‘You don’t believe her?’ Green asked.
‘She lied, didn’t she?’
Green snorted in disgust.
Masters said, ‘I believe she went where she said. But a girl who finds herself at a loose end practically on the doorstep of the man she’s still got a yen for would find her feet taking her that way willy-nilly.’
‘To do what?’
‘Nothing, I expect. Just look. And that would put her in the mood to take herself off to the pictures alone instead of rushing home to arrange an alternative late date.’
Green was unconvinced. ‘Where does it get us if she did walk past the house?’
‘It helps to keep the pot boiling,’ Masters said. ‘Makes us appear omniscient …’
‘Om what?’
‘Makes us look as if we knew more than we do.’ Masters helped himself to Brie and breakfast biscuits.
‘Now I know we’re out of our depth,’ Green said. ‘We’re having to start something to see what happens.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Brant. ‘It’s a recognized technique.’
‘It’s a policy of despair.’
‘I’m not despairing,’ Masters answered. ‘As I told you, I’m confident. Now, what about Heatherington-Blowers? Any word from him?’
‘Nothing.’ Green said. ‘I reckon he’s another of ’em.’
‘What?’
‘Bum steers.’
‘Why?’
‘He hasn’t sparked yet, has he? Probably gone home for lunch and fallen asleep after it. And that’s what we’d do if we had any nous.’
To Green’s surprise Masters said, ‘Good idea. We’re at a standstill until we hear from Heatherington-Blowers, and until we can call on Breese. We’ll meet for tea about a quarter past four unless something crops up in the meanwhile.’
‘What are you going to do, Chief?’ asked Hill.
‘I’m going for a walk.’
‘In this heat?’
‘You’re not going for a walk with no object in mind,’ Green accused him.
‘No. I want to take a look at the windows Sally Bowker dressed. The ones the Chief Super mentioned. And I might also visit the cathedral.’
Hill asked, ‘Do you mind if I come with you?’
7 |
When they met at teatime, Green asked, ‘Well? Any more bright ideas? Has Heatherington-Blowers called?’
‘Don’t get impatient,’ said Masters. ‘Have a crab sandwich instead.’
Green took two, lifted the top layer off one of them to examine the contents, saying, ‘I never trust paste sandwiches.’
The lounge at the Bristol was fairly full. Masters had no desire to discuss his case within earshot of fellow guests, so he devoted himself to having tea. Green misread his intentions and regarded his avoidance of any mention of the case as another indication that the investigation was not progressing. Masters guessed this. Got a certain amount of pleasure out of the situation. He’d not tried to mislead Green. Had done the opposite, in fact, by stressing that he had gone a long way towards solving the problem. But Green, mistrustful by nature, had not believed him. Masters decided to let him stew in his own juice. Certainly it was an unusual case. As odd as Dick’s hatband. But that was no reason for Green to be vociferously disbelieving.
Green, for his part, was mentally accusing Masters of being little short of a mountebank. Pretending the case was all over bar the shouting when as far as he could see there was no shred of proof to indicate the guilt of anybody concerned with Sally Bowker.
He felt the usual dislike of Masters rise in his gorge. Noted the slim hands as Masters stirred a cup of tea. Decorative but useless in Green’s opinion. An anomaly. Almost a deformity in so big a man. Now, it appeared, he was looking at Clara Breese to help him out of the corner his boasting had forced him into. Green reflected that it would be just Masters’ luck for something to turn up from that direction. Just as it was his own luck that he, when interviewing Clara Breese, had failed to ferret out anything useful. On the whole, Green felt slightly fed up with life in general, and with Chief bloody Inspector Masters in particular.
Hill was officiating at the tea pot. Green said sourly, ‘Teem me a cup more bellywash.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s a matter of opinion. They’re using tea bags, not the proper stuff.’
‘It’s the same tea whether it’s in bags or loose,’ Brant said.
‘You mind your own barrow. If you can’t push it, shove it. I was talking to Sarn’t Hill.’
‘Sorry.’
Masters eased his chair away from the table. ‘I’ll be back, so don’t squeeze the pot. I think I’d better call Heatherington-Blowers.’
Green hoped Masters would get a flea in his ear. He was disappointed. Inside five minutes Masters was back. ‘They’re being thorough. They’re still at it,’ he said.
‘Doing what?’
‘Bruce, the bacteriologist, is evidently a methodical man. He’s going through the table of elements one by one, from A to Z, testing for traces.’
‘How far’s he got?’ asked Green.
‘About two-thirds of the way.’
‘How many’s that?’
‘About seventy-five, I think. I believe there are something like a hundred elements these days. The list has grown a bit these last few years.’
‘I thought there were only four—earth, water, air and fire,’ Green said.
‘Quite right. I was talking about chemical elements.’
Green grunted and lit a Kensitas.
‘We won’t get an answer before nine tonight. At least that’s Bruce’s estimate. So I suggest we go to Cheltenham to see Clara Breese, and hope that by the time we get there she’ll have finished her day’s work.’
She was wearing jeans. Cherry-picker red ones that clung round her seat and upper thighs and hugged her calves like jodhpurs. Above them she had a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbow, showing brown arms and strong wrists. Privately Masters thought she looked like a proud, young goddess. The appearance of Green and himself at the door didn’t appear to disconcert her. ‘The second instalment of the inquisition?’ she asked. ‘Come up. We might as well be comfortable.’
Masters could see the muscles of her buttocks and thighs rippling under the tight, thin material as she went up the stairs before him. He was reminded of an athlete—strength, power and co-ordination.
When they reached the sitting-room, Green said, ‘Miss Bracegirdle not home yet?’
‘She’s been and gone. A date with a long-haired musician,’ Clara said off-handedly.
Masters accepted her offer of a chair and then said, ‘Miss Breese, you didn’t tell Inspector Green the whole truth about your activities last Saturday. Why?’
‘You mean I lied? I didn’t, you know.’
‘I said the whole truth. Why didn’t you tell him you had been out a second time to your aunt’s house, and had been wandering round the area in the early evening?’
‘Because I didn’t think he’d be interested in the name of every street I went down, nor in the number of the bus I caught, or the colour of the conductor’s eyes.’
‘Quite right, Miss Breese. But your wanderings took you pretty close to the Dent house. And we are interested in that, as you well know.’
‘What the hell!’ It was a listless retort. ‘I didn’t know I was going that way. You won’t believe me, I dare say, but I just walked.’
‘I’ll believe you, Miss Breese—if you tell me exactly what you did, who you saw and so forth, to make it a convincing tale.’
‘That’s just the point. I can’t. I called a second time at my aunt’s house. After all, that’s what I went to Gloucester for. She still wasn’t at home. Then I literally wandered away. I didn’t even know I was going towards the Dents’. I didn’t notice anybody or anything. I was in a dream. My feet just took me there.’
‘So you saw nobody?’
‘No.’
&nb
sp; ‘You got right up to the Dents’ front gate?’
Clara sat up. ‘No. I didn’t. I didn’t go that far.’
‘How d’you know, if you were in a dream?’
She sank back again. ‘I came to, just in time.’
‘What woke you up?’
‘A woman, coming out of the gate.’
‘Dents’ gate?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were close enough to see her?’
She nodded. ‘I was on the other side of the road, and this woman came out. I noticed her and suddenly realized where I was.’
‘Did you know the woman?’
‘No.’
‘A friend of Mrs Dent, perhaps?’
‘I should think not. This one looked like a new maid—I mean one taken on since I was last there.’
‘They had a maid in those days?’
‘No. A gaggle of chars in the mornings, I think.’
‘What did this woman look like?’
‘Nothing on earth. Gingery. You know, that pale ginger hair that has no body to it and goes all wispy. With a thin pale face, freckles, and no eyebrows to be seen. She looked damn bad-tempered, I can tell you that.’
‘She appeared to be in a bad mood at the time?’
‘Oh, no. I meant generally. She looked as if she’d got a slice of lemon in her mouth.’
‘What was her figure like? Her size?’
‘She was a neat sort of body, I suppose. Not very big. Taller than Win, but not gargantuan like me.’
‘You do yourself an injustice, Miss Breese.’
She smiled for the first time. ‘That’s because you’re no stumpy yourself. We belong to the same club.’
‘No. Ask Inspector Green.’
‘I shouldn’t lose any sleep over my figure if I were you, Miss,’ Green said. ‘I know what men like, and you’ve got it all right—but a bit more than most, that’s all.’
‘Thank you.’
Green went on: ‘But it doesn’t mean we’re very happy about you. You should have told me …’
‘I couldn’t. I’ve been in a gloom for months now. I just couldn’t.’
‘We understand,’ Masters said. ‘Now did you see anybody else near the Dent house other than the maid?’
‘No. And I’m not saying it was the maid. You know, I’ve never given her a thought since the moment I saw her, but since you’ve been here, talking about her, I’ve began to feel that I might have seen her somewhere else, before. But I can’t think when or where.’
‘Try the hospital in Gloucester,’ Masters suggested. ‘When you went there to design the curtains and decorations.’
She stared at him for a moment and then said slowly, ‘Yes. That’s it. In a nurse’s uniform. Her hair was under a cap then. That’s what fooled me. But now you mention it I can remember the no-eyebrows effect at a few paces. You’re very clever, aren’t you! And how did you get to know about the hospital curtains? You haven’t been talking to Brian about me, have you?’
Masters smiled. ‘Of course not. We’re not so dim. Alderman and Mrs Bancroft told me how well you’d treated them.’
‘I see. Would you like a drink? Cyprus sherry or vin rosé’s all we’ve got.’
‘Sherry, please. I’m not a great wine drinker.’
‘You can refuse if you want to.’
‘I’ll do that only if the bottle’s empty.’
She turned to Green. He said, ‘Me, too. I like Cyprus sherry. I buy it myself. I don’t know enough about it to buy the dear stuff.’
‘You’re both gorgeous men. Thank God for a bit of sanity and understanding.’
As she handed him his glass, Green said, surprisingly, ‘Thanks. You’ll feel better now, you know.’
‘I feel better already. Cheers!’
It was ten past nine when Heatherington-Blowers finally rang. Masters was called to the phone from the garden where the four of them were sitting to get what cool the still-bright evening offered.
‘Ah! Masters,’ Heatherington-Blowers said. ‘I think we’d better meet rather than gas on this thing.’
‘Right, sir. Where and when?’
‘What about the pub you’re in? Both Bruce and I could do with a drink.’
‘We’re in the garden at the moment. I can organize a private room if you like.’
‘The garden sounds wonderful after being cooped up all day in this shed of a laboratory. Ten minutes suit you?’
‘Fine, sir. I’ll line them up ready. Beer or whisky?’
‘Beer for both of us—at any rate to begin with.’
Hill and Brant moved away at Green’s suggestion to leave room at the table for the two newcomers. When they came—met by Masters at the front door of the Bristol-Hill, keeping his eyes open, collected the tankards of Worthington.
Heatherington-Blowers was dressed in old grey slacks and a cream bush jacket. He was, Masters judged, about fifty-five, very bald, with a sunburned pate fringed with grey hair. Little broken veins dotted his cheeks and nose end. He was a fair-sized man, running to girth through age rather than any other reason. Bruce looked like a bespectacled schoolmaster. Pale, thin face, heavy-lensed glasses, a hooky nose and dark hair. He wore a brown suit, and carried a large book tucked into his shoulder, like a parson carrying his Bible into the pulpit to deliver a sermon.
Masters led them through to the garden and introduced them to Green. They sat at the table. Heatherington-Blowers drank deep. Bruce sipped.
Heatherington-Blowers said, ‘I’ve been cursing you for many hours, Masters. You and your bright ideas! But you were right. Zinc. And you’ll kindly note that zed comes right at the end of the alphabet.’
Masters said, dazedly, ‘Zinc?’
‘Very interesting indeed,’ said Bruce. ‘Of course it would have helped had we known what we were looking for. As it was we only succeeded by carrying out a most exhaustive process of elimination. Even so, I had begun to despair by the time we got to the last letter of the alphabet. And your floorcloth wasn’t the ideal source of material, you know. Very sparse. Very sparse indeed.’
‘Somebody had rinsed it,’ Heatherington-Blowers said accusingly.
Masters said apologetically, ‘The dead girl. Not us. We preserved it just as we found it.’
‘Ah, well. You’ve justified your request for forensic help. Now what?’
‘Zinc. What about it?’
‘Oh, yes. Bruce has brought along Martindale for reference.’ Bruce opened the book at a marked page. Heatherington-Blowers went on: ‘You must realize, that tests such as we’ve carried out today, leaching the material to be tested out of an old floorcloth, give us no opportunity for telling you how much zinc there was in the body.’
‘You would need the various organs for that?’
‘No. Useless, I’m pleased to say. It lets me off the hook for not finding it at the post-mortem. Zinc sulphate—which is what it was—is eliminated in the vomit. That means I could only have made an estimate if I’d been given a proper sample of vomit. But we are able to say from today’s tests that there was zinc sulphate present, and a significant amount of it. Which there certainly shouldn’t have been. And as zinc sulphate is an emetic, it is logical to suppose that emesis was produced by its presence in the body. That was what you asked us to discover. We’ve done our part. How it got there is for you to find out.’
‘Thank you,’ Masters said.
‘It’s not an emetic that’s used today,’ Bruce said. ‘I’ve never known it used myself, but I’ll leave you Martindale. You’ll get the information from there. Let me have it back tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Without fail.’
‘You can collect our written report at the same time.’
‘How about another?’ asked Green.
‘Rather. It wasn’t the sort of day to spend in a stuffy laboratory, handling a vomit rag. I need good clean beer to wash the taste away.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Heatherington-Blowers said.
While Green was away
Masters said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you, gentlemen …’
‘By shutting up about it and allowing us to enjoy a decent drink at your expense,’ said Heatherington-Blowers. ‘By jove it’s nice out here. I’ll remember this as a place to come to. Hello! The sun’s not quite down yet, but we’ve got the fairy lights on. Jolly nice. You can see right into the pub and the bars.’
‘In lovely weather there’s no better place than a good, old British pub,’ Bruce said. ‘I feel better already. And here comes our beer.’
At breakfast-time the next morning, Green said, ‘You shied off to bed like a long dog last night. Never a word about how the situation is affected by the saw-bones finding zinc sulphate among the puke.’
‘Because there was nothing more I could tell you without doing a bit of study first,’ Masters replied.
‘We could have discussed it.’
‘Without knowing exactly what we were talking about? It would have been a waste of time, and you know it. As it was, I didn’t, as you suggest, get to bed for some hours.’
Green grunted and tackled a bowl of breakfast cereal which had been growing more and more soggy as he talked. He sucked the milk out of each spoonful before starting to chew. Both the noise and the sight irritated Masters. While he waited for his boiled eggs he half turned from the table and opened his Daily Telegraph.
Brant and Hill came down together. ‘Might as well stoke up this morning,’ the latter said. ‘There’ll be plenty doing today.’
It was a question in the form of a statement. Intended to lure Masters out. It succeeded. He said, ‘I shall want to know where that zinc sulphate came from, and who bought it.’
‘That means a round of the chemists.’
Masters nodded, and folded his paper small as the eggs were placed in front of him. ‘And also, I want you to go to the hospital to return Martindale and collect the written report from Bruce. While you’re there, ask the chief pharmacist if he or any of his staff have noticed any unauthorized person snooping round any of the pharmacopoeias recently.’
‘What sort of person?’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 80
