essay.
‘Excepting that one they’re from memory.’
There were fourteen drawings, of a single subject.
‘As you see, when it comes to paint …’
A canvas, depicting Rachel wearing only the lower half of a bikini.
‘But don’t think for a moment.’
‘How long did it take you?’
‘Take me?’
‘To paint this. It wasn’t done from memory!’
Gently planted the canvas carefully on the forks of the baulk of driftwood. Simmonds wasn’t making a mistake when he supposed he was best at paint. Colour was clearly his forte ; he could make it burn and scintillate. There were overtones of Gauguin in this Rachel among the marrams.
It’s done from life, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘It is! And not at one sitting – or lying, to be precise.’
‘Suppose I were to say …’
‘Just stick to the truth.’
‘All right then, if you insist. I suppose I’ve got to tell you.’
But now he was shaking, for all his assumed composure. His coolness was too unnatural and he was appearing to notice it. Strangest of all, he had become apologetic, he seemed to want to please Gently, and as he talked he kept throwing the detective little ingratiating glances.
‘It was she who suggested it, that first time we met. I did the first sketch I showed you, and she wanted me to do an oil. So then we arranged it. She came whenever she could. We went a good way up the marrams, of course, so that people wouldn’t see her.’
‘And naturally, you made love?’
‘No! That’s just what you mustn’t think. Never once was there anything like that, even though she took her top off.’
‘You simply got on with your painting.’
‘Yes, that was the idea.’
Gently gazed at the eloquent canvas. Was it within the bounds of credibility? Had the little fool sat there, staring, painting, and never once gone over to try his luck with her? It wasn’t a sisterly pose, that one of Rachel’s. It could hardly have been made more provocative had she tried. One leg was crooked voluptuously, one lying straight, her breasts pouting skywards, her black hair sweeping the sand. And almost sliding from her hips the bare apology for a garment.
‘How many times altogether?’
‘Six, including the first.’
‘Then why did you tell Inspector Dyson two?’
‘She was murdered, wasn’t she? I didn’t want to get involved.’
Simmonds shivered, even as he tried to give one of his winsome looks. His hazel eyes followed Gently with spaniel-like eagerness.
‘On what days did you meet her?’
‘The first time was Monday … that was last week. Then again on Wednesday and Thursday, Saturday, Monday …’
‘And Tuesday – go on.’
Simmonds winced as though Gently had struck him.
‘I know – I was going to say it! But it was only in the afternoon.’
‘What time do you say she left you?’
‘At – at half past four, I think.’
‘The painting was finished. Why didn’t you give it to her?’
‘It wasn’t dry, and I wanted to touch it up.’
‘And the rest of the day?’
‘It’s in my statement.’
‘You mooned around the beach and went to bed sharp at eleven.’
Simmonds still struggled for a smile but the result was wry and tremulous. He wanted to please so much … if only Gently would let him! There was nothing, his eyes seemed to say, which couldn’t be explained and understood.
‘Didn’t you ever want to be her lover?’
Gently was turning over the various sketches. A fewof them had the madonna-like look but none of them the fiery passion of the photograph.
‘No it wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like, then? You tell me.’
‘She was simply a model.’
‘Lay off it! I know better.’
‘Well of course, if you mean …’
‘Five days you were watching her. Five days she was lying there, naked, waiting. And you want me to believe …’
‘It’s true. You’ve got to!’
‘But you wanted to, didn’t you? It’s only human nature. There were times when it was hard to keep your
‘Excepting that one they’re from memory.’
There were fourteen drawings, of a single subject.
‘As you see, when it comes to paint …’
A canvas, depicting Rachel wearing only the lower half of a bikini.
‘But don’t think for a moment.’
‘How long did it take you?’
‘Take me?’
‘To paint this. It wasn’t done from memory!’
Gently planted the canvas carefully on the forks of the baulk of driftwood. Simmonds wasn’t making a mistake when he supposed he was best at paint. Colour was clearly his forte ; he could make it burn and scintillate. There were overtones of Gauguin in this Rachel among the marrams.
It’s done from life, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘It is! And not at one sitting – or lying, to be precise.’
‘Suppose I were to say …’
‘Just stick to the truth.’
‘All right then, if you insist. I suppose I’ve got to tell you.’
But now he was shaking, for all his assumed composure. His coolness was too unnatural and he was appearing to notice it. Strangest of all, he had become apologetic, he seemed to want to please Gently, and as he talked he kept throwing the detective little ingratiating glances.
‘It was she who suggested it, that first time we met. I did the first sketch I showed you, and she wanted me to do an oil. So then we arranged it. She came whenever she could. We went a good way up the marrams, of course, so that people wouldn’t see her.’
‘And naturally, you made love?’
‘No! That’s just what you mustn’t think. Never once was there anything like that, even though she took her top off.’
‘You simply got on with your painting.’
‘Yes, that was the idea.’
Gently gazed at the eloquent canvas. Was it within the bounds of credibility? Had the little fool sat there, staring, painting, and never once gone over to try his luck with her? It wasn’t a sisterly pose, that one of Rachel’s. It could hardly have been made more provocative had she tried. One leg was crooked voluptuously, one lying straight, her breasts pouting skywards, her black hair sweeping the sand. And almost sliding from her hips the bare apology for a garment.
‘How many times altogether?’
‘Six, including the first.’
‘Then why did you tell Inspector Dyson two?’
‘She was murdered, wasn’t she? I didn’t want to get involved.’
Simmonds shivered, even as he tried to give one of his winsome looks. His hazel eyes followed Gently with spaniel-like eagerness.
‘On what days did you meet her?’
‘The first time was Monday … that was last week. Then again on Wednesday and Thursday, Saturday, Monday …’
‘And Tuesday – go on.’
Simmonds winced as though Gently had struck him.
‘I know – I was going to say it! But it was only in the afternoon.’
‘What time do you say she left you?’
‘At – at half past four, I think.’
‘The painting was finished. Why didn’t you give it to her?’
‘It wasn’t dry, and I wanted to touch it up.’
‘And the rest of the day?’
‘It’s in my statement.’
‘You mooned around the beach and went to bed sharp at eleven.’
Simmonds still struggled for a smile but the result was wry and tremulous. He wanted to please so much … if only Gently would let him! There was nothing, his eyes seemed to say, which couldn’t be explained and understood.
‘Didn’t you ever want to be her lover?’
Gently was turning over the various sketches. A fewof them had the madonna-like look but none of them the fiery passion of the photograph.
‘No it wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like, then? You tell me.’
‘She was simply a model.’
‘Lay off it! I know better.’
‘Well of course, if you mean …’
‘Five days you were watching her. Five days she was lying there, naked, waiting. And you want me to believe …’
‘It’s true. You’ve got to!’
‘But you wanted to, didn’t you? It’s only human nature. There were times when it was hard to keep your
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