The Burden of Proof

by Roderic Jeffries

  “I’ve come to see Doctor Franch as an old and trusted drinking partner.”

  She tried to find some way to object, but knew she was beaten. “Perhaps you’d better come in. Doctor Franch is at dinner.”

  She led him into the waiting room, a place that smelled of antiseptics and fear. “What name?”

  Thirty seconds after she’d left the room, a man of his own age, munching hard, hurried in.

  “Roger the lodger, the sod, my old school shipmate! How are you after all these years? Come on in and meet the family.”

  Mrs. Franch, precise, eagle-eyed and starchy, offered him lunch and he accepted. After lunch, Franch asked him what caused the honour and was he searching for the services of the finest doctor in the country. A few words and Mrs. Franch took the hint and left the room. Franch looked at his watch and said he didn’t have to rush for all of ten minutes.

  “I need some help.” Roger stared at the other and was convinced that the type of help he needed was already guessed.

  “Let’s have the details and then I’ll tell you if there’s anything I can do.” Franch, large and shaggy and with two flappy ears, took a pipe from his pocket and began to rub the bowl against the palm of his hand.

  “A girl I know is pregnant. She’s in a panic and came to me for help. Where can she go or what can she do?”

  “Presumably you’re the father-to-be and in a bit of a muck-sweat with your wedding coming up?”

  “Not this time.”

  “You’re not the father?”

  “She hauled me in because I ran a course with her some months ago. Nothing more.”

  Franch crossed to the fireplace and leaned against the mahogany mantelpiece. He took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and carefully filled the pipe with tobacco. “If you’d been the father, Roger, I’d have done nothing for you but broken the news gently. As you’re not the father, I can tell you not to be a bloody fool. Leave the thing alone.”

  “She’s desperate.”

  “Of course. They always are. Why doesn’t she tackle the gent in question?”

  “He’s an artist and calls his art more important.”

  “That’s up to him — and her.” Franch put the pipe in his mouth and lit it. “I’m not giving you the names of any abortionists because I don’t know any, and if I did I’d hand them straight over to the police. Since I came to this practice, I’ve had three girls die on me because of messed-up abortions. As for pills — there’s an old saying in the medical world, ‘If it’ll kill the child, it’ll kill the mother’. And if you’ve some of the old wives’ tricks at the back of your mind, forget ’em. They none of them work.” Clouds of smoke rose from his pipe as he drew on it. “Pull your fingers clear of the mess and keep ’em clear, Roger.”

  *

  He saw Margaret the following Friday evening. It was a meeting he would have given anything to avoid, yet, even had the chance to avoid it been offered, he would still have gone because this meeting was the last part of his duty.

  They drove to the Devil’s Basin, a natural break at the westerly end of the Prestry Hills from which one gained a magnificent view over the surrounding countryside.

  He gave her a cigarette and took one himself. “I saw a doctor I know.”

  She leaned cross-wise against the door and the seat. “What was his verdict?”

  “He flatly refused to help. If he’d known the name of an abortionist he’d have handed it over to the police, and any pills that are effective are too dangerous for the mother.”

  “Thanks for trying, Roger.”

  He was surprised by her calm reaction. He’d expected fury, panic, or blank despair.

  “I’m afraid there’s no one else I can think of,” he said.

  She smiled bitterly. “So please may you be excused? All right, Roger, let’s finish these cigarettes and then drive back to town and you can drop me somewhere nice and quiet and I’ll promise never to worry you again.”

  Chapter 5

  “Ergometrine maleate is pretty widely known as an abortifacient,” said the pathologist, as he sipped tea in Fisher’s room in the police station. He’d been called to the division to conduct the post mortem on a man who’d died suddenly in his bath.

  “Is it used much?”

  “To a certain extent therapeutically — for control of some types of bleeding, for instance. It’s on the poison list, of course, and a chemist would only hand it to a midwife or doctor.”

  “What’s the fatal dose?”

  “We talk in terms of fifteen grams, but as you know — or ought to know by now! — that doesn’t really mean much because what’ll kill one person will only give another an increased appetite.”

  “How much had the girl taken? You’ve told me, but damned if I can remember.”

  “Very wisely, I refused to be definite. She swallowed a lot of pills, but exactly how many…? I couldn’t work it out as exactly as I wanted to. Less than half the fatal dose I’ve just mentioned was the only figure I’d give you. She, poor devil, was one of those allergic to the stuff.”

  “Why d’you reckon she took so much?”

  “To make certain.” The pathologist sighed. “Kids like her get completely frantic when they find they’re well on the way to producing. It’s anything and everything to prevent it, and they’ll take risks that at any other time would frighten them into next week. She must have kept on swallowing tablets in order to make absolutely certain.”

  “Considering the amount of the drug she took, would you reckon it’ll be easy to trace the source?”

  “You ought to know better than to ask a question like that! There’s a flourishing black market in these drugs and if you can crack it you’ll succeed where a hell of a lot of people have failed.”

  *

  Patricia Ventnor hurried into the study. As she crossed the carpet, her bad foot which was dragging at that moment caught in a patch that was badly worn and she almost fell.

  Roger jumped up from his chair behind the desk but was too late to do more than steady her after she had regained her balance. “Steady on, Pat, unless you’re training for the hundred yards.”

  “Roger — That girl who was found in the gatehouse.”

  “The nine-day wonder of the estate? Did she fall or was she pushed?”

  “It — She was Margaret.”

  He stared at her.

  “I’ve just heard,” she continued breathlessly. “She was poisoned.”

  “Come off it, Pat. Who in the wide world would poison her?”

  “Poisoned by something she took herself to cause an abortion.”

  “I thought you meant she was murdered. Look, Pat, they found the body the day before yesterday. If it was Margaret, surely they’d have come and told me right away.”

  “Apparently they’ve only just discovered what she died from.”

  “If it’s all true, it’s a bit of a bastard, isn’t it?” He was acknowledging growing belief in the story. “Why should she choose our gatehouse?”

  “If you’d been she, would you have chosen Piccadilly Circus? She knew the place and that it was empty.”

  He sat down on the edge of the desk. “Poor old Maggie.” He stared at his sister. “It’s trite and corny, but it’s difficult to think she may be dead.”

  “You’d better start thinking, Roger. There’s Elizabeth to cope with.”

  He stood up, and as he did so he stared at the report he’d been working on — details of the ten-year plan that was going to modernise the farm. “Is there anything to cope with?”

  “Stop acting dumb. There’ll be an inquest and you’re bound to have to appear. If you’ve any sense you’ll break the news to her pretty damned quickly and not wait until she learns about it from someone else.”

  “Hell of a thing to have to do.”

  “I could make good use of a drink,” said Patricia suddenly, in the abrupt manner she affected.

  “I wonder if she suffered much?”

  She was about
to point out with some asperity that Margaret almost certainly suffered a great deal, but she suddenly checked herself and remained silent. “Shall we go and get some liquid refreshment?” she said finally and with unusual softness. She linked her arm with his and they walked into the passageway that divided the office from the dining room and gave access to the passage from which the hall and drawing room led off.

  They had just entered the drawing room when they heard the slam of a car door. He turned and looked through the open doorway and across the hall. “It’s Liz.”

  “I’ll give myself a stiff one and then disappear discreetly but rapidly. When the battle’s over you can call me back in.”

  “Don’t you think it might be better if I mentioned it later on, Pat?”

  “No, I most certainly don’t. How d’you know what she may already have been told by the long-eared viragos of the village? In any case, women like a man who attacks. You won’t be the first husband who’s gone to his marriage bed knowing a bit more about life than he should.”

  “Most husbands are lucky enough to be able to keep that news to themselves. Out of sight, out of mind — finest recipe for a happy marriage.”

  “If I were married and my husband tried that on me, I’d show him the front door.” Patricia always referred to the male sex in terms that suggested they were only bearable if kept strictly in hand. It was a defence set up to counter the knowledge that almost inevitably she would never have the chance to be married. She poured herself out a Cinzano and left the room.

  Roger crossed the hall and passed the two flags that hung on the wall. They came from the American Revolution in which one of his ancestors had led German mercenaries into battle. It was he who was reported to have had fourteen illegitimate children in England and, as the report continued, ‘he also travelled abroad a great deal.’

  Elizabeth was walking away from her Lotus Elite, a beautiful car in dark green that her father had given her for her last birthday.

  “Hullo, darling,” she said and smiled warmly, but didn’t kiss him — she would never kiss him in public. She wore a light summer dress that suited her because it was so simple. “How’s the world treating you?”

  “Fine.”

  She studied his face. “You don’t look particularly sunny. Is the proximity of your wedding getting you down?”

  “Since when have I shied away from the chance to drink gallons of champagne?”

  “You don’t know it, of course, but you’re not going to get the chance to drink much! By then you’ll be married to me and my first task as a married woman will be to see you stay relatively sober so that in your speech you don’t thank the congregation for supporting the junk sale so well — as one of my cousins did. By the way, I’ve heard from the people about the marquee — it’s booked and guaranteed to hold four hundred guests in comfort or five hundred sardine-wise.”

  “That’s one more hurdle behind us, then. Come in and have a drink.”

  “The caterers wanted to know if it’s to be caviar and smoked salmon and I said yes, until the third round of champagne. I’m not wasting either of those two on people too blotto to know whether they’re eating caviar or cod’s roe.”

  They went through to the sitting room and he crossed to the cocktail cabinet and poured out two whiskies and soda. “We’ve heard they’ve identified the girl who was found in the gatehouse.” He handed her a glass.

  “Oh.” She lifted up her glass. “Santé. Here’s to us and a fine day for the wedding.”

  “Her name’s Margaret Stukeley.”

  She rested her glass on her knee. “You say that as though the name ought to mean something to me?”

  “Not to you. But it does to me.”

  “An old flame of yours?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  She spoke slowly as she carefully chose her words. “It must have been rather a nasty shock for you, then. Was she nice?”

  “She was… amusing.”

  Elizabeth seemed to shiver slightly. “And… and for how long was she amusing?”

  “Until I met you.” He drank some of the whisky in his glass and then offered her a cigarette and took one himself. “She died of poisoning.”

  “Poisoning?”

  “She was apparently trying to get rid of the kid that was on the way and she must have got the amount wrong.”

  “Was it your child, Roger?”

  “No.”

  She finished her drink. “I’m glad you let me know — but of course you would, whatever happened.” She crossed to his side and put her arms about him. “Don’t brood on it too much, darling. It’s all over now.”

  *

  Fisher was in the middle of writing a report when the telephone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver and spoke to the superintendent who asked him to go straight down to the latter’s room.

  Hancock was pacing backward and forward behind his chair, pausing at frequent intervals to pick up the cigarette from the ashtray, draw on it, flick it, replace it. He came to a halt as Fisher entered. “The assistant chief constable’s just been on the blower.”

  “In connection with what, sir?”

  “The Stukeley case. It’s got to be cracked.”

  “What’s the flap? It will be.”

  “There’ve been too many abortion cases in the county, and this time it’s a policeman’s daughter who’s copped it. Stukeley was a popular chap before he was invalided out.”

  “Is that what Bazlow said?”

  “Not outright. Who the devil’s ever known Bazlow to say anything directly?”

  “Not me.”

  “Bazlow said he’d be watching your progress in the matter with interest.”

  Fisher stared out of the window. The case was beginning to involve many things. The daughter of some poor devil of an invalided policeman had been persuaded to kill herself and that called for sympathy and action, because the pride of the police was a touchy thing. When the case was cleared up, Bazlow would know that it had been cleared up thanks to Fisher, and the assistant chief constable was part of the promotion board.

  *

  Fisher and Layton were shown into the library of Reton Park Hall by Mrs. Blately.

  The few books of note the library had once contained had been sold on the death of Charles Ventnor to try to ease the pain of death duties — a forlorn effort. The books that remained, however, although of no intrinsic value were uniformly bound in red, green, or brown leather and they gave the room an air of quiet and dignified luxury, an air enhanced by the moulded ceiling with its geometric designs delicately carried out.

  Roger entered the library. “Good afternoon.”

  “Sorry to trouble you,” said Fisher, in his smooth, friendly, let’s-all-get-together voice. “I’m Detective Inspector Fisher. I believe you’ve meet D. C. Layton already.”

  Roger looked across at Layton and nodded.

  “We’ve found Miss Stukeley, sir, and as an old friend you’ll be distressed to know she was dead.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Did you also hear she died from an overdose of pills?”

  “Yes.”

  “News must travel fast round here.”

  “There are a handful of widows in the village who’ll tell you what you’re thinking before you’ve thought of thinking it.”

  “Like that, is it? Sorry to keep on, but it’s part of my job. Did they tell you the pills were a form of ergot?”

  “I’ve been told they were used to try to bring on an abortion.”

  Fisher spoke with sympathy. “It must have been very unpleasant for you, Mr. Ventnor.”

  Roger wondered how he was going to explain — or indeed if he should explain — that it had been a shock but that it had not shocked. She’d left the circle of those who held personal meaning for him and her death was something that did not hurt him.

  Fisher reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Help yourself from the box by your sid
e,” said Roger.

  Fisher picked up the large silver cigarette box. The engraving on the lid said it had been presented to Charles Ventnor in 1931. Fisher remembered the hungry men of 1931. He opened the case and took out a cigarette. “The dead girl was pregnant. Were you the father, Mr. Ventnor?” He struck a match.

  “I wasn’t.”

  Fisher’s expression suggested nothing. “Did you provide her with the ergot pills?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Ventnor, suppose you wanted to get hold of some ergot pills. To which of your friends would you go?”

  Roger half smiled. “That’s the kind of suppose I don’t.”

  “Very wise. We want to have a word with the man or woman who supplied the pills, so if you should have any ideas on the subject, let us know, will you? Prestry one four double two.”

  Fisher stood up and Layton did the same. “Thanks for helping. Did you know her father’s a policeman who had to be retired through ill health? The girl was an only child so her death’s naturally affected her parents very much.” He began to walk toward the door. “Don’t bother to come out with us, we can find the way.”

  They went to their car. As Layton sat down behind the steering wheel and switched on the engine, Fisher said, “That place needs a small fortune spent on it, doesn’t it? The farm buildings look the same, too. It’s funny in this day and age to find how tragic it seems that the first time you ever make direct contact with the big house it’s because the owner’s got mixed up in the same kind of muck as you or I might find ourselves in. I don’t know, but I’ve always subconsciously thought that the genuine article — not the bloody industrialists who come from nowhere and make a fortune out of other people’s sweat — didn’t do such things, or if they did, it was on a grand scale which makes everything different. I suppose you could call me a fool for thinking like that when I know it’s a lie, and also for wishing to God it had been someone else. Or maybe you’d just call me incredibly naïve for a policeman.”

  Layton was far too old a hand to call his superior anything.

  Chapter 6

  Fisher walked out of the large house belonging to Dermott, J.P., and crossed the drive. The place had been burgled and although he, Fisher, wouldn’t normally have bothered to visit the scene of what was a routine crime, a J.P. was thought by some to be a local bigwig and one of Fisher’s less publicised jobs was to keep annoyed bigwigs as calm as possible.