‘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 Nurse 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.’
Brant and Hill approached carrying two tankards each. ‘Sorry to be so long,’ Brant said. ‘They’re thicker in that bar than protesters in Trafalgar Square.’<
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Masters took his beer from Hill, then turned to Green. ‘What you said just now is quite logical and probably the right answer. But we’ll bear other possibilities in mind.’
Hill drew up a chair and sat down. He drank deep and then asked, ‘Fruitful morning?’
‘Hard to tell yet,’ Masters said. ‘What about the occupants of Wye House?’
Hill made his report on the morning’s work. When he’d finished Green commented, ‘That knocks one of our suspects out. If Brian Dent didn’t go into the flat it makes a porridge of our theory about him having a key.’
‘Why?’ Masters asked.
‘Well, if he’d wanted to go in for any reason surely it’d have been commonsense to go in to say good night to his bird. A lot more natural and less likely to cause comment.’
‘But the girl was feeling sick by the time he got her home,’ Masters objected.
‘Maybe she was. But he’d want to get inside to doctor her insulin. That’s commonsen …’ He stopped in mid-word and stared at Masters. ‘By crikey! That carrying case! Her insulin was in a carrying case. She’d been toting it around in her bag and she’d been out with him!’
Masters smiled at Green’s amazed tones. ‘The penny’s dropped?’
‘This gets worse,’ Green complained. ‘The insulin could have been tampered with either in the flat or outside. We’re not getting any closer. We’re getting further away from the answer.’
‘Not us,’ Masters said. ‘We’re simply getting more elbow room. Having alternatives is a jolly sight better than being stuck with just one rigid set of possibilities.’
Green didn’t appear comforted by this philosophy. ‘It’s a set of Sunday undies to a G-string that she and young Dent went cavorting all over the county that day. And we’ll have to follow them up.’
Masters finished his beer and got to his feet. ‘I’m going to have a salad lunch, and then back on the job.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I think it’s time you and I saw Dent. The boys can check up on the movements of Clara Breese last Saturday.’
Green put on his jacket. ‘What about the Ward woman? Aren’t her movements important?’
‘They are. They can take her in, too. We’ll give them the score while we eat.’
The offices of Dent and Blackett were situated in a street leading from the main road to the cathedral close. The waiter they asked for directions told them how to get there. ‘Go past Woolworth’s and turn right where you see an arrow on a lamp-post. You can’t miss it because it’s only a bit of an alley about a hundred yards long.’
The alley was just wide enough to take a car. The pavements on either side were about two feet wide. Far too narrow for Masters and Green to walk abreast. They passed antique shops and second-hand bookshops with dim interiors and apparently little trade. Going their way were several small parties of sightseers in holiday dress, with cameras and sunglasses. Intent on doing the cathedral, part of the fabric of which Masters could see just beyond the end of their tunnel-like street. So intent was he on seeing as much as he could of the building which loomed ahead that he almost missed what he had come out to find. ‘Come on,’ Green said. ‘Mind your head.’
A brass plate on old black woodwork. A window, protected by an overhang, with photographs and details of property. A low doorway. Another dim interior. Masters stooped and entered. The floorboards were old, uneven, and over a foot wide, with a patina of age enhanced by O Cedar floor polish, the smell of which gave the place a homely, welcoming atmosphere. The clerk behind the desk asked if he could help.
‘Mr Brian Dent, please.’
‘I’m sorry. Mr Dent isn’t here.’
‘You mean he’s out?’
‘No. I mean he doesn’t work on Saturdays.’
Green said. ‘Why not, if the office is open?’
‘Mr Dent has nothing to do with property sales. He is an architect. His studio and office are upstairs, but his business is entirely separate from ours. No five-day week for us, worse luck.’
‘Is he likely to be at home?’
‘That I can’t say, but I don’t think you’d better call on him. Monday morning would be better. I can make an appointment for you.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t thank you for going to his house. He’s just … well, his fiancée died rather tragically a few days ago, and I think he’d far rather not be bothered just now by ordinary business.’
‘It’s extraordinary business we’re on, brother,’ Green said.
‘Oh!’
‘Police,’ Masters explained. ‘Would you please ring his home and tell him we’re on our way to see him.’
The clerk picked up the phone as they started to leave the office.
‘Why tell him to do that?’ Green asked. ‘Dent’ll be warned.’
‘He must know we’ll be getting round to him soon, and that chap in there would have phoned him in any case. He didn’t say so, but he knew we were policemen. We can’t disguise ourselves that easily.’
Masters turned towards the cathedral. Green, tagging along behind, said, ‘That’s not the right way to Dent’s house.’
‘It is unless you want to walk.’
‘Taxi?’
‘No. If the sergeants are doing their stuff they should be making inquiries here now, or soon should be. If we hang around a bit we’ll see the car and they can give us a lift.’
As they left the alley, the full splendour of the cathedral opened before them. Green stopped in his tracks. ‘I go to chapel,’ he said.
‘So? It doesn’t hurt to look at a church.’
‘That’s what I mean. You can feel the power of that place at this distance, can’t you?’
The precincts had disappeared, to make way for a car park. The surrounding houses, which Masters presumed must once have belonged exclusively to members of the Chapter, were now turned into commercial offices. The place was a right of way for everyday business, and besides sightseers, townsfolk hurried to and fro with shopping-baskets and prams and briefcases, oblivious of the source of sacred power which towered above them, a stone-coloured silhouette against a hot, blue, sky, like a Canaletto original backing a modern populated canvas by Lowry.
‘Worth a look, isn’t it?’ Masters said.
‘Yes. But does it pay?’
Masters was a little surprised by this remark. Then he saw the board which had occasioned it. The cost of daily upkeep was there for all to see, in the hope that those who visited would contribute. He said, ‘You yourself said it was a power house. Does Battersea pay?’
Green grunted. ‘I can’t see the car.’
‘In that case we’ll go inside for a few minutes and you can help preserve history by dropping sixpence in the box.’
In the cool interior, Masters knelt. When he got up, he found Green standing by a model of the cathedral. He had put his sixpence in the box. The windows had lit up and an organ-music record had started to play ‘Holy Night’. Masters saw that Green was completely fascinated. Near him stood two little girls in summer dresses. All three listened intently. Masters went to the door to look for the car. It was drawing in as he stepped out into the sunlight.
Brant dropped them at Dent’s house. It was a single-fronted modern villa, standing very much alone, but with great width of frontage because the separate garage, level with the building line, had been connected to the main house by a flat-roofed car port. The newness and brilliant whiteness of the paint, in this sunshine, gave an air, not of rural England, but of some sub-tropical play centre. It struck Green as much as Masters. ‘Old Dent must have gone a bust on this,’ Green said. ‘I’ll bet he’s got a swimming pool and tennis court at the back.’
Masters sent Brant back to the cathedral to pick up Hill. ‘An E-type coupé in the shed?’ he said to Green.
‘That’s it. Pop uses the garage, son the dutch barn. I wonder where mum keeps her scooter?’
The door opened as they approached.
The hall was wide and carpeted all over in plain red. Masters guessed it was Brian Dent waiting to welcome them.
‘Mr Brian Dent?’
‘That’s me. And you’re the two policemen the office rang up about?’
Masters introduced himself and Green. He liked the look of Dent. Tall and not too heavily built, he wore a washed-out blue shirt and grey slacks with a pair of well-polished brown leather shoes. His hair was dark brown and fine, falling over his brow on the right: a natural unruliness that Masters thought would have its own attraction for girls. His eyes were brown, and his beard area fairly dark. The bare neck and throat were tanned, and a hint of hair showed inside the V of the shirt.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Mum and Dad are on the terrace, but it’s cooler inside—especially if there’s a lot of talking to be done.’
He showed them into a sitting-room at the front of the house. Masters didn’t care for it. It was very new and modern, but it was also absolutely rectangular without a break or an alcove anywhere. Where, in Masters’ opinion, there should have been a fireplace, was a glass-fronted cupboard, with green baize-covered shelves on which was laid out a hunt in full cry. Without inspecting them closely it was difficult to say, in the dimness of their prison, whether each of the little china pieces was as exquisite as it gave the impression of being. Seeing him gazing, Dent pressed a switch, and concealed lighting flooded the scene. It took on life. The liver, fawn and white hounds, each scarcely an inch long, the mounts, the habits, and the quarry—a small scrap of a fox, perfectly proportioned, about to go to earth—breathed life and colour. Green said, surprisingly, ‘That’ll be German.’
‘That’s right.’
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