‘Thanks. At least I’ve got a safe hidey-hole for drinks here—until the lads learn to pick locks.’ He took keys from his pocket and opened a corner cabinet. ‘Here, Sergeant, d’you mind acting as barman? Mine’s a pink gin and you’ll know best what suits yourself and Mr Masters.’
He took an open tin box of fishing floats from a chair for Masters. Then he subsided himself into what was obviously a favourite well-bottomed club chair. ‘What’s the form? Mrs P. was poisoned, I hear? Having difficulty in pinning it on anybody?’
‘Naturally. We always do.’
‘Not from what I’ve heard.’
‘You only get to hear of successes. We keep our failures well and truly hidden.’
‘Like us. They’re usually buried deep.’
‘Which brings us, sir, to your presence at the funeral.’
‘Did it look suspicious—my being there?’
‘Shall we say that in such a small congregation you tended to stand out.’
Thurso patted his stomach. ‘Stick out, you mean.’ He took the glass from Hill. ‘Thanks, Sergeant, that looks fine for size.’ He raised the glass. ‘Cheers.’
Masters, who had been given canned light ale, took a sip and then continued the conversation. ‘As you can imagine, doctor, on occasions like yesterday, we keep our eyes open and ask questions. When I learned you were a doctor and very new to the district I wondered what your connection with the deceased woman could be. Not an old friend, surely?’
Thurso found this amusing. He heaved with mirth for a moment. ‘Not if I read her aright. She was my patient—short-lived in every sense.’
‘She consulted you?’
‘Once. She came here last Wednesday complaining of a feeling of nausea. I examined her pretty thoroughly and found nothing organically wrong. In fact I’d have said she was a lusty specimen.’ He laughed again at his own joke.
‘Then what?’
‘I did the usual. Questioned her closely about her diet, but I couldn’t get very far.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was so damnably “refained”. She’s dead now, poor soul, but you know how it is when people like her won’t speak in a natural voice or use words that come naturally. She was going on about having a soupçon—only she said soopson—of this, a modicum of that, morsel, dash, thimbleful, pinch, spot—they all came in, and quite frankly I was hard pushed to get a clear picture. I mean, when I tried to discover what a modicum of fresh cream was, I was told it was no more than the merest dash, when I suspected she meant a whole carton. But that’s by the way. There was only one thing she admitted to going a bust on fairly regularly, and that was fruit.’
‘Fruit?’
‘Yes. But as I say, she tried to be so very port outwards starboard homewards that she would keep referring to it as dessert. It fitted, though. It was fairly clear that she was nauseating herself by overeating, so I gave her a bottle of anti-nauseant pills and told her to cut out the fruit.’
‘To cut fruit out altogether?’
‘Most emphatically. I know fruit usually causes diarrhoea and possibly sickness, but usually only if it is under-ripe or over-ripe. In good condition, fruit could well cause sickness—without diarrhoea—in some people. But to play safe I gave her Nonavom, which is usually effective in the treatment of vomiting of varied aetiology. So if it was, say, the cream and not the fruit, she’d be just as well off with Nonavom.’
‘Thank you, doctor. She took just one Nonavom. Last Friday.’
‘She was sick at that time?’
‘Her dance professional says he found her laid out and she asked him to give her the tablet. It worked, apparently, because she was up and about in a few hours.’
‘Only to die on Tuesday?’
‘Do you think the two events could be connected, doctor?’
‘Possibly. But it hardly seems likely if one tablet of Nonavom put her on her feet again on Friday. And, as I said, she was organically sound on the Wednesday.’
Masters said: ‘You didn’t come forward to tell us she had visited you, doctor.’
‘No. I should have done so had I known earlier of her death. I don’t read the local rag, yet. Don’t know enough about the district to be interested. But on Thursday night, in the club, somebody mentioned it. So I turned up at the funeral on Friday—just to show willing, you know. But my information was she’d been poisoned. Nothing to do with me, really.’
‘Nonavom could have poisoned her.’
‘I made sure it hadn’t. I rang the District General on Friday morning. If there’d been the slightest doubt I’d have got in touch. But I’m just starting to build up a private practice round here, and the least breath about a doctor scuppers any ambitions he may have in that direction. So I attended the funeral, and nothing more.’
Masters got to his feet.
‘I’m most grateful for your help, doctor. Sorry we had to call just at lunchtime.’
‘It’s been a pleasure and, I must confess, a bit of a relief to see you. I had a sneaking feeling that I really ought to have got in touch.’
‘Consciences can be hell, can’t they? Goodbye, and thanks once again.’
As he drove back towards Throscum, Hill said: ‘What did he mean—port outwards, starboard homewards?’
‘Posh.’
‘Oh!’
Masters looked across at him. ‘How true it is, I don’t know, but it is said to refer to first-class bookings on ships in the old days. Something to do with which side of the ship faced the sun. I’ve not been able to determine whether the preference was for heat or for shade in the tropics.’
Hill spent the rest of the journey trying to work it out. Masters was thinking that if Dr Thurso had warned Fay Partridge against eating fruit, it was no surprise that the sergeants had found no skins, cores, pips or other signs of fruit in her flat. But if this was so, why had Ernie Syme said she took coffee and fruit on Friday after she recovered from her bout of sickness?
Chapter Seven
Cyrus R. Sprott was sitting in a deckchair on the tiny lawn outside bungalow 42. He was wearing blue-grey Palm-Beach trousers, a white shirt with a bandana cravat, English hand-made shoes with round toes, sun-glasses with heavy side-pieces that ran straight back over the iron-grey hair above the ears, and a hat that Masters, not too well up in this particular piece of apparel, thought must be a stetson of much smaller capacity than the ten-gallon type. He was thick-set and powerful: the uprolled sleeves showed hairy forearms developed like those of a circuit tennis ace. Masters could imagine him, twenty-five years earlier, thrusting into action like a scrum forward. The second deckchair was empty except for two magazines and a plastic cylinder of frozen cologne. Sprott himself was reading Life magazine.
Masters, stopping by the low white paling, said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Sprott. My name is Masters.’
Sprott was quick to his feet, hand outstretched.
‘Well, now, Mr Masters, it’s good to meet you. Little Cathy told me you’d been asking for me. And though I just can’t imagine what one of the famous detectives from New Scotland Yard would be wanting with me, I’m glad of the opportunity to shake your hand.’
Masters shook hands. Felt the power of the man. Hated the sun-glasses. They hid too much. Robbed him of one of his favourite ways of assessing a man quickly. ‘At the moment, Mr Sprott, I’m not here in my official capacity.’
‘Not here in . . . but I heard you were down here investigating the murder of Mrs Partridge?’
‘I am. What I meant was that I am not approaching you in my official capacity. I wondered if you could give me a little private information.’
‘Surely. Glad to. Step over and have a seat. Emmy’ll be sorry to have missed you, but she had a sun headache and went to lie down.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. If it’s serious there is a doctor close by.’
‘Hell, no. She’s got some analgesic that’s easy to take. One of my company’s own products, Mr Masters. She’ll be right in an hour.’
>
‘That’s good.’ Sprott cleared the second chair and they both sat down. Masters said: ‘What I was hoping you could tell me was where I could get hold of some of those micro-encapsulated perfume strips. I heard you’d given some to Mrs Partridge and I wondered if you could tell me the name of the firm that makes them or a shop where I could buy some.’
‘Nothing easier, Mr Masters.’
‘If you could give me the name of your London retailers.’
‘I can do better than that. I can give you a sample pack.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I really didn’t ask in order to get a free gift.’
‘It’s either a free gift, Mr Masters, or none at all—for a period at any rate. Retailing won’t start in Britain for some little time.’
‘I see. In that case, may I accept your offer? It is rather important to me that I should get some.’
‘Stay right here, Chief Inspector. I’ll be back as soon as I can lay my hands on the right valise.’
Sprott was back in a few moments. He handed Masters a sealed white carton, long and narrow, which went into his inside pocket easily.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr Sprott.’
‘Forget it. Or alternatively, sit down and talk a spell in return. I’d like fine to hear how you famous detective boys set about things. Tell me, is it right that you fellers at New Scotland Yard can be asked for by any country in the world that’s having crime difficulties?’
‘The whole world? I wouldn’t be sure about that, but certainly states that have any connection with Britain—members of the Commonwealth, especially. Still, if the U.S.A. really wanted help . . .’ He laughed.
‘You’d come running. Good for you. But I suppose you co-operate with the States quite a lot?’
‘We have both official and non-official channels open with your federal forces at all times. And occasionally members from both sides cross the Atlantic. I remember . . .’
*
The talk—questions and reminiscences—continued.
An hour and two pipes later, Masters got to his feet, thanked Sprott once again and left him to his reading.
*
Masters joined Green and the sergeants for tea in the Throscum House lounge. Green was looking with dismay at the anaemic-looking tea coming from the pot as he poured. ‘This here’s what my old mother used to call “water bewitched and tea begrudged”, meaning there weren’t enough tea leaves put in the pot and the water wasn’t boiling when it was mashed.’
Brant said: ‘Mashed?’
‘The action of pouring boiling water on tea leaves.’
‘That’s brewing.’
‘No it’s not. You leave tea to brew after it’s mashed.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Well if nothing else you’ve learned something today.’
Masters said: ‘Any joy with the chemicals?’
Green had the lid off the pot and was poking around morosely with a spoon. He said: ‘No wonder this stuff hardly has the strength to crawl out of the pot. It’s made with tea bags. Two of ’em for four of us.’ He put the lid back and turned to Masters. ‘There’s enough chemical here on the premises to kill half the neighbourhood, but only two or three sorts. Not a big variety. And young Honingham and his missus were mucking about round the sheds.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Gardening, I suppose. But it doesn’t signify, because everything was open and anybody who wanted to remove anything could have done—particularly those two now Becky’s one of the bosses.’
‘What about the ingredients? Did you see the Meeths?’
‘I left the list with them. They’re checking up in Martindale.’
‘That gives you an excuse to call again this evening.’
Green bit into a scone covered in clotted cream. ‘As a matter of fact it does. It was what I was angling for—an invite for tonight.’ He wiped the cream from round his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Unless you’ve some other caper on?’
‘Not as far as I know. Has anybody seen Thoresby today?’
Nobody had. Masters said: ‘I met Mrs Thoresby just before lunch, and you’ve seen the Honinghams. Can little Willy have been avoiding us?’
Brant said: ‘Unless he’s scarpered.’
Masters shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s that big a fool. Still, we’ll call at the bungalow and make sure.’
‘Knowing his type, I’d have thought he’d have been lording it about the place,’ Green said, ‘now his wife’s one of the bosses. I can’t see him brooding all on his lonesome.’
They left the lounge together. Masters said to Hill: ‘You and Brant see if Thoresby’s at home. It won’t do any harm to let him see you’re keeping an eye on him.’
‘Where’ll we find you?’
‘In the bungalow. I’m going to shower and put on a clean shirt.’
Green said: ‘I’ll come with you. I haven’t read the Mirror today yet.’
They walked in silence for a moment or two. Then Green said: ‘We haven’t really got a case, have we?’
‘Against Thoresby, you mean?’
‘Him, or anybody else.’
‘I thought you were sold on him?’
‘I am. But you said yourself we’ve no proof.’
‘True enough. But I don’t believe our work so far’s been wasted. After all it’s only forty-eight hours since we arrived.’
‘You’ve always said that unless you’ve got a lead inside forty-eight hours the case could take a long time.’
Masters looked across at his companion. ‘By the Lord Harry, I believe you’re hoping we’re going to have a protracted stay here so that you can see a bit more of your lady doctor.’
‘Why not?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘She’s coming here to swim tomorrow morning.’
‘Then you will be seeing a bit more of her—literally. Bikini or one-piece? D’you know?’
Green grinned. ‘I didn’t ask. I’m waiting to be surprised.’
Masters had bathed and was dressing when Hill and Brant came to the bungalow. Hill said: ‘Not a sign of him at his bungalow, nor in the more obvious places like the swimming pool, tennis courts and what-not.’
‘No? Did you see his wife?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Never mind. I’ll go down to the stores block and see if she’s in the confectionery kitchen. She’ll probably know where he is.’
Hill said: ‘Isn’t that where the shops are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll come, too. I need some fags.’
‘Me, too,’ Green said.
Brant decided to join them. The day was still hot, even though the sun had begun to wester. This was obviously a favourite time for everybody to be out of doors, some sitting, others playing various games. Happy shouts came from the swimming pool, and the plop of balls from the tennis courts. Several rinks of bowls were in progress on a crown green. Clock golf, croquet, swings and roundabouts for children, even a model boating pool . . . all the fun of the fair. Holidays, jollity and murder.
Masters said: ‘You people get your cigarettes. I’ll see her alone.’ He was just about to leave them, when he turned to Green. ‘See you get those trunks big enough.’
‘What?’
‘I saw you’d got two packets of Kensitas in the bungalow. But if Mrs M. is swimming tomorrow . . .’
Green had the grace to blush.
Lorna Thoresby said she didn’t know where her husband was. She was dressed in a white overall and cap and looked a little hot and tired; but she also appeared happier and, Masters thought, more alive and eager. There was a smell of hot sugar intermingled with other aromas, and on a long, zinc-topped table, several shallow aluminium trays of sweets and a little board of the same metal, about eighteen inches square. Masters was wondering about its use, particularly as it was etched all over with the words Throstlecombe House, repeated over and over again like the backgr
ound to some bank cheques.
She divined his interest. She said: ‘Haven’t you ever looked at the bottom of a chocolate and wondered how they put the maker’s name on?’
‘They do them on plates like these?’
She gave him a practical demonstration. Placed a single centre, coated in molten chocolate from a double porringer, on to the plate. ‘It’ll take a few minutes to harden. But here’s a finished sample.’ He took it and examined the base.
‘Satisfied?’
‘Absolutely. I’m more pleased than I can say that you took my advice and came here, alone, and amused yourself.’
She laughed. ‘And I’m pleased you told me to come. It’s acted like a tonic. I feel so much better.’
‘I’m glad. And it should get even better. I expect Mr Compton has seen that things have been run as well as possible while you’ve been away.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘Well . . . he’s always been interested, or should I say he always appeared to be in the old days. He’d always come in and lend a hand if necessary. He got quite good at it. But from what I can see he must have lost interest in confectionery these last few years. Things aren’t quite what I’d hoped.’
‘Probably your stepmother’s influence, or he grew busier. There could be any number of reasons.’
‘Of course there could. I’m being unfair to him. But he was so good at it and interested . . .’
‘Don’t worry about him. I told you this morning to make this your very own show. I repeat that advice now. Go to it, entirely on your own account. And with that to think over, I’ll leave you.’
He was near the door when she said: ‘Oh, Mr Masters . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What are you . . .? I mean . . . you were looking for him.’
‘I was. I don’t want to frighten you, Mrs Thoresby, but your husband really did cut a most unsatisfactory figure when I spoke to him yesterday afternoon.’
‘I guessed. He didn’t tell me, but I guessed.’ She came closer to him. ‘Mr Masters, Bill’s been like that for two or three years now. He used to be quite different. But he’s been worried. Financial worries. And they’re the worst there are. Believe me, because I’ve experienced them with him. Not knowing where to turn next. And that changes a man. Affects his personality. It made a grumpy, ill-tempered bore out of . . .’
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