Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘And Miss Breese?’

  ‘I think she went to Gloucester after lunch. I didn’t see her till Sunday morning.’

  Green asked for the name and address of Win’s date. While he was writing it down, Clara came in, wearing a pale-blue summer frock and white sandals. Green noted her toe nails were painted cherry-red and, unusually for him, approved. ‘Miss Breese,’ he said. ‘When did you last see Miss Bowker?’

  ‘Here, last Friday.’

  ‘Not on Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go to Gloucester on that day?’

  Clara looked across at Win. ‘You’ve been gassing as usual, Win.’ She turned back to Green. ‘Yes, I went there. But not to see Sally.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me what you did do?’

  ‘I went to visit an aunt.’

  ‘How long did you stay with her?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. She was out when I called.’

  ‘So what did you do, Miss Breese?’

  ‘I had tea in a shop. Went round the cathedral. Then went to the cinema, and came home by the ten o’clock bus.’

  Green made notes of the places Clara said she’d visited. He closed his book and asked, ‘Were all three of you good friends?’

  ‘Very,’ Win said.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Clara said.

  ‘Yet Miss Bowker left you?’

  ‘Only to deal with our Gloucester business,’ Win explained. ‘It had nothing to do with …’

  ‘With what, Miss Bracegirdle?’

  ‘You might as well know,’ Clara answered him. ‘Brian Dent and I were friendly at one time. Then he fell for Sally. I expect Win’s already told you.’ She sounded disillusioned.

  ‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. He guessed. Didn’t you?’

  Green nodded. ‘Even detectives can’t guess like that without some hint to tell them they’re getting warm,’ Clara said.

  ‘Don’t fall out about it I had to know, some way or another,’ Green comforted her.

  ‘Why?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Somebody killed her. We want to find out who it was.’

  ‘Is that all? Or have you some more questions?’

  ‘Just one. Has either of you ever been a nurse?’

  Clara looked across at Win and smiled sweetly. ‘Didn’t you do a bit of studying, ducky, before Sal and I asked you to join us? When you thought you’d never get any other job?’

  Win reddened. ‘Yes. I did. What about it?’

  Green got to his feet. ‘Thank you, ladies. Could you tell me where I can catch the bus for Gloucester?’

  At Wye House, Hill and Brant were calling on those occupants who were at home. There were eleven other bachelor flats, besides Sally Bowker’s, in the block. Their questions were restricted mainly to asking when each occupant had last seen the murdered girl. The two sergeants expected little joy, and that is exactly what they got. But it was very noticeable that every person they talked to—young and old of both sexes—spoke very highly of Sally. In the most enthusiastic terms. And not simply because she was dead. Her neighbours gave the definite impression that as far as she was concerned, beauty really did live with kindness.

  By midday they had managed to see all but one of the tenants. The last one, a Miss Wombrugh, had been away all morning. The others were certain she had merely gone shopping and would be back for lunch. ‘Shall we forget her?’ Brant suggested. ‘She’ll not have anything more to tell us than the rest. And that’s nothing.’

  ‘I’d say go home now,’ Hill said, ‘but for the fact that she lives next door to Sally Bowker. She might just have heard or seen something last Saturday night.’

  Hill was right. Miss Wombrugh was a well-set-up woman of fifty. The sergeants, without knowing who she was, saw her walking smartly, despite a heavy basket, up to the front door of Wye House. The two, standing on the step, watched her approach, and stood aside as she drew near. ‘What a beautiful day,’ she said. ‘You look a little lost. Can I help you?’

  ‘If you are Miss Wombrugh, madam …?’ Hill asked.

  ‘I am she.’

  ‘We are police officers. We’ve been waiting in the hope of seeing you.’

  ‘Have you? I’m so sorry. In this hot sun! And I took an unconscionable time over my coffee in the Bon Marché this morning. Had I not done so I should have been home much earlier. I do apologize.’

  ‘No harm done, ma’am,’ Hill said. ‘Let me take your basket.’

  She handed it over as though it happened every day of the week. She had a dignity and an obvious ability to accept courtesies of this sort as a natural thing. She led the way upstairs. Her upright figure, good legs and sensible dress for the weather would have put many younger women to shame. She opened her flat door and they found themselves in an exact replica of the one Sally Bowker had lived in except that this one was at the other back corner of Wye House, and so was a mirror image.

  She invited them to sit, and without asking poured them all sherry, saying, ‘I have no other drinks in the house.’ There was no further explanation.

  She sat down. ‘Well, gentlemen, what do you wish to ask me? I assume it is in connection with the death of my late neighbour.’

  Hill said, ‘We’re from Scotland Yard, ma’am. There’s a team of us down here to investigate Miss Bowker’s death. There are several lines of inquiry going on. One of them is to ask the occupants of Wye House if they saw Miss Bowker, or heard her, last Saturday evening.’

  ‘I have told the local Chief Superintendent that I saw Sally with her fiancé about twenty past ten last Saturday night.’

  ‘Where, ma’am?’

  ‘On our little landing outside, and on the approach road.’

  ‘If you could expand that a little, ma’am.’

  ‘Of course. I’m falling into the same trap that I often warn my girls at school about. I teach English to the upper forms. I keep reminding them that though they may be familiar with the subject they are writing about, they must assume the reader is not and that explanations must be full and logical.’

  ‘Quite,’ Hill said.

  ‘I was walking home last Saturday night from a supper engagement with a colleague. It was a pleasant evening, and I felt no need for a cab. I left at ten or a few minutes after, knowing it would take me almost exactly a quarter of an hour to get here. Shortly after I left the main road—where the sign says “Private to residents only”, Mr Dent passed me—or rather, overtook me—in his car. He had Sally with him. I know the car, of course, and I could see the occupants quite easily because the road is well lit and the hood was down. It’s a coupé—an E-type Jaguar I believe it is called—with a very distinctive look. Only a minute or so later I reached the front door. The car was drawn up there. I came upstairs, and there were Sally and Mr Dent at the door of her flat.’

  ‘Doing what? Saying good night?’ Brant asked.

  ‘That is what I imagine they were doing. But not in the traditional style.’ She smiled. ‘No long, lingering kiss as in the novelettes. Sally was actually just inside her hallway. The door was half open. Her right hand was about shoulder height on the jamb, and though I couldn’t see her left hand, from the position of her arm I should say she was holding the door-knob inside. She was facing her fiancé who was just outside in the passage. I got the impression that she was about to go in, and that he was about to go away. And I think the scrap of conversation I overheard supports my belief.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘I am sure I heard Sally say, ‘I know it’s quite early, but I’ve a big day tomorrow and I feel a bit m’yer.’

  ‘A bit what?’

  Miss Wombrugh smiled. ‘It’s a modern expression—both facial and vocal. It is compounded of a grimace and an onomatopoeic sound supposedly resembling that associated with the rather unpleasant act of vomiting.’

  ‘M’yer?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘This is quite important,’ Hill said. ‘Miss Bowker definitely said
she felt m’yer?’

  ‘Without any doubt at all. Knowing Sally to be a diabetic, I felt just a twinge of worry, but as I stopped by them to open my door she smiled quite gaily and said good night to me. Mr Dent said good evening, too. And before I was fairly indoors I heard him say good night to Sally, too. I think the kiss came at that point, but it must have been a short one, because before I had finished hanging my light coat in the landing cupboard, I heard him going downstairs and his car starting. As I said it was a pleasant night, the windows were all open, and there is no mistaking the noise that particular car makes when it starts up.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Hill asked. ‘You didn’t see or hear her again?’

  ‘Certainly I didn’t see her. But after I’d made my nightcap and had it, I went to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Now, if you are familiar with these flats, you will know that my bathroom neighbours Sally’s.’

  Hill nodded.

  ‘And you can probably guess, today’s building standards being what they are, that the dividing wall is made of a single thickness of breeze blocks, laid on their edges. What my father—who really was a master builder—would call “rat-trap” fashion.’

  Hill nodded again.

  ‘Bearing that in mind, I think—but I can’t be sure because I was cleaning my teeth at the time and what I heard may have been the rumblebelly plumbing—I think I heard Sally retching.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stopped my scrubbing, turned off the tap and stood listening with my mouth full of toothpaste foam which began to dribble down my chin. I heard no sound at all, so I presumed I had been mistaken. Otherwise I should have gone to her.’

  ‘You didn’t think of going just in case?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. You see, were Sally to have been all right, and in bed—as she had suggested she would be half an hour before—and possibly asleep, I should have been categorized as a nosey old cat for waking her up. And I shrank from that, partly because I like to live at peace with my neighbours and to keep my nose out of their affairs and partly because it is not easy to say to any young woman, “I thought I heard you making a noise in your bathroom.” As it is a lavatory also, and noises, even when clearly heard through party walls, may be deceptive, the greatest exception may be taken. To say the same thing to a diabetic girl may suggest that you are taking an interest in her condition so great as to constitute an invasion of her privacy.’

  ‘We appreciate your difficulty,’ Brant said.

  ‘I’m afraid, also, that I consoled my conscience with the thought that if she were really in trouble and needed my help she could quite easily come to me. I know now I must have been wrong, for she never came, and yet she died.’

  ‘In a coma.’

  Miss Wombrugh shook her head. ‘She was a very nice child. I liked her very much. She had the trick of being able to treat me as an equal. Usually, these days, the young manage to make the middle aged feel so inferior, as though the added years were some form of leprosy.’

  ‘She was a popular girl?’

  ‘I think you will find that those who knew her will miss her gaiety and prettiness as well as her kindness. I know I shall.’

  The sergeants got to their feet and took their leave. ‘One o’clock,’ Brant said. ‘Time for a dirty great pint—iced.’

  4 |

  Green reached the Bristol at about the same time as the sergeants were first meeting Miss Wombrugh. He looked about for any of the other three, and finally found Masters sitting at the same little table in the garden as he had used earlier that morning. Masters was again reading the pamphlets Hill had brought him.

  Green said by way of greeting, ‘Anything in those?’

  Masters looked up. ‘A host of facts. Incidentally you’ll be pleased to hear that insulin-dependent diabetics can drink beer.’

  ‘The real stuff?’

  ‘Real and genuine. And while we’re talking about it, how about seeing if you can see a waiter?’

  ‘I’ve been working, while you’ve been sitting here on your fat backside …’

  ‘No, no. Besides, you’re on your feet. Mine’s a long, cool pint of draught Worthington, by the way.’

  Green stomped off to get a waiter or the beer. Masters gathered his papers together to make room on the table. When Green came back with two foaming flagons he drew out a seat for him.

  Masters took a long draught and then asked, ‘How’s Cheltenham?’

  Green gave him a full account of the conversation he had had with Clara and Win. When he’d finished, Masters said, ‘Quite a few points there.’

  Green nodded and drained his glass.

  ‘Clara Breese?’

  ‘Could be. Everything fits. Jealousy at losing Brian Dent. And that rather woolly sort of jaunt in here last Saturday. But I’ll tell you what. She’s worth ten of the other girl in my opinion.’

  ‘Maybe. But a good woman will fight hard to get her man.’

  ‘A woman scorned?’

  ‘That, possibly. Anyhow the lads will have to check her story. See if anybody remembers her at the tea room, cathedral, cinema, last bus and so on. Even then it might not be enough. There’s a possibility she could have gone to all those places, just as she said, and still have had time to visit Sally Bowker.’

  Green nodded glumly. Masters went for more beer. When he got back, he said, ‘And are you thinking what I’m thinking about that master key?’

  ‘You mean do Dent and Blackett hold it?’

  ‘Hook said they were the biggest property agents in town.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I’ll check on Monday.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Nearly one o’clock. They’ll be closed.’

  ‘Not they. Estate agents keep open all day Saturday. That’s when they do most of their trade. Remember working men can’t look round houses at any other time. Try ’em.’

  Green stood up, took a pull at his beer and then went indoors to phone. He entered the booth in the foyer and looked up Dent and Blackett’s number. When he was through, he said, ‘My name’s Bishop. I’m looking for a bachelor flat.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Bishop? Well I’m afraid it’s not going to be too easy …’

  ‘I suppose not, but I’ve just heard that there’s a flatlet vacant in Wye House—where somebody died recently.’

  The voice at the other end sounded shocked. ‘Oh, but I’m afraid we can’t consider that at the moment, it’s still in the hands of the police …’

  Green put the phone down and returned to Masters.

  ‘It’s theirs all right.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s another line we’ll have to follow.’

  ‘And how! If young Dent had free access to his girl’s flat …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. His beer claimed his attention.

  ‘And I’m interested in the news that those girls work on Sundays. Whoever killed her probably counted on it. If so it indicates that it was somebody who knew her movements pretty well.’

  ‘Like her boy friend? Could he be regretting it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The prospect of marriage to a diabetic?’

  ‘It’s a thought.’

  After a pause, Green asked, ‘What about you?’

  Masters gave him an account of the talk with Nurse Ward. When he’d finished, Green said, ‘Another prime suspect. Thought the doc was going overboard for her, did she? Killed her to stop it. Could be. What about her saying she didn’t see the Bowker girl again after she left the surgery? You sounded as though you didn’t believe her.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘So there are three suspects so far. Dent, Clara Breese and Nurse Ward. Could be worse, I suppose after only one morning’s work.’

  The sergeants appeared at the back door of the hotel. Green shouted across to them, ‘You’ll have to bring it out yourselves from the bar. And while you’re at it, make it four.’ He turned back again to Masters. ‘You’re pretty sure this Nurs
e person did see Sally Bowker again on Saturday?’

  ‘No. No. Not specifically.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ The beer he had already drunk was beginning to make Green sweat. He took his jacket off and hung it on the back of his chair and mopped his brow with a red and white spotted handkerchief. ‘Either she did see her or she didn’t.’

  ‘It depends on how loosely we interpret the word “see”. If I said to you, “Have you seen the estate agents yet?” you might reply, “Yes. They manage Wye House.” You would be giving me a factual answer and the information I wanted. But you wouldn’t be giving a strictly truthful answer, because you didn’t “see” the agents, you phoned them.’

  ‘I get it. So you think Ward phoned Bowker.’

  ‘I should have said a phone call was unlikely. But I think she could have been discussing her with a third person. Go over it carefully—imagine it. Question: “Did you see Sally Bowker later?” Expected answer: “No. Not after I let her out of the surgery.” That’s the typical reply. Agreed?’

  Green nodded.

  Masters went on: ‘But if somebody says, “No,” and then pauses, you get the impression there’s a bit more to come. And it would have come if what was about to be said had merely been confirmatory and explanatory. But it wouldn’t come if it were not confirmatory: if the speaker suddenly had second thoughts: if she’d been about to say something like, “No, but I was talking about her to Lizzie Dunk that afternoon.” See what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Green didn’t sound too sure.

  ‘All I’m saying is that I got the impression that Nurse Ward was going to say more, and then thought better of it. And because I’m feeling suspicious, I’m trying to guess what she had intended to say.’

  Green mopped his brow again. ‘You’re probably right. She probably discussed Bowker with the doctor.’

  ‘Maybe, but that would be so likely and unremarkable that I don’t think she would have deliberately avoided mentioning it.’

  ‘She might—if the memory of it was painful. Say she had spoken to Sisson, and because what she’d overheard had made her mad with jealousy, some of what she said wasn’t too discreet. Sisson would tick her off, wouldn’t he? And anybody who’s been carpeted likes to forget it or keep it quiet.’