‘Saw one just like it over there in forty-five. I wanted to loot it, but somebody beat me to it.’
‘You? Loot?’ Masters asked.
Green coloured. ‘Actually I didn’t get anything. But I’d have liked that. It was in a corner cupboard. Like that one over there.’ Green pointed to a corner of the room.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ Dent said.
It was modern furniture. Square. Not really big enough for Masters who preferred armchairs that accepted and enveloped him when he sat down: feather-cushioned wing chairs with overstuffed rolling arms and plenty of depth from back to front. A chair that had no head rest was no armchair to him. And this room wasn’t homely. It had everything; but everything was in its place. There were no newspapers lying about, no books left open. He thought Sally Bowker must have felt strange in a house like this after living in farmhouses, overcrowded flats and untidy studios. There was only one piece of furniture that intrigued Masters. It was Green’s corner cupboard: carved oak with leaded panes so old that they scarcely allowed a view of the contents, except where labels were close up to the inside of the glass. Masters could just read some of them: La Ina, Courvoisier, Anisette, D.O.M. He could think of no better use for so fine a piece than to make it serve as a wine cupboard. He imagined the elder Dent had bought it at one of the auctions he conducted. If so, it said much—in Masters’ opinion—for his taste. So much less garish than the modern cocktail bar one might expect to find in a room such as this. Masters thought he would have liked the piece for himself; thought he could just make out—now his eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light—the outlines of other bottles, and tried to guess their contents by their shapes. He was pretty sure of Vat 69 and Gordons when Dent, noticing his interest, said, ‘Would you like a drink? I’m sorry, I should have offered …’
‘No, no. Thank you. Not at this time of day. I was just admiring the cupboard.’
‘It is rather splendid, isn’t it? We’re going to have an internal light fixed some day.’
‘To switch on when the door opens?’ Green asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Right, gentlemen,’ Masters said, ‘shall we get down to business? You know why we’re here, Mr Dent?’
Dent nodded. ‘Sally.’
‘We’d like to know everything that happened last Saturday. So far we have visited her doctor whom she saw in the morning. She left the surgery, I believe, at about half-past ten. What do you suppose she did then?’
‘Went shopping. It was her usual Saturday-morning chore, and I know she went last Saturday because she took her prescription to the chemist and got a fresh supply of insulin and she also went on her usual spree looking for suitable foods.’
‘Suitable?’
‘Sally could eat most things, but all the same she took great care to make sure her diet wasn’t overloaded with fats and other high caloric items. She took a lot of green vegetables and fairly high protein stuff, and she was pretty particular to get the best there was. She’d shop around for it.’
‘I see. That would take her up to lunchtime, I suppose.’
‘Certainly not later. She ate on time. It helps diabetics if they stick to a very strictly timed routine, you know. One thing I’d learned through being with Sally was that she’d never allow herself to get peckish, and she always carried a sweet or a few sugar lumps in case she did. I think you can safely say she’d have lunch at one.’
‘At home? Or in a restaurant?’
‘Definitely at home.’
‘How can you be sure? Did she tell you?’
‘No. But she fought shy of restaurants. There was no real reason why she should have done, but as I told you she was very particular about her ten-gram equivalents … you know what they are?’
Masters nodded. ‘The diet sheets list all the amounts of the usual foods that give ten grams of carbohydrate. If I remember rightly seven ounces of water melon equal a third of an ounce of sugar and they both yield ten grams of carbohydrate. Is that it?’
‘Yes. And in restaurant food—or so Sally said—you never knew what was being used. I mean it takes three-quarters of a pound of tomatoes to give ten grams, but if they make tomato soup with all sorts of thickeners and add sugar to it and so on, a diabetic hasn’t a clue what equivalents he’s being dished up. And Sally said puddings were particularly bad in this respect. So she never went to restaurants if she could help it.’
‘Not with you when you were out together?’ Green asked.
‘Sometimes. To places where she could be sure of a salad and stewed fruit sweetened with saccharin.’
‘That must have cut down your pleasures quite a lot,’ Masters said.
Dent said simply, ‘A bit. We used to go out to eat very often before Sal knew she was diabetic. But we’d learned to do without since. There’s plenty to do besides eating out, you know.’
Masters produced his pipe and tobacco. As he rubbed a fill in the palm of his left hand he asked, ‘What were you proposing to do after marriage, Mr Dent? Were you going to live on a diabetic diet? Or would your wife have expected to cook two separate dishes each day?’
Dent laughed. ‘Nothing like that. Diabetics eat the same food as anybody else, but possibly less of it.’
‘No, Mr Dent.’
Brian Dent looked at Masters for a moment, and smiled in a puzzled way. ‘Take a very common lunch,’ Masters said. ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire. A diabetic won’t tackle Yorkshire pudding. Won’t eat roast potatoes. Won’t eat creamed potatoes because of the butter and milk in them. But he will eat boiled potatoes. Potatoes with no extraneous flavouring and easily measured into equivalents. Rather daunting isn’t it? Boiled potatoes for ever for a man who likes them roast, mashed, chipped, sauté-ed, fried and so on. And no Yorkshire! And no stewed fruit sweetened with sugar. And so on. In an endless list. Hadn’t you thought of all this, Mr Dent?’
‘Of course I had. My mother has pointed it out often enough even if I hadn’t thought of it for myself.’
‘Your mother? And yet you were contemplating married life with equanimity?’
‘Of course I was. Odd as it may seem, I adored Sally. Wanted her.’
‘Before she was diabetic.’
‘And after. Only more so. The thought of her having diabetes—her injections, tests and diets—only made me want her more.’
‘Out of pity, perhaps.’
‘Pity be damned. It was love.’
‘Good for you,’ answered Masters. ‘I’m pleased to have heard you say it.’
‘You wouldn’t—couldn’t—have expected anything else if you’d known Sally.’
‘I’ve seen a photograph of her.’
‘Have you? She looked pretty good, didn’t she? But you had to know her to realize what a fantastic girl she was.’
Masters accepted this superficially, mentally putting most of it down to the protestations of a young man in love—notoriously untrustworthy opinions. Something of this attitude must have communicated itself to Dent, who said, ‘You’re a bit sceptical?’
‘Not really. But you were going to marry her.’
‘So my judgment about her is suspect?’
‘I’d expect it to be—a little.’
Dent leaned forward earnestly. ‘Let me tell you this, Mr Masters. I’m an only child. And though I think the world of my mother, I’d be the first to admit that she’s possessive as far as I’m concerned. I’ve no illusions about her. She thinks nothing is good enough for me. Nor anybody. Ever since I’ve been old enough to think about marriage, I’ve expected to have a battle royal with Mother about whichever girl I asked to marry me. I knew—really knew—that if I presented the most noble, beautiful creature that ever lived, as my future wife, mother would be critical. And would try to stop it.’
‘Go on, Mr Dent.’
‘Mother didn’t try to stop my engagement to Sally. Every girl I’d brought home before she came along had been wrong for me. For a variety of reasons. Mother nosed out imperfect
ions in dress, manners, looks, speech, family, character—the lot. But never with Sally. In fact, she encouraged the engagement. Sang Sally’s praises to me. Said how clever, beautiful, gay and kind she was. What a wonderful wife and mother she’d make. And believe me, Chief Inspector, any girl whom I wished to marry who could make my mother say what she did, must have been just about as perfect as they come in every respect.’
‘You’ve made your point, Mr Dent,’ Masters said. ‘And I might as well say that I’ve heard much the same about Miss Bowker from other people. But I also got the impression that she was a spirited young lady.’
‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘That I have heard Miss Bowker was very much at home with men and evoked a great amount of respect and admiration from them.’
‘Oh yes. Every chap I knew went crackers about her.’
‘But her own sex were not always quite so unstinting in their praise of her.’
Dent flushed. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it must be sour grapes.’
‘Not entirely, Mr Dent. To be fair, I’ve heard only one person openly critical—and that taken alone would, I’m sure, be a bad case of sour grapes. But I heard from an independent source that Miss Bowker’s very open way with men tended to queer the pitch for other women …’
‘Good lord! That’s impossible. Unless …’
‘Unless what, Mr Dent?’
Dent reddened. ‘I was going to say that nobody could possibly give you that idea unless it was Clara Breese.’
‘It wasn’t Miss Breese. She has never mentioned the matter to us, but what we did hear about her case—from a third party—seems to substantiate our information. Miss Bowker did, I believe, replace Miss Breese in your affections?’
‘I suppose she did, in a way. But before he gets married a man can change his girl friends, can’t he?’
‘I think it is generally held to be a good thing, Mr Dent. And the choice was yours entirely—if it was your choice.’
‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘Did you take the decision to break your friendship with Miss Breese and to start one with Miss Bowker, or did Miss Bowker intrude or come between you and Miss Breese with the intention of taking her place?’
Dent jumped to his feet. He looked angrily at Masters. ‘Sally’s been dead less than a week, and you’re here suggesting …’
‘Suggesting nothing, Mr Dent. Asking. Please sit down. It’s not uncommon for one girl to fancy what another’s got and go after it with malice aforethought. If I may say so, you’re not a bad catch for a girl. You’re young, good looking, a professional man with tremendous prospects ahead of you both from your own work and a likely inheritance. These things count in a materialistic world, Mr Dent.’
‘Meaning that Sally was marrying me for what she could get?’
‘Not exactly. But the ending of your friendship with Miss Breese was not of that young lady’s making. Or to her liking. She’s been moping ever since, Mr Dent.’
‘So?’
‘So she was given the push, Mr Dent. By you. And I want to know if Miss Bowker was not only the reason for it, but if she was also responsible for it. Please tell me.’
Dent looked stubborn.
‘Well, Mr Dent?’
‘The choice—if it was a choice—was mine.’
‘What does that mean, exactly?’
‘Sally and I just came together naturally.’
‘You mean you did nothing to assist the gravitation?’
‘There was no need to, I tell you. When two people—what’s the popular phrase?—are made for each other, these things happen of their own accord.’
‘I understand. Now, let’s get back to last Saturday. Miss Bowker lunched at home at one o’clock—to the best of your knowledge?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What were you doing during the morning?’
‘Tinkering with the car, mostly.’
‘And what else?’
‘I read the paper. I always read it more fully on Saturday and Sunday than the rest of the week. I had coffee with my parents.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes. And I went out with Dad for our usual lunchtime drink.’
‘You had made no arrangement to meet Miss Bowker?’
‘Not in the morning. I never did. Saturday morning was what Sally used to call her Dorcas morning. It was the only time in the week when she had time to do all the things there are to be done in a home besides her visits to the doctor and the clinic when they fell due.’
‘Good enough. But after lunch?’
‘We always met in the afternoon. We were getting ready to be married, you know. That day we were looking over a house we thought we might buy.’
‘Just one?’
‘We’d viewed a lot. But this one was the one we thought we liked, so we were paying a second visit. We were being very thorough about it, as you can imagine.’
‘Miss Bowker liked the house?’
‘Very much. So did I, but I wanted to make sure it was structurally sound before we made up our minds. I’m an architect by profession, so I could do the survey to my own satisfaction.’
‘How long were you there? At this house?’
‘I picked Sally up at half-past two. We got back here about five.’
‘Here?’
‘It’s a habit we got into after Sally developed diabetes. On Saturdays we always came here for tea and supper.’
Masters sat silent for a moment. Green appeared lost in thought. Sally Bowker had spent her last five or six hours of normal life in this house. It meant that whoever was present during that time would have to be questioned. ‘It became a habit, you say?’ Masters asked.
‘Yes. It was the only night when I could be sure of seeing Sally, so Mum changed her supper-party night to Saturday.’
‘Changed, Mr Dent? When from?’
‘Sorry. What I meant was that the parent birds used to entertain on any old night at one time, but because of Sally, Mum stabilized it on Saturday nights. They became a sort of “at home” function with her.’
‘Purely on Miss Bowker’s account? That was very considerate of your mother.’
‘She is considerate—was—where Sally was concerned. She looked after her, you know. The menu and the drinks were always chosen with an eye to what was best for Sally.’
‘Didn’t that become a little difficult? With other guests to consider?’
‘No problem as far as I heard.’
‘Your mother knew enough about your fiancée’s condition to be able to cope satisfactorily?’
‘Not about her condition. She had no medical knowledge that I know of.’
‘But she coped.’
‘Food was never a problem. Mother was a dietitian.’
‘Was?’
‘Before she married. She trained before the war. Then during the war she became one of the first area consultants for the school’s meals service. The system was introduced at that time and, as I understand it, dietitians being few and far between, mother got a fairly important job—her war service, in fact.’
‘Has she done any active professional work since?’
‘No. She was already married, and as soon as the war was over and Dad came back, she had me.’
‘That’s a quarter of a century ago. She’d be a bit rusty now, I expect. However, that’s beside the point. She took good care of Miss Bowker.’
‘I’ve told you what Mum thought of Sally. And she proved it often enough. Why, only on Saturday night—well, it was at teatime, actually, when we were all discussing the house we’d been to look over—Dad said that he would give me a thousand pounds to add to the deposit so that the mortgage wouldn’t have to be quite so big, and Mum turned to Sally and said, “If Brian’s getting a thousand to help pay for the house, I’ll give you five hundred to help furnish it.” ’
‘That was extremely generous.’
‘It certainly was.’
‘A spontan
eous gesture of affection?’
‘Absolutely. Sally had said that she thought the only major work to be done would be in the kitchen. She said she would want to modernize it, make it labour-saving with all these units and gadgets, and Mum—who’s a great one in that line herself—simply said she would provide the money. That shows you what she thought of Sally.’
‘And what did your father think of her?’ Masters asked.
Brian Dent said simply, ‘I believe he looked on Sally as the daughter he would have liked for himself.’
Masters relit his pipe. ‘Who else was at supper with you on Saturday night?’
‘Just one other couple. Friends of Dad’s. Alderman and Mrs Bancroft. They’re decent bodies. Not all that old.’
‘Did Miss Bowker know them?’
‘Oh, yes. They knew her parents pretty well in the old days.’
Masters got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to speak to them and your parents.’
‘You can see Mum and Dad now.’
Masters looked at his watch. Then: ‘I’d like to meet them. But I’m a bit pushed for time.’ Green stared in surprise. Masters hadn’t mentioned he was in a hurry. ‘Can I just say hallo and perhaps arrange a meeting for a little later on. I must get back into town and we let our car go on some other business.’
‘In that case, the nearest way to where they’re snoozing is through the kitchen,’ Dent said. ‘I’ll lead the way.’
They followed him. Masters could see how right Brian Dent had been when he said his mother was keen on modern kitchens. This room could have been photographed for the visual of a glossy advertisement. Pale blue units with working surfaces, double sink unit, refrigerator, deep freeze, Bendix, many-clocked electric cooker, infrared grill, Miele dish washer …
Through the kitchen to a small lobby; out under the car port and left round the back of the house on to a flagged terrace half as big as a tennis court. Below this, cut out of the lawn, a swimming pool the same size, lined in blue tiles giving the water a Mediterranean invitation. Mrs Dent was in a candy-striped sun suit, lying at ease in a garden swing-lounge, protected from the direct heat by a scallop-edged shade. She wore sun glasses, giving herself a Garboesque anonymity. Masters didn’t like it. He preferred to see people’s eyes. Dent senior was lying out in a cane chaise-longue. He was wearing sandals, a pair of navy-blue Calpreta shorts and a wide-brimmed hat made out of canary-yellow terry towelling.
Sick to Death Page 8
