“On that day? I think not. No, I know not, because that is the day when she said to me . . .”
After a moment, Masters asked, “What did she say, Frau Hillger?”
Mimi hesitated a moment before replying. Then:
“Elke always used chilli wine in her soup. She said I had not filled up the bottle, but there was plenty for her. I had noted that. But when I said she should not take so much she replied that as she had not had sherry before lunch she would take a large sprinkling to make up for that. As you will know, Mr Masters, chilli wine is made from the very dry sherry, but it is hot, very hot, because it has the long, red chilli beans soaking in it for weeks. And so it is . . . how would you say? . . . it is potent.”
“Never heard of this stuff,” said Green. “What’s it for exactly?”
“Putting a bit of zip into soup,” said Masters quietly. “You stuff a swag-bellied bottle full of chilli beans and top up with sherry. You need a sprinkler top, of course, so that you just get a few drops in a plate of soup. You can keep the brew going for ages with the same chillies. You just keep topping up the sherry.”
“You have one, have you?”
Masters nodded.
Margarethe interrupted. “Aunty! You didn’t serve hot soup for lunch in this weather, surely. No wonder mummy felt . . .”
“It was cold soup. Elke asked for it.”
“Vichyssoise?” asked Masters.
“Bortsch.”
“Cold beetroot soup?” asked Green, scandalized by the mere thought of the concoction.
“We have always eaten bortsch.”
“But not cold,” objected Masters.
“Certainly cold. It is the summer soup in my part of the world. Now that there are blenders and one no longer has to sieve, it is even more popular than before.”
“It is peculiarly Russian, or at least eastern European,” said Margarethe. “In the cold version you cook the beetroot first, dice it and add it to beef tea with some cream or yoghurt and lemon juice. Then you blend it, chill it, and serve with scissored chives.” She turned to Green. “I don’t care for beetroot myself but cold bortsch is not quite as ghastly as it sounds, particularly with a sprinkling of chilli wine.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Green.
“There seems little that could have upset Mrs Carlow in the soup,” said Masters. “What else did she have for lunch?”
“Duobrot . . . crispbread . . . and cheese. Your simple English Cheddar cheese, though Elke always preferred a German Limburger if we could get it. But the grocers here . . .” She spread her hands in dismay and derision. “We could not often get it.”
“Any sweet?”
“We have the Swiss almond and chocolate biscuits with our coffee. That is all.”
“Thank you.”
“A pretty cosmopolitan meal, by and large,” said Green. “Russian soup, German crispbread, English cheese, Swiss biscuits and, I suppose, Brazilian coffee. That’s a bit of a mixture.”
“Not enough of a mixture to upset my mother, I would have thought,” said Margarethe.
“All very bland,” said Masters getting to his feet. “Well, that’s it, Frau Hillger. Thank you for your time. Enjoy your sherry.” He turned to look down the garden where Reed and Berger were showing an interest in the well-kept beds, squatting to examine some of the plants.
“What are they doing?” asked Mimi querulously.
“Only showing an interest, ma’am,” grunted Green, pushing himself off the ground. “They’ll not be doing the petunias any lasting harm.”
“The petunias are not in that place,” retorted Mimi.
“Sorry,” said Green. “I wasn’t speaking literally.” He raised his voice to call the two sergeants. “Come on, lads, get your skates on.”
“They’re doing no harm,” said Margarethe. “Leave them if they want to look.”
“We have to be going,” said Masters. “Thank you once again, Frau Hillger.”
As Margarethe escorted them through the house, Masters asked her: “Did your mother and aunt stick very much to sherry? I mean, could Mrs Carlow have taken a glass of vodka or schnapps perhaps without her sister knowing?”
“She could have done so. They keep all the usual drinks in the house, but mother drank comparatively little. Certainly not enough to . . . wait a moment, Mr Masters, you’re not suggesting she could have drunk enough to make her tipsy to the point where she didn’t know what she was doing and then poisoned herself, are you?”
“Something of the sort,” agreed Masters. “It is a possibility and I want to consider everything.”
“Oh, no,” said Margarethe, firmly.
“She seemed keen on her chilli wine, according to Frau Hillger.”
“But that doesn’t mean she was an alcoholic. She would never indulge in more than one small drink before lunch—if she had one at all.”
“And another in the evening?”
“Sometimes. Quite often, in fact.”
“But she was definitely an abstemious person?”
“Absolutely abstemious.”
“Thank you. That clears that point. Goodbye, Mrs Rainford. We shall see you again, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” repeated Margarethe wrily.
Chapter Seven
“You finished that a bit quick, George,” said Green as they got into the Rover. “What’s up? Didn’t you take a shine to the old girl’s face?”
“We’d asked the obvious questions. Short of getting the sergeants to search the premises there was little more we could do, so I thought I’d give the ladies a chance to have their lunch while we did something about ours.”
“Rubbish.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. And what about our two pals here? Why send them down the garden path?”
“To see the pretty flowers,” said Reed.
“And did you see anything nice?”
Reed turned. “Pansies, petunias—not very far on, some little old-fashioned marigold seedlings, a couple of dozen handsome-looking delphinium plants and . . . yes . . . a nice bed of lily of the valley.”
Green grunted. “Under jampots, I suppose?”
“Some were. Some weren’t. It looked as if there’d been a bit of weeding and pulling going on round there. A couple of jam jars were rolled aside. Sergeant Berger and I put them back.”
“That’s why the old dear got twitchy, was it? She thought you were pinching her blooms.”
“Who? Us?”
Masters had dropped out of the conversation. He seemed content to sit back occupied by his own thoughts. He came back to earth when the car drew up in the forecourt of a little old-fashioned country pub.
“Hot and cold grub at the bar,” said Green. “Let’s hope they’ve got something decent to offer.”
The bar was almost empty when they entered, but even so, in answer to their inquiry, the landlord told them they were too late for the shepherd’s pie. There was plenty of choice, however, when it came to sandwiches.
“Are you sure?” asked Green, suspiciously. “There’s a bloody good smell of cooking coming from somewhere.” He sniffed the air. “A right good pongeroo it is, too.”
The landlord who was, by this time, drawing pints of best bitter at Masters’ request, looked behind him. “Sorry,” he said. “I left the private door open. The wife’s making a bit of soup for my dinner.”
“I know we’re a bit late,” grumbled Green, “but not that late. It’s nowhere near closing time yet.”
“’Nuther half-hour,” admitted the landlord. “I’ll get the sandwiches for you now, gents, if you’ll tell me what it’s to be.”
They chose beef, and the landlord left the bar for the kitchen quarters. He was back in no time and said to Green: “The missus says you can have a bowl of the soup if you want it.”
Green accepted. In a few moments he had a large plate of the good-smelling liquid before him. He took a sip of the first spoonful. “This,” he announced w
ith relish, “is not half bad.” He continued to eat it, and was a long way down it when the landlord reappeared with the sandwiches.
“Tell your missus this is just the ticket,” said Green.
“You like it?”
“I do, chum. And I know the flavour, but I just can’t place it. Got some exotic name, has it?”
“Yes,” said the landlord with a grin. “Bubble and squeak.”
Green opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, savouring the after-taste. “You’re right, chum. No wonder I recognized the flavour, but . . . bubble and squeak soup!”
“My missus never wastes anything. She had a few tablespoonsful of bubble and squeak left over last night. You know—spud, carrots and brussel sprouts. So she put it into some chicken stock she’d got and blended the whole lot in her mixer. We often have it. Not too bad, is it?”
“Bloody good,” said Green appreciatively. “And I tell you what, pal, I bet it beats cold beetroot soup any day.”
“What’s beetroot got to do with it?”
Green put his spoon into the empty plate. “Nothing, really. It’s just that I heard an hour ago about somebody who liked cold beetroot soup which isn’t, I’ll tell you, something I’d go for.”
“Me neither. Beetroot!”
“Called bortsch,” said Green. “Russian name.”
“That’s why you asked if this had a fancy foreign name, I suppose?”
“That’s right. Give me bubble and squeak every time.”
The landlord retired with the empty plate.
Reed said to Green: “All very interesting. I suppose you’ll be telling this story to all and sundry for the next twenty years.”
“If I live that long. I’ll certainly be telling my missus. He took a long gulp from his tankard. “Not bad beer either. I wonder if he’s got a name like bubble and squeak for this, too.”
“Yes,” said Berger. “Ale and ’earty.”
“Clever clogs,” retorted Green.
*
“Where to now, Chief?”
“Back to Police HQ, please.”
“Any special reason for going there?” asked Green.
Masters nodded. “I’m expecting a phone call.”
“Oh?”
“I spoke to you about it yesterday.”
“Got you. You’re expecting a reply so soon?”
“There’s a chance.”
Green didn’t reply. Berger, sitting in the front passenger seat asked: “A call about the case, Chief?”
“Private.”
Berger faced front. There was no more conversation until they reached their destination. Green snoozed in his nearside back corner seat, while Masters smoked contemplatively. It was as though the warmth of the early afternoon sun were urging them to take a siesta. Even Reed, who was driving, appeared to be doing so automatically so that the car, though competently handled, seemed to be playing its part soporifically.
Masters paused at the desk to ask if there were any messages for him.
“Just one, sir. Would you ring the Yard or if you haven’t got time in working hours would you ring a Mr Anderson at home. He said you would know what it was about.”
“Thank you. Would you get me the Yard, please. I’ll take the call in our office.”
“Right, sir.”
Masters turned to the two sergeants. “Make sure the car is filled up, please. And one of you get on to Dr Eric Dampney, the pathologist, and ask him if I can call on him this afternoon—any time after half an hour from now.”
“Right, Chief.”
“He doesn’t want us to hear what he’s getting on to the A.C. Crime about,” muttered Berger to Reed as Masters and Green went upstairs to the office. “Any idea what’s going on?”
“He told you it was private.”
“That doesn’t stop me from wondering, does it?”
“Maybe not. But does your nosiness go as far as speculating why the Chief wants to see the pathologist?”
“Haven’t a clue. But he’s gone all thoughtful, which means he’s on to something.”
“What, for instance?”
“I said I hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he’s checking up to see if the old girl really did have beetroot soup.”
“Nothing toxic about beetroot, is there?”
“How the hell should I know? I never touch the stuff myself. Not since I heard a doctor say it could turn your urine red and I’d no wish to frighten myself by letting that happen to me.”
Reed nodded his agreement. “You check the tank. I’ll call the pathologist.”
“D’you want me with you, George?” asked Green when they reached the office door.
“You’re the one most involved, Bill. You might as well get the answer direct.”
Green grunted and closed the office door as Masters picked up the phone.
“Hello, George? How’s it going out there? Nearly finished? I damn-well hope so. We need you back here.”
“I’m hopeful, sir.”
“You mean you think you’ve cracked it?”
“With a bit of luck, yes.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Now about Bill Green . . .”
Masters raised his eyebrows in a signal to Green to come closer in an effort to overhear the words coming over the phone.
“. . . the committee will play, at any rate for the time being. They think you’ve had a damn fine idea . . .”
“The D.C.I. is to become an S.S.C.O., sir?”
“Yes. In name only, of course, as we agreed.”
“For how long?”
“No definite time. They wouldn’t commit themselves. In theory he could go on till sixty-five, but in practice, if we have many more of these damn cuts, the Lord alone knows how long we’ll be able to keep him.”
“That’s good news, sir, but in fairness to Green, he should have a contract of employment.”
“Don’t push it, George. He’ll be safeguarded by the Employment Acts. The committee has gone along with us so far, but they’re dead set on what they call their siege programme and that’s only another name for cutting us to the bone.”
“Right, sir. Now about a young D.I. to replace Green . . .”
“Nothing doing, George. They won’t wear it. They’ll only keep Green on as an S.S.C.O. if he’ll agree to continue doing the job he’s doing now. They won’t agree to the money for another D.I. to take his place.”
“I see.”
“Will he play along?”
Masters looked across at Green who was grinning widely.
“He’ll play,” said Masters.
“And what about you?”
“I’m more than content, sir. But I would urge that we reconsider bringing along a young . . .”
“I’ve told you, George. If you want to train up a young D.I., you’ll have to lose Green. It’s a case of take it or leave it.”
“I’d like to keep Green, sir.”
“I thought so. Tell him to make an appointment to see me immediately he gets back.”
“That could be tomorrow, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So long, George. Love to Wanda when you ring her.”
Masters put the phone down.
“Well, Bill?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He peered at Masters. “Or could it? You don’t seem too pleased.”
Masters sat down. “I’m obviously delighted that you’re still going to be with us, Bill, in whatever capacity.”
“But?”
“But I object to them getting a D.C.I. on the cheap merely by rechristening him an S.S.C.O.”
“It doesn’t make any difference to me. We’ll be exactly the same as we have been.”
“No, Bill, we won’t. For instance, you won’t be able to appear in court as a police officer because, officially you won’t be one. In the absence of a D.I. it means I’ll be doing the lot, and that will seriously cut into our working time. Then again, you took over the bank case when I was ill. You did a great job and we were abl
e to come out of it smelling of roses. But from now on you won’t be able to take over in similar circumstances, whereas, in fact you would be able to if we had a young D.I. to front you. That sort of job will have to go elsewhere in future.”
Green took out a battered Kensitas packet and selected one of its contents carefully before smoothing it out in his fingers. “Sorry, George. I hadn’t foreseen the difficulties.”
“It’s no fault of yours, Bill. We shall get along famously on cases such as this we’re on at the moment. Status quo ante, as the Yanks would say. But we spend a hell of a lot of time not on cases like this, where a young D.I. would, nominally at least, take some of the weight off our shoulders.”
“What you’re saying is that by keeping me on you’ve increased your own work load.”
“Not quite. By keeping you on on their terms we are either increasing my work or weakening the team. Had they consented to our terms there would have been no drawbacks.”
“So what do you want me to do? Accept or refuse?”
“Accept, of course. That’s what we both want isn’t it?”
“If you say so.”
“Come off it, Bill.” Masters stood up and grinned. “Half a loaf, old timer! We’ll still be able to wipe their eyes.”
“I’m that valuable?”
“Invaluable. Even if it’s only to discover pubs where they sell bubble and squeak soup.”
“You should have had some,” replied Green, satisfied with the exchanges. “It would have put a new refill in your ballpoint.”
Masters was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Reed entered. “Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but the pathologist says he will see you if you can get to the hospital before half-past three. After that you’ve had him till tomorrow night at home.”
“Thank you. You know where to take us?”
“All sussed out, Chief.”
“Right, we’re on our way.”
“What’s the object of this particular visit?” asked Green. “Or is it asking too much to be let into the little secret?”
“I’ll tell you what I hope to do, and that is to throw a stone into a pool and see where the ripples fetch up.”
“Thanks very much. Very graphic. I suppose you’ve been reading up all those toxicology books at night and you’ve found something you hope will stump this poor pathologist.”
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