Gently at a Gallop Read Online Free PDF Page A

Rising can help us, sir,’ Docking said meaningfully. ‘By the time we get to Clayfield he should be back.’
    ‘Only,’ Gently said, ‘we’re not going to Clayfield. I want to talk to the widow.’
    Docking said nothing.
    High Hale was a dullish, huddling village that crowded too close to the crooked coast road. It ignored the sea: the land sloped up between, and nesting trees made a further barrier. What the houses of brick or flint pebbles looked out on was the stark reef of the lofted heath. Across the fields, above foot-slope trees, it spread darkly along the sky.
    Berney’s house, the Lodge, stood behind and above the village. A discreet Victorian residence, in greyed yellow brick, it was reached by a drive flanked with rhododendrons. A green Vitesse was parked at the door. Gently coasted the Lotus in behind it. As he and Docking got out, the door above opened and a girl dressed in slacks came down the steps.
    ‘The police – again?’
    She paused on the last step, her grey eyes taking them in boldly. She was twenty-one or -two, tallish, slender, with golden-blonde hair sweeping her shoulders. Her fine features were strikingly regular but they were pale and blurred under the eyes. She wore a loose open-necked shirt with the slacks. Her stomach was swollen and fruit-like.
    ‘Mrs Berney,’ Docking murmured.
    Mrs Berney flicked her long hair. ‘So what is this?’ she said. ‘Have you made an arrest – or am I in for another session of insinuation?’
    ‘This is Chief Superintendent Gently,’ Docking said hastily.
    ‘Which means nothing to me,’ Mrs Berney said.
    ‘He’s from London, ma’am. He’s taking charge of the case.’
    Mrs Berney eyed Gently. ‘Wonderful,’ she said.
    Gently smiled and came forward. Mrs Berney kept eyeing him. Her expression was insolent, but her glance was keen. She gave another toss to her swirling hair, making the motion into an insult.
    ‘Of course, I have heard of you,’ she said.
    ‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘And I’d heard of your brother.’
    ‘Lachlan.’ Her eyes held Gently’s defiantly. ‘He’s great. A great poet. Truly great.’
    ‘I’m hoping to meet him,’ Gently said.
    ‘He’s the greatest poet writing today.’
    ‘I don’t know of a greater,’ Gently said truthfully. ‘I trust this business hasn’t affected his work.’
    She gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘I have to talk to you. That’s routine.’
    She nodded. ‘Of course. However inconvenient.’
    ‘Is it inconvenient?’
    ‘Oh, come in,’ she said.

    She led them into the house.
    They passed through a broad staircase hall, carpeted and hung with framed maps, into a well-proportioned lounge lit by attractive bow windows. The effect was expensive. The floor was covered with an Indian carpet in pale, washed colours. The furniture, every piece matched, was meticulous Hepplewhite reproduction. The book-shelves were filled with polished bindings, a Tompion-style bracket clock stood on the mantelshelf, and the principal picture, in a heavily carved frame, was a lush landscape by Edward Seago.
    ‘Sit if you want to.’
    Mrs Berney rang a bell, then settled herself lightly on the sofa. Lithe, easy-moving in spite of her condition, she was much too young for that room.
    ‘This will be your husband’s taste . . .?’
    She tipped her head. ‘He probably furnished for his number one. Charlie was only a brewer, remember – draggy rooms made him feel comfortable.’
    ‘You didn’t mind?’
    ‘It was Charlie’s way. If I didn’t like it I needn’t have married him.’
    ‘You loved him enough so it didn’t matter.’
    She swished her hair. ‘Please. Stick to routine.’
    A puffy-faced countrywoman answered the bell. Mrs Berney ordered iced beers. The woman glanced frowningly at the two policemen and gave a slight shrug as she went out. Docking, who’d stared at her, echoed the shrug, then wandered away to gaze through a window.
    Gently seated himself in a