Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  Masters looked across at Green, inviting questions. Green shrugged his shoulders. Masters said: ‘Thank you, Mr Honingham. I think that will be all for the moment. Please stay in the camp until I give you permission to go.’

  Honingham stood. ‘Is that it? I mean, did old Bill cave in under treatment like this?’

  Masters said cryptically: ‘Some people are co-operative. Some unco-operative. We take a dim view of the latter.’

  ‘I see. He probably didn’t like admitting he hated Fay’s guts. I don’t mind admitting it. When you do admit something like that it doesn’t sour your tripes like it does when you bottle it up. Well, cheer-ho!’

  When Hill had escorted him away, Green said: ‘Another who could do with a bit of quick brass.’

  Masters nodded.

  Green said: ‘It’s beginning to add up.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  *

  Lorna Thoresby was tall, slim and dark. Masters thought she looked worried. Wondered whether it was permanent, as the result of life with Thoresby, or whether it was temporary because her husband had managed to speak to her in the bungalow, despite Brant’s presence.

  Masters said: ‘Mrs Thoresby, what were your feelings when you heard the terms of your father’s will? Did you consider that some of his estate should have been left to you?’

  She frowned in thought for a moment, then she said, not very convincingly: ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘No, because I’ve always believed that a person’s property is their own to do as they like with.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Freedom is everything, isn’t it? Everybody should have freedom of action, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘Within a certain code, yes. But if you felt that way, why did you contest the will? Did Mr Honingham persuade you to do so?’

  ‘Ralph? Oh, no. Ralph always said it was a silly thing to do, but Becky didn’t agree with him. She had no doubts.’

  ‘So your younger sister persuaded you against your better judgement, and her husband’s and, presumably, your own husband’s?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then Mr Thoresby must have agreed with your sister.’

  ‘Bill? He was very much for it. He took the view that Dad’s wishes didn’t count. It was what Becky and I and Mum—especially Mum—had done towards establishing Throscum that mattered. And he said that’s what the Court would think. But they didn’t. They said they tried to interpret what Dad wanted.’

  ‘They always do, Mrs Thoresby. But now, tell me, what did you do at Throscum before you were married?’

  She smiled. Masters thought he could read in it a sadness at the loss of happy times, recalled by his question. She said: ‘I was the confectioner, I made all the home-made sweets.’

  ‘You made all the goodies sold here?’

  ‘Yes. I established the business. Mum helped me at first, but from the time I was sixteen I did it on my own, and it was run as a separate little department.’ There was a touch of pride in her voice. ‘I made a lot of traditional sweets, but I was always trying special lines and new ideas. It was easy to tell which took on and which didn’t.’

  ‘I see. Is the department as go-ahead now as it used to be in your day?’

  ‘I don’t think it is, quite. Before I left I had a little staff, and my chief assistant took over. She still makes all the standard items, but nothing that’s different.’

  ‘Where is the sweet factory?’

  ‘Factory? It’s one room and a kitchen in the stores block.’

  ‘The one that used to be the American officers’ mess?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was it there that you first saw your husband?’

  ‘No. I first saw him in the office when he called the first time.’

  ‘Then what? Did he date you?’

  ‘Not just then. He booked a holiday and stayed here.’

  Green said: ‘So that’s how he played it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Green tried to put matters right. ‘I expect when he came on holiday he tried to sell you something. Came to your kitchen.’

  ‘How did you guess? He’d got a consignment of almonds. He’d brought some with him and suggested I should make some sugared almonds, but they’re too difficult without a rotating vat for the different coloured coatings; and the shapes are difficult, too. But I remember he had some packets of dates as well, so one evening when the staff had gone I made some nut and date pieces. Terribly easy, really. All I did was open out each date and put an almond inside. Then I lined a tray with rice paper and pressed the stuffed dates down, covered them with another sheet of rice paper, and cut them into pieces about an inch and a half square.’

  Masters said: ‘Were they a success?’

  ‘A great success.’

  ‘So you were able to give Mr Thoresby an order for almonds and dates.’

  ‘Not a big one. Nobody could eat many sweets as rich as that at a time.’

  ‘Pity. After you were married did you still make sweets?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘Your husband didn’t like them?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Did you ever send any home here to Throscum?’

  ‘Only ideas—to Mr Compton.’

  ‘He took an interest?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was like a member of the family—an uncle I suppose you’d call him, to Becky and me. He came, you know, when we were still schoolgirls.’

  ‘Did you ever visit Throscum after your father died?’

  ‘Not after the funeral. There was the Court case coming up . . .’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you, Mrs Thoresby. I hope that things will sort themselves out for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I go now?’

  *

  Becky Honingham was very different from her sister. She looked more than the two years younger than Lorna. She was plumper, and she was fair. Her manner, too, was different: more extrovert.

  ‘The money was ours. We’d earned it. Dad did nothing. He got the place for nothing and he did nothing—except chase women in bars. Mum did it. She was wonderful. And she made Lorna and me work, too. Lorna slaved in that kitchen of hers, and I was a glorified land girl. I hoed, I planted, I picked—up at six every morning in summer. You should have seen how we worked. And then to get nothing because Dad decided—well, he didn’t decide. Fay did. She threatened to shut up shop unless he married her. Robbed by a whore like that. What would you have done? You know I’ve always had a theory about Dad. He was pretty fit, and then he died of a heart attack in bed. I reckon she egged him on to over-exert himself—on purpose.’

  ‘So you disliked your stepmother?’

  ‘Disliked? I don’t think there’s a word to describe what I felt for her. Honestly, how my father could! I heaved at the mere thought of her.’

  ‘You seem to form very positive likes and dislikes. What d’you think of your brother-in-law?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘Can a worm be self-opinionated? If so, that’s him.’

  ‘Is your sister happy with him?’

  Becky Honingham became more serious. ‘Look, Inspector—or whatever your rank is—I’ve always thought the world of Lorna. Ever since we met to come down here, Bill Thoresby has been trying to get me to agree to sell Throscum. I know why. He wants the money. But I won’t sell. D’you know why? Ralph and I need capital, too. And I don’t want to move an inch from Ralph, and I want his business to thrive. So it would suit me to sell. But Lorna’s miserable. The only place for her to be happy is here. Running Throscum. And I’m damned if I’ll help Bill use her money—throw it away on his tinpot little business that can hardly keep them. If she likes to bring him down here with her, that’s her affair. If not, he can go to hell.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Honingham. That answered my question plainly enough. And I don’t think I’ve anything more to ask you at
the moment.’

  ‘Good-oh! And if you hear cries in the night you’ll know it’s me strangling Bill Thoresby, so there’ll be no need to get up.’

  Green said: ‘I liked that last one. Funny thing to say, because I reckon she’s got the temperament to have knocked off her stepmother.’

  They were walking towards Throscum House at the time. Hill and Brant came up behind them.

  ‘About this fruit, Chief,’ Hill said. ‘There’s bags of every type of chemical known to man in the potting-sheds. And they’ve got a gas chamber for apples and pears, to say nothing of deep freezes for soft fruits. But nobody I’ve spoken to has ever heard of Mrs Partridge eating fruit. They reckon that if she had been so keen on it she’d have wanted the best picked out and sent up to her. And she never did that.’

  ‘Never mind. Perhaps we won’t need it.’

  Green said: ‘Not with Thoresby supplying her with candied chestnuts. What about a drink?’

  ‘You three go ahead. I want a word with Compton.’

  Compton was nowhere to be seen. His office was open but empty. Masters went back to reception to ask Cathy York if she knew where he was.

  ‘He’s gone out.’

  Masters thought this was odd as they had agreed to meet. Then he remembered it was Friday. Night off for the staff, according to Syme. He said: ‘I suppose he always goes out on Fridays?’

  ‘Not usually. He has Sunday and Wednesday nights.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Masters.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were asking about Mr Sprott this morning.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She opened her bag. ‘He gave me this as a tip.’ She showed him a five-dollar note.

  ‘Very nice, too. Why haven’t you changed it at the bank?’

  She grinned. ‘He’s coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. You think there might be another to go with that one. One trip to the bank will do for both.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s so generous. He gave nearly everybody something.’

  ‘Even Mrs Partridge apparently.’

  ‘Yes. And Mr Compton.’

  Masters said: ‘Let’s hope he’s got what I want.’

  Chapter Six

  After breakfast on Saturday morning Masters knocked on the door of Compton’s office and entered. His secretary was alone.

  ‘Where is Mr Compton?’

  ‘I really don’t know, sir. He’s been in. Now he’s gone away again. He hasn’t looked at the mail yet, so he should be back shortly.’

  ‘What does he normally do on Saturday mornings? Tour the camp to see if everything is ready for the new influx?’

  ‘Oh, no. He hasn’t time for that on Saturday morning. He’s usually in here at eight and he stays here till lunchtime. There’s so much to do on Saturday. People ringing him up from all over the camp to check on details. Last week’s accounts to do. Unused cash vouchers to redeem. New ones to sell.’

  The internal telephone rang. Val answered it. ‘No. He isn’t here. . . . I don’t know where he is. . . . He didn’t say . . . four hundred and seventy-three not four sixty-eight? Right, I’ll tell him.’ She put the phone down and turned to Masters. ‘I do wish he’d come. I can’t think what can have happened to him.’

  ‘Haven’t you a loud-speaker system to contact him?’

  ‘Oh dear, no. Mr Compton wouldn’t have one of those at Throscum. That would make us too much like other holiday camps.’

  ‘His flat?’

  ‘I’ve tried there. No reply.’

  ‘His wife’s out, too?’

  ‘Mr Compton’s not married.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. I’ll call back later.’

  Masters returned to the hall and found Green and the sergeants waiting for him. He said: ‘There’s a flap on because everybody wants Compton and he’s not in his office.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘See if you can see him outside, would you? I want a word with him myself.’

  They stood on the doorstep. Green lit a Kensitas and Masters filled his first pipe of the day. The sun was already high and hot. The activity around the house was ant-like. A gardener with a zinc barrowful of blooms trudged along the path. Cars followed each other out to the gate, luggage piled high on top, covered in weatherproof polythene. A milk float rounded the end of the concrete-block kitchen. Visitors staying another week strolled about or lined the road in small groups to wave goodbye to friends made in the camp. A camp cleaner with bass broom and two dustbins slung on a hand-trolley made slow progress sweeping along the road, stopping every few yards to shovel up his gleanings.

  Green said: ‘Busy place.’

  ‘How would you like an excuse to call on your lady doctor again?’ Masters asked.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’d like you and Brant to make a list of all the chemicals in the fruit sprays and fertilizers. The names should be on the containers. You could even take the car into Barnstaple and visit a gardening shop to see if there are more substances than you find in the Throscum potting-sheds. Then, when you’ve got a complete list, go over to the doctors’ house and ask what the effect of each one would be on the human body. If they can’t tell you straight out, ask them to look it up in a textbook. What’s the one they normally use?’

  ‘Martindale.’

  ‘That’s it. Would you see to that?’

  ‘We’re trying to nail him now, are we?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Thoresby.’

  ‘Certainly I want to know what killed her. If we can’t find the means, we’ve got no case at all.’

  Green said: ‘That’s what I feel. Thoresby’s the type, but I can’t see us pinning it on him just yet.’

  ‘It’s going to be as tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog laying it at anybody’s door. Look at the people who disliked her. The Meeths, the Thoresbys, the Honinghams—even old Compton hasn’t a good word for her.’

  ‘Not forgetting Syme.’

  ‘He simply adored her—or so he says.’

  ‘He could be reversing it. He was around at the time.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Green dropped his cigarette stub and trod on it. ‘D’you know what young Garry, the waiter, calls our Ernie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jessie Bell.’

  ‘Does he? That’s odd.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t have expected a Devonshire man to use that expression.’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t it original?’

  ‘Heavens no.’

  ‘I’ve never heard it before.’

  ‘I have. In Scotland—particularly in Edinburgh. I believe it’s a corruption of Jezebel—an example of folk etymology just like you calling asparagus sparrow grass.’

  ‘Jezebel’s a woman. A trollop.’

  ‘Not quite, or rather, not necessarily. In the early days of cosmetics it was used to refer to a woman who painted her face—and hence a bold hussy. But it gradually began to be used for what we would call Nancy boys, probably because some of them did use creams and powders. I’m no Professor Higgins, so I’m probably a bit off net. But Jessie Bell is common in other parts of Britain.’

  Green was about to reply when Compton’s secretary came to the door. ‘There’s a call for you Chief Inspector, from Superintendent Mundy.’

  Masters went to the phone.

  ‘That chap at the funeral,’ Mundy said. ‘He’s a doctor. I thought I knew all the quacks round here. But he’s newish. Consultant physician at St Mary’s Hospital.’

  ‘That explains his presence.’

  ‘How does it?’

  ‘He was probably the chap who dealt with her when she was rushed into hospital. Came to the funeral out of courtesy. Lots of doctors attend their patients’ funerals—particularly in rural districts like this.’

  ‘Unfortunately Mrs Partridge wasn’t taken to St Mary’s. She went to the District General.’

  ‘Perhaps this consultant attends both hosp
itals.’

  ‘No. Just St Mary’s. His name is Thurso. Initials M.J., and he lives in a house called Yardley, just over two miles out on the Taunton Road.’

  ‘Thanks for the help.’

  ‘I hope it’s of some use. Let me know if it is.’

  They discussed progress for another minute or so, then Masters rejoined Green to give him the news.

  Green said: ‘Now what?’

  ‘God knows. This chap is so new to the area Mundy doesn’t know him; he’s a specialist at a hospital to which Mrs P. wasn’t admitted; and he comes several miles to attend her funeral. What’s the answer?’

  ‘D’you reckon she still had clients?’

  ‘Personally I don’t think that would be it. A senior doctor might go off the rails a bit—though I’m doubtful whether Fay Partridge would appeal to most—but I hardly think one who did would endanger his reputation by voluntarily barging into a murder investigation. Why not see what the Meeths can suggest?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? You can warn them you’ll be calling later about the chemicals.’

  Green waited for a car to pass and then jauntily crossed the road and disappeared down the ride in the magnolias.

  A moment or two later, Hill came into view, covering the road from the bungalows at a brisk pace.

  ‘Found him?’

  ‘And how!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We saw him through the window of a kitchen in the big mess block.’

  ‘What the devil was he doing there?’

  ‘You might well ask. We looked in quietly. He was standing there with his arm round Lorna Thoresby.’

  ‘Just talking?’

  ‘She looked to me as though she’d been crying.’

  ‘That figures.’

  ‘What? When she’s just inherited half this dump?’

  ‘She’s also married to Thoresby.’

  ‘And you think Compton was commiserating with her?’

  ‘Maybe. She’s known him a long time and he was supposed to be like an uncle to her.’

  ‘If that’s what uncles can do to attractive bits of capurtle, roll on the time when I can be avuncular.’

  ‘Where’s Brant?’

  ‘Keeping an eye open. I came on because I thought you’d like to know we’d run him to earth—and the circumstances.’