By Wednesday morning the wind had gone down. A pale sun gave Rooksby a lick and a promise of better things to come. As Masters breakfasted he wondered what effect it would have upon the communal psyche of the inhabitants. He said to Green: ‘What about the weapon?’
Green was reading The Sun and crunching cornflakes. ‘Are you asking me? I’ve been harping on it ever since we got here.’
‘So you have. But last night you said you’d give it your undivided attention today.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘I do want.’
‘With no leads to give?’
Masters said: ‘With no leads other than those you’ve already got. Take Brant. See what you can do.’
‘What about you?’
‘Barrett’s farm. With Hill.’
‘For a sack of spuds?’
‘Among other things. They’ll ride home in the boot.’
‘Not with all the clobber we’ve got, they won’t. There’s hardly room already.’
Masters got up. ‘I’ve a feeling things will work out just fine. You’ll see.’ He left the dining-room. Green said to the sergeants: ‘He’s worse than ever. Woman crazy, if you ask me. First the girl in the nick. Then there’s this Italian bint—just because she’s infantizing he’s acting like a midwife. And there’s that Cora one—the one that’s only elevenpence ha’penny to the shilling. He’s more concerned with getting her some treatment than he is in finding out who did her old man in.’
Hill said: ‘It’s not a bad way to be. If you can manage it all at the same time as doing a good job of work. Some of us can’t, of course.’
‘If that’s a crack at me, watch it. We’re here to find a murderer, not wet nurse a crowd of Boers. When we start getting paid for welfare work’s the time to start feeling sorry for people.’
Hill said: ‘I can feel sorry for some people all the time.’ He got up and followed Masters. Green said to Brant: ‘Your oppo’s getting sassy. If you want to do him a favour, warn him.’
Brant put his napkin on the table. He said: ‘He’s had a tough time lately. You know that as well as anybody. I’m not going to make it tougher. What about this weapon? Where do we start?’
Green said: ‘You are a considerate man, aren’t you? Would you please give me your considered opinion about the weapon?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘That’s a lot of bloody help.’
*
Hill drove Masters along the flat roads bathed in watery sunshine. The daffodils that had survived the wind stood up bravely in front gardens. The grass sparkled and stood up as if planted in sponge. The water, still high in the drains, had a surface tension that gave Masters the same impression as cheap sun glass lenses. Dirty grey-green, hiding lord-knows-what.
Hill said: ‘Tough is it, Chief?’
Masters grinned. ‘As tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog. Every case is.’ He remembered denying this to Green the night before, and added: ‘Though I wouldn’t admit that to everybody.’
Hill could guess who.
There was a silence for about a minute. Then Hill said: ‘Funny thing. I switched on our radio this morning, just to make sure it was working, and found we’re nearly bang on net with the local cops.’
Masters said: ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. We’re all supposed to have distinct wavelengths. Probably because The Soke’s so far from the smoke they thought they could safely allot us both the same band.’ He flicked on the radio. There was no traffic on the net. He looked across at Hill. ‘Seems all clear now.’
Hill said: ‘That’s odd. I distinctly heard a request for an ambulance. Didn’t take much notice as it seemed pretty routine and I was only on just long enough to make sure we were working. Ah, well! A reception freak, I suppose.’
Masters filled his pipe. Noted that the tin of Warlock Flake was nearly empty and didn’t reply. The niggle at the back of his mind had reasserted itself. He couldn’t clarify it. The sight of Barrett’s farm drove it from his mind altogether. The car stopped on a dry cobbled apron.
Hill said: ‘That shed’s the office. Or do you want the house?’
Masters chose the office. A blonde in her early twenties was working at the desk. She said: ‘Can I help you?’
Masters guessed this was April Barrett. She was wearing a roll neck sweater, slacks and gumboots. But there the resemblance to a landgirl stopped. Her pale gold hair was styled in an expensively simple way. The make-up emphasized its quality by being barely perceptible. The nail polish was not outrageous. The fingers not workworn. The eyes very big and blue—Masters privately dubbed them bedroom eyes—and the mouth generous and well-shaped. He could feel Hill’s interest in her. Altogether an attractive girl. He said: ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Masters, and this is Sergeant Hill. I would like to speak to Mr Barrett, please, if he’s available.’
‘Father’s out somewhere. I’m April Barrett. Is there anything I can do?’
Masters half sat on the corner of the desk. He said: ‘Miss Barrett? I’ve heard of you.’ He saw the startled look in her eyes. ‘Oh, nothing bad, Just casually. In the course of conversations during my investigation.’
‘The vicar?’
‘Yes. A miserable business.’
He thought she looked unhappy. It might be of use to him. ‘And I’ve met your fiancé, Dr Peter Barnfelt.’
She said sharply: ‘He’s not my fiancé.’
Masters was at his smoothest. ‘I beg your pardon. I must have been misinformed or picked up the wrong story. But I’m certain I heard your name linked with that of Dr Peter. But there, I’ve heard so much about the inhabitants of Rooksby these last two days I probably can’t tell t’other from which.’
She looked straight at him. ‘Peter and I used to be very friendly.’
‘Not any more? I’m sorry. I’ve probably put my foot in it. Please forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ She sounded miserable. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s . . .’
‘Whose?’ Masters spoke quietly. ‘Whose fault? A dark-haired girl’s? A girl who can’t be identified through the side curtains of a Triumph coupé?’
She was angry now. ‘Mind your own business.’
‘This is my business. Let me give you a bit of advice and help.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘Maybe you don’t. But probably Peter does.’
She said bitterly: ‘He can look after himself.’
‘That’s just my point. He can’t. He’s been got at.’
Now she was scornful. ‘Got at? You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but I do. For instance, I know that you think Peter has recently been keeping company with Maria Binkhorst.’
She stared incredulously.
Masters nodded. ‘Maria’s a pretty girl. With long dark hair. The only one in Rooksby that you thought could possibly be attractive to Peter.’
‘You can’t possibly know what I think.’
‘I can. You’ve told your father so.’
‘So you’ve already spoken to Daddy?’
‘No. But I know he hasn’t been to the Goblin for a fortnight. Before that he was a regular. What caused him to stop? I think the reason for his disaffection is a desire to have as little to do as possible with the Binkhorsts. Particularly Maria, of whom he may be quite fond—through long association in the saloon bar.’
‘And you say it wasn’t Maria?’
‘It wasn’t. Honestly.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Somebody you’ll never believe possible. Pamela Parseloe.’
She gasped in surprise. ‘That cat? With Peter?’
‘It surprises you? It shouldn’t. You think she’s such an abominable creature that no decent man would have anything to do with her. But that’s not quite how it goes. She’s got something attractive to men—for a time, at any rate. Remember her reputation for taking other girls’ boyfriends? After a time they get scared of her
and back out. She’s too predatory. That’s why she can’t keep one for herself. But she manages to hook them temporarily.’
‘That’s what you meant when you said Peter was in need of help?’
‘Your help. To get out of her clutches.’
‘I did think it was Maria. It never entered my head it could possibly be . . . that woman.’
‘Well, now you know.’
‘Yes. Thank you. You said Peter needs help . . .’
‘He does. Lots of the right sort. You see, he’s made a fool of himself. But you’re not the girl I think you are if you need me to tell you what to do.’
She blushed. ‘I’ll ring the house and see if Mummy knows where Daddy is.’
‘Please don’t bother.’
‘You don’t want to see him after all?’
‘You can pass the message on. He can go back to the Goblin now with a clear conscience. The only other thing was, I wondered if I could buy a bag of King Edwards’.’
She laughed. He understood. Pure bathos. He wanted it that way. To remove the tension. She said: ‘I’m sure you can have one. There are a few in the filling shed.’
They collected the bag from beside the sizing belt. Hill carried it to the car. April refused payment, but as she said goodbye reminded Masters that he had promised her some advice. He looked at her gravely, liking what he saw. She had brightened up. Out in the open, her hair shone—rivalling the sunlight. Her shoulders were straighter, emphasizing a figure that even a sloppy-joe sweater could not diminish. He wondered how Peter Barnfelt could ever have discarded this girl for Pamela Parseloe. He felt it confirmed his opinion that Pamela had offered much in the way of inducement. ‘Just one little piece of advice. Never play bridge again.’
She looked astonished and coloured under his gaze. He guessed she had misread him. Thought he was referring to the mistaken call that had caused the open rift between herself and Peter. He didn’t elaborate. Hill had already started the car.
*
The niggle at the back of his mind. Masters found it there again on the way home. He gave it full rein. With no luck. Hill pulled up behind a white Triumph G.T.6 coupé in front of the Goblin. ‘It looks as though the doctor is visiting Maria again.’ Masters got out and walked forward. Because the sun was out, Peter Barnfelt had lowered his hood. Masters noted the twin big-bore tail pipes: copper blued by exhaust heat. Looked inside the cockpit. A dashboard full of instruments and a supplementary switch panel installed above the hump of the transmission housing. Black toggles, two inches long, banked neatly and skilfully. Hill said: ‘He’s souped this up. He’s got everything. Vacuum gauge, parking light, car compass, twin flasher unit . . .’
He was interrupted. ‘Looking for something?’ Peter Barnfelt had come out of the front door of the Goblin. Hill said: ‘Admiring it, you mean. I could do with a job like this myself.’ Peter Barnfelt didn’t reply. He stepped over the door into the driving seat. Then he said, offensively: ‘They’re for sale in all the dealers’. They might even give you a leaflet if you were to ask nicely.’ Hill’s face flushed and his hands clenched. The doctor started up. Revved unnecessarily hard: a mechanical raspberry, petrol flavoured. Went away with too much accelerator, so that the back wheels spun before gripping the road. Burnt rubber smell on top of exhaust gas. Hill said: ‘The miserable bastard. And that’s the chap we went out of our way to do a good turn to this morning.’
Masters grinned. Hill, glowering, wondered why. He was pretty sure Masters wouldn’t grin at his discomfiture. Unexpectedly Masters said: ‘What’s the time?’
‘Half eleven.’
‘Right. Come on. To the station.’
Hill kept pace. He said nothing. But this was Masters cheerful. More cheerful than he’d been for months. His face was lifted to the sun, his pipe cocked up at an angle between his teeth. He took the steps up to the office at a run—light and lithe, two steps at a time. Vanden jumped to his feet. Masters said: ‘Take a pew and tell me everything you know about young Dr Barnfelt’s car.’
‘How d’you mean, sir?’
‘It’s got everything but the kitchen sink.’
‘Yes.’
‘But no car radio that I could see. That’s funny, isn’t it?’
Vanden smiled crookedly. ‘Not really, sir. There’s no room. He’s got a two-way radio for urgent calls when he’s away from the surgery.’
Masters smiled. ‘That’s what I thought it had to be.’ He turned to Hill. ‘That’s the answer to your pick-up this morning. I’ll bet the Barnfelts’ frequency is very close to ours, and whichever one of them was asking for an ambulance this morning would be so nearby that you picked him up loud and slightly distorted—by induction.’
‘Could be. They do interfere when they’re sited close to each other.’
Vanden said: ‘I’m sorry if they were a nuisance, sir. I could get H.Q. to check their frequency allotment.’
‘Don’t worry. Have you heard from Superintendent Nicholson?’
‘He’ll be in this afternoon, sir. The inquest’s at two thirty in the Parish Hall.’
Masters got to his feet. ‘I shan’t be there. But if the Superintendent wants me I’ll be around Rooksby somewhere.’
‘Right, sir.’
Hill followed Masters down the stairs. Masters said: ‘After lunch I want you to contact Peterborough and find out at exactly what time Pamela Parseloe reached her digs on Sunday night. Discreetly. I’ll give you the address, and do it while the locals are at the inquest.’
Unconsciously Hill kept pace with Masters. Across the square and up the High Street.
‘Where now, Chief?’
‘The vicarage. You can do something for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Chat up the elder daughter, Pamela, while I have a short word in private with Cora.’
‘Will she like it?’
‘She’ll try to stop it.’
Hill said: ‘Let her try. I can question her about that story of the headmaster’s. About her father trying to get her a job in the school.’
Pamela was not pleased. She and her sister were intending to eat an early lunch before the inquest. Masters saw it laid out on the kitchen table. A faded seersucker cloth, holed in places. A segment of Dutch cheese with red plastic rind. A glass ovenware plate with half a pound of butter. A coburg on a board and four apples laid in a heap. Cora said: ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Masters?’ Masters declined, and Hill said: ‘Can I take Miss Parseloe off to another room and get the statement, sir? I’ll try to be quick and not hold up their lunch.’
Masters said: ‘Good idea. Make it snappy.’
Pamela demanded: ‘What statement?’
Hill said: ‘Sorry, I haven’t explained. I’m the shorthand writer. Mr Baron gave us some information which we’d like you to confirm. So if we could step into another room, Miss . . .’
Pamela went. Unwilling and ungracious.
Masters said to Cora: ‘Now, perhaps you can help me.’ She folded her hands and looked at him trustingly. ‘Do you remember Inspector Green coming here for the school key?’
‘He said you sent him.’
‘I did. He’s my chief assistant. You told him the key had gone and then it came back again.’
‘Yes, but he’s got it now.’
‘It’s quite safe. Now, try to remember. Did you make the phone call to Dr Barnfelt before or after you saw the key had gone?’
She said simply: ‘After it was gone. Pam said she felt the flu coming on again so would I ring and ask the doctor to come.’
‘She didn’t seem ill to me.’
‘I didn’t think she was, but she told me to say it was urgent.’
‘Did the doctor give her some medicine?’
‘I think he must have done. She went out just before Mr Green came. I thought she must have gone to the chemist.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cora. Don’t say anything about this to your sister. Keep it our secret. And now let’s talk about somethi
ng else. I’ve been talking about you to Dr Frank Barnfelt. He’d like you to visit him. Can you go this evening? About six o’clock?’
‘What for?’
‘Because he tells me you’ve never been to see him although he’s your doctor. And he’d like a talk. Will you go?’
‘I’d like to—if you think it will be all right.’
‘I’m sure it will. Mrs Barnfelt wants to see you, too.’
Pamela, from the doorway, said: ‘What’s all this?’
‘I was giving your sister a message from Dr and Mrs Barnfelt. They would like to see her. Miss Cora is on his list of patients, you know, though I understand she has never consulted him professionally. He thinks it would be a good thing if she were to call.’
‘Does he? What if Cora doesn’t want to go?’
‘She’s under no compulsion, of course. But just in case she’d like to—and she has already said she would—I’ll have my car, with Sergeant Hill to drive it, outside the gate at five to six.’ He turned to Cora. ‘You can ride in style. How will that suit you?’
‘I’ll love it.’
Masters turned his back on Pamela and winked at Cora. He then said: ‘We won’t hold you up any longer. Goodbye.’
When they were outside, Hill said: ‘Just for the record, she confirmed Baron’s story about the job.’
‘Thanks. Let’s have a jar before lunch.’
*
Green, with a pint of draught Worthington in his hand, said: ‘You didn’t expect me to find the weapon in one morning, did you?’
Masters felt happy. Green had been nagging about the weapon for two days. Now he’d discovered for himself just how difficult that part of the problem was, and how they would have made no progress at all had they concentrated on it exclusively from the beginning. He said: ‘No, I didn’t. But you’ve obviously covered a lot of ground in cultivating that thirst. All useful routine stuff, eh?’
Green said: ‘Routine’s the backbone of investigation.’
‘Quite. That’s why I asked you to exhaust all the possibles you could think of. No whisper of a weapon gone missing, I take it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No suggestion from anybody as to what it could have been?’
‘Nobody’s saying a word.’
Death After Evensong Page 13
