*
It was just after half-past four when Masters, together with Detective Chief Inspector Green and Detective Sergeants Reed and Berger were shown into Hildidge’s office by a visibly overawed desk sergeant.
“Sit down,” urged Hildidge, after the introductions were over. “I’ve arranged accommodation for you, but I’d very much like to talk to you before you go off to settle in. I’ll have some tea sent up.”
When they were all sitting with tea and biscuits, Hildidge said: “I’ll be honest with you. We’ve found no reason to suppose Miss Holland was murdered. What we’re going on is a conviction that it could not be suicide, that she was not the woman to take a huge dose of poison seeds by mistake, her really outstanding character, and the same opinions expressed very forcibly by Sir Thomas Kenny who is chairman of our Watch Committee and also Chairman of the Governors of the school.”
“Local big-wig, is he?” asked Green, his mouth full of custard cream.
“Actually,” said Hildidge with a smile, “he’s a little chap. No more than three teacups and a chamber-pot high.”
Green obviously liked the description. “The Great I-Am, then?”
“Something of the sort. But I can understand his interest in the case. I knew Miss Holland, because my daughter is at the school. But Sir Thomas tells me the Governors are of the opinion that in Miss Holland they had one of the best, if not the best, in the headmistress line. She’d been at the school just over three years and had gilded the lily. Improved on excellence was how Sir Thomas put it.”
“What has been done so far?” asked Masters.
Hildidge spent the next ten minutes describing the events of the previous night and what Lovegrove had done. When he paused, Green said: “That’s the lot, is it?”
“I’ll give you the file, of course. Not that there’s anything in it. Lovegrove has it at the moment. He’ll have it ready for you—with the forensic report, I hope—tomorrow morning.”
“When is the inquest?” asked Masters.
“Tomorrow morning at eleven, in the courtroom at the town hall.”
“You realise that if there is no evidence of murder by then the coroner’s verdict could close the case before it has started?”
“I do. And I’m sorry about it.” Hildidge explained the circumstances and spoke of Gilchrist’s autocratic handling of his court.
“It appears we may be scuppered either way,” said Masters. “Without evidence of foul play, Gilchrist will bring in his verdict based on what Lovegrove can tell him. And he won’t hold over, either, without evidence to support his decision?”
“I think not. It would be out of character were he to do so.”
“I see,” Masters looked at Hildidge. “We’ll have to think about it tonight and see what we can do. Meanwhile, there was one point that interested me. You said Miss Holland intended to visit her mother on Friday night.”
“Yes.”
“Do you happen to know why?”
Hildidge shook his head. “Is it important?”
“You led us to believe Miss Holland did few things without a purpose. To go to London on Friday night, merely to travel out to Heathrow on Saturday, would seem to be a pointless exercise as she could get to Heathrow much more easily from here.”
“So?”
“I’m wondering whether there was some specific reason for the more difficult journey. Has her mother been told of her death?”
“We phoned through early this morning to the nearest police station and got them to take the news round.”
“Has her mother been told of the inquest?”
“Lovegrove is certain to have informed her.”
Masters turned to Green. “Bill, would you find out if Mrs Holland is on the phone at home? If so, get in touch and ask her if she knows why her daughter intended to visit her on Friday night. It might only have been intended as a sort of duty call, but there could be something else, and if there is, we ought to know about it.”
Green shrugged. “We’ve got to fish around somewhere if we’ve only got until eleven tomorrow morning.” He got up and left the office.
Matsers turned back to Hildidge. “I would prefer not to work contrary to the coroner’s verdict. If we could persuade him to open and then postpone . . . that is what we must attempt to do, in open court.”
“I wish you luck. Gilchrist really has a strong objection to being approached by the police. I reckon he regards it as subversion of justice.”
Masters filled his pipe with Warlock Flake. Reed asked Hildidge: “Sir, am I right in thinking that your D.I. has gone solid on suicide or accident? Or is he backing you and Sir Thomas Kenny?”
“That’s a hard question to answer, Sergeant.”
“Meaning he thinks we’re going to get nothing.”
“What would you think in his place?”
“I’d be beavering away to wipe the Yard’s eye.”
“Then you have your answer.”
Before Reed could go further, Green returned. He walked across the office and sat down before speaking. Then he said: “You’ve hit the nail on the head, George. Miss Holland sometimes rang her mum, but she was a great believer in reviving the lost art of letter-writing.”
Masters nodded and applied a match to his pipe.
“Mrs Holland got a letter on Tuesday morning—yesterday—telling her that Mabel would be visiting her on Friday night.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What?”
“Not specified.” Green took a slip of paper from his pocket. “I took down the gist of it. Mrs Holland said that according to the letter, Mabel said she was very happy and excited, that something wonderful had happened and that she, Mabel, knew her mum would be overjoyed by the news, so she was saving it up as a lovely surprise for her on Friday night.”
“Not even a hint as to what it was?”
“Nothing at all. But does it matter?”
“Not in the least as long as we get the letter.”
“I told her to bring it with her. Told her it was very important and that one of the sergeants would meet her train at the station.”
“Good.” Masters got to his feet. “If we could have a guide to our hotel, Mr Hildidge . . .?”
*
The big Rover followed the Panda car to the Planet, which from the outside showed itself to be a modern, medium-sized hotel, all concrete and glass, with a car park in front.
“Three-star,” said Reed. “Shouldn’t be bad.”
It was Masters who went to the reception desk. It was while he was giving details of his party that Green said in a loud whisper: “Not bad, you said, lad. See where we’ve landed ourselves?”
Masters turned to see what was going on. Green said, with something approaching horror in his voice: “They’ve put us in a temperance pub, George.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms.”
“Maybe. But read this.” Green thrust a brochure into Masters’ hand. The Superintendent read the information pointed out to him on the back of the cover.
The Planet Hotel is unlicensed. Wines, Spirits and Beers, in sealed bottles, may be obtained on behalf of Guests by the Head Waiter for ready cash at the time of ordering. Alternatively, Guests may introduce their own supplies, on which no corkage will be charged.
“I knew there’d be something wrong with this Bramthorpe dump,” grumbled Green. “No case to investigate without we invent our own, and a temperance hotel. As my old mother-in-law used to say, ‘What I’ve lived to see!’”
“Wait, wait,” urged Masters. “You can bring in any drink you like at retail prices. They’ll be a damn sight cheaper than bar prices.”
“I like somewhere to lean my elbows.”
“Maybe, but we’ll make do. We’ve no time to run around looking for a different place. Everybody sign in, and then we’ll have a word. I’ll be in 211. Reed, how about bringing in a couple of dozen bottles of Ruddles before you join us? Take the car
and find an off-licence.”
Reed nodded, and Masters, not waiting for the lift, took his room key and luggage and set off up the stairs.
*
“Reed not back yet?” asked Green.
“Not yet. But come in. What’s your room like?”
“Same as this. They’re all built to the same pattern. Twin beds and internal bathroom. Quite comfy, really.”
Berger joined them. As they sat waiting for the beer Berger said: “Chief, I don’t understand all this rush to present some sort of case by tomorrow morning. I always thought there was nothing to prevent the police carrying on an investigation whatever the corroner’s verdict.”
Green said: “So we can, in theory, lad. But there are arguments against it, particularly in this case.”
“What arguments?”
There was a heavy knock at the door. “This’ll be Reed with the beer. I’ll let him in while His Nibs answers your question.”
Reed had brought glasses up with him from the dining room. He and Green opened the squat bottles of Ruddles while Masters explained to Berger the reason why he was so anxious to find at least a little hint of a suggestion of foul play by the time the inquest had started.
“If the locals were to do their own investigating, they could go ahead regardless. But investigations which include the presence of a team such as ours cost money and time. Most people would say there can be little justification for continuing a case which a coroner has satisfied himself is suicide or accidental death and in which neither the local police nor ourselves can produce a single shred of fact to say he is wrong. Mr Hildidge has called us in because he himself and Sir Thomas Kenny—neither of whom is exactly impartial in his assessment of the woman’s character—think that Miss Holland was not the type to commit suicide or make a fatal mistake. You don’t need me to point out the flaws in their belief. They really are not grounds for calling us in to begin with, so what justification can there be for keeping us here on such a flimsy pretext in the face of a coroner’s unfavourable verdict? He’d have to send us packing. If, however, we could somehow persuade the coroner of the need to bring in an open verdict or to adjourn, then at least we should have some excuse—a duty, in fact—to investigate exhaustively to the point where we should eventually be able to satisfy the coroner or, if necessary, a criminal court. Unfortunately, the local coroner—according to Hildidge, who should know—will only proceed or pronounce on fact. Therefore, tomorrow morning, fact there must be, or we are out of a job.”
Green handed Berger a glass. “What His Nibs is saying, lad, is that if we don’t look slippy we’ve had it. And don’t think he’s maximising our difficulties. He isn’t.”
“But that letter . . .”
“Could help—just.”
“I see.”
“Not bad stuff this,” said Green, holding his glass up to the light. “Nice and amber, but above all, clear. I wish the case was.”
“Let’s try to clarify it,” said Masters, sitting on one of the beds because Green had occupied the armchair. “We are agreed that we’ve got to get over the big hurdle of tomorrow’s inquest before we can start to investigate properly. Normally, we have little to do with inquests, leaving them to the locals to sort out. But I have a nasty feeling about this one. Hildidge called us in to satisfy himself and Kenny. But what about Lovegrove? I got the impression that he would like to take the first excuse he can grab to lever us out.”
“Hildidge said as much, Chief.”
“True. He didn’t actually put it in so many words because he didn’t want to be disloyal to one of his own subordinates. But remember that the mere fact of inviting us here must have been a blow to Lovegrove—an indication that Hildidge doesn’t trust him to handle the case. So Lovegrove, I believe, will reckon that the lever he wants to get us out will be tomorrow’s verdict. All that business about the reluctance of the coroner to play along with the police is playing straight into Lovegrove’s hands.”
“How come, Chief? Exactly, I mean?”
“Lovegrove will be appearing for the locals. He’s got to, because he’s the investigating officer. But he’s not going to ask for an adjournment or an open verdict. He’ll suggest—regretfully—that he has no evidence on which to base such a request, and he’ll take damn good care his evidence doesn’t give the coroner cause even to contemplate murder.”
“That’s unless we turn something up between now and then, you mean, Chief?”
“Quite.”
“Are we likely to?”
“The odds are against it. And even if we were to do so, I don’t think I’d like Lovegrove to present it.”
“You could do it yourself.”
“No coroner would accept two officers to represent the police—with conflicting evidence, that is. He’d want to know why there was a lack of co-ordination.”
Green sucked his partial denture. “You got any ideas, George?”
“Talk it through with me.”
“Brainstorm?”
“If you like. Lovegrove, tomorrow, will present evidence, the burden of which will be that there is no cause to suppose Miss Holland’s death was anything other than suicide or accident. He will certainly produce no fact to suggest murder.”
“Chief,” said Reed. “There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It could be that Lovegrove hasn’t produced anything to suggest murder because it isn’t murder.”
“I’ll accept that. I’ll also accept that we have only the flimsiest grounds for initiating a murder inquiry in view of a nil return—as it were—from Lovegrove.”
“But?” grinned Reed.
“But I query the nil return. What I mean is, did Lovegrove ever seriously consider murder? From the fact that Hildidge says the file is empty, and from what Hildidge himself told us of the steps Lovegrove had taken—or hadn’t taken, if you think of Fellows the chemist and the letter to Mrs Holland, neither of which he discovered—I judge that Lovegrove did not consider the possibility of murder, and if he didn’t, he didn’t look. And if he didn’t look, he didn’t unearth the facts. So the nil return was inevitable.”
“And the same applies,” said Green, “even if he did start to look. What I mean is, if it occurred to Lovegrove that this could be murder, but then, because he found Miss Holland alone and uninjured, with the house locked up and no sign of entry, he would dismiss the idea of foul play without looking further.”
“Quite so,” agreed Masters. “Don’t forget they discovered she had been to the chemist yesterday afternoon and accepted that as the last time she was seen alive. This led them to suppose that she had returned home by, say, four o’clock for a cup of tea. So—they will argue—she was probably alone for nearly seven hours before she died, by the forensic reckoning. But cytisine—certainly in the large dose she is reported as having taken—does its work in far less time than that. Say three to four hours. So Lovegrove will argue she was alone for seven hours and perfectly well for the first half of that time. The easy conclusion is suicide—or accidental death.”
“And to counter that,” growled Green, “we only have character references from Hildidge, old Sir Tosh, and Ma Holland’s letter.”
“Right. And don’t forget we can’t call Hildidge and Kenny to say what they think. That wouldn’t be evidence.”
“Huh!” grunted Green. “Let’s have some more of that beer, young Berger.”
“So doing something before eleven tomorrow morning, Chief, is impossible, barring miracles,” said Reed.
Masters nodded and then said slowly: “There may be an alternative.”
“What?” asked Green.
“If we can’t do anything before eleven tomorrow morning, we must be prepared to do something at eleven tomorrow morning. Or shortly after.”
Green stopped half-way through pouring another glass of beer and stared at Masters. “What are you suggesting? That we should kidnap Lovegrove?”
“Hardly. I meant I would ask
to take the stand at the inquest.”
“You can’t. Lovegrove will never yield to you and, in any case, you haven’t started your investigation yet, so you can’t appear.”
“Yes, I can,” asserted Masters. “As a private citizen. The Crowner’s Quest is an ancient British institution set up to inquire into whatever is set before it, and though it is formalised these days into the Coroner’s Inquest, it is still the duty of all citizens who have knowledge or information concerning the subject of the inquiry to present themselves and say their piece.”
“Fair enough,” said Green, “but the coroner will still want facts, and he won’t let you speak unless you’ve got facts to present. Relevant facts.”
Masters got to his feet and moved to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out over the concrete outbuildings at the back of the hotel. Nobody spoke. At last he turned and said: “I think we have got some facts. Not very good ones, perhaps, but they’re all we’ve got so I’ll have to use them. Quite frankly, I’m counting on pulling rank. . . .”
“As a private citizen, Chief?” asked Berger sceptically.
“It could work,” said Green. “His Nibs appears as a private citizen, but it doesn’t alter the fact that he’s still a Detective Superintendent from the Yard. No coroner is going to ignore that and bring in a verdict of suicide or accident when he knows a senior Yard officer has other ideas.” He wagged a finger at Berger. “It stands to reason, lad. Put yourself in the coroner’s place. Would you bring in a verdict of suicide knowing that inside a week a bloke like His Nibs could prove you wrong?”
“Particularly when there are two nice, easy ways open to you,” added Reed. “An open verdict or an adjournment.”
“I suppose I wouldn’t,” replied Berger, answering Green’s question. “Not after a warning by the Chief. But I know him. Gilchrist doesn’t. And what are the facts he is going to produce?”
Masters held his glass out for more beer. “I shall have to work up what we’ve got,” he said. “But the main thing is, Sergeant, that I believe in what I’m doing, otherwise I wouldn’t do it.”
Golden Rain Page 3
