Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  Masters straightened his tie. He thought this was how Green always reacted. Grumbling. Masters wondered whether Green had sufficient mental equipment to see far enough through a plethora of facts and hints ever to come to any sort of conclusion, satisfactory or otherwise. He said: ‘Unless I’m mistaken, we’ll not have heard the last of the grudges against Parseloe. We can’t really start to pick a winner till we’ve studied the form of all the runners.’

  Chapter Five

  It was Masters’ first view of Maria Binkhorst. The sergeants had returned to say that Peter Barnfelt had been in the Nutmeg Tree from about nine o’clock on Sunday night until half past ten when the bar closed. He had been alone and had drunk steadily. Which was evidently unusual for him. The barman had heard he’d had a row with Miss Barrett, who usually accompanied him to the roadhouse, and put his solitary drinking down to an effort to drown the sorrows of a lovers’ quarrel. Masters was satisfied with the report. He was even more satisfied to find Maria waiting on them at table.

  ‘Is this your mother’s night off?’

  ‘She’s in the saloon bar,’ Maria replied. ‘Dad didn’t think I was well enough to be in there from half past five till half past ten. So Mum took over.’

  ‘And gave us the exclusive pleasure of your company. We’re definitely lucky. But we were sorry to hear you were ill.’

  ‘It’s . . . nothing.’

  ‘We’re pleased you’re up and about again.’

  She placed tureens on the table. Inviting, pale green crockery, white lined, that showed up baby carrots and peas to advantage. The duckling she brought on whole. No rice. No orange slices. Plain cooking. Masters said: ‘Fit for a king. I’ll carve.’ He turned to Maria. ‘D’you want any of this back?’ She shook her head. ‘Good.’

  She held the plates for him as he carved. He had a chance to sum her up. As Hill had said, she was slender. But the Italian early maturity was there. She was a woman, not a girl. Dark-haired, pale complexion, with dark eyes very alive. Her lips were strangely full, but not petulant. Masters seemed to remember they were what his mother used to call ‘bee-stung’. They had an inviting smoothness that stirred memory for him. Her figure was lithe. He supposed the real term was sinuous. As he carved the breast of the duckling his thoughts were not on the job. He was thinking that Maria knew how to dress, too. He guessed her skirt was less than eighteen inches long. Her legs, not too heavily thighed, erotically shapely. He was sorry when she’d handed round the plates and left. He ate in silence, thinking about her. To him she had none of the external signs or symptoms of a girl who is unwell.

  Green ate voraciously. He called for beer with his meal. Masters took no liquor. He preferred to savour the food. Even so he was not really aware of what he ate. Hill and Brant kept quiet. They were used to Masters tacit at some stage in every enquiry. Suddenly he looked across at them and said: ‘When you saw the workmen, was one of them injured? Bandaged?’

  Brant nearly choked. Hill said: ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. I asked.’

  ‘Sorry. Pieter’s labourer had a chisel cut on his left thumb. A big bandage, stained yellow.’

  ‘Acriflavine?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Orange-yellow. Antiseptic. Germicide. Wound disinfectant?’

  ‘That sounds like it.’

  ‘When did he get it?’

  Hill said: ‘I asked him. He said last Thursday morning. They had to get the doctor to him.’

  Masters said: ‘To him? They didn’t take him to the surgery?’

  ‘They definitely said “to him”. I can remember being a bit surprised. Then I thought that in a place this size the doctors probably find it easier and quicker to go out in their cars rather than have injured people trying to cycle in or wait for an ambulance to come from a long distance.’

  Masters said: ‘Thanks. They didn’t say which doctor answered the call?’

  Hill shook his head. Masters said: ‘Not to worry,’ and lapsed into silence again. Green grimaced and got on with his meal. Maria came in again. Masters said: ‘Have you had your supper?’

  She answered unconcernedly: ‘We have high tea before opening time and then another snack after we’re closed.’

  ‘Nothing in between?’

  ‘Not usually, but I had a couple of the sausages tonight. I kept them back from the ones I did with the duckling.’

  ‘Because you’re going to bed early tonight as well?’

  She pouted. ‘No. I’m going to watch television. Then I’ll get Mum and Dad theirs.’

  He grinned. ‘And some more for yourself?’

  She reddened and took his plate. He asked her no further questions. Hill was looking at him closely. Green and Brant were paying no attention. He got up from the table. He said to Green: ‘Would you and Brant care to take the spit-and-sawdust for half an hour? There are a couple of old blowhards in there who might be useful. Harold and Matthew. They hinted there might be things to learn about various characters around here. But they’re cagey. See what you can do to draw them out.’

  Green said: ‘You’ve met them already. Wouldn’t it be better if you saw them again?’

  ‘Sorry. I told Wessel, Beck and company I’d see them in the saloon. But don’t worry. It’s the same beer on both sides. And if you have no luck, come and join us. One other thing. Binkhorst seems uneasy. Keep your eye on him and let me know your impression of what’s eating him.’

  ‘Guilty conscience?’

  ‘Could be. He was cavorting around on Sunday night when he should have been behind his bar.’

  Green grunted and went out of the dining-room with Brant at his heels. Masters and Hill passed through to the saloon.

  As soon as Masters entered the bar he was called over to a corner table by Wessel. ‘Mr Masters, this is Jim Baron. He tells me he was visited by Inspector Green earlier today, and would like to meet you.’

  Masters said jovially: ‘And I him. How d’you do, Mr Baron. Did you come along specially, or is this your usual place of call?’

  Baron said: ‘I drop in most nights.’

  ‘Not last night.’

  ‘Never on Mondays or Thursdays. I teach at night-school now. Income lower since I lost my headship. So I’m making up with a bit of overtime.’

  ‘What do you teach?’

  ‘Mathematics on Mondays, woodwork on Thursdays.’

  ‘Quite a mixture.’

  ‘Maths is my normal subject, but woodwork’s my specialty. You know. We have to study some non-academic subject like music, P.T., metalwork, drama or something akin at college to make us more desirable as teachers in the eyes of school management committees. There was a vacancy for a woodwork man, so I took it. Unless you do two nights a week it’s not worth doing any—financially.’

  Masters accepted a drink brought over by Arn Beck. Masters thanked him and then turned back to Baron. ‘I’ll ask the obvious. What time did you get here on Sunday evening?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not on Sunday.’

  ‘Churchgoer?’

  ‘At one time. Not in the last few months.’

  Baron didn’t attempt to expand his statement. Masters didn’t press him. It was neither the time nor the place for close interrogation. He said to Beck: ‘Does Farmer Barrett ever come in here?’

  ‘Phil Barrett? He used to come in most nights, but I haven’t seen him for—let me see—ten days or a fortnight. Want to pump him too?’

  Masters said: ‘Pump? No, I don’t think so. Unless he has something significant he wants to tell me. I was hoping to buy a sack of potatoes from him.’

  Wessel said: ‘And we can believe that or not as the fit takes us, I suppose?’

  Masters nodded. ‘You certainly can. And if you come to any good conclusions let me know. I’ll be interested.’

  ‘Case as bad as that? Floundering a bit, eh?’

  Masters smiled. ‘I don’t think so. And you can believe that or not as the fit takes you, too.’

&nb
sp; Beck said: ‘You’ve a reputation.’

  ‘For truth?’

  ‘For successful investigation.’

  ‘Thank you. Does it worry you?’

  Beck’s eyes twinkled. ‘If I said yes, you’d arrest me. And if I said no you’d call me an irresponsible citizen.’

  Masters laughed again. ‘Sorry. I can’t help trying to score points.’

  Wessel said: ‘You mentioned last night that you’d like to see us here this evening. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Just one. I want to know why Maria Binkhorst is not married. I think it would be embarrassing to ask the girl herself. Her mother has already told me she can’t understand why her daughter is still single. Her father? He seems totally uninterested. So I’m asking you. You’re men of the world. You’ve probably watched her grow up. What’s the reason for her being on the shelf?’

  Baron said: ‘Is it any business of yours?’

  Masters looked at him squarely. Thought he sounded like one of those permissive tutors who regard the police as Establishment bullies. ‘I think so. Just as your hanging on to a school key is my business in the present circumstances. If the information about Maria is of no help to me, I shall forget it soon enough. Just as I’ll forget you have—or had—a strong motive against the vicar, kept a key, and haven’t accounted for your actions on Sunday evening.’

  Baron flushed. ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’

  ‘If I were, you wouldn’t be here. All I’m pointing out to you—as vividly and personally as possible—is that some sort of case could be made out against many innocent parties. My job is to find the guilty party. Nothing more. But to do it—to make absolutely sure—I have to poke my nose into lots of private holes and corners. In the interests of justice. And at this particular moment I want to learn more about Maria. Shall I tell you why? She was driving round Rooksby on Sunday evening, and her father, too. Now, according to my information, Maria often goes out on a Sunday—but always to the pictures. Because of this, her father never reckons to leave the bar on Sundays. These are just two odd facts I have nosed out. In fairness to everybody—including yourself—who may be implicated in the case, I must try to find an explanation for these unusual happenings. Now, when I hear of a young and personable girl trundling around in the dark, I immediately think she’s involved—perfectly innocently—with a man. If I hear her father has chased her, I suspect it’s because he knows and doesn’t approve of the man in question. But I must try to make sure I’m right. The easiest way is to ask somebody what the girl’s reactions to men are. If she hates them like poison, then I’m probably off net in thinking she went out to meet one.’ He spread his hands. ‘I could go on like this for hours. What I ask is my business, Mr Baron, and it’s probably in the girl’s best interests, too. I like to think so.’

  Baron looked shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t looked at the problem from your point of view.’

  Masters, thanking heaven Baron had swallowed his story, said mildly: ‘Why should you? I wouldn’t understand the philosophy of teaching a child to read.’

  ‘So Binkhorst and Maria are under suspicion?’ Beck said.

  ‘In so far as they’re not accounted for on Sunday evening. So’s Mr Baron. So are you, until you’re cleared. There are two thousand possible suspects in Rooksby alone. Naturally we rule out children and elderly women—at first—unless we’ve reason to think otherwise. But why should I suspect Mr Baron more than Joe Bloggs? I mustn’t. I can’t. Until I know Joe Bloggs is innocent. And the easiest way of proving any man innocent is to prove another guilty. Sorry, but that’s the way it is in a case like this where the victim seems to have been everyman’s enemy.’

  Masters was beginning to get tired of explanations. He tried not to show it. He had deliberately suggested this meeting so that he could gather informed gossip. Use it to get the atmosphere of Rooksby and its inhabitants. The milieu, the ambience of a crime always helped him. The customers in the public bar had their value, but they were more clannish. More mistrustful of outners. They would give just so much away, then no more. He wanted these people to talk.

  Baron said: ‘I taught Maria.’

  ‘A Catholic in a C of E school. Did she feel out of it?’

  ‘I was only a young teacher at the time—not the headmaster—but we tried to make sure she didn’t.’

  ‘But she did a bit?’

  ‘It was inevitable. We had more than our fair share of Parseloe’s visits.’

  ‘Was she a good girl? Well behaved?’

  ‘Extremely. We saw to that in school, and mama saw to it outside.’

  ‘A bit of a dragon?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. But she made a fool of the kid. Always had her so well dressed she was frightened of getting dirty or tearing her clothes. And Gina toted her around. Took her on shopping expeditions instead of letting her play with the other kids.’

  Wessel said: ‘Gina was scared stiff some undesirable character would get her.’

  Masters said: ‘I understand you have an unenviable reputation for early, shot-gun marriages here in Rooksby.’

  Beck said: ‘All these little isolated communities have. And if you were to trace the histories of the inhabitants you’d find practically everybody is related to everybody else. Why there aren’t more batties born in Rooksby beats me.’

  Masters said: ‘Promiscuity and fecundity seem to take the place of inbred weaknesses. No wonder Mrs Binkhorst worked hard to keep her daughter clear of trouble. She succeeded, too.’

  Baron said: ‘She packed Maria off to a Convent School when she was eleven. Travelled every day by bus from the market place here.’

  ‘Was she a clever girl?’

  ‘So, so. She got one or two O levels. Not academic ones. Her mother insisted on cultivating the wifely virtues, Italian style. Sewing, cooking—that sort of thing.’

  ‘She certainly cooked a damn fine dinner tonight.’

  ‘Then, when she left school, she came straight into the pub. I thought at the time that it was a bit of a waste, but her mother could see nothing wrong in it. And she wanted to keep her eye on the girl.’

  ‘She must have attracted some boy friends. She’s a looker.’

  ‘Of course she did. One in particular. Jeremy somebody or other . . .’

  ‘Pratt,’ said Beck. ‘I remember the first time he saw her. He was passing through and stopped for a drink. Sports car, good clothes, plenty of money. He came in here, and he saw Maria. They were both teenagers and fell flat for each other. Needless to say, mother encouraged it.’

  ‘To the point of allowing her to renounce her religion and change to C of E?’

  ‘That’s right. You do get to hear things, don’t you? It gives you some idea of how keen Gina was on the match. She thought they were going to get married, all right.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Old Pratt. Self-made man. Lord knows what he bought and sold to make his brass, but he was determined Jeremy shouldn’t marry Maria.’

  ‘Does he live close by?’

  ‘Near Spalding. At first he thought he’d scotched things by saying he didn’t want Catholic grandchildren. Then when Gina allowed Maria to change, he had to think again. Or rather, he gave his real reasons for objecting. He said he wouldn’t allow his son to marry a barmaid. He must have brought some powerful pressure to bear on Jeremy, because the affair finished all of a sudden.’

  ‘With what effect on Maria?’

  Baron said: ‘I’m pretty sure it’s affected her ever since. She was really in love, you see. Not available to be caught on the rebound like so many little lasses whose emotions don’t really get involved in their affairs of the heart.’

  ‘She steered completely clear of men friends?’

  ‘For the most part. She attracted them, but either she wasn’t keen or Gina wasn’t. In a place like this word soon gets round. The local lads aren’t good enough for Gina. Those that are don’t stay in Rooksby to marry Maria.’

 
‘So Maria at twenty-eight is left high and dry, and mother wonders why.’

  Wessel said: ‘Wonders? She’s nearly crackers about it. Wants like hell to see her married—suitably. D’you know, it’s only about six months ago—you remember, Arn—old Gobby was here and . . .’ Masters interrupted. ‘Parseloe used to come in here?’

  Beck said: ‘Occasionally. Just in time to join in a buckshee last round with no chance of standing his own corner.’

  Masters grinned. ‘Thanks for the hint.’ He looked at Hill. ‘Would you mind?’ He handed over a pound note. Hill got up immediately. He realized Masters didn’t want Mrs Binkhorst to come to the table at this juncture. Her appearance might stop the flow of gossip at just the wrong moment.

  Masters said to Wessel: ‘Please go on. Parseloe was here . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes. Gobby made some remark to Gina about Maria. Asked if she was out courting because she wasn’t serving. That was an example of Gobby’s sense of humour. It was one of Maria’s nights off, actually, but trust Gobby to put his foot in it. Gina must have been feeling very confidential or it might be that she had an inbred respect for the cloth—of whatever denomination. Anyhow, she told Gobby, with two or three of us standing round, that she couldn’t understand why no man of standing regarded Maria as a suitable catch, considering she was heiress to the Goblin—which is a free house—and already had a dowry of over two thousand pounds.’ Wessel took his drink from Hill, and continued: ‘Those are the lengths Gina’s gone to. The old Italian idea of saddling a girl with a dowry. If that isn’t asking for trouble, I don’t know what is. But you’d know more about that, Chief Inspector. Ageing spinsters with a bit of money. They’re natural prey, aren’t they?’

  Masters nodded. ‘There have been cases—Brides in the Bath types. But I would hardly call Maria ageing.’

  Beck said: ‘In Rooksby, an unmarried girl of twenty-eight is already aged. Remember we have grandmothers here of thirty-two or a bit over.’

  Masters suddenly felt sick of the whole business. Weary. In every case the time came when unsavoury details momentarily caused emotion to overcome reason. This time the plight of a girl—comfortably housed, with more than enough of every material benefit to make life bearable—inextricably hemmed in by a maze of parochial and parental barriers, roused anger in him. Momentarily. He’d heard enough from these new-found acquaintances. Enough about Maria at any rate, for the moment. He switched the conversation perfunctorily.