Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  Chapman said: ‘There’s a row of basins in the cloakroom.’

  Masters, said simply: ‘Thank you. Would you mind opening the doors for me?’ He turned to Green. ‘Ask Hill to bring the pHisoHex and nailbrush.’

  Nicholson followed him out. ‘What’s this stuff—what d’you call it?’

  ‘pHisoHex?’ Nicholson nodded. ‘It’s an antibacterial skin cleanser. Surgeons use it in operating theatres. We carry a bottle in our bag for occasions like this.’

  After he had scrubbed up and dried on the towel Hill had brought in, Masters returned to the classroom. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s reconstruct the last few moments of his life. We think he was killed standing on the spot where he is now lying. Correct?’

  Nicholson said: ‘There aren’t any signs that the body was moved after death, and the mess on the wall makes it sure. But there’s no sign of any bullet hole, either.’

  Masters edged round the body to look at the timber nailed to the wall. Just above the height of his stomach was a wide splodge of discoloration. He judged it to be the exact height of the vicar’s wound. ‘This has been wiped.’

  Nicholson said: ‘Of course it has. There was a great dollop of blood and snot there and I wanted to find the bullet.’

  Masters peered closely. The unplanned, rough plank bore no sign of a bullet hole or pock mark of any kind. The bare brick wall on either side was clear and smooth except for discoloration. The blood, tissue, bone and shreds of clothing had been smeared downwards. There was no pattern left: just a few dark runnels of dried blood coursing down to the floor. He said to Green: ‘There should have been two distinct splodges.’

  Green stared for a moment and then said: ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘If he was standing up close to the wall when he was shot, there would be a sort of recoil. His trunk would be forced a few inches away from the wall and there’d be one great splatter of blood behind him. His knees would have given slightly and he’d then have fallen back again, striking the wall with his wound a few inches lower down. This would leave another spatter—this time imprinted.’

  Green said: ‘That’s right. The back of his cassock’s got a ring of blood above the wound. I wondered where it came from. When he went backwards the second time, the spatter he’d made the first time got him higher up on the back of his shoulders.’

  ‘And after that,’ said Masters, ‘I think his knees gave completely. He fell to the right, almost over on to his front.’

  Nicholson asked: ‘And you say he was dead at the time?’

  Masters nodded. ‘If he hadn’t been dead he’d have staggered forward. But his feet didn’t move from the wall.’

  ‘It sounds right. Now p’raps you can tell me what happened to the bullet.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Masters said. ‘So I’m not going to worry my head about it just yet.’

  ‘Not going to worry about it? When a bullet’s gone right through a man from front to back and then disappeared into thin air?’

  ‘There are plenty of other things to worry about. I’d like to have the body removed now. Can you arrange it?’

  Nicholson nodded to Chapman who went towards the door. Masters called after him: ‘Would you ask my two sergeants to come in, please?’

  Hill and Brant needed no orders. They knew they were to inspect the classroom and everything in it for fingerprints and any suspicious items. They brought in the bags and photographic equipment and began their job. Masters said: ‘I’d like to see the doctor who examined him.’

  ‘Dr Barnfelt. He’s the local G.P. and the police surgeon.’ Nicholson looked at his watch. ‘Half past six. He’ll be in evening surgery now.’

  ‘Good. We’ll ring him.’

  ‘No phone here. What about clocking in at the Goblin and phoning from there?’

  Masters nodded and put on his coat. He said: ‘Only one doctor in Rooksby?’

  ‘Two. Barnfelt and his son in partnership.’

  Green said: ‘Are they outners?’

  ‘No. The old man’s father started the practice. He was born here, and so was his son.’

  ‘So they’re O.K. people round here?’

  ‘The best. The village thinks the world of them both.’

  Masters asked: ‘What do you think of them?’

  Nicholson said, off-handedly: ‘They’re all right.’

  Chapter Two

  They made their way back to the village square and the Goblin. As they went, blown by the wind in the wild half-light of blue street lamps and haloed moon, Masters said to Nicholson: ‘Did you interview the family?’

  ‘There’s no wife. He’s a widower. His youngest daughter’s there but she’s daft, so she was no good to me.’

  ‘How many daughters are there? Three or four?’

  ‘Two. The oldest one works in Peterborough. She’s a teacher. The youngest one’s at home. She’s a cretin or a moron or something.’

  Nicholson’s lack of distinction between comparative and superlative annoyed Masters. He thought no senior policeman could afford to be so imprecise. He said: ‘So we know nothing about the Parseloe family and their reactions. Right! I’ll attend to that myself tomorrow. That leaves us very little more to discuss at the moment. So, sir, I don’t think there’s any great need for you to introduce us at the Goblin. You’ve already done your stint for today, and I don’t think there’s a lot more we can usefully do this evening.’

  ‘I thought you were going to the doctor’s.’

  ‘Alone.’ Masters was quite firm. He wanted to be rid of Nicholson. Free to tackle the problem in his own way. He said: ‘I hope you’ll arrange the inquest and all the etceteras. I shan’t want to interfere with those at all.’

  Nicholson could feel the pressure, but couldn’t counter it. Masters was kicking him out. For a moment he felt angry, then nothing more than a reluctance to sever himself from the case. He’d heard of Masters long before today. Would have liked to watch him in action. Although come to think of it, he had already seen him in action. He’d been pretty sharp over that bit about the body rebounding. And he’d shown he’d got guts when he’d stirred up the gore in that back wound. Nicholson slowed as they neared the police station. He said: ‘Why waste a tanner at the pub? I’ll leave you here and ring Barnfelt to tell him you’re coming.’

  ‘Tell you what, Super,’ said Green. ‘You ring the Doc and then step over to the Goblin to tell us what time he can see the Chief. While he’s gone, you and me can have a jar together.’

  Nicholson said: ‘Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. See you in five minutes.’

  Green grinned to himself in triumph. He’d spiked Masters’ guns. Foiled his efforts to get rid of Nicholson at the earliest possible moment. Green knew Masters would have noted it, and satisfaction warmed him inside like a shot of neat whisky. Masters, head down against the wind, made for the curtained squares of red light that were the front of the Goblin.

  Binkhorst was fifty, or thereabouts. A nondescript, colourless man. He was in the saloon bar. Masters didn’t like waistcoats and shirt sleeves together. Particularly double-breasted waistcoats with lapels and shirt sleeves with garters. He said: ‘I believe you’re expecting four of us. Two of us are here now. The others will arrive later. Please book me in and arrange for all four of us to have dinner at half past eight.’

  Binkhorst said: ‘It’ll have to be before that. Mrs Binkhorst likes to serve at half past seven. Then she’s free to help in the bars later.’

  Masters said to Green: ‘Ring up the nearest decent hotel and arrange bookings for all four of us. Give them my name and say we’ll be in for dinner at half past eight.’ He turned to Binkhorst. ‘Inspector Green would like to use your phone.’

  Binkhorst said: ‘Whoa! Give me a chance to see what I can do first. She won’t like it, but I can ask.’ Masters was puzzled. For a moment Binkhorst had given him the distinct impression that they were unwelcome. Now he seemed to have changed his mind.

  ‘You mean you’d like
us to stay? Good. We’d like to. As long as it’s understood that I shall not be dictated to. The hours my staff and I keep are often irregular, and I like a pub that’s run for my convenience, not vice versa.’

  Binkhorst went through to the kitchen. Green had moved away. He hated standing by when Masters was high-hatting somebody, as he always did when he was crossed or he thought his importance wasn’t fully appreciated. Green had a moment of remorse. If he hadn’t annoyed Masters by inviting Nicholson for a drink, the Chief might have let Binkhorst off a bit more lightly. Not for the first time he realized Masters was not an easy man to get the better of for long. He felt threads of animosity against Masters crawling like spiders over his entire body.

  The saloon bar was empty except for the two of them. Masters looked about him. The floor was uneven red tiles. The fire bright. The furniture reproduction oak, well polished. The brasses modern, but shiny. The ceiling low. No beams, either real or mock. The place appealed. It was snug and warm. It needed more lights in the corners, but it made him feel sorry he had to go out again.

  Nicholson came in. Green offered them both drinks. Masters declined. Binkhorst reappeared when Green rang. He said: ‘It’s fixed for half past eight.’ Masters thought the landlord looked abashed. He half smiled to reassure him. Nicholson said: ‘It’ll take you no more than five minutes to get to Doc’s place,’ and proceeded to explain the way. Masters thanked him and said: ‘I think you ought to keep a man in the school tonight and tomorrow. After that we should be able to lay off. And as far as I’m concerned your men can stay inside the classroom, out of the cold.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll ruin any evidence?’

  Masters fastened his coat. ‘Not after Hill and Brant have been over it.’ He said good night and turned to go, saying quietly to Green as he passed: ‘There’s likely to be more evidence to pick up in here. Keep your ears open. I want to know what the locals think about things.’

  Dr Barnfelt’s waiting-room was drab. Bentwood chairs on brown linoleum. A gas fire with one broken clay, sputtering drearily. A green pull-down blind over the window. No receptionist. No instructions for patients except to keep medicines out of the reach of children. Masters felt sunk in a sea of misery. If he were to stay long in that atmosphere he’d begin to imagine he had every malady known to man. A bell rang. A blowsy woman grunted: ‘Oo’s next for young doctor?’ An elderly man with chronic bronchitis—or worse—shuffled out. The blowsy woman said: ‘Sid won’t be with us for long if these winds keep up. What ’e needs is camphorated an’ a brown paper vest. Not a bottler jollop.’ Another bell rang—a different note. ‘That’s t’owd doctor. My turn.’ She waddled out towards the surgery. Masters settled down to wait. Wanted a pipe. Had it half packed before a lad said: ‘You can’t smoke in ’ere, mister.’

  Dr Frank Barnfelt, the senior partner and local police surgeon, amazed Masters from the moment of meeting. Masters hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this man. A fifty-year-old don in rimless pince-nez with a bootlace over his right ear running down to a small gold clip on his right lapel. A full head of sandy hair going very grey, neatly parted on the right side. A Hitler moustache, also very grey. Full coloured cheeks. Pale blue eyes, intelligent and twinkling. A light fawn Harris tweed jacket. Grey flannel trousers with no fore-and-aft creases. Masters guessed they’d been made in the round on purpose, and ever thereafter ironed on a sleeve board. Highly polished brown boots with a patina as deep as a well.

  Masters hated shaking hands. He hated it more than ever this time. Barnfelt’s skin was dry and rasping on his own. The fingers bony. The knuckles dressed with some form of yellow lacquer, like a second skin. Masters imagined the cold weather had chapped and cracked his hands, softened by too much washing and scrubbing up after seeing patients. His voice was high pitched; neither girlish nor mincing, but noticeably acute, with a slight cackle in the cadences. He said: ‘I was expecting to see you, even before Nicholson rang.’ He grinned, showing a set of false teeth that some dental mechanic had spent time on to achieve a very natural colour. Masters felt pleased at the sight. He hated china clappers.

  Masters said: ‘It’s good of you to see me after so long a day. You started—over at the school—shortly after eight, they tell me, and you haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘It’s a twenty-four hour job—like yours.’

  ‘We manage a little time off occasionally.’

  ‘So do we. My son and I take turn and turn about. He was off this last weekend.’

  ‘Off? Out of Rooksby?’

  ‘No. But off duty and free to go out as he liked. Like last night. There was a bridge party at the home of some friends of ours—the de Hooch’s. Peter is fond of a rubber of bridge.’

  ‘Isn’t your son married?’

  Barnfelt frowned slightly. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Girl friends?’

  Masters could see this was a question the doctor would have preferred to avoid. The frown grew deeper. So far, Masters had been making nothing more than idle conversation, but he always pressed a point that seemed to unsettle the person questioned. He persisted: ‘Has there been a tiff?’

  ‘I fear so. Yes. A tiff. Everything was going quite smoothly up to a fortnight or three weeks ago, since when I’ve not heard of April, or seen her.’

  ‘April?’

  ‘April Barrett.’

  ‘The potato farmer’s daughter?’

  Barnfelt opened his mouth in amazement. ‘You learn fast, Chief Inspector. At what time did you arrive in Rooksby?’

  Masters felt pleased with himself. He pretended to pass it off. He said airily: ‘Oh, three or four hours ago, now,’ as if he were accustomed to learning everything there was to know about a place the size of Rooksby in the time it would take most people to eat a boiled egg.

  ‘And now you’ve come to me to . . . er . . . increase your knowledge still further? Yes?’

  ‘Strictly professionally. To discuss the wounds on the vicar’s body.’

  Barnfelt rubbed his hands together. They made a harsh sound. His voice sounded strange above it. ‘Haematomata and induration?’ he asked. Masters had the feeling he was being treated as another medical man being asked for a second opinion. But the matter was too abstruse for him. He didn’t know the proper cries. He ignored the technical terms and decided to guess. He said: ‘It’s a decidedly odd wound.’

  The doctor grinned. ‘Nicholson was looking for a bullet, wasn’t he?’

  ‘And you think he was wasting his time?’

  ‘Not entirely. But I’d have been looking for a projectile somewhat different from a conventional revolver or pistol bullet.’

  ‘If he had done as you suggest, would he have found a projectile?’

  ‘I can’t say, because I don’t know what sort of a projectile it was.’

  Masters said: ‘What makes you so sure it was not a bullet?’

  ‘The lacerated edges of the entry wound.’

  ‘Atypical?’

  ‘Decidedly. Bullets go in cleanly and come out messily. This projectile came out messily, all right, but it went in messily, too.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a bullet? Not even a dumdum?’

  The doctor said: ‘Dumdums are made to stop a man dead in his tracks by blowing a hole the size of a soup plate in his back. But they still go in neatly at the front, because only the tapered nose is nicked. It flattens out later if it meets any opposition hard enough to open out the cut.’

  Masters said: ‘I know the theory. I’ve never seen it put into practice, fortunately.’

  ‘Then you’ll realize that marked laceration indicates a projectile other than a bullet. Yes?’

  ‘You mentioned this to Nicholson?’

  ‘I pointed out to him that there were lacerations up to a quarter of an inch long round the periphery. The points were bent inwards, like the cogs on an anti-vibration washer. They were very easy to see.’

  ‘And he thought your observations unimportant?’

 
‘He regards me, I fear, merely as a sadly out-of-date, country G.P.’

  Masters thought Barnfelt sounded sorry about it. He decided to see whether Nicholson’s view was correct. He said: ‘In many bullet wounds the flesh around the entry stands proud. Why not this time?’

  Barnfelt put the tips of his skinny fingers together. He said: ‘The periphery is only proud if the skin has been forcibly depressed beforehand. When this happens, as when a conventional bullet strikes, the elastic skin tissue reasserts itself after being forced inwards. It bounces outwards and stays put. Here we have the opposite effect. The skin has been forced outwards and then drawn downwards.’

  ‘Outwards?’

  ‘Not vertically away from the body. No projectile forcing an entry could do that. But it could be forced outwards to widen the circle—as it were, thus producing a similar effect. The skin tissue was being drawn in after being forced outwards . . .’

  ‘Understood,’ said Masters. ‘The projectile must have been wider at some point along its length than its general width—not counting a tapered point, if there was one.’

  Barnfelt nodded. ‘That is my professional belief. And as I was a regimental M.O. in the line during the last war, I am not unacquainted with G.S. wounds. I think my opinion is borne out by the appearance of the exit wound. The projectile did not flatten as a dumdum would have done, but the broader part of its calibre caused a three-inch wound which you doubtless examined.’

  Master was nearly sick at the mention of it. He nodded. The doctor offered him a cigarette which he refused. He said: ‘You’ve explained the lacerations, doctor. But earlier you mentioned . . . what were the words? . . . haematomata and induration. What are they? Anything to do with bruising?’

  Barnfelt smiled. A little smile that showed his teeth. ‘Is that guesswork, Chief Inspector? Or have you some good reason for asking? Haematomata has to do with bruises.’

  Masters said: ‘Good enough. I know the thump of a bullet causes bruising in the vicinity of its entry hole.’

  ‘And marked induration—hardening and bruising,’ said Barnfelt. ‘The bluish area around the wound is always harder, less elastic.’