“First off,” said Green, “his nibs has probably determined the time of death—to the night, if not the minute. Second he has raised the question of whether the death was accidental . . .”
“A combination of circumstances, you mean?”
“Right, lad. The first time ever this Carvell bird goes to bed in an airtight room, she’s gassed. Would it have happened a year ago if she’d done the same? Are we in danger at this moment—the door being shut?”
“Meaning there could be some source of arsine under the floorboards?”
“Or in the paint or the plaster. We don’t know, son, but the questions have to be considered. That’s always the result of the thought processes you are so keen on following.”
Middleton nodded. “Okay. So what can we do about it? Tear the place to bits?”
“Not yet,” said Masters. “But your people could make some enquiries as to if and when either of them was seen alive or anybody noticed activity about the house—lights on or cars coming and going.”
“Talking about cars,” said Robson, “there’s one in one of the outbuildings. We’ve checked it. It belonged to Ralph Woodruff.”
Masters nodded his thanks for this piece of information and turned to leave the bedroom. The others followed him downstairs. He passed across the square, brick-floored hall to the front door which had been left open to help clear the house of its unpleasant odours. He paused to examine it. It was not new. Not the original door either, Masters guessed, but still a door of some antiquity. Probably dating from 1880 or thereabouts, he supposed. Then he found himself wondering why that particular date should have come into his mind. He was not knowledgeable about such things, but the date persisted, and he was too curious a man to accept the fact without searching for a reason. The door was of oak, planked and untreated. Grey with age and from its proximity to the salt sea air. Each join in the planks had been covered by a baton little more than an inch wide. It was a common enough sort of door, he supposed, and had it been his he would have applied linseed oil for the wood to soak up and thus regain some of the vitality which the Carvells had apparently been content to allow to ebb away. He stood staring at it moodily, the others standing by watching him quietly. Then he got it. The latch on the door. A wrought iron ring on the outside, with a biggish drop-bar inside. But it was the pivot below this bar that he must have noticed subliminally and which must have brought the date to mind. A little curved length of iron with wrought finials. It pivoted as the catch bar lifted and fell which would, he knew, give a very individual sound to the movement every time the handle was turned. He tried it for himself and listened. How many times had he heard it in his youth? The latch was the twin of the one on the little, narrow, outer vestry door of the church in which he had been a choirboy for several years long ago. How many times had he gone through that door to and from choir practices and services? The church had been an architectural horror. Its arches faced with alternate black and red bricks, and elsewhere there had been similar Victorian mistakes. Victorian—built in 1880, as he knew. He’d learned that as a small boy of seven years old, at Sunday School. He knew he had subconsciously stopped to examine not the door itself, but the latch which young Heddle claimed he had found ready for lifting. He had wanted to check whether this was true or false. He reckoned it was true. People with door latches like that don’t bother to lock up overnight. The strength of the thing gave an entirely spurious air of safety which a flimsy but more secure spring lock could never have imparted.
Without a word to his companions, hands still in his coat pockets, he left the house and headed along the garden path. They followed him through the gate between the old sheds across the track and on to the scrubland where a well-beaten path, not much more than a foot wide, led towards the sea.
“What now, George?” Green was stumbling over the low scrub, trying to keep abreast.
“I thought it would be as well to see if anybody could approach from this way, Bill.”
“Without being seen, you mean?”
“If they were to leave a car, come along the beach and then strike inland.”
“At night they could, I reckon. There’s nobody anywhere in sight now, so it would be easy to get here unnoticed at night.”
The miniature cliffs were scarcely four feet high, standing above a stretch of pebbles and then a sandstrip. The wind, not strong, but blowing just enough to make its presence felt, moved the skirts of Masters’ coat. The westering sun was red-gold. Despite the brightness there was an air of desolation about the area.
“I suppose it’s crowded in the summer,” said Green, “but it’s bloody lonely now.”
“Never crowded just here.” Robson had come up behind. “At Littlehampton, to the east, the trippers crowd in. And, of course, we get scads of people at Hayling Island and boating people in the Chichester Harbour area, also, to the west. But not here. They’re frightened to move out of the herd, most of them.”
“That’s probably why the Carvells bought the place,” mused Masters. “The tide is going out, isn’t it?”
“Ebbing fast.”
In the few moments they had been standing there, a curious development had been taking place below high water mark. As the water shallowed over the clay-sand, greyish-white lumps started to show. Upturned bowls of lumpy grey rock, looking like giant turtles stranded, half buried in mud. First one and then another broke the surface, showing knobbly protuberances like the ball and socket joints of the thigh bones of long dead animals. The water fretted between them and gradually subsided. Masters stood and watched as more and more of the mounds were exposed.
“What are they made of?” he asked Robson. “Chalk or limestone?”
“Chalk,” replied Robson. “They’re the outcrop of the hills.” He turned and pointed inland at the distant, rounded shapes, low down on the skyline and nearly lost in the pre-twilight haze. “The strata dip under the soil and come up again here. Not that I know a lot about it, mind, but I suppose they were a lot higher at one time. The sea will have worn them away almost down to the level of its bed. Those things sticking up are flints. They used to be used for building years ago.”
Masters nodded his thanks for the information and remained silent for some minutes as if fascinated by the receding water. Though he had four colleagues with him, he was conscious of the autumn solitude. But, liking this time of the year as he did, he was cheered rather than saddened by the grey water dropping back, leaving only shallow pools between the chalk formations. His companions remained silent, waiting on him as if unwilling to interrupt his thoughts lest he should be considering some point in the case as yet not recognized by them.
Masters turned as he heard Middleton coming along the little path. The sergeant’s footfalls, though light enough, still made a sound audible above the noise of wind, sea and mewing gulls.
“Sou’sou’west gale, sir,” reported Middleton, consulting his notebook. “A week last Sunday and Monday. Straight in to this part of the coast. By Tuesday midday it had lessened considerably and veered to the west. It blew itself out over Tuesday night. That’s the coastguard’s log report, sir.”
Masters thanked Middleton and led the way back to Abbot’s Hall, now standing silhouetted against the last of the light in the sky. He stopped suddenly and said to Middleton: “You’re sure the coastguard said Sunday and Monday?”
“That’s right, sir. Lessening and veering by Tuesday noon.”
Masters continued his way towards the house. As they reached the car, Robson asked: “Shall you call in for the pathologist’s report, sir?”
“No. Leave it for the moment—until they’ve had time to write it up fully. They’ll want to examine all the organs of both bodies. It’ll take time to do and write up.”
“You’ll be coming down again?”
“Maybe tomorrow. We shall let you know. Don’t forget to ask round about when they were last seen.”
“Tomorrow morning? Then I’ll be on hand if you come down.”
“
Tonight, chum,” said Green. “You’ll get everybody at home in the evening. Half the men, at least, will be away by day.”
Robson looked as if he could have kicked himself for not seeing so obvious a reason for choosing evening for his house-to-house enquiries. If either Rhoda Carvell or Ralph Woodruff had been noticed in person, it would more than likely be at night time as they went to or returned from some social occasion, or at the weekend when they might be expected to journey about. In any case it could well be men, going to or from one of the local pubs, who might have seen them in the car, or might have noticed a distant light in an uncurtained window of Abbot’s Hall.
Masters pretended not to notice the local man’s discomfiture. He opened the door of the Rover and settled himself into the rear offside seat. As he was about to shut the door he said to Middleton: “Would you do me a favour, please, Sergeant? Ring my home and let my wife know we are setting out for London now. She wanted to know because of preparing supper.”
“Number, sir, please?”
Masters gave it to him, drew his coat close around him and closed the door. He lifted one hand in a gesture of farewell to Robson and Middleton as Reed started up and drew away.
*
“Funny one, that, sir,” said Middleton to Robson. “His wife sounded okay. A bit la-di-dah, perhaps, but nice with it.”
“How d’you mean, funny? I didn’t get many laughs.”
“What I mean is I wouldn’t put any money on him successfully investigating a theft of toffee apples from a street barrow.”
“You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? Then you’d be a bit of a fool. He’s a highly successful jack.”
“Got a reputation up in the smoke has he?”
“He’s the whizz kid. Once he’s set on, he never lets go. He’s reckoned to be spectacular with it and none of his files get put away marked unsolved.”
Middleton slowed the car to enter the road from the track. “I wouldn’t have believed all that, sir, if you hadn’t told me. I thought he just mooned about.”
“That’s what it seemed like to me, too, but I got the impression that every word he said and every question he asked was pertinent. The trouble was I couldn’t always see why. Even when he asked me if those ridges on the shore were chalk or limestone.”
“Are you sure you weren’t reading more into what he asked because of his reputation?”
“Maybe.”
“All that rubbish about furniture! And why send me off to find out what the weather was like a week ago?”
“That’s easy. It’s obvious he doesn’t expect the pathologist to come up with a precise time of death.”
Middleton swung the car left on to the main road. “They never do. So what’s clever in knowing that? We always get a time bracket for unnatural deaths. Between ten and twelve or not earlier than six and not later than nine.”
“You’re talking about hours, Bert. This time the bracket will be days—not less than five, not more than eight. Masters knows that’s what he’s going to hear. That’s why he isn’t visiting the pathologist tonight.”
“Seems keener on his supper being ready for him when he gets home than bothering with the pathologist.”
“Don’t you believe it. He intends to cut that bracket down a bit himself, and finding out about the weather was one way of doing it.”
“How come?”
“If a woman is a fresh-air fiend and sleeps with her window open whenever possible, the night she shuts it is the night when there’s a gale blowing straight in.”
“Two nights. Sunday and Monday.”
“Right. Two nights. So he says to himself, she was killed either last Sunday or Monday, seeing the medics can’t be sure.”
“Oh, come on, sir. Whoever killed those two could have closed the windows if they’d been open.”
“True. But what if he didn’t? It’s worth thinking about.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe, Bert. Think of the mechanics of the job. To steal into a room where two people are in bed to close the windows is pretty risky. It’s a damn-sight easier not to have to.”
“I agree with that, sir, but it still isn’t fact.”
“Nobody pretends it is. Least of all Masters, I’d say. But he’s bearing it in mind, I’ll bet. And if anything crops up to support his theory, he’s in clover, isn’t he?”
Robson lit two cigarettes and gave one to Middleton as the car approached Chichester.
“Yes,” continued the DI musingly. “I’ll bet he’s discussing those closed windows with his pals all the way to London.”
*
“Not Sunday night,” said Masters, swaying with the swinging of the car as Reed made what speed he could along the track from Abbot’s Hall. “We know Mrs Carvell was in the View office on Monday morning handing in all that gup about Conservative women.”
Green grunted agreement, and said: “Heddle told us she was going to attend the divorce court on Tuesday morning, so she couldn’t have died before Tuesday night at the earliest, and by that time the gale had blown itself out.”
“So we’re on the wrong track?”
“Looks like it.”
Masters didn’t reply. He took out his pipe and started to fill it with Warlock Flake. By now it was dark and he performed the operation more by touch than sight. The flame of his match as he struck it gave him a sense of cosiness in this great, warm car, protected from the night outside. He settled more comfortably in his seat. There didn’t seem to be much more to say about the case at this point, and his thoughts travelled ahead of him to Wanda and home. The others seemed to recognise his mood and they travelled in silence for some time. Then Berger asked: “Are we going to Chichester early tomorrow, Chief. If we are, I’ll see the car’s filled up tonight.”
“We’ll be out soon after nine. But not to Chichester straight away. We’ll try to see Professor Carvell first.”
“Why him?” demanded Green. “He got rid of her through the divorce court. He’s not likely to have been sniffing around her since. Not if she was camping out with the boy friend.”
“Right enough, Bill, but the professor might have known something of her plans.”
“Like what?”
“Had she laid on some sort of celebration party last Tuesday night? Could there have been other people at Abbot’s Hall then? Did she speak to him after the divorce hearing? If so, what did she say?”
Green grunted his acceptance of the point. “Will you contact Carvell to set up a meeting or do we just blow in on him?”
“Descend on him, I think. He must be expecting us to call, but we might as well surprise him.”
They continued on their way, stopping to drop Green at his home.
“The Yard, Chief?”
“No, drop me, please. Then take the car on.”
They stopped at the end of the narrow way that led down to Master’s tiny house. “’Night, Chief.”
“Goodnight.”
When Masters was out of earshot, Reed said, “I wish to hell I knew what’s been biting him all day. He’s been grumpy ever since he heard of Rhoda Carvell’s death.”
“Before that,” replied Berger. “He was a bit off when he arrived, according to Bill Green. He’s probably had a row with his missus.”
“Unlikely,” said Reed. “Not with her. They just don’t have rows.”
Masters, hunched up in his overcoat, walked along the dark, narrow street to his front door. With night had come a hint of frost. With no blanket of cloud to mar the day, there was nothing to keep the earth warm once the sun had gone. The nip in the air made the prospect of home seem all the cosier.
Chapter Three
Wanda appeared in the tiny hall as he opened the door. She had heard his key in the lock and had come to greet him.
“Is Michael in bed?” he asked as he kissed her.
“By now, darling? He has been for nearly two hours. Your face feels cold.”
“I was glad you persuaded me to take a coat.”
“Come into the dining room and have your drink. I can talk to you there from the kitchen.”
He knew she wouldn’t have put the cauliflower on the stove until he arrived, but everything else would be ready and waiting. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll change and sluice.”
As he sat down at the end of the beautifully laid table, she asked—through the archway leading to the kitchen: “Have you had a good trip, darling?”
“Not bad.” Even as he said it, he felt it was a somewhat churlish reply. All about him was comfort and warmth. The highly polished table with spotless white napkins, gleaming silver and glass . . . Wanda cared for him, their son, and this little house in a way that, had he wanted to, he could never have faulted. “How have you been?”
She came through to join him and accepted her glass of sherry to sip while standing up.
“Michael and I had a good day. We went out for a walk in the park. It was a sort of walky day if you know what I mean. A day for coats and hats but not all shivery and cold. And such lovely colours and the setting sun was glorious. Michael called it a ball. I think he wanted me to get it down for him to play with.”
“I saw it, too. From the cliffs at Climping.”
“Rhoda Carvell?”
He nodded. “You’ve seen some reports?”
“The evening paper had it. You said you would be taking the case, remember? Is it nasty?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why not?”
He grinned. “Because I’ve been grumpy all day.”
“I guessed you might be.” She kissed his forehead. “I don’t know why I thought so, because I’ve never known you like that before.”
“No.”
“The Cartwrights?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, poppet, but I just don’t care for them.”
“It goes beyond that, doesn’t it, George? You actively dislike them. See them as some sort of threat to us?”
He looked up at her. “I won’t admit that anything or anybody could be a threat to us, but I’m a believer in influences. Influences for good, influences for bad and so on. Not all black and white, of course. Some grey.”
The Monday Theory Page 7