Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  She made no reply. He turned back to Cora. ‘Weren’t you surprised when your father didn’t come home after the service?’

  ‘He’d not been coming in straight after Evensong on Sundays for a long time. He usually got in by half past nine.’

  ‘Then you must have been alarmed when he didn’t come at all.’

  ‘I wasn’t, because I didn’t know. I have to get up very early on Sundays to get him up for the early morning service and heat the water for his shave. He liked a cup of tea in bed, as well. So I always went to bed early on Sunday nights to make up for it. I like to listen to “Your Hundred Best Tunes” in bed. Then I go to sleep. Sometimes I heard him come back, but not always.’

  ‘When did you discover he wasn’t in the house?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. I saw he hadn’t eaten the liver sandwiches I’d left for him.’

  ‘And that’s what told you he wasn’t here?’

  ‘Oh, no. He always made me leave sandwiches, but he didn’t always eat them. I used to fry them for breakfast if he left them.’

  ‘How did you find out he wasn’t here?’

  ‘It wasn’t for ever so long. He used to like to stay in bed late on Mondays to make up for his hard work on Sundays.’ Masters felt sick. He tried not to show his revulsion lest it should alarm Cora and stop the flow of narrative. She went on: ‘So I never took his tea up till he shouted for it.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, I was washing when a man came to the door. He said he was a policeman, but he was like you. He hadn’t got a uniform on. I didn’t understand what he was saying.’ Masters mentally cursed Nicholson for not having come over himself to break the news gently to this childlike creature.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t know what he was talking about. I thought he wanted to see Dad. I tried to send him away because Dad told me I wasn’t ever to disturb him in bed. But the policeman wouldn’t go, so I went to fetch Dad and he wasn’t in his bed. And then the policeman told me he was dead. I was very frightened and he asked me a lot of questions.’

  Masters cursed Nicholson anew. Hideous curses. The girl would have been scared stiff at the thought of waking her father in defiance of his orders. He could imagine her trepidation as she went upstairs. The surprise at not finding her father. The shock of the news when it finally penetrated. No wonder she’d been alarmed and unable to answer questions. No wonder Nicholson had said she was a moron and no use to him.

  He said gently: ‘And that’s all you know? You didn’t see or hear anything on Sunday which you didn’t understand or which was out of the ordinary?’

  She looked at him wide-eyed for a moment. He thought she had lost concentration. He realized it was her customary attitude of thought when she said: ‘Only the long talk Dad and Pam had on Sunday afternoon.’ Masters thought he detected a little sound of annoyance from Pamela. He looked round. She was sitting taut in the kitchen chair. Pressing back as if prepared to spring. He said: ‘Surely there’s nothing strange in a father and his daughter having a long talk, even if it doesn’t happen very often.’ He’d kept his eyes on Pamela. As his words showed that he apparently placed little importance in the meeting, she relaxed. Not quickly, but gradually, like a watchdog sinking back after a false alarm. He turned to Cora and smiled, and added: ‘Is there?’

  She said: ‘Oh, yes. It must have been important because Dad always rested on Sunday afternoons. I had to keep the Sunday Express nice for him until then. He always started to read it and then fell asleep. And he was always cross if anybody disturbed him.’ She looked straight at Masters and added: ‘And they kept me out of the room. I wasn’t allowed in to know what they were talking about, so it must have been secrets.’

  Masters began slowly to fill his pipe. He asked no questions. Simply looked at Pamela. She stared back for some moments, hot-eyed, and then burst out: ‘She’s talking silly, dramatic nonsense. I was going back to Peterborough that night and he simply wanted a little talk to ask how I was getting on and if I was planning a move, and things like that. As for keeping Cora out of the room—well, she had some work to do.’

  Cora said: ‘Ironing your frocks for packing, you said. But I’d done them all in the morning.’

  Masters lit his pipe slowly, made sure it was drawing, and got to his feet. He said: ‘Well, that explains that. I’m pleased to have met you both and cleared matters up a little. If there’s anything I’ve forgotten, I may have to call again. But I won’t trouble you more than I can help, because I know it’s pretty distasteful to have policemen always on the doorstep. Don’t worry to come to the door. I can see myself out.’

  Cora came over and stood close to him. She said: ‘Are you going to arrest him now? He’s a nice man really, and I was sure he wouldn’t do it.’

  Masters had to think for a moment. This was unexpected. Unexpected to him and to Pamela, who showed immediate concern. Masters was conscious that the truth could possibly be divulged by this ingenuous girl. He said at last, very gently: ‘Who are you talking about?’ Pamela was holding her breath. Masters could sense the absolute stillness of her body. Then Cora said: ‘Why, Mr Pieters, of course.’

  Pamela breathed again. Masters said: ‘Why should I arrest Mr Pieters?’

  ‘Because he and Dad nearly had a fight and Mr Pieters said he would get even.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, ever so long ago. Before Christmas.’

  ‘And who is Mr Pieters?’

  ‘He’s a carpenter. A nice man. I liked him. He chopped me a lot of firewood when he came, and I didn’t have to do it.’

  Masters said: ‘What was the trouble between your father and Mr Pieters?’

  She said simply: ‘I don’t know.’

  He looked towards Pamela. She said: ‘Search me. I don’t believe I know the man. It must have happened when I wasn’t here.’

  Masters said to Cora: ‘Don’t worry about Mr Pieters. I’m not going to arrest him. I might have a talk with him—just to see what the trouble was.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Mr Pieters is a nice man.’

  Masters was thoughtful as he walked down the drive. He would have to see Pieters. It was one more to add to the list. He was just about to go through the gate when a Triumph G.T.6 drew up. Peter Barnfelt got out with his bag. He didn’t see Masters. Masters said: ‘We meet again. Who’s the patient this time?’

  Barnfelt appeared annoyed at the meeting. He said: ‘I thought I made it clear my patients are no concern of yours.’

  ‘But they are—some of them. I want to suggest that when you see Miss Parseloe you consider whether or not she shouldn’t have iodine treatment.’

  ‘Miss Parseloe? Iodine treatment? What the hell are you blathering about?’

  ‘Her thyroid must be suspect.’

  ‘Her thyroid’s as good as yours.’

  ‘Surely not. Her coarse hair . . .’

  ‘She hasn’t got coarse hair.’

  Masters said: ‘Forgive me. I thought you were about to visit Miss Cora Parseloe. I didn’t think that Miss Pamela would be on your list as she lives in Peterborough. My mistake.’

  Masters left Barnfelt staring after him. He crossed the road into the school. Hill and Brant were inspecting the other classrooms. Hill said: ‘There are loads of prints, Chief. Old ones. Mostly kids’. I reckon the others were teachers’. Nothing outside, either.’

  Masters said: ‘Try to finish by lunchtime. I’m going back to the station.’

  *

  After Masters had left him, Green said to Crome: ‘Who’d know about the keys to the school?’

  ‘Well, there’s Wally Hutson, the verger. He was caretaker of the school as well. Then the vicar would likely have a key himself. And there’s Tom Taylor, the builder’s foreman. He’d have one, I expect, for getting in and out for the job.’

  ‘Was there a key in the vicar’s pocket?’

  ‘I dunno. The Super never said anything to me about the contents of the pockets. B
ut we’ll look if you like. They’re in the cupboard.’

  There was a key of the right type. Green looked at the stamped number and said: ‘This looks like a master. Where do I find Wally Hutson?’

  Hutson’s cottage was one of a row behind the school. Close to a small gate in the church wall, which led along a path to the vestry door. Green found his way there and was told by the woman who answered his knock that her husband was in the church. Hutson was sweeping the flags of the centre aisle. Green noticed that the dust was being swept along to fall through the grating of what had once been the old heating pit. Hutson looked up as he heard Green’s footstep clank on the grating, which was half the length of the aisle. He said: ‘Who’re you? One o’ them policemen?’

  The verger was tall, lugubrious and slow moving. Green reflected that no other type of man would accept such a job. Hutson was his idea of a time-server—both the way he worked and the state of the church seemed to prove it. Green said: ‘Have you got the keys to the school?’

  ‘One. All the rest I gave to Tom Taylor when they started building. One master, front gate padlock, back gate padlock, boiler house, staff room, and four classrooms.’

  ‘And you kept one master.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case.’

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘In case I ever had to go in, of course.’

  Green said: ‘Come off it. What would you want to go in for once the school was sold?’

  ‘It wasn’t sold. Only let. We’re still the owners.’

  ‘Have you been in since the builders started?’

  ‘I haven’t been in since we took the desks an’ chairs out just after Christmas.’

  ‘You didn’t go in this Sunday?’

  Hutson leaned on his broom. ‘Are you joking? On a Sunday? I don’t get chance to call my name my own on Sunday. What with early Communion, Matins, Sunday School and Evensong I hardly have time to eat my dinner.’ He spat on the grating and then brushed over it, leaving a smear on the grating.

  Green said: ‘You’re a dirty old devil.’

  ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘You. Anybody who spits anywhere ought to be flogged. In a church it’s worse. Where’s this key you kept?’

  Hutson was surly. He led the way, without a word, to the vestry door in the transept. Here he laid his broom on an old cope chest which even Green could appreciate as beautiful. Hutson said: ‘It’s hanging on the key board in the robing vestry.’ They went up two steps, through the choir vestry lined with cupboards of cassocks and surplices, and into the robing vestry. Here there was a small altar, a harmonium, and heaps of tattered music, all covered in dust. The key board was to the left inside the door. A dozen hooks with a variety of keys. Hutson looked at it. His mouth fell open with surprise. He said: ‘It’s gone.’

  Green said: ‘Is this it?’ He had the key from the vicar’s pocket on his palm.

  ‘Where you get that from?’

  ‘Never mind. Is this the one that’s missing?’

  Hutson took it. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘By them file marks. I made ’em. People have a happy knack of collaring keys round here.’

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘Gobby Parseloe.’

  ‘Didn’t he have one of his own?’

  ‘He had one in his desk drawer at home last week.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Because Tom Taylor borrowed it. He left his with one of his men who was working overtime to lock up with, and he didn’t come in next morning. Tom met me at the gate an’ asked me for one. I told him the nearest one was in the vicarage.’

  ‘He managed to get one there?’

  ‘He got in, didn’t he?’

  ‘Anybody else have keys?’

  ‘Yeah. There were four masters. The old headmaster, he had one. He didn’t hand it in at the end of last term ’cos there was some of his own stuff he had to collect from the staffroom.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Headmaster’s? Baron. He lives in the High Street. House set back a bit near the eight-foot leading up to the mason’s yard.’

  ‘He hasn’t handed it back?’

  ‘Who hands keys back when they know they’re not wanted again? The factory’s going to change the locks, else they’d have made sure they got all the keys handed over. And talking of handing over, how about me having my key back?’

  Green said: ‘You’ll have to do without it. It was found in Parseloe’s pocket.’

  ‘So he was the one who took it.’

  ‘Looks like it. When did you last see it?’

  ‘For sure? Can’t say, but I reckon I’d a’missed it on Sunday morning if it had gone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s when I use all these other keys, see? I open up the choir stalls’ book cupboards. The vestment cupboards. West door, East door, the lot. I empties the board except for that key. The choir kids lock everything up again except the doors after Evensong. Right?’

  Green said: ‘You’ve convinced me. Carry on spitting.’

  Green was a little undecided as to what to do next. He thought perhaps Baron, the headmaster, would be a likely bet, then remembered he would be teaching somewhere else. He decided to locate Tom Taylor. Crome told him where the builder’s office was. He was to look for the firm of Coulbeck, near the first crossroads, up the narrow road Perce had emerged from. Green walked fairly sharply. The wind had lessened, but was still strong and cold. It was behind him as he went along the High Street. He turned off into Goose Street. Perce’s shop was forty yards up. A flat-fronted shop, wide, shallow, and well stocked. Jonker—Ironmonger and Builders’ Merchant. Green stared in. Perce was behind the counter. No customers, no assistants. Green entered. Perce said: ‘Come back to say you’re sorry, I suppose. Well, you’re too late. I know who you are. I’ve written to Scotland Yard about you.’

  Green said: ‘That’s good.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, we keep all the fingerprints at the Yard. They’ll take yours off the paper you wrote the letter on. It’ll save time later.’

  Perce said: ‘Don’t you try to frighten me.’ He picked up a claw-hammer displayed for sale. The handle and head were metal, the grip rubber. Perce’s broken fingernails showed up white under the force of his grip.

  Green said mildly: ‘What’s up? Got a guilty conscience? Or are you threatening me? If so, I’ll run you in so fast your feet won’t touch the ground.’

  Perce lowered the hammer. ‘You were accusing me of murder.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then what did you mean by saying it would save time later?’

  ‘Because it will. I’ll get you for something. Maybe not for murder. Now tell me where Coulbeck’s office is. Which is what I came in for.’

  Perce pointed the way. Green made his enquiries as to where Tom Taylor was working. Coulbeck himself offered to drive him to the place. And because it would have looked daft to refuse such an offer, Green accepted.

  Taylor confirmed the verger’s story. He’d borrowed the vicar’s key on the Wednesday morning to get the men working. The wall hadn’t been knocked down by then, so they couldn’t start without getting inside for their tools. But he’d collected his own keys from the absent workman’s house and then returned the vicar’s key before noon.

  Green said: ‘How did you know the vicar had a key?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not until Wally Hutson told me.’

  ‘Who had your keys over the weekend?’

  ‘One of the chippies. A chap called Pieters.’

  ‘Reliable?’

  Taylor rubbed his chin. ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘But you’re not too sure?’

  ‘He’s only been with us a few months.’

  ‘But he’s a local, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s local all right.’

  ‘So you must have
known him for years.’

  Taylor looked at Coulbeck. The glance was not lost on Green, who said: ‘Come on, now.’

  Coulbeck said: ‘Harry Pieters is O.K.’

  Green said: ‘Why leave the keys with a new man?’

  ‘Because he was the one with most tools to leave behind. The brickies just had trowels and spades. Pieters had a full joiner’s kit. He was the one most concerned with security, and it was his job to nail up the fence.’

  Green could get no more from them. He said: ‘I’ll see Pieters for myself.’ Taylor called the carpenter over. A man of less than medium height. Apparently thin, but with surprisingly big muscles bulging on his bare arms. Dark hair, cut short at the sides, and worn en brosse, holding a few specks of wood flour. The beard area very dark. The eyes brown. Green said: ‘You had a key to the school over the weekend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you keep it?’

  ‘In my trousers’ pockets. Why?’

  ‘Somebody got in there on Sunday. Or hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘Yes. I heard. And that somebody was Gobby Parseloe. He has a key. Tom Taylor borrowed it last week. He must ’a let himself in and whoever killed him must ’a followed him in. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

  ‘You know all about it. Perhaps you were there.’

  ‘And perhaps I wasn’t. I never stirred out all Sunday.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I don’t have to. But you can ask my missus. And the kids if you don’t believe her.’

  Green said: ‘I don’t believe in questioning kids. I’ll take your word for it that the key never left your house.’

  ‘Of course it didn’t. An’ if it had done, how’d I have got it back?’

  Green looked at him hard. It dawned on Pieters he’d asked a damn silly question. He coloured under Green’s gaze, then said: ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it. An’ by the piles of Saint Pancras I wouldn’t help you to find out who did. I’d more likely shake him by the hand.’

  Green said: ‘I’d watch my tongue if I were you. It could get you into trouble. I’ll likely be seeing you again.’

  Coulbeck drove Green back to the office. Green said: ‘Didn’t anybody like Parseloe?’