The bar began to fill up. Masters told Green about his idea that the poison might have been a toxic fruit spray. Green seized on to this with enthusiasm. ‘It makes sense. If she had collywobbles last Friday and had started eating fruit again before the day was out, she might well have eaten more of the same crop and built up a good old dose that saw her off on Tuesday. Particularly if she didn’t peel her apples or wash them. Lots of people only ever rubbed them at one time. She sounds to me as if she’d be the sort of idle piece that wouldn’t have bothered overmuch.’
‘I’ve told the boys to look into it this afternoon while we’re busy at the funeral and trying to see the stepdaughters.’
‘How’ll they look into it?’
Masters signalled for more drinks. When they arrived, he said: ‘It occurred to me that as this place produces so much of its own garden produce, it may well grow its own fruit.’
‘Aye, aye. You mean that there may be a poisonous fruit spray lying about somewhere, some of which might have been used to doctor a bag of fruit ordered for Fay Partridge—accidentally on purpose like?’
‘That’s it.’ Masters thought Green looked much happier. Suspicion was moving away from the Meeths. That’s why Green had grasped at this straw so readily. It made Masters mistrust his own idea. Still, the possibility was there. If there proved to be anything in it there would remain the necessity to prove whether the fruit spray had contaminated the fruit in the normal course of events, or whether it had been added deliberately. Not an easy task. And besides this, Green and the sergeants appeared to have forgotten one important factor, which made Masters place little hope in his own idea. It was that poodle dogs don’t normally eat fruit—at any rate with skin left on—and yet two of them had died from the same apparent cause as their mistress.
Chapter Five
As Green had forecast, the funeral was a quiet one. The only mourners were Compton and Syme from the staff of Throscum House, Lorna Thoresby and her husband, Becky Honingham and her husband, a rather fat, well-fed man in a black jacket and pin-stripe trousers, Masters and Green, accompanied by Superintendent Mundy, who had slipped into their pew just before the vicar preceded the coffin down the aisle.
For Masters the whole affair proved a dichotomy of interest. Subconsciously he paid attention to the service. ‘I am the resurrection and the life . . . man that is born of woman . . . commit our sister, Fay Marion . . . earth to earth.’ Consciously he was scanning faces, as well as he could from his chosen position in a transept pew. Apart from the fat man’s clothes and the black ties of the men, there was no sign of mourning wear. The two women kept their faces decently lowered. The man Masters took to be Thoresby appeared unfamiliar with both the layout of a church and the service. He looked about him, much the same as a sightseer trapped against his will in a cathedral he is visiting by an inconveniently timed saying of Evensong. Masters watched him carefully. Cadaverous. Too tall for his width, balding, a bit smug, considerably older than his wife and—the thought came to Masters for no reason he could think of—looking as if he’d be a bore at parties. He certainly evinced no signs of distress.
Honingham appeared fully versed in church behaviour. He stood when he should, and knelt without the momentary hesitation that shows when a person is not a churchgoer. He was clearly younger than Thoresby, with a full head of fair hair and a healthy, weather-beaten complexion. Masters could make no surmises about him except that he looked to be an ordinary, pleasant man, affected slightly by the more emotive parts of the service.
Compton appeared to have an awareness of the solemnity of the occasion. He wore that shattered look men often assume at funerals. And though his grief appeared genuine it was quiet and controlled compared with that of Ernie Syme, who wore a white polo-necked shirt under a burgundy corduroy jacket. Syme gestured. When he went on his knees his hands fluttered to his brow. When he stood they looped down as gently as those of a ballerina doing her dying swan act. He gazed on the coffin mournfully. Masters saw he was carrying a bunch of violets—probably for dropping into the grave.
He was right. The violets went down with the remains of Fay Partridge. As they turned from the grave Green said: ‘No luck. No bosom pal who could have given her those pills.’
Mundy said—and Masters could have kicked him because of it—‘Mingling with the crowd in the hopes?’
‘Crowd?’ Green sounded scornful: as if to imply that he had been affronted by the simplicity of the ceremony: as if to indicate that if he’d been in charge of arrangements the entire staff of the Throscum undertakings would have been dragooned into filling the church or lining the churchyard path.
‘I suppose the fleshy chap is the solicitor?’ Masters asked.
‘That’s not him,’ Mundy replied. ‘Edwards of Waters and Edwards is their man.’
‘Then who was fatty?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’d like to know what his interest is.’
‘Meaning you’d like me to find out for you?’
‘If you could. He’ll be . . . no, dammit, isn’t that . . . yes, he’s just driving away.’
‘Never mind,’ Mundy said. ‘Fawn Jag. I didn’t get the number but he’s likely to be fairly local and, therefore, traceable without much bother.’
Green said: ‘I can’t think what you want to bother with him for. Probably just one of her regular clients before she married Partridge. Came out of a sense of duty to an old bunk mate.’
Mundy laughed. ‘Crude, but feasible.’
*
It was a quarter to four before the two stepdaughters and their husbands were ready to receive Masters and Green. Like the detectives, they were occupying one bungalow. The meeting took place in the sitting-room and when all seven were gathered—the solicitor, Edwards, was staying—the room was overcrowded. Not the sort of conditions under which Masters preferred to work, but he accepted them at this preliminary stage.
Masters said: ‘Mrs Thoresby, Mrs Honingham, I would like to say how sorry I am about both your stepmother’s death and the way it happened.’
Thoresby said: ‘Oh, spare us the claptrap. We didn’t like Fay for obvious reasons and this is just another job of work for you.’
Edwards, who was middle-aged, with a bald patch and greying side patches, and a good strong face, reacted immediately. ‘I would advise a little more caution and respect, Mr Thoresby.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘For two very good reasons. The first is that good manners cost nothing, the second is that though the Chief Inspector might be unwilling to admit it officially, I imagine he must consider the prime beneficiaries of this crime as the prime suspects. It usually happens that they are.’
‘Thank you, Mr Edwards,’ Masters said. ‘A true appreciation of the position will help us all a great deal.’
‘Do you mean to say you actually do suspect us of murdering Fay?’ Lorna Thoresby inquired.
‘That would be putting it a bit high, perhaps, at this moment. But I must consider you very carefully. None of us wants to make mistakes in a matter as serious as this.’
‘I should hope not.’
Thoresby said: ‘It’s bloody ridiculous. She died on Tuesday. I was in Hull all Tuesday and I can prove it.’
‘I know, Mr Thoresby. You were there from last Friday onwards.’
‘You’ve checked up?’
‘Immediately it was known Mrs Partridge was murdered.’
‘Then what’s all this about us being suspects?’
Green said: ‘There are more ways than one of killing a cat, even if it has got nine lives. Mrs Partridge was poisoned. You don’t have to be present at the time to poison anybody. Poison can be left, or posted, and can take various forms.’
‘I can see your point,’ Honingham said. ‘I might as well tell you now that I handle poisonous substances all the time.’
Becky said: ‘Ralph, you shouldn’t . . .’
‘They’ll find out, so I might as well tell them
.’
‘What substances, Mr Honingham?’
‘Scads of them. I’ve a crop-spraying business. Cover the whole of East Anglia with pesticides and insecticides. From the air and from the ground.’
Green said: ‘You’ve got an aeroplane?’
‘An old Auster with fitted tanks.’
To Green’s surprise, Masters left it at that and turned to Thoresby. ‘You, sir. What’s your business?’
‘I’m an importer—on Hull commercial docks.’
‘Do you import food?’
‘Mainly food from the Scandinavian and Baltic countries. Dairy produce mostly. But from other places, too.’
‘D’you ever bring in any fruit?’
‘Yes, I do. Why?’
To everybody’s surprise Masters got to his feet. He said: ‘I think we ought to leave it at that for the moment. I know you ladies will want tea after a trying day, and as I’d like to see each one of you separately, perhaps you could make yourselves available this evening.’
Thoresby said: ‘Now what the hell’s happened? And what do you want to talk to us separately about?’
Masters said: ‘You’d be surprised at the questions I ask, Mr Thoresby. Very often the people I talk to prefer to answer in private. I’m sure it’s better that way.’ He turned to Edwards. ‘Could I have a word or two with you, sir?’
‘Now?’
‘If you please.’
Edwards followed Masters outside. Green brought up the rear. Masters said, when they were out of earshot of the bungalow: ‘Mr Edwards, did you act for Mrs Partridge or for her stepdaughters when her late husband’s will was contested?’
‘For Mrs Partridge. We’ve had dealings on and off with Throscum business for many years. I believe Claud Partridge regarded us as his men of affairs, though why he never consulted us about drawing up the will is more than I can fathom. No. Thoresby got his own lawyer in Hull to act for the four of them.’
‘Forgive me asking this, Mr Edwards, but I noticed you weren’t at the funeral. If you were acting for Mrs Partridge, I’d have thought . . .’
‘I know. It’s usual for the family solicitor to be present, but I really couldn’t make it. My partner is on holiday, so I’ve got a full diary, and as there were no near relatives—proper ones, so to speak—for whom I could have done anything, I thought there was little need to attend.’
‘Fair enough. But now you are acting for the two stepdaughters?’
‘There has been no arrangement. I shall be administering the estate, of course, until everything is settled.’
‘But you felt the need to warn Thoresby.’
‘In view of his attitude towards you, yes. I’ve known the girls and been fond of them for years. I couldn’t sit by and let an ignorant lout like Thoresby make things more difficult for them, so I pitched in rather strongly. Here, I say, you don’t really think that they . . .’
Masters smiled. ‘A most improper question from an officer of the court, Mr Edwards.’
‘Yes. I suppose so. My apologies.’
‘Nevertheless, if you will keep a confidence . . .’
‘You can rely on me.’
‘The reason I broke off this session so abruptly is because we have some reason to believe that Mrs Partridge may—and I emphasize may—have been poisoned by fruit . . .’
‘Thoresby’s stuff?’
‘Hear me out, please. Fruit heavily contaminated with pesticide.’
‘Good lord!’
‘It is only one line of investigation, Mr Edwards.’
‘Yes, but even so . . .’
‘Now you know why I shall want to question the four of them separately. You won’t want to be present, I take it?’
‘Not for all the tea in China. I’m not a criminal lawyer.’
‘Good. Then I suggest your complete your business with them, and I’ll see them later.’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. I’ll just go in and say goodbye. And you can trust me not to say a word.’
As they walked towards Throscum House Green said: ‘That got rid of him smartish—which was the object of the exercise, I take it?’
Masters said: ‘You’re learning.’
‘And so are you. Having a solicitor present at interviews is a dicey do. Particularly when it looks as though we’ve got the job in the bag.’
Masters didn’t reply. He was lighting his pipe.
*
Masters saw Thoresby first. This time the interviews were to take place in the police bungalow. Hill ushered in the food importer soon after five o’clock. Green was sitting by the window.
‘Sit down, please, Mr Thoresby.’
‘What now? Third degree?’
Masters said: ‘The funny thing about interviews of this sort is that they are only ever as tough as the interviewee cares to make them. For my part, I only ask simple and, I hope, direct questions. If you try to squirm, that’s your affair.’
‘Supposing I don’t choose to answer?’
‘That, too, is entirely your affair, Mr Thoresby. But though you can walk out of here now, without any hindrance, in order to do my job, I am given certain powers. Apart from the interpretation I should immediately put on your actions were you to go, I can, if necessary, suggest that you are impeding my investigation. That makes you liable to arrest. Alternatively, if I have grounds to do so, I can arrest you on suspicion. And I’ve no doubt I could find several other courses open to me should the need arise. Do I make our respective positions clear, Mr Thoresby?’
‘Oh, get on with it.’
‘I have your permission to question you at this point?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Now please tell me who instigated the action to contest your father-in-law’s will?’
‘We all did.’
‘Please be more precise, Mr Thoresby. Mrs Thoresby and Mrs Honingham brought the action jointly. Who suggested that they should do so?’
‘I did. It was a blasted scandal. The girls and their mother slaved to make this place a success, and just because old Claud was tomfool enough to marry the tart he’d been knocking off for years the girls lost their just dues. Surely you can see that?’
‘You didn’t care for Mr Partridge?’
‘Oh, Claud was all right, I suppose.’
‘The first Mrs Partridge?’
‘What about her?’
‘What were your relations with her?’
‘A bit too toffee-nosed for me, but not bad otherwise.’
‘She high-hatted you?’ Green interrupted.
‘I’ve told you.’
‘She objected to her girl marrying you perhaps?’
‘How do you make that out?’
Masters guessing Green was on to something, let him have his way.
‘Hull and Throscum. Far apart, aren’t they? Not much communication between the two. I wondered how the two of you happened to meet in the first place.’
‘When you’re in my job you live by the Caterer’s and Food Handler’s Guide Book. I have to sell the goods I import, so I use the list of everybody in the country who uses food for catering, manufacturing or selling. And I go out to get customers from among them.’
‘So you made a sales trip to the south-west and met Miss Partridge?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing odd in that, is there?’
Green lit a Kensitas. ‘I think there is. We happen to know that most of the Throscum produce is either home grown or bought locally. It’s the gimmick the place was built on and always has been. So a bloke like you, dropping in out of the blue from as far away as Hull, would get short shrift. Somebody might listen to you politely for about ten minutes and then show you the door, without an order. D’you expect us to believe that in that time, taken up with gabbing about your goods, you could make contact with and impress Miss Partridge enough for a regular courtship to start up between you?’
Thoresby’s face set hard. Masters could see Green had scored.
Green went on. ‘You’re
not talking, Mr Thoresby. In my book you saw the lie of the land here. Rich pickings if you could grab one of the unmarried daughters. That’s about the size of it, isn’t it, Mr Thoresby? And Mrs Partridge fathomed you as soon as she saw you.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m saying that you intended to have a slice of this cake as soon as you saw it. You planned it a long time ago, and carried out your plan. You thought things were going to fall right in your lap until Partridge made a porridge of his will. Then you had to think again, Mr Thoresby.’
Thoresby sneered. ‘You’re mad.’
Masters said: ‘It sounds eminently reasonable to me.’
‘Tripe.’
‘You mean you didn’t want the money?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Then why persuade your wife to contest her father’s will?’
‘Because it was hers.’
‘Couldn’t you support your wife adequately?’
‘Of course I could.’
‘But you wanted more. Money that had legally been willed to another woman.’
‘I tell you it was rightfully Lorna’s.’
‘Not rightfully. The High Court said not.’
‘Stuff the High Court. The money was ours.’
‘Ours? Ah! Slightly obsessed with it, aren’t you, Mr Thoresby? Has it been in your mind ever since Mr Partridge died? The injustice? The thought of what you could do with a hundred thousand pounds if only Fay Partridge wasn’t in the way?’
Thoresby suddenly appeared to realize the way the questioning was leading. His face lost its sneer and he assumed a look that appeared to Masters to be half-incredulous and half-frightened. ‘You blokes are very clever. Everybody would like a bit more, especially when it’s rightly theirs.’
‘It’s a common human failing—cupidity,’ Masters said. ‘It’s also a common motive for murder, Mr Thoresby, as you must be well aware. Leaving that aside for the moment, please tell me whether, after your marriage, you started to supply Throscum with produce.’
‘Well, of course I did. Only common sense to keep it in the family, isn’t it?’
‘You negotiated with . . . who?’
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