Barnfelt joined him. ‘Yes. It’s Peter’s. He’s an ardent railway fan. He builds his own scale models of old steam locos. He put the track up a couple of years ago, but he usually runs his locos at the club track. It’s much longer. Right round a large meadow. Gives him a better chance to perform. Lots of intelligent men play at being engine drivers, you know.’
‘Why not? But building working scale models must call for a high degree of skill and money.’
‘Skill? I should have said interest and application. Peter has never been anything but devoted to medicine ever since he was a little boy. But railways have always been his hobby. And as for money, he regards his hobby as something of an investment. I believe he builds an engine for about three hundred pounds, and can sell it for nearly a thousand. So you see it’s not really an expensive pastime, is it? More of a therapy, really. I believe he keeps it up for the rest and relaxation he thinks a doctor should have if he is to do his best for his patients at all times. He’s got a small workshop in the basement.’ Barnfelt turned to help his wife as she came in with the tray. ‘Peter hasn’t done much work down there these last few weeks. The flu epidemic has kept him too busy.’
Mrs Barnfelt said complacently: ‘And the weather’s been against him, dear. It’s too wet and windy outside, and the cellar’s very cold.’ She poured tea from an old-fashioned silver pot. Masters enjoyed himself. He realized time was slipping by, but he felt he couldn’t rush away. He hoped Barnfelt would enlist his wife’s help with Cora. Before he left, this had happened. Mrs Barnfelt had said she would see what she could do for the ‘poor love’.
Although Masters was feeling happier about Cora as he returned to the police station, there was a niggle at the back of his mind. He couldn’t focus it: bring it out into the open to examine it. All he knew was that he felt it to be important. The darkness was coming down and Rooksby looked at its uninviting worst. Much the same as when he had arrived, twenty-four hours earlier. That didn’t help his thoughts. In the office he found Constable Vanden, whom he had not met before. He said to him: ‘Were you out on Sunday evening?’
‘Six to ten, sir. I was a minute or so late, actually. I didn’t relieve Constable Crome until just after six at the crossroads. There was a phone call. Lost dog. It held me up.’
Masters took an easy chair. He liked Senior Constable Vanden. His dark hair was cropped so short it showed his scalp strangely white. His full face was brown. The mouth and jaw slightly twisted. The eyes deep set and—Masters thought—sincere. The figure was well made: broad shoulders and slim hips. The uniform was well pressed and the boots highly polished. He carried himself very straight. Masters said: ‘Have a chair. I want to talk.’
Vanden sat to attention.
Masters said: ‘There were some rum goings on in Rooksby on Sunday evening. And I don’t mean the murder.’
‘There’s rum goings on most nights, sir. But Sunday! It was pretty cold for many of the young ’uns to be up to their tricks in dark corners that night, sir. A few cars about, of course. A few people going to church and chapel early on, but no shennanigan, if you get my meaning, sir. Not that I saw, anyway, and I got round the whole patch.’
‘Think back to the cars you saw. In fact, write down every one you can remember seeing—with occupants if possible. Go on. I’ll give you ten minutes.’
Vanden went round the table and pulled paper out of a drawer. Masters filled his pipe. Vanden wrote laboriously. The crooked jaw set hard. But he didn’t stop until he’d finally finished. He handed the sheet to Masters who refused it. ‘Keep it in front of you.’ Vanden sat down again, wondering what sort of an exercise this was. Masters continued: ‘Now tell me if any of these cars I mention are on your list. Ready?’
Vanden nodded. Masters said: ‘Miss Binkhorst’s Mini.’
Vanden said: ‘Red Mini. Owner Miss Binkhorst. Seen coming in past the new school at approximately six ten. Seen twice later, parked without lights near the junction of Glebe Road and Bowling Lane on site of old pound. Time 8.20 or thereabouts. Owner sitting alone inside, smoking. Again at 9.30 parked with lights just near vicarage gates in Church Lane. Owner in vehicle.’ Vanden looked up, tacitly asking for the next question, as if this sort of enquiry went on every afternoon in Rooksby.
Masters said: ‘Well done. I’ve noted that. Now, what about Mr Binkhorst’s car?’
‘On Sunday night, sir? I didn’t see it. Are you sure he was out, sir? It wouldn’t be usual.’
‘He was out in the last hour of your time on duty.’
‘Sorry, sir. He must have slipped along roads where I wasn’t. It’s very difficult keeping track of everything with just one pair of eyes.’
‘I’m not blaming you. In fact, don’t bemoan the fact that you didn’t see him. Learn from this, lad. It’s sometimes nearly as useful not to see—or you should try to make it so. You didn’t see him at point A at such and such a time, therefore you know he was somewhere else. You didn’t see his car in the village over a period of an hour’s patrolling, therefore I’m likely to be right in assuming, for the moment, that he wasn’t in the village, but outside it somewhere.’
Vanden perked up visibly. He sat even straighter in his chair. Masters said: ‘What about Dr Peter Barnfelt’s car?’
Vanden ran his finger down the list. ‘You can’t miss that one, sir. It’s a white Triumph coupé G.T.6. Unsuitable for a doctor, I always think, but just right for a young man like Dr Peter. Handy for carrying the girls about, and they like it. A bit racy, I suppose.’
Masters said: ‘You’re referring to Miss Barrett, I expect.’
Vanden pursed his lips. ‘Used to be, sir. But not lately. In fact, I’ve seen him with another bird a time or two. A dark one.’
‘And Miss Barrett is fair?’
‘Real, genuine blonde.’
‘Who was the dark girl?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘What d’you mean by that? That the girl was unknown to you? Not one of the village girls?’
‘She may have been, and then again she mayn’t. What I mean, sir, is that I never saw her face. It’s difficult at night to see into one of those little cars through one of those let-down hoods, specially as young Dr Peter usually roars past like a bat out of hell. It’s just an impression you get of two people in the car. A head scarf or a smudge of white face.’
Masters said: ‘I know.’
‘Course, it’s different in the summer, sir. With the hood down and the wind blowing the hair away from a girl’s face. You get a good view then.’
Masters said: ‘But in spite of it being winter now, you’re pretty sure it wasn’t April Barrett?’
‘Absolutely, sir. I’ll swear it was a dark girl, not a blonde. And I’ve seen the car go past with this girl in it and seen the Barrett girl standing on the pavement looking after it. An’ if you asked me, sir, I’d say she didn’t like it.’
‘You mean April Barrett used to come into Rooksby to see what Dr Barnfelt was up to?’
‘I’m not saying that, sir. All I know is I’ve seen her standing around the village a bit more these last few weeks than I ever saw her before. An’ she was never with Dr Peter. For long enough before that I never saw her without him. I reckon they’ve had a bust up, those two.’
Masters thought for a few moments and then said: ‘Where did you most often see Miss Barrett standing?’
‘Sometimes at the crossroads.’
‘Near the Co-op?’
‘That’s right, sir. Two or three times there, and once or twice at the end of Perry Lane.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You wouldn’t know, sir, but there’s an electric sub station . . .’
‘I remember. That’s not far from the doctor’s house.’
‘Quite right, sir. You can’t see the front of the house from there, but you can see down the ramp into the doctor’s garage.’
‘Then it does look as though Miss Barrett was keeping an eye on her young man, doesn’t it
?’
‘She must have got it bad, sir.’
‘I suppose so. But let’s not waste any more time on April Barrett. Where did you see young Barnfelt’s Triumph?’
‘Coming in from the south just after eight, sir.’
‘From the Peterborough way?’
‘That’s right. Then I saw it on the garage ramp at the house half an hour later. It wasn’t run into the garage.’
‘That was all?’
‘Well, sir, I didn’t actually see it again, but I heard it about ten minutes after that. I can tell its note, if you know what I mean, sir. He’s added twin big-bore copper tail pipes and lord knows what else, so that it’s unmistakable round here.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘North, I think, sir. I reckon I heard him back out on to the road and then shoot off along Hunters’ Crescent. That curves round into the main road a hundred yards along. If he’d wanted to come south he’d have come towards me.’
Masters said thoughtfully: ‘I see.’
‘I know it sounds a bit of a muddle, sir, but . . .’
‘No, no. It’s fine. Any idea where he could have been going?’
‘To a case, I reckon, sir.’
‘He was off duty on Sunday night.’
‘Then I dunno, sir. But there’s a roadhouse that’s a favourite with him about four miles out, side slip off the new bypass. He’s often there, I hear. I could ask about Sunday, if you like.’
Masters thought for a moment and then told Vanden not to make enquiries at the roadhouse. But he asked for its name—the Nutmeg Tree.
*
Green visited the vicarage. He grimaced at the sight of it. Cora let him in. He asked for Pamela. She had gone out without letting her sister know where she was going. He said to Cora: ‘Did the vicar have a key to the school?’
‘Did nice Mr Masters send you?’
He gulped back an angry retort. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I can tell you. He used to keep it in the middle drawer of the desk, but it’s not there now.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘You can come in and look.’
She showed him into the study. He was by her side when she pulled open the drawer. The key was there, lying apart from the other articles, which had been tidied up. Paper clips, old ball-points, rubber bands and adhesive tape. All tidy. The key sitting alone. Cora said: ‘That’s funny. It wasn’t there this morning. I tidied this drawer to help Pam. I told her it wasn’t here and asked her if she’d got it and she said no. She must have found it later.’
Green said: ‘That’s about the size of it. Do you mind if I take it?’ Before she could answer he picked it up. ‘Well, Miss Parseloe, I won’t keep you. I expect you’re having lots of callers today.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘No?’
‘Only Mr Masters and Dr Barnfelt to see Pam. And you, of course.’
‘I see. P’raps it’s just as well you’re not being kept too busy answering the door. Tidying up’s hard work. So I’ll say goodbye.’
Green was thoughtful. He’d objected to this key lark, but even he had to admit that Masters didn’t often get fanciful ideas. The verger’s key had been taken. Now it appeared that the vicar’s key had at any rate been mislaid. Perhaps that was why the vicar had taken the verger’s key. But it was unlikely that his own could have gone far astray in the two or three days since the builders had borrowed it. He wondered how this knowledge would help. He was still wondering when, following the directions given him by Hutson in the morning, he reached Baron’s house. He found it easily enough. One of the few houses in the High Street with a front garden, alongside which ran the eight-foot leading to the open gates of the mason’s yard. Chunks of marble and granite, grey, white, black and red: ‘In Remembrance’ pots squatting under lids perforated to hold flowers: a few curbed gravestones lined with marble chips. Green wondered what it was like to live so near to the outward reminders of death. He supposed people got used to it. He didn’t think he would.
A woman of about forty-five opened the door. She was plump and fair, with large, pale blue eyes and a smile that Green appreciated. She smiled at him even before she spoke. He wondered why, and then realized she probably smiled at everybody. She was that sort. He thought every headmaster would be wise to pick one like her. She had an apron on. Green liked it because it was not the usual rectangular sort, but a frilly affair, triangular, with the apex at the top. Clean and crisp. Like the white blouse under the blue cardigan. Her legs and feet were neat. Green thought she was quite a dish—the best he’d seen in Rooksby to date. He said: ‘I’m Detective Inspector Green. I wonder if I could see Mr Baron?’
She said: ‘He’s not back from school yet. But I’m expecting him any time after four. Would you like to wait?’
He followed her in. There was a smell of smoked haddock cooking. He guessed it was for Baron’s tea. Green sniffed appreciatively. He liked smoked fillets, kippers and bloaters. Thought them some of God’s better inventions. Thought Mrs Baron must be a good wife to cater so tastily for her husband’s appetite. She showed him into the sitting-room of the front-middle-and-back and switched on a convector. She said: ‘I expect it’s about the vicar?’
Green said: ‘I’m checking up on keys to the school. I understand your husband has one.’
She said: ‘There now! If I’ve asked him to return that key once, I’ve asked him a dozen times. But would he do it? No. Always the same excuse. He could never see Hutson.’
‘Why Hutson? Why not the vicar?’
‘Jim wouldn’t have returned a brass farthing to the vicar these last six months.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
She seemed to realize she’d said more than enough. Appeared anxious to get him out of the house. ‘Is it just the key you want?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll get it for you.’
She was away for some minutes and then returned. He thought she looked more bedworthy than ever when flustered. ‘It’s not there.’
‘Where?’
‘In the little drawer in the dressing-table. It’s been there ever since Christmas.’
‘Perhaps your husband moved it.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere. It’s gone.’ She saw the gravity of his heavy features. She said: ‘Oh, my God. What does this mean?’
‘Probably nothing. Let’s hope so. But remember a murderer got into the school and somehow managed to unlock and lock a classroom door without doing any damage.’
‘You mean he had a key.’ It was a quiet, despairing statement. Green nodded. She asked: ‘How many keys were there?’
‘Three other masters. The builders, Hutson and the vicar each had one besides your husband. Now don’t get upset. There may be a simple explanation for its disappearance.’
She sighed, and sat down opposite him. He noticed she sat with her knees and feet neatly together. She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I do wish Jim would hurry up.’
Green offered her a Kensitas: lit them both. He said: ‘Don’t let the fish burn, will you?’
‘It’s cooking very slowly. Oh, I’m forgetting. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea.’ She left him before he could reply. He liked the memory of her back view, too. He’d always thought of headmasters’ wives as nosy old bags. Now he was altering his opinion. She was back inside two minutes with a butler’s tray which he opened and set up for her. He stood so close to her he could smell the faint fresh odour of baby soap. He’d never believed grown women used it. But this baby did. And very nice, too, he thought.
The tea was strong. He liked it like that. He’d had two cups before Jim Baron’s key was heard in the door. She called: ‘In here, darling.’ He came in with a handful of books: dropped them in a chair. She said: ‘This is Inspector Green, Jim. He’s come for your key to the school, but I can’t find it.’
He kissed her and said: ‘I’ve got it here.’ He took it from his jacket pocket. Green studied him. Balding slightly, with a dark widow’s pe
ak. Clear grey eyes. Slight jowls, giving an ugly strength to a jaw already faintly stubbled. Dark sports jacket and trousers. Blue shirt. Brown shoes. Hands clean and well manicured with a whiteness of chalk dust round the cuticles. Green said: ‘Why are you carrying it with you?’
‘To return it to Hutson, the verger.’
‘When?’
‘If I’d seen him I’d have given it to him today.’
‘You’ve had it for a couple of months. Why take it out today?’
His wife handed Baron a cup of tea. She smiled nervously.
‘I thought I’d better give it back, and then decided to keep it.’
‘Why?’
He set down the cup and lit a cigarette. ‘In view of what happened in the school on Sunday night. I’m not a fool. I knew the police would make enquiries about the keys.’
‘And your first thought was to get rid of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘But on second thoughts you decided to hang on to it. Why? Because you thought it would look fishy, off-loading so soon after the event?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Why don’t you tell me why you and the vicar didn’t get on these last few months?’
Mrs Baron said: ‘Oh, that’s not fair. You asked me . . .’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m not here to trap your husband. But somebody got hold of a key to the school on Sunday.’
‘The vicar had one himself,’ Baron said. ‘Couldn’t he have let the murderer in?’
‘He could have. But the murderer couldn’t have locked the door behind him, leaving the vicar’s key in his cassock pocket, could he?’
‘Oh, my God. Tell him your key was still here, Jim.’
‘It was. In the dressing-table drawer.’
Green said: ‘Fair enough. Now tell me why it was there and not returned as it should have been.’
‘Pure laziness on my part. Nothing more.’
‘But you weren’t very friendly with the vicar.’
‘Tell him, Jim. Don’t make a mystery of it. Tell him about the rotten way you were treated.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 29