‘What’s wrong? Light hurting your eyes? Or . . . no! I’ve got it. You’re worried lest the Meeths are implicated, aren’t you?’
Green said churlishly: ‘Yes, I am. Once or twice tonight I thought they showed just a bit too much knowledge about poisons and toxins. As if they’d been more than average interested in them recently.’
‘Meeth said his wife was interested in forensics.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, the best thing you can do is find the right answers to the questions we talked about and hope that what you get helps to eliminate them.’
Chapter Three
Masters was awake at six. There were none of the Tannoy calls that wake holidaymakers—much to their annoyance—at some other holiday camps. But there was a choir of birds. The area must have been something of a sanctuary because, judging by the volume of their song, there was a chorus of hundreds. This, and the lovely morning, jerked Masters out of bed. By half past six he was walking around the Throscum estate. He was interested in what he saw. The holiday camp was obviously an almost self-contained community. The slope of the hill falling down towards the village—running, as Constable Benham had said, down to his back fence—was given over to a kitchen garden. The vegetables, well laid out in rows as straight as guardees on parade, looked healthy. Already, at this early hour, while the dew was still heavy upon the plants, two gardeners were moving along the rows, selecting and cutting. A plastic cloche sixty feet long had been removed from a row of lettuce, left to straighten up in the early sun ready for last-minute cutting. Long rows of greenhouses with vents open and panes whitewashed on the south ridge against the heat of the day showed tomato foliage thick against the glass. Masters felt sure he could smell the distinctive odour that seems characteristic of no tomatoes except English home grown. He avoided a gaggle of geese, left to roam before being penned up for the day. The leader was menacing. Masters had no desire to try conclusions with him.
After a short space laid out with quoit courts, a croquet lawn and a crown green he came to the great sprawl of building which he guessed must be the former American officers’ mess. At the back a kitchen was open, and an appetizing smell of fried bacon came to him on the morning air. He wandered close, saw the rows of dustbins in a whitewashed bay: the notice which said this was the place where the camp staff food was prepared and eaten. He followed the narrow path round. Between the arms of the building, hidden from the camp proper, were rows of linen lines. As he walked, two women came from what he assumed to be the laundry, carrying a red plastic basket full of sheets. He guessed they were already spin dried, and were now going out for airing and sweetening in the sun. He went round to the front and in through the main door with nobody to question him.
Throscum obviously made full use of this particular building. Liquor stores, food stores, cold room, bedding stores, furniture stores, cutlery room, crockery room, linen room. Staff canteen, staff TV room, staff bedrooms. He hadn’t realized just how complex the running of a camp such as this could be.
He went out into the open again. The long front wings on either side of the main door had been rejigged to make the rooms into a series of shops and kiosks. At one end a games store where campers could borrow or hire equipment. He grinned to himself as he noted that it was here that Green would be able to fit himself out with hired swimming trunks. Next door to this a small travel bureau with bus trip posters pinned to the shutters. Next, already open, a newsagent shop with heaps of unsorted dailies on the front shelf and books—paperbacks to suit all tastes—in the background. A few lurid magazines in racks were already hanging by the door, and in the dim interior Masters could just make out an elderly man, busy at some chore. An ice-cream kiosk. A soft-drinks bar. Souvenirs. A general grocery. A sweet shop. Masters looked in them all—as much as he could—and remembered his conversation with Compton the night before. Every item was Devon this or Devon that. The photography kiosk sold transparencies of Devon. The ice cream—inevitably Devon. All the sweets were of the ‘home-made’ variety. Pound boxes of Devon cream toffee, treacle toffee, Throscum hand-made chocolates, toffee apples, rock, peppermint creams. Through the window he could see them. He wondered which firm had agreed to make these items in a form so obviously amateurish that they seemed authentically home-made. The shapes were irregular, the sizes different. No machine programmed to produce them could have turned them out. They were as different from the usual thing as a hand-rolled cigarette is from the tailor-made variety. He glanced into the next shop. The tobacconist. Here, discretion had been used. Only the well-known brands. No Warlock Flake, he was sorry to see.
He cut down towards where he judged the coast to be. A bridle path through a thicket, a few yards of rough grass and then, surprisingly, a single-track railway spur, little used judging from the thin coating of rust on top of the rails. He wondered about this track. For what purpose had it been laid? He turned left along it. After two hundred yards he had the answer. It curved through another thicket, and once clear of this, ran on down a short way to an old quay, built of heavy timber. Beside the quay, literally leaning against it, was a small coaster. Black hulled with brown varnished upperworks and a red band round the funnel. Masters, who knew little of ships, judged it to be about three hundred tons—but he had no means of knowing how right he was. He wandered closer. The small ship was high and dry on the mud, and keeled over lovingly towards the quay. From a distance, Masters saw a seaman in a chef’s hat appear at a doorway and then step out to peg a pair of underpants to dry on part of the rigging. The water, dirty brown, had cut rivulet channels in the mud, and a narrow stream, yards away from the ship, was flowing swiftly towards the open sea, sparkling in the sunlight as it went.
Masters looked at his watch. He’d been out an hour. He decided he could do with breakfast, and started to return by the side of the property opposite the one he had used on the outward journey. He soon came to the two hedged meadows Mundy had mentioned. The Throscum management was making full use of them: making them earn their keep. They ran side by side; the westerly one given over to tents, the easterly to caravans. Evidently all forms of holidaymaker were welcome at Throscum. Masters wondered how arrangements were made for these last two categories to pay for the amenities of the main camp for which the bungalow residents obviously contributed so much more in overall charges.
He arrived at the bungalow to find the others awaiting his return. He said to Hill: ‘Do we just stroll into the dining-room and eat our fill? Or do we do it like hotels and give our room numbers?’
‘Neither. We’re supposed to have coupons—meal tickets of the basic value. Tear off one for the appropriate meal and pay the extra if we run over the score.’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘We’re privileged. They’re not bothering about us till Saturday lunchtime when the new week starts. After that we’ll have to toe the line.’
‘Who says so?’
‘That little girl in reception. I had a word with her about it last night. And you don’t pay in cash, either. You buy books of currency tickets that are valid anywhere within the camp.’
‘We paid cash for our drinks.’
‘Oh, they’ll take cash in all the shops and bars. But the dining-room waiters don’t—except for tips.’
Green said: ‘It’s quite a racket. All goods paid for before they’re bought. I should think a place like this piles up quite a bit of capital in advance.’
‘You pay for everything before you get it,’ Brant said. ‘The visitors have to settle up before their holiday starts. No bad debts that way, and more time to earn interest on the money you take in.’
‘Right. Let’s go. I’ve earned my breakfast this morning. So let’s make hay while the going’s good.’
*
As they rose from the breakfast table, Green said: ‘I’ll have some time to wait before I can see Mrs Doctor Meeth. She’ll be holding surgery. So I’ll come with you to see the flat.’
Masters agreed. He
turned to Hill. ‘Find out the form about the funeral and the stepdaughters’ arrangements and then join us upstairs.’
Green unhooked the soft red cotton rope looped across the staircase. The treads were wide, the carpet thickly underfelted, the banister rail and newels square-cut and heavy. It was a staircase down which to come for an impressive entrance. It muted conversation in the way a cathedral does. At the turn the stained-glass window with the Stipple-Houndsby crest and motto. Green said: ‘What does that load of old gibberish mean?’ Masters, who’d had a chance the night before to construe it, said: ‘Right is the guiding star of a noble mind—that’s if I’ve translated mentis honestae correctly.’
They turned on to the upper landing. Almost immediately a door—obviously more modern than the rest of the woodwork, but a fair copy as far as Masters could tell—confronted them. Above the bell push was a small brass plate which said simply: ‘Partridge’. Above the lock was Mundy’s seal. Wax imprints of the official concentric circles design. Green looked closely. The varnish on the door round the penny-sized blobs was slightly singed and roughened by the heat of the wax when applied. Satisfied that nobody had tampered with it he broke it away and held out his hand for the key.
Inside was luxury. The plaster on each wall was panelled. The mouldings were picked out in gold. All woodwork was white, and the wallpapers heavily embossed. Much of the flat was just as it must have been when the house was built. The library was still there—the first door on the left of the landing. Now the bookshelves which rose eight feet high were no longer full, but those which did not contain books had been tastefully tricked out with bric-à-brac and photographs; others with radio, record player and discs. The long, round-topped windows had chains instead of sash cords.
‘From the looks and smell of this place I shouldn’t think she ever used it,’ Brant said. ‘No flower vases or pot plants, you’ll notice. And that fireplace hasn’t been used for years.’
‘A woman living alone?’ Masters reflected. ‘Perhaps not.’
Brant was right. There were signs of habitation only in the sitting-room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. ‘I thought she had her food sent up?’ Green said.
Masters was poking round the kitchen. ‘She did. But it was dished up, in here, on to Wedgwood. She didn’t eat off the dining-room delf. And the washing-up was done in here, too. See all the do-dahs—powder, dish cloth, towel and what not?’
Brant said: ‘She must have brewed up in here, too. Tea caddy, coffee grounds and so on. I expect she disliked cooking even though she’d got a fully equipped kitchen. There’s no solid food anywhere except a tin of biscuits.’
Masters toed the pedal bin and peered in. ‘Bonio packet. Cake papers. Waxed carton—Throscum Home Made Peppermint Creams, one pound. Two empty king-size packets and the debris from an ash-tray. That’s all, I think.’
‘Don’t touch! We’ll give them a going over.’ Brant was opening cupboards, using his handkerchief. ‘She kept Ovals here for the doggie-woggies, too. Not much else.’
‘No chocolate drops for the little dears?’ Green asked.
‘Not as far as I can see.’
There were three bedrooms, all large, elegant rooms. The main one had built-in wardrobes all the way round except for gaps at doorways, windows and fireplace. Several of the doors were plate mirrors. The air was heavy with perfume.
Green said: ‘What a pong. Cross between a brothel and a public lavatory.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Brant retorted.
‘You’re trying to tell me you’ve never been into a public lavatory?’
Masters interrupted. ‘What d’you think those are for?’
‘What?’
Masters pointed round to each of the white-painted wardrobe doors. In the centre of each panel was stuck a pale pink strip of paper, six inches long and nearly three-quarters of an inch wide. Once noticed, they stood out, stark against their background.
‘Perhaps she was thinking of changing the décor of her boudoir,’ Green said, ‘and pasted those tushy pink bits up to give her some idea of what it would be like to live inside a toothpaste tube.’
‘Nobody in their right minds would ruin paintwork like this.’ Masters stepped to the nearest strip and examined it closely. ‘Rough texture. Not like wallpaper at all.’
Brant said: ‘Donkey’s breakfast.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Green asked.
‘You know. That rough wallpaper—sawdust glued on to give a rough finish.’
‘Donkey’s breakfast?’
‘That’s what it’s called.’
‘These strips are where the smell comes from. Sniff,’ Masters demanded.
Green and Brant complied. Green said: ‘Ashes of dustbins all right.’
Brant put a hand up to feel the texture of the paper. Ran his finger along the length. He stood for a moment and then sniffed the air, sniffed the end of his finger and finally the paper strip. ‘It’s impregnated.’
Green said: ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’
‘Not just soaked in the stuff, though.’
His tone made Masters come closer. ‘What did you do?’
‘I ran my finger along it, and the smell got stronger.’
‘You mean the action of rubbing releases the smell?’
‘It must do.’
Masters tried it for himself. Then Green. The perfume in the room grew heavier. Green said: ‘Very interesting, but I don’t think it helps us find her murderer.’
They visited the other bedrooms. Both were unused. Unmade beds covered with cream and gold floor-touching drapes. Brant said: ‘Nothing in either of those. They’re clean as a whistle.’
In the bathroom was a medicine cupboard. Masters opened it and went through the shelves of common household medicines—T.C.P., plasters, Panadol, two or three ointments and a corn cure, hydrogen peroxide.
Green said: ‘I’ll bet she used gallons of that stuff from what Mundy said about her hair.’
Finally, Masters took out a small white cardboard carton through which he could feel the bottle inside. The packet copy said: ‘Nonavom. (S.4A) bottle of 50 tablets’, in big letters, and then in small print: ‘Clinical indications: Nausea and vomiting: pregnancy, motion, pre- and post-operative sickness.’
Green said: ‘Aye, aye. Scheduled poison. Prescription only. Non-repeatable. Don’t tell me she was in the pudding club.’
‘She wasn’t. It would have said so in the post-mortem report.’
The packing leaflet was folded closely round the bottle. Masters opened it out. ‘Nonavom depresses the secretory and motor activity of the gastro-intestinal tract and produces gastric anaesthesia, thus reducing local reflex irritation. These actions allay nausea and vomiting.’
Then followed a warning to patients: ‘The daily dose should not exceed three tablets and not more than one tablet should be taken at any one time or dizziness may ensue. Tablets should be swallowed with water. If nausea, vomiting, sickness, vertigo and dizziness do not diminish after taking one tablet, do not continue with treatment, but consult your physician immediately.’
‘Count the tablets in the bottle,’ Masters said to Brant.
They stood by while Brant did so. Counting silently with him they knew there were forty-nine left before he said so. Green said: ‘Only one gone. No chance of an overdose there.’
‘Not a hope in hell,’ Masters agreed. ‘But ask Meeth when he prescribed them for her, just the same. And if he’ll tell you, without pleading ethics, what illness they were for. You’ll probably find she was car-sick or air-sick or wanted one if she crossed the Channel on a boat.’
‘Right. If I’m to see him as well, I’d better push off now. Where’ll I find you when I get back?’
‘Round here. I want a word with Compton, the dance professional, the woman who did the cleaning and various others. The lads will be going over this place for an hour or two.’
Green lit a Kensitas. Brant stopped him dropping the match
into the soap tray. ‘You’ll lead us a merry dance if you go leaving material clues about.’
‘Garn tittle! What could a match have to do with necrosis of the liver?’
Shortly after Green had gone, Hill appeared. ‘Funeral at two o’clock in the church across the way. The families are expected about eleven, and will be staying in one of the bungalows. No kids coming. There’s a meeting with the solicitor after the funeral.’
‘Reading the will?’ Brant said.
‘Not in this case,’ Masters replied. ‘Not until we’re satisfied that nobody will be profiting from bumping her off. But if those are the arrangements, I’ll not bother to see the stepdaughters and their husbands until after the funeral—when they’ve finished their business meeting.’
‘Anything in here?’ Hill asked.
‘We’re just going into the sitting-room.’
This room was basically just as lovely as the others. It even had some good furniture, but the final bits and pieces, those that give a clue to the character of the owner of a room, were tawdry. Seaside resort china, a fair amount of chromium, paperbacks of the real romance type, plastic roses, one cushion—it made Masters wince—was tinsel embroidered in lovers’ knots with the initials C and F intertwined. And photographs—up to a dozen of them in imitation leather frames with transparent plastic ‘glass’—scattered about.
Brant said: ‘This must be her. Blonde. Liked herself, didn’t she? One, two, three . . . seven photos of her in her own room.’
‘Talk about seeing yourself as others see you,’ Hill snorted. ‘She’s smashing here, isn’t she? Hair looking like an explosion in a mattress factory and frock . . . What’s that French word they use when they mean topless but don’t want to say it?’
Masters supplied it. ‘Décolleté.’
‘That’s it. You know, I’ve always wanted to see a waiter drop an ice cream down the front of one of those.’
‘There’s perfume in this room too, but not as much as the bedroom.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 58
