‘You were listening in. You probably understood better than Peter that Parseloe meant business. You could read his mind like a book. You knew what he had done to Maria and realized that he would stick at nothing to gain his ends. And you saw the alternative facing your son more clearly than he did himself. Marriage to Pamela or a complaint that would result in his being struck off the medical register.
‘You decided that neither should happen. You have been described to me as being inordinately proud of your son. Could you let him be struck off? Could you let him marry the village harlot who had probably seduced him deliberately with this end in mind? I think that was the choice you were faced with last Sunday night, doctor.’
Masters stopped for a moment. Green passed him a sheet of paper. While Barnfelt offered his cigarettes round, Masters skimmed through Pamela’s statement. He then said: ‘I have here Miss Parseloe’s statement, made whilst we have been talking in this room. What she says substantially supports my suggestions about what happened on the journey to Peterborough and the whereabouts of the keys. Incidentally, she believes your son to be guilty of her father’s murder and—reading between the lines—it looks as if she’d had hopes of using this knowledge to force him into marriage.’
He gave the statement back to Green.
‘Now, to get on. As I said, I believe you realized your son’s danger more readily than he did himself. You decided that as he had declared his intention of not meeting the vicar, you would keep the appointment for him. You went along to the school, on foot, and followed Parseloe into the classroom that was being divided into offices. It was not the first time you’d been there.
‘Last Thursday morning a workman had cut his hand with a chisel and you had been called in to attend to it. It was just at the time Harry Pieters was using a bolt-setting tool—a masonry gun—for fixing timbers to the walls. As a practical man, a builder of locomotives and radio sets, it would be impossible for you not to be interested in this novelty. As a former medical officer of a front line regiment, well acquainted with firearms, you would be well aware of how it functioned. After watching Pieters in action for a few minutes you would be as capable of using it as he was.
‘When you decided to meet Parseloe, what preparations did you make? Did you think the tools would be there in the school over the weekend, or did you play safe and prepare a syringe of, say, bismuth chloride for an intravenous injection?’
Barnfelt grinned his little grin, showing his teeth. He said: ‘I told you you are not a man to be underestimated.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ah, six o’clock. Time for my surgery. I hope Peter has it in hand.’
Masters gazed at him fixedly for a moment. Then went on: ‘You did prepare an injection? Never mind. I can see the objections to bismuth chloride. It’s lethal, and untraceable in the urine, stomach contents or blood, but it takes three or four hours to work. Had you used it, you’d have had to keep Parseloe prisoner for that time or he could have got away and told somebody.
‘When you arrived at the school—it had to be after Parseloe—what did you do? Keep him talking? Listen to him while he thought you were pottering about with the workmen’s tools? You were in the dark—half dark, anyway—so merely in the light from the windows he didn’t really see what you were doing. He knew you as a practical man so it wouldn’t surprise him, whatever you were doing, until you turned and threatened him. Forced him back, taking care to see he was carefully placed in front of one of the timbers. Then—well, we all know the rest. You cocked the gun by forcing the safety shield against his heart, and then you fired. The masonry pin went through his body and the wood, into the wall. Unfortunately, unlike Harry Pieters, you hit a fillet of mortar instead of the middle of a brick.
‘After that, you collected the spent cartridge—probably using a torch for light—put away the tools—well wiped, no doubt—and left. You were careful to leave the door open—to leave the field wide open, as it were. Unfortunately, your son had come back to Rooksby and run his car on to the garage apron. I believe he went in to consult you, found you weren’t there—probably thought you were out on a case—and decided he had better go to the school and placate Parseloe until such time as he could decide what to do.
‘He, too, went on foot, because I suppose he didn’t want his car to be seen in Church Walk. He approached the school—and here, quite frankly, I am deducing—from the back. He was late. The constable said his car entered Rooksby just after eight, so it could have been twenty past when he reached the school. As he drew close, he saw a figure leaving the building, rather stealthily I should imagine. Peter must have drawn back in the shadows to remain unseen—in case it was Parseloe. But he recognized it as you as you passed. I should think it was at that moment that he remembered he had found his transmitter switched on, and realized what you could have overheard. That is why he didn’t speak to you. Instead, when you had gone, he went into the school. He found Parseloe. There was nothing he could do for him, so he withdrew, and for some unknown reason, used the key Pamela had given him to lock the door behind him. I think it was a reflex action. An effort to lock away, out of sight, the proof of his father’s deed. But whatever it was, it left us to find a locked door, with the dead man’s key still in his pocket. And that helped.’ He turned to Green. ‘That was why I had to ask you to make a special point of key chasing. It was important.
‘When Pamela came back to Rooksby, she believed Peter had killed her father. It was a natural supposition, but I don’t believe she cared a scrap, beyond wanting that key back. Hence her urgent call for medical attention.’
Masters pulled out his pipe and began to fill it.
‘Now you, doctor, as I said, tried to mislead me twice. You were very helpful over the wound. Being an intelligent man you obviously realized that it would be wiser to appear helpful, because I could get the same information elsewhere if needs be. But you really did make a mistake when you suggested that the bruise had been made by a prod with the end of a piece of squared timber. I put it down as the suggestion of somebody who had not seen the wound, and as an impossible suggestion from a knowledgeable physician who had made a thorough inspection and taken measurements.
‘The second time you tried to mislead me was when, by refusing to tell me what was wrong with Maria, you tried to suggest there was some quite serious ailment. In fact, it was plain to see that the girl was blooming—literally. And even my limited knowledge of such things includes the fact that when she is expecting a baby a girl may suffer headache, flatulence and dyspepsia at night, and sickness in the morning. I wondered why you had tried to pull the wool over my eyes—because in order to attempt it you must have known the true story—and decided that you could have learned it from your son that morning or, equally likely, you could have known of it before your son.’
Masters struck a match to light his dead pipe. ‘That’s the summary of my efforts these last three or four days, doctor. I haven’t yet had your son’s confirmatory statement, but he will be held as an accessory until he makes it. After that, the warrant will be squashed.’
‘If I make a statement later—and this is a promise you can record—can my son go to attend to our patients? You can always get him back again if necessary.’
‘I appreciate your concern for your son and your patients. The efforts you made on Cora’s behalf—to get the arrangements completed before this meeting could happen—also weigh with me. With Superintendent Nicholson’s permission your son can be allowed to take surgery.’
Nicholson agreed reluctantly, and Green left to tell Peter Barnfelt he was free, temporarily. Masters turned to Frank Barnfelt and said: ‘To support my case, doctor, I sent Inspector Green to London with the masonry pin for scrutiny. The report is that it still has traces of blood on it. Also, I asked him to consult our archivist to discover whether there are any previous deaths known to have been caused by masonry guns. There is one. The account was written up by the doctor who was called in. It was an accident. In an office building.
The joiner concerned misjudged the thickness of an internal wall. It was too thin. The pin went through it and passed through the body of a man working in the next office. He died. The report appeared some years ago in The Aesculapian. The journal’s publishing office has told us that at that time you were on its screening panel, and were one of three doctors who read the article for medical accuracy before publication. So probably the idea was not entirely new to you.’
Barnfelt said: ‘You’re a very thorough man, Chief Inspector.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Nearly a quarter to seven. How time flies. Do you think I could have another drink?’
Green returned to report that Peter had gone. ‘He’s still bolshie. Won’t play.’
‘Wouldn’t you be bolshie to a policeman investigating a murder you know your father has committed?’ Masters turned to Barnfelt. ‘I’m sorry to say that his attitude did help to convince me that he had some guilty secret. Not that I blame him. It was quite a load to bear.’
‘Thank you. Peter hasn’t mentioned it to me, so I didn’t know until you told me that he even suspected me. I feel sure he won’t think too badly of me when he has had time to consider matters.’
Nicholson got to his feet. He said to Masters: ‘Can I have a word with you in the hall?’
They passed Hill as he brought in Barnfelt’s drink. Masters said: ‘What’s the matter? Isn’t the case open and shut enough for you?’
Nicholson said: ‘Of course it bloody well is. God knows how you’ve done it in the time. Three days! It’d have taken me three months. Who’d ever have thought of a masonry gun? I’d never even heard of one. I’m grateful, see. Very grateful. But I hate the thought of charging a police surgeon. Can’t your Inspector do it?’
‘It’s your case.’
‘I know, but I still don’t like it.’
Masters said: ‘Then don’t charge him.’
‘What?’
‘My personal belief is that you won’t get a chance. I’m almost certain he’s been too clever for us.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, I thought that if a doctor wanted to commit suicide he’d take an overdose of one of the fast acting barbiturates. He’d be dead within an hour. Barnfelt didn’t die within an hour, and showed no symptoms of distress, so I thought we were all right. But did you see him when I mentioned intravenous bismuth chloride? And notice how often he looked at his watch?’
Nicholson said: ‘Here, come on. We’ll have a look at him.’ He made for the dining-room door.
Masters held him back. ‘Steady. If he did administer it, it’s too late.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘The only time he has been alone was when we called at his house and he went to the kitchen to get more cups. If he took it, it was then. At four o’clock. Probably the syringe he prepared for Parseloe. A quick jab into the ante-cubital vein in the forearm. Done in no time. It works in three to four hours, and it’s seven o’clock now.’
‘And symptoms?’
Masters shook his head. ‘No pain. They just flake out, suddenly.’
They stood silent for a moment. Masters said: ‘Don’t look so miserable. If it’s happened, it’s nobody’s fault.’
‘Why should he do it? He’d not even been questioned.’
‘He knew. I’ve tried to keep things secret, but I had to ask about those wireless sets. There would be no reason for my doing so unless I was pretty sure of myself. And besides, he knew that by injecting himself he couldn’t be accused of suicide, or of murder.’
‘How come?’
‘You can’t say a man’s a murderer until he’s been tried and found guilty. And you can’t say he’s committed suicide if you can’t trace the bismuth chloride—and you can’t. He’s protected his family all right.’
‘Always supposing he’s done it.’
‘Always supposing. But he must have done. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so occupied with the way the time was going. And, of course, he wouldn’t have offered to make a statement later. He knew we wouldn’t get it. So nobody will be able to state categorically that he murdered Parseloe. He’s a crafty one.’
Nicholson said: ‘And I had qualms about charging him. Come on. I’m going in. We’ll get him over to the station before it happens.’
They entered the dining-room. Nicholson said to Barnfelt: ‘I want to see your forearms.’
Barnfelt smiled at Masters. ‘So you did know. I was beginning to wonder.’ He stood up to remove his jacket. The effort appeared to be too much for him. Masters helped him down into the chair again. He looked up, showed his teeth in a little smile, and said: ‘Thank you.’
Masters was wondering whether this was thanks for helping him to sit, or for allowing him to die, uncharged, with no incriminating statement made. He could come to no sure conclusion. Nicholson said to Green: ‘Ring for an ambulance. It’ll be too late, but get it. And his son. Son first.’
But Barnfelt died before Peter arrived. Masters said: ‘Cause of death? Cardiac arrest?’
Peter Barnfelt glowered at him for a moment, and then said: ‘Is that what you suggest?’
‘You’re the doctor. But I feel sure that whoever you get to give a second opinion will agree.’
‘You won’t . . .’
‘Interfere? No. My report will, of course, contain all I know, but it will be highly classified. As for my team—don’t worry. Why don’t you ask Miss Barrett over to keep your mother company?’
*
To avoid the bars, the body was taken through the back way and out of the Goblin. Green went to release Pamela Parseloe. Nicholson to report to his H.Q. Hill and Brant to deal with the cars and type up the notes.
Masters, weary, wandered into the saloon bar. It was still too early for the regulars. He stood at the counter and asked for gin. Maria was serving. She said quietly: ‘Will you be going home now?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
He thought she was looking splendid. She seemed inclined to want to stay and talk. He didn’t mind. He let her prattle on without really listening. He was enjoying the wholesome look of her. That smooth lower lip that looked so inviting. Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. He gazed at her. Her face had lit up. Where it had been lovely before, now it was radiant with animation. He turned to see what she was staring at. Standing just inside the door was Jeremy Pratt.
Masters murmured: ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ and moved over to the fire.
DEADLY PATTERN
For Roderick
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter One
Detective Sergeant Hill climbed into the front passenger seat of the big Vauxhall. Detective Sergeant Brant was sitting behind the wheel. Hill said: ‘Where’s his nibs?’
‘Over at the station, phoning the Yard.’
‘Telling them to get another feather ready for his cap?’
‘Maybe. He deserves it. What’s today? Friday? We came up here on Monday. Remember what old Willy P. Green said when we set out?’
‘That it would be an impossible case to crack.’
‘And Masters had it buttoned up by Thursday night. Not bad going even for him.’
The car was standing outside the Goblin Inn at Rooksby-le-Soken. Diagonally across the square, in the one-room police station, Detective Chief Inspector George Masters was reporting the end of the case to Scotland Yard. Announcing his return that morning. By his side stood Detective Inspector Green.
Green said to the local constable, P.C. Crome, ‘How about a nice cup of Nescaff to warm us up before we set out? We’ve done you proud. How about you spoiling us for a change?’
Crome said: ‘The kettle’s boiling. Will the sergeants be coming too, sir?’
‘You can nip down and whistle them over. They’re outside the pub.’
&nbs
p; Crome used Nescafé and Carnation milk from the tin to make the brew. He handed a blue-banded mug and a bowl of sugar to Green. Placed another on the stained chenille table cover in front of Masters, and clattered down the stairs. The cold February nor’easter had returned, bringing with it a hint of rain. The wind tousled his hair as he stood at the entrance to the station. He put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled piercingly. Even the wind couldn’t dissipate the sound. Hill in the closed car heard it. He looked up. Crome waved a signalling arm. The car started to crawl across the square.
Green scalded his mouth on the coffee. Put it down. Lit a Kensitas, and then took time to pay attention to Masters. The Chief put his hand over the mouthpiece, half turned to Green and said: ‘Prepare for trouble. And hand me one of those sheets of paper, would you?’
Green passed over a small wad of official crested quarto. He said: ‘What’re they bellyaching about? A murderer committing suicide?’ It was a dig at Masters. The evening before, the man responsible for murdering the vicar of Rooksby—knowing Masters was on to him—had killed himself. Masters recognized the jibe for what it was. Ignored it. He and Green didn’t get on. A common enough occurrence where an older man is subordinate to a younger.
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