The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “Not a chance.” Masters shook his head to emphasise the point. “Physical description correct as well as the fact that he was introduced to the professor by name. Besides, did Woodruff collect bits of stone and such like from the beach, using a geologist’s hammer in the process?”

  It was Vadil’s turn to shake his head. Somewhat surprisingly, he said: “Woodruff was a lounge lizard. Or at any rate he was more at home with a cocktail in his hand than a geologist’s hammer. And he’d be frightened to go on a beach lest he should get his suede shoes wet.”

  Masters didn’t show his surprise. Green, however, grunted sceptically, and appeared so taken aback by this scathing description that his mental comment of ‘hark who’s talking’ was almost audible. So much so that Vadil stared at him angrily. Masters coughed to break the constraint. “I have heard that you fence, Mr Vadil.”

  Vadil switched his gaze to Masters.

  “That is one of the ways I use to keep myself fit.”

  “Only one of them?”

  “I spend quite a few of my weekends parachuting with the Volunteer Reserve.”

  Green said: “I’d never have guessed it.” But this time there was no scepticism, just genuine amazement. Vadil didn’t look particularly like the archetypal paratrooper. “Just to keep fit?”

  “Why not? I also happen to enjoy army life in limited dollops.”

  “You’re not a married man, Mr Vadil, or you’d find taking weekends off a bit difficult.”

  “I’m not married. That’s true. But my personal affairs are surely not the reason for your visit.”

  “We’re finished,” said Masters getting to his feet. “I’d appreciate it, Mr Vadil, if you did not start any legal procedures until we’ve established exactly when Mrs Carvell died.”

  “I shall think about it a great deal,” replied Vadil. “But I shall do nothing until I have some facts to work on. It could well be that even then I shall not be required to take any action as I have no client on whose behalf I need take it.”

  Masters nodded his understanding and bade Vadil good morning.

  *

  When they were outside, Berger said to Green: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Tell me, then I’ll know.”

  “I’d always heard Vadil was a bit of a ladies’ man. He’s got a reputation as the solicitor all the dolls flock to.”

  “So?”

  “So they wouldn’t use him if he was a bit of a pouff.”

  “You trying to tell me he’s not a Jessie Bell?”

  “That’s it. Besides, if he’s a parachutist . . .”

  “I can’t see why you can’t be a parachutist and effeminate. They’re not mutually incompatible.”

  “He isn’t married,” asserted Berger. “Most heterosexual men are at his age. Particularly when they’re as well-britched as he is.”

  “You think he’s a homo?”

  “I didn’t say that. In fact I don’t think he is.”

  “Then why go on about it lad?”

  “I didn’t. You did. I said he wasn’t. You said . . .”

  “I know what I said. I want to know what you’re getting at.”

  “I’ve got a theory.”

  “Ah! He was pretty acid about Woodruff. You reckon it could have been because he disliked him because Mrs Carvell had taken a shine to him. Right?”

  “Something like that. She was an open-air type. Just the sort that a fitness buff like Vadil might fancy as a mate. And she was dishy enough for a bloke like Vadil, too. He could have had his eye on her for himself and then discovered she preferred the lounge-lizard type like Woodruff.”

  By this time they were entering the car, and Masters was close enough to catch the gist of the conversation.

  “Go on, Berger,” he encouraged the sergeant as they settled in their seats.

  “Aye, spit it out lad,” added Green.

  “Vadil was the one who knew what her movements were to be. He was the one who did nothing about it when she didn’t turn up in court. He could have kept her absence quiet on purpose.”

  “Why?” demanded Green.

  “To stop any search for her starting too soon. The longer it was before anybody found her, the more difficult it would be for us to discover who killed her.”

  “Meaning Vadil killed her as well as Woodruff?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Look lad, if you fancy a bit of capurtle you don’t kill it off. The rival male, perhaps, but not the bit of goods herself.”

  “Answer, please, Berger,” requested Masters.

  “Jealousy, Chief. She wouldn’t have Vadil, but she would have Woodruff. Vadil didn’t like the idea of any woman preferring Woodruff to himself.”

  “So what are you suggesting? That he was affronted by her attitude and so killed them both? Or that he was determined to see that if he couldn’t have her himself, nobody else would?”

  “Something like that, Chief. Perhaps a mixture of both. He’s a bit of a dark horse, that Vadil. Gives the impression of liking wine, women and high living, whereas he goes in for fencing, parachuting and spending weekends eating army rations.”

  “I don’t get your drift.”

  “He’s a hard man, Chief. Tough. Prepared to jump out of aeroplanes to do a bit of killing, though that’s not the impression he gives.”

  “Meaning that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill two people who were—in his opinion—ripe for the killing?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “It’s a reasonable theory,” agreed Masters at last.

  “You mean you like it?” asked Green in surprise.

  “I recognise it has some merit as a theory. You could tear it to bits. So could I. As it now stands that is. But if we were to establish that Vadil had been keen on Mrs Carvell . . . if, say, they had been out and about in each other’s company and their friends had expected them to set up together after the divorce . . . what then?”

  “Different complexion,” agreed Green. “What do we do? Start asking questions?”

  “I think so. Gently. Indirectly, that is. It would be entirely reasonable to seek to discover who her friends and acquaintances were, but I don’t want Vadil to learn that we are asking questions about him and him alone.”

  “Frightened of him?”

  “Not exactly. But smart solicitors can make life more difficult for us if they want to, and I’d rather avoid that if I can. There’s Vadil himself to remember, as well. I wouldn’t want to sow the seeds of suspicion about an entirely innocent man. A solicitor with his particular reputation could suffer if it got about that he was the subject of a police enquiry.”

  Green grunted to show he appreciated these points. “As it’s young Berger’s idea, I reckon that would be a good job for the two lads.”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “Basically?”

  “It occurred to me that one of the best people to ask about Mrs Carvell’s circle of friends would be her husband. I’d rather not subject the sergeants to his particular type of verbal arrogance.”

  “See what you mean, but I reckon it would be a smack in the eye for him if you sent only a detective constable to see him. That would show him we’re not very impressed in spite of his high an’ mighty attitude.”

  Masters laughed. “A good idea, Bill, but we’d better attend to him ourselves. Reed and Berger can see young Heddle again and that Lugano woman we’ve heard about”

  “You said you’d be going down to Chichester today, Chief,” reminded Reed.

  “So I did. I’ll ring from the office to ask whether the pathologist’s report is ready. We’ll make our plan after that.”

  Chapter Four

  When Masters rang DI Robson at Chichester, he was told that the local man was out with DS Middleton, making enquiries in the Climping area, but that he had left a message to say that if Masters rang he was to be told that the pathologist’s report was expected at six o’clock that evening. Masters thanked his informant and rang off
.

  “Are you going down to see it?” asked Green.

  “What’s the time now?”

  “Half eleven.”

  Masters took out his pipe and tin of Warlock Flake. As he rubbed the tobacco for the bowl, he said: “I want to see it and to have a few words with the pathologist, but six o’clock tonight . . .? That’s a bit late for forensic men to be available.”

  “And for us to be cavorting round the countryside, which is what you really meant.”

  “True. So we’ll not decide to go definitely until we see what the day brings forth. Decision time four o’clock. How does that suit?”

  “Meaning that unless something crops up to send us hurtling down there tonight we can go tomorrow morning in the firm’s time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.”

  Masters turned to the sergeants. “You know what we want. Mrs Carvell’s friends and acquaintances and all the gossip you can pick up between now and four o’clock. Report back here by that time.”

  “You’ll be going to see the professor, Chief?”

  “Yes. Leave him to us.”

  After the sergeants had gone, Green said: “What are we going to talk about?”

  “What comes up. He was her husband and in any situation like this we have a duty to examine the victim’s immediate family. We have to stick to that particular rule.”

  Green nodded his agreement.

  “Ring down and ask for the duty car to take us to Disraeli College, please Bill. We can get a cab or a tube back here or to some pub for a bite of lunch.”

  While Green did as he was asked Masters took from his bookshelf the Yard central library list. He consulted it for a few moments and then, evidently dissatisfied with his search, returned it to its place.

  “Something you want from Reference, George?”

  “It occurred to me how little I know about arsenic. Where it comes from and so forth. I can look up the effects of the poisoning, of course, but I wanted to discover its availability. Not to worry. I’ll find it later.”

  “It’s used for a lot of things,” said Green. “In agriculture as a pesticide, in paint, to colour glass, even in medicine.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable, Bill.”

  “When I was a young copper, arsenic was popular with murderers. They got it from rat poisons, soaked it off fly papers and so on. You never see fly papers nowadays. In fact there’s much less arsenic about.”

  “Thank you. That’s more or less what I wanted to know. We shall also have to find out how it can murderously be turned into a gaseous state.”

  “You’ll be doing some homework reading tonight.”

  Masters grinned. “That’s the real reason why I’m not keen on going to Chichester.” He got to his feet. “Did you get us the duty car, Bill?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  *

  The professor was lecturing his third year students. They were told they could wait outside the lecture theatre, and were directed to the geology department. They made their way down a long, wide corridor in one of the wings. They noted the name plates on the doors. Carvell’s office. Geology tutor’s office. Preparation Room. Finally, on the left the door to the theatre and at the end of the corridor, a door with a glass upper panel. This was the geology laboratory. Between the two doors was a small table carrying a ledger. On the wall above the ledger was a notice telling students that before entering the laboratory for private study they were to sign in, adding the time of entry. On leaving they were to sign out, again noting the time and the length of the study period in hours and minutes.

  “Keeps tabs on them, doesn’t he?” said Green.

  “With good reason.”

  “Security?”

  “That could be part of it. All geology laboratories have a tray of gems just as they have trays of samples of every rock there is. The gems may not be all that valuable individually, but together they could well be worth a few thousand. Diamond, sapphire, ruby and so on, besides the lesser ones.”

  “Just there to pick up?”

  “The duty tutor will have a key to that particular drawer. It has to be asked for.”

  “I see. What else?”

  “All these students are here on grants. Unlike a lot of the other disciplines, geology demands a lot of private study in the lab. Carvell will be able to see if any of his flock is being less than conscientious.”

  “If they tell the truth when they sign out.”

  “There’s that possibility, but I imagine Carvell’s tutors will be under orders to check the book whenever they pass by. Just to see that nobody has put down a time later than the time at which the check is made. Carvell is not the sort of man to allow any student to idle away his time at the expense of the public.”

  “I can imagine.” Green turned. “Here comes one of his little lambs now, I suppose.”

  The youth approaching them along the corridor was weighed down with an armful of books and papers. He nodded to them and dumped his load on the little table, preparatory to signing in. The table was too small for so heterogeneous and untidy a heap. A number of items slid to the floor.

  “Damn.”

  Green and Masters both stooped to help him retrieve his possessions.

  “What’s this, mate? Your kid sister’s paint box?”

  “No fear. It’s mine. I’m just going to use it.”

  “In there?” asked Green in amazement, indicating the lab door.

  “That’s right. We have to draw the specimens and then colour them.” He opened a thick A4 size book with plain leaves. “Here you are. I’m a rotten artist, but colour in minerals plays a great part in identification. In fact, colour is often its most striking property. As you can see, some of the damn things have different colours in the same species. Here are some quartzes, all pinkish-yellow, green, and even black. Here’s fool’s gold—yellow needles. Here’s corundum, haematite . . . I could go on for ever about this because I’ve just written an essay on colour, lustre, opalescence, transparency and translucency, to say nothing of phosphorescence and fluorescence.”

  “Stick with it lad. What are the little line drawings?”

  “Crystals. Crystallography is a bastard if I may be allowed the term. It’s so complicated . . .”

  “This is your book on the elements of mineralogy,” said Masters. “I just looked at one or two pages . . .”

  “Help yourself if you’re interested.”

  “I am actually. I’d like to get hold of a copy for an hour or two.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know about lending you mine . . .”

  “I’m a policeman,” said Masters. “A detective chief superintendent. If you would trust me with the book until tomorrow . . . against a deposit of a fiver, of course . . .”

  The student grinned. “You’re on,” he said. “It’s only the beginning of term you see, and my grant hasn’t arrived, so I’m stuck for a bit of ready. If you keep the book for a day or two, I should be able to redeem it by the time you return it.”

  “Keep it,” said Masters, giving him the note. “As a hiring fee. I’ll give you a receipt for the book, too, though I shall certainly return it to you, Mr . . .”

  “Finmore. Harry Finmore. It’s written in the front of the book. Just leave it at the union office when you bring it back. I can pick it up from there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better sign in and start work otherwise the prof will be out of the theatre before I get going, and I’d rather that didn’t happen.”

  “Understood, lad,” said Green. “Good luck.”

  Finmore grinned. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  When the young man had left them, Green turned to Masters. “What’s your little game now?”

  “No game at all.”

  “You’re up to something.”

  Masters opened the chunky mineralogy book at the back. “I merely looked at the index. I was looking for a reference to arsine or arsenic.”

  “And?”

  Master
s pointed to the index. “I saw these—arsenical nickel, arsenical pyrites, arsenic minerals, arsenious acid, arsenolite and arsenopyrite. It seemed those entries might give me the information I couldn’t find in the library catalogue.”

  Green grunted. “You didn’t give that lad a fiver just to . . .”

  Masters laughed. “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t proposing to give it to him, but his attitude made me change my mind. He struck me as a thoroughly nice chap, suffering from the shortcomings of local government bureaucracy, so I decided to help. Some of these kids must find it hard going.”

  Green nodded to show his agreement. Masters busied himself with the book, forcing it gently, despite its bulk, into one of his coat pockets.

  “Don’t want the prof to see it?”

  “I should hate him to jump to the conclusion that I had been suborning one of his students. Besides, if he got to know where it came from he might take it out on young Master Finmore.”

  “He’s that type is he?”

  “You’ll be able to judge for yourself. It looks as though the lecture is over.”

  The theatre door had opened and a dozen or so students came out. Both sexes, in all manner of dress, some looking bright and cheerful, others pasty-faced and intense.

  Masters let the last one pass him before he entered the theatre. The tiered seats were empty, but Carvell stood behind the laboratory bench on the floor at the front. He was re-assembling his lecture notes. One point on each piece of paper about three inches by four in size. Masters guessed they had probably served him for several years and would do so for several more. They would be filed away for an exactly similar lecture a year hence.

  “Good morning, Professor.”

  Carvell looked up. “Good morning, Chief Superintendent.”

  “May I introduce my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Green, currently acting as Senior Scene of Crime Officer at the Yard?”

  “Morning,” grunted Green. “Been teaching the young how old the world is?”