Baron said: ‘Is it any business of yours?’
Masters looked at him squarely. Thought he sounded like one of those permissive tutors who regard the police as Establishment bullies. ‘I think so. Just as your hanging on to a school key is my business in the present circumstances. If the information about Maria is of no help to me, I shall forget it soon enough. Just as I’ll forget you have—or had—a strong motive against the vicar, kept a key, and haven’t accounted for your actions on Sunday evening.’
Baron flushed. ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’
‘If I were, you wouldn’t be here. All I’m pointing out to you—as vividly and personally as possible—is that some sort of case could be made out against many innocent parties. My job is to find the guilty party. Nothing more. But to do it—to make absolutely sure—I have to poke my nose into lots of private holes and corners. In the interests of justice. And at this particular moment I want to learn more about Maria. Shall I tell you why? She was driving round Rooksby on Sunday evening, and her father, too. Now, according to my information, Maria often goes out on a Sunday—but always to the pictures. Because of this, her father never reckons to leave the bar on Sundays. These are just two odd facts I have nosed out. In fairness to everybody—including yourself—who may be implicated in the case, I must try to find an explanation for these unusual happenings. Now, when I hear of a young and personable girl trundling around in the dark, I immediately think she’s involved—perfectly innocently—with a man. If I hear her father has chased her, I suspect it’s because he knows and doesn’t approve of the man in question. But I must try to make sure I’m right. The easiest way is to ask somebody what the girl’s reactions to men are. If she hates them like poison, then I’m probably off net in thinking she went out to meet one.’ He spread his hands. ‘I could go on like this for hours. What I ask is my business, Mr Baron, and it’s probably in the girl’s best interests, too. I like to think so.’
Baron looked shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t looked at the problem from your point of view.’
Masters, thanking heaven Baron had swallowed his story, said mildly: ‘Why should you? I wouldn’t understand the philosophy of teaching a child to read.’
‘So Binkhorst and Maria are under suspicion?’ Beck said.
‘In so far as they’re not accounted for on Sunday evening. So’s Mr Baron. So are you, until you’re cleared. There are two thousand possible suspects in Rooksby alone. Naturally we rule out children and elderly women—at first—unless we’ve reason to think otherwise. But why should I suspect Mr Baron more than Joe Bloggs? I mustn’t. I can’t. Until I know Joe Bloggs is innocent. And the easiest way of proving any man innocent is to prove another guilty. Sorry, but that’s the way it is in a case like this where the victim seems to have been everyman’s enemy.’
Masters was beginning to get tired of explanations. He tried not to show it. He had deliberately suggested this meeting so that he could gather informed gossip. Use it to get the atmosphere of Rooksby and its inhabitants. The milieu, the ambience of a crime always helped him. The customers in the public bar had their value, but they were more clannish. More mistrustful of outners. They would give just so much away, then no more. He wanted these people to talk.
Baron said: ‘I taught Maria.’
‘A Catholic in a C of E school. Did she feel out of it?’
‘I was only a young teacher at the time—not the headmaster—but we tried to make sure she didn’t.’
‘But she did a bit?’
‘It was inevitable. We had more than our fair share of Parseloe’s visits.’
‘Was she a good girl? Well behaved?’
‘Extremely. We saw to that in school, and mama saw to it outside.’
‘A bit of a dragon?’
‘No. Nothing like that. But she made a fool of the kid. Always had her so well dressed she was frightened of getting dirty or tearing her clothes. And Gina toted her around. Took her on shopping expeditions instead of letting her play with the other kids.’
Wessel said: ‘Gina was scared stiff some undesirable character would get her.’
Masters said: ‘I understand you have an unenviable reputation for early, shot-gun marriages here in Rooksby.’
Beck said: ‘All these little isolated communities have. And if you were to trace the histories of the inhabitants you’d find practically everybody is related to everybody else. Why there aren’t more batties born in Rooksby beats me.’
Masters said: ‘Promiscuity and fecundity seem to take the place of inbred weaknesses. No wonder Mrs Binkhorst worked hard to keep her daughter clear of trouble. She succeeded, too.’
Baron said: ‘She packed Maria off to a Convent School when she was eleven. Travelled every day by bus from the market place here.’
‘Was she a clever girl?’
‘So, so. She got one or two O levels. Not academic ones. Her mother insisted on cultivating the wifely virtues, Italian style. Sewing, cooking—that sort of thing.’
‘She certainly cooked a damn fine dinner tonight.’
‘Then, when she left school, she came straight into the pub. I thought at the time that it was a bit of a waste, but her mother could see nothing wrong in it. And she wanted to keep her eye on the girl.’
‘She must have attracted some boy friends. She’s a looker.’
‘Of course she did. One in particular. Jeremy somebody or other . . .’
‘Pratt,’ said Beck. ‘I remember the first time he saw her. He was passing through and stopped for a drink. Sports car, good clothes, plenty of money. He came in here, and he saw Maria. They were both teenagers and fell flat for each other. Needless to say, mother encouraged it.’
‘To the point of allowing her to renounce her religion and change to C of E?’
‘That’s right. You do get to hear things, don’t you? It gives you some idea of how keen Gina was on the match. She thought they were going to get married, all right.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Old Pratt. Self-made man. Lord knows what he bought and sold to make his brass, but he was determined Jeremy shouldn’t marry Maria.’
‘Does he live close by?’
‘Near Spalding. At first he thought he’d scotched things by saying he didn’t want Catholic grandchildren. Then when Gina allowed Maria to change, he had to think again. Or rather, he gave his real reasons for objecting. He said he wouldn’t allow his son to marry a barmaid. He must have brought some powerful pressure to bear on Jeremy, because the affair finished all of a sudden.’
‘With what effect on Maria?’
Baron said: ‘I’m pretty sure it’s affected her ever since. She was really in love, you see. Not available to be caught on the rebound like so many little lasses whose emotions don’t really get involved in their affairs of the heart.’
‘She steered completely clear of men friends?’
‘For the most part. She attracted them, but either she wasn’t keen or Gina wasn’t. In a place like this word soon gets round. The local lads aren’t good enough for Gina. Those that are don’t stay in Rooksby to marry Maria.’
‘So Maria at twenty-eight is left high and dry, and mother wonders why.’
Wessel said: ‘Wonders? She’s nearly crackers about it. Wants like hell to see her married—suitably. D’you know, it’s only about six months ago—you remember, Arn—old Gobby was here and . . .’ Masters interrupted. ‘Parseloe used to come in here?’
Beck said: ‘Occasionally. Just in time to join in a buckshee last round with no chance of standing his own corner.’
Masters grinned. ‘Thanks for the hint.’ He looked at Hill. ‘Would you mind?’ He handed over a pound note. Hill got up immediately. He realized Masters didn’t want Mrs Binkhorst to come to the table at this juncture. Her appearance might stop the flow of gossip at just the wrong moment.
Masters said to Wessel: ‘Please go on. Parseloe was here . . .’
‘Oh, yes. Gobby made some remark to Gina abo
ut Maria. Asked if she was out courting because she wasn’t serving. That was an example of Gobby’s sense of humour. It was one of Maria’s nights off, actually, but trust Gobby to put his foot in it. Gina must have been feeling very confidential or it might be that she had an inbred respect for the cloth—of whatever denomination. Anyhow, she told Gobby, with two or three of us standing round, that she couldn’t understand why no man of standing regarded Maria as a suitable catch, considering she was heiress to the Goblin—which is a free house—and already had a dowry of over two thousand pounds.’ Wessel took his drink from Hill, and continued: ‘Those are the lengths Gina’s gone to. The old Italian idea of saddling a girl with a dowry. If that isn’t asking for trouble, I don’t know what is. But you’d know more about that, Chief Inspector. Ageing spinsters with a bit of money. They’re natural prey, aren’t they?’
Masters nodded. ‘There have been cases—Brides in the Bath types. But I would hardly call Maria ageing.’
Beck said: ‘In Rooksby, an unmarried girl of twenty-eight is already aged. Remember we have grandmothers here of thirty-two or a bit over.’
Masters suddenly felt sick of the whole business. Weary. In every case the time came when unsavoury details momentarily caused emotion to overcome reason. This time the plight of a girl—comfortably housed, with more than enough of every material benefit to make life bearable—inextricably hemmed in by a maze of parochial and parental barriers, roused anger in him. Momentarily. He’d heard enough from these new-found acquaintances. Enough about Maria at any rate, for the moment. He switched the conversation perfunctorily.
‘I like your doctors. Or should I say I like Dr Frank Barnfelt? I’ve had no chance of getting to know the young one.’
Baron said, very seriously: ‘I think Dr Frank Barnfelt is the most brilliant, capable and practical man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few—at college and so on.’
Masters asked: ‘As a doctor?’
‘As anything. His doctoring’s only one facet. He’s the sort of chap that could have followed any profession and made a success of it. He only happened to choose medicine because his father was a doctor. But the odd thing is he’s without any ambition on his own behalf. If he had that to drive him on he’d be unstoppable. D’you know, he reads both Latin and Greek for pleasure!’
Wessel said: ‘And he knows more about the law than I do. Where he gets it from, I can’t imagine. How he has time to read and imbibe material that an ordinary family lawyer would boggle at is totally beyond me. He’s put me right several times. Given me an argument for court that’s enabled me to win hands down on two or three occasions.’
Masters was interested. More interested than he’d expected to be. He’d formed the opinion for himself that Barnfelt was something more than just a run-of-the-mill G.P. His discourse on bruising had been authoritative. He said: ‘Does he write? Medical stuff, I mean?’
Baron said: ‘I’ve not heard that he ever produces medical papers, but he’s written a cookery book emphasizing the proper use of protein. He came down hard on the side of bully-beef, I remember, And he publishes original plans for steam locomotives . . .’
Masters said: ‘I thought locomotives were Peter’s hobby.’
‘They are. Inherited, though. Dr Frank built him his first working steam engine when he was two.’
‘With his own hands?’
‘Entirely by himself. He’s a remarkable man. And a funny one.’
‘Funny?’
Beck said: ‘Are you talking about his clothes and his squeaky voice?’
‘No. He is a much cleverer man than Peter in every way, but he’s so proud of that boy you’d think the positions were reversed. D’you know what I think? It’s my honest belief that old Frank never really believed he could father a son. And when he managed it he was lost in awe at his own prowess.’
Wessel said: ‘Come off it!’
‘I mean it. I think he thought that for some reason—known only to himself, and based on some genetic theory of his own—that he half expected to be unable to sire a family.’
‘You mean he diagnosed himself as . . . what? A hermaphrodite? Not a complete male? Because he had a peculiar voice and an odd choice in clothes?’
‘I don’t know. But I can think of no other reason for him being so proud of Peter.’
‘I’ll grant you he’s proud of his son. Thinks the sun shines out of his backside, even. But many fathers do the same. It’s quite natural, and fairly common.’
Baron stuck to his guns. ‘I still think he’s too fiercely proud for it to be natural in a man as intelligent as he is.’
Masters said: ‘There’s nowt as queer as fowks.’ What else he was about to say was lost as Green came up and said: ‘D’you know what I’ve just learned?’
‘What?’
Green sounded disgusted. ‘That to be really good, onions should be pickled for seven years. Like whisky.’
Masters knew Green well enough to realize that his colleague had spent a fruitless evening in the public bar. This was his way of saying so in public. If Green ever got hold of anything worthwhile he always bottled it up until a moment of climax. His appearance now signalled the break up of the party. Binkhorst was due to call time at any moment.
Masters drew Green on one side. ‘I’d like to talk to all three Binkhorsts. After the pub’s cleared.’
‘D’you want me with you?’
‘Please. Arrange it as gently as possible. While they’re eating supper, if they don’t mind. As long as it’s tonight.’
The Binkhorsts’ living-room was ornate, but pleasant. There was a predominance of burgundy in the colour scheme. The upholstery plush. The photo frames gilded. The fireplace old-fashioned, with highly polished copper reflector plates and figured register. The table had an intricate lace cloth, beautifully laundered. The dishes were leaf green. The cutlery silver. Masters wondered whether Binkhorst had ever become fully attuned to living in the midst of a decor that smacked more of southern Italy than the east Midlands of England. Gina looked fully at home. Maria, too. But Masters was worried about all three. Binkhorst was sullen— and not just because he had company for supper. Gina and Maria were apprehensive. Or so he thought. He didn’t like it. He felt it would militate against frankness and he wanted the truth above all else at this time.
Maria carried in a pizza, round and red and hot. She slid it off the glove oven-cloth on to a wrought iron table guard, and went back to the kitchen. When she reappeared she was carrying a tub jar of prawns. Her mother offered her a plate of pizza. She said: ‘Not for me, Mom.’ Her mother stared at the prawns for a moment and then snatched them away. She said, angrily: ‘They are not good for you now . . .’ and then bit off her words, turning to glance fearfully at Masters.
Masters smiled at her and said: ‘I don’t know a lot about it, but I think I agree. Pickled prawns in the first trimester would seem to me to be unwise.’
His words induced a silence, tangible, hard, complete. The room and the people in it resembled Tussauds. Everybody frozen in mid act. Green burnt his finger on a flaring match. His oath broke the silence. Maria said: ‘He knows.’ Relief. Even Binkhorst, as he put his knife and fork down, seemed to sink more comfortably in his chair.
‘Now let’s talk this over sensibly. I’ve no wish to pry into family secrets. Please remember that Inspector Green and I are very discreet, but we must know certain facts if we are to stop prying into your affairs. And I believe that telling us the truth will help you as much as it will us.’
Gina said: ‘It is a disgrace. She is a bad girl.’
‘Perhaps. From one point of view. But I’m not concerned with moral issues of that sort. More with cause and effect.’
Binkhorst pushed his plate away. ‘I’m with you there. I’m not sure that this is all Maria’s fault, though she’s carrying the can.’
Green said: ‘That’s one way of putting it. And I hope you’re not going to let her down.’
Gina flounced round in her
chair. ‘You do not know. It is terrible this thing she has done.’ The girl got up and put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. Gina started to weep, sobbing, ‘She must be married to have babies. It is not right to have babies without marriage.’
‘It’s not all that bad, Mom.’ She looked across at her father. ‘Is it, Dad?’
‘No, love. Don’t mind your mother. She’s a bit upset. So am I if it comes to that. But she’ll see us through. You can bet your life on it.’ The girl gave him a quick smile of gratitude, kissed her mother and sat down.
Masters was pleased at Binkhorst’s attitude. Previously he had thought him a henpecked nonentity. Now he appeared to be taking a grip. Just at the time when there was crisis. Masters thought how often the hour calls forth the man. Green said: ‘Don’t you think it would be an idea to let them—and me—know how you knew.’
‘Bits and pieces. Like a doctor calling early in the morning. As Maria was well enough to be up and about later it must have been a very temporary indisposition—not flu, or a nervous breakdown or anything serious. And when girls are sick in the morning one immediately jumps to obvious conclusions. Her eating habits at the moment—three suppers in one night. That immediately makes one think of the old wives’ tale of eating for two. The craving for pickled prawns—or similar unsuitable foods—is, I believe, sometimes a feature of pregnancy. And so on.’
Green flung his cigarette stub on the fire. Binkhorst said: ‘You’re a clever bastard, aren’t you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Everybody will know soon enough.’ Maria didn’t sound despondent. Rather happy, in fact. Masters was surprised. He wondered why she should be happy. He said: ‘So now we come to what interests me most. Your movements on Sunday night.’
Gina turned to him. Her eyes red-rimmed. A tigress. ‘They didn’t kill him. They should have. I should have. But they didn’t.’
Masters said soothingly: ‘That’s just what I think. But I must make sure. So can we clear the whole matter up now and then forget it? Remember, Mrs Binkhorst, that worry at this time won’t help your daughter.’
‘Worry? It is all worry. I am worried. How can we not be worried?’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 31