Death After Evensong

by Douglas Clark

  ‘I like your doctors. Or should I say I like Dr Frank Barnfelt? I’ve had no chance of getting to know the young one.’

  Baron said, very seriously: ‘I think Dr Frank Barnfelt is the most brilliant, capable and practical man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few—at college and so on.’

  Masters asked: ‘As a doctor?’

  ‘As anything. His doctoring’s only one facet. He’s the sort of chap that could have followed any profession and made a success of it. He only happened to choose medicine because his father was a doctor. But the odd thing is he’s without any ambition on his own behalf. If he had that to drive him on he’d be unstoppable. D’you know, he reads both Latin and Greek for pleasure!’

  Wessel said: ‘And he knows more about the law than I do. Where he gets it from, I can’t imagine. How he has time to read and imbibe material that an ordinary family lawyer would boggle at is totally beyond me. He’s put me right several times. Given me an argument for court that’s enabled me to win hands down on two or three occasions.’

  Masters was interested. More interested than he’d expected to be. He’d formed the opinion for himself that Barnfelt was something more than just a run-of-the-mill G.P. His discourse on bruising had been authoritative. He said: ‘Does he write? Medical stuff, I mean?’

  Baron said: ‘I’ve not heard that he ever produces medical papers, but he’s written a cookery book emphasizing the proper use of protein. He came down hard on the side of bully-beef, I remember, And he publishes original plans for steam locomotives . . .’

  Masters said: ‘I thought locomotives were Peter’s hobby.’

  ‘They are. Inherited, though. Dr Frank built him his first working steam engine when he was two.’

  ‘With his own hands?’

  ‘Entirely by himself. He’s a remarkable man. And a funny one.’

  ‘Funny?’

  Beck said: ‘Are you talking about his clothes and his squeaky voice?’

  ‘No. He is a much cleverer man than Peter in every way, but he’s so proud of that boy you’d think the positions were reversed. D’you know what I think? It’s my honest belief that old Frank never really believed he could father a son. And when he managed it he was lost in awe at his own prowess.’

  Wessel said: ‘Come off it!’

  ‘I mean it. I think he thought that for some reason—known only to himself, and based on some genetic theory of his own—that he half expected to be unable to sire a family.’

  ‘You mean he diagnosed himself as . . . what? A hermaphrodite? Not a complete male? Because he had a peculiar voice and an odd choice in clothes?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I can think of no other reason for him being so proud of Peter.’

  ‘I’ll grant you he’s proud of his son. Thinks the sun shines out of his backside, even. But many fathers do the same. It’s quite natural, and fairly common.’

  Baron stuck to his guns. ‘I still think he’s too fiercely proud for it to be natural in a man as intelligent as he is.’

  Masters said: ‘There’s nowt as queer as fowks.’ What else he was about to say was lost as Green came up and said: ‘D’you know what I’ve just learned?’

  ‘What?’

  Green sounded disgusted. ‘That to be really good, onions should be pickled for seven years. Like whisky.’

  Masters knew Green well enough to realize that his colleague had spent a fruitless evening in the public bar. This was his way of saying so in public. If Green ever got hold of anything worthwhile he always bottled it up until a moment of climax. His appearance now signalled the break up of the party. Binkhorst was due to call time at any moment.

  Masters drew Green on one side. ‘I’d like to talk to all three Binkhorsts. After the pub’s cleared.’

  ‘D’you want me with you?’

  ‘Please. Arrange it as gently as possible. While they’re eating supper, if they don’t mind. As long as it’s tonight.’

  The Binkhorsts’ living-room was ornate, but pleasant. There was a predominance of burgundy in the colour scheme. The upholstery plush. The photo frames gilded. The fireplace old-fashioned, with highly polished copper reflector plates and figured register. The table had an intricate lace cloth, beautifully laundered. The dishes were leaf green. The cutlery silver. Masters wondered whether Binkhorst had ever become fully attuned to living in the midst of a decor that smacked more of southern Italy than the east Midlands of England. Gina looked fully at home. Maria, too. But Masters was worried about all three. Binkhorst was sullen— and not just because he had company for supper. Gina and Maria were apprehensive. Or so he thought. He didn’t like it. He felt it would militate against frankness and he wanted the truth above all else at this time.

  Maria carried in a pizza, round and red and hot. She slid it off the glove oven-cloth on to a wrought iron table guard, and went back to the kitchen. When she reappeared she was carrying a tub jar of prawns. Her mother offered her a plate of pizza. She said: ‘Not for me, Mom.’ Her mother stared at the prawns for a moment and then snatched them away. She said, angrily: ‘They are not good for you now . . .’ and then bit off her words, turning to glance fearfully at Masters.

  Masters smiled at her and said: ‘I don’t know a lot about it, but I think I agree. Pickled prawns in the first trimester would seem to me to be unwise.’

  His words induced a silence, tangible, hard, complete. The room and the people in it resembled Tussauds. Everybody frozen in mid act. Green burnt his finger on a flaring match. His oath broke the silence. Maria said: ‘He knows.’ Relief. Even Binkhorst, as he put his knife and fork down, seemed to sink more comfortably in his chair.

  ‘Now let’s talk this over sensibly. I’ve no wish to pry into family secrets. Please remember that Inspector Green and I are very discreet, but we must know certain facts if we are to stop prying into your affairs. And I believe that telling us the truth will help you as much as it will us.’

  Gina said: ‘It is a disgrace. She is a bad girl.’

  ‘Perhaps. From one point of view. But I’m not concerned with moral issues of that sort. More with cause and effect.’

  Binkhorst pushed his plate away. ‘I’m with you there. I’m not sure that this is all Maria’s fault, though she’s carrying the can.’

  Green said: ‘That’s one way of putting it. And I hope you’re not going to let her down.’

  Gina flounced round in her chair. ‘You do not know. It is terrible this thing she has done.’ The girl got up and put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. Gina started to weep, sobbing, ‘She must be married to have babies. It is not right to have babies without marriage.’

  ‘It’s not all that bad, Mom.’ She looked across at her father. ‘Is it, Dad?’

  ‘No, love. Don’t mind your mother. She’s a bit upset. So am I if it comes to that. But she’ll see us through. You can bet your life on it.’ The girl gave him a quick smile of gratitude, kissed her mother and sat down.

  Masters was pleased at Binkhorst’s attitude. Previously he had thought him a henpecked nonentity. Now he appeared to be taking a grip. Just at the time when there was crisis. Masters thought how often the hour calls forth the man. Green said: ‘Don’t you think it would be an idea to let them—and me—know how you knew.’

  ‘Bits and pieces. Like a doctor calling early in the morning. As Maria was well enough to be up and about later it must have been a very temporary indisposition—not flu, or a nervous breakdown or anything serious. And when girls are sick in the morning one immediately jumps to obvious conclusions. Her eating habits at the moment—three suppers in one night. That immediately makes one think of the old wives’ tale of eating for two. The craving for pickled prawns—or similar unsuitable foods—is, I believe, sometimes a feature of pregnancy. And so on.’

  Green flung his cigarette stub on the fire. Binkhorst said: ‘You’re a clever bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Everybody will know soon enough.’ Maria didn’t sound despondent. Rather ha
ppy, in fact. Masters was surprised. He wondered why she should be happy. He said: ‘So now we come to what interests me most. Your movements on Sunday night.’

  Gina turned to him. Her eyes red-rimmed. A tigress. ‘They didn’t kill him. They should have. I should have. But they didn’t.’

  Masters said soothingly: ‘That’s just what I think. But I must make sure. So can we clear the whole matter up now and then forget it? Remember, Mrs Binkhorst, that worry at this time won’t help your daughter.’

  ‘Worry? It is all worry. I am worried. How can we not be worried?’

  Green said: ‘Who’s the father?’ It was said unconcernedly. A blow with a blunt instrument. Gina started to weep again, noisily. ‘Now what have I said?’ he asked.

  Masters said: ‘I believe—correct me if I’m wrong—that the late vicar was the father. Am I right?’

  Maria nodded. Green swore. ‘The dirty old . . . well, I’m damned. By God I’ve heard of some things, but this takes the biscuit.’

  Masters said: ‘I know that for some time past the vicar has not been returning straight home after Evensong on Sundays, as he used to. Sunday is also one of Maria’s nights off. That seemed significant to me, particularly when I heard that Mrs Binkhorst had told the vicar that Maria had a considerable dowry and other expectations.’

  Gina let out a wail. Her husband said: ‘So you opened your mouth to old Gobby, did you?’ He went on reproachfully: ‘You should have known better, lass. I bet he swallowed it like a donkey taking strawberries.’

  ‘He did,’ Masters said. ‘It’s not very complimentary to your daughter, but I imagine he started paying attention to her from that time on.’

  Maria said: ‘In September.’ It was a quiet, pitiful little reply. Her father reached over and took her hand, clumsily but kindly meant. ‘I’ll never know how you came to let him, lass. But I’m not blaming you.’

  Masters said to him: ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Her mother guessed a week ago but said nothing to either of us,’ Binkhorst replied.

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘She told me on Sunday night she thought our Maria was pregnant.’

  ‘Did she also tell you who she thought the father was?’

  ‘I didn’t know that until Monday. Gina didn’t, either. It wasn’t until after we’d heard Gobby was dead. Maria fainted when she heard. That’s when we got it out of her.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Course I am. Otherwise I’d probably have got him before the other bloke. And I hope you don’t catch him. He’s done me a good turn, whoever he is. And a lot of others.’

  Masters said: ‘Right. So now there’s no difficulty about explaining what you were so reluctant to tell me last night.’

  ‘There’s no mystery.’

  ‘Not for you, perhaps. But I’ve been put to the trouble of tracing Maria’s movements. What I found out led me to the conclusions I’ve already given you. She left here ostensibly to go to the pictures. She came back to Rooksby in her car shortly after six. Was that to see Parseloe on his way over to the church for Evensong?’

  ‘Yes.’ She whispered it.

  ‘You were a little late, weren’t you? He set out from the vicarage before six.’

  ‘Did he?’ There was genuine surprise in Maria’s voice.

  ‘Had you an arrangement?’

  ‘For a quarter past.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the lane near the vestry gate.’

  ‘That’s the one that runs between the school and the churchyard?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody uses it after dark in winter.’

  Masters was thinking hard. From what he had learned of him, Parseloe was not the one to miss an appointment which was to his own advantage, without very good reason. This thought opened up many avenues. ‘Forgive me, but a meeting at a quarter past six would leave you very little time together.’

  ‘It was only for making arrangements for later.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t. Not quite. But if Parseloe had dodged the meeting at a quarter past six, it might have been because he wanted to avoid the later one without having to give explanations. In which case, he may have already planned to meet somebody else instead. In the school. This meant that the rendezvous with his murderer could have been prearranged. The thought interested Masters greatly. A meeting Parseloe had not wanted to mention to Maria! The vicar was a devious type—the sort who would duck one meeting to avoid giving reasons for ducking another. Bent as a hairpin. He’d go to any lengths to avoid telling an unpleasant truth face to face. He said to Maria: ‘After missing him before the service you then waited for him at the old pound?’

  ‘I thought he would come there.’

  ‘Because that was where you usually met?’

  ‘Yes. It was quiet. Close to the church. And I could sit in the car off the road.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You already know it all, don’t you?’ It was a reproach.

  He said: ‘I’m trying to find it all out. When did you move to Church Walk?’

  ‘About nine o’clock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he hadn’t come to the old pound.’

  ‘But why the vicarage gates? Did you go to the door?’

  ‘No. Oh, no. I waited to meet him coming home. I thought he might have been called out—to see somebody sick or dying. The flu. Lots of people have been really ill.’

  ‘And the vicar was consequently very busy. I understand.’ He turned to Binkhorst. ‘Why did you go out?’

  ‘To look for Maria, of course.’

  ‘Why? She usually went out on Sunday nights.’

  ‘Maybe she did. But she’d never been pregnant before as far as I knew. When her mother told me how she was I put my coat on and went.’

  Masters smiled. ‘To look for the man?’

  Binkhorst growled: ‘What the hell d’you expect? I didn’t know who it was, but I wanted to find out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘How the hell could I know it was old Gobby? I thought it was . . . somebody else.’

  ‘Jeremy Pratt, for instance?’

  Binkhorst’s face was laughable in its incredulity. Maria said: ‘Oh, Dad.’

  Binkhorst grumbled: ‘You’re a bloody good guesser.’

  ‘Sometimes. So you went haring off towards Spalding? What did you do when you got there?’

  ‘Nothing. Old Pratt’s gates were locked. Iron ones. I couldn’t get in. I waited a bit and then came back. Maria was home by then.’

  Masters got to his feet and knocked out his pipe at the fireplace. He said: ‘Well, that seems to have cleared matters up a little. You see how sensible and easy it is not to try to hide things at a time like this.’

  ‘We didn’t want you to know,’ Gina said. ‘It is the family disgrace. It has nothing to do with your murder. Nothing.’

  Masters said quietly: ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Binkhorst. I thought it had. I still think so.’

  ‘How can it be? We have done nothing to your Gobby.’

  ‘But he has done something to you.’ Gina burst into tears again. ‘And what he did and whom he did it to almost certainly have a bearing on his death.’

  ‘Well, at least you won’t go on thinking it was Dad. You might as well suspect me of killing him.’

  Masters said enigmatically: ‘Quite.’

  She said accusingly: ‘You do think it was me.’

  Green said: ‘You were in Church Walk. You knew him pretty well and he’d done you dirt. What d’you expect?’

  Masters silently cursed Green for his intervention. Nothing he could say now would calm them. Gina was weeping. Maria was staring. Binkhorst was on his feet. Masters said: ‘That’s quite correct. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Remember we haven’t even gone so far as to search the Goblin for a weapon or anything of that sort. So you see we’re not too suspicious of you. However, there’s a long way to go yet, and you’re not out of the wood. But I think you�
��ve gone a long way towards clearing yourselves tonight. If I can confirm what you’ve told me, you’ll be all right. And don’t worry about Inspector Green and myself knowing your secrets. We won’t let them out.’

  They left without another word from the Binkhorsts. When they were out of the living-room Green said: ‘You’re not taking their word for it, are you? If you do you’re more easily satisfied than I am.’

  ‘I thought you’d have understood that I already knew the facts. All they did was confirm them for me.’

  ‘It strikes me we’re getting nowhere fast. I knew we were going to be snowed under with suspects. Now we’ve got so many on the hook you’re beginning to throw them back into the water. That’s not the way I fish.’

  ‘Nor me. I’m putting them back in the water—in a keep net. I can haul them out again to be weighed when the scales come round. Meantime I don’t want to harm them.’

  ‘So on top of everything else you’re an angler, too.’

  Masters said angrily: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man. We’ve got to take a chance sometimes. You want me to get bogged down and flounder about here until the cows come home. I’m not going to. I’m going to bust this case wide open before the weekend.’

  ‘O.K. I’m happy. Rooksby’s not my idea of a holiday camp. But there’s no need to take it out on me when the going gets tough.’

  ‘Who says it’s tough?’

  Green stared. ‘I suppose you already know the answer.’ It was a sneer. Masters looked at him squarely. ‘I didn’t say that. But I don’t consider it tough. Just mucky. As ditted up as Charlie M’Clure’s waistcoat. Eggfilth.’ Masters went up the stairs. He’d had enough of Green for one day. Was sorry he’d asked him to stay for this late-night session with the Binkhorst family.

  Chapter Six