‘There’s no reason why I should keep quiet,’ Baron said. ‘You’ll be able to check what I say. You know I was headmaster of the Church School until it closed down at Christmas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Parseloe, as vicar, was chairman of the management committee. Three years ago, when his wife died, he decided he’d have his elder daughter, Pamela, come back to Rooksby to teach, and to keep house for him. Privately I thought it was so that she could bear most of the financial burden. But that’s beside the point. He came to me and said he was arranging to have her appointed to my staff. I’d already got a full complement. I was satisfied with their work, and as far as I knew none of them was contemplating leaving me. I told Parseloe there was no room for his daughter. He suggested that I should engineer a vacancy.’
‘Engineer? You mean make a bad report to the Management Committee about one of the teachers so that she would get the push?’
‘That’s right. Parseloe had already told Pamela he wanted her back in Rooksby. That didn’t fit in with her plans. She didn’t want to come. She preferred a freer life in Peterborough. So she’d already been to me and asked me not to find a place for her. I’d no intention of doing so, because Pamela was not my cup of tea. I’d rather have been a member of the staff short than have her in the school. She has a bit of a reputation, you know, in Rooksby.’
Green nodded.
Baron went on: ‘So I reassured her, and when he came, told her father I’d have nothing to do with his scheme. Told him it was the sort of game I wouldn’t be party to, and that if he attempted to interfere with my staff in any way I’d have the N.U.T. on to him before he could say “let us proceed in peace”.’
‘What happened?’
‘I heard no more about it. Then, last summer, the staff for the new Comprehensive was appointed. I’d applied for the headship, and as the sitting tenant, was fairly sure of getting it. But because the new school was replacing the Church School, the vicar had been appointed to the new Management Committee. When the appointment of the headmaster was discussed, Parseloe opposed my application. And he carried the day. The Committee was not made up of locals, otherwise it might have been different. They came from as wide a catchment area as the school serves, and they didn’t know Parseloe. And when the man you’ve worked for for umpteen years says he’s dissatisfied with you—says, among other things, that you’re unco-operative, it doesn’t do your chances much good. I didn’t get the job.’
‘How d’you know he did you dirt?’
‘I was told. There’s not the slightest doubt it’s true.’
‘Then what?’
‘I was going to be out of a job at Christmas. I got a post as assistant head at the village school in Towton. Took the place of a man who had been lucky enough to be appointed to the new Comprehensive.’ Baron sounded bitter. Green could understand why. Wondered if this example of Parseloe’s particular brand of Christianity had led to murder.
He asked: ‘Where’s Towton?’
‘Five miles east of here. It’s an easy run in the car along a secondary road. I leave myself a quarter of an hour for the journey.’
Green got to his feet. He said: ‘I’ll keep the key.’
*
All four of them met in Masters’ room at the Goblin. It was six o’clock and dark outside. Inside the lights were on, the curtains drawn, the room was warm, and out in the corridor was the good smell of sage and onion farce cooking inside the duckling Mrs Binkhorst was preparing for dinner.
Masters and Green brought each other up to date. Then Sergeant Hill said: ‘We’ve seen the workmen. Four of them. Pieters the joiner and his labourer; Smith the brickie and his paddy.’
‘Get anything out of them?’
‘Well, Chief, they’re a pretty dumb crowd. They’d been working there a week. Each night they’d used that same classroom for locking up their tools. The brickie didn’t have anything of much value—trowels, a couple of hammers, plumb, level—that sort of thing. Pieters had much more. One of these portable electric saws with all its bits and pieces besides a bag of valuable planes, a bolt setting tool, hand saws, brace and bits—the lot. It was a haul worth having, but evidently it was too heavy for toting to and fro on a bicycle. So they left it locked up on the site. I asked them if they didn’t think it could be pinched. They said they didn’t think so. So I asked them if anybody knew it would be there over the weekend, and they just said they supposed everybody in Rooksby who thought about it would know.’
‘Had they lost anything at all during the week—not just at the weekend?’
‘Nothing. Of course we couldn’t check, but that’s what they said.’
‘Were they telling the truth?’
‘I think so.’
‘Were they worried?’
‘A bit. You see they’ve got hold of several stories. One says somebody got into the school and the vicar saw whoever it was going in or saw a light shining and went in to see what was going on.’
‘Somebody who’d gone in to pick up what he could find?’
‘That’s the point, Chief. They’re equally torn between the idea that a thief went in on spec and that he went in on purpose to pick up their tools. If it’s the second they’re feeling sorry for themselves. Think they were the indirect cause of the murder.’
Masters lit his pipe. Brant, sharing the edge of the bed with Hill, said: ‘And as for seeing anything, you’d think they’re all blind.’
‘In what way?’
‘I asked ’em all separately to describe how the body was lying and got four entirely different stories. I know we don’t expect all stories to tally exactly, but this! Over a simple matter of how a body was stretched out.’
Masters said: ‘Who found it?’
Brant said: ‘Pieters. He had the key. Two of them were already waiting when he arrived. The fourth came a minute or two later. After the others had opened the classroom. They all agreed they’d got right into the room before Smith noticed the body.’
‘Pieters leading?’
‘He opened up and led the way in.’
‘What about the boards nailed over the hole in the wall?’
‘Some of them had been moved. They said they thought kids had broken in for a lark.’
‘They weren’t worried?’
‘Not a bit, apparently. They said kids break in everywhere these days.’
‘Did they touch anything in the classroom?’
‘They said not. Pieters told them to leave everything as it was and sent his labourer for P.C. Crome. They stood around outside until Superintendent Nicholson told them they could take their tools to another job.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s the lot, sir.’
‘Right. Well you’ve just time to jump in the car, drive out to the Nutmeg Tree, which you’ll get to just before you reach the by-pass, and make some enquiries about Dr Peter Barnfelt.’
Green said: ‘You’re considering him, then?’
‘I’ve got to. He was scudding around Rooksby footloose on Sunday evening. You told me the vicar’s key reappeared during the day, and he was the only caller at the vicarage other than ourselves. It is possible he brought the key back, because Pamela Plum-Bum was definitely not ill when I was there this morning, although that was the excuse for his visit.’
‘I get you. I’d had something like that at the back of my own mind.’
‘What d’you want to know?’ Brant asked.
‘Whether Peter Barnfelt was there on Sunday evening. If so, times and occurrences. Don’t be obvious. He already suspects I’m chasing him. Diplomacy—casual acquaintance role—recommended to call by the doctor etcetera, etcetera. And don’t stay long. Be back here for dinner.’
‘I’m not missing that duck for anything,’ Hill said.
The sergeants left. Masters walked over to the washbasin. Green lit a Kensitas and said: ‘I don’t like it. Not knowing the weapon, I mean. When are we going to get round to sorting that out?’
/>
‘Why don’t you have a bash at it?’ Masters said.
Green thought this was typical. Whenever an insoluble part of a problem came up for discussion, he was asked to have a go. Keys, weapons, projectiles. That was the sort of thing he was always told off to investigate. Masters just sat around and talked. And then got the kudos. He said: ‘So you agree it’s important?’
‘Obviously.’
‘I began to think you were prepared to ignore little trifles like weapons.’
Masters dried his hands. ‘No. I try not to ignore anything. And with you around to keep reminding me, I rarely do. Got any ideas about the gun?’
‘None.’
‘Then you’ll be starting cold, won’t you? And that’s what we’d all have been doing if we’d concentrated on it from the start.’
‘You’re talking as if we’d already got somewhere.’
Masters said mildly: ‘I think we have. For one thing we’ve established that nearly everybody we’ve spoken to had a grudge against Parseloe at one time or another. So we’ve got a few suspects. Four or five. That’s not bad going in twenty-four hours, is it?’
Green stubbed his cigarette. ‘As long as you’re satisfied,’ he said. ‘When are we going to sort them out?’
Masters straightened his tie. He thought this was how Green always reacted. Grumbling. Masters wondered whether Green had sufficient mental equipment to see far enough through a plethora of facts and hints ever to come to any sort of conclusion, satisfactory or otherwise. He said: ‘Unless I’m mistaken, we’ll not have heard the last of the grudges against Parseloe. We can’t really start to pick a winner till we’ve studied the form of all the runners.’
Chapter Five
It was Masters’ first view of Maria Binkhorst. The sergeants had returned to say that Peter Barnfelt had been in the Nutmeg Tree from about nine o’clock on Sunday night until half past ten when the bar closed. He had been alone and had drunk steadily. Which was evidently unusual for him. The barman had heard he’d had a row with Miss Barrett, who usually accompanied him to the roadhouse, and put his solitary drinking down to an effort to drown the sorrows of a lovers’ quarrel. Masters was satisfied with the report. He was even more satisfied to find Maria waiting on them at table.
‘Is this your mother’s night off?’
‘She’s in the saloon bar,’ Maria replied. ‘Dad didn’t think I was well enough to be in there from half past five till half past ten. So Mum took over.’
‘And gave us the exclusive pleasure of your company. We’re definitely lucky. But we were sorry to hear you were ill.’
‘It’s . . . nothing.’
‘We’re pleased you’re up and about again.’
She placed tureens on the table. Inviting, pale green crockery, white lined, that showed up baby carrots and peas to advantage. The duckling she brought on whole. No rice. No orange slices. Plain cooking. Masters said: ‘Fit for a king. I’ll carve.’ He turned to Maria. ‘D’you want any of this back?’ She shook her head. ‘Good.’
She held the plates for him as he carved. He had a chance to sum her up. As Hill had said, she was slender. But the Italian early maturity was there. She was a woman, not a girl. Dark-haired, pale complexion, with dark eyes very alive. Her lips were strangely full, but not petulant. Masters seemed to remember they were what his mother used to call ‘bee-stung’. They had an inviting smoothness that stirred memory for him. Her figure was lithe. He supposed the real term was sinuous. As he carved the breast of the duckling his thoughts were not on the job. He was thinking that Maria knew how to dress, too. He guessed her skirt was less than eighteen inches long. Her legs, not too heavily thighed, erotically shapely. He was sorry when she’d handed round the plates and left. He ate in silence, thinking about her. To him she had none of the external signs or symptoms of a girl who is unwell.
Green ate voraciously. He called for beer with his meal. Masters took no liquor. He preferred to savour the food. Even so he was not really aware of what he ate. Hill and Brant kept quiet. They were used to Masters tacit at some stage in every enquiry. Suddenly he looked across at them and said: ‘When you saw the workmen, was one of them injured? Bandaged?’
Brant nearly choked. Hill said: ‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t. I asked.’
‘Sorry. Pieter’s labourer had a chisel cut on his left thumb. A big bandage, stained yellow.’
‘Acriflavine?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Orange-yellow. Antiseptic. Germicide. Wound disinfectant?’
‘That sounds like it.’
‘When did he get it?’
Hill said: ‘I asked him. He said last Thursday morning. They had to get the doctor to him.’
Masters said: ‘To him? They didn’t take him to the surgery?’
‘They definitely said “to him”. I can remember being a bit surprised. Then I thought that in a place this size the doctors probably find it easier and quicker to go out in their cars rather than have injured people trying to cycle in or wait for an ambulance to come from a long distance.’
Masters said: ‘Thanks. They didn’t say which doctor answered the call?’
Hill shook his head. Masters said: ‘Not to worry,’ and lapsed into silence again. Green grimaced and got on with his meal. Maria came in again. Masters said: ‘Have you had your supper?’
She answered unconcernedly: ‘We have high tea before opening time and then another snack after we’re closed.’
‘Nothing in between?’
‘Not usually, but I had a couple of the sausages tonight. I kept them back from the ones I did with the duckling.’
‘Because you’re going to bed early tonight as well?’
She pouted. ‘No. I’m going to watch television. Then I’ll get Mum and Dad theirs.’
He grinned. ‘And some more for yourself?’
She reddened and took his plate. He asked her no further questions. Hill was looking at him closely. Green and Brant were paying no attention. He got up from the table. He said to Green: ‘Would you and Brant care to take the spit-and-sawdust for half an hour? There are a couple of old blowhards in there who might be useful. Harold and Matthew. They hinted there might be things to learn about various characters around here. But they’re cagey. See what you can do to draw them out.’
Green said: ‘You’ve met them already. Wouldn’t it be better if you saw them again?’
‘Sorry. I told Wessel, Beck and company I’d see them in the saloon. But don’t worry. It’s the same beer on both sides. And if you have no luck, come and join us. One other thing. Binkhorst seems uneasy. Keep your eye on him and let me know your impression of what’s eating him.’
‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Could be. He was cavorting around on Sunday night when he should have been behind his bar.’
Green grunted and went out of the dining-room with Brant at his heels. Masters and Hill passed through to the saloon.
As soon as Masters entered the bar he was called over to a corner table by Wessel. ‘Mr Masters, this is Jim Baron. He tells me he was visited by Inspector Green earlier today, and would like to meet you.’
Masters said jovially: ‘And I him. How d’you do, Mr Baron. Did you come along specially, or is this your usual place of call?’
Baron said: ‘I drop in most nights.’
‘Not last night.’
‘Never on Mondays or Thursdays. I teach at night-school now. Income lower since I lost my headship. So I’m making up with a bit of overtime.’
‘What do you teach?’
‘Mathematics on Mondays, woodwork on Thursdays.’
‘Quite a mixture.’
‘Maths is my normal subject, but woodwork’s my specialty. You know. We have to study some non-academic subject like music, P.T., metalwork, drama or something akin at college to make us more desirable as teachers in the eyes of school management committees. There was a vacancy for a woodwork man, so I took it. Unless you do two
nights a week it’s not worth doing any—financially.’
Masters accepted a drink brought over by Arn Beck. Masters thanked him and then turned back to Baron. ‘I’ll ask the obvious. What time did you get here on Sunday evening?’
‘I didn’t. Not on Sunday.’
‘Churchgoer?’
‘At one time. Not in the last few months.’
Baron didn’t attempt to expand his statement. Masters didn’t press him. It was neither the time nor the place for close interrogation. He said to Beck: ‘Does Farmer Barrett ever come in here?’
‘Phil Barrett? He used to come in most nights, but I haven’t seen him for—let me see—ten days or a fortnight. Want to pump him too?’
Masters said: ‘Pump? No, I don’t think so. Unless he has something significant he wants to tell me. I was hoping to buy a sack of potatoes from him.’
Wessel said: ‘And we can believe that or not as the fit takes us, I suppose?’
Masters nodded. ‘You certainly can. And if you come to any good conclusions let me know. I’ll be interested.’
‘Case as bad as that? Floundering a bit, eh?’
Masters smiled. ‘I don’t think so. And you can believe that or not as the fit takes you, too.’
Beck said: ‘You’ve a reputation.’
‘For truth?’
‘For successful investigation.’
‘Thank you. Does it worry you?’
Beck’s eyes twinkled. ‘If I said yes, you’d arrest me. And if I said no you’d call me an irresponsible citizen.’
Masters laughed again. ‘Sorry. I can’t help trying to score points.’
Wessel said: ‘You mentioned last night that you’d like to see us here this evening. Any particular reason?’
‘Just one. I want to know why Maria Binkhorst is not married. I think it would be embarrassing to ask the girl herself. Her mother has already told me she can’t understand why her daughter is still single. Her father? He seems totally uninterested. So I’m asking you. You’re men of the world. You’ve probably watched her grow up. What’s the reason for her being on the shelf?’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 30
