Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Parseloe found a volunteer?’

  ‘A very good man. One of the County’s travelling librarians. Not a well paid man, but well read, and a keen churchgoer. Parseloe used him good and proper. This man used to borrow a little car each Sunday to get to the churches, but he had to provide the petrol himself. After a time he approached me and said that the cost of the petrol was becoming a burden, so as treasurer I made him a grant of a few shillings a week to cover the cost. He was extremely grateful.’ Beck smiled. ‘But I’m a business man, Mr Masters. I didn’t see why our church here should bear this cost and so I approached the treasurers of the other churches concerned.’ He suddenly looked like an indignant cherub. ‘Imagine my surprise when I was told by these men that they were already paying our vicar three guineas a week each for providing the services.’

  Green whistled. Masters’ face settled heavily. He began to fill a pipe ponderously. He gritted: ‘Go on, Mr Beck.’

  ‘I was on to Parseloe like a bailiff. I asked why he was keeping the money himself—it was seven and a half guineas a week altogether—and not giving any of it to the man who was doing the work, even for buying petrol. Do you know what he told me?’

  Masters said dryly: ‘That he, as incumbent, was legally entitled to the money and in no way bound to pay the lay preachers.’

  ‘Right. Christian-like, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Many parsons have treated people like that,’ Masters said.

  ‘Maybe they have. But I didn’t believe him. I went to see the Rural Dean. Parseloe was legally right and I could do nothing to force him to pay up. I urged him to do so of his own free will. I succeeded in getting him to agree to five shillings a week for petrol. Having done that I resigned. And I think you’ll find that with me out of the way he didn’t even pay that.’

  ‘I hear lots of things I don’t like in my job,’ Masters said. ‘This is one of them. Have we time for another to wash our mouths out?’

  ‘You were too interested in Arn’s story to hear,’ Wessel replied. ‘Binkhorst called time five minutes ago.’

  ‘We’re resident,’ Green said.

  ‘But we’re not, and I’m a lawyer,’ Wessel retorted. ‘I don’t want to appear in one of your courts on a drinking-after-hours charge.’

  ‘With us present? Be your age,’ said Green. ‘Can you honestly see Constable Crome bursting in here at the moment?’

  Wessel said: ‘Come to think of it, I can’t. But as I live barely a minute’s walk away, would you care to come with me for a nightcap?’

  Masters said: ‘I’ve got some writing to do, but if you gentlemen are going to be here tomorrow night . . .?’ He turned to de Hooch, who had joined them: ‘And you, sir, I shall be very pleased to see you again . . .’

  The room cleared very quickly.

  Masters and Binkhorst were the last two in the bar. The publican came back from bolting the main door. He went behind his counter. There was nothing for him to do. His wife had cleaned up. He stood looking at Masters, who had his back to the dying fire, filling his pipe. Masters said: ‘Have a drink with me, landlord?’

  Binkhorst said: ‘I don’t want one. You can have one if you like.’

  It was an ungracious reply. Masters wondered what the reason was. He said: ‘You’d better join me. Just a short one, because I’d like a word or two with you.’

  Binkhorst looked back at him, stolidly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Since I hope we’ll both be truthful, I’ll tell you candidly. I’ve got the impression that you don’t like my being here, but at the same time you’d rather have me here where you can keep an eye on me than anywhere else. So I want to know why. Do you dislike policemen?’

  ‘No more than anybody else.’

  ‘That’s a pretty ambiguous answer. Have you ever been in trouble with the police? Been inside?’

  ‘I’ve never had anything to do with any policeman except the locals when they look in here trying to catch me serving after hours.’

  ‘Have they ever caught you?’

  ‘They couldn’t, could they, seeing as I never serve after hours?’

  ‘In that case you’ve no cause to dislike policemen in general or me in particular. Why don’t you want me here?’

  ‘I never said I didn’t.’

  Masters said: ‘Come on, have a whisky. We both know. I can sense these things—hostility, uneasiness, dislike and all the rest. Just as easily as you can tell a drop of good beer.’ Binkhorst gave in. He poured two whiskies. They both added water. Masters said: ‘Cheers!’ and sipped a little. ‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes. We were disagreeing. Let’s try something else.’

  ‘I can’t see we’ve anything to talk about.’

  ‘We have. A lot. But don’t worry about your wife. I’ll explain I kept you.’

  ‘There won’t be any explaining to do.’

  ‘No? I’d have said she wore the trousers.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes. You looked as though she’d told you off tonight for not telling me I definitely couldn’t have a meal at half past eight.’

  ‘Oh, in little things, perhaps . . .’

  ‘Not only in little things. What’s your religion? C of E?’

  Binkhorst nodded.

  ‘And your wife’s a Catholic. I’ll bet your daughter was brought up Catholic, too.’

  ‘She was as a nipper. But she changed to C of E.’

  ‘Did she? I’ve never heard of that before. When did she change?’

  ‘When she was about nineteen.’

  ‘Before coming of age? Why did you persuade her to do that? Or are you a keen churchgoer?’

  ‘How can I run a pub and go to church? I haven’t been near one for years. I’m in here, Sundays. Dinner time and nights.’

  ‘Then why did you persuade your daughter to change her religion?’

  ‘I didn’t. I couldn’t have cared less which church she went to.’

  Masters sipped his whisky. Then he said: ‘That story won’t hold water.’

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘I know enough about Catholics to know that the children of mixed marriages are brought up in the Catholic faith. If your daughter tried to change before she came of age, while she was still legally under her mother’s care, her mother would have stopped it, unless you, as the father, put your foot down.’

  ‘I tell you I wasn’t interested. Her mother did it.’

  ‘So she does wear the trousers.’

  ‘How d’you make that out?’

  ‘She said what had to be done. There must have been some serious reason for it. And yet you say you weren’t interested. What was the reason?’

  ‘There wasn’t one.’

  ‘I said we’d tell the truth, didn’t I? What caused the change of religion?’

  ‘You’ve no right . . .’

  ‘I’ve every right to ask what I like. What caused it?’

  ‘Nothing much. All her friends were Church of England. She didn’t like being different.’

  ‘Kids don’t. But she’d been different for nineteen years. Why the sudden need for change?’

  Binkhorst didn’t answer. He downed the last of his whisky and rinsed the glass. Masters said: ‘It was when she was old enough to have serious boy friends, wasn’t it? What happened? Did your wife have her eye on some suitable young chap for Maria? Somebody she thought wouldn’t want a mixed marriage? Was that it?’

  Binkhorst said: ‘Something of the sort. These women all think a lass is on the shelf if she’s not married before she’s old enough to say her A.B.C.’

  ‘You married your wife when she was only seventeen.’

  Binkhorst said: ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘You mean you wish you hadn’t?’

  ‘Well—you know how it is. Not like you read about. A man proposing an’ all that. These girls, all they want is a ring on their finger. You don’t hardly get to know them before they’re asking for one. If you can only afford a couple of quid for one they say that’ll do fine�
��till after they’re married. Then it’s a different business. They want a replacement costing forty quid and an eternity ring and God knows what besides.’

  ‘Are you still trying to tell me your wife doesn’t wear the pants? Never mind. What about this young man of Maria’s?’

  ‘What about him? I can’t even remember his name. He had a bit of brass, I know that. But it never came to nowt. It never does when mothers stick their noses in. Frightens fellers off. And Gina’s always been so dead set on getting Maria wed she’s tried too hard. Now look at the lass!’

  Masters relit his pipe. Then he asked: ‘Is she a worry to you?’

  ‘She’s not. It’s her mother. Making her think that getting wed’s the only thing for a girl. That’s the Italian side coming out, you know. They’re great believers in marriage.’

  Masters looked at Binkhorst and said: ‘And they’re pretty strict about no hanky panky outside marriage, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. Our Maria never had a chance to put a foot wrong. Not that I wanted her to, but her mother went too far. Acted as a sort of what-d’you-call-it . . .?’

  ‘Chaperone?’

  ‘Dunt that mean the old bag who was around when a couple of kids were doing a bit of courting?’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘Well, our little lass didn’t do much courting. So Gina wasn’t a chaperone. More of that sort of Spanish spoilsport woman . . .’

  ‘A duenna?’

  ‘That’s it. Spaniards and Italians are all the same type, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re all Latins, certainly. And incidentally, the Latin word for duenna is domina—a sort of mistress. I told you your wife dominated you.’

  Binkhorst said: ‘You and me don’t talk the same language.’

  ‘Oh yes we do. I’m sorry your daughter’s ill. Is it serious?’

  ‘Headache. Flu perhaps. Nothing much. But how did you know?’

  ‘I overheard. What caused it?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘You sounded as if you knew a short time ago. Was Maria out and about rather late last night?’

  Binkhorst made a mistake. He started to bluster. ‘Here, what are you hinting at?’

  ‘Suggesting nothing. Asking something. Does she always go out on Sunday nights?’

  Binkhorst sulked. ‘It’s one of her nights off. She goes to the pictures.’

  ‘And does going to the pictures usually give her a headache the next night? I think she was somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Binkhorst’s lack of denial had been enough for Masters. He was sure Maria had been running spare—presumably at the time Parseloe had been killed. It was worth noting. Just as a matter of form he said to the landlord: ‘And where were you last night?’

  ‘Here, of course.’

  ‘All evening?’

  Binkhorst didn’t reply.

  ‘I can get to know by questioning other people.’

  ‘All right. Maria goes to the pictures early on Sundays. She’s usually back here by soon after nine at the latest. When she didn’t get back by half past my missus made me go out and look for her.’

  Masters said: ‘Did you take your car?’

  Binkhorst nodded.

  ‘And did you find her?’

  ‘No. She got back a bit after I left.’

  ‘Where had she been?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell us.’

  ‘I don’t blame her, at her age. And where did you go?’

  Binkhorst said: ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘And what time did you get back?’

  ‘Half past ten.’

  ‘You just drove about, looking for your daughter’s mini for an hour?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Go anywhere near Church Walk?’

  Binkhorst leaned forward. He said: ‘If you’re trying to say I done that murder, you’re wrong. See?’

  Masters said gently: ‘I wasn’t trying to say anything of the sort. I merely wanted to know if you’d seen anybody or anything in Church Walk.’

  Binkhorst said nothing. Again Masters thought the silence told him a lot. He thought a man who had seen nothing would have said so. Suddenly he felt weary. Somewhere a chiming clock sounded midnight. He looked at Binkhorst as though he was going to continue the questions. He thought better of it. Instead, he said: ‘What time’s breakfast? About half past eight?’

  Binkhorst nodded.

  Masters said good night.

  Binkhorst didn’t reply.

  As he went upstairs, Masters thought that the omission was a strange one in any mine host. In Binkhorst it might be indicative or significant or . . . he felt too tired to decide.

  Chapter Three

  Green was bad-tempered at breakfast time. Masters said: ‘We didn’t have a word together last night. Did you learn anything before I came into the saloon bar?’

  ‘Nothing. I chatted them up, but I might as well have saved my breath to cool my porridge.’ It was a reaction against his own failure, and Masters knew it.

  ‘How did the girl look?’

  ‘A bit tired.’

  ‘Not ill?’

  ‘Perhaps she was. She kept well away from me.’

  ‘On purpose? I mean, was she deliberately trying to avoid you? Or is she just a reticent type?’

  ‘Nobody said in my hearing that she wasn’t her usual self, so I took it she was acting normally.’

  Masters got to his feet. ‘I’m going to the station. Meet me there when you’re ready.’ He went from the dining-room into the tiny hall. He was putting his coat on when Mrs Binkhorst came down the stairs with a young man wearing a duffle coat and carrying a small black case. Mrs Binkhorst was obviously not intending to introduce the newcomer, so Masters said: ‘You’re carrying a night bag, so I imagine you’ll be Dr Peter Barnfelt.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Masters introduced himself. Barnfelt was as unlike his father as it was possible for a son to be. Big and fair. The high cheekbones gave a strong look. The hair waved above the ears, giving an impression of photogenic quality. Under the duffle coat he wore a green roll-neck sweater and grey flannels, with fur-lined Chelsea boots in unbrushed pigskin. The hands were so large and capable the night bag appeared to have no weight. The eyes were tired—perhaps worried—and shrewd. Almost wary, Masters thought.

  Barnfelt said: ‘I’m pleased to have met you, but I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘You’ve been visiting Miss Binkhorst?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of discussing my patients with other people, let alone strangers—and policemen at that.’

  Masters stood to one side. He thought here was another one that wasn’t overjoyed at his presence. Just for a moment he thought of them as fools for giving away so much so easily. Then he remembered that this was how he learned a lot of what he wanted to know. Barnfelt brushed past him, told Mrs Binkhorst that he would call again and went.

  Masters turned to Mrs Binkhorst. ‘Has your daughter caught flu? There’s a lot of it about, I hear.’

  ‘She has a cold.’

  It sounded like an excuse. He said: ‘You asked a doctor to call so early in the day for a simple cold? And he’s coming back again? You do get good service in Rooksby-le-Soken.’

  Mrs Binkhorst looked at him angrily. Her dark eyes glittered. He thought it must be hate. He wondered why. More cause for speculation. He’d never encountered so close a community before. Were they all inimical towards him? The protective herd instinct of the natives? He knew this wasn’t true. He’d been treated civilly and openly enough in the saloon bar the night before. Had he, then, been lucky enough to find himself immediately in the midst of the few inhabitants among whom he would find his murderer?

  There was no answer he could give himself. He walked the half diagonal across the square from the inn to the police station. Crome was sorting the post. He stood
up when Masters went in, and said: ‘The Superintendent phoned to say he wouldn’t be in Rooksby today, sir. That is, unless you want him for anything.’

  ‘I’d rather have your specialized local knowledge.’

  ‘Mine, sir?’ Masters didn’t quite know whether the lad was slow on the uptake or overwhelmed by his presence and the prospect of helping the Yard team in some way, however small.

  ‘Yes. Yours. You know most people here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then sit down and tell me about the Parseloe family. I’ve heard he was a widower with two daughters.’

  ‘That’s right. Pamela who’s away teaching in Peterborough, but who got back again last night, and Cora who’s at home.’

  ‘Cora’s the younger one who isn’t very bright?’

  Crome flushed. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, it’s a damn shame about her. It’s true she isn’t very clever and she’s not very pretty, but she’s not all that daft. The vicar and his wife just made it an excuse to keep her at home in the vicarage and use her as a skivvy. They couldn’t get a maid, or couldn’t afford one. I don’t know which. So they used Cora. She did all the dirty, heavy work and they never let her out. Like a prisoner, she was.’

  Masters’ opinion of Parseloe, already low, slumped even further. As so often happened in murder cases, he began to feel that whoever had seen off the victim had done the community a favour. He felt Crome was telling him the truth. He asked: ‘When did Mrs Parseloe die?’

  ‘About three years ago, sir.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. But she was a skrimpy old besom. Nosy old cat. If you ask me I reckon she died through not feeding herself. A pair of kippers between the three of them for a night time and calling it dinner. That was her sort.’

  ‘And she treated her daughter as a servant?’

  ‘No servant would have put up with her for five minutes. She was worse than old Gobby himself, sir. She had ideas, that one. Tried to be one of the nobs. D’you know, I’ll bet they never gave Cora a bean of pocket money.’