Gently with the Ladies by Alan Hunter Page A

Fazakerly. She was blonde, but of a darker colouring, she was not so tall or robust; the quality of the face was simply missing: in Brenda Merryn it was tired sophistication. She had rather the gaunt, shadowful features of contemporary magazine trend. Even her manner of speaking was weary, as though arising from a deep fatigue.
    ‘First, you will kindly understand we are speaking of my half-sister. That’s as close a relationship as most people would want to admit to.’
    ‘You are a little the elder, naturally.’
    ‘Don’t bother to guess. I’m thirty-nine. Clytie was thirty-six in June. She didn’t look it, I probably do.’
    ‘You weren’t very intimate, I take it.’
    ‘Not very intimate, no. That doesn’t mean to say I steamed with righteousness and cut her dead in the street. After all, I was her only relative, not counting Daddy; and he doesn’t count. I’d give her the time of day when I saw her, and pay her a visit once in so often.’
    ‘When was the last time you visited her?’
    Brenda Merryn paused to chew.
    ‘Recently,’ she said. ‘One day last week. On the Friday, I imagine.’
    ‘Was her husband there?’
    ‘No, he’d gone. Down to Rochester, to his woman.’
    ‘His woman?’
    ‘You know about her, don’t you? Sarah someone. His latest woman.’
    Gently nodded. ‘But how did you know about her?’
    ‘Oh, there’s no mystery about Siggy’s women. I had a chat with him last time I was there. The poor fool is really sent by this one.’
    ‘And Mrs Fazakerly would know too?’
    Brenda Merryn paused over her tea-cup. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I should think it likely. Siggy wouldn’t bother to cover much. You must understand there was nothing between them, they hadn’t slept together for a century. Clytie was carrying on with La Bannister, and Siggy was free to do what he liked. I don’t suppose he actually discussed his amours with her, but there was no point in him being secretive.’
    ‘They wouldn’t have quarrelled over such a thing.’
    ‘On the surface, it seems unlikely.’
    ‘Seems?’
    ‘Well . . . Clytie had a bitch of a temper. If she was in the mood she might have picked on it.’
    ‘In other words, if she wanted to hurt her husband, she could have picked on this as an instrument?’
    ‘Yes, that’s possible. It’d be like Clytie. But his having a woman would be nothing to do with it.’
    ‘So what would have something to do with it?’
    Brenda Merryn slanted a shoulder. I’ve told you I wasn’t intimate with them,’ she said. ‘You’d better ask elsewhere. You could try La Bannister.’
    ‘You had no hint of it on your last visit?’
    ‘No. It was all talk about fashion.’
    ‘Mrs Fazakerly was her usual self?’
    ‘Oh, quite. Queen Clytie.’
    She poured herself a second cup, then buttered some crisp-bread and spread it with honey. She had a little colour on either cheek-bone and she avoided Gently’s eye as she ate. The embroidered dressing-gown was parted hospitably, but to this she paid no attention; or it may have been a deliberate gesture to show she was still a force, though thirty-nine. Her tawny hair, neatly arranged, had the brushed sheen of devoted attention.
    ‘You don’t think highly of Mrs Bannister.’
    Brenda Merryn bit off crisp-bread. ‘She made Clytie worse than she was,’ she said. ‘She’s full of clap-trap about Lesbianism.’
    ‘You’d say she influenced Mrs Fazakerly that way.’
    ‘Of course. Not that Clytie wanted pushing. But La Bannister stuffed her head with nonsense and made a fool of her in general. Then she made trouble with Clytie’s friends. She wanted Clytie on her own. And Clytie was too besotted with her to raise a finger in protest.’
    ‘Who were these friends?’
    Brenda Merryn munched. ‘I’m not so certain I remember. This was all several years ago, when Clytie moved in at Carlyle Court.’
    ‘People with money?’
    ‘Oh, I daresay. But that wasn’t the first qualification.’
    ‘Lesbian