Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  One of them said: ‘Aw, shut up, dad. You blow too much.’

  ‘Do I? An’ what do you lot do? Aye! Go on! Start playing darts while I’m talking to you. It’s a pity you didn’t stick to darts a year since.’ He turned to Masters. ‘You’re a detective, I hear. Well, I bet you’ve never met any place like this. I’m telling you that few lasses in Rooksby ever reach the age of seventeen without being wed force-put. There ’asn’t been a wedding here this last twenty year, I doubt, but the girl’s been big-bellied at the altar. ’As there, Matthew?’

  The man appealed to nodded. ‘Right, ’Arold. These little lasses ’as to get married, an’ before the first youngster’s born they’re fighting cat an’ dog with their men.’ He leaned towards Masters. ‘But what I don’t understand is these lasses ’aving no spirit after they’re wed. They let these lads come out every night while they sit home with the kids. Slavery it is.’

  A tall young man reached for his beer and interrupted: ‘Stop your chelping, Matthew. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, don’t I? Look at you. Not yet twenty-one and saddled with two kids. And you not earning enough to buy salt for your spuds, let alone drinking Double Diamond.’

  The youth made no reply. Masters thought he could see misery in the face. These boys and their young wives were missing life. Drinking to avoid reality. Unable to afford this chosen escape from responsibility. Poverty the banana skin on the threshold of their married lives. The thought was as depressing as the village. He said: ‘Why don’t you bring your wives out occasionally? They might like it here.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. They might like it too much. Then where’d we be?’ There was no animosity in the reply. Just surliness.

  Old Harold said: ‘Sittin’ home some nights, where you should be now.’

  The youth returned to his game. Masters looked towards the bar. Binkhorst was dipping and wiping glasses, apparently paying no attention to the conversation. He was preoccupied. But every so often he glanced at Masters and Hill as though they were the subject of his thoughts. Masters wondered why. Was it a natural distrust of policemen? Was it dislike occasioned by his insistence on a late meal? It might be worth probing a little. He said to Harold: ‘The landlord’s daughter is still unmarried, I hear.’

  ‘Aye, she is that. Proper old maid through no fault of her own.’

  ‘Really? I heard she was an attractive girl.’

  ‘Right enough—in a foreign sort of way. Her mother’s kept her what we would call tethered to the table leg, but what you might call tied to her apron strings.’

  Hill said: ‘Kept an eye on her so she didn’t end up like the rest of the girls in Rooksby, did she?’

  ‘Aye. But too much. Never gave the lass a bit o’ freedom when she was a young’un. Loosened up a bit lately. Bought her one of these mini cars of her own, and looking round for somebody to take her off their hands a bit desperate like now, I reckon. ’Course, there’s talk about her.’

  Masters said: ‘Such as what?’

  Harold’s eyes seemed to glaze over. He clammed up. Masters sensed the old man felt he’d said too much. Masters didn’t press him. Pretended to ignore the lack of response. The simple fact that the old man had dried up told him enough. Here was something to look into. It might end in nothing more than village gossip. It might go further. He couldn’t tell—yet. He changed the subject abruptly. Often a good tactic when the person questioned is very anxious to do so. Out of sheer relief they might be more forthcoming on the new topic. Masters asked Harold: ‘What did you think of the vicar?’

  ‘Gobby Parseloe?’

  Masters nodded. He said: ‘I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned him before now. His death must have caused some excitement and chatter in Rooksby.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Harold seemed disinclined to speak. Masters nodded to Hill to refill glasses—Harold’s and Matthew’s, as well as their own. The fresh beer help to lubricate tongues. Harold said: ‘We ain’t said ower much about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We weren’t ower fond. Mind, I’m not what you might call a churchgoer. Nor’s Matthew, are you, Matthew?’

  ‘Parson being an outner,’ said Matthew, as though that explained whatever shortcomings Parseloe may have had, and those of Matthew, too, to account for his lack of attendance at church. ‘No, we weren’t ower fond o’ Gobby. There’s been talk about him, too.’

  Masters said smugly: ‘I’m very pleased to see—and hear—that there’s no idle gossip about his death.’

  Harold said: ‘Gossip?’ as though it were something he’d never encountered. ‘Nay, no gossip.’

  To Masters it sounded like a warning to Matthew to say no more. Masters wondered why. Would they be willing to say more if bought with beer? Or were these two oldsters saying no more in order to protect—whom? Of course! To protect a local. An outner had been murdered. So what? All locals stick together for self-preservation. The law of the jungle. Masters wondered whether Harold and Matthew actually knew who the murderer was or whether instinct was making them cagey in the interests of the herd at large. He said: ‘You’re very wise not to gossip.’

  ‘Keep your own council an’ live a day longer,’ said Matthew.

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Hill. ‘But we’ve got to find out something about the vicar. To help us, I mean. Haven’t we, Chief?’

  Harold looked at Hill for a moment. He said: ‘I doubt you won’t hear much good about Gobby. But if you’re set on it, talk to Arn Beck and Jan Wessel and a few like them. They’ll tell you a thing or two, perhaps—if you’re lucky.’

  Masters looked across at Binkhorst. The landlord was standing with his back to them, in the small doorway that connected behind the counters of the two bars. Binkhorst was talking. Masters strained his ears to listen. ‘. . . you get to bed early tonight. Get off now and take something for that headache. And tell your mother to come and take over as you go up.’ Masters couldn’t hear the reply. He felt sorry he wouldn’t be seeing the fair Maria after all, tonight. But that didn’t alter his plan to join Green. He said to Harold: ‘Do the men you mentioned ever come into the Goblin?’

  ‘As like as not they’re in the saloon now.’ Harold finished his drink and added: ‘Arn Beck used to be a churchwarden till he had a row with Gobby.’

  *

  Green and Brant were in separate parties, but both seemed well dug in. The saloon regulars seemed less inhibited than the mixture of youth and age in the public bar. Articulate middle-age—more prosperous than next door—gave a different atmosphere. Here there was social interest in the presence of a team from Scotland Yard. Green was cashing in on it. Where Masters had been paying to listen, Green was being plied with liquor. Masters wondered how much he’d learned—if anything.

  When Masters entered, Green looked up for a moment and then continued with his conversation. Brant signalled Masters over. Brant said: ‘This is Mr de Hoke—spelt Hooch—which seems a good name to meet in a pub, don’t you think?’

  Masters said: ‘The bridge champion?’

  de Hooch stared for a moment and then said: ‘I’m not exactly a champion, but I like the game. My missus is the fiend. She practically dresses herself on her winnings. But how the devil did you know we play?’

  ‘Nothing to it,’ said Masters. ‘No magic. I heard you’d been having a party last night.’

  ‘Not a party. Just one table. Jan and Sue Wessel, my missus and me.’

  Masters said: ‘Do many others in Rooksby play?’

  ‘We can manage about four tables when we have a match. Mostly us old’uns—like Jan, myself and Stan Barrett with our wives and a few youngsters like Peter Barnfelt—he’s one of our doctors—and his fiancée, April Barrett—Stan’s daughter.’

  Masters said: ‘It sounds like a real family party. Husbands, wives, fiancées.’

  de Hooch pursed his lips. ‘Not always. Bridge is a funny game. It causes more rows between friends than amateur theatricals. Talk about
temperament over playing a hand! And post-mortems when it’s all over! I can tell you it often parts husband from wife.’

  ‘And presumably causes rifts between sweethearts.’

  de Hooch said: ‘Now I wonder how you came to say that? I should have said that young Peter and April were far too sensible to let a poor call at bridge upset them. But they’ve stopped seeing each other for—oh—for about a fortnight or three weeks now, just because April miscounted aces in a four-five no-trump call. I must say it puzzled me that they should have had a tiff at the time, but for it to carry on so long, with no sign of reconciliation in sight, has me beat. It really does. What’ll you have? A whisky?’

  Masters stayed just long enough with de Hooch to make it appear that he was neither scrounging drinks nor picking brains, and then left him to Brant and Hill. Green looked up as Masters approached. ‘Mr Beck and Mr Wessel. Detective Chief Inspector Masters.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you both,’ said Masters, shaking hands. ‘Mr Wessel, you’re a bridge player, and Mr Beck, you’re not. Is that right?’

  Wessel was long-faced, long-nosed and loose-jowled, with carefully parted black hair and rimless spectacles. Masters would have put him down as more of a poker player than a bridge addict. He said: ‘I can see Henry de Hooch has been talking. Parading our faults and weaknesses. An insurance manager ought to be more discreet, don’t you think?’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. Masters said: ‘The more indiscreet people are, the more I like it, generally. But I must confess I sifted very little condemnatory evidence out of an account of the doings of the local bridge players. Nothing to make me think I’ll be able to go home in the morning, for instance.’

  Wessel grinned: ‘So you’ve come over here to see what you can glean from us?’

  ‘If you’ve anything of interest to tell me.’

  ‘I’m the local lawyer. I get paid to keep my lips sealed.’

  ‘Pity. However, my main reason for approaching you is to ask Mr Beck for a short character study of the late vicar. I like to know something about the people whose deaths I investigate, and as I’ve heard Mr Beck was a churchwarden at one time, I thought I might get a factual picture from him—if he’d care to help me.’

  Beck said: ‘What sort of thing do you want to know, Mr Masters?’ It was like the sound of joyous bells to Masters to hear somebody say that. It was as if Beck had said: ‘I know a lot that will be of help to you. You can have it all if you’ll start me off at the right place and then let me keep going.’ Masters knew the importance of the right question. Beck sounded sure of himself. Knew he had knowledge to impart, but was not aware which bits would be wheat and which chaff. Masters said: ‘I’ve heard that the late vicar was not as well thought of in Rooksby as he might have been. This may be at variance with your own opinion—as his churchwarden. It may even be coloured by the fact that he was not a native of Rooksby. Would you care to put me right?’

  Beck said: ‘De mortuis . . .’

  Masters said: ‘That as good as confirms that he wasn’t well thought of.’

  ‘You’re quick to draw conclusions.’

  ‘Shall we say I notice straws in the wind?’

  ‘And are adept at verbal fencing.’ Beck was portly. A soft face, full and pink, that seemed to run back over his bald head. The hair still left at the sides was clean-white and soft. The eyes were big and kind. The shirt was of soft material, not firm enough to hold the collar in shape, but comfortable looking. At least the large knot of a Cambridge blue tie nestled snugly between the rounded ends. Beck was, Masters thought, prosperous, kindly, and pretty sharp. Just the chap for a churchwarden. Could put his hand in his pocket, could help people, and couldn’t be bamboozled. This thought made Masters pause. Beck was obviously not a great admirer of Parseloe. Had the vicar tried to bamboozle him? It was worth a shot.

  ‘May I know your business or profession, Mr Beck?’

  ‘I’m an accountant.’

  Masters grinned. He said: ‘And as such you weren’t prepared to have the financial wool pulled over your eyes? Or am I completely off net?’

  ‘You’re bang on net. Financial wool! I like that.’

  ‘Golden Fleece,’ murmured Wessel. ‘I’m taking a lesson in something. I don’t know what. Probably semantics. But I could have sworn I was seeing the art of second sight practised.’

  Masters said: ‘Could I know what worried you, Mr Beck?’

  ‘Worried me?’

  ‘I’m assuming that you were so dissatisfied with some of the financial dealings of either the church or its vicar that you resigned as churchwarden.’

  ‘That’s right. I did. But I wasn’t worried. I was downright angry.’

  ‘Would you please tell me the cause of your anger?’

  Beck shrugged. ‘You’ll think it unimportant, I daresay. But the church is like anything else. Once you become closely connected with it, particularly in a responsible position like that of warden, you find lots of time to devote to it that you didn’t know you had before. This is a sure sign that you are, in the modern idiom, becoming integrated. Or as I would put it, involved and interested.’

  Masters said: ‘So that a relatively minor matter assumes the proportions of a major issue?’

  ‘Correct. What seemed important to me may seem trivial to you.’

  ‘Perhaps you would let me be the judge.’

  ‘Willingly. It was this way. I was responsible for the church accounts. There are several funds, but the amounts going through them in my day were so small they were easy to keep straight just as long as the system was adhered to.’ While Beck was speaking Green had called for refills. When Beck paused to acknowledge his Guinness, Masters said: ‘What system?’

  ‘There’s a church hall. It’s hired out for dances, Girl Guide meetings, Mothers’ Union teas—you know the sort of thing. Any private person or any club in Rooksby can hire it whether they are affiliated to the church or not. The hiring, or should I say the diary, was kept by the vicar, as he was usually available to make the bookings. But payment was supposed to be made to me as treasurer. For the most part this was understood by people who were in the habit of hiring the hall regularly, but once or twice, people unfamiliar with the system paid the vicar direct.’

  ‘And he pocketed the dibs?’

  ‘Just so. And gave no receipts and conveniently forgot to forward them. Once or twice I was embarrassed through asking for payment from some organization or for some function, only to be told that the fees had been paid and that I hadn’t forwarded a legal receipt. This was not only distasteful to me, but distinctly bad from a personal business point of view.’

  ‘The vicar may have just been forgetful.’

  ‘That is the charitable view, Mr Masters. The view I took in the first few instances. But it happened too often—in fact, always—for me to hold that view for long. Remember I’m a sceptic about forgetfulness when it is of financial benefit to the one who forgets. I had such trouble in prising the money out of him on a number of occasions that I had special leaflets printed. They were given to every organizer who hired the hall and told them to pay me and me only.’

  Masters said: ‘Padre Parseloe wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘He didn’t. But, you know, I believe he had such a tip about himself that he thought I’d swallowed his explanations whole. At any rate under me the funds were solvent and that must have saved him some trouble.’

  They sat silent for a moment or two, until Wessel said: ‘The Chief Inspector ought to have the rest, Arn.’

  Masters jerked to attention. ‘I’m sorry. I was just digesting what you’d told me. Contrary to your belief, I found it most interesting and important.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Mr Beck, people are usually murdered for some reason. Oh, I know there are some killings we call motiveless, but there is always a reason—either in the character of the victim or of his murderer. I don’t know the murderer in this case—yet. Don’t you think it’s logical for m
e to concentrate on the victim whose identity I do know? There’s at least a fifty-fifty chance of the reason for his murder lying within his own character.’

  ‘That’s how you work, is it?’ Beck sounded more interested. Wessel leaned forward over the small table, full of empty glasses and white cardboard mats. ‘You make it sound easy. It isn’t, I’m sure. But I can see your ploy.’

  ‘You get a nose for it in our game,’ Green said. ‘If somebody talks, you’ve got facts. If somebody refuses to talk, you’ve got grounds for suspicion. And if somebody tells lies it’s like reading mirror writing, but you’ve got the message even if it is all arsey-tarsey. The witness I don’t like’s the half-and-halfer. Half fact, half fiction. Sorting one of them out’s a work of art—and that’s where your nose comes in. You smell your way from lie to truth like a dog sniffing out trees from lamp-posts in Quality Street. And it’s just as nasty, I can tell you.’

  Beck smiled. His cheeks dimpled. He looked like a cherub. He said: ‘So you’d like to know why I resigned?’

  Masters said: ‘Please.’

  ‘I don’t know how much you know about the church, but you’ve probably heard it’s pretty short of parsons in some areas. Or it was, a few years ago. Perhaps the situation is better now. I don’t know. But at the time I was warden, quite a number of the small villages round here, all poor livings, were without incumbents. The Bishop did the obvious thing. He gave the vicars of more fortunate parishes the responsibility for arranging services in churches where there were no parsons.’

  ‘I don’t see how even God-botherers could be in two places at once.’

  ‘That’s just the point, Mr Green,’ Beck said. ‘They couldn’t. So unless the churches concerned were so close that a parson could get from one to the other with no loss of time, an alternative way had to be found. And the alternative was to use lay preachers.’

  ‘Was Parseloe given a second church?’ Masters asked.

  Beck replied: ‘Three more. Two where he was supposed to arrange one service each Sunday, and another where he had to have a service once a fortnight. Now this was extremely fortunate for him because it meant that one lay preacher could work up one sermon each week and deliver it in one church in the morning and in the other in the evening. A second lay preacher was only required once a fortnight for the other church, so this was fairly easy to arrange. But the first man was quite hard worked, as you can imagine.’