Jam and Jeopardy

by Doris Davidson

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Stephen’s apology was made in a low, flat voice. ‘I am very shocked, and yes, he was my father’s brother.’ His eyes slid away suddenly.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Drummond. Shock plays funny tricks on the best of us.’ McGillivray soothed the man, while Moore marvelled at his superior’s duplicity. ‘So your father’s brother left you some money? How much was it, exactly?’

  ‘It was twenty thousand pounds. Enough to see me over my difficulties.’

  ‘Very fortunate, I would say, and just at the right time, but we can find no trace of this uncle, be he your father’s brother or your mother’s brother.’ The inspector decided to bluff a little. ‘In fact, this uncle didn’t exist, did he, Mr Drummond?’

  ‘Oh, here!’ Barbara cut in quickly. ‘I think you’re overstepping your authority, badgering my husband like this.’

  ‘It’s no use, Barbara,’ Stephen patted her knee. ‘I couldn’t brazen it out, anyway. You’re quite correct, Inspector, that was a lie. Aunt Janet lent me the money after I practically went down on my bended knees to her. She was a hard woman, with no compassion in her soul.’ He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  ‘Stephen! Watch what you’re saying.’ Barbara was alarmed by his look of hopelessness.

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. Aunt Janet was charging me twenty-five per cent interest on that money, Inspector, which meant I’d be paying nearly double the amount I’d borrowed, by the time I’d finished.’

  ‘That was a bit over the top.’

  ‘I offered her ten pounds the last time we were down, but she said it wasn’t enough and laughed in my face. I couldn’t repay her and I didn’t know what to do.’ Stephen buried his face in his hands.

  Barbara shook her head in sympathy. ‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s all over now. She’s dead, and you won’t have to worry about money any more.’ She turned to the Chief Inspector. ‘My husband was at a very low ebb, as you can see, but he didn’t poison his aunt. We weren’t even there at the time.’

  ‘No, Mrs Drummond,’ McGillivray agreed, seriously, ‘you weren’t even there. Come on, Moore. It’s time we left.’

  They saw themselves out, and the younger man could scarcely contain himself until they were once again in their car. ‘You came away just when he was ready to confess that he’d done it,’ he accused.

  ‘I don’t think he did do it, lad. In fact, I’m nearly certain he’d nothing to do with his aunt’s death. He may have thought about poisoning her, but that’s not what we’re after.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t kill her, but I’m sure Mrs Drummond knows something about it.’

  ‘I’m going to let it simmer for a while, Moore. We’ve turned on the heat, and the Stephen Drummonds and the Ronald Bakers will just have to stew a bit longer. Whatever the truth is, it’ll come out eventually, once they’re worked up enough.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I was thinking, though, it’s peculiar, but several of the suspects have been on the verge of admitting something when you’ve upped and left them.’

  ‘You’ve noticed that, have you?’ McGillivray laughed. ‘There’s a clever young detective sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, sir. But Mrs Wakeford was first. She’d have told you something else, if you’d carried on questioning her, and Mrs Grant said Douglas Pettigrew wasn’t the murderer, as if she knew who was.’

  Moore snatched a quick glance at his boss, who was smiling and nodding. Encouraged, he went on, ‘Mrs Ronald Baker – her husband had to stop her before she came out with something he didn’t want her to say, and, lastly, Stephen Drummond practically admitted to the murder, and you didn’t pursue it.’

  ‘Quite right, lad. I don’t understand why, but, as you say, all those people have almost admitted to poisoning the old lady, or to knowing something about it.’

  ‘One of them must have killed her, though.’

  ‘You reckon? The really peculiar thing is that they all mentioned the confounded arsenic, yet there was no sign of it in her, nor in any of her foodstuffs. Unfortunately, poor Mrs Grant did have a trace of it, but whether her attempted murder was connected with Janet Souter’s death, or was a different crime altogether, I can’t tell yet. So the insulin side will have to wait till I unravel the arsenic business first.’

  David Moore fished for his seat belt and buckled it on. ‘Back to Tollerton now, sir?’

  ‘After a bit of lunch, I think. I’m quite peckish.’

  They found a Chinese restaurant on their way out of the town, and it was wearing on for three o’clock when they started their return journey.

  ‘Quite an interesting morning, wouldn’t you say?’ The inspector’s face wore a satisfied look as he leaned back.

  ‘Every one of them was nervous and worried, though.’ Moore crashed the gears and winced. ‘Makes you wonder if any of them’s guilty, or if they acted like that because we’re detectives. I suppose it must be quite daunting, really, to speak to a ’tec for the first time.’

  ‘That’s a reaction you should’ve got used to by now, lad. Most folk seem to go on the defensive, whether they’ve anything to hide or not. It’s human nature, I suppose, but you begin to be able to tell the innocent from the guilty after a while. Not that I’m having much success with that at the moment.’

  McGillivray reflected sadly that trying to solve a murder was like throwing a stone into a millpond. The ripples spread out in ever-widening circles. There was this illegitmate child of Mrs Wakeford’s, if that story was true. He, or she, probably had nothing to do with this case, but would have to be sought out and involved, just to be sure. If the person concerned lived in Tollerton, and Miss Souter had found out . . .

  He’d have to visit this ninety-year-old and find out if she knew anything more about it. Old people could often recall events from their younger days much more clearly than happenings over the past few years, or even what they’d eaten for lunch.

  The child would be over forty now, but whether male or female was yet to be established, and he could think of no one connected with the case so far who would fit as far as age was concerned. Except . . . Barbara Drummond, he realised with a start. But perhaps she was older than that, it was difficult to tell. The same with May White, of course. She could be anywhere between thirty and forty-five; depending on what she wore and how she was made up.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Moore braked suddenly as a tractor emerged from behind a thick hedge straight in front of them.

  ‘Silly bugger!’ the sergeant shouted, pulling out to overtake and narrowly missing a lorry travelling in the opposite direction.

  ‘Keep your head, lad.’ McGillivray smiled crookedly. ‘A dead detective never solved a murder.’

  The younger man’s outraged face turned a deeper shade of red. ‘It’s all right for you, you haven’t a nervous bone in your body, but I thought we’d had it.’

  His superior shook his head. ‘You’ll get used to scares when you’ve been a bit longer on the job. But cheer up, lad, I’ve been lumbered with a lot worse than you in my time. Now, just keep your mind on the road and always expect the unexpected.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday 27th November, afternoon

  There was no sign of John Black when the two detectives entered the police station, but PC Derek Paul uncurled smartly when they walked in.

  ‘The sergeant won’t be long, Inspector. He’s gone to sort out an accident just south of the village, but it’s not serious.’

  McGillivray smiled. ‘Thank you, Constable. Tell him we’ll come back later.’

  Outside again, he turned to Moore. ‘Stick the car in the Starline carpark then go and check with Douglas Pettigrew’s pals about his alibi. I’m going to have a word with that old Mrs Gray at the foot of Ashgrove Lane, to see if she can tell me any more about Mabel Wakeford’s past. I’ll see you back at the station, or, if you take too long, I might be at the hotel giving my feet a rest after my hike.’

/>   David Moore went into the car, and the inspector carried on walking up the High Street. He hoped that the old woman he was on his way to see could tell him where the child had been born, or have a guess at it. He must find a starting point, and his enquiries must be discreet.

  When he arrived at the foot of the Lane, he looked at the name on the first door he came to, and was delighted to find that it was the one he was after. Right next door to the slinky May.

  He noticed that the woodwork on the outside of this house needed a coat of paint – bits of it were cracking and flaking off- and the terylene net curtains, once white or cream, were a shade of dark grey, just screaming for a wash.

  He rang the bell, waited, then rang again. After a while, he heard slow, shuffling footsteps, and the sound of the latch being taken off. ‘Mrs Gray? I’m Detective Chief Inspector McGillivray, Grampian Police. Could I have a few words with you, please?’

  The hunched figure studied him for a moment. Her sparse white hair was cut straight across and owed nothing to any hairdresser’s art. The gnarled hand on top of the walking stick was blue veined and marked with brown pigmentation, but her eyes were alert behind the thick glasses.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in, then, and not have the whole street listening to what we’re saying.’ She preceded him, with an effort, into her living room and gestured to him to sit down.

  Pushing an enormous, unwilling black cat off the indicated chair, McGillivray waited until Mrs Gray had lowered herself slowly onto her seat and hung her stick over the arm.

  She pulled down her voluminous skirt and looked at him shrewdly. ‘It’ll be about that Janet Souter getting herself murdered, I suppose.’ One side of her mouth curled up. ‘Mind you, I wasn’t surprised about it. She’d aye to go one better than other folk, even when she was young.’ She moved herself into a more comfortable position.

  McGillivray thought the old woman must be joking, but she seemed quite serious, and carried on.

  ‘She was the oldest of that family, but she was aye a bit spoiled. She was the only one of the three of them that went to the Academy at Thornkirk, and it was just because she kicked up a fuss about it. Her father spoiled her rotten, you see. Both her sisters are dead now. Marjory was the quietest, and Alice was aye short of breath, I remember. Asthma, I think it was.’

  Nobody could say that Mrs Gray was short of breath, the inspector thought with amusement, and it would probably be best to let her ramble on for a while.

  ‘Janet tried to lord it over the rest of us that only went to the village school, but I was four years older than her and I didn’t stand any lip. She was a bonnie lassie, no shortage of lads, but the one she was sweet on was killed in the war. The Second World War. That set her back a bit, and she had what they’d call a nervous breakdown now, but she got over it.’

  The old lady stopped speaking, and ran her tongue over her lips. ‘This speaking’s thirsty work. Would you be good enough to make a pot of tea?’

  After McGillivray took through the two chipped cups, she said nothing for a few minutes, and he wondered if he should prod her memory. People her age often forgot the thread of what they were saying if they were interrupted for any reason. He decided to wait until she finished her tea.

  He took the opportunity to look around the small room, noting the crocheted squares covering the seats of the chairs; probably to hide torn or worn parts. The whole room was reminiscent of his grandmother’s home. The old-fashioned dresser taking up one wall was chock-full of dainty ornaments that looked really old and were probably worth a fortune these days, though they’d likely been bought for next to nothing. The drop-leaf table in the centre of the room was shrouded in a tapestry, and a beautifully sewn cross-stitch valance was fixed to the high mantelshelf. It appeared that Mrs Gray had been a competent needlewoman before arthritis had twisted her fingers. The steel fender round the fire was in dire need of burnishing, and the mats on the linoleum floor would be the better of a good clean. The black doorknobs on the two doors were sticking out at rakish angles and would need replacing quite soon. The rag rug at the hearth, though, had probably been hooked by the man of the house and had been made to last a lifetime.

  It was very clear that no relatives, male or female, ever visited the poor old soul. At this point in his reflections, McGillivray felt her eyes on him and gave an embarrassed cough.

  ‘Have you seen enough, then?’ she asked, though there was no hint of accusation in the words.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gray,’ McGillivray mumbled. ‘It wasn’t nosiness, honestly. I was reminded of my granny’s kitchen, right down to the cleeked rug at the fireside. Brought back happy memories for me.’

  The old lady beamed at him. ‘I’m glad.’ Satisfied, she carried on where she had left off. ‘Janet must’ve had a good brain on her, though, for about a year after that, she went to Edinburgh as a typist. She worked herself up to being a company secretary, whatever that is, but it’s supposed to be pretty high up.’

  She held out her empty cup. ‘Any tea left in the pot?’

  McGillivray poured her another, and sat down again to wait. Janet Souter’s life story wasn’t what he was really after, but he might as well let her finish it before asking about Mrs Wakeford.

  After a couple of noisy slurps, she resumed her tale. ‘We heard she’d been left a lot of money when her boss died, though I couldn’t tell you if there had been any hanky panky going on between them or no. Anyway, it was enough to let her come back here and buy that cottage. Her mother and father used to live down the High Street, but their house was sold when Albert Souter died, about two years after his wife. Pneumonia, if I mind right.

  ‘They hadn’t got much of a price for it in those days, and it had to be divided among the three daughters. Janet never worked after she came back, though she wasn’t much over fifty. Some folk have all the luck. Me, I got married when I was eighteen and had to graft hard all my blessed days. When my Sam died, I’d to bring up two young bairns on my own, and it was an even harder struggle . . . no family allowances or suchlike then. I’d have been in clover if I’d got a few shillings from the Government.’

  She was obviously working round to reminiscing about her own life, so McGillivray thought he’d better start channelling her memories in the right direction. ‘You know Mrs Wakeford quite well, too, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, aye. I’ve known Mabel Dewar since she was born. Her mother was never married, but that’s nothing against Mabel. She was a real quiet lassie, though there was a bit of a scandal about her when she was still in her teens, I think, and her mother sent her away. She’d been scared for what folk would say about mother and daughter both having fatherless bairns, but I think only a few of us guessed Mabel was in the family way.

  ‘A fisherman out on the herringboats, it was. You know what it’s like when young couples get kept apart. Mabel wasn’t the only girl to be caught, mind. There’s a lot of bastards round here, though some of them don’t know it.’

  He laughed along with her, but wondered if he should stop her from wandering off the topic again.

  ‘Young wives, you know, with their men away fighting. When the tom cat’s away . . . There was Millie McDougall, now, she’d two the time her Bill was in the Far East, and Netta Wilson . . .’

  Enough was enough, so McGillivray interrupted her flow at last. ‘So Mabel Dewar, Mrs Wakeford, was sent away to have the baby? Have you any idea where?’ He tried not to sound anxious, in case she dried up.

  Mrs Gray idly stroked the purring cat, which had jumped up on her knee when she laid down her teacup. ‘We were never told, of course, but her mother’s sister had a house in Thornkirk, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been there, for they were a close-knit family, the Dewars. She came back empty handed, though, so the bairn must’ve been adopted, or something.’

  The cat’s head stretched up sensually, so she tickled it under the chin. ‘Mabel went in for nursing not long after, and landed on her feet a while after that. Near
the end of the war she met this army major in a hospital somewhere, and they got wed when she’d have been about twenty or twenty-one. He was a lot older than her, but a nice enough man for all that.’

  She paused until her pet turned round on her lap, and waited until it settled down again. ‘He’d plenty money, but he moved in with Mabel and her mother, the same cottage as she’s in now. Mary Dewar wasted away with consumption, though, and the Major had a heart attack and died . . . oh, maybe five years after her. He was out of the army long afore that, of course, and Mabel got all his money, so there’s nothing hanging over her financially.’

  Mrs Gray leaned back, musing. ‘I feel sorry for her, though, for she lost her first lad, then her bairn, then her mother, then her man. Aye, money’s not everything when you’re left on your own, and I ken what loneliness is, for both my sons are in New Zealand. Mind you, Mabel hasn’t even got that, has she?’ Her eyes grew sorrowful behind the thick lenses.

  Callum McGillivray sat forward. ‘Can you remember Mabel’s aunt’s name, by any chance – her mother’s sister? We want to trace the child.’

  The old woman’s cackle was not malicious. ‘Oh ho! So you’re going to stir up a hornet’s nest, are you? Well, Mabel’ll not be very happy about that, for she’s kept it a secret these forty years past.’

  ‘It’ll be done very discreetly,’ he said hastily. ‘There won’t be any need for Mrs Wakeford, or anybody else, ever to know anything about it.’

  ‘Aye, maybe it’s just as well. Sleeping dogs are better left. Let me think. Mabel’s mother was Mary Dewar, and her sister’s name was . . . um . . . oh, it’s slipped my memory. Faces I can mind on, but names . . . That’s the worst of being old.’

  McGillivray stood up. ‘Not to worry. Thank you for talking to me, and for the tea, and if you do happen to remember that name, please let me know. Don’t bother to see me out, I’ll manage fine.’