‘That’s right. Our Maria never had a chance to put a foot wrong. Not that I wanted her to, but her mother went too far. Acted as a sort of what-d’you-call-it . . .?’
‘Chaperone?’
‘Dunt that mean the old bag who was around when a couple of kids were doing a bit of courting?’
Masters nodded.
‘Well, our little lass didn’t do much courting. So Gina wasn’t a chaperone. More of that sort of Spanish spoilsport woman . . .’
‘A duenna?’
‘That’s it. Spaniards and Italians are all the same type, aren’t they?’
‘They’re all Latins, certainly. And incidentally, the Latin word for duenna is domina—a sort of mistress. I told you your wife dominated you.’
Binkhorst said: ‘You and me don’t talk the same language.’
‘Oh yes we do. I’m sorry your daughter’s ill. Is it serious?’
‘Headache. Flu perhaps. Nothing much. But how did you know?’
‘I overheard. What caused it?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘You sounded as if you knew a short time ago. Was Maria out and about rather late last night?’
Binkhorst made a mistake. He started to bluster. ‘Here, what are you hinting at?’
‘Suggesting nothing. Asking something. Does she always go out on Sunday nights?’
Binkhorst sulked. ‘It’s one of her nights off. She goes to the pictures.’
‘And does going to the pictures usually give her a headache the next night? I think she was somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’ Binkhorst’s lack of denial had been enough for Masters. He was sure Maria had been running spare—presumably at the time Parseloe had been killed. It was worth noting. Just as a matter of form he said to the landlord: ‘And where were you last night?’
‘Here, of course.’
‘All evening?’
Binkhorst didn’t reply.
‘I can get to know by questioning other people.’
‘All right. Maria goes to the pictures early on Sundays. She’s usually back here by soon after nine at the latest. When she didn’t get back by half past my missus made me go out and look for her.’
Masters said: ‘Did you take your car?’
Binkhorst nodded.
‘And did you find her?’
‘No. She got back a bit after I left.’
‘Where had she been?’
‘She wouldn’t tell us.’
‘I don’t blame her, at her age. And where did you go?’
Binkhorst said: ‘Nowhere in particular.’
‘And what time did you get back?’
‘Half past ten.’
‘You just drove about, looking for your daughter’s mini for an hour?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Go anywhere near Church Walk?’
Binkhorst leaned forward. He said: ‘If you’re trying to say I done that murder, you’re wrong. See?’
Masters said gently: ‘I wasn’t trying to say anything of the sort. I merely wanted to know if you’d seen anybody or anything in Church Walk.’
Binkhorst said nothing. Again Masters thought the silence told him a lot. He thought a man who had seen nothing would have said so. Suddenly he felt weary. Somewhere a chiming clock sounded midnight. He looked at Binkhorst as though he was going to continue the questions. He thought better of it. Instead, he said: ‘What time’s breakfast? About half past eight?’
Binkhorst nodded.
Masters said good night.
Binkhorst didn’t reply.
As he went upstairs, Masters thought that the omission was a strange one in any mine host. In Binkhorst it might be indicative or significant or . . . he felt too tired to decide.
Chapter Three
Green was bad-tempered at breakfast time. Masters said: ‘We didn’t have a word together last night. Did you learn anything before I came into the saloon bar?’
‘Nothing. I chatted them up, but I might as well have saved my breath to cool my porridge.’ It was a reaction against his own failure, and Masters knew it.
‘How did the girl look?’
‘A bit tired.’
‘Not ill?’
‘Perhaps she was. She kept well away from me.’
‘On purpose? I mean, was she deliberately trying to avoid you? Or is she just a reticent type?’
‘Nobody said in my hearing that she wasn’t her usual self, so I took it she was acting normally.’
Masters got to his feet. ‘I’m going to the station. Meet me there when you’re ready.’ He went from the dining-room into the tiny hall. He was putting his coat on when Mrs Binkhorst came down the stairs with a young man wearing a duffle coat and carrying a small black case. Mrs Binkhorst was obviously not intending to introduce the newcomer, so Masters said: ‘You’re carrying a night bag, so I imagine you’ll be Dr Peter Barnfelt.’
‘That’s right.’
Masters introduced himself. Barnfelt was as unlike his father as it was possible for a son to be. Big and fair. The high cheekbones gave a strong look. The hair waved above the ears, giving an impression of photogenic quality. Under the duffle coat he wore a green roll-neck sweater and grey flannels, with fur-lined Chelsea boots in unbrushed pigskin. The hands were so large and capable the night bag appeared to have no weight. The eyes were tired—perhaps worried—and shrewd. Almost wary, Masters thought.
Barnfelt said: ‘I’m pleased to have met you, but I’m in a hurry.’
‘You’ve been visiting Miss Binkhorst?’
‘I have.’
‘How is she?’
‘I’m not in the habit of discussing my patients with other people, let alone strangers—and policemen at that.’
Masters stood to one side. He thought here was another one that wasn’t overjoyed at his presence. Just for a moment he thought of them as fools for giving away so much so easily. Then he remembered that this was how he learned a lot of what he wanted to know. Barnfelt brushed past him, told Mrs Binkhorst that he would call again and went.
Masters turned to Mrs Binkhorst. ‘Has your daughter caught flu? There’s a lot of it about, I hear.’
‘She has a cold.’
It sounded like an excuse. He said: ‘You asked a doctor to call so early in the day for a simple cold? And he’s coming back again? You do get good service in Rooksby-le-Soken.’
Mrs Binkhorst looked at him angrily. Her dark eyes glittered. He thought it must be hate. He wondered why. More cause for speculation. He’d never encountered so close a community before. Were they all inimical towards him? The protective herd instinct of the natives? He knew this wasn’t true. He’d been treated civilly and openly enough in the saloon bar the night before. Had he, then, been lucky enough to find himself immediately in the midst of the few inhabitants among whom he would find his murderer?
There was no answer he could give himself. He walked the half diagonal across the square from the inn to the police station. Crome was sorting the post. He stood up when Masters went in, and said: ‘The Superintendent phoned to say he wouldn’t be in Rooksby today, sir. That is, unless you want him for anything.’
‘I’d rather have your specialized local knowledge.’
‘Mine, sir?’ Masters didn’t quite know whether the lad was slow on the uptake or overwhelmed by his presence and the prospect of helping the Yard team in some way, however small.
‘Yes. Yours. You know most people here, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then sit down and tell me about the Parseloe family. I’ve heard he was a widower with two daughters.’
‘That’s right. Pamela who’s away teaching in Peterborough, but who got back again last night, and Cora who’s at home.’
‘Cora’s the younger one who isn’t very bright?’
Crome flushed. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, it’s a damn shame about her. It’s true she isn’t very clever and she’s not
very pretty, but she’s not all that daft. The vicar and his wife just made it an excuse to keep her at home in the vicarage and use her as a skivvy. They couldn’t get a maid, or couldn’t afford one. I don’t know which. So they used Cora. She did all the dirty, heavy work and they never let her out. Like a prisoner, she was.’
Masters’ opinion of Parseloe, already low, slumped even further. As so often happened in murder cases, he began to feel that whoever had seen off the victim had done the community a favour. He felt Crome was telling him the truth. He asked: ‘When did Mrs Parseloe die?’
‘About three years ago, sir.’
‘What of?’
‘Dunno, sir. But she was a skrimpy old besom. Nosy old cat. If you ask me I reckon she died through not feeding herself. A pair of kippers between the three of them for a night time and calling it dinner. That was her sort.’
‘And she treated her daughter as a servant?’
‘No servant would have put up with her for five minutes. She was worse than old Gobby himself, sir. She had ideas, that one. Tried to be one of the nobs. D’you know, I’ll bet they never gave Cora a bean of pocket money.’
Masters said: ‘If they never let her out, how do you know all this?’
‘It’s my patch, sir.’ There was a wealth of meaning in this. No further explanation was needed, but Crome went on: ‘You couldn’t help but notice. That Pamela one was always out flighting around. Of course, Cora did manage to get out now and again, but when I’ve seen her and spoken to her it was mostly over the vicarage gate. She used to stand there sometimes. Hoping somebody would talk to her, I reckon. Or to see the kids coming out of the old school. Some of ’em were a bit rude to her at times, so I used to make a point of being there sometimes about a quarter to four. You should have seen her hands, sir. You could tell she did all the washing up and dirty chores. A real shame because, as I say, I don’t reckon she’s half as bad as all that.’
Masters looked at his watch. There was no sign of Green yet. The sergeants had gone to the school to search outside. Masters knew this would be a fruitless task, but it was one he mustn’t neglect. Crome broke the silence. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir, or Nescaff?’
‘No, thank you.’ He began to fill his pipe. He offered the Warlock Flake to Crome who said he never smoked anything but No. 6’s. Masters was thinking back. Something Crome had said was niggling him. It took him several minutes to recall it. Then he said: ‘When we were talking about the elder daughter you mentioned that she got back again last night. Who informed her that her father was dead?’
‘The Super, sir.’
‘And what did you mean when you said she had got back again? Had she been here recently?’
‘She only went away on Sunday, sir.’
‘She was here for the weekend?’
‘For over a fortnight. She came home with a dose of that forty-eight hour flu everybody’s been having.’
‘And stayed a fortnight recuperating?’
‘That’s about the strength of it, sir.’
‘What time did she go on Sunday?’
‘Must have been on the quarter to seven train, sir. There isn’t another.’
‘But you’re not sure of that?’
‘I’m not sure, but I saw her at six o’clock near enough, standing with her case at the corner of Church Walk.’
‘What sort of a girl is she?’
‘Man mad if you ask me, sir.’
‘I am asking you.’
‘Well, sir, it’s no secret. She’s not a bad looker, and of course she speaks proper an’ that sort of thing, but she’s never managed to keep a reg’lar man of her own as far as I know. Her specialty is running other girls off.’
Masters said: ‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘Well, sir. This Pamela comes home for all those holidays teachers get. And while she’s here she gets her eye on some young chap that’s already courting, and she grabs him. How she manages it I don’t know, but she does. And she don’t care what happens. There’s been several she’s made a fool of. Then of course they’ve quarrelled with their girls about it, and as soon as that’s happened, as like as not my lady Pamela ’ud be back off to Peterborough, leaving the lad high an’ dry and the lass down an’ wet through crying her eyes out. I’ve seen it happen a few times.’
‘And while she was home on sick leave?’
‘She got about a bit. The flu didn’t keep her indoors for long.’
‘You saw her?’
‘Several times. Of course she was here for the Christmas holiday until nearly half-way through January. She’d only been away for about ten days when she was back again. If you ask me she intended it that way. Probably had a bit of unfinished business left over from Christmas.’
‘When you saw her, who was she with?’
‘D’you know, sir, the funny thing is that every time I’ve clapped eyes on her since Christmas she was alone. And that’s very funny, ’cos it wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. It’ll make you think I’ve been giving you a lot of old bull.’
Masters smiled. ‘No it won’t, lad. It’s amazing how often these little oddities crop up. You’ve helped a lot. And as Inspector Green isn’t here yet, I’ll have that cup of tea now.’
Green came in five minutes later. He said: ‘It must have been that roast pork I ate last night. I was hasty taken. Had to sit there for nearly a quarter of an hour before I dared move.’ Masters made no comment. Green had all the ability of the old sweat when it came to demonstrating that he wasn’t completely at Masters’ beck and call. He showed his independence by resorting to a variety of dodges mighty difficult to disprove. Masters couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
Green drank a cup of tea noisily, put his cup down and said: ‘Now what? Are you going to look for that bullet or projectile or whatever it was?’
Masters said: ‘The sergeants are searching the school.’
‘That’s where we should be.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ll never get anywhere until we know what shot him.’
‘We’ll get round to it. Just at the moment there are several other jobs. First of all, the keys to the school. I’d like to know how many there are, who keeps them, whether the builders locked up properly and so on. I’d like you to tackle that end.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to the vicarage. After that I’m not quite sure what I’ll be doing, but I’ll aim to get back here at twelve.’
*
The vicarage garden was neglected. The beds were untidy. The brown stalks of the autumn chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies straggled over the unkept grass. Dead leaves sheltered in wind-blown drifts wherever protection was afforded by tree trunks or the edges of the drive. The house itself needed paint. Blotched mossy streaks on the fabric showed where gutters leaked or were blocked. The curtains were drab or sagging. It was an unloved, unlovely home. Masters pressed the bell. He found himself faintly surprised that it worked. He could hear a distant tinkle.
He guessed it was Pamela Parseloe who answered. She was long-legged in nylon tights under a green mini-skirt. At least he guessed they were tights. If they weren’t she wouldn’t be decent when she sat down. He appreciated the legs. They were firm and well shaped. The green sweater emphasized the figure, small but good. The hair long and dark, slightly wavy. It was the face that didn’t appeal. The mouth was petulant, but not full lipped. The nose too short, so that the tip, rather too sharp pointed, was high above the nostrils. The eyes were small but bold. The sort that could be used at will to give a red light or a green one according to mood. The forehead was, surprisingly, well shaped. The voice dictatorial. She said, quite bluntly: ‘Who are you?’
He told her, and asked to speak with the two of them. She let him in, as he thought, rather reluctantly. The house was poorly furnished. But in what had been the late vicar’s study, a peat fire burned. Masters looked round him. He guessed that the study had doubled as general
living-room. There was the debris of communal life around—papers, knitting, books, an open box of Black Magic on the mantelpiece, a grubby coal glove hanging from a fire tidy. The chairs were odd and old, with a few rather brash scatter cushions dotted about. The carpet thin in places. Pamela said: ‘As you can see, I’m sorting my father’s papers.’
He sympathized with her. He thought she was about twenty-four and whatever her character, her job in the present circumstances was an unpleasant one. He said: ‘Is there anything I can do? Or is there an executor to be contacted?’
She replied: ‘I can manage, thank you. What was it you wished to speak to me about?’
He said: ‘Miss Parseloe, when somebody like your father meets with sudden death, it has to be investigated. And an obvious part of that investigation must be a talk with the closest relatives. I should be grateful if you would kindly sit down, listen, and answer questions.’
She flounced into a chair. It confirmed she was wearing tights.
He said: ‘You were here in Rooksby until Sunday evening, I believe. Did you leave by the quarter to seven train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. So you were in Peterborough from eight o’clock onwards?’
‘Yes. What are you trying to discover?’
‘Your whereabouts at the time of your father’s death. Could I please have your address in Peterborough?’
‘Why? So that you can check up on me?’
‘If necessary. We try to be thorough. Elimination is as important a part of detection as anything else.’
She gave the address, unwillingly, he thought. He knew he could have got it from Nicholson, but he wanted the reaction. He was pleased with what he got.
‘Now, Miss Parseloe, you left the house just before six, I believe.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You were seen. The station is more than a mile from here. How did you get there?’
‘By car.’
‘Whose car?’
‘I don’t know. I was given a lift.’
‘You’d intended to walk to the station?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a suitcase?’
She knew she had made a mistake. Her lips pursed angrily. Masters went on: ‘The vicar had a car?’
Death After Evensong Page 6
