Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Just what I wanted. I knew Pamela Plum-Bum was lying. It’ll give me great pleasure to tell her so. Now, let’s see where that leaves us. She left Rooksby—we presume—at six, or a minute or two after. The landlady doesn’t know to the minute when she arrived, but she puts it at ten past seven. Certainly not more than five minutes either way. Correct?’

  Hill nodded.

  Masters said: ‘How long to get to Peterborough?’

  Brant said: ‘Depends on the car and the driver. But not more than three quarters, not less than half. I’d do it in that if I had to—on a Sunday night with not much traffic about.’

  ‘We’ll estimate forty minutes. That means she would arrive in Peterborough by about a quarter to seven.’

  ‘Unless she didn’t leave Rooksby till well after six,’ Green said.

  ‘I’m pretty sure she’s not the type to hang around for long on a cold, windy night. So we’ll assume she went off by five past.’

  ‘Then the car must have stopped on the way. A bit of quiet snogging if all they say about parsons’ daughters—and this one in particular—is true.’

  ‘That’s it. It must be. And it makes everything fit.’

  ‘Is that the lot, then?’

  ‘Yes. Unless anybody saw Superintendent Nicholson today.’

  Hill said: ‘I did. He said nothing new came out at the inquest. P or PU as expected. Funeral on Saturday. Some suffering Bishop is coming to do it.’

  ‘Suffragan.’

  Green said: ‘I wonder how many mourners there’ll be—genuine ones?’

  Masters said: ‘We’ll not be among them. Now, how about a quick one before dinner?’

  After Green and Brant had set out, Masters said to Hill: ‘I want you to go alone to the spit and sawdust tonight.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Very special. You’ve to act normally.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s important. I don’t want to change the pattern of our habits: to give anybody ideas. What you’ve got to do is go in there as if you were still on the lookout for snippets of information. Don’t say the others have gone to London. Don’t give the impression we’ve finished the job. And don’t suggest, either, that we’re not getting anywhere. People can sniff these things out like dogs smell fear. And I don’t want them to suspect what stage we’ve reached. We’ve the best part of twenty-four hours to wait in suspended animation, and if the slightest whisper gets out during that time we may be caught with our trousers down. Understood?’

  ‘If you say so. But I don’t know where you’ve got to.’

  ‘On purpose. That way you can’t let anything out inadvertently.’

  ‘What about Harry Pieters?’

  ‘We’ve got to trust to luck there. He’s promised not to talk, and I’ve steered clear of asking Perce Jonker any questions about bolt-setting tools so that he can’t jabber around. Tomorrow’s going to be tricky. So the best plan is for you and me to get out of Rooksby for an hour or two.’

  ‘No car.’

  ‘Ask Vanden to get you a local one. For nine o’clock in the morning. We’ll take a look at the countryside.’

  For Masters, the evening session in the saloon bar was a difficult one. He wanted to be up and doing. Worried by delay. Fearful it might rob him of victory. Uneasy.

  He met de Hooch, Baron, Jan Wessel and Arn Beck. Was asked how he was getting on. Was non-committal in reply, and wondered whether even this evasiveness might not be open to misinterpretation. He cast around for some question to ask. One that would seem natural and relevant. He chose Parseloe’s wife. She was connected—tenuously—with the case, but unlikely to evoke awkward questions for him. ‘Mr Baron, did you meet Mrs Parseloe much?’ He was conscious that it was a soft question. Without bite. He didn’t like asking it. He wondered what he’d say if Baron said no and refused to expand.

  Baron didn’t. ‘Too much. She got the idea that because I was the headmaster of the church school my wife should be the head cook and bottle washer for the vicar’s wife. Naturally we had other ideas, but Mrs P. was a sticker. She was always on the doorstep for something or another.’

  Masters leaned back. He felt the conversation would keep flowing without much help from him. He wasn’t mistaken. Henry de Hooch said: ‘Calling for mid-morning coffee and afternoon tea, was she? She had her rounds, you know. Twice every day she got fed in a different house. She even tried calling on us, uninvited, on afternoons when my wife was holding bridge parties. Big eats on those days. But what a mistake to make! To interrupt women at bridge!’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I’ve always believed Gobby’s main trouble was his wife,’ Jan Wessel said. ‘She depressed me, so what she did to him, living with her, lord only knows.’

  ‘Completely unattractive,’ said Baron. ‘Mentally and physically. And with so many negative qualities thrown in that living with her must have been like having the invisible man about the house.’

  Arn Beck said: ‘The marriage was a contrived tragedy.’

  ‘What do you mean—contrived?’ de Hooch asked.

  ‘When I had occasion to speak to the Rural Dean I was told their story. As a sort of extenuating circumstance for behaviour in Parseloe which I considered distinctly unChristian.’

  ‘Go on,’ Baron said.

  ‘He came from quite a poor family. His parents were devoted to the church, but in a bigoted sort of way. No humour, no pleasure in religion. You must know the type. They’re not as common these days as they once were, although I understand that there are some sects developing today which have much the same sort of outlook. Almost from the day of his birth his parents’ great ambition was to see their son a parson. And to do him credit, he won his way through. But all three of them had distorted ideas about the clergy. Almost the only man of standing they’d ever spoken to was their own vicar. He was kind to them, and they almost worshipped him in return. To the mother and father, the idea that their son could become like this man was their individual promise from heaven. What they didn’t appreciate was that their parson was a gently nurtured man, in a good living, and with a private income of his own to make it easier for him to keep up the standards they aimed at. But, even with the poorest possible start, young Parseloe reached his first goal. He was ordained. Then came the rub. Marriage. By this time all three Parseloes were lifting their sights. As a parson, the lad was accepted—as all professional men seem to be. Vocations give a social cachet. But whereas a penniless doctor or solicitor can hope to provide for a wife and family within a reasonable time, a parson may not be quite so lucky. Stipends being what they are.’

  Beck stopped to drink. de Hooch called for another round. ‘Where did he pick her up?’ Baron asked.

  Wessel said: ‘She was a cut above him, I’d have said.’

  ‘She was,’ Beck replied. ‘Youngest daughter of new poor. And an unattractive one. That’s why she was available. He thought he was marrying into a good family. She accepted him because he was a parson. It was, as I said before, a contrived tragedy. Each thought they were getting somebody better than they could have hoped for. And that really is tragedy.’

  ‘You mean she tried to upper-crust him from the start?’ de Hooch asked.

  Baron said: ‘She was definitely the one who thought he ought to be the squarson. He’d have been better off with a less pretentious, more genuine woman. I can’t believe he ever got any happiness from the marriage—or his kids.’

  Masters put down his glass. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how often murder is the sequel to a tragedy rather than the tragedy itself. This time it’s the result of a mistake in the choice of marriage partners.’

  Wessel said: ‘And before so very long you’ll have some other similar cause to investigate. I think an unrelieved diet of murder would be more than I could stomach.’

  Masters entertained them with a few interesting anecdotes until Binkhorst called time. When the bars had cleared Binkhorst said: ‘Have one with me, Mr Masters.’ Masters
accepted. He’d waited until now to break the news that Green and Brant would be away for the night. He implied that they had been called back in connection with some completely different enquiry. He made very little of it at all. The main point was that at this late hour the Binkhorsts would be unlikely to mention it to anybody outside.

  *

  At nine o’clock next morning, with Hill at the wheel, they left Rooksby. Masters, sitting beside him, said: ‘I want to find Jeremy Pratt. We’ll go to Spalding and ask at the station there.’

  The police at Spalding directed them to Boston. There they found a shipping office: The Wash and Holland Line.

  Masters left Hill in the car and called on Jeremy Pratt alone. He found a tall, well set-up man of thirty. A forelock of auburn hair tumbled over the forehead. The eyes were brown and frank. The face lean, the mouth smiling. Pratt was very surprised at the visit. He said: ‘I’m more than pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. But I can’t help wondering why you’re here. And feeling a bit queer in the stomach because of it.’

  ‘I often have that effect on people. It passes off as soon as I assure them I’m making nothing more than a courtesy call.’

  Pratt waved him to a chair. ‘Courtesy call? On me? You wouldn’t waste your time. But if you say so, I’ll believe you. How about some coffee?’

  ‘I could do with at least a pint of strong black if you can manage it.’

  Pratt grinned. ‘That reassures me.’ Masters had intended it should. He loved the feeling of importance his job gave him, but he rarely wanted to inspire fear. Particularly not today. Even though he was out killing time and indulging a whimsy he had an objective in mind.

  Pratt called for coffee and then sat behind his desk. He looked at Masters and said: ‘I thought you’d be in Rooksby. The papers have been full of the murder and your presence there.’

  ‘These investigations take me out and about at times. I had to come this way on another little errand, and as I had one question I thought you might answer for me, I dropped in. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not in the least. I’m genuinely pleased to meet you, but for the life of me I can’t think what question I could possibly answer for you. It is almost ten years since I was in Rooksby. In fact, I’ve made a point of never going back.’

  ‘Why?’

  Pratt blushed. Masters thought he looked very young; and gave him full marks for having the grace to look embarrassed. Pratt said: ‘You must have heard that I used to visit Rooksby a lot at one time, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll have heard about Maria Binkhorst and me and how I let her down.’ He sounded bitter.

  Masters said: ‘I understood it was your father who was the nigger in the woodpile.’

  ‘He was—but only because I was weak and let him get away with it. And I’ve been too ashamed to go back to Rooksby since. But you have a question to ask.’

  Masters started to fill his pipe. ‘Ah, yes. Now as you can probably guess I’ve been checking up on the movements of practically everybody in Rooksby who was out and about on Sunday night when the vicar was killed. One of them was Binkhorst . . .’

  ‘On a Sunday? He never used to go out on a Sunday. That was Maria’s night off—or one of them.’

  ‘Quite. That’s why Binkhorst’s absence from his bar interested me.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly suspect him. Why . . .’

  ‘I suspect everybody, Mr Pratt. At least if they’re sculling about on some unusual errand as Binkhorst was.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Looking for Maria, he says.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s the point. He says he went to your house near Spalding.’

  Pratt looked astounded. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Never mind why for the moment. He said he arrived at the gates of your house and found them padlocked. Would that be correct?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Are the gates always padlocked at night?’

  ‘All day as well. Have been since before Christmas. The house is empty. The old man died, you see.’

  ‘And your wife didn’t fancy living there?’

  ‘My wife? Here, hang on a moment. I haven’t got a wife. But I do have a bachelor flat here in Boston.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Masters didn’t sound sorry. He lit his pipe. ‘I should have checked on you before I came. But you can confirm that Binkhorst was right when he said the gates were padlocked?’

  Pratt nodded. He was looking thoughtful. He said: ‘You haven’t told me about Maria. Is she married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When she was out on Sunday night, what was it? A man?’

  Masters said airily: ‘I suppose her father thought it was.’

  ‘You mean he thought she was with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good heavens, why? I haven’t seen Maria for ten years. Why should he think she was with me?’

  ‘He had his reasons. Chiefly because Maria apparently hasn’t encouraged many boy friends since your time.’

  Pratt said: ‘And I’ve been the same about women. I’ve tried, but it was never the same. Would Maria see me if I called at the Goblin, do you think?’

  Masters shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why ever not? If she’s not married?’

  Masters said: ‘You’d only rub salt into old wounds.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I’m certain. She’s pregnant, you see.’

  ‘Maria? Pregnant? And unmarried?’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘It takes some believing. She was always so . . . so virginal.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  Pratt walked over to the window. His back to Masters. ‘Won’t the chap marry her?’

  ‘He can’t.’

  ‘I see. Married already.’

  ‘That’s not the reason. He’s dead.’

  Pratt swung round. ‘Dead? Would I have known him?’

  ‘I expect so. By name at any rate.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Parseloe.’

  The effect on Pratt was as dramatic as Masters had intended it should be. He stood so still he scarcely breathed. At last he said: ‘The murdered vicar? That old . . .’ He didn’t finish. Masters got to his feet. Pratt came towards him full of purpose. ‘If what you’ve told me is true, he deserved what he got.’

  Masters said: ‘Maybe so. But now you know why you wouldn’t be welcome in Rooksby. Goodbye, Mr Pratt. Thank you for the information and the coffee. Sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news.’

  Masters saw himself out. Pratt was still standing in the middle of his office. Masters joined Hill and asked to be driven back to Rooksby. He sat silent all the way, but every so often Hill got the impression that he was smiling to himself.

  *

  Green and Brant arrived in Rooksby at half past three. They joined Masters and Hill in the police office. Green said: ‘You’re right. Blood and guts on the nail. Official report coming later.’

  ‘And the other?’

  Green nodded and handed Masters an envelope. ‘It’s better than even you thought it might be. It helps your case besides giving specific information.’

  The thin sheaf of papers took Masters less than three minutes to read. He looked up and said: ‘Give me half an hour and then ring up Nicholson and tell him to get here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Don’t you want me with you?’

  ‘There are one or two other things I want you to sort out. First, Pamela Parseloe. I want to know how she got to Peterborough on Sunday night. At least, I know already, but I want a statement. A true one this time, even if you’ve got to twist her tiny neck to wring it out of her.’

  ‘Leave it to me. What else?’

  ‘Pick up Peter Barnfelt and arrange for us to use private rooms at the Goblin. I don’t want everybody in one office like this, all at the same time.’
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br />   ‘O.K. You’re taking Hill?’

  ‘And the car. But if you need it, there’s a buckshee one from the local force parked near the pub. Brant had better take over the keys from Hill.’

  Green said: ‘I’ll bring Pamela Plum-Bum in here. Then if it takes me very long to sort her out, I’ll be on the spot.’

  ‘Good idea. There is possibly one more thing we might have to prise out of her later.’

  Masters and Hill left. Masters said very quietly when they reached the car: ‘Dr Frank Barnfelt.’

  Hill rang the house doorbell. Mrs Barnfelt answered. She said: ‘My husband is just having tea, Mr Masters. It’s the first time he’s had a break today. Can’t whatever it is wait till later?’

  ‘I’d rather see him now, Mrs Barnfelt.’

  She started to object. Barnfelt himself appeared at the door of the sitting-room down the passage. He said: ‘Invite the Chief Inspector in for a cup of tea, Vera.’

  Reluctantly Mrs Barnfelt opened the door wider to admit Masters and Hill. Barnfelt, table napkin in hand, ushered them into the sitting-room where a tea tray was set in front of the fire. He said: ‘Sit you down. No, Vera, don’t you bother. I’ll get another two cups.’

  Before Masters could say they wouldn’t stop for tea, Barnfelt had gone, closing the door behind him. His wife said: ‘Frank and Peter are really being rushed off their feet at the moment. I know your enquiry is important, but murder coming on top of a flu epidemic does make it hard work for them. All these inquests and interviews.’

  Masters said: ‘I quite understand. And believe me I’m very sorry to intrude on what little leisure time Dr Barnfelt has.’

  ‘Did you come about Cora? You needn’t worry about her, you know. I’ve never known Frank devote so much time and energy to anybody’s welfare before. He’s treating her as a very special case indeed.’

  The door opened and Barnfelt said: ‘Because she is a very special case, my dear. I feel a great responsibility towards her.’ He put the cups down and turned to Masters. ‘As I think you appreciate.’

  Masters nodded.

  Barnfelt went on: ‘I’m happy to tell you that I’ve completed what I consider to be first-class arrangements for her. To last, I hope, for the rest of her life.’