Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  ‘No?’

  ‘We never think of a man as guilty until we’ve proved he is. We consider everybody, of course. And I’ve no doubt in my mind that the weapon used was your gun. But I’m so far from proving you guilty that when we’ve finished our talk you’ll be able to walk out of here a free man.’

  Green snorted in disbelief. Pieters stared, openmouthed. Brant whistled between his teeth. Masters went on: ‘But before you go, I’d like you to do something for me.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Fire a nail through one of the other planks. Into a strip of mortar.’

  Green burst out: ‘You’re not going to let him get his hands on that thing and load it, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Green set his mouth and turned away. Brant moved in unobtrusively behind Pieters. The gun was loaded, cocked and fired. The spent cartridge was ejected automatically. The report in the room was shattering. Pieters said: ‘And that was only a strong cartridge. Not very strong or super. I keep them for concrete.’

  Masters said: ‘Somebody should have heard that on Sunday night.’ He stepped close to look at the nail. It was a replica of the others. He said to Pieters: ‘Thanks. I’m afraid I’ll have to hang on to your bolt setter.’

  Pieters said: ‘And when do I get it back? I’ve a living to earn, you know.’

  Green said: ‘We’ll get you one on hire.’

  Masters asked: ‘Did you miss a cartridge on Monday?’

  Pieters shook his head. ‘I’d only miss one from a new box.’

  Green said: ‘And the murderer knew enough to pick up the spent cartridge. Very helpful.’

  ‘It certainly shows he knew what he was doing,’ Masters said.

  ‘I always pick them up. When you go on a training course by the makers, they tell you to.’

  Masters nodded. He returned the gun to its box and said to Pieters: ‘When did you put these plates up?’

  ‘Them? Let me see now. Last week sometime. Yes. Thursday it ’ud be. Thursday morning, because I had a day and a half on the ceiling joists before the weekend.’

  Masters said: ‘Thank you. Now, just one more job. I want that stained plank down and a two foot piece round that out-of-place nail sawing out. Without touching the nail at any time. Can you do it? It’s worth a quid for a good, quick job.’

  Pieters and Brant selected the tools. Masters and Green wandered out of earshot. Masters spoke quietly for a few minutes, then Green said: ‘What? You want me to go to London tonight?’

  ‘Yes please. With Brant.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I’d better do it myself than phone through. And there’s roast lamb for dinner tonight. Gina told me.’

  Masters said: ‘You can go after dinner. You won’t be able to do anything at that end till tomorrow morning.’

  Green offered him a Kensitas. ‘Except deliver your bag of spuds, I suppose.’

  Masters grinned. ‘I told you that would work out just fine, didn’t I?’

  Green sneered. ‘You’ll be telling me next you’d got this job buttoned up yesterday.’ He didn’t sound too unbelieving. Whenever the job took a turn for the better, Green couldn’t help being as pleased as anybody else.

  Chapter Seven

  Pieters, sworn to secrecy, had gone. Hill had returned. Masters handed the two feet of planking to Green. ‘Ask forensic to let me have at least a preliminary verbal report on the nail by tomorrow. If you can get through your other business by lunchtime perhaps you’ll be able to bring both reports back with you in the afternoon.’

  Green said: ‘Should do. I’ll stow this plank. We’ll go straight after dinner.’

  Masters thought Green was setting too much store by a bit of roast lamb. ‘As you like. The roads will be clearer, later.’

  Green pretended he hadn’t heard. They left the school and locked up behind them. Masters said: ‘I’m going to see Dr Frank Barnfelt.’

  ‘About little Cora, I suppose.’

  ‘I’d like to know if there’s anything can be done for her. I’ll be back for dinner.’

  *

  Dr Barnfelt saw him in the surgery after the last patient had gone. He said: ‘You want news of your protégée?’

  ‘If there is any.’

  ‘No promises. But I think between us—medicine and welfare—we may be able to do something. To rehabilitate her is probably the best way of describing it.’

  ‘Can you give me any details?’

  ‘No. For two reasons. One, I don’t know enough about her after only a very cursory examination, and two—you know—ethics.’

  Masters grinned. ‘As long as there’s some chance.’

  Barnfelt said seriously: ‘I will do my utmost to see that what can be done for her will be done. Immediately. You have my word for it.’

  Masters said: ‘That’s no more than I expected. But it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. I am. Very.’

  Barnfelt gazed at him. Masters felt he was being analysed. Wondered what he had said that could be taken the wrong way. He could feel Barnfelt’s shrewdness. The eyes twinkling behind the pince-nez were sizing him up. Then Barnfelt said: ‘How is the investigation proceeding?’

  ‘Very well—I think. We’ve been here little more than forty-eight hours and we’ve turned up at least a dozen motives for murder. I’m afraid your vicar was a most unpopular and unsatisfactory person.’

  ‘His reputation was not good. I am only speaking from hearsay. I had very little to do with him. Nothing socially. But doctors are recipients of confidences and news, so they know most of what is afoot—particularly in a place as small as Rooksby. One thing, however, surprises me. You mentioned motive. My knowledge of the law is limited, but I thought that to prove motive was unnecessary.’

  Masters smiled. ‘Limited knowledge? I’ve heard different.’

  ‘Checking up on me?’

  ‘On everybody. And you’re quite right. I’ve no need to prove motive, but experience has taught me that ferreting out a good, juicy motive not only helps an investigation, it helps with a jury, too.’

  ‘So you concentrate on motives?’

  ‘And opportunity, and feasibility, and credibility, and every other thing I can think of.’

  Barnfelt placed the tips of his bony fingers together. ‘Does a superfluity of motives give you cause for complaint?’

  ‘None. No complaint at all.’ He grinned. ‘Except one.’

  ‘May I ask what it is?’

  ‘As it concerns you, yes. Your two-way radio is almost on top of my frequency.’

  Barnfelt looked suddenly concerned. ‘But we have an allotted wave-length, and we’re crystal controlled, so it is impossible for us to wander off our own frequency on to somebody else’s.’

  Masters said: ‘I’m pulling your leg. You haven’t inconvenienced us.’ He noticed that Barnfelt still seemed a little concerned. He felt pleased about it. He liked causing a flutter among the apparently unflappable. He wondered what reply Barnfelt would give. When it came, it was totally unexpected.

  ‘I must reduce power.’ Barnfelt was almost talking to himself. A savant considering a problem.

  Masters said: ‘You mean you designed the radios yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. You see, the usual V.H.F. sets are so limited in range that they are practically useless if the stations are not intervisible. So I designed an ordinary H.F. set which was small enough for our purpose, but had the traditional range.’

  ‘Dry battery? Or do they use the car batteries?’

  ‘Neither. I designed a power take-off from the engine, and installed in the circuit a small twelve volt Aldis lamp dag. Do you know, we can operate even if the battery is right down, so long as the engine is running? All the cells are needed for is to iron out the surges in the power supply.’

  ‘At what range can you work?’

  Barnfelt lost his eagerness. He looked down. ‘Oh, several miles. I don’t know exactly. It depends on conditions.’

  Masters felt this was
wrong. He thought a man as precise as this would know the answer to within a hundred yards. He didn’t pursue the matter. He said: ‘Interesting. You ought to patent it.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the news about Cora. I’ll not keep you any longer.’ At the door he stopped and asked: ‘How did the inquest go?’

  ‘We learned nothing new. My evidence was exactly as I gave it to you—without the suppositions, of course.’

  *

  Hill said: ‘She couldn’t have gone by train. Her landlady says she was surprised to see her before the arrival time. She also says she heard a car at the door, which didn’t sound like a taxi. And the ticket collectors neither remember Pamela arriving, nor did they take a ticket from Rooksby to Peterborough at the barrier on Sunday night.’ He looked across at Masters. ‘Is that what you wanted, Chief?’

  They were all four in Masters’ room. Masters occupying the chair. Green astride the case stand. Hill and Brant perched on the bed. Masters had unearthed a new tin of Warlock Flake from his kit. The air was heavy with smoke.

  ‘Just what I wanted. I knew Pamela Plum-Bum was lying. It’ll give me great pleasure to tell her so. Now, let’s see where that leaves us. She left Rooksby—we presume—at six, or a minute or two after. The landlady doesn’t know to the minute when she arrived, but she puts it at ten past seven. Certainly not more than five minutes either way. Correct?’

  Hill nodded.

  Masters said: ‘How long to get to Peterborough?’

  Brant said: ‘Depends on the car and the driver. But not more than three quarters, not less than half. I’d do it in that if I had to—on a Sunday night with not much traffic about.’

  ‘We’ll estimate forty minutes. That means she would arrive in Peterborough by about a quarter to seven.’

  ‘Unless she didn’t leave Rooksby till well after six,’ Green said.

  ‘I’m pretty sure she’s not the type to hang around for long on a cold, windy night. So we’ll assume she went off by five past.’

  ‘Then the car must have stopped on the way. A bit of quiet snogging if all they say about parsons’ daughters—and this one in particular—is true.’

  ‘That’s it. It must be. And it makes everything fit.’

  ‘Is that the lot, then?’

  ‘Yes. Unless anybody saw Superintendent Nicholson today.’

  Hill said: ‘I did. He said nothing new came out at the inquest. P or PU as expected. Funeral on Saturday. Some suffering Bishop is coming to do it.’

  ‘Suffragan.’

  Green said: ‘I wonder how many mourners there’ll be—genuine ones?’

  Masters said: ‘We’ll not be among them. Now, how about a quick one before dinner?’

  After Green and Brant had set out, Masters said to Hill: ‘I want you to go alone to the spit and sawdust tonight.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Very special. You’ve to act normally.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s important. I don’t want to change the pattern of our habits: to give anybody ideas. What you’ve got to do is go in there as if you were still on the lookout for snippets of information. Don’t say the others have gone to London. Don’t give the impression we’ve finished the job. And don’t suggest, either, that we’re not getting anywhere. People can sniff these things out like dogs smell fear. And I don’t want them to suspect what stage we’ve reached. We’ve the best part of twenty-four hours to wait in suspended animation, and if the slightest whisper gets out during that time we may be caught with our trousers down. Understood?’

  ‘If you say so. But I don’t know where you’ve got to.’

  ‘On purpose. That way you can’t let anything out inadvertently.’

  ‘What about Harry Pieters?’

  ‘We’ve got to trust to luck there. He’s promised not to talk, and I’ve steered clear of asking Perce Jonker any questions about bolt-setting tools so that he can’t jabber around. Tomorrow’s going to be tricky. So the best plan is for you and me to get out of Rooksby for an hour or two.’

  ‘No car.’

  ‘Ask Vanden to get you a local one. For nine o’clock in the morning. We’ll take a look at the countryside.’

  For Masters, the evening session in the saloon bar was a difficult one. He wanted to be up and doing. Worried by delay. Fearful it might rob him of victory. Uneasy.

  He met de Hooch, Baron, Jan Wessel and Arn Beck. Was asked how he was getting on. Was non-committal in reply, and wondered whether even this evasiveness might not be open to misinterpretation. He cast around for some question to ask. One that would seem natural and relevant. He chose Parseloe’s wife. She was connected—tenuously—with the case, but unlikely to evoke awkward questions for him. ‘Mr Baron, did you meet Mrs Parseloe much?’ He was conscious that it was a soft question. Without bite. He didn’t like asking it. He wondered what he’d say if Baron said no and refused to expand.

  Baron didn’t. ‘Too much. She got the idea that because I was the headmaster of the church school my wife should be the head cook and bottle washer for the vicar’s wife. Naturally we had other ideas, but Mrs P. was a sticker. She was always on the doorstep for something or another.’

  Masters leaned back. He felt the conversation would keep flowing without much help from him. He wasn’t mistaken. Henry de Hooch said: ‘Calling for mid-morning coffee and afternoon tea, was she? She had her rounds, you know. Twice every day she got fed in a different house. She even tried calling on us, uninvited, on afternoons when my wife was holding bridge parties. Big eats on those days. But what a mistake to make! To interrupt women at bridge!’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I’ve always believed Gobby’s main trouble was his wife,’ Jan Wessel said. ‘She depressed me, so what she did to him, living with her, lord only knows.’

  ‘Completely unattractive,’ said Baron. ‘Mentally and physically. And with so many negative qualities thrown in that living with her must have been like having the invisible man about the house.’

  Arn Beck said: ‘The marriage was a contrived tragedy.’

  ‘What do you mean—contrived?’ de Hooch asked.

  ‘When I had occasion to speak to the Rural Dean I was told their story. As a sort of extenuating circumstance for behaviour in Parseloe which I considered distinctly unChristian.’

  ‘Go on,’ Baron said.

  ‘He came from quite a poor family. His parents were devoted to the church, but in a bigoted sort of way. No humour, no pleasure in religion. You must know the type. They’re not as common these days as they once were, although I understand that there are some sects developing today which have much the same sort of outlook. Almost from the day of his birth his parents’ great ambition was to see their son a parson. And to do him credit, he won his way through. But all three of them had distorted ideas about the clergy. Almost the only man of standing they’d ever spoken to was their own vicar. He was kind to them, and they almost worshipped him in return. To the mother and father, the idea that their son could become like this man was their individual promise from heaven. What they didn’t appreciate was that their parson was a gently nurtured man, in a good living, and with a private income of his own to make it easier for him to keep up the standards they aimed at. But, even with the poorest possible start, young Parseloe reached his first goal. He was ordained. Then came the rub. Marriage. By this time all three Parseloes were lifting their sights. As a parson, the lad was accepted—as all professional men seem to be. Vocations give a social cachet. But whereas a penniless doctor or solicitor can hope to provide for a wife and family within a reasonable time, a parson may not be quite so lucky. Stipends being what they are.’

  Beck stopped to drink. de Hooch called for another round. ‘Where did he pick her up?’ Baron asked.

  Wessel said: ‘She was a cut above him, I’d have said.’

  ‘She was,’ Beck replied. ‘Youngest daughter of new poor. And an unattractive one. That’s why she was available. He thought he was marrying into a good family. She ac
cepted him because he was a parson. It was, as I said before, a contrived tragedy. Each thought they were getting somebody better than they could have hoped for. And that really is tragedy.’

  ‘You mean she tried to upper-crust him from the start?’ de Hooch asked.

  Baron said: ‘She was definitely the one who thought he ought to be the squarson. He’d have been better off with a less pretentious, more genuine woman. I can’t believe he ever got any happiness from the marriage—or his kids.’

  Masters put down his glass. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how often murder is the sequel to a tragedy rather than the tragedy itself. This time it’s the result of a mistake in the choice of marriage partners.’

  Wessel said: ‘And before so very long you’ll have some other similar cause to investigate. I think an unrelieved diet of murder would be more than I could stomach.’

  Masters entertained them with a few interesting anecdotes until Binkhorst called time. When the bars had cleared Binkhorst said: ‘Have one with me, Mr Masters.’ Masters accepted. He’d waited until now to break the news that Green and Brant would be away for the night. He implied that they had been called back in connection with some completely different enquiry. He made very little of it at all. The main point was that at this late hour the Binkhorsts would be unlikely to mention it to anybody outside.

  *

  At nine o’clock next morning, with Hill at the wheel, they left Rooksby. Masters, sitting beside him, said: ‘I want to find Jeremy Pratt. We’ll go to Spalding and ask at the station there.’

  The police at Spalding directed them to Boston. There they found a shipping office: The Wash and Holland Line.

  Masters left Hill in the car and called on Jeremy Pratt alone. He found a tall, well set-up man of thirty. A forelock of auburn hair tumbled over the forehead. The eyes were brown and frank. The face lean, the mouth smiling. Pratt was very surprised at the visit. He said: ‘I’m more than pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. But I can’t help wondering why you’re here. And feeling a bit queer in the stomach because of it.’

  ‘I often have that effect on people. It passes off as soon as I assure them I’m making nothing more than a courtesy call.’