Gently at a Gallop by Alan Hunter Page A

waitresses as they hastened between the tables and the swing doors to the kitchen. The manager was on the look-out for Gently. He was a plump, jowled man with a toper’s complexion. He ushered Gently ostentatiously to his table and hung about while the waitress took the order.
    ‘Was your room satisfactory . . . everything all right?’
    He seemed to be angling for a chance to talk. At last he retired to a small table by the wall, where sat a smartly dressed woman, doubtless his wife.
    The music played, and Gently ate, but the manager’s officiousness had done its job. Eyes were perpetually turning to him from other tables; voices were lowered, there were nervous laughs.
    The manager also kept staring uneasily, sometimes with his fork half-way to his mouth. His wife, on the other hand, paid no attention, either to Gently or the manager. She was sharply good-looking, perhaps part-Jewish, and ate her food with an air.
    ‘Fruit salad or trifle, sir?’
    ‘I’ll have the fruit salad.’
    On another table, two couples were eyeing him silently. One of the men was flush-faced and severe-looking. The other had horsey features and a pronounced Adam’s apple.
    ‘Cream, sir?’
    Gently nodded. ‘You have a full house tonight,’ he said.
    The waitress flashed him a smile. ‘It’s a Friday night, sir. We always get them in at the weekend.’
    ‘Who are those people by the window?’
    ‘That’s our town clerk, sir, the serious one. Mr Wade. And Mr Drury, he’s the auctioneer and estate agent.’
    ‘With their wives?’
    ‘Yes – of course, sir!’ The waitress sounded quite indignant.
    Gently smiled to himself. Not much doubt about what was in the minds of Messrs Wade and Drury! However delicate Docking’s probing had been, they must have had an idea of which way the wind blew. And now they sat vulnerable, under Gently’s eye, each with his frail vessel beside him: on pins in case he should saunter across and begin again where Docking left off . . .
    Covertly, Gently studied the two women, a trendy-looking blonde and a fulsome brunette. The latter had her back to him, but when she leaned forward she revealed shapely hips and a weight of bosom. The blonde was taller, firmer, twiggier, and wore her hair in an elaborate set. She caught Gently’s eye, and her eyes went large; then Wade snapped something and she looked away sulkily.
    A handful there!
    But would Berney have been the first one? Somehow, you got the impression that Wade had learned to live with it.
    Drury, by contrast, looked a man who might bear a grudge; a tall, stringy fellow with a long, hectoring face. Also, Drury was a horseman and a patron of the Rising stable . . . but he had a foolproof alibi, Gently recalled: Tuesday was sale-day at Low Hale.
    No . . . on balance, he’d leave the Wades and Drurys to digest their dinner . . .
    ‘Where would you like your coffee, sir?’
    Gently hesitated. ‘Is there somewhere private?’
    ‘There’s the Little Lounge, sir. Not many people go in there.’
    ‘Bring it to me there, then.’
    He was tired of being the centre of attention! On the way out, he glanced at Mrs Drury. She had a pretty face, but foolish eyes.
    In the Little Lounge he disturbed a couple who’d been necking on the settee, but after a few quiet minutes they departed, leaving him sole possession. His coffee came. He settled down comfortably with a copy of the local evening paper. But then, almost immediately, there came a tap at the door, and the manager appeared, bearing a bottle of Cognac.
    ‘On the house, sir – for a distinguished guest.’
    The manager himself had clearly been drinking. His hands shook as he put down the salver and poured out Cognac in two glasses. He handed one to Gently with an exaggerated flourish, then raised the other, slopping some of it.
    ‘Your health, sir . . . if I may.’
    Gently grunted and lifted his glass. The manager gulped down his own in one, as though it were a small drop of a considerable ocean. He