A Recipe for Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

‘Yes.’

  ‘Then get in it and drive straight over.’

  20

  The pathologist handed the very small knife to his assistant. He looked over the tops of his half-moon glasses at the exhibits officer, who was talking in an undertone to the coroner’s officer. ‘That’s it, then,’ he said.

  He walked over to the double sink and peeled off his gloves, dropping them into a paper sack. His assistant undid the tapes of his green overalls and helped him out of them. He pulled off the wellingtons with the aid of a boot-jack and slipped on his comfortable, worn, brown casuals. ‘Death was caused by the functional event known as vagal inhibition. There are some asphyxial changes, but only of a trivial nature. It is possible that someone took a grip on her neck, wanting to keep her quiet, and she died very suddenly, indeed almost instantaneously: there may well have been no intention to kill. It is a death which prostitutes unfortunately suffer from time to time.’

  *

  Melville-Jones took a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed his lips with it. ‘The assailant may have intended to strangle her, or he may have intended merely to quieten her. In this latter case, the offence was manslaughter unless he tried to quieten her in furtherance of rape, when it becomes murder. A husband cannot legally rape his wife, therefore he cannot legally be guilty of attempting such rape. But as a matter of some interest — and not in connexion with this case — a person may be found guilty of an attempt of a crime which is, in fact, impossible.’

  Craven’s expression said plainly that the law could be, and often was, more than an ass.

  ‘There is historical logic for this,’ said Melville-Jones.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ replied Craven smoothly. The law was rich in historical absurdities.

  ‘There is one very important question we now have to consider. Where did Mrs Scott die?’ He looked at the detective superintendent, at Kelly, and finally at Craven. ‘You claim she died in the sitting-room of Honey Cottage. But although the blood on the two cork tiles can be shown to be of the same group as hers, and although this group is common to only a very small proportion of the population, you cannot prove that the blood was hers. But let us assume that you could. Could you then go on to prove it had been shed in the course of her death and not at some other time?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Craven. ‘But when all the evidence is studied it must surely become overwhelmingly probable that we’re right.’

  ‘In a court of law, Inspector, the difference between overwhelmingly probable and provably certain is, as I would have thought you understood, of vital significance.’

  The chief superintendent nodded. Kelly, seeing Craven was looking in his direction, winked.

  ‘Now let us consider the question of motive. Your contention is that the motive for the murder (correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe you have considered to any great extent the possibility of manslaughter) was twofold: Scott wanted his wife out of the way because of his friendship with Mrs Ballentyne and he wanted his wife’s money. Where is your proof that his friendship with Mrs Ballentyne goes beyond the bounds of decorum?’

  What a way of putting it! thought Craven. ‘That sort of proof is very difficult to come by, sir.’

  ‘Every time you have questioned either the lady or Scott, each has consistently denied that their friendship is more than platonic.’

  ‘Miss Holloway was told by Mrs Scott …

  ‘What the deceased told Miss Holloway is not proof.’

  ‘But it indicates —’

  ‘Proof, Inspector!’

  ‘All right, sir,’ said Craven doggedly, ‘if the motive for the murder — or manslaughter — wasn’t what I’ve suggested, what was it? All our enquiries have failed to turn up so much as a hint of any other reason for someone wanting her dead. The evidence is that Mrs Scott was not having an affair, she was not —’ Melville-Jones sighed. ‘The negative approach again. Inspector, it is the prosecution, not the defence, on whom the burden of proof rests.’

  The detective superintendent spoke heavily. ‘There isn’t the evidence to bring a case, is there?’

  ‘No,’ answered Melville-Jones curtly. He collected up his papers and began to pack them in his briefcase.

  *

  Craven brought two pints of bitter over to the corner table in the pub. He sat. ‘Damnation to all lawyers.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Kelly said, as he raised his glass. ‘What did the big white chief say afterwards?’

  ‘He moaned, of course, but not for more than a quarter of an hour. He hasn’t been at H.Q. quite long enough to have forgotten that sometimes a case just won’t come right.’

  ‘I suppose the case will now have to go into cold storage?’

  Craven drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and put the tumbler down on the table. ‘When I started as a rosy cheeked P.C., who thought right and wrong were two very different things, and we had a murder case we worked at it until we reached the end, even if that took months. But these days, unless it’s unusually horrific or the victim’s important, we go for so long and then we have to give up because of pressure of work — though eventually we’d crack it.’

  Craven had never learned to come to terms with failure, even when the cause of such failure lay outside his control, Kelly thought.

  ‘I wonder what sort of a life our kids will know when they’re our age? A complete breakdown of law and order?’

  Kelly drank. While a man could enjoy a pint and a fag, things couldn’t really be that bad.

  21

  Powell walked along the dirt road towards the cow kennels which stood on a large raft of concrete. One of the farm hands was cleaning the slurry. Powell climbed the earth bank of the lagoon. His father had taught him one thing which he had never forgotten: good farming needed muck. Fertilise one field of grass with artificials and another with dung for five years and note which grew the better grass.

  He stared past the edge of a copse of chestnut, due to be felled soon, at part of the herd of Friesians, four fields away. When they’d bought Tregarth House the cattle had had to be taken off the land in most years by the beginning of October because of the lack of enough drainage: now even after considerable rain they stayed out until November. Every extra week on grass meant more profit.

  There had been once or twice when he’d decided that if Kevin were charged with the murder of Avis he would have to go to the police and tell them what had really happened. But each time he had had only to step on to the land and feel it springing to his weight, to look at the herd and the sheep, to know that he could never tell the police the truth because to do so would be to risk losing everything.

  It had very nearly been disastrous for him. But then he’d been a bloody fool. When a man had to choose between a woman and land, he shouldn’t need to hesitate.

  *

  When the high-rise divisional H.Q. first came into view, beyond the council car-park, Jane stopped. But almost immediately, she resumed walking. She had to act because she could no longer stand seeing Kevin worry himself sick.

  In the front room, the duty sergeant was talking to an elderly, harassed looking man and a P.C., who was plainly finding it an onerous task, was typing.

  The P.C. stopped and came up to the counter. He noted her wedding ring.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to either Mr Craven or Mr Kelly, please.’

  ‘I’ll check who’s in. Would you give me your name, please?’

  She sat on one of the bench seats and picked up a magazine from the nearest low table. She leafed through this, not bothering to read anything more than the captions under some of the photographs.

  The P.C. lifted the end flap of the counter and crossed to where she sat. ‘I’ve spoken to Sergeant Kelly, Mrs Ballentyne. He’ll be along very soon.’

  Some ten minutes later, Kelly came through a doorway to the right of the counter and as he approached, she thought how tired he looked. ‘’Morning
, Mrs Ballentyne.’

  ‘I need to have a word with you,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Then let’s go to one of the interview rooms: we won’t be disturbed there.’

  He led the way along a corridor and immediately before the comer pushed open a door for her to enter a room. It was small, with one barred window, painted a light green and white: the only furniture was a table and four chairs. On one wall was a framed list of printed regulations in eye-squinting type.

  The moment she was seated, she said: ‘I’ve come to —’

  ‘Would you hang on a moment? A colleague, Detective Constable Thompson, is joining us.’

  As if on cue, there was a quick knock on the door and Thompson entered. Kelly introduced him. He brought out a notebook and put this on the table.

  She spoke calmly. ‘I’ve been lying to you about Kevin and me: we’ve been lovers for some time. My husband was dead and Kevin and his wife didn’t get on, so it just seemed … The reason I’ve always denied everything is because I’ve felt kind of guilty as my husband died not so very long ago. Also, we didn’t want Avis to have the chance to make it appear that the break-up of the marriage was entirely Kevin’s responsibility.’ She paused, then said with more force: ‘On the night Avis died, Kevin was with me at my flat.’

  ‘Mrs Ballentyne …’ Kelly stopped. Had he been on his own, he would have risked warning her that she could only cause harm by inventing an alibi, but since Thompson was present he dare not do this.

  ‘Kevin used to tell Avis he had to go up to London to see his publisher and he’d be staying the night at a friend’s flat. He would go up to London, but then he’d get an early train back to Ferington and walk to my flat and wait there for me to return from work. The next day he’d stay until just before the time he’d told Avis to pick him up and then he’d go to the station and join all the people coming off the train.’

  ‘Is this what happened on the seventeenth and eighteenth of last month?’

  ‘He was with me all night and didn’t leave the flat until about five the next afternoon to be at the station when the four eighteen from London arrived.’

  ‘Did anyone visit your flat during the Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Nobody did, no.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can verify the fact that Mr Scott was with you?’

  ‘I’ve told you that he was. There was no one else around.’

  ‘Is there anything more you’d like us to know?’ ‘There’s nothing more to know.’

  ‘Then your statement will be typed out and I’ll ask you to sign it if you agree that what’s written is what you’ve just told us.’

  ‘You’ve got to understand that he was with me from five in the evening until five the next day.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to work on the Wednesday?’

  She tried to hide her consternation. ‘I … I rang the office up and said I had a cold.’

  ‘Thanks for coming and telling us, Mrs Ballentyne. We won’t keep you long before the statement’s ready for signing.’ He nodded at Thompson who stood and left.

  *

  Craven hurried along the passage and into his office. Kelly entered. ‘We’ve had a visitor, sir.’

  ‘Give me all the bad news at once and make me feel lousy.’

  ‘Mrs Ballentyne came here to admit that she’s been lying. She and Scott have been having it off for some time and on the Tuesday he went up to London but didn’t stay and returned to be at her flat by five. He was there until about five on the Wednesday, when he walked to the station and joined the crowd coming off the four-eighteen from London.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘They stayed at her flat the whole time and saw no one. She’s admitting everything now to prove he couldn’t have had anything to do with his wife’s death.’

  ‘By God!’ exclaimed Craven. ‘Just when we’d decided we had to give up! Now we’ve got the motive all cut and dried. Not even that smart bastard from the D.P.P.’s office can knock that.’

  22

  Jane faced Scott in the hall of Honey Cottage. Nervousness made her sound defiant. ‘I’ve just been to the police station. I told them I’ve been lying all this time and that we are having an affair and that you were with me all Tuesday evening and night.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘I couldn’t stand seeing you worrying yourself ill because people were stupid enough to think you could kill your wife. I was a fool not to have done it before — the world’s been convinced we’re lovers from the word go.’

  ‘But why in God’s name didn’t you come and talk it over first?’

  ‘You’d have tried to argue me out of it … You know, Kevin, we’ve learned a lot about each other.’

  ‘But not yet enough,’ he said. ‘Jane, ring your boss and tell him you can’t return to the office to-day. If he wants a reason, tell him you’ve broken a leg. You’ve proved yourself a good liar, so he’ll believe you.’

  *

  Feeling as if he had been walking for hours, Kelly limped into the station courtyard. A dog handler, about to climb into the cab of his van, called across: ‘Skipper, your old man’s been shouting for you. Twice through the parade room wanting to know where in the hell you’d got to.’

  Kelly continued into the building, careful to favour his right foot. On the door of the lift shaft there was a small printed notice saying that the lift was out of order. Cursing high-rise buildings, he slowly limped his way up the flights of stairs to Craven’s room. ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Craven. ‘Trying to find a bloke called Walker in order to get a witness statement.’

  ‘That doesn’t take all afternoon.’

  ‘It does if someone’s pinched the C.I.D. car and you have to walk and everywhere you go he’s just left.’

  ‘You ought to send a D.C. out on a job like that.’

  ‘I would have done if you hadn’t got hold of them all first.’

  Craven suddenly grinned. ‘You look like you’ve been having a rough time.’

  ‘It wasn’t too bad after everything went numb.’ Kelly sat down and lifted his right leg to rest his ankle on his left knee.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the Scott case,’ said Craven. Kelly pulled off the shoe and rolled down the sock. He stared resentfully at the well-formed blister.

  ‘The truth has to be facing us, if only we’ve got the wit to recognise it.’

  Kelly prodded the centre of the blister.

  ‘The first D.I. I served with was a great man for maxims. One of his favourites was, “If a case becomes all glued up, look for the illogical.” D’you follow.’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Kelly. He wondered if it were true that one ran a grave risk of septicaemia if one pricked a blister?

  ‘If something’s illogical, the odds are it’s important. So what’s illogical in this case? Remember telling me something was puzzling you?’

  Kelly looked up, a vague expression on his face.

  ‘You couldn’t understand where the seahorse necklace had come from. Scott swore he’d never seen it before and his wife hadn’t drawn the money to buy it, she hadn’t insured it although she’d insured pieces of jewellery of much less value.’ Craven leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘How certain were you that Scott was telling the truth when he said he’d never seen the necklace before?’

  ‘As certain as I could be when I’d no proof one way or the other.’

  ‘Let’s accept you were right. So what was she doing with jewellery he hadn’t seen before?’

  ‘Someone gave it to her.’ Kelly rubbed the skin around the blister. ‘Only we dug and dug and there hasn’t been so much as the hint of a boy friend. Miss Holloway swears there wasn’t one.’

  ‘Never mind — we chase up the illogical.’

  Kelly sighed. ‘I suppose you want me to question everyone again?’

  ‘First off, I want you to get the press to print a photo of that necklace. Spin ’em a story which gets ’em inter
ested. Someone may come forward and give us the history.’

  Kelly slowly pulled the sock up over his sore foot.

  *

  As far as the national press was concerned there was now more than enough material to hand and so a five-week-old murder case involving a housewife was out. But the Ferington Gazette, perhaps due to a temporary lack of local corruption, was short of copy and so they printed the photograph of the necklace together with an accompanying story.

  *

  Judith did a great deal of charitable work, partly because she liked helping people, partly because this enabled her to come to terms with her own wealth. On Thursday mornings she attended the weekly meeting of the local Red Cross committee and on the afternoon of the penultimate Thursday of each month she chaired a meeting of the management committee of the Rayman Community. When she had the two meetings in the one day, she usually had lunch in Ferington at the White Swan, an old coaching inn.

  She was in a corner table and after the waitress had taken her order she picked up the local paper and looked through it. On page eight there was a photograph of the necklace which had been found by the body of Avis. The photograph had not reproduced at all well but it did remind her that neither Julian nor she had heard from Werner and Hall who’d said some weeks ago that they hoped to be buying in a fine jade seahorse necklace. She made a mental note to get Julian to ring them to find out what had happened to it.

  After lunch there was still an hour and a half before the committee meeting was due to begin and she decided to walk down to the public library. Her route took her down through the car park in which was a public call-box. It was empty and she suddenly decided to ring Werner and Hall herself to save Julian the bother. She spoke to Mr Leach. ‘I’ve been wondering if you ever bought in that seahorse necklace you told me about?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Powell. A piece of considerable quality. But surely …’ He paused. ‘Have you not seen it?’

  ‘Of course not. How could I have done?’

  He coughed. ‘May I ask, is it your birthday soon?’