Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  Green grunted. ‘Without asking for an explanation?’

  ‘I asked Harry if it was true, and he said it was. If I’d kept him after that every one of my men would have felt free to carry on in the same way. Fair do’s all round.’

  Green grunted again and waved a hand to attract Binkhorst’s attention. Coulbeck said: ‘The story’s mine from now on. Harry came straight to me for a job and I took him on. Fred had rung Gobby and told him he wouldn’t become warden, and so Gobby thought he’d better ask for an estimate from me, because he wasn’t going to pay over the odds once he’d lost the chance of Fred becoming warden. Of course I’d heard the story from Harry, so I quoted eight pounds. Old Gobby accepted. I was so disgusted I thought I’d play a bit of a trick on him. I sent Harry to do the job.’

  Green choked over his beer. He put his tankard down and looked up. He hadn’t seen the tag-line coming. It had caught him unawares, tickling his sense of humour immoderately. Even Masters smiled. ‘What happened? Did the vicar refuse to let him in?’

  ‘No. The daughter let him in. The vicar wasn’t there but Harry knew exactly what was wanted. He’d been there with Fred, you see. So Harry did the job. Just putting plates either side of the alcove, cutting the shelves, laying them on the plates and beading them. He’d just finished when the vicar came in, and he was a bit shaken to see Harry. Harry left, but the vicar rang me up and said the job had been done badly and wasn’t up to specification. I asked Harry about it. He assured me he’d used a bolt-setting tool on the plates as I’d told him, and planed and chamfered the leading edges and so on. As I knew he would. I’d seen enough of his work to know. So I told Harry to come with me when I went to inspect. D’you know old Gobby had been chipping about there with a knife. Said the shelves didn’t fit. He was hopping about saying he could have done a better job himself. In the end Harry got a hold of him and said he’d lost one job through the vicar’s rotten tricks and he wasn’t going to lose another, and if Gobby didn’t shut his trap he’d shut it for him and so on. In the end I got Harry away, but I haven’t been paid for the job.’

  Masters said: ‘Did Pieters say he would get even with him?’

  ‘Not to Gobby himself. But he did to me. That simple girl was outside the room when we left and Harry said to me that if it was the last thing he did he’d get even with Gobby. What makes you ask? Did the girl overhear?’

  Masters nodded.

  Coulbeck said: ‘I don’t suppose she could help hearing. She put you on to Harry?’

  ‘She told me he’d been kind to her,’ Masters said. ‘He’d seen her trying to chop some kindling and had done it for her. And she said she was sure he hadn’t harmed her father.’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ Houtstra agreed. ‘In the heat of the moment Harry might have bashed him—with good cause. But he wouldn’t have laid for him and killed him in cold blood months after.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’m pleased to have heard your story.’

  Coulbeck said: ‘It lets Harry out?’

  ‘By no means. But it casts a much better light on his behaviour. And an equally bad one on Parseloe’s. Don’t worry. We’re not going to hound Pieters or anybody else unless we have very definite and positive proof. Perhaps I’ll see him for myself and explain matters to set his mind at rest. I assure you he’s got nothing to fear if he’s innocent. I know that’s easy to say, but we’re not out for an arrest at any price.’

  Green said: ‘Especially not in this case. I wouldn’t mind not finding who did Parseloe in. For my money he deserved it.’

  *

  The sergeants confirmed they’d had a fruitless morning. Masters said: ‘And you’ll probably have a fruitless afternoon. Inspector Green’s tying up the question of keys. I’d like you two to talk to the workmen who were at the school on Friday and again when the body was found on Monday. Who found him? What tools did they leave there? Had any been touched? The lot. A complete picture from their angle. O.K.?’

  Green said: ‘You still want me to go to the vicarage and the schoolmaster’s?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve got several visits in mind. I want to know what Binkhorst and his daughter were up to separately on Sunday night. I want to see the doctor, and a girl called April Barrett. I shan’t manage them all today, but I’ll be back by six, I hope.’

  Dr Barnfelt senior was not surprised to see Masters. It appeared he was half expecting him. He said: ‘That son of mine thinks you’re following him around. Are you?’

  ‘If you mean have I bumped into him twice today, the answer is yes. But surely he made it clear that it was he who came to where I was on both occasions, and not the other way about?’

  ‘That’s what I told him. You’re staying at the Goblin and you had to see the dead man’s relatives. In a place the size of Rooksby you can meet the same chap a dozen times a day.’

  He showed Masters into the surgery. Barnfelt’s eyes twinkled behind his pince-nez. Masters said: ‘Your son is very touchy about his patients.’

  ‘No more than he ethically should be, I hope.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I asked him how he’d found Maria Binkhorst and he refused to tell me.’

  ‘Did you really want to know, or were you merely observing the courtesies?’

  ‘Both. Maria was out and about all Sunday evening. Probably half Rooksby was out and about at the same time. But it means I’m interested in her movements and her health.’

  Barnfelt said: ‘Have I your assurance you are not considering Maria as a murderess?’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. I should say it’s extremely unlikely that she’s implicated, but I haven’t ruled anybody out at this stage.’

  ‘In that case, I don’t feel at liberty to tell you my son’s diagnosis.’

  ‘I don’t really expect you to. I had thought perhaps the flu bug or a cold . . .’

  Barnfelt shook his head. ‘Don’t fish,’ he said.

  ‘There are several points which I hope you won’t regard as deserving ethical reticence. I made a mistake this morning in thinking your son was calling on Cora Parseloe—just to see how she was bearing up under the strain. Evidently he was calling on Pamela.’

  ‘Yes. The elder one was unwell.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘You sound doubtful. I have no means of telling—short of asking Peter. But I took an early phone call from Cora. She said her sister had asked her to ring to request a visit from Peter.’

  ‘Is Peter her doctor? She’s resident in Peterborough.’

  ‘She’s not on his list, but she is his patient—temporarily. He attended her in her recent short illness because she happened to be here in Rooksby.’

  Masters said: ‘He seems to have all the personable young women on his books. Lucky chap.’

  Barnfelt eyed him shrewdly. ‘You said there were several points you wished to discuss.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Cora Parseloe. I’d been led to believe she was hopelessly sub-normal. I visited her. She answered my questions sensibly enough.’

  ‘Was that why you asked Peter if she should be on a regimen of iodine?’

  Masters laughed: ‘I’m not much of a doctor, I’m afraid. I just wondered. Thyroid deficiency—iodine.’

  ‘You could be right. I couldn’t be sure without examining her.’

  ‘You mean she has never been to see you, or you her?’

  ‘Never. Her parents evidently didn’t see fit to demand my services on her behalf.’

  ‘But she is your patient?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could I ask you to call on her?’

  ‘I can call—merely as a courtesy.’

  ‘Can I suggest to her that she comes to you for an examination?’

  ‘There’s nothing to prevent you doing that.’

  ‘I believe that more than half her trouble has been the way her parents treated her. Out in the world she might do something useful and interesting.’

&nb
sp; ‘We can hope so.’

  Masters said: ‘She’ll be alone now, you know. I can’t see Pamela saddling herself with a dependent sister.’

  Barnfelt looked across at him. ‘Was that your real reason for coming? To learn what could be done to help her?’

  Masters found himself blushing with embarrassment. ‘Well—yes, it was. To ask you to gee-up the welfare authorities. Somebody will have to do something quickly.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Chief Inspector. Believe me, I share your concern.’

  Masters said: ‘That’s a load off my mind.’

  ‘If you’re feeling happier, stay and have some tea.’

  ‘What about your son? If I bump into him again he’ll really begin to believe I’m dogging his footsteps.’

  ‘Peter has a pre-natal clinic. We’ll be undisturbed.’

  They went through to the Barnfelts’ sitting-room. Mrs Barnfelt, a comfortable-looking woman, was knitting. She said she was delighted to meet Masters and then disappeared to prepare tea. Masters wandered over to the window, overlooking the back garden. He said: ‘What’s that? A railway track?’

  Barnfelt joined him. ‘Yes. It’s Peter’s. He’s an ardent railway fan. He builds his own scale models of old steam locos. He put the track up a couple of years ago, but he usually runs his locos at the club track. It’s much longer. Right round a large meadow. Gives him a better chance to perform. Lots of intelligent men play at being engine drivers, you know.’

  ‘Why not? But building working scale models must call for a high degree of skill and money.’

  ‘Skill? I should have said interest and application. Peter has never been anything but devoted to medicine ever since he was a little boy. But railways have always been his hobby. And as for money, he regards his hobby as something of an investment. I believe he builds an engine for about three hundred pounds, and can sell it for nearly a thousand. So you see it’s not really an expensive pastime, is it? More of a therapy, really. I believe he keeps it up for the rest and relaxation he thinks a doctor should have if he is to do his best for his patients at all times. He’s got a small workshop in the basement.’ Barnfelt turned to help his wife as she came in with the tray. ‘Peter hasn’t done much work down there these last few weeks. The flu epidemic has kept him too busy.’

  Mrs Barnfelt said complacently: ‘And the weather’s been against him, dear. It’s too wet and windy outside, and the cellar’s very cold.’ She poured tea from an old-fashioned silver pot. Masters enjoyed himself. He realized time was slipping by, but he felt he couldn’t rush away. He hoped Barnfelt would enlist his wife’s help with Cora. Before he left, this had happened. Mrs Barnfelt had said she would see what she could do for the ‘poor love’.

  Although Masters was feeling happier about Cora as he returned to the police station, there was a niggle at the back of his mind. He couldn’t focus it: bring it out into the open to examine it. All he knew was that he felt it to be important. The darkness was coming down and Rooksby looked at its uninviting worst. Much the same as when he had arrived, twenty-four hours earlier. That didn’t help his thoughts. In the office he found Constable Vanden, whom he had not met before. He said to him: ‘Were you out on Sunday evening?’

  ‘Six to ten, sir. I was a minute or so late, actually. I didn’t relieve Constable Crome until just after six at the crossroads. There was a phone call. Lost dog. It held me up.’

  Masters took an easy chair. He liked Senior Constable Vanden. His dark hair was cropped so short it showed his scalp strangely white. His full face was brown. The mouth and jaw slightly twisted. The eyes deep set and—Masters thought—sincere. The figure was well made: broad shoulders and slim hips. The uniform was well pressed and the boots highly polished. He carried himself very straight. Masters said: ‘Have a chair. I want to talk.’

  Vanden sat to attention.

  Masters said: ‘There were some rum goings on in Rooksby on Sunday evening. And I don’t mean the murder.’

  ‘There’s rum goings on most nights, sir. But Sunday! It was pretty cold for many of the young ’uns to be up to their tricks in dark corners that night, sir. A few cars about, of course. A few people going to church and chapel early on, but no shennanigan, if you get my meaning, sir. Not that I saw, anyway, and I got round the whole patch.’

  ‘Think back to the cars you saw. In fact, write down every one you can remember seeing—with occupants if possible. Go on. I’ll give you ten minutes.’

  Vanden went round the table and pulled paper out of a drawer. Masters filled his pipe. Vanden wrote laboriously. The crooked jaw set hard. But he didn’t stop until he’d finally finished. He handed the sheet to Masters who refused it. ‘Keep it in front of you.’ Vanden sat down again, wondering what sort of an exercise this was. Masters continued: ‘Now tell me if any of these cars I mention are on your list. Ready?’

  Vanden nodded. Masters said: ‘Miss Binkhorst’s Mini.’

  Vanden said: ‘Red Mini. Owner Miss Binkhorst. Seen coming in past the new school at approximately six ten. Seen twice later, parked without lights near the junction of Glebe Road and Bowling Lane on site of old pound. Time 8.20 or thereabouts. Owner sitting alone inside, smoking. Again at 9.30 parked with lights just near vicarage gates in Church Lane. Owner in vehicle.’ Vanden looked up, tacitly asking for the next question, as if this sort of enquiry went on every afternoon in Rooksby.

  Masters said: ‘Well done. I’ve noted that. Now, what about Mr Binkhorst’s car?’

  ‘On Sunday night, sir? I didn’t see it. Are you sure he was out, sir? It wouldn’t be usual.’

  ‘He was out in the last hour of your time on duty.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. He must have slipped along roads where I wasn’t. It’s very difficult keeping track of everything with just one pair of eyes.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you. In fact, don’t bemoan the fact that you didn’t see him. Learn from this, lad. It’s sometimes nearly as useful not to see—or you should try to make it so. You didn’t see him at point A at such and such a time, therefore you know he was somewhere else. You didn’t see his car in the village over a period of an hour’s patrolling, therefore I’m likely to be right in assuming, for the moment, that he wasn’t in the village, but outside it somewhere.’

  Vanden perked up visibly. He sat even straighter in his chair. Masters said: ‘What about Dr Peter Barnfelt’s car?’

  Vanden ran his finger down the list. ‘You can’t miss that one, sir. It’s a white Triumph coupé G.T.6. Unsuitable for a doctor, I always think, but just right for a young man like Dr Peter. Handy for carrying the girls about, and they like it. A bit racy, I suppose.’

  Masters said: ‘You’re referring to Miss Barrett, I expect.’

  Vanden pursed his lips. ‘Used to be, sir. But not lately. In fact, I’ve seen him with another bird a time or two. A dark one.’

  ‘And Miss Barrett is fair?’

  ‘Real, genuine blonde.’

  ‘Who was the dark girl?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that? That the girl was unknown to you? Not one of the village girls?’

  ‘She may have been, and then again she mayn’t. What I mean, sir, is that I never saw her face. It’s difficult at night to see into one of those little cars through one of those let-down hoods, specially as young Dr Peter usually roars past like a bat out of hell. It’s just an impression you get of two people in the car. A head scarf or a smudge of white face.’

  Masters said: ‘I know.’

  ‘Course, it’s different in the summer, sir. With the hood down and the wind blowing the hair away from a girl’s face. You get a good view then.’

  Masters said: ‘But in spite of it being winter now, you’re pretty sure it wasn’t April Barrett?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. I’ll swear it was a dark girl, not a blonde. And I’ve seen the car go past with this girl in it and seen the Barrett girl standing on the pavement looking after it. An’ if you asked me, sir, I’d say she didn�
��t like it.’

  ‘You mean April Barrett used to come into Rooksby to see what Dr Barnfelt was up to?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, sir. All I know is I’ve seen her standing around the village a bit more these last few weeks than I ever saw her before. An’ she was never with Dr Peter. For long enough before that I never saw her without him. I reckon they’ve had a bust up, those two.’

  Masters thought for a few moments and then said: ‘Where did you most often see Miss Barrett standing?’

  ‘Sometimes at the crossroads.’

  ‘Near the Co-op?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Two or three times there, and once or twice at the end of Perry Lane.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know, sir, but there’s an electric sub station . . .’

  ‘I remember. That’s not far from the doctor’s house.’

  ‘Quite right, sir. You can’t see the front of the house from there, but you can see down the ramp into the doctor’s garage.’

  ‘Then it does look as though Miss Barrett was keeping an eye on her young man, doesn’t it?’

  ‘She must have got it bad, sir.’

  ‘I suppose so. But let’s not waste any more time on April Barrett. Where did you see young Barnfelt’s Triumph?’

  ‘Coming in from the south just after eight, sir.’

  ‘From the Peterborough way?’

  ‘That’s right. Then I saw it on the garage ramp at the house half an hour later. It wasn’t run into the garage.’

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘Well, sir, I didn’t actually see it again, but I heard it about ten minutes after that. I can tell its note, if you know what I mean, sir. He’s added twin big-bore copper tail pipes and lord knows what else, so that it’s unmistakable round here.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘North, I think, sir. I reckon I heard him back out on to the road and then shoot off along Hunters’ Crescent. That curves round into the main road a hundred yards along. If he’d wanted to come south he’d have come towards me.’

  Masters said thoughtfully: ‘I see.’

  ‘I know it sounds a bit of a muddle, sir, but . . .’