That is how Huth died. In giving you the full story and finding the murderess I have done what you asked me to do. While it may seem a good job done to you, I am far from satisfied. I personally believe that this was not intended as murder, and had it not been for Huth’s large intake of alcohol, I think he would still be alive. Parker will be able to claim this, and she will get away with it when the jury learns she was being blackmailed. The defence will undoubtedly plead extenuating circumstances because of the blackmail, and they’ll also say there was no intention to kill. They will make a good point of this because of the inefficiency of phenobarbitone as a poison, and Parker’s appearance in court will help them. I feel that if you insist on a charge of murder you will not make it stick. With manslaughter, you will get a verdict.
I have written this in a private letter because you will realize it cannot be included in an official report. But I feel I owe you the benefit of my knowledge over what the charge preferred should be. However, as I pointed out earlier, I cannot instruct you on how to interpret evidence. My job is merely to provide you with it to use as you think best.
George.
Bale read the letter through twice and then called for his station sergeant.
“Is Chief Inspector Masters still in the station?”
“He was going out when he handed me the letter, sir. For supper. I directed him and Inspector Green to that little Italian place.”
“The Pantellaria?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“I’ll join them.”
“They said they’d be back, sir.”
“Did they? What for?”
“To see a chap who’s been making a nuisance of himself outside, sir. His name’s March. It seems he knows the girl you’ve arrested, and he wants to know what’s going on. Chief Inspector Masters left his two sergeants to deal with him and said he’d come back to explain after he’d had his meal.”
Bale sat and waited. Masters’ interview with Parker had started at five and lasted over two hours, and the writing of the letter had taken another hour. It was after nine o’clock when the two of them returned.
Bale said: “I’ve read your letter.”
Masters didn’t reply. Bale went on: “The decision won’t be mine. It’ll be up to the C.C., or even the Director. You’ve got to remember the inquest finding.”
“I’ve remembered all these. I just don’t think you’ll get the charge to stick.”
“Maybe not, but before I do anything about it I want to know where your personal feelings are in this.”
“Mine? They’re involved all right.”
“I thought so.”
“I don’t like sending a young girl to jail for life to pay for one mistake, made when she was at her wits’ end.”
“So?”
“That’s all.”
Bale looked at him carefully for a moment. He said: “You don’t give me much choice, do you?”
Masters said: “Or myself.”
Green said impatiently: “What the hell is this? I don’t get it.”
Bale turned to him. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Inspector Green, you’re not a very perspicacious officer. Masters has suggested that Parker should be charged with manslaughter, not murder.”
“They can alter the charge in court, can’t they?”
“It’s better if it doesn’t come to that. My worry is that Masters is the prosecution’s key witness. What he’s as good as said is that if we insist on a charge of murder he’ll do everything he can — in the box or out of it — to get the case dismissed. If we agree to manslaughter he’ll go along with us.”
“So what?”
“If he were to do that it would be curtains for him at the Yard. If he had to adopt that attitude it would leave him with no choice but to resign.”
Green said: “Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that you don’t know the code of the force better than that? If an officer believes that a person charged with murder is not guilty of the crime, it is his duty to say so. In fact he would be in the wrong if he didn’t fight for justice. Why should our friend here resign if he believes the girl innocent, and goes to the trouble of saying so?”
Masters grinned sheepishly. This had been his own view, but he hadn’t wanted to say so in front of Bale. He was surprised that Green should ever have thought of what he had just said. In any case it was good enough for Bale. He said: “I’ll recommend manslaughter. That means I’ll have to see the Chief Constable tonight. Can you deal with that chap March?”
When Bale had gone, Hill and Brant brought March in.
“At last,” said March. “What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, Masters?”
Masters struggled to contain his anger. He said at last: “Miss Parker has been arrested for the murder of Mr Huth.”
“What? Joan murdered Huth? Another police blunder.”
“Sit down, Mr March.”
Brant put a chair behind March, and Hill pushed him down onto it with pressure on the shoulder.
Masters went on. “Not only has Miss Parker been arrested, but I blame you for it, March.”
“Me? Now what maggot’s got into your brain?”
“Miss Parker thought you didn’t know she was Huth’s mistress.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me, March. I’m not in the mood for it. Any man can afford to get married on the salary paid to a manager at Barugt. But you had to wait for a Controller’s salary. Why?”
“I don’t know what you’re blathering about.”
“Because you thought you couldn’t compete with Huth until you had a really big salary. You were so unsure of yourself you didn’t think Miss Parker would marry you until you could provide a suitable alternative to Huth’s presents. You didn’t think the girl would have you for yourself.”
“I’ll take you apart for this, Masters.”
“I don’t think so. You’re all bluff. And gutless with it. You despised Huth but hadn’t the guts to get out of his firm. You accepted everything he had to give. But you wouldn’t tell Miss Parker the one thing that would have made her happy and saved her from getting into this mess. Why the blazes didn’t you tell her you knew she was Huth’s mistress?”
“I tell you I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t you? Right. Salary apart, why did you choose her and her alone to listen to your ravings against Huth? Because you were frightened you’d lose your job if anybody else at Barugt knew? Or because you couldn’t think of a better way to make her break with him?”
March leaned forward. “You’re raving,” he said. “I loved Joan. I asked her to marry me.”
“I notice you used the past tense. Perhaps you didn’t mean to. We shall see. You can prove what you think about her. I hope you’ll only have three years to wait before you can marry her.”
March stared hard. “Three years?”
“I hope no more than that. Doesn’t the idea please you?”
March said nothing.
“I see. The idea of marrying a girl who will have paid a very high price to try and preserve your happiness doesn’t appeal to you now. Is that it? Or are you hoping she’ll get a life sentence to get you out of an awkward situation?”
March said: “No. No, that’s not it at all.”
“What is it, then? Tell me.”
“Tell you? Why should I tell you? What’s my private business got to do with the police?”
“A lot. Miss Parker asked for you because she’s miserable. I promised her she should see you tonight. I was hoping you would persuade her to send for a solicitor.” “I don’t know any solicitors.”
“I do. Some very good ones.”
March said nothing.
Masters said: “Well, what do you say? Do you want their addresses?”
Still March said nothing.
Masters said quietly: “I should get out now, Mr March, while the going’s good. If I have to look at you much longer I might lose my temper.”
&
nbsp; Hill put a hand under March’s arm, yanked him to his feet and propelled him towards the door.
Green said quietly: “That poor lass isn’t going to like this. I hope Sergeant Hill helps that bastard down the front steps with his boot.”
Masters looked at him for a moment. He said, almost automatically, “Thanks, Greeny.” He walked the floor for a few moments. “She won’t listen to me, and I don’t think she’ll do any more for any of you. But somebody’s got to see her.” Then he picked up the phone, dialled, and spoke for a short time.
*
Twenty minutes later Mrs Huth limped in.
“Where is that poor girl, Mr Masters?”
Masters said: “It was very good of you to come.”
“No need to thank me. I’ll go straight to her. I’ll call you if I want you.”
Green said: “You can’t let her into the cell.”
Mrs Huth turned to him. “I assure you I shan’t try to wreak revenge on her. She needs help. Her fiancé has deserted her. That’s bad enough. But it was my husband who brought her here. I must do all I can to put that right. I think I can do a lot. At any rate I’m going to try.”
Masters took her arm and escorted her out of the office.
DEATH AFTER EVENSONG
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter One
Big Ben struck eleven. Detective Sergeant Brant finished stowing the four murder bags. He leaned against the force of the north-east gale as he went the few steps to the driving seat. His oppo, Detective Sergeant Hill, sitting in the passenger seat, shivered as the door opened. He said: ‘For God’s sake start her up and switch the heater on.’ Brant did as he was told. He revved gently to get the warm air circulating and said: ‘Where’re we going?’
‘Haven’t a clue. But I do know my missus was upset when I phoned to tell her I’d likely be away for a day or two. If she hasn’t got me in bed with her in weather like this her beef gets chilled.’
‘And you get the cold shoulder! I know. But I’m more interested in how the Chief’s pulse is beating than in your old woman’s frozen limits.’
Hill was sergeant to Detective Chief Inspector George Masters. There was a lot of loyalty between them. He didn’t want to say straight out that Masters had been making his life a little hell for weeks past. And in any case Brant knew it already. That’s why he’d mentioned the Chief’s blood pressure. So Hill said: ‘His temper’s not too bad. He’s got a new suit on. That usually makes him feel better.’
‘You should know.’
Masters and Detective Inspector Green came out of the new Yard building together, not talking. They never talked much. Not to each other. There was no love lost. They felt too uncomfortable in each other’s presence to communicate either readily or unnecessarily. It was their misfortune—typical of the contrariness of life—always to be officially paired for murder enquiries. Green was cursing himself for not having put in the request for a transfer he’d been contemplating—and putting off—ever since he’d started to work with Masters. He was cursing Masters, too. For making him feel inferior and awkward. For being—in Green’s opinion—one of those officers who do more than their fair share of creeping to fiddle promotion above older and better coppers—such as Green himself.
Masters towered above Green who, though well up to minimum height requirements, looked dumpy and squat beside him. Masters was thinking about Green. Thinking it was time the Inspector quickened his step to get to the car first. He guessed Green thought nobody had noticed this habit of his. But Masters had rumbled that Green was nervous in traffic: had a phobia about getting chopped from behind by an overtaking vehicle if he sat in the offside seat. So he made sure he always got the nearside. With a mental surge of cynical pleasure at being proved right, Masters watched Green forge ahead. He thought Green a fool. Not for being afraid—Masters could well understand and have sympathy with that—but because he hadn’t cottoned on that when Brant drove a police car nothing ever did overtake it.
Masters took off his Crombie coat. He folded and carefully built it into a symbolic barrier between himself and Green on the bench seat. He said to Brant: ‘Take the A1 and make sure you’re near a decent pub at one o’clock.’ After that nobody said a word till they’d cleared Apex corner. Then, because the traffic was a little less frightening for him, Green asked: ‘Can we know where we’re going and what for? Or would that be telling?’
Masters waited just long enough to let Green think he wasn’t going to get a reply and then said: ‘The Soke Division has asked for help. They’ve had a parson murdered. The vicar of Rooksby-le-Soken.’
Surprisingly, Green said: ‘Like Becket? In his own church?’
Masters thought Green sounded hopeful. Knew he would be. If anything, Green was a chapel-goer. He’d been brought up that way because his parents had once heard and ever thereafter believed that the established church was the Conservative Party at prayer. And the Greens were more than left inclined.
Masters said: ‘In a schoolroom.’
Hill had a road map open on his knees. ‘Where is this Rooksby something or other? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Neither had I until an hour ago. It’s in the middle of a peat bog, miles from anywhere . . .’
‘Got it. We’ve over a hundred miles to go. Just our luck to have to go north in February.’ His words jerked a mutual response. As if by consent they all peered through the misty windows at the cold greyness outside. The wind moaned as it whipped past the speeding car. Green wiped a clear patch with his sleeve, and without looking at Masters, said: ‘Anything else? Or is this a blind date?’
‘Very little. He was killed before midnight and not found until eight this morning.’
‘A bit quick in calling us in, weren’t they?’
Masters said, trying to needle Green: ‘P’raps they were frightened of the Establishment—the Established Church.’
He got his response. ‘Why have a bishop biting your ear if you can offload on to somebody else? I’ll bet they haven’t got as much as one suspect.’
Masters said: ‘No suspect, no weapon, and no motive. All they know is he was shot. Nothing more. And I’ll bet that’s the reason for calling us in straight away.’
‘I can’t see it’s any excuse for dodging the job,’ Green said grumpily. ‘It should have been a challenge for them. No suspect? No idea is more like it! Real N.A.A.F.I. characters if you ask me.’
Hill acted as straight man. ‘N.A.A.F.I. characters?’
‘No aim, ambition, and flog-all initiative.’ The petty triumph pleased Green. He turned to Masters. ‘How many characters in this Rooksby dump?’
‘According to the Gazetteer, just over two thousand.’
‘I knew it. They couldn’t find one suspect. We’ll have two thousand, not counting the big wide world outside.’
Masters was getting bored with grumbles. He didn’t answer. He’d told them all he knew. He took the pipe from his breast pocket where it was wedged upright by a white silk handkerchief and filled it from a new, brassy tin of Warlock Flake. Irritably he brushed a few scattered fragments of tobacco from the trousers of the new suit—a dark Keith and Henderson cloth his tailor had said would be kind to the figure. Not that Masters had to worry about his figure. He was as lithe and fit as any man in his early thirties: no belly or incipient paunch. But he was built so physically big that sheer bulk dictated care. He’d appreciated this when, reluctantly playing Santa Claus at a Police Children’s Party, he found his great size frightening more than delighting the small guests.
Masters dressed well. As a bachelor he could afford to spend more money on clothes than his colleagues. And there was no doubt in his own mind—or that of anybody at the Yard—that he was vain. Not only about clothes, but about his successes and resultant reputati
on. Even about his fine, slim hands that seemed as though they should have belonged to a man of infinitely sensitive, slender build—a virtuoso pianist or precision craftsman. Masters consciously cultivated vanity. As a way of flying a personal flag among a group of conformists. But, contrary to Hill’s earlier statement, he was not getting his usual pleasure from the slightly stiff, unworn feeling of the new suit. Masters was feeling peeved.
It was a sensation that had been building up for nearly four months. Ever since he’d insisted on charging Joan Parker with manslaughter instead of murder. He’d known she’d be found not guilty of murder, and he’d wanted a charge that would stick. Joan Parker had got three years, but because she was an above average good looker, the buzz was that Masters had protected her because he wanted her for himself. His colleagues appreciated this. But with a sexually invigorated understanding that manifested itself in mawkish pity. Pity because no policeman is allowed to have any form of relationship with a prisoner. And here—or so they thought—was Masters growing daily more bad-tempered from frustrated lust.
They were wrong. It was the pity that was peeving Masters. He resented being treated like an idiot child. And he suspected Green of originating the rumours. But they were right in thinking he wanted Joan Parker. Wanted her as he had wanted no other woman in his life. But they hadn’t the mental penetration to see through the situation as it really was. He hadn’t wanted to spare Joan Parker. Just the reverse. He’d wanted to make sure, without the slightest doubt, that she paid for killing a man. He believed in punishment for crime as passionately as he wanted Joan Parker. But he couldn’t hammer his reasons home without baring his soul. Vanity wouldn’t let him do it: and Green was the last man on earth to fathom motives like this unaided. An iron ring of misunderstanding was being forged. Masters grew peeved. It was taken as a sign that he really had forced the hand of justice to favour a girl he fancied a tumble with. This image hurt his vanity. He grew more peeved. Rancour swelled like a malignant growth clutching at his guts.
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 20
