Masters read it through twice. He thought he could interpret the story. Cyrus R. Sprott was an American citizen, obviously based at Throscum during the war. He had left the camp in May 1944, to go to a staging area en route for embarkation in a vessel that would land him in Normandy early in June. Sprott had been a United States Ranger—the equivalent of a British Commando—and, therefore, likely to be one of the first few to storm ashore on D-day on Omaha, Utah or some other fire-ripped stretch of coastline. Hence his expectancy of death in action. He had left Throscum without hope of survival. The beautiful Devonshire countryside must have seemed like Elysium to him that springtime. No wonder nostalgia had brought him back to this spot. What had he expected to find? Masters guessed it must have come as a surprise to a man who had lived, not only through the hell of war but also through the accelerated life of the age of the fastest advances of mankind in the country of greatest technological progress of all time, to find this spot virtually the same as when he left it a quarter of a century before. And to find that here, where he had once been billeted and trained to razor-edged killing sharpness, he could once again live for a spell, but this time with no impending holocaust to spoil the tranquillity of his stay.
As Masters mused his way through this little cameo—a slice of life which, if true as he envisaged it, must be as happy a little story as he had met for years—he remembered something Syme had told him. The perfume strips had been given to Mrs Partridge by an American visitor in May. He wondered how many American visitors there were to out-of-the-way Throscum each year. How many in one month—particularly in May, which is a little early for the general run of holidaymakers. Not many on either count, he decided. He glanced again through the last few pages of the book. If there had been other United States citizens here in May they hadn’t bothered to say whether they had been satisfied with the Throscum hospitality or not.
He walked over to Cathy York. She smiled at him. An ingenuous, happy smile. He liked it. He liked the smooth skin of her face and the way the natural redness of her lips was well defined without need for too much lipstick. She radiated helpfulness. A rare commodity. She said: ‘Reading the blurb? I often do. It’s nice to know what they think of us—that’s if they tell the truth.’
‘I think you can take it they do, otherwise they wouldn’t bother. They probably see things a bit rosier than they are, particularly if the weather’s been good during their holiday. But by and large I’d say it was a fair record.’
‘That’s nice to know. Is there something I can do for you, Mr Masters?’
‘Yes, please. Can you tell me whether there were any Americans other than Mr Cyrus R. Sprott staying here in May?’
‘Goodness, you don’t think that nice Mr Sprott killed Mrs Partridge?’
He grinned. ‘Hardly. It’s weeks since he left here.’
‘What a relief. He was so friendly. They always are, you know, the Americans. When they come abroad they’re out to enjoy themselves. They treat everybody like friends.’
‘So I believe. Can you tell me what I want to know?’
‘Yes. I don’t have to look at the register. The answer is no. Mr Sprott said when he was here that it was a great treat for him to be where there were absolutely no other countrymen of his own to bump into.’
‘Thank you. Now in the book Mr Sprott said he would be coming back again shortly. Can you tell me when?’
Cathy grinned at him. ‘I’ll ring Mr Compton’s secretary. She does advance bookings.’ She picked up the internal phone and dialled with the end of her pencil. She said: ‘Val, can you tell me when that American, Mr Sprott, is coming again?’
There was a short pause, then Val obviously asked who wanted to know.
‘Mr Masters—the detective.’
Cathy listened for another moment then put the phone down. ‘He’s coming tomorrow—with his wife.’
‘Thank you.’
He sauntered away to the open front door and filled his pipe. As he was lighting it, Hill and Brant came down the stairs and joined him. He asked laconically: ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about fruit?’
‘What about it?’
‘Any apple cores, nut shells, bunches of grapes? That sort of thing?’
‘No fruit in the bowls, and not so much as an orange pip in the waste bin or ash-trays. Any special reason for asking?’
‘Yes. The dancing queen said she was fond of dessert. I was wondering if our elusive poison could have come from fruit sprays.’
Hill said: ‘That’s a brainwave, Chief.’
‘You think so?’
Brant said: ‘Sounds the likeliest yet, to me.’
‘It offers a chance, I suppose. I’d like you two to follow it up. Get some fruit from the kitchens or stores, have it tested. Find out where it comes from. You know what I want without me to tell you.’
‘Leave it to us,’ Hill said. ‘We’ll get on to it this afternoon. We’re going to list the exhibits now. Shall we see you back here in an hour or so?’
Masters nodded, and the sergeants made off towards their bungalow. A minute or two later Green came through the magnolia bushes opposite where he was standing. Green said: ‘I cut through the churchyard. They’re burying her next to her old man. He’ll have his first missus on one side and his second on the other.’
‘That sounds cosy. What luck with your doctor friends?’
‘Can we step inside out of the sun? Into the bar?’
They were the only occupants. Garry brought them their drinks and retired discreetly. Green said: ‘Meeth swears he didn’t prescribe the Nonavom tablets for her.’
‘I think she got hold of them fairly recently. According to Syme they were in her handbag last Friday.’
‘He noses in women’s handbags, does he?’
Masters explained.
Green said: ‘So it seems true that Meeth made that crack about the dogs. Mrs Meeth told me their medical contract had been ended, but her version was a bit different from Syme’s. The Meeths say the contract was cancelled before that visit.’
‘I think they’re right. A place like this has its brochures printed long before Christmas, and the new arrangements were mentioned in them. Meeth’s visit took place in February.’
Green nodded and lit a Kensitas. ‘What d’you think about Meeth’s suggestion that a pal gave the Nonavom to her?’
‘It’s a possibility. And as I’d certainly like to know where they came from it’s worth while bearing it in mind.’
‘And doing what?’
Masters relit his pipe. When it was going well, he said: ‘Did you bring your prayer book with you?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Going to church—to a funeral. Oh, I was forgetting, you’re chapel, aren’t you? So you won’t have a Book of Common Prayer; but they’ll give us them in church.’
‘This is a new idea. Since when did you start going to the funerals of murder victims?’
‘Ever since I started reading those newspaper reports about detectives mingling with the crowds at funerals.’
‘I’m doubtful if there’ll be a crowd to mingle with.’
‘I hope not. But if you know a woman well enough to give her your bottle of pills one day, you ought to know her well enough to attend her funeral a few days later. If Meeth’s suggestion is correct, there should be at least one bosom pal present . . .’
‘I get you. If we see somebody we go up to her and say: “This woman has just been murdered by poisoning, did you give her some dangerous pills last week?”’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘And as a bonus, we’ll get a view of how the stepdaughters bear up under the strain of inheriting a hundred thousand pounds apiece.’
‘That might be useful,’ Green grunted. He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly lunchtime. Where are the lads?’
The bar began to fill up. Masters told Green about his idea that the p
oison might have been a toxic fruit spray. Green seized on to this with enthusiasm. ‘It makes sense. If she had collywobbles last Friday and had started eating fruit again before the day was out, she might well have eaten more of the same crop and built up a good old dose that saw her off on Tuesday. Particularly if she didn’t peel her apples or wash them. Lots of people only ever rubbed them at one time. She sounds to me as if she’d be the sort of idle piece that wouldn’t have bothered overmuch.’
‘I’ve told the boys to look into it this afternoon while we’re busy at the funeral and trying to see the stepdaughters.’
‘How’ll they look into it?’
Masters signalled for more drinks. When they arrived, he said: ‘It occurred to me that as this place produces so much of its own garden produce, it may well grow its own fruit.’
‘Aye, aye. You mean that there may be a poisonous fruit spray lying about somewhere, some of which might have been used to doctor a bag of fruit ordered for Fay Partridge—accidentally on purpose like?’
‘That’s it.’ Masters thought Green looked much happier. Suspicion was moving away from the Meeths. That’s why Green had grasped at this straw so readily. It made Masters mistrust his own idea. Still, the possibility was there. If there proved to be anything in it there would remain the necessity to prove whether the fruit spray had contaminated the fruit in the normal course of events, or whether it had been added deliberately. Not an easy task. And besides this, Green and the sergeants appeared to have forgotten one important factor, which made Masters place little hope in his own idea. It was that poodle dogs don’t normally eat fruit—at any rate with skin left on—and yet two of them had died from the same apparent cause as their mistress.
Chapter Five
As Green had forecast, the funeral was a quiet one. The only mourners were Compton and Syme from the staff of Throscum House, Lorna Thoresby and her husband, Becky Honingham and her husband, a rather fat, well-fed man in a black jacket and pin-stripe trousers, Masters and Green, accompanied by Superintendent Mundy, who had slipped into their pew just before the vicar preceded the coffin down the aisle.
For Masters the whole affair proved a dichotomy of interest. Subconsciously he paid attention to the service. ‘I am the resurrection and the life . . . man that is born of woman . . . commit our sister, Fay Marion . . . earth to earth.’ Consciously he was scanning faces, as well as he could from his chosen position in a transept pew. Apart from the fat man’s clothes and the black ties of the men, there was no sign of mourning wear. The two women kept their faces decently lowered. The man Masters took to be Thoresby appeared unfamiliar with both the layout of a church and the service. He looked about him, much the same as a sightseer trapped against his will in a cathedral he is visiting by an inconveniently timed saying of Evensong. Masters watched him carefully. Cadaverous. Too tall for his width, balding, a bit smug, considerably older than his wife and—the thought came to Masters for no reason he could think of—looking as if he’d be a bore at parties. He certainly evinced no signs of distress.
Honingham appeared fully versed in church behaviour. He stood when he should, and knelt without the momentary hesitation that shows when a person is not a churchgoer. He was clearly younger than Thoresby, with a full head of fair hair and a healthy, weather-beaten complexion. Masters could make no surmises about him except that he looked to be an ordinary, pleasant man, affected slightly by the more emotive parts of the service.
Compton appeared to have an awareness of the solemnity of the occasion. He wore that shattered look men often assume at funerals. And though his grief appeared genuine it was quiet and controlled compared with that of Ernie Syme, who wore a white polo-necked shirt under a burgundy corduroy jacket. Syme gestured. When he went on his knees his hands fluttered to his brow. When he stood they looped down as gently as those of a ballerina doing her dying swan act. He gazed on the coffin mournfully. Masters saw he was carrying a bunch of violets—probably for dropping into the grave.
He was right. The violets went down with the remains of Fay Partridge. As they turned from the grave Green said: ‘No luck. No bosom pal who could have given her those pills.’
Mundy said—and Masters could have kicked him because of it—‘Mingling with the crowd in the hopes?’
‘Crowd?’ Green sounded scornful: as if to imply that he had been affronted by the simplicity of the ceremony: as if to indicate that if he’d been in charge of arrangements the entire staff of the Throscum undertakings would have been dragooned into filling the church or lining the churchyard path.
‘I suppose the fleshy chap is the solicitor?’ Masters asked.
‘That’s not him,’ Mundy replied. ‘Edwards of Waters and Edwards is their man.’
‘Then who was fatty?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’d like to know what his interest is.’
‘Meaning you’d like me to find out for you?’
‘If you could. He’ll be . . . no, dammit, isn’t that . . . yes, he’s just driving away.’
‘Never mind,’ Mundy said. ‘Fawn Jag. I didn’t get the number but he’s likely to be fairly local and, therefore, traceable without much bother.’
Green said: ‘I can’t think what you want to bother with him for. Probably just one of her regular clients before she married Partridge. Came out of a sense of duty to an old bunk mate.’
Mundy laughed. ‘Crude, but feasible.’
*
It was a quarter to four before the two stepdaughters and their husbands were ready to receive Masters and Green. Like the detectives, they were occupying one bungalow. The meeting took place in the sitting-room and when all seven were gathered—the solicitor, Edwards, was staying—the room was overcrowded. Not the sort of conditions under which Masters preferred to work, but he accepted them at this preliminary stage.
Masters said: ‘Mrs Thoresby, Mrs Honingham, I would like to say how sorry I am about both your stepmother’s death and the way it happened.’
Thoresby said: ‘Oh, spare us the claptrap. We didn’t like Fay for obvious reasons and this is just another job of work for you.’
Edwards, who was middle-aged, with a bald patch and greying side patches, and a good strong face, reacted immediately. ‘I would advise a little more caution and respect, Mr Thoresby.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘For two very good reasons. The first is that good manners cost nothing, the second is that though the Chief Inspector might be unwilling to admit it officially, I imagine he must consider the prime beneficiaries of this crime as the prime suspects. It usually happens that they are.’
‘Thank you, Mr Edwards,’ Masters said. ‘A true appreciation of the position will help us all a great deal.’
‘Do you mean to say you actually do suspect us of murdering Fay?’ Lorna Thoresby inquired.
‘That would be putting it a bit high, perhaps, at this moment. But I must consider you very carefully. None of us wants to make mistakes in a matter as serious as this.’
‘I should hope not.’
Thoresby said: ‘It’s bloody ridiculous. She died on Tuesday. I was in Hull all Tuesday and I can prove it.’
‘I know, Mr Thoresby. You were there from last Friday onwards.’
‘You’ve checked up?’
‘Immediately it was known Mrs Partridge was murdered.’
‘Then what’s all this about us being suspects?’
Green said: ‘There are more ways than one of killing a cat, even if it has got nine lives. Mrs Partridge was poisoned. You don’t have to be present at the time to poison anybody. Poison can be left, or posted, and can take various forms.’
‘I can see your point,’ Honingham said. ‘I might as well tell you now that I handle poisonous substances all the time.’
Becky said: ‘Ralph, you shouldn’t . . .’
‘They’ll find out, so I might as well tell them.’
‘What substances, Mr Honingham?’
‘Scads o
f them. I’ve a crop-spraying business. Cover the whole of East Anglia with pesticides and insecticides. From the air and from the ground.’
Green said: ‘You’ve got an aeroplane?’
‘An old Auster with fitted tanks.’
To Green’s surprise, Masters left it at that and turned to Thoresby. ‘You, sir. What’s your business?’
‘I’m an importer—on Hull commercial docks.’
‘Do you import food?’
‘Mainly food from the Scandinavian and Baltic countries. Dairy produce mostly. But from other places, too.’
‘D’you ever bring in any fruit?’
‘Yes, I do. Why?’
To everybody’s surprise Masters got to his feet. He said: ‘I think we ought to leave it at that for the moment. I know you ladies will want tea after a trying day, and as I’d like to see each one of you separately, perhaps you could make yourselves available this evening.’
Thoresby said: ‘Now what the hell’s happened? And what do you want to talk to us separately about?’
Masters said: ‘You’d be surprised at the questions I ask, Mr Thoresby. Very often the people I talk to prefer to answer in private. I’m sure it’s better that way.’ He turned to Edwards. ‘Could I have a word or two with you, sir?’
‘Now?’
‘If you please.’
Edwards followed Masters outside. Green brought up the rear. Masters said, when they were out of earshot of the bungalow: ‘Mr Edwards, did you act for Mrs Partridge or for her stepdaughters when her late husband’s will was contested?’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 61
