Golden Rain

by Douglas Clark

  “I shall regard your request as an instruction.”

  “Thank you. In return I promise to deal as lightly as I can with the school. In any case, I shall keep you fully informed, and tomorrow I shall come to see you again. It’s a full day in school, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. When I call, we can meet in the headmistress’s study. You will be using that now, won’t you?”

  “That is my intention.”

  “Now, please, if I could have the detention book . . .?”

  Green came back. “They’ve finished. They’re helping Mrs G. to put back the bits and pieces in her study. They’ve got what they wanted from a cheque book. I don’t suppose anybody else ever handled that.”

  “Good. We’d better be getting along. We’ve still got some talking to do.”

  “As long as there’s some beer left . . .”

  *

  “The prints,” said Reed, once the beer had been poured and they were settled in Masters’ room, “show that three people with smaller fingers handled those drums. Mrs Gibson’s fingers are quite fat. Miss Holland’s were slim, but of a capable size. The others are smaller and, to my thinking, could be those of kids.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Green glumly. “Not kids. Little lasses playing pranks. And doing away with a woman like Miss Holland. It’s all wrong.”

  “Yes, Chief,” said Reed. “What are you hoping to do? Line them all up and take their dabs? That’s going to cause some trouble if you do. You’d have to get their parents’ permission.”

  “Questions in the House even if you tried,” added Berger. “Involving children—innocent children, as they all are, except three—in police murder procedures! Disgusting. The powers of the police must be curbed.”

  Masters drew on his pipe. “I agree with the D.C.I. I am not a little dismayed by the thought that a comparatively harmless prank on the part of three probably angelic fourteen-year-old kids, results in death for anyone, be they of the calibre of Miss Holland or less. But what do I do? Bow out? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

  “You’re in a dilemma, right enough,” said Green. “You’ve got to go ahead. No option. But I’d like . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Look, George. I’m a stupid old fool. I’m as keen on nailing villains as anybody. I ought to be, because I’ve spent all my adult life doing it. But when it comes to kids and murder investigations I don’t like myself all that much.”

  “You were saying you would like something or other.”

  “Yeah! I’d like to put this business to Hildidge. To Sir Thomas, even. Consult them about it, because though I’m sure you’re right and some of the school girls are involved, we haven’t yet proved it. And to ask permission to fingerprint hundreds of kids without a proven case . . .”

  “How can I prove my case if I’m not allowed to investigate it by all the normal means at my disposal? Besides, it is unlikely that we would need to print all the girls. We would discover the ones involved before we came to the end.”

  “That’s true. But even the request to parents is going to cause an almighty stink round here, and as we are all opposed to it . . .”

  Masters got to his feet.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. “You’ve helped me—all of you.”

  “We have, Chief?”

  Masters grinned. “I was temperamentally opposed to seeking permission to fingerprint three hundred school pupils. But I thought that if I said so you’d all jump down my throat for being so concerned about it. But you’ve all come out on my side. Furthermore the D.C.I. has made an excellent suggestion—one which hadn’t occurred to me—that we should put the whole business, as it now stands, into the hands of the locals. Tomorrow, you will be able to hand over to them the photographs of the prints. We could then tell our story and bow out, leaving all the rest to them . . .”

  “To Lovegrove?” snorted Green. “He’d make a pig’s ear of it. He’d chase those kids rotten to get his case tied up.”

  “The D.C.I.’s right, Chief.”

  “Very well. What you are all saying is that I should report to Hildidge. Tell him how things stand. And then offer him the alternative to either asking parents’ consent to printing the whole school or leaving us free to arrive at the answer in some other way.”

  “If we can do that,” said Green, “we could always use the prints we’ve got to confirm we’ve picked out the right ones. Then there’s no objection. Pick your little villains and take their dabs to confirm their guilt or prove their innocence.”

  Masters nodded. “The whole lot of us has gone soft.”

  “Maybe we have,” growled Green. “But if you and Wanda had a little daughter at this school—completely innocent in every way—would you give consent for blokes like us to ink her fingers, with a murder rap looming in the near distance?”

  Masters looked across at Green.

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m delighted to hear you say all this. I thought I might have been affected in my view by the thought of approaching fatherhood. I now find . . .”

  “You what?” demanded Green explosively. “You? And Wanda? You mean Wanda’s expecting a baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you tell us? My missus will be over the moon when I tell her. You know what she thinks of Wanda.”

  “We only knew for certain the day before yesterday. I was leaving it for Wanda to tell you herself.”

  Green grinned. “The little beauty,” he breathed. “Doris and I . . . Well, I don’t have to tell you that we’re both crackers about your missus. We only really tolerate you because of her. Here! I’d better ring Doris and tell her.”

  “At after one o’clock in the morning?” asked Reed.

  “I expect Wanda will have told her by now,” said Masters.

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Green. He addressed Berger. “Here, lad, is there any more beer?”

  “None left.”

  “Dammit, I wanted to drink a toast.”

  Chapter Six

  Friday was a wet day. People were wearing raincoats and scurrying about under umbrellas as Reed drove the Yard team to the local police station. Two phone calls made immediately after breakfast had been enough to ensure that Hildidge and Sir Thomas Kenny would both be in the former’s office by half-past nine. All six men assembled almost to the minute. The Chief Superintendent had seen to it that there were enough chairs and ashtrays for his guests.

  When they were all seated, Hildidge said to Masters: “You told me that you had satisfied yourself that Miss Holland’s death was neither suicide nor accidental death in what we, as policemen, would regard as the normal use of the words. Please explain that.”

  “I would rather it came out in the course of our conversation so that it will be self-explanatory, and also to avoid giving you our report back to front.”

  “You’ve asked Sir Thomas to be present, too. May I know the significance of that?”

  Masters paused a moment before replying. Then—

  “Perhaps I should tell you that it would be possible to identify the villains in this particular piece inside an hour—given the opportunity. That we have not done this is due to a delicacy of feeling on our part; to some degree of consideration for the feelings of both you gentlemen; and the fact that we haven’t, as yet, sought the opportunity.”

  “Consideration for our feelings? As citizens of standing in Bramthorpe, you mean? Sir Thomas because he is Chairman of the School Governors and the Watch Committee and I because I am responsible for law and order in the town?”

  “Partly that, sir. But I was referring particularly to your feelings as father and grandfather respectively.”

  Sir Thomas sat bolt upright. “What’s that? My feelings as a grandfather? That sounds to me as though you are saying little Rachel is involved. And that is something I will not believe.”

  “And my daughter Helen,” said Hild
idge angrily. “My lass isn’t involved either. Not with Miss Holland’s death, and nobody will tell me different.”

  “There you are, George,” said Green airily. “I told you what it would be like. And these two gentlemen are on our side. What three hundred parents who weren’t on our side would be like is beyond belief. Shows how wise we were to come here before making any move.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Hildidge. “Three hundred? What three hundred?”

  “Perhaps,” said Masters, “I had better tell you something of our investigations.”

  Hildidge grunted and Sir Thomas said: “Perhaps you had.”

  “Last evening, in the School House, in the presence of Mrs Gibson and Miss Bulmer, we examined a cupboard in the kitchen. The shelf we chose to examine—for obvious reasons—was the one holding all the drums of flavourings and spices that one finds in a well-run kitchen. You will both be familiar with what I mean—drums of herbs, dried mint, sage; little shakers of paprika, chilli powder, garlic granules; boxes of gravy browning, Oxo cubes, Bovril, Marmite. I needn’t go on.

  “Among those drums was one of cornflour—but a patent form of plaster powder had been substituted for its original contents. Chilli powder and paprika had been emptied away, and in their place had been put similarly coloured water-colour paint powders. There were, I think, five substitutions. The most important of all was the black peppercorn drum. Laburnum seeds had been substituted for the corns.”

  “Good God Almighty!” said Kenny.

  “Quite, sir.” Misters waited a moment before continuing. Then he said: “It was all very well to discover the source of the laburnum seeds, but it was quite another problem to decide exactly how Miss Holland had come to ingest so many.”

  “In mistake for pepper, of course,” said Hildidge.

  “Just so, sir. But there were so many found in her system that it ruled out—to my mind—an ordinary use of pepper. However, once I remembered that Mrs Gibson had provided steak for Miss Holland’s supper, I was able to link steak and peppercorns together and come up with Steak au Poivre which, as you will doubtless remember, requires a tablespoonful or so of crushed peppercorns in the cooking.”

  “That’s just guesswork,” said Hildidge.

  “It was—at first. But when we examined a recipe book at the School House, we found the page for Peppered Steak had been marked with a used envelope. The letter had been posted last Monday, as the date stamp clearly shows. It could only have reached Miss Holland on Tuesday—the day of her death. Mrs Gibson was not present to use the book on Tuesday, nor has she used it since. Miss Holland was the only one who could have used the envelope and that, without a doubt, means that she prepared herself Steak au Poivre with laburnum seeds instead of peppers.”

  “So it was an accident after all,” said Hildidge.

  “No, sir. Miss Holland may not have recognised the seeds for what they were, but they closely resemble peppers, and that drum was supposed to contain peppers. She had as much right to believe they were genuine as a man at a bar has a right to believe that the drink he has bought is good and wholesome and not laced with knock-out drops.”

  “Quite right,” said Kenny.

  “You’re a policeman, Mr Hildidge,” said Masters, “so you know what’s coming next. We had handled those drums with great care, so we were able to fingerprint them. Reed and Berger are both trained in the art and the waxed board from which such receptacles are made provides an ideal surface for taking and holding prints. We also took Mrs Gibson’s prints and recovered a full set of Miss Holland’s from one of her personal cheque books.

  “The result is that we have now sorted out three sets of strange prints and, although he cannot be absolutely sure of this, Reed thinks that they are what he describes as coming from immature people.”

  “Girls, I suppose?” said Hildidge.

  “But not necessarily girls from the school,” insisted Kenny.

  Masters bowed his head to acknowledge the truth of Sir Thomas’ comment. Green, however, was not prepared to let such a facile truth pass unremarked.

  “Mixing those substances up and substituting some for others was a prank,” he said. “A schoolkid’s prank. And when you’re looking for the perpetrators of a schoolkid’s prank you don’t ignore the presence of three hundred schoolgirls right there on the spot. If you did, you’d be daft and you’d be in a hell of a hole. If you were to ignore the obvious, where would you start looking for three other kids? At some school a mile away?”

  Kenny seemed a little startled at Green’s tone but he was gracious enough to say that he saw the force of the D.C.I.’s remarks and had not intended to suggest that Bramthorpe girls could be excluded from suspicion.

  “I know you didn’t,” replied Green. “You’re worried about this. You’ve a grandchild whom you dote on at the school. As chairman you’re responsible for its good name. And to crown it all you’ve lost a particularly close friend in Miss Holland. Mr Hildidge is worried, too, for much the same reasons. And so are we worried. That’s why we are here.”

  Masters turned to Hildidge. “At last you know why I said that Miss Holland’s death was neither suicide nor accident in the accepted sense of the word. Now we must try to convey to you why we asked to see you, with Sir Thomas present. As I said, I could most probably identify the owners of those immature prints within an hour—but that would mean taking the fingerprints of every girl in the school.”

  “Take my Helen’s prints? And Sir Thomas’ Rachel’s?”

  “Together with those of two hundred and ninety-eight others, all of whom, except possibly three, are completely uninvolved in this business,” replied Masters.

  “I don’t like it. In fact, Superintendent, the law forbids it.”

  “Not specifically, sir. It allows us to seek parental consent. But apart from any hint of indiscriminate fingerprinting, we—that is all the members of my team besides myself—are totally opposed to the idea of seeking consent. But this is your patch, sir, and it is your case. That is why we have come to you. We can prove there is a case and we believe we can solve it quickly. But only by the means we’ve just discussed. If we do not check the fingerprints, then we must go a different way and try to identify our culprits by other means. The choice is yours.”

  Hildidge looked across at Sir Thomas. “We have to be very careful about whom we fingerprint. There are strict rules about it, and we would think more than twice before we asked permission to take prints from a child. We would certainly never contemplate taking those from the whole school.”

  “But in a case like murder . . .?”

  “The most serious crime in the calendar, Sir Thomas. One in which the police pull out all the stops. Mr Masters would never be censured officially were he to circularise the parents asking for their permission to go ahead.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “There would be an outcry. Think what you and I have had to say about it, and then imagine what the attitudes of the other parents would be. To say nothing of all the freedom fighters, law reformers, do-gooders and so forth. They’d spew out objections like gargoyles belching water from a church roof.”

  “Are you asking my advice, Hildidge?”

  “If you care to give it, Sir Thomas.”

  “The Superintendent and his men have already worked wonders. You agree?”

  “Absolutely. And I get the impression we haven’t heard half of what they’ve achieved so far, even though they’ve only been on the job a bit more than a full day.”

  “Would we not then be right to assume that they should be able to continue the good work and will arrive at the final answer without recourse to even considering taking the fingerprints of the girls?”

  “I think we would. I have every confidence in them.”

  “In that case, in view of the distaste that they themselves have expressed at the prospect of taking the girls’ prints, why should we expect them to subject themselves to the public opprobrium that a req
uest for parental consent would—according to you—call down upon their unfortunate heads? They have come here to tell us that they have succeeded thus far, but that there is now a choice of ways ahead. One distasteful and one requiring skill to negotiate. They have given you the facts and put themselves in your hands. Why should you hesitate to suggest that they continue to use their skill?”

  “The only snag, Sir Thomas, is that the distasteful way would—were the consents forthcoming—prove entirely successful. And that’s what Mr Masters is here to produce—success. Despite his skill, there can be no guarantee that the second road will lead to success.”

  “I take your point. May we ask Mr Masters for his view?”

  “We would prefer not to ask for consents, sir.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But we will none of us guarantee success.”

  “Though we’re pretty sure we can bring home the bacon,” added Green.

  “In that case,” said Hildidge, “no request forms. Do it your way, Mr. Masters. And having decided that, let us have coffee before facing the rest of a bleak morning’s work.”

  It was while he was helping himself to milk that Masters said to Hildidge: “Your daughter—Helen, isn’t it?—must be about the same age as Sir Thomas’ granddaughter.”

  “They are in the same form.”

  “Are they friends?”

  “I suppose they are friendly enough, but not close friends. I mean, they don’t go about together or visit each other at home as far as I know. Helen’s closest friend is a little thing called June Hall.”

  Sir Thomas, standing close by, said: “June Hall? The architect’s daughter?”

  “That’s the one, Sir Thomas. I was just telling Mr Masters she is a close friend of Helen’s.”

  “So she is of Rachel, I think. I know Rachel brought her round to my house on one or two occasions in the summer. My cook made fools of them. Gave them strawberries and ice cream for tea in the kitchen and they repaid her by bringing in a baby hedgehog one day. I went in to see what all the screams were about. The maid was standing on a chair bawling her head off.”