Gently with Passion

Book 0: George Gently

by Alan Hunter

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Willows, waterlilies, gliding sailboats . . . the Norfolk Broads in summer seem the perfect place for novelist Stella Rushton to recover her equilibrium after being agonisingly and humiliatingly jilted. An aquaintance, the elegant, musical-comedy writer Simon, who has a house full of visiting theatre folk, lends Stella his riverside cottage and a boat; but it is Keith, one of Simon's house-guests, who best restores Stella's shattered pride. Keith, young, vulnerable and awkward, falls instantly in love with Stella, watching her with tongue-tied yearnings as their boat skims up the sunlit Broad, and swimming alone down the dark waters to catch a glimpse of her at midnight. Stella remains cool and amused, but Keith's uncontrollable passion is a balm to her wounded heart. Her detachment, however, is brought to an appaling end when a tragedy occurs on the Broad. It is compounded by the realisation soon afterwards that what happened was not a accident. As Stella, horrified, comes reluctantly to suspect the one person she likes, she has no one to turn to for advice but the big, quiet, pipe smoking man who sits fishing on a houseboat moored nearby. Chief Superintendent George Gently, though on holiday and incognito, finds once again that crime seeks him out . . .

Release date: June 30, 2016

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘THIS IS KEITH, my dear. He’s my nephew from Cambridge. I believe he is studying physics when he isn’t writing verse. Unless you like sonnets to your eyebrow, you would do well not to encourage him.’

Stella came out of the reverie she had fallen into over her sherry and, shaping her lips into a smile, gave the young man her hand. She didn’t particularly notice him since she had given up paying attention to men. But she managed the smile, and a complimentary flick of her eyelashes.

‘He’s my brother Iain’s son. Notice the undistinguished chin.’

‘Yes. Like yours.’

‘It’s the stamp of the Lea-Stephens.’

The young man flushed and scuffed one of his sandals against the other. Then he said, blurting it out:

‘I’ve read your last book, Miss Rushton.’

‘It was probably my worst.’

‘Oh no, I didn’t think so.’

Simon laughed. He punched his tall nephew on the shoulder. ‘You’ll learn, my son, that a writer’s last book is always his worst. But now you’d better run along – we’re having supper in ten minutes. You look as though you had just come back from a safari.’

The approach of supper was confirmed by a rattle of cutlery in the next room and Ruby, Simon’s maid, had just been in to receive instructions. Casually, without real intention, Stella had watched Simon talking to her, at the same time thinking how irreproachably he filled the role of a successful man. He had confidence and poise and just the right manner for everyone. His voice, clear and resonant, barely hinted at a costly schooling. Though he was short his figure was neat and he had unfairly photogenic features: smiling grey eyes under straight, dark brows, a straight nose and a handsome forehead. He was the illustrated weeklies’ idea of a best-selling writer and had often been photographed in this very room in his ‘idyllic Broadland retreat’. As he came back to her now he made his smile personal, for Stella.

‘I shouldn’t ask you, I know, but are you working on something new?’

‘Yes. A new novel.’

‘I wondered if you’d taken the cottage for a rest.’

‘I have in a way.’

‘But work is the best antidote?’

She shrugged feebly, keeping her eyes fixed on her glass. He knew, the world knew, why she was burying herself down here.

‘I’d sooner not talk about it.’

‘I’m damned clumsy, I know. But I thought I would like to say a word before the others came in. I hate to think of you alone there.’

‘It’s what I want more than anything.’

‘I know you do, Stella dear. But is that entirely wise?’

Staring at the glass, she was very much afraid that she was going to burst into tears; she saw it grow larger and mistier and its outlines become confused. It was perhaps her resentment that saved her; she resented his tone of superior wisdom. He wanted to be kind, she appreciated that, but how could he begin to understand her situation?

‘I really would rather not talk about it.’

‘Forgive me, my dear. I felt I had to bring it up.’

‘It’s – it’s too personal a matter.’

‘Yes, I see it is, now. I really am the biggest fool, you know. I think I can rush in anywhere and sort out things for whoever.’

He turned away abruptly and went across to the cabinet to pour himself another drink. From the direction of the French windows, down the terrace and across the lawn, came the sound of an outboard motor kicking itself to a halt. Simon’s guests had arrived back from an evening spin on the Broad.

‘You seem so solitary, my dear . . . one feels obliged to do what one can.’ Simon returned to her slowly, his grey eyes lowered earnestly.

‘It’s kind of you, Simon. But the cottage is all I want.’

‘At the same time—’ he touched glasses with her – ‘do remember that we’re here. You needn’t starve yourself of company with Lazy Waters around the corner. You’ll soon get to know the folks, and Keith – you’ve met him already. So treat us like friends. Drop in whenever you have the mind.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’

She could feel herself on the point of tears again, but voices were approaching, and, biting her lip, she stood up. Simon gently squeezed her hand and gave her a look of encouragement. Then the French windows swung open and the others came in.

IT WAS BARELY a month since Stella Rushton’s world had tumbled about her ears, and only a fortnight since she had first become acquainted with Simon. She had met him before – their paths had crossed at a publisher’s reception – but then she had paid him little attention, and certainly he had paid her none. The occasion had been the launch of his current book. She had formed part of the toasting, admiring fringe. They had shaken hands, and smiled, and then he had promptly forgotten her; and she, just then living in a blissful paradise, had been content to be forgotten. The reception had been in January. Now it was the beginning of July. During that interval Simon’s book had made a fortune, while Stella had wanted to give up living.

Yet it had been such a commonplace affair, the sort that happens every day of the year; for there is always a foolish woman somewhere ready to throw her heart at a man. This man’s name was Justin Hamilton and unfortunately he was very well-known. He was an ex-yachtsman who had broken numerous records for sailing round the world single-handed. But he was also well-known because of his dead wife, the French helmswoman Françoise Durand, whom he had rescued in a daring exploit when she had been wrecked in the Coral Sea. There had been a quick, romantic wedding when the two of them had landed at Rockhampton, Queensland; but a year later Françoise had vanished while competing in the Fastnet race. And to Stella, a youngish novelist neither well-known nor much regarded, had fallen the job of writing the history of this interesting business.

She had been put on to it by her publisher, who was a relative of Hamilton’s, and though the task didn’t greatly appeal to her she couldn’t afford to turn it down. She had driven out to Godalming, where Hamilton now lived. She had been easily persuaded to stay at his house with his smart but friendly sister. By profession Hamilton was a marine underwriter; he had a wide circle of friends, and into this circle Stella had slipped with a readiness that surprised her. And she had fallen in love with Justin, it was as simple, as natural as that. She was thirty-two, but it seemed like the first time it had ever happened to her.

He was a man to fall in love with. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. He had questing blue eyes and an injured mouth and reddish-brown hair that curled crisply. He played golf and was the local tennis tiger and drove his pale green Mer-cedes with flair; at the office he wore beautifully tailored suits, but at home shaggy tweeds that smelled of tobacco. In addition, he was regarded by all his friends as a confirmed widower. His heart, yielded to the lost Françoise, had never been touched by another woman. He was gay to cover his sorrow and he jested to hide a tear; he was gallant, and romantic, and entirely irresistible.

And thus it was not very remarkable that Stella should fall in love with him, since during the writing of the book she had every opportunity. In his well-appointed study or under the cedar on his lawn they enjoyed a succession of tête-à-têtes as he related his experiences. He had a strangely caressing voice which she could listen to for hours. He answered, with never-failing patience, the questions she thought up to put to him. He taught her golf, admired her writing, and let her drive him in the Mercedes, and was her squire rather than his sister’s when they went to visit friends. No, the truly remarkable thing – it seemed a miracle to Stella – was that Justin, without any urging, was apparently falling in love with her. She didn’t rate her chances so high for she knew that her looks were not sensational, and there were prettier women of his acquaintance who must have baited their hooks for years.

But it happened. One day, in the autumn, when they had gone for a stroll in the beechwoods, he took her suddenly, clumsily in his arms and gave her a long, searching kiss. The strength had gone right out of her body; she had lain inert in the cradle of his arms. Drawing his head back and gazing down at her, he’d said:

‘Little fool! You knew I wanted that.’

Later, with reckless greediness, she had told over each memory of those seconds, making certain that one by one they were impressed on her heart. She had recalled the exact scent of the falling damp leaves, the feel of the moss under her feet, the whimpering of Jock, his retriever. They had walked back out of the wood with their arms around each other, her face pressed against the warm tweed of his jacket; they had lingered at the gates watching the red westering sun, the smoke rising from cottage chimneys, the bands of frosty mist. It had all seemed new and incommunicably beautiful. She had wanted to cry because she had never before known such beauty.

She had been impossibly happy. She had scarcely noticed what happened round her. She went on working at the book but hardly knew what she was setting down. She never questioned the future, never gave or extracted a promise, never thought to be jealous or to make any claim on him. Indeed she had lived a dream, a dream she had thought without end; she loved and was beloved and asked no more from life than that. She welcomed each new day because it added to her happiness.

In the spring the book was finished and she knew the first moments of unease. Of course, until they were married she couldn’t continue living at Beechings. For one thing, Justin’s sister was going abroad after Easter, and Justin had explained to her that, for professional reasons, he needed to be tender of his reputation. It was a wrench all the same to return to the neglected flat in Kensington. She made some half-hearted enquiries about accomodation in Godalming. Justin drove her up to town and they arranged to meet again two days later, but when the door closed behind him she couldn’t help a flood of tears.

They met, they met again; nothing apparently had changed; in Justin’s arms she buried the memories of the empty days without him. She introduced him to her friends and he seemed always charmed to meet them, he took her out to fashionable restaurants, the latest shows, the in-trend nightclubs. Her book, which had brought them together, continued to exert its benevolent influence; unlike her novels it seemed to be worth a great deal of expensive pre-publicity. There were receptions held in aid of it, she and Justin gave interviews. Pictures of them, usually together, were appearing frequently in the press. Their names were linked by gossip columnists. He didn’t appear to resent this. Her friends made knowing remarks about them and these he accepted with a smile. In fact, except for those aching absences she was even happier than before, and the spring, an agreeably fine one, flew by on perfumed wings.

At the end of May Justin was obliged to attend some conference in Bermuda and she had known for some time in advance that she must lose him for a fortnight. She tried to be firm with herself about this – not to let him go for a fortnight was ridiculous! – but as the date of his departure drew near she became nervous and depressed. In the end she suggested she should go with him.

‘I wouldn’t be in the way, darling. I promise I wouldn’t.’

His watchful blue eyes studied her face for a moment and then he replied:

‘I’m sorry, darling, but we must draw a line at that.’

‘But Justin, why? I could take a later flight.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t try to understand these things. Besides, you’d be awfully bored. My time is all taken up. I’ve got to attend every session of this cursed conference, and in my spare time I’ll have to write my reports.’

‘But I’d see you every day—’

‘Only at mealtimes, I’m afraid, and then it wouldn’t be wise for you to stay at my hotel.’

She could understand his point but she couldn’t help feeling hurt. It would have been more complimentary if for once he had sunk his caution. On the other hand, she secretly adored the manly firmness of his decision, and she resigned herself to staying in London because that was what Justin wanted of her. She saw him off at Heathrow. He looked uncompromisingly English. He wore a bowler and a black suit and a perfectly knotted RYS tie. He carried copies of The Times and The Illustrated London News, and just through the barrier he turned and touched his hat before disappearing. She took a taxi back to Kensington and settled down to weep.

Three days later, in the Telegraph, her eye fell on an announcement of his engagement. He was to marry the daughter of the chairman of a shipping line whose home was in Bermuda.

IN THE FLAT below hers lived a business girl, Jenny Williams, and if it hadn’t been for Jenny, Stella didn’t know what she would have done. On reading the announcement she had stupidly fainted and fallen heavily on the floor; it was Saturday, Jenny was at home, and the sound of the fall had brought her upstairs. When Stella came round she was lying on her settee. Jenny was sitting on a chair by her, swabbing her forehead with eau-de-Cologne. She had made a pot of tea of a strength that was truly formidable, and the Telegraph had disappeared, though there were some ashes in Stella’s hearth.

‘Now drink this, my dear – drink it quick, you understand?’

Jenny was Welsh and her soft voice was at once kindly and authoritative. She was the daughter, Stella knew, of a Nonconformist preacher, and she worked as a secretary in one of the publishing houses. Though they had been neighbours for several months Stella had never found her very approachable. Now Jenny sat stiffly, with a solemn face, while Stella sipped the mahogany tea.

‘You gave me a fright, you did, my dear. You’ve been out cold for half an hour. I was going to call in the doctor, but then I saw you flutter your eyelids.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, never mind that. Just drink your tea, and I’ll pour you another.’

‘I’ve just had . . . a shock.’

‘Well, drink your tea. You can talk about it after.’

Stella didn’t want to talk about it. She dared scarcely even to think. She felt that when she faced it again she would be driven out of her mind. She wanted to lie in a dull stupor, her mind contracted into the space of the room; she wanted to fall into a sleep from which there would never be any waking. And sleep she did, because Jenny had slipped a sleeping-tablet into her cup. When she woke it was six o’clock and the table was being set for a meal.

That night the Welsh girl slept on Stella’s settee and in the morning she fetched one or two of her things into the flat. She tended Stella like a child who was made fractious by some complaint, and unless she was sleeping, refused to let her alone for a moment. She talked brightly and persistently. Stella’s only escape was into tears. Jenny’s remedy for these was an immediate cup of tea, which was ruthlessly effective: one couldn’t cry while drinking tea.

‘You’re cruel – cruel to me!’

‘Now, my dear, you mustn’t take on.’

‘You don’t understand. I’d rather die.’

‘You wouldn’t, my dear. You’re not quite yourself.’

‘At least, if I died—’

‘I think I’ll make a pot of tea.’

She slept that night quite exhausted, too tired even to cry. She hated Jenny with a fierce intensity though she knew that the Welsh girl was being a trump. She wanted to be alone with her grief, to give it its head, to let it crush her; and Jenny, with her damnable Welsh obstinacy, was steadily denying her this luxury. And what right had she to come between Stella and her tragedy? Her last emotion before she went to sleep was her indignation with Jenny.

It took two days for the first numbing shock to pass, and during that time she was certain that she wanted to die. She could see no hope at all. Beyond that point there was only darkness. She would soon be thirty-three. She had nobody – except Jenny – to turn to. He had treated her inhumanly, treacherously, barbarously, an. . .