by Carly Reid
Again, the cacophony of responses.
“Desmond Wilcott’s no’ ill. I saw him myself this morning. He’ll be at the Show, doing the judging.”
“Taken ill? Why, whatever’s the matter? Nothing serious, I hope. The Show opens at 2.30.”
“Who’s ill? Patricia Wilcott? Oh, dearie me.” Dorothy shook her head before placidly supping more tea.
Magnus moved to stand in the centre of the café, trying once again to get his information across.
“You’re right, he wis fine this morning, that’s true, but I just came from the Hall right now. He took ill ten minutes ago, while judging the marmalade. It’s a sudden thing. There’s an ambulance been called. We need to reach his wife – does naebody know her number?”
“I do. Patricia’s a friend of mine. I’ll contact her right now.” A quieter voice rose from the back of the café, from a woman in a green patterned raincoat, sitting alone at a small table. Magnus nodded in relief at the woman who immediately pulled out her phone and began to send a message. He turned to talk to Murdo, to tell him he could leave for the Hall straight away, but was interrupted again.
“Did you say he took ill while judging the marmalade, young man?” At first Magnus couldn’t tell who had spoken. No-one had arisen from a table.
“Sorry?” Magnus looked round in confusion, trying to pinpoint the speaker. It became clear that he had been accosted by the table of women sitting near the front, all of them members of the local Women’s Guild. Margaret Mustard sat among the group. A tall, robust woman with a cloud of strawberry blond hair, she had become quite pink in the face and was blinking rapidly. Her chocolate eclair sat untouched in front of her.
“You said that judge Wilcott took ill while judging the marmalade.”
“Did I? I dinnae know exactly, although aye, come to think of it there was a pot of marmalade sitting on the judging table when I came in to see what was going on. I must just have assumed that was what they were doing.”
“Which pot of marmalade was it?” Margaret Mustard’s voice was oddly high-pitched and hoarse. The women next to her patted her on the arm and said “now, now Margaret, I’m sure it’s nothing at all. Desmond Wilcott keeps well, but I’m sure I’ve heard it mentioned that he has high blood pressure or something like that. That’s what it will be…” but her voice trailed off as she saw the unwavering expression on Margaret Mustard’s face and it became clear that she wasn’t getting through to her.
Magnus shrugged. “I dinnae ken. It wis definitely marmalade, though, not a jam or anything. It was in a kind of a curved jar.”
Margaret Mustard made a strangled sound, and abruptly stood up, amongst a flurry of concerned responses from her friends.
“It’ll not have anything to do wi’ your marmalade, Margaret! Dinnae worry!”
Their entreaties made no difference. Margaret Mustard was determined she was going up the Village Hall to sort this out for herself. It was quickly decided that if Margaret was going, the rest of the group were going too.
Magnus watched them all leave the café, following Murdo up the High Street towards the Village Hall. He sighed, rolled up his sleeves and tied one of Ealisaid’s trademark green tartan aprons over his shirt and around his waist. That could not be said to have gone according to plan. Och well – it wasn’t as if much could be done about it now – the tatties were ower the side, as his father would say. He picked up a tray and went to clear the table that Margaret Mustard and her friends had just vacated.
He just hoped that the Village Hall could take what was coming.
* * *
Fortunately for Murdo, he arrived at the Village Hall a little before Margaret Mustard and her companions. Encouraged by Ealisaid and Jessica, and displaying some of the fortitude he had shown when last working with the police, he soon had the situation under control. With Detective Inspector Gordon contacted and on his way, Murdo had agreed that the circumstances were such that it would be a good idea to close off the room where Desmond Wilcott had collapsed. The ambulance had left for the hospital, unable to wait for Patricia Wilcott who hadn’t yet arrived at the Hall. Murdo next turned his attention to the Women’s Guild group, managing to convince most of them that they would best help Margaret by going about their day elsewhere, invoking the status of the judging and the fact that the Show wouldn’t open until 2.30pm. He hadn’t quite managed to get rid of them all, however.
“Margaret is looking for answers, young man! She needs reassurance that Desmond Wilcott’s illness is not connected to her marmalade. We have been informed that it was the last item he tasted before he took seriously ill.” Miss Janet Simpson spoke on behalf of Margaret, who stood off to the side, continuously wringing her hands, unable to ask questions or indeed speak coherently at all. Murdo responded very gently.
“Aye, well, I cannae comment on that, but I totally understand. Mrs Mustard, you must be awfy worried. I think the best thing would be if you had a wee quiet seat somewhere while we sort it all oot and wait and see what has to be done. Detective Inspector Gordon is on the way, and he’ll have the best idea. Are you able to wait? We’ll find you somewhere. I promise we will tell you any information we have as soon as we are able.”
The upshot of this was that Ealisaid arranged for Miss Simpson to stay with Margaret Mustard in a quiet corner of the main hall, despite the fact that it was filled with crafts and ongoing judging. It seemed the best solution as they awaited further instruction upon the arrival of DI Gordon. Ealisaid, having decided that the Show had to go ahead in some form or another, was having many urgent low-voiced conversations with committee members and stewards about exactly what form that would take. When Patricia Wilcott arrived alone at the Village Hall, it therefore fell upon Jessica to meet her.
The entrance hall to the Village Hall building led directly to the large main hall, with two smaller rooms off to either side of the entrance hallway – the closed off judging room on the left, and a similar-sized room on the right. Often used for committee meetings, today the second room was the administrative centre of the Craft Show. Forms were processed here, prize cards printed and signage stored. Ealisaid had suggested that this might make the best venue for Patricia Wilcott when she arrived, and had asked a steward to open it up for them. Jessica, following her advice, escorted the judge’s wife in. The room had been cleared of people so that Jessica and Mrs Wilcott could sit there, but it was cluttered, evidence of the running of the Craft Show all around them. Two tables, currently being used as desks in the centre of the room, held piles of paperwork. A third table, pushed back against the wall, contained a row of highly polished silver cups and trophies, in addition to a large cardboard box piled with multiple small two-handled carved silvery bowls. Quaichs, Jessica remembered, having seen the traditional Scottish drinking cup being used at Reenie’s New Year’s Eve party in Edinburgh one year. They must be handed out as prizes in the Show.
Jessica brushed aside a pile of papers and placed a glass of water for Patricia Wilcott on one of the tables. She pulled out two chairs and sat beside the woman. She had noticed her fine bone structure and air of insubstantiality earlier on that morning, but even since then Patricia Wilcott seemed to have shrunk and become more fragile, her thick cardigan emphasising the narrowness of her shoulders, her wispy hair falling lightly over her deep eye sockets and sharp cheekbones. She continued to be quite calm, taking the seat that she was offered and folding her hands in her lap. She kept up a stream of chatter, which surprised Jessica, although the latter felt that she was really just present for Patricia Wilcott’s own internal monologue – she wasn’t expected to say anything in return.
“I had just nipped to do some errands in the village. Thank you for tracking me down. I don’t have any car keys – Desmond had them – but I’ve managed to get hold of our solicitor, Donald Donaldson. He’s also a close family friend. He can take me to the hospital and stay with me while I speak to the police. I was lucky he heard his phone, he was in the middle of a round o
f golf. I’ll wait here until he arrives, or until the police do, whatever happens first.
“My friend told me that there’s already a rumour flying around that Desmond was poisoned by something at the cake judging. At first I dismissed it, because that’s ridiculous surely. But then I wondered – why all this fuss? The police have been called, and you’ve quite clearly closed off the judging room. He was certainly in perfect health this morning. He has no medical complaints, nothing unusual for a man of his age, anyway.”
Patricia Wilcott continued to muse.
“Desmond isn’t an easy man. He is very pedantic and particular, and he rubs people up the wrong way quite often. When he retired from the bank, there were quite a few people upset with him then because there had just been a big round of cuts and redundancies after the bank had been in trouble for some time. Desmond got to keep his pension, though. That put a few people’s noses out of joint.”
Jessica took the woman’s hand gently. Did she really believe that someone could have harmed her husband on purpose?
Patricia spoke quietly. “He also has a long standing feud with a person in The Herald letters pages, just nit-picking backwards and forwards about various local issues. He’s on a lot of committees and there are always falling outs and people resigning. That’s just par for the course with these things, though. None of it is serious. I can’t imagine that anyone would poison him for any of that! I can’t imagine anyone would poison him at all, to be honest. It seems like such a – strange thing to do.”
Jessica, unclear how to answer, simply patted Mrs Wilcott gently on her arm and continued to listen. Patricia Wilcott suddenly turned to her and said:
“You were in the room. Do you think he was poisoned? How would it even have been possible? I know Desmond’s systems and I can’t imagine how it could occur!”
Jessica struggled to respond. What to say to this woman, who seemed to be approaching the whole notion of her husband’s potential attempted murder as a puzzle? She wondered whether Patricia Wilcott could be in shock, but was unsure what the symptoms of that could look like. Certainly there was an air of denial and other-worldliness about her response to the events. Jessica was sure it didn’t mean much other than the fact that Patricia Wilcott had not yet fully processed what had happened.
At that point Detective Inspector Gordon arrived, and Jessica was grateful because it meant that she didn’t have to answer Patricia’s last question. DI Gordon didn’t remark upon Jessica’s presence in the room. Never a particularly cheery man, he looked especially solemn and, Jessica noticed, more tired than he had when she had met him a few months before.
Patricia Wilcott had stood up as soon as DI Gordon entered the room. Jessica followed her lead and stood up too, taking a respectful pace to the side as the Detective Inspector greeted Mrs Wilcott.
“I can tell by your face that it’s not good news, Detective Inspector. Please, just tell me.” And then, as DI Gordon shot a look at Jessica: “You can speak in front of Jessica. She’s been very kind to me, staying with me and listening to my rambles while we waited to find out what was going on. I’ve greatly appreciated her company.”
She looked at Jessica and briefly smiled, and Jessica felt a warm rush of empathy for her. How difficult it must have been to receive an urgent message and make her way up to the Village Hall, not knowing what she would find there, perhaps especially after she and her husband had argued that morning. And now it seemed that tragedy had struck, and the argument must stay unresolved for ever.
DI Gordon nodded and cleared his throat. His eyes shifted. Jessica, feeling uncomfortable, glanced towards the table and fixed her gaze on one of the lists there, trying to avoid making eye contact with either DI Gordon or Patricia Wilcott for this deeply personal news. The sheet was headed ‘Class 14 Category 2: Vanilla Sponge – entries’ and contained a printed list of digits that Jessica recognised as entry numbers. There were some short, handwritten notes around six of the strings of numbers. Jessica couldn’t quite make out the notes, although they were written in Desmond Wilcott’s distinctive, spiky handwriting, and many of them were followed by an exclamation point.
The clock ticked. DI Gordon spoke.
“Mrs Wilcott, I’m afraid I do indeed have to share bad news. I’m very sorry to have to inform you that your husband died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
Patricia Wilcott’s hand flew to her throat where it trembled. She closed her eyes, but didn’t speak, although her lips were moving soundlessly.
“Jessica, could you pass Mrs Wilcott that glass of water?”
Jessica, eager to help, picked up the glass, but Patricia Wilcott opened her eyes and said:
“No, no. I don’t need water. I’ll be fine in a moment,” and then, leaning forward slightly, she fixed her eyes on the Detective Inspector and said:
“What was the cause of death?”
“That’s yet to be determined, Mrs Wilcott. We don’t yet have all the information we need. In the meantime, do you have any family or friends that could come and be with you right now? You will be required to go to the hospital, but I don’t recommend that you should go alone.”
Mrs Wilcott’s reply was quiet. “Our daughter – our only child – lives in Australia. I have a friend arriving soon though, and I’m sure he will take me wherever I need to be.”
Australia thought Jessica, something falling into place, but at the same moment she heard the raised voice of Donald Donaldson outside in the entrance hall. “I’m looking for Mrs Patricia Wilcott!”
DI Gordon moved to escort Mrs Wilcott from the room, and just as she was about to leave she paused, turned to Jessica and said:
“Thank you, Jessica. I’m very grateful for your company and your kindness. You remind me a little of my daughter, you know.”
Jessica nodded. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Wilcott.”
Patricia Wilcott inclined her head, and then gracefully moved out into the entrance hall where she was greeted by Donald Donaldson. Jessica heard them discuss their next steps and then exit the Village Hall. She quickly scuttled around the table to have a better look at the list she’d seen. She had been right. This was an entry sheet, marked up with identifying names against the so-called anonymous entry numbers. What could it be used for, if not to sway the judging? Had Desmond Wilcott been using it to memorise particular entry numbers – to either ensure a win, or engineer a disqualification?
Voices outside the room drew her away from the table and out into the entrance hall, where DI Gordon was now speaking with Murdo and Ealisaid.
“I understand your concerns, Miss Robertson, but this could be the scene of a crime. At the very least, it’s a sudden death. We are bound to investigate, and that won’t be compatible with hundreds of people walking in and out.”
“Hundreds of people have already been in and out, DI Gordon. We’ve been taking entries in since 6.30am, people walking in and out of the main hall and this room as well. I do have a list of everyone who came in to this wee room though – at least, I have a list of the entries, and I can remember who dropped them all off. We cannae close the Show. People have travelled miles, but apart from that, we’ve a hall already full of artisan crafts. We have limited event insurance, and we recommend that entrants get their own, but we dinnae insist upon it. The main issue is that even if we canceled, it’s too late to get the word oot. There will be people here at 2.30 whether we like it or not, so we might as well be prepared for it. Edibles are canceled and we’ll put signage up to say so. The cake and preserves room can stay locked off. The Show’s meant to be open from 2.30 to 5.30pm with the announcements at 6pm, there’s probably something I can do to make that shorter and limit the numbers. But I cannae stop people arriving.”
DI Gordon looked serious, but didn’t interrupt. Murdo glanced at Ealisaid and then took up the tale himself:
“The Craft Show’s an awfy big deal in Dalkinchie and Drummond, sir! It’s been running for generations…and there�
�s generations of families who have always entered every year in the same categories as well. It brings a lot of people into the village. It can be controversial though. I mind that there was this one year, and Mrs Young entered the knitting and won a prize, and someone else – I think it wis Elsie McNab – said that she had stolen her pattern, and then someone else said that it didnae matter, because anything that Elsie knitted ended up looking like a dish-cloot anyway so it would never have won a prize, and Elsie took her knitting bag and she wis aboot tae wallop…”
“Yes, thank you, Constable Smith.” DI Gordon, used to dealing with Murdo, concealed his exasperation well, thought Jessica. Secretly, however, she wanted to hear the outcome of the story about Elsie McNab and her knitting bag. She spoke up.
“Detective Inspector…if it’s a case of needing a room to speak to people, the newspaper offices are next door and they are empty. I have a key. Also, I was here this morning, and I took lots of notes. Murdo’s brother Magnus was here too from 11am, and he was taking photos in the Main Hall. I am not sure whether any of that helps, but I thought perhaps…” she trailed off.
“Thank you, Miss Greer. That does help. I will definitely need to speak to you both later on today, and will take you up on the offer of the newspaper offices, that sounds ideal. Miss Robertson, I think the best thing to do is go ahead with your plan. Open as normal, try and cut the show short and keep this room closed off. I imagine many people will already have heard about Mr Wilcott’s collapse, although I’m also sure that won’t put them off coming to the Show.”
He paused, taking his phone from his inside breast pocket and glancing at it. “First of all I am going to have to organise a sample of that marmalade for extensive testing.”
Unfortunately, as he spoke, Margaret Mustard and Miss Janet Simpson had emerged from the Main Hall and made their way down the corridor. Clearly fed up with waiting, they had come out to find out what was going on for themselves, just in time to overhear DI Gordon’s pronouncement.
