Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  Masters said: ‘If they never let her out, how do you know all this?’

  ‘It’s my patch, sir.’ There was a wealth of meaning in this. No further explanation was needed, but Crome went on: ‘You couldn’t help but notice. That Pamela one was always out flighting around. Of course, Cora did manage to get out now and again, but when I’ve seen her and spoken to her it was mostly over the vicarage gate. She used to stand there sometimes. Hoping somebody would talk to her, I reckon. Or to see the kids coming out of the old school. Some of ’em were a bit rude to her at times, so I used to make a point of being there sometimes about a quarter to four. You should have seen her hands, sir. You could tell she did all the washing up and dirty chores. A real shame because, as I say, I don’t reckon she’s half as bad as all that.’

  Masters looked at his watch. There was no sign of Green yet. The sergeants had gone to the school to search outside. Masters knew this would be a fruitless task, but it was one he mustn’t neglect. Crome broke the silence. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir, or Nescaff?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He began to fill his pipe. He offered the Warlock Flake to Crome who said he never smoked anything but No. 6’s. Masters was thinking back. Something Crome had said was niggling him. It took him several minutes to recall it. Then he said: ‘When we were talking about the elder daughter you mentioned that she got back again last night. Who informed her that her father was dead?’

  ‘The Super, sir.’

  ‘And what did you mean when you said she had got back again? Had she been here recently?’

  ‘She only went away on Sunday, sir.’

  ‘She was here for the weekend?’

  ‘For over a fortnight. She came home with a dose of that forty-eight hour flu everybody’s been having.’

  ‘And stayed a fortnight recuperating?’

  ‘That’s about the strength of it, sir.’

  ‘What time did she go on Sunday?’

  ‘Must have been on the quarter to seven train, sir. There isn’t another.’

  ‘But you’re not sure of that?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I saw her at six o’clock near enough, standing with her case at the corner of Church Walk.’

  ‘What sort of a girl is she?’

  ‘Man mad if you ask me, sir.’

  ‘I am asking you.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s no secret. She’s not a bad looker, and of course she speaks proper an’ that sort of thing, but she’s never managed to keep a reg’lar man of her own as far as I know. Her specialty is running other girls off.’

  Masters said: ‘What on earth does that mean?’

  ‘Well, sir. This Pamela comes home for all those holidays teachers get. And while she’s here she gets her eye on some young chap that’s already courting, and she grabs him. How she manages it I don’t know, but she does. And she don’t care what happens. There’s been several she’s made a fool of. Then of course they’ve quarrelled with their girls about it, and as soon as that’s happened, as like as not my lady Pamela ’ud be back off to Peterborough, leaving the lad high an’ dry and the lass down an’ wet through crying her eyes out. I’ve seen it happen a few times.’

  ‘And while she was home on sick leave?’

  ‘She got about a bit. The flu didn’t keep her indoors for long.’

  ‘You saw her?’

  ‘Several times. Of course she was here for the Christmas holiday until nearly half-way through January. She’d only been away for about ten days when she was back again. If you ask me she intended it that way. Probably had a bit of unfinished business left over from Christmas.’

  ‘When you saw her, who was she with?’

  ‘D’you know, sir, the funny thing is that every time I’ve clapped eyes on her since Christmas she was alone. And that’s very funny, ’cos it wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. It’ll make you think I’ve been giving you a lot of old bull.’

  Masters smiled. ‘No it won’t, lad. It’s amazing how often these little oddities crop up. You’ve helped a lot. And as Inspector Green isn’t here yet, I’ll have that cup of tea now.’

  Green came in five minutes later. He said: ‘It must have been that roast pork I ate last night. I was hasty taken. Had to sit there for nearly a quarter of an hour before I dared move.’ Masters made no comment. Green had all the ability of the old sweat when it came to demonstrating that he wasn’t completely at Masters’ beck and call. He showed his independence by resorting to a variety of dodges mighty difficult to disprove. Masters couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.

  Green drank a cup of tea noisily, put his cup down and said: ‘Now what? Are you going to look for that bullet or projectile or whatever it was?’

  Masters said: ‘The sergeants are searching the school.’

  ‘That’s where we should be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’ll never get anywhere until we know what shot him.’

  ‘We’ll get round to it. Just at the moment there are several other jobs. First of all, the keys to the school. I’d like to know how many there are, who keeps them, whether the builders locked up properly and so on. I’d like you to tackle that end.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m going to the vicarage. After that I’m not quite sure what I’ll be doing, but I’ll aim to get back here at twelve.’

  *

  The vicarage garden was neglected. The beds were untidy. The brown stalks of the autumn chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies straggled over the unkept grass. Dead leaves sheltered in wind-blown drifts wherever protection was afforded by tree trunks or the edges of the drive. The house itself needed paint. Blotched mossy streaks on the fabric showed where gutters leaked or were blocked. The curtains were drab or sagging. It was an unloved, unlovely home. Masters pressed the bell. He found himself faintly surprised that it worked. He could hear a distant tinkle.

  He guessed it was Pamela Parseloe who answered. She was long-legged in nylon tights under a green mini-skirt. At least he guessed they were tights. If they weren’t she wouldn’t be decent when she sat down. He appreciated the legs. They were firm and well shaped. The green sweater emphasized the figure, small but good. The hair long and dark, slightly wavy. It was the face that didn’t appeal. The mouth was petulant, but not full lipped. The nose too short, so that the tip, rather too sharp pointed, was high above the nostrils. The eyes were small but bold. The sort that could be used at will to give a red light or a green one according to mood. The forehead was, surprisingly, well shaped. The voice dictatorial. She said, quite bluntly: ‘Who are you?’

  He told her, and asked to speak with the two of them. She let him in, as he thought, rather reluctantly. The house was poorly furnished. But in what had been the late vicar’s study, a peat fire burned. Masters looked round him. He guessed that the study had doubled as general living-room. There was the debris of communal life around—papers, knitting, books, an open box of Black Magic on the mantelpiece, a grubby coal glove hanging from a fire tidy. The chairs were odd and old, with a few rather brash scatter cushions dotted about. The carpet thin in places. Pamela said: ‘As you can see, I’m sorting my father’s papers.’

  He sympathized with her. He thought she was about twenty-four and whatever her character, her job in the present circumstances was an unpleasant one. He said: ‘Is there anything I can do? Or is there an executor to be contacted?’

  She replied: ‘I can manage, thank you. What was it you wished to speak to me about?’

  He said: ‘Miss Parseloe, when somebody like your father meets with sudden death, it has to be investigated. And an obvious part of that investigation must be a talk with the closest relatives. I should be grateful if you would kindly sit down, listen, and answer questions.’

  She flounced into a chair. It confirmed she was wearing tights.

  He said: ‘You were here in Rooksby until Sunday evening, I believe. Did you leave by the quarter to seven train?’

  ‘Yes.’

&n
bsp; ‘Thank you. So you were in Peterborough from eight o’clock onwards?’

  ‘Yes. What are you trying to discover?’

  ‘Your whereabouts at the time of your father’s death. Could I please have your address in Peterborough?’

  ‘Why? So that you can check up on me?’

  ‘If necessary. We try to be thorough. Elimination is as important a part of detection as anything else.’

  She gave the address, unwillingly, he thought. He knew he could have got it from Nicholson, but he wanted the reaction. He was pleased with what he got.

  ‘Now, Miss Parseloe, you left the house just before six, I believe.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You were seen. The station is more than a mile from here. How did you get there?’

  ‘By car.’

  ‘Whose car?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was given a lift.’

  ‘You’d intended to walk to the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With a suitcase?’

  She knew she had made a mistake. Her lips pursed angrily. Masters went on: ‘The vicar had a car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have run you to the station?’

  ‘On a Sunday night?’

  ‘I can’t think why not, at six o’clock. His service wasn’t until half past. He could quite comfortably have taken you to the Halt and been back here by a quarter past.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him.’

  He thought that this, at least, had the ring of truth about it. Parseloe, according to reports, might have charged her a taxi fee.

  He changed tactics. ‘Who were your father’s enemies?’

  She laughed. It was a harsh, mirthless sound. ‘Who wasn’t his enemy?’

  ‘You mean he was universally unpopular in Rooksby?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Who disliked him more than any of the others?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. He never paid for anything if he could avoid it. He had a devious mind and stooped to the meanest and dirtiest tricks to gain his own ends. He’d do anybody down for money—including me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if he’d been a rich man he’d have been a miser. As it was, he could get no higher than this very poor living. So he was practically penniless. And that made him crave for money all the more.’

  ‘But as a parson . . .’

  ‘Parsons are human, just like everybody else. Dad thought people should respect him just because he was the vicar. He didn’t realize that respect has to be earned—or bought. And he did neither. He thought traders should be content to wait for their money for a long time—perhaps for ever—if the debtor was the vicar. The people of Rooksby aren’t like that. They’re hard-headed. Simple serpents fits them admirably. They wouldn’t wait for money from Father Peter himself.’

  Masters asked if he might smoke. She nodded. He said: ‘I understand why your father was unpopular, but you still haven’t answered my question. Given me definite names.’

  ‘I don’t think I can unless . . . No, no, I’m sure I can’t. You must remember I’ve been away from Rooksby for six and a half years.’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘I was going to suggest the ironmonger.’

  ‘Perce?’

  ‘Yes. You know him?’

  ‘We’ve met. But why Perce?’

  ‘Because we had to have new gates. The old ones were broken and mother insisted on gates that would lock because . . . well, anyhow, she said the gates ought to lock.’

  ‘Because of your sister?’

  She was angry. ‘You know a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Only what I’m told. But go on, please. Perce and the gates.’

  ‘Mother ordered them from Perce, and then Dad cancelled the order. But Perce had had the gates specially made by then.’

  ‘What caused him to change his mind?’

  ‘When he heard the price—and I can tell you it was little enough for double iron gates—he looked around for some other way of paying. He found one. He heard the Urban District wanted to widen the main road. He offered them three feet off the garden in return for rebuilding the wall and gates. They agreed—as long as Dad agreed they could use the old bricks. He did. Heaven knows what would have happened if the Council hadn’t eventually bought the gates from Perce and used them just as mother intended. But I know that Perce vowed vengeance then, and was still doing so as recently as Christmas.’

  Masters felt sickened. That a daughter should be able to recount a story like this of her own parents. He wondered whether it could possibly be true. Instinctively he mistrusted Pamela Parseloe. Why should he believe her story? Then he remembered the night before and Jan Wessel’s account of the vicar’s financial dealings. He said: ‘Thank you. Any other person you can think of with a special grudge against your father?’

  ‘Nobody.’ She said it with a toss of the head. He knew she’d made up her mind minutes ago. It would be useless to go on. He said: ‘I’d like a word with your sister.’

  As he expected, she objected. Masters insisted. He followed her through to the kitchen. Cora was washing clothes, using an old dolly tub and wringer. There were none of the modern refinements. Masters wondered how Parseloe had managed to spend what little stipend he did get. According to reports he didn’t buy much food; his rates were paid for him, no doubt, as is customary; the house had apparently had nothing new in it since the year dot; and as for Cora’s clothes! Even though he was not as expert at women’s clothes as he was at men’s, nevertheless Masters could tell whether a garment fitted. Cora’s fitted—in the places where they touched. It was obvious to Masters that these were her mother’s old garments, cobbled to make do for her by an inexpert hand. The colour, material and style were all wrong for a young woman. It would take expert dressing to make the best of Cora’s lumpy figure, but at least she could have been given bright colours and young styles. Her sister spoke to her: ‘This is a policeman. He’s come to speak to you about Dad.’

  Cora wiped her hands on a none-too-clean tea towel over the back of a chair, and turned to look at Masters. He thought she must suffer from slight infantilism. No more. He doubted whether she was even severely E.S.N. The eyes were too bright, and though not full of intelligence, showed a kindliness entirely lacking in her sister’s. Her hair was a little coarse. He wondered if a regimen of iodine might not do her good. Whether her parents had ever consulted a doctor about her.

  She said: ‘Please sit down. Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you, but Constable Crome, the young policeman who sometimes spoke to you at the gate, made me one at the police station.’

  ‘Did he? He’s a nice man. I shall be sorry not to see him again.’

  ‘Are you going away?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The new vicar will want this house. I’m washing things so that we can pack them, aren’t I, Pam?’

  ‘Don’t go on talking,’ said Pamela. ‘Listen to the policeman.’

  Masters neither liked the way she referred to him nor the way she addressed her sister. He said: ‘You take your time, Miss Cora. I don’t mind waiting. Why don’t we all sit down?’

  They did so. Pamela with an angry movement. Cora settled herself quite gently, with her hands in her lap. She looked at him steadily. He asked: ‘Can you tell me when you last saw your father, Miss Cora?’

  ‘It was at teatime on Sunday. We had toast and Marmite, didn’t we, Pam? And a cake. A dripping cake I’d made. It was nice and crumbly. Do you like dripping cake?’

  Masters said: ‘Is it like lardy cake?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s not greasy like the lardy cake Mrs Longman makes. She’s the lady who washes the altar linen and Dad’s surplices, and she sometimes brings me lardy cake or sultana buns. She’s a very good cook. She comes from Yorkshire. But our dripping cake is like a nice, crumbly sort of rock cake. Very nice. I like it.’

  Masters was pleased at her acceptance of him and t
he way she spoke. He decided she was nothing worse than artless. A natural. Unsophisticated. Not foolish or ignorant. So much better than he had feared, even though Crome—himself an ingenuous person—had recognized and tried to explain that she was simple-hearted more than simple-minded. He felt, rather than saw, that Pamela was tense: alarmed at what Cora might say. It was a pointer that there may be something to hide: substantiation of the fact that Pamela had not told him the truth about her journey to the Halt on Sunday. Or so he felt. And it pleased him that Pamela had to sit by, with ants in her tights, not daring to prompt her sister. Although he would be just as happy if she were to intervene. It would almost certainly give him another lead. He decided to angle for it.

  ‘I must try dripping cake, sometime,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if you make some more and I’m still in Rooksby you’ll remember to save me a piece.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Fine. Now, Miss Cora. Did your father go out straight after tea?’

  ‘Pam and Dad went out while I was washing up.’

  ‘Who went first?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t they come to say goodbye to you?’

  ‘Oh, no. Nobody ever says goodbye to me—except Mrs Longman when she calls. She’s nice.’

  He turned to Pamela. ‘Who left the house first? You or your father?’ He sounded brusque. The thought of their lack of courtesy to Cora had riled him. He didn’t really care who had left first. But he asked, just the same.

  ‘I think Dad did.’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘I couldn’t find him to say I was going. He may have gone over to the church early.’

  ‘More than half an hour before the service was due to start?’

  Cora said: ‘He always went over ten minutes before.’

  Pamela glanced furiously at Cora. Cora didn’t notice. She sat watching Masters. Fascinated by him. He guessed there had been few men in her life and there was an animal urge within her to be friendly towards any who were kind. Like Crome and—he supposed—himself.

  He said to Pamela: ‘Probably you didn’t attempt to say goodbye to your father, either.’