Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  Nicholson came in. Green offered them both drinks. Masters declined. Binkhorst reappeared when Green rang. He said: ‘It’s fixed for half past eight.’ Masters thought the landlord looked abashed. He half smiled to reassure him. Nicholson said: ‘It’ll take you no more than five minutes to get to Doc’s place,’ and proceeded to explain the way. Masters thanked him and said: ‘I think you ought to keep a man in the school tonight and tomorrow. After that we should be able to lay off. And as far as I’m concerned your men can stay inside the classroom, out of the cold.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll ruin any evidence?’

  Masters fastened his coat. ‘Not after Hill and Brant have been over it.’ He said good night and turned to go, saying quietly to Green as he passed: ‘There’s likely to be more evidence to pick up in here. Keep your ears open. I want to know what the locals think about things.’

  Dr Barnfelt’s waiting-room was drab. Bentwood chairs on brown linoleum. A gas fire with one broken clay, sputtering drearily. A green pull-down blind over the window. No receptionist. No instructions for patients except to keep medicines out of the reach of children. Masters felt sunk in a sea of misery. If he were to stay long in that atmosphere he’d begin to imagine he had every malady known to man. A bell rang. A blowsy woman grunted: ‘Oo’s next for young doctor?’ An elderly man with chronic bronchitis—or worse—shuffled out. The blowsy woman said: ‘Sid won’t be with us for long if these winds keep up. What ’e needs is camphorated an’ a brown paper vest. Not a bottler jollop.’ Another bell rang—a different note. ‘That’s t’owd doctor. My turn.’ She waddled out towards the surgery. Masters settled down to wait. Wanted a pipe. Had it half packed before a lad said: ‘You can’t smoke in ’ere, mister.’

  Dr Frank Barnfelt, the senior partner and local police surgeon, amazed Masters from the moment of meeting. Masters hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this man. A fifty-year-old don in rimless pince-nez with a bootlace over his right ear running down to a small gold clip on his right lapel. A full head of sandy hair going very grey, neatly parted on the right side. A Hitler moustache, also very grey. Full coloured cheeks. Pale blue eyes, intelligent and twinkling. A light fawn Harris tweed jacket. Grey flannel trousers with no fore-and-aft creases. Masters guessed they’d been made in the round on purpose, and ever thereafter ironed on a sleeve board. Highly polished brown boots with a patina as deep as a well.

  Masters hated shaking hands. He hated it more than ever this time. Barnfelt’s skin was dry and rasping on his own. The fingers bony. The knuckles dressed with some form of yellow lacquer, like a second skin. Masters imagined the cold weather had chapped and cracked his hands, softened by too much washing and scrubbing up after seeing patients. His voice was high pitched; neither girlish nor mincing, but noticeably acute, with a slight cackle in the cadences. He said: ‘I was expecting to see you, even before Nicholson rang.’ He grinned, showing a set of false teeth that some dental mechanic had spent time on to achieve a very natural colour. Masters felt pleased at the sight. He hated china clappers.

  Masters said: ‘It’s good of you to see me after so long a day. You started—over at the school—shortly after eight, they tell me, and you haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘It’s a twenty-four hour job—like yours.’

  ‘We manage a little time off occasionally.’

  ‘So do we. My son and I take turn and turn about. He was off this last weekend.’

  ‘Off? Out of Rooksby?’

  ‘No. But off duty and free to go out as he liked. Like last night. There was a bridge party at the home of some friends of ours—the de Hooch’s. Peter is fond of a rubber of bridge.’

  ‘Isn’t your son married?’

  Barnfelt frowned slightly. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Girl friends?’

  Masters could see this was a question the doctor would have preferred to avoid. The frown grew deeper. So far, Masters had been making nothing more than idle conversation, but he always pressed a point that seemed to unsettle the person questioned. He persisted: ‘Has there been a tiff?’

  ‘I fear so. Yes. A tiff. Everything was going quite smoothly up to a fortnight or three weeks ago, since when I’ve not heard of April, or seen her.’

  ‘April?’

  ‘April Barrett.’

  ‘The potato farmer’s daughter?’

  Barnfelt opened his mouth in amazement. ‘You learn fast, Chief Inspector. At what time did you arrive in Rooksby?’

  Masters felt pleased with himself. He pretended to pass it off. He said airily: ‘Oh, three or four hours ago, now,’ as if he were accustomed to learning everything there was to know about a place the size of Rooksby in the time it would take most people to eat a boiled egg.

  ‘And now you’ve come to me to . . . er . . . increase your knowledge still further? Yes?’

  ‘Strictly professionally. To discuss the wounds on the vicar’s body.’

  Barnfelt rubbed his hands together. They made a harsh sound. His voice sounded strange above it. ‘Haematomata and induration?’ he asked. Masters had the feeling he was being treated as another medical man being asked for a second opinion. But the matter was too abstruse for him. He didn’t know the proper cries. He ignored the technical terms and decided to guess. He said: ‘It’s a decidedly odd wound.’

  The doctor grinned. ‘Nicholson was looking for a bullet, wasn’t he?’

  ‘And you think he was wasting his time?’

  ‘Not entirely. But I’d have been looking for a projectile somewhat different from a conventional revolver or pistol bullet.’

  ‘If he had done as you suggest, would he have found a projectile?’

  ‘I can’t say, because I don’t know what sort of a projectile it was.’

  Masters said: ‘What makes you so sure it was not a bullet?’

  ‘The lacerated edges of the entry wound.’

  ‘Atypical?’

  ‘Decidedly. Bullets go in cleanly and come out messily. This projectile came out messily, all right, but it went in messily, too.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a bullet? Not even a dumdum?’

  The doctor said: ‘Dumdums are made to stop a man dead in his tracks by blowing a hole the size of a soup plate in his back. But they still go in neatly at the front, because only the tapered nose is nicked. It flattens out later if it meets any opposition hard enough to open out the cut.’

  Masters said: ‘I know the theory. I’ve never seen it put into practice, fortunately.’

  ‘Then you’ll realize that marked laceration indicates a projectile other than a bullet. Yes?’

  ‘You mentioned this to Nicholson?’

  ‘I pointed out to him that there were lacerations up to a quarter of an inch long round the periphery. The points were bent inwards, like the cogs on an anti-vibration washer. They were very easy to see.’

  ‘And he thought your observations unimportant?’

  ‘He regards me, I fear, merely as a sadly out-of-date, country G.P.’

  Masters thought Barnfelt sounded sorry about it. He decided to see whether Nicholson’s view was correct. He said: ‘In many bullet wounds the flesh around the entry stands proud. Why not this time?’

  Barnfelt put the tips of his skinny fingers together. He said: ‘The periphery is only proud if the skin has been forcibly depressed beforehand. When this happens, as when a conventional bullet strikes, the elastic skin tissue reasserts itself after being forced inwards. It bounces outwards and stays put. Here we have the opposite effect. The skin has been forced outwards and then drawn downwards.’

  ‘Outwards?’

  ‘Not vertically away from the body. No projectile forcing an entry could do that. But it could be forced outwards to widen the circle—as it were, thus producing a similar effect. The skin tissue was being drawn in after being forced outwards . . .’

  ‘Understood,’ said Masters. ‘The projectile must have been wider at some point along its length than its general width—not counting a ta
pered point, if there was one.’

  Barnfelt nodded. ‘That is my professional belief. And as I was a regimental M.O. in the line during the last war, I am not unacquainted with G.S. wounds. I think my opinion is borne out by the appearance of the exit wound. The projectile did not flatten as a dumdum would have done, but the broader part of its calibre caused a three-inch wound which you doubtless examined.’

  Master was nearly sick at the mention of it. He nodded. The doctor offered him a cigarette which he refused. He said: ‘You’ve explained the lacerations, doctor. But earlier you mentioned . . . what were the words? . . . haematomata and induration. What are they? Anything to do with bruising?’

  Barnfelt smiled. A little smile that showed his teeth. ‘Is that guesswork, Chief Inspector? Or have you some good reason for asking? Haematomata has to do with bruises.’

  Masters said: ‘Good enough. I know the thump of a bullet causes bruising in the vicinity of its entry hole.’

  ‘And marked induration—hardening and bruising,’ said Barnfelt. ‘The bluish area around the wound is always harder, less elastic.’

  Masters nodded. ‘I saw you’d bathed the area. Did you notice anything peculiar about the bruising of the chest?’

  ‘I did. But I wouldn’t have expected you to have done so, too. You must be half a pathologist in your own right.’

  ‘I’m not a forensic expert. But I use my eyes. There was a very faint, larger bruise around the wound. A bruise about two inches square.’

  ‘Quite right. I should say that whatever blow caused that bruise was struck with a square object, such as the end of one of the pieces of timber lying in the classroom.’

  ‘Do blows from square weapons leave square bruises?’

  ‘Not normally, because extravasation—that’s seepage of blood from tiny damaged vessels—spreads like a stain into surrounding tissue and blurs the edges of the area that has been struck.’

  ‘I could make out a distinct square.’

  ‘So could I.’

  ‘And what does that tell us?’

  ‘That the blow was struck, I should say, within a minute of death.’

  ‘Before or after?’

  ‘Definitely before. The extravasation had no time to spread before the circulation stopped. That’s why the bruise retained its shape.’

  Masters felt a surge of pleasure. He’d got a very definite, significant fact. He hardly heard Barnfelt say: ‘What do you think of my idea that he was prodded with a length of timber?’

  Masters looked at him for a moment and shook his head. Barnfelt opened his blue eyes in surprise. Masters said: ‘I took measurements. The bullet hole was plumb in the middle of the bruise. It’d be an amazing coincidence if—well, if lightning were to strike in exactly the same place twice within a minute.’

  ‘I see.’

  He sounded deflated. Masters felt sorry. Barnfelt had helped. He ought to be given a crumb of comfort. Masters said: ‘You put a bomb under your own idea yourself, you know.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Could a murderer prod a man with a baulk of timber, put the timber down, hold his victim in place, draw a gun and shoot him, all within a minute?’

  ‘He could. But I agree it would take a bit of quick action. Especially as the victim would be bound to struggle.’

  ‘That’s what I think. It’d be extremely unlikely. I can’t visualize it happening. And when the shot found the exact centre of the area bruised . . .’ He spread his hands. ‘Speed and accuracy like that would be impossible.’ He rose to go. Almost as if a passing thought had struck him he asked: ‘By the way, what time would you say he was killed?’

  Barnfelt smiled. ‘I’ve been working it out as accurately as I can. My answer is before ten o’clock last night.’

  ‘No closer?’

  Barnfelt shook his head. ‘But don’t forget it was Sunday. Parseloe would have been in church conducting Evensong until seven thirty or thereabouts, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘So I’ve got a two and a half hour bracket.’

  ‘Unless you can cut it down in some way. Don’t parsons cash up the takings after the service with the church wardens? That’s the sort of thing you’ve got to ferret out.’

  Masters thanked him gravely for the advice.

  *

  Hill and Brant were packing up when Masters joined them. He asked: ‘Anything?’

  Hill said: ‘Not a skerrick. I’ve never known a place with less to offer. No decipherable prints on the door handles or anywhere else. No footmarks. No bullets. No bullet holes. No nothing.’

  ‘Come back for dinner,’ Masters said.

  Brant said: ‘I’d like to know what happened to that bullet.’

  ‘I know,’ Hill replied. ‘He was shot with a bullet made of ice, which melted as soon as it’d done its stuff. No marks left on the wall and nothing on the floor except a few unnoticed drops of water. How’s that for a theory that fits?’

  Masters said: ‘Hurry up or we’ll be late. They’re only keeping our meal till eight thirty as a special favour.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s worth waiting for,’ Hill said.

  *

  It was. They were all agreed. Roast pork with good crackling that Green crunched loud and long. They were served by Mrs Binkhorst. While she was out Green said: ‘So she’s the Eyetie. Gone to seed a bit like most Wops.’

  Masters didn’t think so. He placed her in the late forties. She was tall for a Latin; more heavily boned than usual. But her legs were still a good shape in high-heeled red shoes. Her figure was corseted, smoothing the outlines of the black dress round her buttocks and holding the full bosom high under a cascade of white nylon lace. The skin on hands and face was still brown and taut. The hair had been dyed so that it was unnaturally black, too soft and matt in colour—like soot. Long earrings dangled, hard and bright. But Masters felt she had a presence. And there was no doubt she could cook, too. He told her so as she collected the empty plates.

  ‘The pig that breaks its leg is always good,’ she said with very little accent.

  ‘Breaks its leg?’

  ‘You do not know it? It is always said in Rooksby.’

  ‘What is?’ Green said.

  ‘When the war was on and the farmers were not allowed to kill their pigs for themselves. If they wanted more food they killed a forbidden pig. They told the food men that the pig had broken its leg and had to be killed. They always ate much in Rooksby and laughed at the regulations. Now always when they kill pigs they say they have broken a leg. They tasted good when there was a war. They taste good now. Not from a butcher.’

  Masters said: ‘You were here before the war?’

  ‘I married six months before. I was seventeen. Some people did not like me when the war was on.’

  ‘But they do now?’

  She shrugged. ‘They call me Gina and come every night to the Goblin. What more?’

  ‘You don’t sound very happy about it to me. Have you any children?’

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’ She paused a moment and then almost sobbed: ‘A pretty, pretty girl. And not married. It is not good. She should be married before now. With children.’

  When she brought the ice cream cake she was more composed. ‘You will see Maria in the saloon bar. She serves there every night among the men. All of them like her, but she does not get married. I do not know what the men are doing today.’

  Green said: ‘The same as they always did. Only more so.’ And after Mrs Binkhorst had gone he added: ‘Little Maria won’t play, if you ask me. She serves the men, but she won’t let them serve her. She’ll be a Catholic most likely—her mother being an Eyetie.’

  Masters said: ‘Why don’t you make a point of finding out?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’ll be one way of starting people gossiping. I want to get the atmosphere of this place. Start with Maria. You can forget her once you’ve got going—unless you think there’s something
nasty in the Goblin’s woodshed.’

  Green stretched and yawned. It was a sign he didn’t think much of Masters’ orders. He said: ‘Where shall I start? In the spit and sawdust? I take it you’ll do the saloon bar yourself?’

  ‘Hill and I will take the public bar for half an hour just to see how it goes. You and Brant do the saloon.’

  Green was surprised. Masters didn’t usually take the rough end of a job without good reason. He wondered what the reason was this time. Masters knew he was wanting to know, but didn’t enlighten him. The public bar was likely to have more youngsters in it. They might not take kindly to Green who would be more at home among the older—and probably more garrulous—saloon frequenters.

  Hill wandered into the saloon. He was back inside a minute. He said to Masters: ‘She’s some bird, all right. Legs just a bit skinny for a micro, but still a good shape. And her face isn’t too bad, either. One of those sultry Italians. But what lips! They look as though they’d have a kiss on ’em like a vacuum cleaner.’

  Masters led the way into the public bar. There were seven or eight young men and two or three older ones present. Binkhorst was behind the bar. He seemed surprised to see Masters. Masters guessed why. They’d been discussing him, believing him unlikely to come to this room. Nobody said anything at first. Hill broke the ice. He said in a voice that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence: ‘No women this side? Fair do’s, landlord. What you want is a bouncing barmaid. I’ll bet that’d be popular.’

  ‘Nay it wouldn’t,’ said one of the older men. ‘Most o’ these young’uns come here to get away from women, and us old’uns don’t care.’

  Masters said: ‘That doesn’t sound typical.’

  ‘It is though. They’re all married, this lot. Left their lasses at home minding the bairns.’

  Masters was genuinely surprised. He guessed some of the youths were less than nineteen. If it hadn’t been for the long sideboards they could truly have been taken for beardless.