“Which cupboard please?”
“The last one under the working-top on the left. The one this side of the tall one.”
“Lift each item out carefully,” ordered Masters. “Use handkerchiefs. You take them out, Berger. One at a time. You open them, Reed. Get a knife or spoon handle to ease the lids off. Inspect the contents carefully.”
There was just one shelf of the cupboard rammed with all shapes and sizes of drums, small bottles, sprinkle tops, packets, tubes and sachets.
“Oxo cubes,” said Berger, lifting three packets of the familiar meatblocks out of the cupboard and putting them on the top. Parmesan, dried sage and garlic granules followed in quick succession.
“Steady,” grumbled Reed. He was prising lids off, sniffing, dipping his little finger in and tasting before pushing each item away.
“I don’t know what you expect to find,” said Mrs Gibson: “All I know is you won’t find it.”
“Hold it,” growled Reed. He was holding a largish drum. “This says cornflour, Chief. But if this ever went into gravy it would set it like cement. I think it’s one of the patent plasters by the taste of it”
Masters moved forward and took the cardboard drum in his own handkerchief. He examined the contents and then showed them to Green.
“Thistlefix,” said the D.C.I. emphatically, naming one of the packet plaster-powders. “I use it about my house for bunging up holes.”
“Please don’t try to touch the drum,” said Masters, holding out the container to Mrs Gibson, “but examine the contents. Taste them if you like.”
Mrs Gibson wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That’s never my cornflour.”
“Nevertheless it is in a cornflour drum in your spice cupboard.”
“I never put it there.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Masters put the drum on one side. “Anything else, Reed?”
“This, sir. It says ‘chilli powder’, but it looks more like brick dust.”
“It’s a powder colour,” said Miss Bulmer. “For water painting.”
“It’s what?” gasped Mrs Gibson. “How’d that get there? Miss Holland liked her chilli con carne . . .”
“And this, sir. Should be red pepper, but it isn’t.” He showed Masters a small drum of what should have been paprika.
“What’s going on?” wailed Mrs Gibson.
“White pepper O.K.,” said Reed. Then—
“Hello, Chief. These look wrong to me.”
“What?”
“It says black peppercorns, but I don’t reckon they are.”
“Careful,” warned Masters. “I think they may be what we want.”
“Laburnum seeds for a bet,” grunted Green, peering into the cardboard cylinder. “I don’t know what laburnum seeds look like, but I know what peppercorns look like. We have one of those little mills at home and I’m always having to fill it.”
“Finish off,” said Masters to Reed. “And then box up the suspects. I want every one of them tested for prints. And I want it done by you and Berger. Don’t let the locals get their hands on them.”
“We could do it here, Chief. The bags are in the boot of the car.”
Reed was referring to the murder bags which the Yard teams invariably carried with them on investigations. They contained all manner of implements, including the insufflators and brushes for dusting surfaces for prints and the cameras for taking dab graphs.
“Very well. But as it is now getting late, don’t be too long about it. The rest of us will go back to Mrs Gibson’s room.”
Once Masters, Green and the two women were back in the little sitting room, Masters lost no time in getting down to business.
“Now, Mrs Gibson, what you have just seen came as a great surprise to you?”
“Of course it did. You don’t think I’d have things like paint powders among my flavourings, do you?”
“But they were there, nevertheless.”
“I didn’t put them there.”
“Let me reassure you. I know you didn’t put them there. But I need your help in deciding who did.”
“I can’t tell you, can I?”
“Leave it to me. How often do you use those items?”
“Not often. They’re there for use when we want them. Some have been there for years. The others . . . Well, we use the gravy powder a lot, and the Bovril and Oxo. But stuff like chilli powder, that’s more in winter.”
“What about the black peppers?”
“We have a mill—like Mr Green said he had. We fill it up when it gets empty.”
“How often is that?”
“Once a month? I don’t know. I don’t keep count.”
“Infrequently, at any rate?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last fill it?”
“Can’t remember. Not in the last week or ten days.”
“Excellent.” Masters turned to Green. “Find it, please, Bill. Examine the contents.”
“It’s next to the cruet and salad cream in the sideboard in the dining room.”
Green nodded his thanks and left.
Masters turned to Miss Bulmer. “Does anything about this strike you as strange for a major crime, but familiar to you as a schoolmistress?”
Miss Bulmer, grave-faced, replied reluctantly. “It has all the earmarks of a prank. I have known similar things happen in the boarding houses where mischievous girls mixed salt with the sugar. Harmless enough in those cases. But pranks, none the less.”
Masters nodded his agreement. Mrs Gibson said: “Girls! None of the girls would do it. They all liked her. Besides, how could they? How could they get in to the kitchen to do it?”
Masters ignored this outburst. He said, instead: “I shall need examples of Miss Holland’s fingerprints. Some private book with the right surface or paper she was working on . . .”
Green came back.
“Genuine peppers,” he said. “Half full.”
“Thank you.”
“There you are then,” said Mrs Gibson. “She couldn’t have got it from there. I don’t know how she could have eaten them. I don’t really. It’s beyond me.”
Masters paused for a moment, and then said: “Was Miss Holland a good cook?”
“Only so-so. She didn’t have to be. I did it all.”
“Quite. But you did good family cooking, didn’t you? Roasts, pies, casseroles. That sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“English cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Yet Miss Holland, according to you, liked chilli con carne. Now that is not originally an English dish. So how did you come to make that for her?”
“I’d never heard of it. But she said it was a good alternative to curry if we’d got some left-over meat to mince up. She always ate it with just a fork, but I like putting on a meal you have to use a knife with.”
“Miss Holland herself never suggested foreign dishes?”
“Like what?”
“Boeuf stroganoff, bouillabaisse . . .”
“Not to me she didn’t.”
“Did she ever try her hand at them?”
“I told you, she didn’t have to cook except on Tuesdays if she wasn’t going out.”
“Please don’t get upset. My questions have a purpose. Did you ever know her, on a Tuesday, to cook something that you wouldn’t normally cook for her?”
“Never.”
“Are there any cookery books in the house?”
“We have a bag with a lot of stuff in. Two books and a lot of recipes cut out of papers and that sort of thing. But we never use any of them.”
“Bag?”
“One of these plastic ones with a zip. Document bags, I think they’re called. Miss Holland always got them given to her when she went to conferences and meetings—with papers in.”
“I know the sort of thing. Where is it kept?”
“On one of the little shelves in the alcove in the kitchen.”
“Do you want me to get it?” aske
d Green.
“It’s navy blue. Just behind the fan.”
Green looked at her. “We have a fan we can plug in when it gets hot in the kitchen. We keep it on that shelf.”
“I see.”
When Green came back, he was accompanied by Reed. “We shall need Mrs Gibson’s prints, Chief, and Miss Holland’s.”
“Mine? Why mine?”
“So that we can see whose prints should be on those drums and whose shouldn’t, love. You and Miss Holland were entitled to handle them. We want to be sure we get them sorted out.”
“That’s right, Mrs Gibson. We shan’t keep them on file once we’ve used them. They’ll be burned as soon as we’ve finished the case.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Quite right,” said Green. “It’s a shame when a woman like you has to be mixed up in this sort of thing through no fault of your own. And we don’t like involving you, either. But somebody mucked about with the things in your kitchen, didn’t they? And we’ve got to find out who it was. You’re going to help us, I know. Come on, now. It’s a messy business. You’ll get ink on your fingers, but it’ll wash off. Go with Sergeant Reed to the kitchen, there’s a love. Two minutes and it’ll all be over.”
Mrs Gibson got to her feet.
“Go into Miss Holland’s study,” Masters said to Reed. “You should be able to get Miss Holland’s prints from something in there. Failing that, you’ll have to visit the morgue and take prints from the body.”
“Right, Chief. Come along, Mrs Gibson.”
As soon as the housekeeper had left the room, Green handed the blue plastic document case over to Masters. “I’ve held it by the corner only.”
“Thanks. If I hold it by the other corner, could you unzip it?”
Green did as he was asked and Masters gingerly edged the contents out. “The sergeants had better go over the bag.”
Again Green departed. Masters went straight for the bigger and glossier of the two cookery books. He opened the back cover to consult the index.
“What are you looking for?” asked Miss Bulmer. “Surely you can’t find evidence in there.”
“No? Well, perhaps not.” Masters found what he was looking for. “Page 128.” He righted the book and opened it. Between pages 128 and 129 was an empty, used envelope.
“A bookmark?”
“It would seem so, Miss Bulmer.” Masters picked it up and handed it to the deputy headmistress.
“Can you read the postmark?”
Miss Bulmer peered at it. “Posted in Bramthorpe at twelve-thirty on October the . . . Good heavens, Superintendent! This was posted last Monday, the day before Miss Holland died.” She looked up at him. “How on earth did you know . . .?”
“I didn’t know. It’s just a stroke of luck. But I think I shall be right to assume that the letter which that envelope contained arrived at the house on Tuesday morning and that on Tuesday evening Miss Holland used it as a bookmark. Mrs Gibson was away all day on Tuesday so I must assume that she would not consult the cookery book and, therefore, did not use the envelope to mark the page.”
“I see that. But why should Miss Holland use it?”
Green rejoined them. “Use what?” he asked.
Masters told him of the envelope. Green whistled gently to express amazement, satisfaction and every other emotion involved in the reception of such a find.
“Why should Miss Holland use it?” demanded Miss Bulmer a second time.
“Do you know a great deal about Miss Holland’s social life?” countered Masters.
“Only what she saw fit to tell me. When she was going to official or semi-official functions for instance, or where she intended to spend her holidays.”
“She said very little about her personal relationships with friends?”
“I wasn’t aware that she had many close friends—not round here, at any rate. A woman in her position was bound to make numerous acquaintances, to receive many invitations and to entertain a good deal in return. But I never heard that she was particularly close to anybody.”
“Thank you. Now to change the subject. Tell me what you thought when you heard today that Miss Holland had some momentous news for her mother. What did you imagine that news could be?”
“What do you think it was?”
“I am asking for ideas from you,” said Masters gently. “I believe that the knowledge of what that news was could be central to this case, so naturally I want the ideas of people on the spot.”
“The only guess I can hazard is that she had been offered some very senior post in the academic world. By that I mean, the headship of one of the women’s colleges at either Oxford or Cambridge or, alternatively, that she was to become the first woman Vice Chancellor of one of the other universities. I cannot believe that anything else would take her from Bramthorpe.”
“And you think she would be overjoyed by this? That she would suggest that it would delight her mother?”
“I must confess that part of your disclosure surprised me a little when I heard it. Professional women of Miss Holland’s calibre would normally take any furtherance of their careers more calmly—with more quiet satisfaction shall we say—than the letter to her mother suggested.”
“In that case,” said Masters, “could it be something in her private—as opposed to professional—life that occasioned the personal delight she expressed?”
“I can’t imagine what it could be.”
“Think, Miss Bulmer. Forget Miss Holland was a headmistress. What news would a daughter normally hurry home to impart to her mother? News of such a nature that her mother would be delighted by it?”
Miss Bulmer opened her eyes in surprise. “Well, now, I can think of only two things—marriage or approaching motherhood.”
“I hardly imagine Miss Holland would be happy to announce the latter,” said Masters drily.
“In that case . . .” Miss Bulmer stared even harder. “In that case, you must think she was about to marry. Are you seriously suggesting that as the answer?”
“Can you think of any other solution that would fill the bill?”
“Who to? Or should I say to whom?”
“Ah!” said Masters. “Now that is another question. I’ve only been in Bramthorpe for little more than twenty-four hours. How could I possibly know that if you, her close colleague for all of her time here, have no inkling of the identity of the man?”
“Well, I haven’t. So I don’t think I believe your solution.”
“No?”
“An item of local news like that could never have been kept quiet unless . . .”
“Yes?”
“Unless it was a man who does not live here. Somebody who lives elsewhere and whom Miss Holland knew before she came to Bramthorpe. Perhaps some old friend who has now secured a divorce or has become a widower. . . .”
“All are possibilities,” acknowledged Masters.
Miss Bulmer shook her head. “No. I still don’t believe it. Miss Holland would not give up Bramthorpe for marriage.”
“Would she have had to? Is there anything to prevent a married woman being a headmistress? After all we have a married woman as Prime Minister. . . .”
“I think the Governors of Bramthorpe would not take kindly to a married woman.”
“You would know. But the answer is immaterial. You asked me why I thought Miss Holland should use this envelope as a bookmark in the cookery book. I’ll tell you. Whatever the reason for it, Miss Holland was a happy woman. Particularly happy at just that moment on Tuesday when, all alone, she starts to think about the dinner she has to cook for herself. She has not been invited out, but feels a bit too happy just to cook and eat the steak Mrs Gibson has brought in. So should she take herself out to dinner? No, because she finds the prospect of eating out alone unattractive, particularly in her happy mood. So what should she do? Then the idea strikes her. She will eat the steak, but she will prepare it in some more esoteric way than just grilling it. The question is, how? The
answer is to get out the cookery books and choose a recipe. Though not a greatly accomplished cook, she is nobody’s fool, and she will be able to follow a recipe easily enough. So she goes to the kitchen—from the study where she has been sitting—and fetches the bag of books. She pores over the pages, considering this one and that one among the recipes until she finally decides on one. She picks up an envelope from the desk or from the waste-paper basket to mark the place. Then she puts the other books and cuttings back in the bag and she carries them all to the kitchen to begin her chores She lays the bag on the kitchen table and opens the book at the chosen recipe. She cooks her steak, thinks how good it looks. Closes the recipe book with a flourish, leaving the envelope still in it, and returns the whole lot to the shelf in the alcove where Mrs Gibson keeps them. Then she eats her steak, and some time later begins to feel unwell.”
Miss Bulmer smiled at him. “It is a very graphic account, but you haven’t got second sight. You can’t be sure that is what happened.”
“He can, love,” said Green quietly.
“Nonsense.”
“Have a look at the recipe it was marking.” Green held the book out to her.
For a moment or two she stared. Then—
“Steak au Poivre! Peppered Steak,” she murmured.
“Look at the ingredients and the instructions,” said Green. “One tablespoonful of crushed peppercorns. To be pressed into both sides of the steak which is then fried and served with cream and brandy. But for peppercorns in this case, substitute laburnum seeds. Not unlike peppercorns and, coming from a peppercorn drum, easily mistaken for them, especially if, not suspecting anything, you don’t look very closely, or you drop them straight out of the drum into the chopper part of the electric mixer. Who is to tell what they are when they come out crushed?”
After Green finished speaking, there was a long silence.
“It’s unbelievable,” said Miss Bulmer.
“It’s what happened, love. Can you think of any other way of getting a handful of crushed laburnum seeds down the throat of somebody like your Miss Holland?”
“I must confess I can’t.”
“See how the sergeants are getting on, Bill. It’s nearly midnight.”
“I would rather you kept your counsel about everything you have heard here tonight, Miss Bulmer. Have I your word?”
Golden Rain Page 14
