Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Thanks.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, Compton appeared alone, with Brant a discreet distance behind him. The manager looked flustered, as though hurrying in the mounting heat of the day was too much for him.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Compton. I’d like to talk to you.’

  The hands fluttered, pushing the tie down inside the cream jacket. ‘Not now, Chief Inspector. I’m very busy and I’ve got a headache coming on.’

  ‘Not too busy or too ill to leave your office on a Saturday morning and go careering off for an hour or so.’

  Compton straightened himself up. ‘I had a little private business to attend to.’

  ‘And now it’s time for public business, sir. I’ve been trying to get hold of you . . .’

  Compton looked affronted. ‘Get hold of me?’

  ‘For a chat, Mr Compton, for a chat. Ever since I arrived. You’ve always been either too busy or you’ve been out.’

  Compton was about to protest, but it was obvious that he changed his mind. Instead he said: ‘Oh, very well. How long will it take?’

  ‘Not too long, I hope. Where’s the best place for a private talk? Your office?’

  ‘Oh, no. Valerie has too much work to do for me to turn her out.’

  ‘Very well. The bar. It’s not open yet. We can sit at a table in there.’

  ‘If you insist. I’ll get the key.’

  ‘Right. And please don’t stay to answer your secretary’s questions. I’ve got work to do, too.’

  *

  Hill sat at a nearby table. Compton and Masters faced each other. Masters said: ‘When I first arrived, Mr Compton, you came and introduced yourself and generally gave me the impression that you were prepared to be most co-operative. Since then I’ve had a lot of trouble trying to talk to you. For instance, you went out last night when we had tacitly arranged to meet.’

  ‘There was no arrangement.’

  ‘No firm one. But Friday is not your usual night off.’

  ‘I am the manager here. My arrangements are as flexible as I care to make them as long as they don’t impair the efficient running of the establishment.’

  ‘Quite. Now, to do my job properly, I must have a fair word-picture of the victim. Without it, I’m working in the dark. I build up that picture, Mr Compton, by asking questions of lots of people and then fitting the jigsaw together. I need your contribution. I’ve tried to get it before now, but you’ve not been available.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Your view of Mrs Partridge. Dr Meeth didn’t like her. Your dance professional says she was a lovely person . . .’

  ‘Oh, him!’

  ‘You don’t approve of Mr Syme?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Until two years ago I had a husband and wife team here. First-class ballroom champions. They knew their job and were a great asset to Throscum.’

  ‘Mrs Partridge changed all that?’

  ‘Refused to renew their contract. Said a duo wasn’t necessary. One person would be enough. More economical. And she brought Syme here.’

  ‘She was wrong?’

  ‘Of course she was wrong. There are as many men who require coaching or urging on to the floor by a competent dance hostess as there are girls who require the male dancer to make the evenings a success. Of course there was only one salary to pay, but I think Mrs Partridge fancied herself in the role of the female. She played at it, at any rate. But she did none of the necessary preliminary work and organization. I think, too, she liked having Syme dancing attendance on her, which a married male dancer wouldn’t do. And which a decent woman wouldn’t expect any man to do, either.’

  ‘You had a poor opinion of Mrs Partridge?’

  Compton spread his hands. ‘I have managed Throscum for fifteen years. Successfully. Our increased business and profits each year prove that. But for the last two I’ve been hamstrung, Chief Inspector. My decisions countermanded, my ideas sneered at, my suggestions ignored, by a woman who, had she not been married to my employer, I would have forbidden to enter the front gates—in any capacity.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I have been frustrated, Chief Inspector. Frustrated.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave? Surely a man of your ability and experience could have got a good job elsewhere?’

  Compton opened his eyes in surprise. ‘Leave Throscum? The place I have helped to build up into what I firmly believe is the prototype of all that is best in its particular field of catering for holidaymakers? Leave on account of a . . . of . . . that woman?’

  ‘I see your point. Let’s discuss happier times. I believe, that in complete contrast, you had a high opinion of the first Mrs Partridge and her daughters?’

  Compton said simply: ‘They treated me like one of the family.’

  ‘Mr Partridge, too?’

  ‘I thought he didn’t deserve the wife and family he had.’

  ‘Was that your opinion of him in the old days, or has it been coloured since, due to his choice of a new wife and what happened subsequently?’

  ‘My opinion of him was formed years ago. What happened since Mrs Molly passed on only confirmed my opinion.’

  ‘I see. I suppose you were pleased to see the girls happily married and away from Throscum before the trouble started?’

  Compton’s face clouded. He murmured: ‘They should never have left.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Compton seemed to pull himself together. ‘What I meant was had Lorna been here—or Becky—their father might not have introduced his paramour to Throscum.’

  ‘Perhaps not. It would have saved a lot of trouble. But you can hardly blame Lorna, a lovely girl . . .’

  ‘Very lovely.’

  ‘Attracting and being attracted by a fine young man like Thoresby.’

  ‘Fine? Did you say fine? Your opinion of Mr Thoresby must differ from mine, Chief Inspector. I once had the pleasure of showing him the door and I should like the opportunity to do it again, for good.’

  ‘Really? Well, now. Mrs Fay Partridge. What was her attitude towards gratuities, or gifts that were sent to the camp?’

  ‘She tried to insist that gratuities should be pooled, and wages adjusted on a sliding scale to take some account of them.’

  ‘You opposed her?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘So you didn’t mind little Cathy keeping the five-dollar bill Mr Sprott gave her?’

  ‘Mr Sprott?’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Compton. The American who made you a gift, too. What did he give you?’

  ‘I don’t accept gratuities, Chief Inspector. As manager . . .’

  ‘I didn’t suggest you did. What gift did he give you? He gave Mrs Partridge some perfume strips.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t remember—from a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Chief Inspector, you have no right to pry into my private affairs.’

  ‘All right, Mr Compton. I know a lot of people think all public servants make secret reports to the tax man. I won’t tell him I think you got a sentimental fifty dollars out of Mr Sprott.’

  ‘Fifty . . .’

  ‘If he gave Cathy five . . . oh, perhaps it was only ten after all. Never mind. He’s coming again. He might be equally generous.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Now, Mr Compton, the gifts or samples that arrived from commercial firms. What happened to those? Did Mrs Partridge latch on to those, too?’

  Compton grinned. ‘I let her see some of them—those I thought she ought to have. The rest she never laid eyes on.’

  ‘What about a box of marrons glacés, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, those? She was welcome to them. Nobody else wanted them, but they were just the sort of thing she indulged in.’

  ‘Right. Back to Syme. Am I right in supposing that since he came here the administrative arrangements for all the dances have fallen on your shoulders because he is incapable of carrying out his full duties?’
/>   ‘Quite correct. The man is an incompetent nincompoop. He . . .’

  What else he was about to say was cut off by the sound of the door behind the bar opening. Garry Welton came in. He said: ‘Sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen, but it’s eleven o’clock. Time to open up.’

  Masters said to Compton: ‘Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps you will try not to be quite so elusive should I want to speak to you again.’

  ‘I assure you, Chief Inspector . . .’

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up, Mr Compton.’

  *

  Hill said: ‘Bother all there, Chief.’

  ‘You never can tell. At least we know the happy state of relationships that existed here.’ They crossed the hall. Cathy York said: ‘Mr Green said would you please go to your bungalow.’

  ‘Certainly. Just one little question. When you rang Valerie yesterday to ask when Mr Sprott was coming back . . .’

  ‘He’s arrived. I’ve seen him. Val gave him his key just a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Good. When you rang through was Val alone?’

  ‘No. Mr Compton told her to ask who wanted to know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Sprott’s quite near you. Bungalow forty-two. With Mrs Sprott.’

  They walked along the road, now busier than ever with incoming visitors and visitors already in residence moving about between the different amenities. Hill said: ‘Are we getting anywhere, Chief?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Thoresby?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say. It’s a strange case. As odd as Dick’s hatband.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘There are too many possibilities and sub-plots and side turnings. Like this doctor chap Inspector Green’s been asking questions about. Where does he fit in, I wonder?’

  As they entered the bungalow, Green met them. ‘We’ve got visitors. The doctor and his missus. I’ve sent Brant to rustle up coffee.’

  ‘Excellent. Could the medicos help?’

  ‘They have a theory which you’d better hear.’

  Laurence Meeth said as he greeted Masters: ‘You chaps don’t let the grass grow. Fancy unearthing Thurso like that.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I don’t. Meg’s met him.’

  Meg Meeth was in an apple-green linen frock. Bare arms and legs and no-shoe sandals. She was carrying a large white hessian bag with bamboo handles. She said: ‘Don’t stare. I’m dressed for the weather, not a murder investigation. We don’t usually have much of a surgery on Saturday mornings, so Larry does it all.’

  Green pulled up a chair for her. She patted the arm for him to perch beside her. As there weren’t enough chairs to go round, Green obeyed, a little self-consciously. He sat stiffly, as though too aware of her nearness, her shining hair and the strip of thigh laid bare where the green skirt had ridden up.

  Masters said: ‘Tell me about Thurso.’

  ‘He’s an F.R.C.P. and been at St Mary’s about a month or five weeks. I had a patient in there and went over to see her. I know the Obst and Gynae registrar pretty well. He introduced me to Thurso.’

  Larry said: ‘He’s a good man by all accounts.’

  ‘How d’you think he came to know Fay Partridge?’

  ‘Not in the way men usually got to know her,’ Meg said. ‘Of that I’m sure.’

  ‘How then?’

  Larry said: ‘You were wondering about Nonavom yesterday. I reckon Thurso prescribed it.’

  ‘She went into hospital?’

  ‘No. Private patient.’

  ‘But Thurso is the hospital consultant. He wouldn’t have private patients, would he?’

  ‘Oh, very much so. St Mary’s hasn’t got all that many beds, so consultants there aren’t full time. They do about seven notional half-days a week . . .’

  ‘Notional half-days?’

  ‘The Ministry’s term for three and a half hours’ work. There’s a scale fixed for that—it averages about eight pounds for the session. The rest of the time they’re free to take on private patients—at about five guineas a time. So what they get is about three thousand from the Regional Hospital Board and probably—if they’re kept busy—the same again from private consultations.’

  ‘Where, in your opinion, does Mrs Partridge fit in?’

  ‘I reckon she went to him.’

  ‘But you are her doctor.’

  ‘That’s right. I think she was fed up with me, so she went as a private patient. No N.H.S. documents needed. But she didn’t remove herself from my list, so I knew nothing about it. She was playing it safe. Keeping me on a string, to fall back on if she didn’t like Thurso or his prices.’

  ‘That seems a funny game.’

  ‘She was entitled to do it. My guess is she went to Thurso complaining vaguely of nausea . . .’

  Meg said: ‘Which is more than likely considering how she stuffed herself—with food, I mean. Sweets, cakes, chocolate . . .’

  ‘Fruit maybe?’

  ‘Fruit? Perhaps. If it was exotic enough—grapes, peaches, passion fruit—bags of that.’

  Larry went on: ‘And Thurso gave her Nonavom. Charged through the nose for it and told her to take one whenever she felt sick. That’s how I read the situation.’

  ‘Why come to her funeral?’

  ‘It’s a customary thing to do—particularly in the case of private patients.’

  ‘But if he learned she had died . . .’

  ‘Learned she was murdered, you mean. That’s why he didn’t come forward. She’d probably consulted him once, because I can’t see Fay paying out five guineas very often. So he said nothing about her consulting him. But he came to the funeral.’

  ‘I still think it’s odd.’

  ‘Does the doctor of every murder victim come to you and say “I’m his doctor”?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You know they don’t, ducky. Larry didn’t. You came to him. And if you hadn’t, we should never have approached you.’

  Masters said: ‘Well, if what you say is true, it solves the mystery of the Nonavom. We’ll try and confirm it. Now. Where’s that coffee?’

  *

  After the doctors had gone, Masters said to Brant: ‘Did you manage to hear anything of what Compton said to Mrs Thoresby?’

  ‘No, Chief, sorry. The window was closed. But they looked very friendly.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What about these chemicals?’ Green asked.

  ‘Can you do the potting-shed end before lunch?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  When Green had gone, Masters stepped outside on to the little lawn. He was trying to locate bungalow 42. Hill, standing at the french window, said: ‘There’s Mrs Thoresby now.’

  Masters looked round. Lorna Thoresby in pale blue slacks and Courtelle sweater was passing the end of the bungalow. She was slim enough to look well in her apparel, but Masters noted as he strode towards her that the garments looked far from new.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Thoresby.’

  ‘Oh!’ She seemed startled and displeased at the encounter.

  ‘Been down to see your sweet factory yet?’

  She hesitated before answering. Then finally she said: ‘I just looked in earlier to see if it had changed at all.’

  ‘And had it?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Any of those new lines you suggested in production yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Compton didn’t bother to implement them.’

  ‘Oh yes he tried, he . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Thoresby?’

  ‘There were difficulties.’

  ‘Difficulties that even the manager couldn’t overcome?’

  ‘You don’t understand. Henry tried hard, he really did.’

  ‘For your sake, Mrs Thoresby?’

  ‘Well, yes. He knew how interested I was in them.’

  ‘But Mrs Partridge stopped him.’

  She hung her head and said: �
�I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Not to worry. You can give the orders now.’

  ‘Mr Compton . . .’

  ‘No. You. You’re the boss. Go and amuse yourself. Make a few batches or loads or whatever you call them. See how they go.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘In your place I’d jump into the saddle straight away—and try to forget quite a few things. Do it quietly. Don’t expect too much. Just work yourself into a nice, happy, impregnable position, and don’t let anything—anything or anybody—upset or unseat you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d like . . .’

  ‘Then why not? And don’t tell anybody. Let them find out. And when they do, make it clear that you want no interference. Good luck.’

  Masters watched her turn and walk with a more sprightly step towards the old mess building. Then he called to Hill. ‘Get the car. We’re going to see Thurso.’

  *

  It was midday before they reached Thurso’s house. It stood alone. Not too big, but large enough, Masters guessed, to be able to set two rooms aside as waiting and consulting rooms for the doctor’s private patients.

  It was Thurso himself who opened the door. He was dressed in a dark suit, with collar and tie, as though he had just finished a morning’s work. For a moment he stared, then said, quite jovially: ‘I’ve seen one of you before.’ He pointed to Masters. ‘You.’

  ‘That’s right, doctor. At Mrs Partridge’s funeral.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten. Yesterday afternoon. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re police officers, doctor. My name is Masters. . . .’

  ‘Good lord. Are you he? Come in, come in.’

  ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Hill.’

  Thurso bustled ahead, almost rolling as he went. The fat seemed well controlled, with a good surface tension, but the bulk tended to sway on the short, thick legs. ‘Come in here. My study—so called. Actually it’s a rag-bag of a den. If I want to work I go into my consulting room.’ He opened the door and stood aside. ‘See what I mean? The kids use it as a playroom.’

  He was right. The table held a Monopoly board with the bits and pieces strewn. On the floor was a Minic car, over on its back, showing its wheels like a puppy waiting to be tickled. Alongside it were the television programme papers. With a grunt, Thurso stooped to pick them up. Out of kindness to him, Hill did a quick collecting tour of the floor and dumped his finds on the table.