Jam and Jeopardy

by Doris Davidson

  Stephen gave a nervous laugh, and tried to soothe her hurt feelings. ‘No, Aunt Janet. We love coming to see you, and we’ll be back next Sunday.’

  ‘Come at a decent time, then.’ She was only slightly mollified, and they could hear her muttering to herself as they went out. ‘Dinner, if you please. Supper’s not good enough for them.’

  As their old Escort rattled out of Ashgrove Lane on to the High Street, Stephen started humming.

  ‘Why the sudden good humour?’ his wife asked, suspiciously. ‘You’re usually just as cheesed off as me when we’ve been to see the old bitch.’

  Even the last word failed to irritate him at that moment. ‘I’ve found the answer to everything.’ He smiled smugly.

  ‘What d’you mean? Really, Stephen, you can be so annoying at times.’

  ‘I’ve thought of the perfect solution to all our troubles, and that’s all I’m saying.’

  Janet kept standing at her back door, smirking to herself as she recalled the seeds of temptation she had sewn in the minds of her nephews.

  ‘You’re looking pleased with yourself.’

  Startled by the voice, she looked up to see Mabel Wakeford regarding her inquisitively.

  ‘It’s just something I said to the . . .’ She broke off, then went on, ‘I may as well tell you. I’ve given Ronald and Stephen something to chew over. I told them about the arsenic . . .’

  ‘Oh, Janet, are you trying to see if they’ll use it? Do you think that was wise? You told me they were both short of funds, and they might . . .’ Mabel, too, broke off but hastened to add, ‘No, no, your nephews would never think of anything like that. They wouldn’t want to hurt you in any way.’

  Janet gave a most unladylike snort. ‘You think not? Well, let me tell you that the thought has crossed both their minds, I can vouch for that. And I hope they do try. The thing is, they’ll both be disappointed. I have a trick or two up my sleeve, you see.’

  She turned away abruptly but was chuckling as she closed her back door behind her. Stephen and Ronald were surely mad enough at her now to do what she hoped they would do. She had told them both about the arsenic, and where she kept it, so now she’d just have to wait till next weekend.

  She trusted that one of them would make an attempt to poison her. They were both such nincompoops, but surely at least one of them would have the nerve. If one of them did try, though, she intended leaving him all her money. It would prove that he had some willpower of his own, some drive, some spunk. If neither of them had a go, she’d instruct Martin Spencer to make out a new will leaving her entire estate to some charity. That would show them what she thought of them.

  She was under no illusions about why they came to see her every weekend. They were making sure of their inheritance, and family loyalty and affection didn’t come into it.

  Barbara was a common trollop, really, but she was the only one of the four who ever showed any spirit, and that’s why the Drummonds had been given the twenty thousand pounds a few months ago. Barbara would occasionally answer back, or have an argument with her, and Janet loved verbal sparring. She couldn’t stand Flora, though. A big fat elephant with the personality of a mouse, she should have been Stephen’s wife – like to like.

  Janet Souter had never been very fond of her nephews, even when they were children, although she hadn’t seen so much of them then. Their mothers, her two younger sisters, Alice and Marjory, had married well, and moved away to Aberdeen. Both had been made widows quite young, but were left quite comfortably off. They had sent their sons to good schools, and even financed them when they set up in their own businesses.

  Her sisters had died more than a decade ago, within a year of each other. Neither of the boys had much between their ears – Stephen had failed all his exams – and they couldn’t handle their affairs properly. They were desperate to get their hands on her money, especially Ronald. Well, she was giving them a chance to prove their merit.

  She rose from the wooden armchair, and threaded her way through the furniture that cluttered up her small living room. The passage was cold, so she hoisted her shawl round her shoulders as she went into the icy kitchen to put the kettle on.

  She sat on her stepstool to wait for it to boil, and began to plan the trap she was going to set for her two nephews. It would have to be well thought out.

  Chapter Three

  Friday 18th November

  Although it was already ten o’clock in the morning, and the temperature had risen little, the bushes and trees still wore a thin coat of icing, and the part of the main road that Mrs Wakeford could see from her window had the shiny surface of an ice rink. She had wondered if her neighbour would tackle her usual Friday morning shopping trip, but Janet Souter seldom admitted defeat. Almost never, in fact.

  Having spent most of the night planning her own urgent mission, Mabel now changed her old slippers for a heavy pair of shoes, and slipped on her winter coat. Then, after closing her back door behind her as quietly as she could, she went over the low fence that separated the two gardens. This flouting of a long-standing unwritten rule made her feel so guilty that she almost turned back, but she overcame her conscience and made for the shed first. Janet Souter had gone too far in raking up scandals, especially one from over sixty years ago. And if she wasn’t stopped, she could uncover a much more damning incident of not quite so long ago – an incident that had been kept successfully hidden from the whole village. Knowing Miss Nosey Parker Souter, though, she had probably worked it out.

  Mabel was trembling with apprehension, anger and fear of being caught when she entered her own home again about thirty minutes later. It had taken longer than she thought, but it had had to be done, otherwise her life wouldn’t be worth living.

  The butcher’s shop door banged loudly as Janet Souter came out, smiling grimly to herself. She’d shown that John Robertson that he couldn’t make a fool of her! Two pounds fifteen for that little bit of steak. He was another one who believed she was in her dotage, but the piece of mutton would do her nicely for two days, and it only cost one pound thirty.

  ‘Morning, Miss Souter.’ The man approaching was beaming at her, but she was in no mood for pleasantries and turned a sour face towards him.

  ‘Good day, Mr Pettigrew. I hope Douglas is keeping well, after his all-night sessions?’

  Sydney Pettigrew, the chemist, a large, well-built man with a receding hairline, had reached his own shop now, and she was gratified by the change in his expression as he stood holding the door handle. ‘What do you mean “all-night sessions”?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know your son sometimes stays out all night?’

  Her sarcastic sneer annoyed him, and he spoke more sharply than normal. ‘He sometimes sleeps at his pal’s house. You know what youngsters are like these days.’

  Her top lip curled even more. ‘You don’t know yours, then, for it’s Gilbert White’s wife who keeps him out, not his pal.’

  His brows came down. ‘What? Oh, I think you’re mistaken, Miss Souter.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not mistaken. I’ve seen him creeping up the Lane past my house at five o’clock in the morning. A fine carry on, and her a married woman.’

  The man looked as if he wanted to say something, but decided against it, and contented himself by murmuring, ‘I’ll put a stop to it. It won’t happen again.’

  The old woman smirked broadly when he went inside his shop. That was one in the eye for young Master Pettigrew, she thought. When she’d confronted him last week, he’d told her to mind her own business and threatened to sort her out. Well, he was the one who was going to be sorted out. His father would see to that.

  When she reached Ashgrove Lane, she walked up the garden to her back door; it was quicker than going round the front. Stopping to admire her lilac tree, she wondered why Violet and Grace had not removed the body of their dog, but probably they were too scared to come into her garden. This was Guild night, though, when they knew she would be out, so they would
more than likely grab the chance sometime this evening.

  ‘I warned them often enough about their mongrel digging holes in my garden,’ she muttered. ‘It serves them right that he got what was coming to him.’

  Her back door was unlocked, because the key was too big to carry in her pocket. She was too forgetful to hang it on a hook inside her coal bunker like she used to, so she didn’t bother. She supposed it would really be safer not to leave it unlocked all the time – after all, the front door had a yale lock with just a small key – but she’d always been in the habit of going out by the back. Except on Fridays, when she went to the Guild with Mabel Wakeford. Old habits die hard. Still, there had never been any burglaries in Tollerton, very few crimes of any kind. The two bobbies here had it very easy.

  She laid her shopping bag on the draining board, and took a flat plate out of the cupboard. Then she unwrapped the piece of mutton, laid it on the plate and placed her mesh, domed meat cover over it. She didn’t have a refrigerator, silly modern contraptions, but the weather was so cold that the mutton would keep all right till she cooked it tomorrow. She couldn’t do it tonight, because this was Guild night.

  It was a pity she wouldn’t be able to have her usual steak pie on Sunday, but, on the other hand, she wouldn’t have to make any pastry. She never did much in the afternoons, except her tapestry, but she found herself dozing more than stitching nowadays, one of the penalties of old age.

  When she finished putting away her groceries, a bag of flour was still left sitting out. She mustn’t forget about it – it was the whole crux of the matter, her very lifeline – but she’d have her snack lunch before she carried out the most important task of the day.

  At seven-thirty in the evening in Number Three Honeysuckle Cottages, Violet Grant and Grace Skinner, two widowed sisters, were still heartbroken about the disappearance of their Skye terrier. They were positive that he had been poisoned, but getting him back had had to wait until Friday, the only night that Janet Souter went out. They were too afraid of her to chance going into her garden at a time when she could see them. It had taken much willpower for them to leave their darling pet so long in enemy territory, but deliverance was close at hand.

  They were both dressed in old grey tweed skirts and dark grey jumpers, but Violet wore a matted green cardigan on top, while Grace had on a black jacket, originally part of a suit, but now rather the worse for wear.

  They weren’t exactly on the bread line, but they had to be very careful with the widows’ pensions they received from the state, and the small pensions allotted to them by their late husbands’ employers. What little money they had in the bank was purely for emergencies, and couldn’t be touched in case they needed it in their old age.

  ‘She even suggested Benjie might have eaten some of the arsenic she laid in her garden to kill the rats. Oh, Grace, what’ll we do if he has?’ Violet, two years older, depended on her sister for every little thing. ‘We’ll have to go round and look. He could be lying in agony . . .’

  Grace Skinner had been extremely upset when the distressed Violet had reported her conversation with their neighbour last week, but had realised that they would have to wait until Friday to search for their beloved pet, that being the only night that Miss Souter went out. She issued a warning before they set forth on their mission. ‘We’ll have to be careful that nobody else sees us trespassing in her garden.’

  ‘Suppose she sees us herself?’ Violet asked, fearfully.

  ‘We’ll make sure she’s out. If there’s no light at the back, it’ll be safe.’

  The sisters now donned flat stout shoes, slipped on threadbare tweed coats and, it being pitch dark by that time, Grace took their large torch with her. After making sure that the coast was clear, they helped each other over the small fence. The rear of the house was in absolute darkness, so Grace swept the light in several large arcs, starting from a different position each time. It revealed nothing, and after a few moments the petrified Violet was all for giving up their quest.

  ‘Benjie hasn’t eaten any of that arsenic after all, thank goodness. He’ll come back eventually, when he gets tired of his freedom. Let’s go home now . . . please.’

  Grace gave a low moan. ‘Wait. Look.’

  As the beam of light lit up the pathetic form of the small dog, the sisters clutched at each other. ‘That horrible, wicked woman! Poor, poor Benjie.’ Tears coursed down Violet’s face. ‘I wish she was dead, too. What harm had Benjie done her?’

  Grace gripped her lips tightly together, and, taking off her coat, she bent down and enfolded the dead animal tenderly within its tweed depths. When she straightened up, holding the precious bundle, she said, ‘We’ll get our revenge, Violet, I swear!’

  Although she was only fifty-seven years old to her sister’s fifty-nine, Grace had always taken the initiative. She had looked after Violet when they were growing up, and also later, when Kenneth Grant died, leaving a childless widow quite unable to cope.

  When their grief spent itself, Violet asked, ‘What did you mean about getting revenge?’

  Grace stuck her chin out fiercely. ‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.’

  Only ten minutes later, she leapt to her feet in great excitement. ‘How could I have forgotten? I’ll use her own arsenic to pay her back.’

  ‘Oh no! You can’t possibly do that, Grace. It would be . . .’ her voice trailed away to a whisper. ‘It would be . . . murder.’

  Grace’s vengeful expression didn’t change. ‘What she did was murder, too. Don’t forget that, Violet. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’

  ‘Don’t quote the bible at me. It doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It means what I want it to mean – pay-back in kind. Now, just wait there – I won’t be long.’

  Chapter Four

  Thursday 24th November

  It was so cold that Willie Arthur pulled his red ski hat right down over his ears before he took two newspapers out of his bag and folded one of them very carefully. If he crumpled the old dragon’s Courier, he’d be for it, and she’d go complaining to Miss Wheeler again.

  Whistling, he shoved a copy roughly through the letter box of the first cottage, then stopped, puzzled, when he came to Miss Souter’s door. Her pint of milk was still sitting on her step. She was usually up at the crack of dawn – before dawn, in the winter – often waiting to grab her paper before he folded it. She must be ill.

  He looked furtively through her bedroom window and saw that her bed had been made, and that everything seemed to be in order, so he walked past her door to the living room window, but there was no sign of her there, either. She must be at the back, in her kitchen or the bathroom, both of which had been built on to the original house.

  If she was up, she couldn’t be ill. She must have just forgotten to take her milk in. Her memory would be slipping a bit at her age. He pushed the Courier under the flap and turned back. He was finished with Honeysuckle Cottages for the time being, because Number Three just took the Evening Citizen.

  He jumped down the steps and lifted his bicycle from the grassy bank, wishing that these three cottages had their front doors to the Lane like the houses at the foot. This was a funny set-up, with no front gardens, just a narrow path along the buildings, and a barbed-wire fence separating them from a field. It was their long back gardens which ran on to the Lane, and they were the last three houses in the village, or the first three, depending which way you were travelling.

  When he turned left into Ashgrove Lane off the High Street, he glanced at the rear of the cottages and saw that smoke was spiralling from the chimneys at each end, but not from Miss Souter’s. His unease returned, making him wonder if he should go and look in her kitchen window to make sure she was all right, but he was running late already, and the old woman would go spare if she caught him snooping round her back door.

  He carried on to the terraced houses at the bottom of the hill, where he had only one Courier to deliver, because the other five t
ook the Evening Citizen. Walking up the first path, he could see old Mrs Gray smiling to him from her window and, as he acknowledged her, he thought what a difference there was between the two oldest women in Tollerton. Miss Souter, though she nipped around the village like a two-year-old, was nasty and cantankerous, but Mrs Gray, just as old, if not older, and crippled so much with arthritis that she couldn’t get out at all, was always friendly and cheery.

  He shoved his last paper through the letter box, and saluted to Mrs Gray again before he ran down the path and jumped on his cycle. He puffed laboriously up the hill, then, once he was on the level again, he pedalled like mad down the High Street to leave his newspaper bag at Miss Wheeler’s shop – grocer-cum-baker-cum-newsagent-cum-post office – before going to school.

  ‘See you at half past four,’ the postmistress remarked, from behind the grille.

  Willie was on his way out when he remembered. ‘Miss Wheeler, old Miss Souter’s milk hadn’t been taken in when I delivered her paper, and her fire wasn’t lit.’

  His employer, tall and angular, looked at him pityingly. ‘She’s a very old lady, Willie. She’s been having a lie-in.’

  The fourteen-year-old shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I looked in her bedroom window and her bed had been made, but there was no sign of her. Nor in the living room, because I looked in there as well.’

  ‘She’d have been in the bathroom having a wash, I suppose. That one can look after herself.’

  ‘OK, if you say so.’ Willie had passed on the problem, so he went off to school with a clear mind, and without further thought for Janet Souter.

  Emma Wheeler did think about her, but only for a short time. Old Miss Souter was always ready to complain about the least little thing and didn’t deserve anybody’s concern.

  A customer came in for two postal orders and stamps, followed closely by a senior citizen collecting his pension, followed even more closely by a long queue of housewives needing newly baked loaves, so it was well after half past ten before Miss Wheeler’s conscience pricked her.