Jam and Jeopardy

by Doris Davidson

  He was closing the front door, when he heard the old lady shouting, ‘Inspector!’

  ‘It just came back to me,’ she told him when he went in. ‘It was Elsie. That’s right, Elsie Dewar, and she married the doctor’s son, Eric Peters. Of course, he’s dead long ago, Doctor Peters, I mean. Eric went in for medicine as well, trained in Aberdeen, then got a practice in Thornkirk. He’d be Doctor Peters and all, come to think of it, and he’d be retired long afore this . . . if he’s still alive.’

  ‘That’s just what I was needing. Thank you very much, Mrs Gray, you’ve been a great help.’ He shook her hand warmly.

  A definite look of consternation appeared in Mabel Wakeford’s eyes when she saw the tall figure on her doorstep, but she took him inside.

  McGillivray leaned against the sink. ‘Earlier today, I was at Thornkirk Hospital, where Mrs Violet Grant was taken after she’d been poisoned.’

  Her hand flew to her throat in horror. ‘Poisoned? I heard the ambulance this morning and saw them taking her away, but I didn’t know she’d been . . . poisoned. Who could have done that?’ Her face was white and her hands were trembling.

  ‘The same person who murdered Janet Souter, I presume.’ He was positive she knew something about it.

  ‘Oh no! It wasn’t . . . I mean . . .’ She was panic-stricken now. ‘Everybody hated Janet Souter, but Violet was such a kind, gentle person.’

  ‘She may have known something the guilty person was afraid she might reveal, or she may have known who the guilty person was.’

  ‘No, no. She didn’t know anything.’ Mrs Wakeford gathered herself together with an effort. ‘She isn’t dead, is she?’

  ‘Mercifully, no.’ He felt rather sorry for her, although everything pointed to her being guilty of both crimes. ‘You called at their house after we left yesterday morning?’

  ‘Just to find out if you’d asked them the same questions as you asked me.’

  ‘Did you see a jar of raspberry jam and some pancakes in their kitchen? You did go through the kitchen?’

  ‘Rasp . . . berry . . . jam?’ The words were drawn out, and she thumped on to a chair as if her legs had given way. ‘Is that what poisoned her?’

  ‘Either the jam or the pancakes, we believe. Did you notice them, Mrs Wakeford?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything. I just went straight through.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  She looked at him frankly. ‘Yes, I went straight through, and I didn’t see any pancakes or jam. If I had . . .’ She stopped and her eyes dropped.

  ‘If you had . . . ?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought anything about it,’ she said, lamely.

  He was disappointed. He’d hoped he could catch her out, but her nerve was stronger than he’d believed. She did know something about the jam, though. That was quite evident. He pulled himself away from the sink. ‘That’s all, then. Thank you, Mrs Wakeford.’

  As McGillivray closed the door, he wondered if he should have carried on questioning the woman. She’d clearly been absolutely petrified with fear, but he hadn’t been able to force himself to lean more heavily on her. Walking back along the High Street, his brain was working furiously. He was almost sure that Mrs Wakeford hadn’t been responsible for the attempt on Mrs Grant’s life – her shock and panic at hearing about it had not been simulated – but would she have confessed to the murder of Janet Souter if he’d put the heat on?

  There was still this business of the child she’d had, but he wanted to wait until he found definite proof it existed, before he faced her with that. That must have been her motive, to keep the birth a secret, if she was the murderer.

  Sergeant Black, returned from the accident, accompanied him into the incident room when he arrived at the police station. ‘Have you turned anything else up, Inspector?’

  ‘A lot of supposition, but no certainties.’ McGillivray grimaced. ‘Mrs Grant was never in any danger, though, and she’s recovering. Did you get the pancakes and jam off to be tested?’

  ‘Yes, and I told Constable Paul to let Thornkirk know we wanted the results as soon as possible. They’ll likely phone them through.’

  ‘Good. We saw the nephews after we left the hospital, and Flora Baker knows something, or thinks she knows something, about Janet Souter’s death, and her husband practically had to gag her. Barbara Drummond was hard put to it to stop her husband from coming out with something, too. But it’s funny, Ronald Baker and Barbara Drummond both mentioned the arsenic.’

  ‘Oh-oh!’ Black’s mouth remained in a circle and his eyes widened. ‘I’m sure they weren’t told anything, just that the old lady had been found dead.’

  McGillivray chuckled grimly. ‘And being in Thornkirk, they couldn’t have picked up any gossip, so Miss Souter’s story about them trying to poison her must have been true. It looks like a bally conspiracy. But a group of people arranging for her death? That’s bloody ridiculous – it only happens in books – but it’s even more bloody ridiculous to think that several individuals were trying to kill her, unknown to each other.’

  John Black shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t be anything like that, and it wasn’t the arsenic that killed her, that’s another thing.’

  ‘God! Something fishy’s definitely been going on, and the arsenic’s tied in somewhere. I went to see old Mrs Gray when we came back. She’s a great character, and we’d a long chat – well, she did most of the speaking – and she gave me the name of Mrs Wakeford’s aunt. The old lady thinks that’s where Mabel went to have the baby. She’s a Mrs Eric Peters, in Thornkirk.’

  Before he could say anything else, Black had lifted the telephone directory and was leafing through the pages. ‘Peters . . . Alexander . . . Bertram . . . mmm . . . Ah, here it is. Eric, 126 Mayfield Avenue. Doctor Peters, would that be right?’

  ‘That’s it, great. I’ll go to see her tomorrow, but right now I’m going to the Starline to have a lie down for a while.’

  He had been resting for only fifteen minutes, when David Moore knocked at the door and came in, his face red from hurrying, but wearing a satisfied look.

  ‘They all verified that Douglas Pettigrew was playing snooker with them until the church hall was locked up at ten, then they’d all gone to the pub opposite the garage and stayed there till eleven.’

  McGillivray looked interested. ‘So his alibi’s only good till eleven?’

  The young sergeant unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. ‘No, I went and checked with his mother, and she vouches that he went home about five past eleven and went to bed. She’s sure he never left the house again.’ His face changed and he gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m whacked. I’ve walked the length of the High Street, and up and down several side streets. Two of them were at somebody else’s house, so I’d to make double journeys.’

  ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, tra, la, la,’ the inspector chanted from the bed. ‘Another suspect ruled out.’ He tousled his hair with his right hand while his left covered an enormous yawn. ‘Hercule Poirot had it easy, Moore. His little grey cells kept him informed, but mine have shrivelled up and died of old age.’

  ‘You’re not old, sir. Forty-five? The prime of life.’

  ‘Some days I feel as old as Methuselah.’ He grinned. ‘Or at least as old as my friend Mrs Gray.’

  ‘Oh, yes. How did you get on with her? Was she able to tell you anything more?’

  ‘Yes, lad, she was. She gave me Mrs Wakeford’s aunt’s name, so we’ll go to see her tomorrow.’ McGillivray pulled his suspect list out of his pocket. ‘We’d better go over this again, in the light of what we’ve heard today.’

  ‘It’s been quite fruitful. I was beginning to think we were getting nowhere fast.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’ He flattened out the creases in the paper. ‘Mabel Wakeford. Knows something about that raspberry jam, I’m sure, but I don’t think she poisoned Mrs Grant. Oh, I’ve just remembered. Mrs Gray told me Mabel had gone in for nursing after her ba
by was born, so she could have known that insulin could kill, and she’d have been able to use a hypodermic needle. She’s still a prime suspect.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been her.’

  ‘Look, lad, she was prime before, and this makes her even primer. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes. You can’t put them in little pigeon holes.’

  ‘I know, but . . . I hope it’s not her.’ Moore frowned.

  ‘I think we could rule out Mrs Grant now, though I’m inclined to believe she knows – or thinks she knows – who the murderer is. Mrs Skinner’s a different kettle of fish. Strong personality, good motive . . . She hasn’t mentioned the killing of their dog. But again we come to the question of the hypo and the insulin.’

  ‘She might be a diabetic herself. We don’t know.’

  ‘So she might, and she had an opportunity at any time. She tried to muzzle her sister when we were there, so maybe she tried to muzzle her for good.’

  ‘I can’t really picture her doing that, sir. She seems very fond of her sister.’

  ‘She’s still a suspect, whatever you think.’ McGillivray paused long enough to light a cigarette. ‘Mrs White. Could possibly kill if she was riled enough, but she’s not grieving over young Pettigrew, and there’s nothing else, as far as we know. No, the beautiful May’s not very likely.’

  He waited for a comment from his sergeant, but none was forthcoming, so he continued. ‘Douglas Pettigrew’s off the hook, anyway. Three pals and his mother all vouching that he told the truth? I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘It’s narrowed things down a bit, though.’

  ‘Ronald Baker. His wife was absolutely terrified, and I’m inclined towards believing the story Miss Souter supposedly told Mrs Wakeford. The old woman was fly and made a swap in case they tried to poison her. They wouldn’t know it was flour in the bag, not arsenic like she told them, and probably think that’s what did the trick.’

  Moore nodded. ‘They act guilty because they think they’re guilty? The same could apply to the Drummonds, then.’

  ‘Likely, though he looks too ineffectual to try anything.’

  Moore suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve been puzzling over what Miss Souter meant when she told Mrs Wakeford she hoped her nephews would try to poison her but she didn’t think they’d the nerve. Would she have been testing them out to see if they did have any initiative?’

  McGillivray banged his fist on the bedpost. ‘By George, lad. I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. She’d meant to cut them out of her will if they didn’t measure up. We’ll never know for sure, of course, but I think we’ll leave the two nephews as possibles.’

  ‘That just leaves us with four, doesn’t it? Mrs Wakeford, Mrs Skinner, Ronald Baker and Stephen Drummond.’

  The inspector ran his fingers over his stubbly chin. ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, which one made Miss Souter go?’ He sat up suddenly. ‘I think we should pay Randall a quick visit.’

  The doctor, who lived above his surgery, directly across from the police station, ushered the two men in. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like a list of your diabetic patients.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered when you’d come round to that, and I’ve written them all down already. Just the usual old folk, and only six of them. There was a seventh, but she died a day or two before Miss Souter was murdered.’

  ‘Are Mrs Wakeford and the two sisters at Honeysuckle Cottages amongst them?’

  ‘No, none of them. My God, you don’t suspect any of them?’

  ‘Everyone who came in regular contact with the old woman is under suspicion at the moment.’

  ‘That lets me out, then, for I haven’t seen her for years. But I’d better let you know about my diabetics. There’s a pair of old widows in the High Street, both wearing on for seventy, and both confined to the house. There’s Sam Daniels in Victoria Street. He was a scaffie before he retired. Street orderly now, of course. Wally Liddell, the ex-school-janitor, and his wife, Polly. And, last but not least, Mrs Gray, a ninety-year-old who lives down Ashgrove Lane.’

  ‘She’s out,’ McGillivray said. ‘She’s crippled with arthritis.’

  ‘And the others are all frail and doddery,’ the doctor put in.

  The inspector bared his teeth in exasperation. ‘Yes, well. Maybe none of them could have had anything to do with the murder, but their families . . . or friends?’

  James Randall held his head to one side to consider, then he said, decisively, ‘None of them would have had any reason to do away with Janet Souter. She didn’t mix with them at all, not that I’m aware of. You see, there’s a kind of pecking order in a place like this, and she’s near the top while they’d be bringing up the rear.’

  ‘A bit of snobbery?’ McGillivray raised his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘You could say that, though the villagers accept it as being quite natural.’

  The inspector rose slowly to his feet. ‘I apologise if we’ve kept you from your meal, Doctor, and we’ll have to get a move on if we’re not going to be late for ours.’

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to help you, but I wish you luck in your quest.’

  ‘Thanks. Luck is what I desperately need right now.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday 27th November, evening

  Over coffee, David Moore asked, ‘Are we going into the bar again tonight, sir? We could maybe winkle something else out of the regulars.’ His face was hopeful.

  McGillivray helped himself to another cup, and added sugar before he answered. ‘No, Sergeant, I don’t think it would work a second time, but I’ve been considering calling on the minister. I know he hasn’t been here that long, but he or his wife could have picked up a few odds and ends that might come in useful.’

  The manse stood back from the High Street, in the glebe next to the church, and a neat woman, in her forties probably, opened the door to them. Mrs Valentine showed them into a large, rather old-fashioned room, the dark mahogany furniture probably having come with the house. The fire in the rather large fireplace was certainly not enough to heat the huge room, but a striking, well-built man with piercing dark eyes was sitting at a table some distance away from it. Papers and what appeared to be reference books were strewn across it, so presumably he had been writing his sermon for the following week.

  He rose to greet them and came towards them, smiling, when his wife told him who the callers were. ‘Good evening, Chief Inspector. What can I do for you? I don’t for one minute imagine that you’ve come calling socially. Sit down by the fire there, it’s a cold night and this is a very draughty old house I’m afraid.’

  His wife laughed. ‘Draughty and inconvenient, but it’s home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ McGillivray took over one of the large armchairs, while his sergeant sat on the piano stool to allow Mrs Valentine to have the other comfortable seat.

  The Reverend Adam Valentine moved towards the big sideboard. ‘Would you care for a glass of sherry, Inspector? We were about to have one ourselves. I don’t really approve of strong drink but a little sherry never harmed anyone, and I need it on a Sunday night after two services.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  The minister turned to David Moore. ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ If it was all right for the inspector, he reasoned, it was all right for a sergeant, and he would be glad of something to heat him up.

  Callum McGillivray settled back. ‘This is very pleasant indeed.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers to you and your good lady.’ Taking one sip, he became more serious. ‘I thought perhaps you could give us your opinion of some of the people involved in our case. We’ve uncovered a few pieces of scandal, as is usual in any small community.’

  Mrs Valentine grinned. ‘That’s true. You can’t cut your toenails without the whole village knowing.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Muriel.’ The minister looked rueful. ‘It does seem that nothing anyone does goes unnoticed but I doubt if I can help you
much. We’ve only been here for five years, and my wife knows the ladies in Honeysuckle Cottages better than I do.’

  ‘I don’t know very much about any of them, either, but I do know Miss Souter could be a very disagreeable woman.’

  Her husband looked at her disapprovingly, but said nothing.

  ‘Did you have any trouble with her yourself?’ McGillivray leaned forward.

  ‘Nothing drastic, just niggly things mostly. But I was very annoyed at her a week or so back, when I was collecting things for our Sale of Work. She usually donates quite freely, but she was really awkward that day and said it wasn’t convenient because she had the chiropodist there. It wouldn’t have taken her a minute to give me whatever she had, that’s what annoyed me.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ The inspector smiled sympathetically.

  ‘It was raining heavily, and I’d been going round for quite a while, so I didn’t bother going back. Her house is at the other end of the High Street from ours, and it would have been another long trail. I’m not a very good Christian, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re only human, Mrs Valentine, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s no excuse for me being so childish. You see, I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of having me traipse up there twice in one day.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who had real cause to be angry with her? Someone she’d snubbed, or been spiteful to, or anything like that?’

  She frowned in concentration. ‘There’s Douglas Pettigrew, but you’ll know about him?’

  McGillivray nodded in encouragement.

  ‘And that madam, May White. She’s one of Adam’s failures, isn’t she, dear?’ She glanced at her husband and laughed.

  He smiled wryly. ‘Yes, Inspector. I’ve tried several times to make Mrs White see the error of her ways, and advised her to be faithful to her husband.’ He fiddled with his glass, obviously debating on whether to say more, then he laughed. ‘She even tried to flirt with me, so I can fully understand why men lose their heads over her.’ He spread out his hands.