Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘That’s it exactly. And her disgustingly forward manner.’

  ‘You mean she deliberately made a play for other men although she was engaged to be married?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I’d like to know about it. You see, now you’ve told me she was a fast young lady, it opens up all sorts of possibilities. It may mean that some man …’

  ‘You’re not suggesting Dr Sisson …’

  ‘Dr Sisson what?’

  ‘Was in any way responsible for her death.’

  ‘No. Certainly not. Should I?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Nurse Ward, are you worried about Dr Sisson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Sally Bowker did make a pass at him?’

  She nodded. ‘Every time she came.’

  ‘And last Saturday morning?’

  ‘Worse than ever.’

  ‘Would you tell me how you know? Were you present?’

  ‘I’m always on hand when the doctor examines women. It is part of my duty.’

  ‘You go into the surgery with them?’

  ‘Not into the surgery. The surgery is directly opposite the waiting-room. Directly opposite here is the examination room. It communicates with the surgery. The door between the two rooms is kept open. It is my job to be in the examination room whenever a female patient is in the surgery. Then, of course, if the examination room is used, I’m on hand.’

  ‘Do I take it that this procedure is as much in the interest of the doctor as the patient?’

  ‘It is for his protection.’

  ‘In case some woman accused him falsely of unprofessional conduct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it usual practice for the nurse receptionist always to be within hearing-distance?’

  ‘Dr Sisson is a young, unmarried man.’

  ‘So you made this arrangement personally—without direct orders from Dr Sisson?’

  ‘His orders are that I should be present when any woman patient is examined. How am I to know which will be examined and which won’t unless I’m always there?’

  ‘I see your point.’ Masters was inclined to think that this very strict interpretation of her duties was more to enable Nurse Ward to keep her eye on the doctor than for the doctor’s protection. She was keen on him herself. He was sure of that. ‘Sally Bowker made some flippant remarks to him last Saturday?’

  ‘Flippant? She arrived here in a mini-skirt that was positively indecent. In bare legs and sandals. She flounced into the doctor, lifted her skirt so that he could see everything she’d got on—what little there was of it—and asked him to look at some lumps she’d got on the tops of her thighs.’

  ‘Lumps?’

  ‘They were nothing. Lots of diabetics get them. On the injection sites if they use one spot too often.’

  ‘Why use one spot?’

  ‘Because the skin and tissue gets hard and numb and so it’s less painful to inject on the same spot. But when they do it too often they raise lumps.’

  ‘Permanent ones?’

  ‘They go away if left alone. She knew that. She just used it as an excuse for … for displaying herself. There’s plenty of room on anybody’s thighs for injections, but if you’re the type that won’t wear anything but a mini-skirt, showing all you’ve got, you’ve got to inject very high up all the time. The lumps she showed Dr Sisson were almost … well, all I can say is that the underclothes a respectable woman would wear would have covered them completely.’

  Masters nodded. In his mind’s eye he could see young, attractive Sally Bowker, with her long, languid legs holding up the side of her skirt to show the edge of a little bikini pantie. The sort of picture that intrigued him vicariously; that would set the pulse of the young doctor—in love with her—racing; and would anger this nurse—so little older in years than Sally Bowker, but decades older in prudery—in love, in her turn, with the doctor, and jealous that he should be granted, in so guileless a fashion, this intimate view of another woman’s charms. He felt he had now got Nurse Ward so worked up, so indignant, that she would continue to talk if he led her carefully.

  ‘What happened? Did the doctor advise her what to do?’

  ‘Dr Sisson was very correct.’

  ‘And that was the only incident?’

  ‘Not by any means. She asked him about having children.’

  ‘You mean that as a diabetic girl, about to be married, she wanted to know whether it would be safe to have a family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong in that?’

  ‘What she actually said was, “Brian says the first thing he wants to do after we’re married is give me a baby. Shall I let him or are you going to suggest the Pill?” ’

  ‘What was Dr Sisson’s reaction?’

  ‘He told her what every diabetic woman knows.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That though there may be an hereditary factor in diabetes, it is unlikely that it will emerge in the children when only one partner to the marriage is diabetic, particularly if there is no history of diabetes in either family.’

  ‘You know all about it.’

  ‘I should. I’m trained. I have worked in a diabetic clinic.’

  ‘Of course. With Dr Sisson?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You left hospital service specifically to become his receptionist?’

  ‘He advertised. I applied. He knew my work and chose me out of quite a large number of applicants.’ There was pride in the voice. But he knew she’d got it all wrong. When opening a new practice, Sisson had wanted efficiency to get the business off the ground. Nurse Ward was fooling herself into thinking that he had chosen her for her personal attraction. There would be no point in enlightening her.

  ‘After the doctor had given his advice on having children, what next?’

  ‘He renewed her prescription for insulin and told her to make an appointment with me for four weeks time. As she was leaving the surgery she said to the doctor, “Brian will be thrilled to know he can give me babies. He’s a keen businessman you know, and his one fear has been that he wouldn’t have a son to carry on.” Disgusting.’

  ‘Forthright and very modern, perhaps. But was it so bad? After all, a doctor’s consulting-room is a sort of confessional. A place where patients bare their souls and minds as well as their bodies.’

  ‘Not to the point where they try to … to seduce the doctor.’

  ‘You felt that was what she was trying to do?’

  ‘Of course she was. Showing herself off and all that talk about being given a baby. Why couldn’t she say having a baby?’ She looked at Masters under lowered eyelids. ‘There’s a nine-month difference between the two. Being given a baby is a sexual act and nothing to do with the doctor. Having a baby is giving birth and that is his concern. Not the other.’

  Masters got to his feet. ‘Thank you for telling me all this. It helps, you know, to realize just what sort of a person the victim was. By the way, did you see her again after she made the appointment?’

  It seemed to Masters that Nurse Ward hesitated a moment before she answered, ‘No.’ It was an unequivocal answer, with none of the supporting words of explanation that he would have expected from the average person.

  ‘Can I see the doctor now?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll see.’

  She went out, smoothing her unruffled dress as she went. He could imagine her halting in the passage to finger the stray strands of hair into place before knocking on the doctor’s door. She was back almost immediately. ‘Dr Sisson will see you in a few moments. He has nearly finished with the last patient.’

  She filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. From a wall cupboard she took sugar, milk and instant coffee. ‘Is Dr Sisson engaged to be married?’ Masters asked.

  She slopped the milk. The question had caught her off balance.

  ‘No. He isn’t.’

  ‘I have always understoo
d that it is desirable for a doctor in general practice to be married. The patients like it. But I suppose a lot of women would find the life of a doctor’s wife these days very wearing …?’ It was a question. He wanted her to react. She did.

  ‘Not if they understand the problems.’

  ‘Could they? Before experiencing them, I mean?’

  She turned and faced him. ‘A nurse would. The correct wife for a doctor is a nurse. To help him, understand him and his work …’ She didn’t finish. She turned back to the coffee making, as though aware she might have said too much.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Masters said.

  A moment or two later he was being shown into the surgery by Nurse Ward, who was carrying a small tray with two cups of greyish-looking coffee on it. Sisson was in his shirt sleeves, and although the window was open there was a faint smell of ether in the air. Sisson said, ‘I’ve about ten minutes in which to drink this, then I must be on my way.’

  Nurse Ward left, closing the door behind her. ‘I want a bottle of insulin,’ Masters stated. ‘Can you give me a prescription for it?’

  Sisson gulped at the hot coffee. Grimaced because he’d burnt his mouth, and put the cup down. ‘Quite honestly I don’t know the form in cases like this,’ he said. ‘Strictly speaking I can’t prescribe except for genuine need. Where police demands fit into the picture I just can’t say. As far as I know there’s nothing laid down to cover these circumstances.’

  Masters, sipping his coffee, said, ‘I don’t want to snarl up the works. Would a pharmacist sell me a bottle?’

  ‘Unlikely. Although I don’t know. Insulin isn’t a scheduled drug. It’s just one of those items a chemist doesn’t expect to sell over the counter, and so he wouldn’t provide it except against a prescription.’

  ‘Perhaps just a note from you would do the trick. I’d pay cash.’

  Sisson nodded. When Masters left a few minutes later he had the doctor’s signed explanation and request to supply one 10 ml phial of Rapitard insulin for police purposes. He knew that he hadn’t really needed the note, but he felt he’d had to have some excuse for calling on Sisson’s receptionist.

  Green was enjoying himself in Cheltenham. He had the knowledge that he was unusually and topically well-dressed, which, left wing though his views were, nevertheless made him feel good. The journey had been through pretty countryside looking at its best. The day was beautiful. Cheltenham Promenade looked attractive, with its excellent shops and its gaily dressed shoppers. And on top of all that, a chat with two personable girls in prospect.

  Their flat, in an Edwardian house some way behind the College, was on the top floor. Green climbed the first flight laboriously, and found the front door of the second-floor flat alongside and at right angles to that of the first-floor apartment. It had an illuminated bell. He pressed it and somewhere above his head heard a two-tone chime. There was the sound of light feet skipping downstairs, and the door opened. Green said who he was. ‘I’m Clara Breese,’ the girl said. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

  They were on a small landing. The colours were so startling—purple and yellow—and the travel-poster murals so garish that for the moment Green forgot to look at Clara Breese. By the time he’d recovered his wits she was leading him up an internal flight of stairs. Then he looked. She was in a short, pale pink quilted housecoat and mules to match. As she went ahead of him he had an excellent view of a fine pair of bare, firm legs and thighs. He watched the tendons tauten and the muscles move as she stepped upward. They turned at right angles. Two steps more and they were on a little square landing off which all the doors appeared to open. Except for a small window on the bend of the stairs the only natural light on the landing was borrowed through a stained-glass panel through the clear bits of which he could see the kitchen.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ Clara Breese said.

  As Green stopped a voice from a room on the right called, ‘Who is it, Clara?’

  Clara poked her head round the door. ‘Get up, lazybones. It’s the law. Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Oh, hell. At this hour?’

  Clara Breese turned to Green. She was dark and handsome. Almost black hair parted in the middle, with very little hint of wave in it. A well-shaped, sun-tanned forehead, fine black brows, a straight nose and eyes as merry and black as a West Highland terrier’s. Her neck was smooth, with no hint of line or wrinkle. Her hands were, Green thought, on the big side, but looked extremely well cared for with the nicest shaped nails he’d ever seen. The housecoat was too full and couthy to show her figure, but he noted that it stood proudly enough at the breast to promise well. ‘Come into the sitting-room,’ she said. ‘We haven’t done our weekly housework yet, but at least there’s a chair to sit on.’

  He followed her in. A big, L-shaped room, with a flat window and a wooden wainscot a yard high all the way round. This was grey. The walls were in sprigged yellow paper. Above the picture rail, where the walls curved gracefully inwards to the flat of the ceiling, was a band of lavender colour, fading into white around the central chandelier.

  The furniture was hotch potch. Unmistakably the collection of two different personalities. The two armchairs were inundated with glossy magazines. Clara cleared one heap for Green. He noted two he had never heard of or seen before—Graphis and L’Oeil. He wondered about them. He could recognize L’Oeil as French. Was it full of nude studies? Or as innocuous as the Homes and Gardens that accompanied it? He sat down and asked if he could smoke. ‘Yes, do,’ Clara said, and then went to the door to call, ‘Win! Heat up the coffee and bring it in, will you?’ She waited for the muffled reply and then came back to clear the other chair for herself. ‘You must excuse us. We hadn’t an inkling you were coming and Saturday is our Sunday, you know.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  As she sat she tried unsuccessfully to close the gap at the bottom front of the housecoat. ‘Nobody will let us near a shop to window dress on Saturdays. They’re much too busy. But on Sundays we get a free run because the shops are shut. So we’re always up and doing on Sundays. It’s the busiest day of the week with us.’

  Green thought for a moment. ‘What about last Sunday? Weren’t you worried when Sally Bowker didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Not in the least. In fact we didn’t know she didn’t turn up. Win and I were busy in Cheltenham. Sal had an appointment in Gloucester. We didn’t begin to get worried till Monday tea-time. The shop she was supposed to have done on Sunday had been trying to get us all Monday. But we were out until four. Then they tried again and got us. One of their people had been waiting for hours on Sunday to let Sal in. They wanted to know what we thought we were playing at.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I tried to get Sal on the phone. I thought she might be under the weather—being diabetic, poor old thing. But I got no reply. Then I rang the shop where she ought to have been working on Monday. When they, too, said she hadn’t shown up I began to get worried. Win and I went over to Gloucester, saw Brian Dent, and he contacted the police. They got hold of the master key and found her.’

  ‘Master key? Where from? There isn’t a caretaker in Wye House?’

  ‘No. It was in the agents’ office.’

  ‘Who are the agents?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  Winifred Bracegirdle came in with a coffee tray. Having been given more warning of Green’s presence, she had taken the trouble to dress properly. She was short and well built. She had dark hair and a naturally dark skin. An elfin face, almost triangular, that needed dark lipstick to show off the pleasant mouth and excellent teeth. She was a mature woman in miniature. A nice bosom, Green thought, and excellent legs. She had to wear very high heels to give her any height at all. She smiled at him. ‘Good morning. How d’you like your brew? Black, white or khaki?’

  She poured and handed round the coffee and squatted on a pouffe. ‘Hold the fort, Win,’ Clara said. ‘I’ll take mine with me and get dressed and in my right mind.’

  ‘I should t
hink so. You must be embarrassing this poor man, sitting opposite him in your dishabilles. Have you got any pants on?’

  ‘Linings only,’ Clara grinned, and as she went through the door, added, ‘Transparent nylon ones.’

  Win smiled above her coffee cup. She doesn’t care, you know.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What’s anything?’ Green said patiently.

  ‘Oh, whether she’s wearing pants or not. Whether she lives in complete chaos. Whether she shocks people. Whether she loses things, boy friends—anything.’

  ‘Boy friends? She sticks to numbers?’

  ‘Now she does. Although …’

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘Oh, just that she didn’t always.’

  Green sensed that Win was not being quite as forthcoming as she might be, or had intended to be. ‘So she had a steady at one time?’ he asked.

  Win nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, just some chap.’

  Green hazarded a guess. ‘Brian Dent, perhaps.’

  ‘You knew.’

  ‘No. But you were being so cagey it was easy to see you were trying to hide something. You wouldn’t try to hide the name of somebody not important to me. So speak up. She went steady with Dent at one time?’

  Win nodded. ‘For about six months.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He teamed up with Sal. After that Clara didn’t seem to care very much. A different one every night.’

  ‘Fair enough. She can play it any way she likes. But you hinted just now that with Sally Bowker dead …’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that the way seemed open again—for Clara and Brian, I mean.’

  Green lit another Kensitas. ‘When did you last see Sally Bowker?’

  ‘Last Friday afternoon. I’d done her some stickers and she came to collect them.’

  ‘What did you do on Saturday?’

  ‘I cleaned up the flat and did some shopping in the morning. Went swimming in the afternoon. And had a date at night.’