Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  Masters nodded. ‘I saw you’d bathed the area. Did you notice anything peculiar about the bruising of the chest?’

  ‘I did. But I wouldn’t have expected you to have done so, too. You must be half a pathologist in your own right.’

  ‘I’m not a forensic expert. But I use my eyes. There was a very faint, larger bruise around the wound. A bruise about two inches square.’

  ‘Quite right. I should say that whatever blow caused that bruise was struck with a square object, such as the end of one of the pieces of timber lying in the classroom.’

  ‘Do blows from square weapons leave square bruises?’

  ‘Not normally, because extravasation—that’s seepage of blood from tiny damaged vessels—spreads like a stain into surrounding tissue and blurs the edges of the area that has been struck.’

  ‘I could make out a distinct square.’

  ‘So could I.’

  ‘And what does that tell us?’

  ‘That the blow was struck, I should say, within a minute of death.’

  ‘Before or after?’

  ‘Definitely before. The extravasation had no time to spread before the circulation stopped. That’s why the bruise retained its shape.’

  Masters felt a surge of pleasure. He’d got a very definite, significant fact. He hardly heard Barnfelt say: ‘What do you think of my idea that he was prodded with a length of timber?’

  Masters looked at him for a moment and shook his head. Barnfelt opened his blue eyes in surprise. Masters said: ‘I took measurements. The bullet hole was plumb in the middle of the bruise. It’d be an amazing coincidence if—well, if lightning were to strike in exactly the same place twice within a minute.’

  ‘I see.’

  He sounded deflated. Masters felt sorry. Barnfelt had helped. He ought to be given a crumb of comfort. Masters said: ‘You put a bomb under your own idea yourself, you know.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Could a murderer prod a man with a baulk of timber, put the timber down, hold his victim in place, draw a gun and shoot him, all within a minute?’

  ‘He could. But I agree it would take a bit of quick action. Especially as the victim would be bound to struggle.’

  ‘That’s what I think. It’d be extremely unlikely. I can’t visualize it happening. And when the shot found the exact centre of the area bruised . . .’ He spread his hands. ‘Speed and accuracy like that would be impossible.’ He rose to go. Almost as if a passing thought had struck him he asked: ‘By the way, what time would you say he was killed?’

  Barnfelt smiled. ‘I’ve been working it out as accurately as I can. My answer is before ten o’clock last night.’

  ‘No closer?’

  Barnfelt shook his head. ‘But don’t forget it was Sunday. Parseloe would have been in church conducting Evensong until seven thirty or thereabouts, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘So I’ve got a two and a half hour bracket.’

  ‘Unless you can cut it down in some way. Don’t parsons cash up the takings after the service with the church wardens? That’s the sort of thing you’ve got to ferret out.’

  Masters thanked him gravely for the advice.

  *

  Hill and Brant were packing up when Masters joined them. He asked: ‘Anything?’

  Hill said: ‘Not a skerrick. I’ve never known a place with less to offer. No decipherable prints on the door handles or anywhere else. No footmarks. No bullets. No bullet holes. No nothing.’

  ‘Come back for dinner,’ Masters said.

  Brant said: ‘I’d like to know what happened to that bullet.’

  ‘I know,’ Hill replied. ‘He was shot with a bullet made of ice, which melted as soon as it’d done its stuff. No marks left on the wall and nothing on the floor except a few unnoticed drops of water. How’s that for a theory that fits?’

  Masters said: ‘Hurry up or we’ll be late. They’re only keeping our meal till eight thirty as a special favour.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s worth waiting for,’ Hill said.

  *

  It was. They were all agreed. Roast pork with good crackling that Green crunched loud and long. They were served by Mrs Binkhorst. While she was out Green said: ‘So she’s the Eyetie. Gone to seed a bit like most Wops.’

  Masters didn’t think so. He placed her in the late forties. She was tall for a Latin; more heavily boned than usual. But her legs were still a good shape in high-heeled red shoes. Her figure was corseted, smoothing the outlines of the black dress round her buttocks and holding the full bosom high under a cascade of white nylon lace. The skin on hands and face was still brown and taut. The hair had been dyed so that it was unnaturally black, too soft and matt in colour—like soot. Long earrings dangled, hard and bright. But Masters felt she had a presence. And there was no doubt she could cook, too. He told her so as she collected the empty plates.

  ‘The pig that breaks its leg is always good,’ she said with very little accent.

  ‘Breaks its leg?’

  ‘You do not know it? It is always said in Rooksby.’

  ‘What is?’ Green said.

  ‘When the war was on and the farmers were not allowed to kill their pigs for themselves. If they wanted more food they killed a forbidden pig. They told the food men that the pig had broken its leg and had to be killed. They always ate much in Rooksby and laughed at the regulations. Now always when they kill pigs they say they have broken a leg. They tasted good when there was a war. They taste good now. Not from a butcher.’

  Masters said: ‘You were here before the war?’

  ‘I married six months before. I was seventeen. Some people did not like me when the war was on.’

  ‘But they do now?’

  She shrugged. ‘They call me Gina and come every night to the Goblin. What more?’

  ‘You don’t sound very happy about it to me. Have you any children?’

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’ She paused a moment and then almost sobbed: ‘A pretty, pretty girl. And not married. It is not good. She should be married before now. With children.’

  When she brought the ice cream cake she was more composed. ‘You will see Maria in the saloon bar. She serves there every night among the men. All of them like her, but she does not get married. I do not know what the men are doing today.’

  Green said: ‘The same as they always did. Only more so.’ And after Mrs Binkhorst had gone he added: ‘Little Maria won’t play, if you ask me. She serves the men, but she won’t let them serve her. She’ll be a Catholic most likely—her mother being an Eyetie.’

  Masters said: ‘Why don’t you make a point of finding out?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’ll be one way of starting people gossiping. I want to get the atmosphere of this place. Start with Maria. You can forget her once you’ve got going—unless you think there’s something nasty in the Goblin’s woodshed.’

  Green stretched and yawned. It was a sign he didn’t think much of Masters’ orders. He said: ‘Where shall I start? In the spit and sawdust? I take it you’ll do the saloon bar yourself?’

  ‘Hill and I will take the public bar for half an hour just to see how it goes. You and Brant do the saloon.’

  Green was surprised. Masters didn’t usually take the rough end of a job without good reason. He wondered what the reason was this time. Masters knew he was wanting to know, but didn’t enlighten him. The public bar was likely to have more youngsters in it. They might not take kindly to Green who would be more at home among the older—and probably more garrulous—saloon frequenters.

  Hill wandered into the saloon. He was back inside a minute. He said to Masters: ‘She’s some bird, all right. Legs just a bit skinny for a micro, but still a good shape. And her face isn’t too bad, either. One of those sultry Italians. But what lips! They look as though they’d have a kiss on ’em like a vacuum cleaner.’

  Masters led the way into the public bar. There were seven or eight young
men and two or three older ones present. Binkhorst was behind the bar. He seemed surprised to see Masters. Masters guessed why. They’d been discussing him, believing him unlikely to come to this room. Nobody said anything at first. Hill broke the ice. He said in a voice that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence: ‘No women this side? Fair do’s, landlord. What you want is a bouncing barmaid. I’ll bet that’d be popular.’

  ‘Nay it wouldn’t,’ said one of the older men. ‘Most o’ these young’uns come here to get away from women, and us old’uns don’t care.’

  Masters said: ‘That doesn’t sound typical.’

  ‘It is though. They’re all married, this lot. Left their lasses at home minding the bairns.’

  Masters was genuinely surprised. He guessed some of the youths were less than nineteen. If it hadn’t been for the long sideboards they could truly have been taken for beardless.

  One of them said: ‘Aw, shut up, dad. You blow too much.’

  ‘Do I? An’ what do you lot do? Aye! Go on! Start playing darts while I’m talking to you. It’s a pity you didn’t stick to darts a year since.’ He turned to Masters. ‘You’re a detective, I hear. Well, I bet you’ve never met any place like this. I’m telling you that few lasses in Rooksby ever reach the age of seventeen without being wed force-put. There ’asn’t been a wedding here this last twenty year, I doubt, but the girl’s been big-bellied at the altar. ’As there, Matthew?’

  The man appealed to nodded. ‘Right, ’Arold. These little lasses ’as to get married, an’ before the first youngster’s born they’re fighting cat an’ dog with their men.’ He leaned towards Masters. ‘But what I don’t understand is these lasses ’aving no spirit after they’re wed. They let these lads come out every night while they sit home with the kids. Slavery it is.’

  A tall young man reached for his beer and interrupted: ‘Stop your chelping, Matthew. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, don’t I? Look at you. Not yet twenty-one and saddled with two kids. And you not earning enough to buy salt for your spuds, let alone drinking Double Diamond.’

  The youth made no reply. Masters thought he could see misery in the face. These boys and their young wives were missing life. Drinking to avoid reality. Unable to afford this chosen escape from responsibility. Poverty the banana skin on the threshold of their married lives. The thought was as depressing as the village. He said: ‘Why don’t you bring your wives out occasionally? They might like it here.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. They might like it too much. Then where’d we be?’ There was no animosity in the reply. Just surliness.

  Old Harold said: ‘Sittin’ home some nights, where you should be now.’

  The youth returned to his game. Masters looked towards the bar. Binkhorst was dipping and wiping glasses, apparently paying no attention to the conversation. He was preoccupied. But every so often he glanced at Masters and Hill as though they were the subject of his thoughts. Masters wondered why. Was it a natural distrust of policemen? Was it dislike occasioned by his insistence on a late meal? It might be worth probing a little. He said to Harold: ‘The landlord’s daughter is still unmarried, I hear.’

  ‘Aye, she is that. Proper old maid through no fault of her own.’

  ‘Really? I heard she was an attractive girl.’

  ‘Right enough—in a foreign sort of way. Her mother’s kept her what we would call tethered to the table leg, but what you might call tied to her apron strings.’

  Hill said: ‘Kept an eye on her so she didn’t end up like the rest of the girls in Rooksby, did she?’

  ‘Aye. But too much. Never gave the lass a bit o’ freedom when she was a young’un. Loosened up a bit lately. Bought her one of these mini cars of her own, and looking round for somebody to take her off their hands a bit desperate like now, I reckon. ’Course, there’s talk about her.’

  Masters said: ‘Such as what?’

  Harold’s eyes seemed to glaze over. He clammed up. Masters sensed the old man felt he’d said too much. Masters didn’t press him. Pretended to ignore the lack of response. The simple fact that the old man had dried up told him enough. Here was something to look into. It might end in nothing more than village gossip. It might go further. He couldn’t tell—yet. He changed the subject abruptly. Often a good tactic when the person questioned is very anxious to do so. Out of sheer relief they might be more forthcoming on the new topic. Masters asked Harold: ‘What did you think of the vicar?’

  ‘Gobby Parseloe?’

  Masters nodded. He said: ‘I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned him before now. His death must have caused some excitement and chatter in Rooksby.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Harold seemed disinclined to speak. Masters nodded to Hill to refill glasses—Harold’s and Matthew’s, as well as their own. The fresh beer help to lubricate tongues. Harold said: ‘We ain’t said ower much about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We weren’t ower fond. Mind, I’m not what you might call a churchgoer. Nor’s Matthew, are you, Matthew?’

  ‘Parson being an outner,’ said Matthew, as though that explained whatever shortcomings Parseloe may have had, and those of Matthew, too, to account for his lack of attendance at church. ‘No, we weren’t ower fond o’ Gobby. There’s been talk about him, too.’

  Masters said smugly: ‘I’m very pleased to see—and hear—that there’s no idle gossip about his death.’

  Harold said: ‘Gossip?’ as though it were something he’d never encountered. ‘Nay, no gossip.’

  To Masters it sounded like a warning to Matthew to say no more. Masters wondered why. Would they be willing to say more if bought with beer? Or were these two oldsters saying no more in order to protect—whom? Of course! To protect a local. An outner had been murdered. So what? All locals stick together for self-preservation. The law of the jungle. Masters wondered whether Harold and Matthew actually knew who the murderer was or whether instinct was making them cagey in the interests of the herd at large. He said: ‘You’re very wise not to gossip.’

  ‘Keep your own council an’ live a day longer,’ said Matthew.

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Hill. ‘But we’ve got to find out something about the vicar. To help us, I mean. Haven’t we, Chief?’

  Harold looked at Hill for a moment. He said: ‘I doubt you won’t hear much good about Gobby. But if you’re set on it, talk to Arn Beck and Jan Wessel and a few like them. They’ll tell you a thing or two, perhaps—if you’re lucky.’

  Masters looked across at Binkhorst. The landlord was standing with his back to them, in the small doorway that connected behind the counters of the two bars. Binkhorst was talking. Masters strained his ears to listen. ‘. . . you get to bed early tonight. Get off now and take something for that headache. And tell your mother to come and take over as you go up.’ Masters couldn’t hear the reply. He felt sorry he wouldn’t be seeing the fair Maria after all, tonight. But that didn’t alter his plan to join Green. He said to Harold: ‘Do the men you mentioned ever come into the Goblin?’

  ‘As like as not they’re in the saloon now.’ Harold finished his drink and added: ‘Arn Beck used to be a churchwarden till he had a row with Gobby.’

  *

  Green and Brant were in separate parties, but both seemed well dug in. The saloon regulars seemed less inhibited than the mixture of youth and age in the public bar. Articulate middle-age—more prosperous than next door—gave a different atmosphere. Here there was social interest in the presence of a team from Scotland Yard. Green was cashing in on it. Where Masters had been paying to listen, Green was being plied with liquor. Masters wondered how much he’d learned—if anything.

  When Masters entered, Green looked up for a moment and then continued with his conversation. Brant signalled Masters over. Brant said: ‘This is Mr de Hoke—spelt Hooch—which seems a good name to meet in a pub, don’t you think?’

  Masters said: ‘The bridge champion?’

  de Hooch stared for a moment and th
en said: ‘I’m not exactly a champion, but I like the game. My missus is the fiend. She practically dresses herself on her winnings. But how the devil did you know we play?’

  ‘Nothing to it,’ said Masters. ‘No magic. I heard you’d been having a party last night.’

  ‘Not a party. Just one table. Jan and Sue Wessel, my missus and me.’

  Masters said: ‘Do many others in Rooksby play?’

  ‘We can manage about four tables when we have a match. Mostly us old’uns—like Jan, myself and Stan Barrett with our wives and a few youngsters like Peter Barnfelt—he’s one of our doctors—and his fiancée, April Barrett—Stan’s daughter.’

  Masters said: ‘It sounds like a real family party. Husbands, wives, fiancées.’

  de Hooch pursed his lips. ‘Not always. Bridge is a funny game. It causes more rows between friends than amateur theatricals. Talk about temperament over playing a hand! And post-mortems when it’s all over! I can tell you it often parts husband from wife.’

  ‘And presumably causes rifts between sweethearts.’

  de Hooch said: ‘Now I wonder how you came to say that? I should have said that young Peter and April were far too sensible to let a poor call at bridge upset them. But they’ve stopped seeing each other for—oh—for about a fortnight or three weeks now, just because April miscounted aces in a four-five no-trump call. I must say it puzzled me that they should have had a tiff at the time, but for it to carry on so long, with no sign of reconciliation in sight, has me beat. It really does. What’ll you have? A whisky?’

  Masters stayed just long enough with de Hooch to make it appear that he was neither scrounging drinks nor picking brains, and then left him to Brant and Hill. Green looked up as Masters approached. ‘Mr Beck and Mr Wessel. Detective Chief Inspector Masters.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you both,’ said Masters, shaking hands. ‘Mr Wessel, you’re a bridge player, and Mr Beck, you’re not. Is that right?’

  Wessel was long-faced, long-nosed and loose-jowled, with carefully parted black hair and rimless spectacles. Masters would have put him down as more of a poker player than a bridge addict. He said: ‘I can see Henry de Hooch has been talking. Parading our faults and weaknesses. An insurance manager ought to be more discreet, don’t you think?’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. Masters said: ‘The more indiscreet people are, the more I like it, generally. But I must confess I sifted very little condemnatory evidence out of an account of the doings of the local bridge players. Nothing to make me think I’ll be able to go home in the morning, for instance.’