Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  Pratt waved him to a chair. ‘Courtesy call? On me? You wouldn’t waste your time. But if you say so, I’ll believe you. How about some coffee?’

  ‘I could do with at least a pint of strong black if you can manage it.’

  Pratt grinned. ‘That reassures me.’ Masters had intended it should. He loved the feeling of importance his job gave him, but he rarely wanted to inspire fear. Particularly not today. Even though he was out killing time and indulging a whimsy he had an objective in mind.

  Pratt called for coffee and then sat behind his desk. He looked at Masters and said: ‘I thought you’d be in Rooksby. The papers have been full of the murder and your presence there.’

  ‘These investigations take me out and about at times. I had to come this way on another little errand, and as I had one question I thought you might answer for me, I dropped in. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not in the least. I’m genuinely pleased to meet you, but for the life of me I can’t think what question I could possibly answer for you. It is almost ten years since I was in Rooksby. In fact, I’ve made a point of never going back.’

  ‘Why?’

  Pratt blushed. Masters thought he looked very young; and gave him full marks for having the grace to look embarrassed. Pratt said: ‘You must have heard that I used to visit Rooksby a lot at one time, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll have heard about Maria Binkhorst and me and how I let her down.’ He sounded bitter.

  Masters said: ‘I understood it was your father who was the nigger in the woodpile.’

  ‘He was—but only because I was weak and let him get away with it. And I’ve been too ashamed to go back to Rooksby since. But you have a question to ask.’

  Masters started to fill his pipe. ‘Ah, yes. Now as you can probably guess I’ve been checking up on the movements of practically everybody in Rooksby who was out and about on Sunday night when the vicar was killed. One of them was Binkhorst . . .’

  ‘On a Sunday? He never used to go out on a Sunday. That was Maria’s night off—or one of them.’

  ‘Quite. That’s why Binkhorst’s absence from his bar interested me.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly suspect him. Why . . .’

  ‘I suspect everybody, Mr Pratt. At least if they’re sculling about on some unusual errand as Binkhorst was.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Looking for Maria, he says.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s the point. He says he went to your house near Spalding.’

  Pratt looked astounded. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Never mind why for the moment. He said he arrived at the gates of your house and found them padlocked. Would that be correct?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Are the gates always padlocked at night?’

  ‘All day as well. Have been since before Christmas. The house is empty. The old man died, you see.’

  ‘And your wife didn’t fancy living there?’

  ‘My wife? Here, hang on a moment. I haven’t got a wife. But I do have a bachelor flat here in Boston.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Masters didn’t sound sorry. He lit his pipe. ‘I should have checked on you before I came. But you can confirm that Binkhorst was right when he said the gates were padlocked?’

  Pratt nodded. He was looking thoughtful. He said: ‘You haven’t told me about Maria. Is she married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When she was out on Sunday night, what was it? A man?’

  Masters said airily: ‘I suppose her father thought it was.’

  ‘You mean he thought she was with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good heavens, why? I haven’t seen Maria for ten years. Why should he think she was with me?’

  ‘He had his reasons. Chiefly because Maria apparently hasn’t encouraged many boy friends since your time.’

  Pratt said: ‘And I’ve been the same about women. I’ve tried, but it was never the same. Would Maria see me if I called at the Goblin, do you think?’

  Masters shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why ever not? If she’s not married?’

  Masters said: ‘You’d only rub salt into old wounds.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I’m certain. She’s pregnant, you see.’

  ‘Maria? Pregnant? And unmarried?’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘It takes some believing. She was always so . . . so virginal.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  Pratt walked over to the window. His back to Masters. ‘Won’t the chap marry her?’

  ‘He can’t.’

  ‘I see. Married already.’

  ‘That’s not the reason. He’s dead.’

  Pratt swung round. ‘Dead? Would I have known him?’

  ‘I expect so. By name at any rate.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Parseloe.’

  The effect on Pratt was as dramatic as Masters had intended it should be. He stood so still he scarcely breathed. At last he said: ‘The murdered vicar? That old . . .’ He didn’t finish. Masters got to his feet. Pratt came towards him full of purpose. ‘If what you’ve told me is true, he deserved what he got.’

  Masters said: ‘Maybe so. But now you know why you wouldn’t be welcome in Rooksby. Goodbye, Mr Pratt. Thank you for the information and the coffee. Sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news.’

  Masters saw himself out. Pratt was still standing in the middle of his office. Masters joined Hill and asked to be driven back to Rooksby. He sat silent all the way, but every so often Hill got the impression that he was smiling to himself.

  *

  Green and Brant arrived in Rooksby at half past three. They joined Masters and Hill in the police office. Green said: ‘You’re right. Blood and guts on the nail. Official report coming later.’

  ‘And the other?’

  Green nodded and handed Masters an envelope. ‘It’s better than even you thought it might be. It helps your case besides giving specific information.’

  The thin sheaf of papers took Masters less than three minutes to read. He looked up and said: ‘Give me half an hour and then ring up Nicholson and tell him to get here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Don’t you want me with you?’

  ‘There are one or two other things I want you to sort out. First, Pamela Parseloe. I want to know how she got to Peterborough on Sunday night. At least, I know already, but I want a statement. A true one this time, even if you’ve got to twist her tiny neck to wring it out of her.’

  ‘Leave it to me. What else?’

  ‘Pick up Peter Barnfelt and arrange for us to use private rooms at the Goblin. I don’t want everybody in one office like this, all at the same time.’

  ‘O.K. You’re taking Hill?’

  ‘And the car. But if you need it, there’s a buckshee one from the local force parked near the pub. Brant had better take over the keys from Hill.’

  Green said: ‘I’ll bring Pamela Plum-Bum in here. Then if it takes me very long to sort her out, I’ll be on the spot.’

  ‘Good idea. There is possibly one more thing we might have to prise out of her later.’

  Masters and Hill left. Masters said very quietly when they reached the car: ‘Dr Frank Barnfelt.’

  Hill rang the house doorbell. Mrs Barnfelt answered. She said: ‘My husband is just having tea, Mr Masters. It’s the first time he’s had a break today. Can’t whatever it is wait till later?’

  ‘I’d rather see him now, Mrs Barnfelt.’

  She started to object. Barnfelt himself appeared at the door of the sitting-room down the passage. He said: ‘Invite the Chief Inspector in for a cup of tea, Vera.’

  Reluctantly Mrs Barnfelt opened the door wider to admit Masters and Hill. Barnfelt, table napkin in hand, ushered them into the sitting-room where a tea tray was set in front of the fire. He said: ‘Sit you down. No, Vera, don�
��t you bother. I’ll get another two cups.’

  Before Masters could say they wouldn’t stop for tea, Barnfelt had gone, closing the door behind him. His wife said: ‘Frank and Peter are really being rushed off their feet at the moment. I know your enquiry is important, but murder coming on top of a flu epidemic does make it hard work for them. All these inquests and interviews.’

  Masters said: ‘I quite understand. And believe me I’m very sorry to intrude on what little leisure time Dr Barnfelt has.’

  ‘Did you come about Cora? You needn’t worry about her, you know. I’ve never known Frank devote so much time and energy to anybody’s welfare before. He’s treating her as a very special case indeed.’

  The door opened and Barnfelt said: ‘Because she is a very special case, my dear. I feel a great responsibility towards her.’ He put the cups down and turned to Masters. ‘As I think you appreciate.’

  Masters nodded.

  Barnfelt went on: ‘I’m happy to tell you that I’ve completed what I consider to be first-class arrangements for her. To last, I hope, for the rest of her life.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it. No, thank you, we won’t stop for tea. I was about to tell you, but you went for the cups so quickly I didn’t manage to get it out before you’d gone.’

  Barnfelt’s eyes twinkled behind his pince-nez. He said: ‘I know.’

  His wife said: ‘You knew? Then why dash off like that?’

  Masters said hurriedly: ‘Just one question, doctor. Why did Maria Binkhorst come specifically to see you last week, or the week before, when her normal doctor is your son?’

  Barnfelt smiled. ‘She told you she came?’

  ‘Please answer my question.’

  ‘Then she didn’t tell you.’

  ‘You mean she didn’t come?’

  ‘No. I don’t underestimate your intelligence, Chief Inspector. I should be foolish to do so when you are capable of . . . er . . . divination of so high a degree. You know why she came to me.’

  ‘I think I can guess. She thought she was pregnant, but wished to have an older man confirm it. And probably she felt the need of an independent confidant—knowing how badly her parents would receive the news.’

  Mrs Barnfelt said: ‘Maria? Going to have a baby? Who’s the father?’

  Barnfelt said: ‘You may well ask, my dear. I had to wheedle hard to get it out of her.’

  ‘Who? Not . . .?’

  ‘Not Peter, my dear. Parseloe.’

  ‘Oh, no. That poor girl. With child to a man like that. And now he’s dead. But I can’t help feeling it’s a blessing he is.’

  Barnfelt said: ‘Quite. I’m pleased you take that attitude, my dear. I, too, feel that Parseloe is better dead.’

  Masters said: ‘I’d like you to come with us, doctor.’

  Mrs Barnfelt said: ‘Go with you? Whatever for?’

  Her husband said: ‘Don’t worry, my dear. Statements have to be taken officially, you know. Please get me my coat.’

  She murmured: ‘Yes, of course,’ and hurried from the room. Barnfelt picked up his cooling cup of tea and finished it. His wife held his coat for him and handed him a muffler. He said: ‘If I’m not back in time for surgery, let Peter know.’

  They were in the hallway of the Goblin. Hill had escorted Barnfelt into the dining-room. Green said: ‘Nicholson’s on his way over. He wanted to know it all, so I told him there was nothing I could tell him over the phone except that he was to get here pronto. Right?’

  ‘Good. And Pamela?’

  ‘Getting anything out of her’s as difficult as trying to poke smoke up a cat’s backside with a knitting needle. But I managed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I murmured in her little ear that accessories to crimes are treated the same as principals. She coughed all right. Young Barnfelt did take her to Peterborough. And they stopped for a snog on the way. She says she lied to protect him, but now we’ve discovered for ourselves that he’s the murderer she feels entitled to speak up for her own protection.’

  Masters growled: ‘I thought that’s what she was thinking. Have you still got her?’

  ‘In the office, with Vanden keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘Good. I’ll probably want her again. And Peter?’

  Green said: ‘We’re having a bit of difficulty with him. He’s been invited to the party, but refuses to come. Brant is tailing him, but we could have a bit of trouble persuading a busy doctor to leave his patients—without using a warrant.’

  ‘I want him. Wessel’s a magistrate and lives practically next door. Get him to sign one of the ready-use warrants.’

  ‘What charge?’

  ‘Accessory—for the moment.’

  Green lit a Kensitas. ‘We are having fun, aren’t we? When’s the showdown?’

  ‘As soon as Nicholson’s here. Keep Peter on ice.’

  Green turned his coat collar up and left. Masters hung about near the main door. Binkhorst in carpet slippers and braces shuffled out to him with a large breakfast cup of tea. He said: ‘You’ll be wanting this. I made it myself, so it’s a proper brew.’

  Masters accepted. ‘Thanks. Don’t let us upset your routine. And please don’t talk to your customers about what’s going on, after you open.’

  Binkhorst said: ‘These women can smell trouble like a cow smells water. How long’ll you be? Dinner an’ all that.’

  ‘A couple of hours, maybe. We’ll finish as soon as I can make it, anyhow.’

  Binkhorst left him. Almost immediately the front door burst open and Nicholson came in like a full back going into a tackle. ‘What’s up? Run into trouble?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. But it’s your case. I thought you ought to be here to hear the facts and make the arrest.’

  ‘Arrest? Who?’

  ‘Dr Frank Barnfelt.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. What would he do it for?’

  Masters put his cup on the hall table. ‘It’s to hear his reasons that you’re here.’

  ‘I’ll not like arresting the doctor unless I’m sure.’

  Masters said: ‘He’s in the dining-room. I’ve got Hill there ready to take shorthand. I’d like to start straight away.’

  They went in. Barnfelt was sitting at the table smoking and writing on a note pad. He looked over his pince-nez as they entered, dipping his nose downward to peer at them. He said: ‘Ah! Chief Inspector and Superintendent Nicholson. Is the inquisition about to start, gentlemen?’

  Masters drew out a chair and sat opposite him. He said: ‘Dr Barnfelt, at this point I must caution you formally. Everything said now, including this caution, will be recorded. I have reason to suspect you guilty of the murder of the Reverend Herbert Parseloe at eight o’clock or thereabouts last Sunday evening. You are not obliged to say anything . . .’

  ‘I know. And please record that I do not wish for the presence of a solicitor.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. I think I can trust to my own legal knowledge at this stage.’

  ‘Very good, doctor. Do I take it that you wish to make a statement?’

  ‘Oh, no. That is not my idea at all. I wish to hear why I’m here—why you’re so sure I’m guilty.’

  Nicholson said: ‘That’d be most irregular.’

  ‘Nevertheless, gentlemen, I must insist. Otherwise to keep me here you must charge me.’

  Masters thought that this wouldn’t please Nicholson, who’d already announced he wasn’t prepared to arrest the doctor without good, solid proof. So he said to the Superintendent: ‘With your permission, sir, I think in these circumstances that it would be better if I were to outline our case.’

  Barnfelt looked at his watch, and then waited for Nicholson’s reply.

  ‘Whatever you think best.’

  Masters turned back to Barnfelt. ‘Now, doctor, I must go back several weeks, and start with Miss Parseloe. She is known to the police here as a girl who steals men from other women—openly. Making no secret of her conquests
and ruining many affairs. But I have information that though she was here for the Christmas holiday and went about in Rooksby, she acted very much out of character. She had no overt affair with any man. If she was operating, it was done clandestinely.

  ‘The leopard doesn’t change its spots, doctor. So when I heard that only ten days after returning to Peterborough she came back to Rooksby with no more excuse than a mild bout of forty-eight hour flu, and stayed a fortnight to get over it, I surmised she must have—as one of the constables put it—some unfinished business to attend to. Romantic business. But again, whatever the affair, it was conducted clandestinely.

  ‘I tried to find a broken romance—the sure sign of Miss Parseloe’s depredations. Your son and Miss Barrett were no longer on speaking terms, supposedly after a few cross words over a call at bridge. I found it hard to believe that two intelligent people should carry a lovers’ quarrel so far, unless there were more serious grounds. The local constables were aware of the quarrel and were able to assure me that though Miss Barrett had often been seen in the last fortnight without an escort, your son had been keeping company with an unknown girl. The only characteristic of this girl they could give me was that she had dark hair—as seen through the windscreen of a fast car.

  ‘Most girls in Rooksby are married so early that there are very few mature enough—and still personable enough—to interest a man like your son. And yet it must have been a local girl. Had she been an outner, it is unlikely he would have been seen with her so often in Rooksby. He would have met her, and left her, presumably, near her home, because there is little to attract young lovers to Rooksby. So, a local girl, dark haired, and of a type to interest a young doctor! As far as I could make out there were two. Maria Binkhorst and Pamela Parseloe.

  ‘I’ve already said I had reason to suspect that Miss Parseloe was carrying on a clandestine affair. If she could bother to come home—to her particularly unpleasant home—with a minor illness, to be treated by your son, who is not her registered doctor, it seemed likely to me that she would be the one I was interested in. But I discovered there was also some mystery surrounding Maria. More about that later.

  ‘Doctor, I think you only tried to mislead me twice. But in fact, inadvertently it was three times. The first, and inadvertent time, was when you told me your son had been at a bridge party last Sunday evening. You honestly thought he had gone to play with Mr and Mrs de Hooch. I learned that he hadn’t done so. And yet you should have known—or so I believe—because your son returned home about eight o’clock on Sunday evening. A fact you didn’t appear to know. I wondered if it could have been that you were out at the time—although you assured me that you were in—on duty.’