The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “Not exactly. This house is very small, you know . . .”

  “I know. Anything said downstairs can be heard upstairs.”

  “And I didn’t want to put in an appearance.”

  “Quite right. Is Michael in bed? If so, I’ll just pop up and see him.”

  When he came down again, Wanda handed him his unfinished drink and said, “I would have expected you to be blasting that woman for using your name, but you sound remarkably cheerful. Is that because you like the idea of somebody stealing their goodies, or because you think you have finally headed them off?”

  “Neither, my darling. I’m extremely sorry they’ve been robbed, and I think you said you had already choked them off.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yes, I thought I had put an end to their visits. So why the excessive good humour?”

  He kissed her again. “Because, my poppet, I believe that in their bumbling way, those two have helped me. They could prove to be the little bit of luck that Bill Green was saying we needed.”

  “How? They were uninsured and have probably lost hundreds of pounds worth of goods.”

  Masters grinned. “I believe that is the price they will have to pay for bringing to book the man who killed their beloved Rhoda Carvell. Should they ever hear about it I’m sure they will agree that it was a small sacrifice to make in so worthy a cause. Tra la la, and all such words of joy!”

  “George,” said his wife, “you’re being frivolous and obtuse.”

  “And if I don’t behave myself I’ll get no pudding. Is that it?”

  She smiled. “As it is syrup tart . . .”

  “Marvellous woman! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must ring Bill Green and the sergeants. Their weekend off will be a weekend on, but will they mind? No, they . . .”

  “George!”

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “Don’t forget to give William and Doris my love.”

  *

  As Masters had foreseen, Green was in good fettle as, next morning, they sped westwards against the shopping traffic entering London.

  “Incredible!” he said. “The Cartwrights! Jammy again, George. What is it about you? All these things just seem to land in your lap.”

  “As long as the Cartwrights don’t, I’ll admit that their discomfiture has afforded me a deal of pleasure . . .”

  “Because they were turned over, Chief?”

  “Not that, specifically, but because they were so fortuitously turned over. Or, rather, that they trotted round to me and told me. Few other people would presume on an acquaintanceship such as the one we didn’t enjoy, let alone one which was so patently nipped in the bud. Still, they came and gave me the hint, so I must not be so beastly as to rejoice in their misfortune.”

  “It beats me,” said Green, “why you didn’t see this all along, George. It’s so obvious.”

  “Why I didn’t see it? What about we?”

  “Why is it so obvious?” asked Berger.

  “And how can we be sure the Chief is right, even now?” asked Reed.

  “He’s right,” grunted Green. “He has to be. It’s too . . . too logical to be wrong.”

  “I’ll buy that if you say so and the Chief does, too. But accepting a fact on trust is not knowing why it is a fact.”

  “Tell them, Bill,” said Masters, who proceeded to pack the first pipe of the day.

  “Our murderer,” began Green.

  “Carvell?” asked Reed.

  “A man is not guilty until proved so,” admonished Green.

  “So that little chat in the AC’s office yesterday morning was meaningless, was it?”

  “If you remember, it was inconclusive.”

  “I know the Chief wasn’t happy.”

  “Right, lad. But if it makes you happy, we’ll call him Professor Ernest Carvell and risk being sued for defamation of character.”

  “Thanks.”

  “To continue,” grunted Green. “Carvell had a lot of time at his disposal on the night of the murder. And when I say Monday night, I include Tuesday morning. Understood?”

  “Just.”

  “He drove from London in his car. But he couldn’t take it right up to the house.”

  “Why not? If he didn’t know his missus and her boyfriend were there, as was suggested yesterday?”

  “That may have been his belief before he set out, lad, but a light in any window of that igloo would show a mile off. So whatever he thought, he couldn’t take chances. He’d stop a bit away down the track and then proceed on foot. Or would you, in his place, have driven up to the door and blown your horn?”

  “I’ll admit I’d have proceeded with caution in a like situation.”

  “Good. That’s settled that. But it was a wild night. Gales, wind and rain, so he wouldn’t want to make too many journeys to a car parked some distance away.”

  “Nobody would.”

  “But he had to leave those two to go to bed. So he had to get out of the house and wait for them to get stoned before he dare return. And before returning—or going indoors—he might have to do a little recce from time to time to see how things were going. If all was quiet and soon.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So where would he be? He’d need shelter as close to the house as possible.”

  “In one of the two tarred sheds near the gate?”

  “Right, lad. And why there and not in the garage at the back of the house?”

  “You tell us.”

  “Because from the sheds he could see the bedroom window and he’d know when the light went off or see any shadows if there was movement.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We said he had a lot of time. He used up a bit of it breaking open the nodules and perhaps a minute or two in washing up the glasses. But what would he do with the rest of the time?”

  “Keep watch.”

  “Of course he kept watch. But he had other things to think about.”

  “About getting the trays from the oven and loading them and getting the water to moisten them and how he would have to wash the glasses because he’d handled them, and the bottles and so on.”

  “Right. He’d go over it all in his mind, step by step, just as you said. But you didn’t mention one thing, lad.”

  “What?”

  “After the deed, son. What to do with the murder weapon. In this case, a batch of oven trays full of stinking nodules, to say nothing of three champagne bottles. All murderers are faced with the same problem if they’ve used a weapon. They’ve got to get rid of it without trace. Now, what his nibs is saying, is that one baking tray full of nodules would be quite a heavy load for one hand, so at best he could carry two. And he daren’t risk falling, in case he should spill the load and not be able to find all the bits and pieces in the dark, which he’d have to do if he didn’t want to give himself away. So, even if he could risk carrying two trays at a time he’d have to make three journeys to get rid of them. Could he risk stumbling down the track to the car? Would he want to in that weather?”

  “The answer to that,” said Reed, “is no.”

  “Just so, lad, particularly as, if he put them in the car he’d have to stop later to offload them, that is if he was still alive to do so. Four or five trays of pyrites giving off arsine isn’t a load most people would risk driving round in a car.”

  “Not likely,” agreed Reed.

  “So he’s standing in an old tarred shed, keeping his eyes open and thinking things over. Out of the wind and the rain and wondering what to do with all the stuff he’s got to get rid of. But he begins to get a bit cold in there, with no heating on a wild night. He stamps his feet to keep them warm. And guess what? He’s stamping on soil. Hard packed, probably, but still capable of being dug up with the gardening implements in either the shed he’s in or the one next door. So, time being no object, he clears some of the rubbish out of the way and he digs a hole. A good big one. Not hard to do once the top two inches of hard stuff have been picked away.
When the time comes, he puts all the stuff he wants to get rid of in there and replaces as much soil as he can. He stamps it down and pulls the garden roller and other stuff on top of it and carries outside the bucketful he’s got over and chucks it on a flower bed where it’ll never be noticed.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Two or three trips from the house to the shed instead of long walks to the car. No danger of the arsine affecting him as he carried it in the open air with a gale to blow the gas away. And the whole operation carried out in the comparative comfort of a shed where he could safely use a torch to see what he was doing.”

  “Simple when you think about it,” said Reed.

  “And obvious, as the Chief said,” added Berger.

  “And yet it took the Cartwrights and the story of where they had hidden their spare back door key to make me see it,” said Masters. “Now what we have to hope for is that we’re not on a wild-goose chase.”

  “We’re not,” said Green firmly. “It gels.”

  “Stop for coffee, Chief?” asked Reed as they approached Haslemere.

  “Good idea. There’s a nice little place close to the car park I seem to remember.”

  “Chief?” said Berger when they were sitting at the table drinking coffee and eating home-made scones, “if the shed is the hiding place and it is as obvious a place as you say it is, why haven’t the locals who are searching the area found it?”

  “Probably because it is so obvious.”

  “The answer’s easy,” said Green with his mouth full. “We’ve asked them to look for a heap of things. Enough to fill a big cardboard box, in fact. Some of the locals will have been into those sheds and looked round. What are they hoping to find? If we’d asked them to locate a thimble, they’d have been through everything there with a louse comb. As it is they’ve just made sure that the big items we want aren’t tucked in among the other stuff. A glance would tell them that. The idea of digging up the floor wouldn’t occur to them, particularly if miladdo made sure his excavation was covered over so that they couldn’t see the earth had been disturbed.”

  Berger nodded his acceptance of this explanation and then asked: “Have you warned Mr Robson we’re going to Abbot’s Hall, Chief?”

  Masters nodded. “He’ll be there with Middleton.”

  *

  “Probe gently,” said Masters to Reed and Berger and the two local constables who were to help them. “At the first sign of disturbed earth, you will evacuate the hut where it is found, and don the masks. Remember that there could be poison gas seeping up either through the earth or ready to escape once the pyrites are uncovered.”

  Reed and Berger took a hut each with a helper apiece. Immediately, all manner of items were being carried out. Garden tools, boxes of junk, a broken clothes horse, heaps of plant pots, paint tins and seed boxes.

  Reed appeared with a door. “Five or six of these inside,” he puffed. “The old ones from the house, I suppose.”

  Robson said: “My men looked in those huts.”

  “I’m sure they did. But they weren’t looking for buried treasure.”

  “We’re not complaining, chum,” said Green. “We only thought of it last night and even so we could be on a hiding to nothing.”

  “What makes you think the things could be here?”

  “Logic,” replied Green airily, and proceeded to give Robson and Middleton, who had joined them, a shortened version of the reasons he had given to Reed and Berger in the car. When he had finished, Middleton said: “I reckon you’re right. There’s a spot a bit of a way down the lane where a car has been pulled off recently.”

  “The traces are still there?”

  “Just. An oil drip from the back end drew our attention to it. We reckoned we could just make out where it had stood with the oil mark to help.”

  Reed and his assistant carried out the last of the doors. “I think we’ve got something, Chief. Behind this lot. I’ll just go in and probe.” He took up the thin metal rod. “Back in a moment.”

  “Something here, Chief.”

  From the doorway, Masters asked, “How deep?”

  “About eight inches.”

  “Right, you and Berger. You’ll only need trowels. Do it very, very carefully. In masks.”

  “There could still be dabs we could pick up, Chief. On some of the stuff at any rate. On the underside away from the overlying soil.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. Right. Plastic sheet. Work one at a time. The one not working watch the other like a hawk for any sign of distress. In you go.”

  Green offered a new packet of Kensitas round. “I’m feeling nervous,” he confessed. “But why the hell I should, I don’t know.” He turned to Masters. “It’s all your fault, George.”

  “Why his?” demanded Robson. “Dammit, he’s been playing guessing games ever since he first arrived here, and as far as I can see he’s . . .”

  “Bottles, Chief,” called Berger. “Moet et Chandon. One so far.”

  “I thought old Carvell would at least have risen to Krug,” said Green.

  “Three,” called Berger. He poked his head out. “All dry on the outside, Chief, so we’ll be able to dust them.”

  They hadn’t much longer to wait before Berger called for the camera. “We’d better have a shot of the trays as they are, Chief.”

  “Yes, please.”

  After a number of flashes, Berger announced the hole to be clear. Five baking dishes, three champagne bottles and a heap of segments of nodules which Green estimated would make up to fifty or sixty of the spheres.

  “They still pong, Chief, even in the open air,” said Reed. “Garlic.”

  “Oblige me by keeping your nose away from them. Wrap each of the other things very carefully in a plastic sheet, and then put the pyrites in a bag and seal it. Then put that bag in a second one and seal that. And continue to wear your masks while you’re doing it.”

  “Is that it?” asked Robson, as the parcels were laid gently in the boot of the Rover.

  “I think so, Mr Robson. Or should I say I hope so. We shall no doubt be meeting later over this business, but I should like to thank you, and Sergeant Middleton here, and indeed all your people, for the willing and helpful co-operation you have afforded us.”

  Robson scratched one ear. “I still don’t know how you’ve done it, sir. I mean to say, I didn’t believe half of it as you went along.”

  “Jam jars, chum,” said Green. “Full ones. He uses them like weather forecasters use seaweed.”

  Robson looked bewildered.

  “Come on,” ordered Masters. “With a bit of luck we can get half way home before we stop for a ploughman’s.”

  “Farm manager’s for me,” said Green as they entered the car.

  “That’s a new one on me.”

  “It’s the socially divisive lunch,” explained Green. “Much bigger and more variety than a ploughman’s—as one would expect. One lunch for the boss and another for the workers.”

  “I’ll bet it costs more,” said Reed.

  “True, lad, but as you’ll be buying my beer, I can afford an extra 40p for the grub.”

  “You wouldn’t like me to buy that for you, too, would you?”

  “All offers gratefully accepted,” replied Green, putting his hands together in an attitude of prayer and closing his eyes.

  “Now what?”

  “I’m giving thanks for my food. Saying grace if you like.”

  “Grace? You? This I must hear.”

  “So you shall, lad.”

  Green waited a moment and then intoned. “Rub a dub dub, Thanks for the grub.” He then opened his eyes and lowered his hands. “Come on, lad, lead me to it. Chop, chop.”

  Reed snorted with disgust and eased the handbrake.

  *

  Masters and Green were in the former’s office. They were sitting back, smoking and talking. It was half-past three in the afternoon, and they were waiting for Reed and Berger to report on fingerprints found o
n the morning’s haul.

  “But you always go to the Isle of Wight for your holidays,” said Masters. “Doris likes it. Why the West Country next year?”

  “Doris liked it when she was down there with you and Wanda.”

  “In that case, would you like me to talk to Frank about letting you his cottage?”

  “P’raps. Would he mind?”

  “The enquiry? Not at all.”

  “In that case . . .”

  The internal phone rang.

  “Chief?”

  “Yes, Berger?”

  “Not a sign of Carvell’s prints anywhere.”

  “I thought there might not be. Are you hoping to surprise me.”

  “I reckon so, Chief. You’d never guess.”

  “Let me try. Those of Mr Derek Heddle.”

  “I should know better than to take you on, Chief. Are you coming down?”

  “Straightaway.”

  “Heddle?” asked Green in disbelief. “How the hell did you know that, George?”

  “I didn’t. But you know I’ve been plagued with the possibility of Carvell not being our man. So I spent last night trying to fit in a parallel character, if I can call him that. And you’d be surprised, Bill, at how much of what we have ascribed to Carvell can be equally well ascribed to Heddle—if we accept that he told us the odd lie at the outset.”

  “So we start again.”

  “Not quite. But there are a few things to sort out.” He got to his feet. “We’d better see Reed’s evidence.”

  “Nothing of any use on the bottles and pans, Chief, but beauties on these nodules. Look, I’ll show you.” He took one up in a pair of forceps. “They’re all coated in chalk. I expect he couldn’t crack them while wearing gloves, or else he marked them when he collected them. Probably the latter, because they were damp when he handled them, and I reckon he’d be careful not to moisten them the night he used them. So, if you look, you can see the prints in the thin coating of chalk. Done when wet. Once they dried out they’d be set in a sort of concrete. As easy as anything to bring up and photograph and enough of them to compare with all his prints several times over.” He put the nodule down, picked up a number of photographs and started to point out the more obvious comparison points on the various sets.

  “No doubt about it, then?”