‘I agree,’ Masters said. ‘I should have said it was a fair asking price, all things considered.’
Mundy went on: ‘Claud was pretty fly, as I told you. He approached the War Office with an offer to clear the site for twenty-five thousand if he could keep the material. Well, the War Office had been putting out quite a lot of tenders for site clearance in those days, and compared with some they got for similar jobs, twenty-five thousand was cheap to get the executors off their backs. They agreed.
‘Now exactly what financial fiddle Claud pulled to bridge the gap, I don’t know. But he’d been careful to put a hundred pounds down by way of a deposit on the house, so he couldn’t be unseated even if anybody had got wind of what was happening, and had tried to beat him to it.’
‘He paid the executors with the War Office’s money,’ Masters said, ‘and he had the house, the grounds and the buildings without raising a finger?’
‘That’s about the strength of it.’
‘Good for him. And all legal, I suppose?’ Green asked.
‘Perfectly. Everybody was satisfied. And Claud had a buckshee five or six thousand into the bargain. Quite a handy sum to help him turn the place, as it stood, into a holiday camp-cum-motel.’
Masters said: ‘I’ve heard of some con tricks, but this beats the band. What happened?’
‘As soon as he got the place, Claud lost interest. It was his wife who did the work. She really put it on its feet. Oh, Claud was useful at buying food in bulk at bargain prices when nobody else could get it—and things like that. He’d turn his hand to anything that smacked of the smart-Alec stuff. Some of his ideas were good, mind you. There were half a dozen of those static water tanks dotted about among the huts. Remember them? About four feet deep and thirty foot square?’
Green said: ‘At every street corner, they were, in the war.’
‘That’s right. Claud had them unbolted and built a swimming pool out of them. He had to dig the hole and provide a bit of paint, but it’s still out there—in use.’
‘What did he want a swimming pool for, so close to the shore?’ Masters said.
‘Because where his ground runs down to the bay it’s all mud. Not fit for bathing when the tide’s out.’
‘I see. So the place became a gold mine?’
‘The first Mrs Partridge worked it up into one. And all the time she was doing it, Claud was up to his tricks. But she always told her girls that the money she was making would be theirs one day, because although the place belonged entirely to Claud, she expected to see him out. The way he lived he might have gone at any time.’
‘But she died first?’
‘Of hard work. With nothing to leave directly to the girls, who were both married by then. I don’t know whether it was the fact that they were away and not here to keep an eye on him, or whether it was just Claud’s natural cussedness that drove him to marry again. A woman nearly thirty years younger than himself and . . . well, you know the type . . . suicide blonde with hair like Instow sands, varnished, long earrings, cigarette holder, two poodles, a voice like the Boys’ Brigade band and a taste in clothes that my missus calls “as tarty as muck”.’
Green said: ‘Barmaid?’
‘No decent barmaid would have looked at her.’
‘Like that, eh?’
‘We knew Fay Cramphorn—as she was before she married—long before Claud Partridge did.’
Masters said: ‘When did they get married?’
‘Just over three years ago. And nine months later Claud died of a heart attack—in bed.’
‘Leaving a wealthy widow?’
‘She got the lot.’
‘Nothing for the daughters?’
‘Ah! Now you come to another of the sore points. Claud would have as little to do with lawyers as he would with policemen. Not that he ever fell foul of us, but I think he was one of those who just hated authority in any form. He made his own will.’
‘And as usual I suppose it was badly drawn.’
‘That’s it. He got one of those printed forms from a stationer and copied out exactly what he’d had on his previous will—when he left everything to his first wife. That one had been drawn up by a solicitor, because his first wife had seen to that, but it was obviously cancelled by her death, so he thought he could save the fee by copying it word for word, substituting his new wife’s name. That was fair enough in so far as it went. But where, with his first wife, he knew she would make provision for their kids, he wasn’t so sure this second one would. So he added a bit in his own words.’
‘And those were not clear as to their exact meaning?’
‘The girls said not. They put in an application to the High Court saying that their father’s intention was to provide for his property being divided equally between his widow and themselves. Mrs Partridge pleaded that his intention had been to settle his property—that is, that the income should be paid to her with the capital being ultimately divided between his children at her death. The Court agreed with her because the first clause specifically stated that he gave everything to her, and they thought she was being pretty unselfish in agreeing to settlement. But that wasn’t any use to the girls. They’re as old as their stepmother. That meant they probably wouldn’t outlive her to enjoy any of the money their mother had worked so hard for.’
Green said: ‘I can see their point.’
‘So can I. But now they have outlived her. And she’s died in suspicious circumstances. That makes the stepdaughters prime suspects, but as I say, they haven’t been near Throscum for long enough.’
‘You checked up on their whereabouts?’ Masters asked.
‘First thing I did. She died on Tuesday. I got the local police in Hull and Norwich to check up on both families—husbands as well—for the whole weekend from Friday to Tuesday.’
‘And?’
‘Not one of them had left their houses for anything more than a local shopping tour or to go to work.’
Masters said: ‘Have they come down since the death?’
‘Both expected tomorrow—with husbands—for the funeral, and expected to stay for the weekend. Bound to, I suppose, as this place now reverts to them.’
Masters said: ‘Have you got the reports from Hull and Norwich?’
‘They were phoned through. They’re in my notes.’
‘Thank you. I’d better look at them before I meet the Misses Partridge.’
‘As was. The elder one, Lorna, is now Mrs Thoresby. The other one—two years younger—is Mrs Becky Honingham.’
‘So they seem non-starters. But talking about movements, I’ve realized there’s a question I’d like to ask regarding something you said earlier—about Mrs Partridge. You said she hadn’t eaten anything outside Throscum House for days before her death. How long was that and exactly how did you establish it?’
‘For four days—Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. That’s why I asked for a check on her stepdaughters for the same period. As for how I established it—well, by questioning the staff. It’s vouched for by the receptionist, the cleaning woman, the waiters and the dancing professional who was, apparently, quite friendly with her.’
Green said: ‘Hanging round her skirts, was he? Hoping for a few of the pickings from a wealthy young widow? Gigolo style?’
‘Maybe. He doesn’t strike me as being too bad a type. But you’ll be able to judge for yourselves.’
‘Did they suggest any reason why she hadn’t been out?’ Masters inquired.
Mundy shrugged his shoulders. ‘I didn’t get that far. No time. With the inquest less than twenty-four hours after she died.’
‘Can you tell us whether it was usual for her to stay put for days at a time?’
‘I did establish that. It was most unusual.’
Green said: ‘Bit of a gadabout, was she?’
‘Apparently. Definitely Merry Widowish.’
Masters tapped his dead pipe out on his heel and tried to stand up as much as the cramped space would allow him.
Mundy pushed a file across the table. ‘Well, there you are. It’s all yours.’
‘Have you booked us in anywhere, Super, or are we expected to sleep in this contraption?’ Green asked.
Mundy laughed. He seemed relieved that the job was finally off his shoulders. He said: ‘No, no. You’re going to do it in style. There’s a complete bungalow reserved for you, and you’ll eat in Throscum House. You’re summer guests.’
‘Bungalow? You mean army hut, don’t you?’
‘It used to be. But you’ll find it nicely divided up into bedrooms, and there’s a good sitting-room and private bathroom. The car can be parked on the square and you’ll find there’s a steward and stewardess for each group of huts, so you’ll be well looked after. I’ll leave the van here with one man if you like.’
Masters said: ‘Is there a phone in the bungalow?’
‘Oh, yes. Internal and external. And a radio and TV. This place is not short of anything.’ He grinned at Green. ‘You can even hire bathing trunks if you’ve left your own behind.’
‘I’ll view the scenery and anything else I find interesting from a deck-chair beside the pool,’ Green said. ‘But what about a drink now?’
‘That’s an idea. Shall we settle in first and then have one?’ Masters turned to Mundy. ‘As we’re well supplied with phones, sir, I don’t think we’ll need your van, or have any reason to keep one of your men away from his usual work.’
*
Bungalow 69 was all that Mundy had claimed for it. The bedroom windows were a little small, but in the sitting-room one of the wall panels had been removed and a french window inserted, with a step down to a tiny lawn, edged with rows of Livingstone daisies already closing up for the night, and enclosed by a dwarf paling painted white. Masters, having washed first, stood on the step and looked about him. The bungalows were grouped closely in threes or fours, but the groups had a lot of space between them. There was no air of regimentation, the colours were gay but not garish, and the gardener of Throscum House certainly did his stuff. The grass between the groups had been cut and rolled to the point where each area could really be called a lawn, and the rosebushes and flowering shrubs made the area a veritable garden village. There were few trees. Masters imagined the Forces must have felled most of them except those that seemed to border the estate.
They walked the hundred yards to the main house. By this time, holidaymakers were returning in chattering groups, gaily dressed, sunburned and, for the most part, apparently happy. Some of the smaller children looked healthily tired. One or two young couples sauntered along, arms and bodies entwined, transistors blaring at the hip. Green said: ‘That’s what I can’t understand. Sloping along like that in broad daylight.’
‘Spoilsport,’ Hill said. ‘Where’s your sense of romance?’
‘I can understand it after dark—in the moonlight. But coasting along in full view like two pennorth of cold god-help-me! No. That’s not courting. You notice they never laugh or smile, don’t you? I like a lively girl, myself. Not one of these miserable bits with so little meat on their bones that if they stand sideways they’re counted absent.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Masters replied. ‘Attractiveness in a girl these days seems to rely solely on her ability to wiggle her abdomen to a beat. I reckon it’s a pity, because short skirts have certainly increased the potential of their physical attractiveness by at least fifty per cent.’
Brant said: ‘You mean where they once had to rely on face alone . . .’
‘And hair and smile and things like that, they’ve now got busts and bottoms and thighs to parade. Good lusty stuff, if used properly—and judiciously.’
Mundy was waiting in the bar. A small, young man with—judging from the way he moved—bad feet, a lock of dark hair that fell across his right eye, a soft, hummy sort of voice and a spotless white jacket, came to take their order. Green said: ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Garry, sir. Garry Welton.’
‘Well, Garry, five pints of ice-cold Worthington. Can do?’
‘Sorry, sir. Only local beers or draught cider, if you’d like that.’
‘Scrumpy? What’re you trying to do, lad? Get me as drunk as a puggy nut?’
‘No, sir. Cider’s good—for them as can take it, like.’
‘Draught bitter, Garry. Five pints.’
Masters said to Mundy: ‘Who’s the local doctor?’
‘Meeth. He’s youngish, but not bad. A south Devon man, you’ll understand. His wife’s a doctor, too. She does all the ante- and post-natal work. A sort of part-time assistant to her husband.’
‘Was Mrs Partridge his patient?’
‘Yes. He lives so close, you see, and he’s the camp doctor.’
‘He lives in the village?’
‘No. Almost next door here. You know where I’ve got the van—just behind the magnolias opposite the front door? Well, behind the van is a copse. And behind the copse is the church . . .’
‘I wondered where the church was, as it wasn’t in the village.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, there’s been a sort of manor house on this site for a few hundred years, you know. And the church is in the grounds as you might say. T’other side of it is the rectory, and just past that is the doctor’s house and surgery.’
‘And the vet’s place?’
‘Rob Wintle’s? In the village. Straight opposite the police house is an alleyway . . .’
‘I noticed it.’
‘About forty yards up there on the left. A big shed place behind the house.’
‘Thanks.’
The beer was welcome. Green smacked his lips. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all,’ and entered into a conversation with Hill and Brant about the characters of various beers.
Masters said to Mundy, ‘Mrs Partridge lived on the first floor?’
‘Half of it. The other half is used by Compton, the manager. It’s a big house, you know.’
‘And the second floor?’
‘A number of the employees live up there. The dance professional, the games organizer, the two chefs and the head waiter.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘No. There’s a flat over the house garage, and the chauffeur lives there with his wife.’
‘Chauffeur?’
‘Well, he drives the minibus that picks up at Barnstaple station, he mans the petrol pump—they sell to guests only—and he used to drive Mrs Partridge about after her husband died.’
Masters questioned Mundy closely about the search he had carried out in Mrs Partridge’s flat. Mundy assured him that his men had found nothing to cause speculation or arouse suspicion. It was as though the owner had simply walked out and died, leaving not a clue behind her of the cause of death or the reason for it. Mundy had not thought it worth while to leave a guard on the flat, but he had locked and sealed the door. He gave Masters the key.
Shortly after this, Mundy left. Masters stood on the low steps by the main door and watched the police Land Rover tow the van out of its hiding-place and on to the road that ran across the front of the house, and out of the main gates, only twenty or thirty yards away. As he turned back into the panelled hall, the receptionist in her little glass-panelled cubicle said: ‘Excuse me, sir. Will you and the other three gentlemen be attending the fancy-dress ball tonight?’
She was very young, and slim. He could see her bra through the white nylon blouse; the proud, if slightly immature, breasts, firm and provocative in their half cups. He smiled down at her. ‘Fancy-dress? What would you say I could come as?’
She smiled, a little tentatively, then said: ‘The giant.’
‘What? Fe, fi, fo, fum? That one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Done. If you’ll dress up as the boy, Jack, and come with me.’
‘It would be nice—but I’m not allowed to. I have to be here. But I wear a costume. A milkmaid’s.’
‘I see. Well, I think you’d better count us out. We didn’t bring any fancy-dress—Miss . . .’
&nbs
p; ‘York. Cathy York. We keep some for people who haven’t got any.’
‘Why, Cathy? How often are these shindigs?’
‘Fancy-dress? Every Thursday in the season. They’re quite fun. Lots of people wear masks. We provide those free, too. And prizes.’
‘And everybody comes?’
‘Oh yes. Outsiders too, if they want to—at two guines a single, three guineas a double. Of course, there’s ordinary dancing nearly every other night.’
Masters smiled at her. ‘On second thoughts I think two of my friends might like to come. The third one and myself will be busy outside after dinner. But thank you for the invitation.’
He liked the hall. It was cool and restful. Dark panels; two leaded-light windows with box seats below; an old stone fireplace, decorated with gladioli and enclosed by a club kerb with polished leatherwork and studded with dome-head nails as big as pennies; just two sizeable hide chairs and a twisty-legged oak table boasting the patina of age. It all suited him. This was his taste. He wandered over to the foot of the staircase. A red cord looped across, two or three steps up, reinforced the notice that what lay above was private. As he stood looking up, trying to decipher the design of the stained-glass window at the bend of the stairs, a man behind him said: ‘Excuse me, sir.’
Masters turned. The speaker was, he judged, in his middle forties, not very tall, tubby, and going grey. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a cream tussore jacket, a soft jap-silk shirt and large-knotted Cambridge blue tie. The face was full, of a good colour, and shiny. Not a hair was out of place. He smelt faintly of French Fern—recognized quite easily by Masters because that was the soap he used himself, though he didn’t indulge in other cosmetics.
Masters said: ‘I’m sorry. Am I in your way?’
‘No, sir. You are Detective Chief Inspector Masters, aren’t you?’
‘That’s me.’
‘My name’s Compton. I’m the manager here.’
‘How d’you do, Mr Compton. We shall try not to be too much of a nuisance to you, if that’s what you want to talk about.’
‘Thank you. I’m not in the least worried about you being a nuisance. I just thought I ought to introduce myself.’
‘That’s very kind of you. We shall have to have a talk together, of course. Quite when, I can’t say.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 55
