its windows set deep in massive walls; at the far end a man was sitting at a walnut-cased Steinway grand.
    ‘The policemen, sir,’ Mrs Butley said bleakly.
    Walter Hozeley rose from the grand. He was a large, deep-shouldered man with a head of untidy, grey hair. He had heavy, brooding features and a big, coppery nose, feathery brows, a mouth that drooped and absent, pale blue eyes. He hesitated, then gestured.
    ‘Thank you, Butty. You may go.’
    The voice was clipped and neutral. It seemed to come from a long way off. Leyston stepped forward.
    ‘Chief Superintendent Gently, sir. He’s in charge of the