Barnfelt said: ‘You’re a very thorough man, Chief Inspector.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Nearly a quarter to seven. How time flies. Do you think I could have another drink?’
Green returned to report that Peter had gone. ‘He’s still bolshie. Won’t play.’
‘Wouldn’t you be bolshie to a policeman investigating a murder you know your father has committed?’ Masters turned to Barnfelt. ‘I’m sorry to say that his attitude did help to convince me that he had some guilty secret. Not that I blame him. It was quite a load to bear.’
‘Thank you. Peter hasn’t mentioned it to me, so I didn’t know until you told me that he even suspected me. I feel sure he won’t think too badly of me when he has had time to consider matters.’
Nicholson got to his feet. He said to Masters: ‘Can I have a word with you in the hall?’
They passed Hill as he brought in Barnfelt’s drink. Masters said: ‘What’s the matter? Isn’t the case open and shut enough for you?’
Nicholson said: ‘Of course it bloody well is. God knows how you’ve done it in the time. Three days! It’d have taken me three months. Who’d ever have thought of a masonry gun? I’d never even heard of one. I’m grateful, see. Very grateful. But I hate the thought of charging a police surgeon. Can’t your Inspector do it?’
‘It’s your case.’
‘I know, but I still don’t like it.’
Masters said: ‘Then don’t charge him.’
‘What?’
‘My personal belief is that you won’t get a chance. I’m almost certain he’s been too clever for us.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, I thought that if a doctor wanted to commit suicide he’d take an overdose of one of the fast acting barbiturates. He’d be dead within an hour. Barnfelt didn’t die within an hour, and showed no symptoms of distress, so I thought we were all right. But did you see him when I mentioned intravenous bismuth chloride? And notice how often he looked at his watch?’
Nicholson said: ‘Here, come on. We’ll have a look at him.’ He made for the dining-room door.
Masters held him back. ‘Steady. If he did administer it, it’s too late.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘The only time he has been alone was when we called at his house and he went to the kitchen to get more cups. If he took it, it was then. At four o’clock. Probably the syringe he prepared for Parseloe. A quick jab into the ante-cubital vein in the forearm. Done in no time. It works in three to four hours, and it’s seven o’clock now.’
‘And symptoms?’
Masters shook his head. ‘No pain. They just flake out, suddenly.’
They stood silent for a moment. Masters said: ‘Don’t look so miserable. If it’s happened, it’s nobody’s fault.’
‘Why should he do it? He’d not even been questioned.’
‘He knew. I’ve tried to keep things secret, but I had to ask about those wireless sets. There would be no reason for my doing so unless I was pretty sure of myself. And besides, he knew that by injecting himself he couldn’t be accused of suicide, or of murder.’
‘How come?’
‘You can’t say a man’s a murderer until he’s been tried and found guilty. And you can’t say he’s committed suicide if you can’t trace the bismuth chloride—and you can’t. He’s protected his family all right.’
‘Always supposing he’s done it.’
‘Always supposing. But he must have done. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so occupied with the way the time was going. And, of course, he wouldn’t have offered to make a statement later. He knew we wouldn’t get it. So nobody will be able to state categorically that he murdered Parseloe. He’s a crafty one.’
Nicholson said: ‘And I had qualms about charging him. Come on. I’m going in. We’ll get him over to the station before it happens.’
They entered the dining-room. Nicholson said to Barnfelt: ‘I want to see your forearms.’
Barnfelt smiled at Masters. ‘So you did know. I was beginning to wonder.’ He stood up to remove his jacket. The effort appeared to be too much for him. Masters helped him down into the chair again. He looked up, showed his teeth in a little smile, and said: ‘Thank you.’
Masters was wondering whether this was thanks for helping him to sit, or for allowing him to die, uncharged, with no incriminating statement made. He could come to no sure conclusion. Nicholson said to Green: ‘Ring for an ambulance. It’ll be too late, but get it. And his son. Son first.’
But Barnfelt died before Peter arrived. Masters said: ‘Cause of death? Cardiac arrest?’
Peter Barnfelt glowered at him for a moment, and then said: ‘Is that what you suggest?’
‘You’re the doctor. But I feel sure that whoever you get to give a second opinion will agree.’
‘You won’t . . .’
‘Interfere? No. My report will, of course, contain all I know, but it will be highly classified. As for my team—don’t worry. Why don’t you ask Miss Barrett over to keep your mother company?’
*
To avoid the bars, the body was taken through the back way and out of the Goblin. Green went to release Pamela Parseloe. Nicholson to report to his H.Q. Hill and Brant to deal with the cars and type up the notes.
Masters, weary, wandered into the saloon bar. It was still too early for the regulars. He stood at the counter and asked for gin. Maria was serving. She said quietly: ‘Will you be going home now?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
He thought she was looking splendid. She seemed inclined to want to stay and talk. He didn’t mind. He let her prattle on without really listening. He was enjoying the wholesome look of her. That smooth lower lip that looked so inviting. Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. He gazed at her. Her face had lit up. Where it had been lovely before, now it was radiant with animation. He turned to see what she was staring at. Standing just inside the door was Jeremy Pratt.
Masters murmured: ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ and moved over to the fire.
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Death After Evensong Page 18
