‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t he have run you to the station?’
‘On a Sunday night?’
‘I can’t think why not, at six o’clock. His service wasn’t until half past. He could quite comfortably have taken you to the Halt and been back here by a quarter past.’
‘I didn’t ask him.’
He thought that this, at least, had the ring of truth about it. Parseloe, according to reports, might have charged her a taxi fee.
He changed tactics. ‘Who were your father’s enemies?’
She laughed. It was a harsh, mirthless sound. ‘Who wasn’t his enemy?’
‘You mean he was universally unpopular in Rooksby?’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘Who disliked him more than any of the others?’
‘It’s difficult to say. He never paid for anything if he could avoid it. He had a devious mind and stooped to the meanest and dirtiest tricks to gain his own ends. He’d do anybody down for money—including me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if he’d been a rich man he’d have been a miser. As it was, he could get no higher than this very poor living. So he was practically penniless. And that made him crave for money all the more.’
‘But as a parson . . .’
‘Parsons are human, just like everybody else. Dad thought people should respect him just because he was the vicar. He didn’t realize that respect has to be earned—or bought. And he did neither. He thought traders should be content to wait for their money for a long time—perhaps for ever—if the debtor was the vicar. The people of Rooksby aren’t like that. They’re hard-headed. Simple serpents fits them admirably. They wouldn’t wait for money from Father Peter himself.’
Masters asked if he might smoke. She nodded. He said: ‘I understand why your father was unpopular, but you still haven’t answered my question. Given me definite names.’
‘I don’t think I can unless . . . No, no, I’m sure I can’t. You must remember I’ve been away from Rooksby for six and a half years.’
‘Unless what?’
‘I was going to suggest the ironmonger.’
‘Perce?’
‘Yes. You know him?’
‘We’ve met. But why Perce?’
‘Because we had to have new gates. The old ones were broken and mother insisted on gates that would lock because . . . well, anyhow, she said the gates ought to lock.’
‘Because of your sister?’
She was angry. ‘You know a lot, don’t you?’
‘Only what I’m told. But go on, please. Perce and the gates.’
‘Mother ordered them from Perce, and then Dad cancelled the order. But Perce had had the gates specially made by then.’
‘What caused him to change his mind?’
‘When he heard the price—and I can tell you it was little enough for double iron gates—he looked around for some other way of paying. He found one. He heard the Urban District wanted to widen the main road. He offered them three feet off the garden in return for rebuilding the wall and gates. They agreed—as long as Dad agreed they could use the old bricks. He did. Heaven knows what would have happened if the Council hadn’t eventually bought the gates from Perce and used them just as mother intended. But I know that Perce vowed vengeance then, and was still doing so as recently as Christmas.’
Masters felt sickened. That a daughter should be able to recount a story like this of her own parents. He wondered whether it could possibly be true. Instinctively he mistrusted Pamela Parseloe. Why should he believe her story? Then he remembered the night before and Jan Wessel’s account of the vicar’s financial dealings. He said: ‘Thank you. Any other person you can think of with a special grudge against your father?’
‘Nobody.’ She said it with a toss of the head. He knew she’d made up her mind minutes ago. It would be useless to go on. He said: ‘I’d like a word with your sister.’
As he expected, she objected. Masters insisted. He followed her through to the kitchen. Cora was washing clothes, using an old dolly tub and wringer. There were none of the modern refinements. Masters wondered how Parseloe had managed to spend what little stipend he did get. According to reports he didn’t buy much food; his rates were paid for him, no doubt, as is customary; the house had apparently had nothing new in it since the year dot; and as for Cora’s clothes! Even though he was not as expert at women’s clothes as he was at men’s, nevertheless Masters could tell whether a garment fitted. Cora’s fitted—in the places where they touched. It was obvious to Masters that these were her mother’s old garments, cobbled to make do for her by an inexpert hand. The colour, material and style were all wrong for a young woman. It would take expert dressing to make the best of Cora’s lumpy figure, but at least she could have been given bright colours and young styles. Her sister spoke to her: ‘This is a policeman. He’s come to speak to you about Dad.’
Cora wiped her hands on a none-too-clean tea towel over the back of a chair, and turned to look at Masters. He thought she must suffer from slight infantilism. No more. He doubted whether she was even severely E.S.N. The eyes were too bright, and though not full of intelligence, showed a kindliness entirely lacking in her sister’s. Her hair was a little coarse. He wondered if a regimen of iodine might not do her good. Whether her parents had ever consulted a doctor about her.
She said: ‘Please sit down. Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, but Constable Crome, the young policeman who sometimes spoke to you at the gate, made me one at the police station.’
‘Did he? He’s a nice man. I shall be sorry not to see him again.’
‘Are you going away?’
‘Oh, yes. The new vicar will want this house. I’m washing things so that we can pack them, aren’t I, Pam?’
‘Don’t go on talking,’ said Pamela. ‘Listen to the policeman.’
Masters neither liked the way she referred to him nor the way she addressed her sister. He said: ‘You take your time, Miss Cora. I don’t mind waiting. Why don’t we all sit down?’
They did so. Pamela with an angry movement. Cora settled herself quite gently, with her hands in her lap. She looked at him steadily. He asked: ‘Can you tell me when you last saw your father, Miss Cora?’
‘It was at teatime on Sunday. We had toast and Marmite, didn’t we, Pam? And a cake. A dripping cake I’d made. It was nice and crumbly. Do you like dripping cake?’
Masters said: ‘Is it like lardy cake?’
‘Oh, no. It’s not greasy like the lardy cake Mrs Longman makes. She’s the lady who washes the altar linen and Dad’s surplices, and she sometimes brings me lardy cake or sultana buns. She’s a very good cook. She comes from Yorkshire. But our dripping cake is like a nice, crumbly sort of rock cake. Very nice. I like it.’
Masters was pleased at her acceptance of him and the way she spoke. He decided she was nothing worse than artless. A natural. Unsophisticated. Not foolish or ignorant. So much better than he had feared, even though Crome—himself an ingenuous person—had recognized and tried to explain that she was simple-hearted more than simple-minded. He felt, rather than saw, that Pamela was tense: alarmed at what Cora might say. It was a pointer that there may be something to hide: substantiation of the fact that Pamela had not told him the truth about her journey to the Halt on Sunday. Or so he felt. And it pleased him that Pamela had to sit by, with ants in her tights, not daring to prompt her sister. Although he would be just as happy if she were to intervene. It would almost certainly give him another lead. He decided to angle for it.
‘I must try dripping cake, sometime,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if you make some more and I’m still in Rooksby you’ll remember to save me a piece.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Fine. Now, Miss Cora. Did your father go out straight after tea?’
‘Pam and Dad went out while I was washing up.’
‘Who went first?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘
Didn’t they come to say goodbye to you?’
‘Oh, no. Nobody ever says goodbye to me—except Mrs Longman when she calls. She’s nice.’
He turned to Pamela. ‘Who left the house first? You or your father?’ He sounded brusque. The thought of their lack of courtesy to Cora had riled him. He didn’t really care who had left first. But he asked, just the same.
‘I think Dad did.’
‘Think?’
‘I couldn’t find him to say I was going. He may have gone over to the church early.’
‘More than half an hour before the service was due to start?’
Cora said: ‘He always went over ten minutes before.’
Pamela glanced furiously at Cora. Cora didn’t notice. She sat watching Masters. Fascinated by him. He guessed there had been few men in her life and there was an animal urge within her to be friendly towards any who were kind. Like Crome and—he supposed—himself.
He said to Pamela: ‘Probably you didn’t attempt to say goodbye to your father, either.’
She made no reply. He turned back to Cora. ‘Weren’t you surprised when your father didn’t come home after the service?’
‘He’d not been coming in straight after Evensong on Sundays for a long time. He usually got in by half past nine.’
‘Then you must have been alarmed when he didn’t come at all.’
‘I wasn’t, because I didn’t know. I have to get up very early on Sundays to get him up for the early morning service and heat the water for his shave. He liked a cup of tea in bed, as well. So I always went to bed early on Sunday nights to make up for it. I like to listen to “Your Hundred Best Tunes” in bed. Then I go to sleep. Sometimes I heard him come back, but not always.’
‘When did you discover he wasn’t in the house?’
‘Yesterday morning. I saw he hadn’t eaten the liver sandwiches I’d left for him.’
‘And that’s what told you he wasn’t here?’
‘Oh, no. He always made me leave sandwiches, but he didn’t always eat them. I used to fry them for breakfast if he left them.’
‘How did you find out he wasn’t here?’
‘It wasn’t for ever so long. He used to like to stay in bed late on Mondays to make up for his hard work on Sundays.’ Masters felt sick. He tried not to show his revulsion lest it should alarm Cora and stop the flow of narrative. She went on: ‘So I never took his tea up till he shouted for it.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, I was washing when a man came to the door. He said he was a policeman, but he was like you. He hadn’t got a uniform on. I didn’t understand what he was saying.’ Masters mentally cursed Nicholson for not having come over himself to break the news gently to this childlike creature.
‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t know what he was talking about. I thought he wanted to see Dad. I tried to send him away because Dad told me I wasn’t ever to disturb him in bed. But the policeman wouldn’t go, so I went to fetch Dad and he wasn’t in his bed. And then the policeman told me he was dead. I was very frightened and he asked me a lot of questions.’
Masters cursed Nicholson anew. Hideous curses. The girl would have been scared stiff at the thought of waking her father in defiance of his orders. He could imagine her trepidation as she went upstairs. The surprise at not finding her father. The shock of the news when it finally penetrated. No wonder she’d been alarmed and unable to answer questions. No wonder Nicholson had said she was a moron and no use to him.
He said gently: ‘And that’s all you know? You didn’t see or hear anything on Sunday which you didn’t understand or which was out of the ordinary?’
She looked at him wide-eyed for a moment. He thought she had lost concentration. He realized it was her customary attitude of thought when she said: ‘Only the long talk Dad and Pam had on Sunday afternoon.’ Masters thought he detected a little sound of annoyance from Pamela. He looked round. She was sitting taut in the kitchen chair. Pressing back as if prepared to spring. He said: ‘Surely there’s nothing strange in a father and his daughter having a long talk, even if it doesn’t happen very often.’ He’d kept his eyes on Pamela. As his words showed that he apparently placed little importance in the meeting, she relaxed. Not quickly, but gradually, like a watchdog sinking back after a false alarm. He turned to Cora and smiled, and added: ‘Is there?’
She said: ‘Oh, yes. It must have been important because Dad always rested on Sunday afternoons. I had to keep the Sunday Express nice for him until then. He always started to read it and then fell asleep. And he was always cross if anybody disturbed him.’ She looked straight at Masters and added: ‘And they kept me out of the room. I wasn’t allowed in to know what they were talking about, so it must have been secrets.’
Masters began slowly to fill his pipe. He asked no questions. Simply looked at Pamela. She stared back for some moments, hot-eyed, and then burst out: ‘She’s talking silly, dramatic nonsense. I was going back to Peterborough that night and he simply wanted a little talk to ask how I was getting on and if I was planning a move, and things like that. As for keeping Cora out of the room—well, she had some work to do.’
Cora said: ‘Ironing your frocks for packing, you said. But I’d done them all in the morning.’
Masters lit his pipe slowly, made sure it was drawing, and got to his feet. He said: ‘Well, that explains that. I’m pleased to have met you both and cleared matters up a little. If there’s anything I’ve forgotten, I may have to call again. But I won’t trouble you more than I can help, because I know it’s pretty distasteful to have policemen always on the doorstep. Don’t worry to come to the door. I can see myself out.’
Cora came over and stood close to him. She said: ‘Are you going to arrest him now? He’s a nice man really, and I was sure he wouldn’t do it.’
Masters had to think for a moment. This was unexpected. Unexpected to him and to Pamela, who showed immediate concern. Masters was conscious that the truth could possibly be divulged by this ingenuous girl. He said at last, very gently: ‘Who are you talking about?’ Pamela was holding her breath. Masters could sense the absolute stillness of her body. Then Cora said: ‘Why, Mr Pieters, of course.’
Pamela breathed again. Masters said: ‘Why should I arrest Mr Pieters?’
‘Because he and Dad nearly had a fight and Mr Pieters said he would get even.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, ever so long ago. Before Christmas.’
‘And who is Mr Pieters?’
‘He’s a carpenter. A nice man. I liked him. He chopped me a lot of firewood when he came, and I didn’t have to do it.’
Masters said: ‘What was the trouble between your father and Mr Pieters?’
She said simply: ‘I don’t know.’
He looked towards Pamela. She said: ‘Search me. I don’t believe I know the man. It must have happened when I wasn’t here.’
Masters said to Cora: ‘Don’t worry about Mr Pieters. I’m not going to arrest him. I might have a talk with him—just to see what the trouble was.’
‘I’m so glad. Mr Pieters is a nice man.’
Masters was thoughtful as he walked down the drive. He would have to see Pieters. It was one more to add to the list. He was just about to go through the gate when a Triumph G.T.6 drew up. Peter Barnfelt got out with his bag. He didn’t see Masters. Masters said: ‘We meet again. Who’s the patient this time?’
Barnfelt appeared annoyed at the meeting. He said: ‘I thought I made it clear my patients are no concern of yours.’
‘But they are—some of them. I want to suggest that when you see Miss Parseloe you consider whether or not she shouldn’t have iodine treatment.’
‘Miss Parseloe? Iodine treatment? What the hell are you blathering about?’
‘Her thyroid must be suspect.’
‘Her thyroid’s as good as yours.’
‘Surely not. Her coarse hair . . .’
‘She hasn’t got coarse hair.’
Masters said: ‘Forgive me. I thought you were about to visit Miss Cora Parseloe. I didn’t think that Miss Pamela would be on your list as she lives in Peterborough. My mistake.’
Masters left Barnfelt staring after him. He crossed the road into the school. Hill and Brant were inspecting the other classrooms. Hill said: ‘There are loads of prints, Chief. Old ones. Mostly kids’. I reckon the others were teachers’. Nothing outside, either.’
Masters said: ‘Try to finish by lunchtime. I’m going back to the station.’
*
After Masters had left him, Green said to Crome: ‘Who’d know about the keys to the school?’
‘Well, there’s Wally Hutson, the verger. He was caretaker of the school as well. Then the vicar would likely have a key himself. And there’s Tom Taylor, the builder’s foreman. He’d have one, I expect, for getting in and out for the job.’
‘Was there a key in the vicar’s pocket?’
‘I dunno. The Super never said anything to me about the contents of the pockets. But we’ll look if you like. They’re in the cupboard.’
There was a key of the right type. Green looked at the stamped number and said: ‘This looks like a master. Where do I find Wally Hutson?’
Hutson’s cottage was one of a row behind the school. Close to a small gate in the church wall, which led along a path to the vestry door. Green found his way there and was told by the woman who answered his knock that her husband was in the church. Hutson was sweeping the flags of the centre aisle. Green noticed that the dust was being swept along to fall through the grating of what had once been the old heating pit. Hutson looked up as he heard Green’s footstep clank on the grating, which was half the length of the aisle. He said: ‘Who’re you? One o’ them policemen?’
The verger was tall, lugubrious and slow moving. Green reflected that no other type of man would accept such a job. Hutson was his idea of a time-server—both the way he worked and the state of the church seemed to prove it. Green said: ‘Have you got the keys to the school?’
‘One. All the rest I gave to Tom Taylor when they started building. One master, front gate padlock, back gate padlock, boiler house, staff room, and four classrooms.’
Death After Evensong Page 7
