Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  ‘And you kept one master.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case.’

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘In case I ever had to go in, of course.’

  Green said: ‘Come off it. What would you want to go in for once the school was sold?’

  ‘It wasn’t sold. Only let. We’re still the owners.’

  ‘Have you been in since the builders started?’

  ‘I haven’t been in since we took the desks an’ chairs out just after Christmas.’

  ‘You didn’t go in this Sunday?’

  Hutson leaned on his broom. ‘Are you joking? On a Sunday? I don’t get chance to call my name my own on Sunday. What with early Communion, Matins, Sunday School and Evensong I hardly have time to eat my dinner.’ He spat on the grating and then brushed over it, leaving a smear on the grating.

  Green said: ‘You’re a dirty old devil.’

  ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘You. Anybody who spits anywhere ought to be flogged. In a church it’s worse. Where’s this key you kept?’

  Hutson was surly. He led the way, without a word, to the vestry door in the transept. Here he laid his broom on an old cope chest which even Green could appreciate as beautiful. Hutson said: ‘It’s hanging on the key board in the robing vestry.’ They went up two steps, through the choir vestry lined with cupboards of cassocks and surplices, and into the robing vestry. Here there was a small altar, a harmonium, and heaps of tattered music, all covered in dust. The key board was to the left inside the door. A dozen hooks with a variety of keys. Hutson looked at it. His mouth fell open with surprise. He said: ‘It’s gone.’

  Green said: ‘Is this it?’ He had the key from the vicar’s pocket on his palm.

  ‘Where you get that from?’

  ‘Never mind. Is this the one that’s missing?’

  Hutson took it. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘By them file marks. I made ’em. People have a happy knack of collaring keys round here.’

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘Gobby Parseloe.’

  ‘Didn’t he have one of his own?’

  ‘He had one in his desk drawer at home last week.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Because Tom Taylor borrowed it. He left his with one of his men who was working overtime to lock up with, and he didn’t come in next morning. Tom met me at the gate an’ asked me for one. I told him the nearest one was in the vicarage.’

  ‘He managed to get one there?’

  ‘He got in, didn’t he?’

  ‘Anybody else have keys?’

  ‘Yeah. There were four masters. The old headmaster, he had one. He didn’t hand it in at the end of last term ’cos there was some of his own stuff he had to collect from the staffroom.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Headmaster’s? Baron. He lives in the High Street. House set back a bit near the eight-foot leading up to the mason’s yard.’

  ‘He hasn’t handed it back?’

  ‘Who hands keys back when they know they’re not wanted again? The factory’s going to change the locks, else they’d have made sure they got all the keys handed over. And talking of handing over, how about me having my key back?’

  Green said: ‘You’ll have to do without it. It was found in Parseloe’s pocket.’

  ‘So he was the one who took it.’

  ‘Looks like it. When did you last see it?’

  ‘For sure? Can’t say, but I reckon I’d a’missed it on Sunday morning if it had gone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s when I use all these other keys, see? I open up the choir stalls’ book cupboards. The vestment cupboards. West door, East door, the lot. I empties the board except for that key. The choir kids lock everything up again except the doors after Evensong. Right?’

  Green said: ‘You’ve convinced me. Carry on spitting.’

  Green was a little undecided as to what to do next. He thought perhaps Baron, the headmaster, would be a likely bet, then remembered he would be teaching somewhere else. He decided to locate Tom Taylor. Crome told him where the builder’s office was. He was to look for the firm of Coulbeck, near the first crossroads, up the narrow road Perce had emerged from. Green walked fairly sharply. The wind had lessened, but was still strong and cold. It was behind him as he went along the High Street. He turned off into Goose Street. Perce’s shop was forty yards up. A flat-fronted shop, wide, shallow, and well stocked. Jonker—Ironmonger and Builders’ Merchant. Green stared in. Perce was behind the counter. No customers, no assistants. Green entered. Perce said: ‘Come back to say you’re sorry, I suppose. Well, you’re too late. I know who you are. I’ve written to Scotland Yard about you.’

  Green said: ‘That’s good.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, we keep all the fingerprints at the Yard. They’ll take yours off the paper you wrote the letter on. It’ll save time later.’

  Perce said: ‘Don’t you try to frighten me.’ He picked up a claw-hammer displayed for sale. The handle and head were metal, the grip rubber. Perce’s broken fingernails showed up white under the force of his grip.

  Green said mildly: ‘What’s up? Got a guilty conscience? Or are you threatening me? If so, I’ll run you in so fast your feet won’t touch the ground.’

  Perce lowered the hammer. ‘You were accusing me of murder.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then what did you mean by saying it would save time later?’

  ‘Because it will. I’ll get you for something. Maybe not for murder. Now tell me where Coulbeck’s office is. Which is what I came in for.’

  Perce pointed the way. Green made his enquiries as to where Tom Taylor was working. Coulbeck himself offered to drive him to the place. And because it would have looked daft to refuse such an offer, Green accepted.

  Taylor confirmed the verger’s story. He’d borrowed the vicar’s key on the Wednesday morning to get the men working. The wall hadn’t been knocked down by then, so they couldn’t start without getting inside for their tools. But he’d collected his own keys from the absent workman’s house and then returned the vicar’s key before noon.

  Green said: ‘How did you know the vicar had a key?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not until Wally Hutson told me.’

  ‘Who had your keys over the weekend?’

  ‘One of the chippies. A chap called Pieters.’

  ‘Reliable?’

  Taylor rubbed his chin. ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘But you’re not too sure?’

  ‘He’s only been with us a few months.’

  ‘But he’s a local, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s local all right.’

  ‘So you must have known him for years.’

  Taylor looked at Coulbeck. The glance was not lost on Green, who said: ‘Come on, now.’

  Coulbeck said: ‘Harry Pieters is O.K.’

  Green said: ‘Why leave the keys with a new man?’

  ‘Because he was the one with most tools to leave behind. The brickies just had trowels and spades. Pieters had a full joiner’s kit. He was the one most concerned with security, and it was his job to nail up the fence.’

  Green could get no more from them. He said: ‘I’ll see Pieters for myself.’ Taylor called the carpenter over. A man of less than medium height. Apparently thin, but with surprisingly big muscles bulging on his bare arms. Dark hair, cut short at the sides, and worn en brosse, holding a few specks of wood flour. The beard area very dark. The eyes brown. Green said: ‘You had a key to the school over the weekend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you keep it?’

  ‘In my trousers’ pockets. Why?’

  ‘Somebody got in there on Sunday. Or hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘Yes. I heard. And that somebody was Gobby Parseloe. He has a key. Tom Taylor borrowed it last week. He must ’a let himsel
f in and whoever killed him must ’a followed him in. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

  ‘You know all about it. Perhaps you were there.’

  ‘And perhaps I wasn’t. I never stirred out all Sunday.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I don’t have to. But you can ask my missus. And the kids if you don’t believe her.’

  Green said: ‘I don’t believe in questioning kids. I’ll take your word for it that the key never left your house.’

  ‘Of course it didn’t. An’ if it had done, how’d I have got it back?’

  Green looked at him hard. It dawned on Pieters he’d asked a damn silly question. He coloured under Green’s gaze, then said: ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it. An’ by the piles of Saint Pancras I wouldn’t help you to find out who did. I’d more likely shake him by the hand.’

  Green said: ‘I’d watch my tongue if I were you. It could get you into trouble. I’ll likely be seeing you again.’

  Coulbeck drove Green back to the office. Green said: ‘Didn’t anybody like Parseloe?’

  Coulbeck had no hesitation in answering. ‘If they did, I’ve not met them. Except a few old women he used to josh along for their money.’

  Green walked back from Coulbeck’s office. He arrived at the police station as the church struck twelve. Masters was already there, alone in the office.

  *

  Masters said: ‘Any luck with the keys?’

  ‘Does there have to be? There was a key hanging in the church and there was one in Parseloe’s house. He could have used either, and he pinched the one from the vestry, which I take to mean he decided to visit the school after he’d left home, but before he left the church.’

  ‘Could be. But somebody else with a key got in besides Parseloe. His key was found in his pocket. He couldn’t have locked the door behind his murderer. I want to know if the meeting was by appointment or not, and whether the murderer arrived first or after Parseloe.’

  Green sat down and lit a Kensitas. He recounted his morning’s work. Masters said: ‘I’m interested in this bloke, Pieters. What’s he like?’

  ‘Youngish. About thirty. Decent looking. If my opinion’s of any value, I’d say he was a good, honest, hard-working man.’

  Masters said: ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. Your opinion is of great value, and normally I’d take your word for it. But you haven’t heard all the story yet. Your decent, hard-working man threatened to do Parseloe in only a month or two ago.’

  Green blew smoke through his nostrils. He said: ‘I always knew this case was going to turn out a bastard. You’d better tell me.’

  When Masters had finished, Green said: ‘D’you want me to fetch Pieters in?’

  Masters got to his feet. He said: ‘It’s early days. And bearing in mind your impression of Pieters, we’ll just keep him in mind for a bit. What do you say?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘If I don’t fetch Pieters in, what do I do?’

  ‘Go to the vicarage and see if the other key is there. See the headmaster about his key.’

  ‘Why worry about keys? What about the bullet and the weapon? Wouldn’t we be better off if we knew how he was killed?’

  ‘We do know. He was shot. Have you ever been worried before about whether a man was shot with a three-eight or a four-five?’

  ‘No. Because I’ve always known. And I’ve never met a situation where a bullet never left a mark in plaster or brickwork before, either.’

  Masters said: ‘Come and have a drink. We’ll concentrate on seeing just how many possible or probable suspects there are and then try to cut a few out.’

  ‘We’ve got a capful of possibles already,’ Green said. ‘How many more d’you think there’ll be?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say when a man’s as disliked as Parseloe. He had an evil influence over otherwise harmless people. You’ve just told me about Perce Jonker. What sort of an atmosphere d’you think it has to be to make a half-wit like that lift a hammer to a senior police officer?’

  ‘God knows. Unless Perce was the murderer.’

  ‘Who can tell? But Perce isn’t the only one affected. There’s Pieters, young Barnfelt, Parseloe’s own daughter Pamela, Binkhorst, with his wife and daughter. All acting strangely, to my mind. And we haven’t been here twenty-four hours yet. That’s why I suggest we should survey the field before placing any bets.’

  ‘We’ll have to look at all their teeth.’

  ‘So we will. But some will need closer examination than others.’

  They entered the Goblin and hung up their coats. Masters said: ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Seeing as you’re paying,’ Green replied, ‘I’ll have a pint of draught Worthington. Nobody offered me a cup of coffee this morning, which shows we’re probably as unpopular in Rooksby as Gobby Parseloe was.’

  Chapter Four

  Green’s statement about their unpopularity appeared to be disproved as soon as they entered the saloon bar. Coulbeck and a companion of his own age were there. When he saw Green, Coulbeck said: ‘Can I get you gentlemen a drink? Might as well, seeing that Fred Houtstra and I came here especially to see you.’

  Green introduced Masters. Coulbeck introduced Houtstra. Binkhorst, looking after both bars himself, fetched the ordered drinks. Coulbeck said: ‘Here’s health, gentlemen. Make the most of it because you won’t see me and Fred drinking together very often.’

  Houtstra said: ‘That’s a fact. Being competitors in business in a friendly, cut-throat sort of way, we don’t often team up.’

  ‘You’re a builder, too?’ Masters asked.

  ‘Same as Dan Coulbeck. Only I’m out of Rooksby a bit. About a mile up the road.’

  ‘I see. And what brought you together today to see us?’

  Coulbeck said: ‘Harry Pieters. I could see your Inspector was getting a bit suspicious about him. Having the key of the school over the weekend and all that. And Tom Taylor saying we hadn’t known him long enough to say whether he was very reliable.’

  Masters sipped his gin. He felt a little uneasy. So far the people of Rooksby had appeared clannish, individually. He wondered now whether they were starting to gang up to protect people in whom he or his team showed interest. It seemed so. In his experience, business competitors didn’t lightly foregather in the middle of a working day to help the police. Not of their own free will. He said: ‘We’re naturally interested in who had a key to the school at the time the murder was committed.’

  Coulbeck said: ‘Of course you are. It’s obvious you would be. But Fred and I think we’re partly responsible for a bit of trouble that blew up between the vicar and Pieters last autumn. And we thought if you got to hear of that, on top of Harry having the key . . .’

  ‘I had heard something of it. Just a mention. No details.’

  ‘There you are then,’ Houtstra said. ‘You’ll now be thinking the worst of Harry who’s a decent, hard-working sort of chap.’ Green grinned at Masters over the top of his tankard.

  Masters said: ‘I’d heard that about Pieters, too. And also that he’s a kind sort of man.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Coulbeck, ‘when I saw which way the wind might blow I got on to Fred here, explained the position, and asked him to come along in the hopes of meeting you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Fred was Harry’s boss before me, and he knows the ins and outs of that trouble between Gobby and Harry as well as I do. In fact, he knows the first half and I know the second.’

  Masters said: ‘I’d better hear the story.’ He picked up the glasses. ‘But first it’s my turn.’ When they were refilled he carried them from the bar and said: ‘Suppose we take a corner table . . .’

  Houtstra started off.

  ‘Harry Pieters worked for me from the day he left school. Served his apprenticeship, and did good work. He’s a joiner, you know, not a cabinet maker. But he’s a careful and fast wor
ker if old Dan here hasn’t spoilt him with piece work these last few months.’

  ‘Stick to the story—and facts—Ted,’ Coulbeck said.

  Houtstra said to Masters: ‘You’ll soon hear how Dan undercut prices. But we were talking about Harry. He’s a bit of a singer, you know. Sang tenor in the church choir until this trouble. And that’s important to remember. Anyhow, last October, old Gobby was having difficulty in getting anybody to serve as vicar’s warden. He’d run through just about everybody who was a possible and they’d all left him, disgusted.’ Masters remembered his conversation the night before with Arn Beck and mentally noted that the two accounts were mutually supporting. Houtstra went on: ‘So he asked me to take the job on. I wasn’t keen. I’d been people’s warden for a couple of years way back, and I hadn’t got on all that well with Gobby then, so I wouldn’t give him a straight yes. Told him I’d think about it. Well, he was a clever devil, or a real bad one. Take your choice. He thought he’d get me to agree by putting a bit of work my way. He asked for an estimate for putting up two or three bookshelves in an alcove. It wasn’t worth my time going to look at it really, but I took Harry along as he’d be the one who’d have to do it if we took the job on. I told Gobby it would cost him a tenner. Now what happened next I don’t really know, but I think he realized he hadn’t made a big enough impression on me to make me accept his offer of the warden’s job. So he thought up a scheme. At the next choir practice he got hold of Harry and asked him how much he’d take for putting up the shelves in his spare time. Because it was the vicar and Harry wanted to do him a good turn, he said six pounds.’

  Masters said: ‘You’re suggesting that the vicar never intended to have Pieters put the shelves up? That his asking was part of a plan to get you to become warden?’

  ‘That’s what I think now. But I didn’t think so when he rang me up and told me that Harry was undercutting my estimate and pinching my jobs to do in his own time. Now I honestly believe he was doing a bit of creeping with me to get me to accept the warden’s post. Showing me what a good chap he was by informing me that my own workman was letting me down. ’Course he didn’t tell me that he’d led Harry on, and I was so bloody angry at the time that I sacked Harry on the spot.’