The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “Not unbearably so, I hope.”

  Golly got to her feet. “I’ll keep quiet. I told those sergeants of yours that I liked Rhoda. And I meant it. So now I’ll repeat it to you, the boss man. I want you to find whoever did it to her, and if I ever get my hands on him I’ll string him up by the you-know-whats on pin-wire.”

  “No you wouldn’t, love,” said Green. “Not your style.”

  “Don’t you be too sure.”

  Green shook his head. “You may act as if you were as tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog, but you’re as soft-hearted as Joe Soap underneath. Let me give you a word of advice. Until Mrs Carvell was murdered, you were against all forms of corporal punishment.”

  “So what?”

  “Change your mind if you like, now murder has struck close to home. But don’t go over the top, love. Don’t let it nag you. You can take it calmly and then you’ll get over it easier.”

  Golly stared at him for a moment.

  “And what if I don’t want to get over it, as you put it?”

  “Meaning you feel you’ve got to remember?”

  “Want to.”

  “I reckon I can guess why.”

  “Maybe you can.” She turned to Masters. “And you, too?”

  “I think so. A beautiful, clever, witty woman—the sort of person any other woman might wish she had been born like, or have as a daughter.”

  “You’re on the right track, I suppose.”

  “Please don’t forget you do an important job. You’re clever, too. It’s trite to say so, but we can’t all be alike.”

  “No. But we can bloody-well dream—and regret.”

  “We can aid and abet Mother Nature, but we can’t bilk her.”

  “Get out,” Golly said roughly. “Go on. The two of you. And I hope I never set eyes on you again.”

  “Sorry, love,” said Green gently.

  *

  They returned to the Yard for lunch.

  “Everything’s written up, Chief,” said Reed. “The file’s getting fatter.”

  “I don’t like fat files,” said Masters petulantly. “Any word from Robson?”

  “A few minutes ago, Chief. They’re searching the area with twelve men and haven’t found anything yet.”

  Berger said: “I took a call from Professor Carvell, Chief.”

  Masters was interested. “To say what?”

  “He said you had asked him to write out some list or other and that he’d done it.”

  “Go on.”

  “He just said it was ready for you to collect when you wanted it.”

  “No specific time mentioned?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “Thank you. Right, you two. Get some lunch. Join us here in an hour from now.”

  After the sergeants had left them, Masters said to Green: “Shall we talk over lunch?”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?”

  Green shrugged. “I’ll have a beer and a sandwich.”

  “Fine. Shall we go?”

  They occupied a table alone.

  “What’s on your mind, George?”

  “Carvell. The message he sent through.”

  “You don’t like it, do you?” Green took a large bite at a bully-beef sandwich. “Too cheeky.”

  Masters nodded.

  “Yet he said you could collect it whenever you wanted to.”

  “That alone sounded a bit too nonchalant for me. I’d have liked it better if he’d suggested a time when he would be available to receive us.”

  “More in keeping with his character?”

  “I think so.”

  “He could have posted it to you or left it at the desk.”

  “Both courses were open to him. What I’m really saying, Bill, is that I believe he wants to see us, but tried to make it sound as though he didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Does he want to see us?”

  “There you have me. We’ve both known murderers who couldn’t let well alone.”

  Green removed a strand of bully from a tooth with a forefinger. “They get big-headed. Want to see if they’re beating us. Carvell would be like that. Got a good opinion of himself. Thinks the police plebs aren’t up to his weight.”

  Masters cleared his mouth before replying. “We decided to look hard at him, Bill.”

  “Meaning we should take a suspicious view of everything he says and does?”

  “It would be part of the hard look, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would.” Green took up his tankard. “So we go to see him this afternoon?”

  “I think not. We don’t want to give him the impression we’d come running every time he opened his mouth. I think latish tonight would be better.”

  “Thereby giving me time to sort out the janitor at the hall of residence before we meet Carvell?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit since you told me.”

  “Reach any conclusions?”

  “Yes. It’ll mean me and Berger being away this afternoon, though.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t ask you why. But I shall take Reed with me to Molly Clippingdale’s place to ask a few questions there.”

  “Seems a fair division of labour. What time tonight?”

  “After supper. Just the two of us. I’ll ring Wanda and say you and Doris will eat with us if you agree. It will save you travelling out to your place and back again, and it won’t leave Doris alone.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll tell Doris to get to Wanda’s Palace by teatime, shall I? Then you and I can meet up here no later than half five.”

  “Excellent. Another drink?”

  “Wouldn’t say no.”

  *

  The cookery school was the end building of a short arcade of shops with flats above. They stood well back behind the general building line so that the pavement was nearly thirty feet wide in front of the windows. A small side road ran down the side of the school, presumably to give access to the back entrances.

  Obviously Molly Clippingdale had had extensive alterations done. The plate glass window had gone, to be replaced by two sashes separated by a central pillar. The shop door had been replaced by a modern house door in mahogany. The only indication that they had reached the right place was a small modern brass plate bearing the simple legend: Betta Faring.

  “Doesn’t advertise much, does she, Chief?” said Reed.

  “Relies on the principle that good wine needs no bush, perhaps,” replied Masters, pressing a bell sunk into a circular saucer of well-polished brass.

  The door was opened after a few moments by a youth in shirt sleeves, wearing a white apron and chef’s hat.

  “Miss Molly Clippingdale?” enquired Masters.

  “It’s Missus actually. Who wants her?”

  “We are police officers.”

  “In that case you’d better come in.”

  “You a student here?” asked Reed of the young man as they stepped into a narrow hallway obviously contrived by building an internal wall to cut off the former shop premises.

  “Kitchen boy. I’m Jeff to all and sundry.” He left them and went to the foot of a flight of stairs—again obviously installed afresh—which Masters presumed led to the flat above.

  “Molly!” the youth called. “Molly, you’ve got the law after you.”

  There was an indistinct reply from above. “She’ll be down directly,” said Jeff.

  “No smell of cooking,” said Reed.

  “Not this afternoon. They’re doing cold stuff. Party pieces and what not.”

  “Where?”

  “Through here,” said Jeff, indicating a door in the new wall. “A dozen of them, all turning their noses up at caviare and getting into a mess with spun sugar. But they’ll learn. They always do.”

  Mrs Clippingdale appeared on the stairs. As she made her way down towards them, Masters was surprised to see that she was young, plumpish and jolly-f
aced.

  “Good afternoon. I’ve not put my foot in it somehow, have I?” She laughed as she spoke.

  “These gents,” said Jeff shrewdly, “don’t look to me as if they’d be here to talk about a parking offence.”

  “Quite right. We’re from Scotland Yard. My name is Masters . . .”

  Jeff uttered a low whistle. “I’ll be off,” he said. “When the real heavy mob arrives I reckon it’s time I went and opened another tin of anchovies.” He departed through the door that presumably led to the kitchen.

  “He’s obviously heard of you, Mr Masters,” said Molly Clippingdale. “Please come up. We can’t talk here.”

  They followed her up the narrow stair into the flat.

  “You’ve got two stories above the shop?” asked Masters, noting that another flight ran up from the landing.

  “Bedrooms,” she replied. “I have to have an office with all the writing that I do. So I’ve got that on this floor as well as our sitting and dining rooms.” She led the way into the sitting room. “Will this do for our chat about . . . well, about whatever it is you’ve come to see me about?”

  “Nice room,” said Masters appreciatively as he took a deep armchair. “Cosy. And the flowers are lovely. Do you do flower arranging as well as cookery?”

  She glanced around at the displays. “No, I don’t do it myself. I have a woman who comes in to give instruction, but I benefit from her efforts. After she’s shown the pupils, I get her demonstration pieces for use up here.”

  Masters nodded his understanding. Then he asked: “Has Golly Lugano been in touch with you today?”

  “No.” She stared at him for a moment. “This visit has to do with Rhoda Carvell, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it must have when I heard who you were. But for the life of me I can’t see why you’ve come to me. I don’t know anything about her death.”

  “About her death? I’m sure you don’t, Mrs Clippingdale.”

  She laughed with relief and then said: “For the moment you had me worried.”

  “About what, ma’am?” asked Reed.

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know. I suppose it was what you might call unreasonable fear.” She laughed again. “Perhaps I thought you might be wondering whether she’d eaten one of my cakes and found it less than appetising.”

  “Nothing like that,” said Masters. “But I want you to cast your mind back some months to earlier this year when, I believe, you went out to Abbot’s Hall and catered for a party that Mrs Carvell was holding there.”

  “I remember. It was a very nice evening. It was just one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas. Golly had called several of her female contributors into the office to discuss a new format she was considering for the Women’s Section of the View. We didn’t often meet each other. In fact it was so rare an event that somebody said we ought to have a party to celebrate . . . you know how these things happen.”

  “It’s a common enough occurrence,” agreed Masters. “Somebody says it can be held at their place so long as somebody else will be responsible for the drink, somebody else for the food and so on.”

  “That’s it. That’s exactly what happened. Rhoda suggested Abbot’s Hall, and all those of us who’d never been there jumped at the idea. We were all as nosey as hell to see the place, of course, so before I knew where I was I’d agreed to prepare small eats and a fork supper.”

  “Good.”

  “But I can’t see why that party should interest you after all this time. It was perfectly innocuous. I don’t think we even got tiddly. At any rate we all drove back perfectly safely.”

  “Was that the only time you visited Abbot’s Hall?”

  “Yes. And I must say I was a bit jealous. I reckon I could have made quite something of that house. And I liked the loneliness of it.”

  “In summertime, perhaps,” said Reed. “It’s a bit bleak at other times.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m sure it is. Don’t they always say if you’re going to buy a house you should view it on the worst possible day? If it suits you then it should suit you always.”

  Masters said: “If you prepared the food for the party, Mrs Clippingdale, you must have used the kitchen and the oven.”

  “Oh, yes! That oven!” She flapped one hand to indicate the poor opinion of the professional cook for so ordinary a piece of equipment. “Fortunately, I only needed it for heating up a few things.”

  “Did you use the tins in the oven—roasting tins or dripping tins or whatever you call them these days?”

  She laughed aloud. “You must be joking, Mr Masters.”

  “I assure you I’m not.”

  “You’re interested in my oven tins?”

  “Your oven tins?”

  “Yes, mine. You’re not saying my tins had anything to do with Rhoda’s death? They are good, high class ware.”

  “You said the tins were yours. You took them with you that night?”

  “Yes. Rhoda told me she hadn’t got a lot of pots and pans so I said it didn’t matter because I’d get all the food prepared here by the pupils . . .”

  “Ready cooked?”

  “That’s right. All ready cooked, in the dishes, to take in the car. I took them down there and popped them in Rhoda’s oven. There was really no work to do, except to serve. But there was quite a lot of food left in the tins. I was wearing a party frock, so I didn’t want to start emptying them, and washing up, so I suggested to Rhoda that she should use what she could of the left-overs during the next day or two while she was down there. She agreed and said she would let me have the tins back, but they never came. I was going to ask her for them next time I saw her, but as I said, we rarely get together at the View and I don’t move in Rhoda’s circles. And now . . .” She shrugged. “Am I too late?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs Clippingdale. There are no oven tins at Abbot’s Hall.”

  “That’s odd. Perhaps Rhoda brought them back to give me after all.”

  Masters shook his head. “I think not. But be sure we shall look for them in the flat she has been occupying lately.”

  “Thank you. It will be nice to get them back. They were enamelled inside and they cost a bomb these days.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Three. Squarish, about two inches deep. The walls were perpendicular, not sloping. Grey colour.”

  “I’ll remember.” Masters got to his feet.

  “Don’t go without telling me why you want to know about my pans,” protested Mrs Clippingdale. “Surely a girl has a right to know when any of her rightful possessions interest Scotland Yard?”

  Masters looked down at her. “I can’t tell you because I mustn’t. Specifically, that is. But I can tell you this. As a matter of routine, we have searched Abbot’s Hall . . .”

  “What for? Pans?”

  Masters smiled. “For anything the least bit out of the ordinary. Is there anything there that we think shouldn’t be there?”

  “A broken cuff-link behind a chair?”

  “Quite. And also, is there anything missing which we think should normally be there? Now, when we find an oven with no cooking pans, we begin to wonder how Mrs Carvell managed to do her cooking when she was there—however little she did.”

  “She had one tin. The one that was supplied with the oven, I think. No baking tray, but there was a grill pan.”

  “So five tins are missing?”

  “It seems like it.”

  “Well, there you are, Mrs Clippingdale. It shows how right we are to wonder why there are no tins in the oven, and then to discover whether any should be there. As to what happened to them . . . well, their absence is just another piece of information that may or may not be relevant to our investigation. But we can’t ignore them. Not yet, at least.”

  “So they may be completely unimportant? I’m disappointed.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the idea of Rhoda being dead, but you must agree that when detec
tives from Scotland Yard come along and get one all agog, it is a bit of a let-down to know what they’ve been asking questions about is not at all important.”

  Masters laughed. “A lot of our work is like that, Mrs Clippingdale. We have to go around asking all sorts of questions until one or two of the answers start to click. Then—and only then—can we start to ask the really pertinent questions.”

  “You mean some cranky burglar could have pinched my dishes?”

  “Those, and a few other things that could be missing.”

  “Totally irrelevant, in fact.”

  “Possibly. But don’t talk about it, please, just in case . . .”

  “I promise not to say a word unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless my dishes figure largely in the case.”

  “Should that happen, Mrs Clippingdale, you would be a witness, and witnesses are forbidden to discuss their evidence outside the court. Your safest plan, really and truly, is to say nothing.”

  She feigned tragic disappointment and agreed to follow his advice.

  *

  Berger stopped the car close to the Shaw Theatre.

  “You can’t park here, lad,” said Green.

  “If you’ll get out, I’ll find a spot.”

  “In this traffic?”

  “I know a place. If it’s not taken I’ll join you outside the Hall of Residence in about five minutes.”

  Green got out, waited for Berger to pull away and then looked for the best way of crossing the road. By the time Berger found him, he had been standing on the kerb opposite Gladstone Hall long enough to smoke a Kensitas.

  “They’re going in and out there like ants into a nest,” said Green, nodding as students came and went. “There’s a caff just along the road that a lot of ’em are using, too.”

  Berger asked: “What are we after? I know you said it was something to do with the night porter of that igloo opposite, but he’ll not be on duty yet.”

  “You catch on fast, lad,” grunted Green.

  “I’ve got a reputation for it.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “Come on,” pleaded Berger. “What’re we after?”

  “First off,” said Green, “I want to know his name.”

  “Whose?”

  “The night porter’s.”