Swaine laughed and said: ‘I must remember that one.’
Bullimore said: ‘So he was shunned because he was odd, due to the beginnings of schizophrenia. Because of sexual emotions he mistook the girls’ standoffishness for snobbery. That stayed with him, rankling in his subconscious, until the death of his wife and child triggered off fully developed schizophrenia. Then the hurt in his mind came to the surface and he took his revenge.’
‘I can’t give a specific answer as to whether he accepted the job of restoring the local church with a view to coming here for revenge or whether, having accepted the job the old environment put revenge into his mind . . .’
‘Neither can anybody else. And the question is academic. He’s unfit to plead,’ said Swaine.
‘I’m afraid he is. But to go back to which came first—the job or thoughts of revenge. I’ve said I can’t be dogmatic about the time when this crazy decision came to him, and the doctor says nobody can be definite, but I believe he came here with the express intention of murdering these women.’
‘Mind reading? Or are there some facts to base your assumption on?’ Bullimore asked.
‘Call it, rather, lack of facts.’
Dr Swaine laughed. ‘By the Lord Harry, I enjoy being around when you’re on the job. Now you can make deductions from lack of facts; and I’ll put ten to one on your being right without hearing what you’ve got to say.’
Masters grinned. ‘It’s what you’d call differential diagnosis. It pertains to the differences between what happened to me when I came to Finstoft and what happened to Tintern.’
Swaine said: ‘I should have known better than lend you that medical dictionary. I knew instinctively I’d have it cast in my teeth before very long.’
‘Give over, you two. What’s the griff?’ said Bullimore.
‘When I arrived the local paper wrote me up, as I imagine it does all notorious visitors to the area, given the chance. Who told them I was here?’
Bullimore, rather shamefacedly, said: ‘I did. Those reporters were living at the station. I gave them your arrival to keep them happy for a bit—and off my back.’
‘I don’t blame you. But as nobody here seems to know that Tintern is a Tofter, I assume he never got a write-up in the local rag.’
‘I never saw one.’
‘Nor me,’ said Swaine.
‘Which would seem to indicate there wasn’t a mention of him, although he’s a pretty famous chap in his own field. If they’d got to know about him, the editor would have soon dug out the fact that Tintern was born here and have splurged about a local boy making good, wouldn’t he?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘So everybody would have known he was a Tofter. And that fact alone would’ve spoiled his plans. My belief is that the vicar of the church he’s been rebuilding would’ve made a point of mentioning his presence to reporters, unless he’d been specifically asked not to do so.’
‘By Tintern himself?’
Masters nodded. ‘You can check up with the vicar, but I imagine when he first arrived, Tintern explained that he’d just lost his wife and child and he’d come here for a rest as much as anything else. He would prefer no publicity. And the vicar would be the first to agree to so reasonable a request. That’s what must have happened, because though he’s been away from here for a quarter of a century, there must still be some people round here who would remember him—his school contemporaries, if nobody else. And had they known he’d returned to Finstoft, one or other of them would have been bound to make some remark about it, and the word would have spread.’
‘But you think Tintern was cunning enough to foresee the need for secrecy and provide for it?’ said Swaine.
‘I do. But the proof must be sought from the vicar. The Super will, no doubt, do that tomorrow.’
Bullimore said: ‘You bet I will.’
The door opened and Brant came in. He said: ‘That girl Rosie didn’t give the numbers for all the local calls. But beside Osborn, we know he contacted Baker.’
‘Thank you. Find Hill and try to let us know what Tintern’s up to and whether he shows any signs of leaving the bar.’ Brant turned to the door. As he did so, it burst open, and Tintern stumbled in. For a moment he stood staring at them, and then turned to flee. Hill was blocking the way. Bullimore said: ‘Come in, Mr Tintern, we want to talk to you.’
As he stepped forward, Tintern held out an arm as if to hold him off, and then, with a little moan, started to crumple at the knees. Hill stepped forward and caught him. Lowered him to the ground. Swaine said: ‘On to the bed with him.’
They lifted him gently. Swaine loosened his collar and examined him. Even used a stethoscope and took his blood pressure with the sphygmomanometer he carried in his bag. The others stood around, watching and waiting.
Swaine finally straightened up. ‘Acute schizophrenic breakdown. I don’t know much about psychiatry, but I do know the medical symptoms. Dilated pupils, moist palms, moderate tachycardia, and a systolic blood pressure of about fifteen mils above what it should be.’
‘Is he in any danger?’ Bullimore asked.
‘No. We shall need an ambulance for him, but I think a good night’s rest in hospital and a dose of largactil will see him as right as he ever will be in the morning.’
‘But tachycardia—that’s heart trouble, isn’t it? And high blood pressure . . .’
‘Doesn’t amount to anything. Tachycardia only means excessive rapidity of the heart beat. It’s due to what I believe is known in these cases as sympathetic excitement.’
Bullimore rang for an ambulance. Swaine stood by his patient. Green said to Masters: ‘Why did a chap like that learn judo?’
‘I don’t know. But my guess is he thought it would even things up. It’s a well-known fantasy with some of these characters that they like to imagine themselves taking on all comers. And a chap with an asthenic build like Tintern’s . . .’
‘A what?’
‘Sorry. I got it out of the doc’s book. Asthenic. It means weak, willowy, nervy-looking. It’s the classic build for a schizo. A chap like him couldn’t take on anybody without the help of judo or a machine-gun. So I suppose he learned judo. But as I say it’s only a guess.’
‘Sounds good enough to me,’ said Hill.
Bullimore came across. ‘It’s on its way. With an escort. He’ll be kept under surveillance.’
‘Fine.’
‘You’ve done a damn fine job for us, Chief Inspector.’
‘I’m pleased we got it cleared up so quickly. Now your women needn’t be frightened of the dark any more. And I’ll let you have my report by lunchtime tomorrow.’
Bullimore said: ‘There are a couple of things you haven’t explained. First, the soldering iron.’
Masters grinned. ‘This is a guess. And I’ll leave you to prove or disprove it. It concerns the belongings of these women which we haven’t found despite our searches. My belief, based on my knowledge of Tintern’s mind and finding that soldering iron, is that he put them all in a metal canister, soldered the lid on, and put them into the church wall. In the cement they’re pumping in.’
‘And you expect me to find it? He could have done it weeks ago.’
‘I don’t think so. Look at it this way. Suppose you were an architect accustomed to rebuilding old churches. One of the usual practices on these occasions is to immure—in a container—certain present-day articles which will prove of interest in hundreds of years’ time, when it comes to be discovered. Almost without exception, one of the articles so buried is a current newspaper. Right, so far?’
Bullimore nodded. ‘If you say so.’
‘Now you are not only an architect involved in these practices, but you are also a murderer with certain small articles belonging to your victims that you want to dispose of. You are running liquid cement into cavity walls. What better hiding-place for these articles is likely to occur to you, than to bury them in the cement?’
‘None. It’s a damn
good idea. Couldn’t be bettered.’
‘Right. But you are not a mason or a workman. If you are seen stuffing gloves and purses into the cement, somebody might ask questions. So you think again. Nobody will ask questions if you follow the usual practice and bury a canister. You know where to obtain one, because you’ve used them before. But this time, because the contents will be incriminating, you don’t get a workman to solder the lid on. You buy yourself a soldering iron and you do it yourself in the privacy of your own bedroom. And because you usually include a newspaper, what better idea could you get than to wait for, and include, a newspaper that contains an account of the murders to which the other articles are vital clues? Think of the sensation that might cause in a couple of hundred years’ time. And if, in addition, you’re a schizophrenic, think how such future notoriety will feed your delusions of grandeur. Besides, burial of these articles in a church wall will be a splendid act of religious symbolism. So that’s what you do. When did the story break in the newspapers?’
‘Last Wednesday.’
‘Say Tintern did his soldering on Wednesday evening, he would have his canister ready for burial on Thursday. Go and ask the foreman at the church where it was put.’
‘Would the foreman know?’
‘I think so. He’d be able to do it openly, you know. It’s a custom, so nobody would suspect anything.’
‘Right. I’ll do that. And now, last of all, how did he persuade them to meet him?’
‘Another guess—because we shall never know. But these women were living humdrum lives. Not one of them was really doing anything. Playing at decorating hats or indulging in social work to ease the boredom. You’d know about that better than I would. So put yourself in their place. One day, out of the blue, comes a call from a man whom you had known in far-off, more carefree days—a man whom you’d not been too keen on at the time, but who, in spite of that, had made such a success of his life that he was now a national figure in his own field. And when he revisits the area after many years, one of the first things he does is ring you up. Flattering? Of course it is. Already you are viewing the past with rose-coloured spectacles. The man you didn’t think much of has seemed for a long time to be not so bad after all. Perhaps you misjudged him. After all, he’s now famous: accepted. Who are you to steer clear of him when he singles you out for attention? Remembers you after so many years? You don’t snub him now. You welcome the call. He’s still a bit odd. But all geniuses are odd, aren’t they? And what does his oddness amount to? Very little. All he’s asking is that you should come out for a drink and a chat about the old days without telling your husband. He says—with a laugh—that he’s a bit scared of jealous husbands. A joke, perhaps, but why not humour him? After all it will be a bit of fun—a bit of a daring change—to go out secretly with an old flame. So why not? Why not go out and meet him? Have a nostalgic evening with no husband or children or anybody being the wiser? Why not meet him?’
Bullimore said: ‘By crikey, you’ve an imagination. And you make it sound as if you were there.’
*
Tintern was taken away. Swaine said: ‘He’s going to hospital, so I’m not going with him. But I could do with a drink. What about it?’
They accompanied him to the Sundowner.
Shirl said: ‘I hear Mr Tintern’s been took bad.’
Swaine said: ‘He’s not a strong man. I sent him to hospital.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. The usual for you gentlemen?’
Masters thought this was typical. A life and death crisis dismissed in half a dozen words. He wondered if Shirl would understand that an argument about change at her bar had helped to uncover a mass murderer. He supposed it was better that she shouldn’t.
Swaine raised his glass: ‘Here’s to the health of your blood.’
‘And here’s to your bloody good health,’ said Green.
*
Masters was packing his suitcase at ten o’clock the next morning. The phone rang. It was Bullimore. ‘You were right. A flat copper box. One end soldered on amateurishly. Stuffed full of you-know-what. And the vicar says you were right about the publicity.’
Masters said slowly: ‘Fine. That wraps it up for you very nicely.’
He put the phone down and returned to his packing.
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