Jam and Jeopardy

by Doris Davidson

  PC Paul, although surprised by the sudden order, looked up the telephone directory and read them out while Moore scribbled them down then ran out without a word of thanks.

  The sergeant’s first call was on the milkman.

  ‘Jam?’ Bill Smith looked puzzled. ‘Janet Souter never gave me nothing, nae even at Christmas. No, that’s nae true. She once presented me wi’ a Christmas pud one of her nephews’ wives had given her. She said it was an insult, for she aye made her own. My family enjoyed it, though.’ He let out a loud laugh. ‘Why were you asking about jam?’

  ‘It’s a long story, and probably nothing to do with the murder. Thanks just the same.’ Moore ran off again.

  The postman, Ned French, was just as unhelpful. ‘No, I never got anything from her. She never gave anything away, as far as I know. Tight as a duck’s arse, she was. But she did used to give me the edge of her tongue if I was late with the post.’ He laughed hilariously at the old chestnut.

  ‘Thanks.’ David Moore hurried to the last address in Garden Street, which went off the High Street halfway between the police station and the garage.

  ‘Willie’s not home from school yet,’ Mrs Arthur informed him. ‘He shouldn’t be long, they get out at ten past twelve.’

  Moore looked at his watch. Going off twenty past. ‘How long does he take to walk home?’

  ‘It should only be five minutes, but you know boys. He’ll be kicking a ball round the playground, I suppose, or making up to the girls. Can I help at all?’

  ‘Did Miss Souter give Willie a jar of jam recently?’

  ‘Old Miss Souter? Her that’s been poisoned? You’ll be one of the detectives from Edinburgh?’

  He smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Willie never took home any jam, nor never mentioned any. I don’t think she ever gave him anything. Not that he told me.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Arthur.’ The young sergeant turned sadly away from the door, his bright idea having come to nothing, and was about to go back on to the High Street when he saw young Willie coming from the bottom of the hill. He was kicking a stone in front of him, and Moore went to meet him, in the faint hope that he might have passed the jam to someone other than his mother if he had received it.

  ‘Hello, Willie. Can I have a word with you?’

  ‘Hi, Sarge. Sure, fire ahead.’ Willie’s final kick sent the stone soaring into a nearby garden.

  ‘Did old Miss Souter give you a jar of jam a week or so back?’

  ‘Huh! Not her! Not a blooming thing. She wouldn’t have given you the dirt from under her fingernails.’

  Moore laughed. ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Why are you asking about jam, Sarge? That’s a funny kind of question, isn’t it? Was that where the poison was?’

  ‘It’s just that there’s a jar of jam we can’t account for,’ Moore said, cagily. ‘Miss Souter had laid them out to give to the minister’s wife for the Sale of Work, but she didn’t give them to her after all. They weren’t in her house when it was searched, and we’ve managed to trace two, but there’s one still missing.’

  ‘Who’d pinch a measly jar of jam?’ Willie looked sceptical. ‘Hey! Wait a minute. You reminded me, speaking about the minister’s wife, I did see Mr Valentine up at that end of the High Street one day, carrying a jar of red jam. That’s right. It wasn’t in a bag or anything. He maybe got it from Miss Souter.’

  ‘Willie, I think you might have hit the jackpot.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I mean, thank you very much. I don’t suppose you noticed anything about the jar?’

  ‘Are there different kinds of jars? I never knew that. It was just an ordinary glass jar with a lid on it. No, it wasn’t a lid. It was something red and white checked, with a frill.’

  ‘Yes!’ David Moore executed a little dance, much to the boy’s amazement, then dug into his pocket and extracted a two-pound coin from the handful of loose change. ‘Here you are, Willie, and don’t spend it all in one shop.’ He hurried away, leaving the boy looking at the coin in his hand.

  ‘Blimey, I’m a ruddy copper’s nark.’ Willie had picked up quite a lot from reading Sexton Blake since Sergeant Black had taken him into his confidence.

  David Moore ran up on to the High Street and along to the manse. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Valentine,’ he said, breathlessly, when she answered the door. ‘Did your husband get the gift of a jar of jam from Janet Souter a few days before she died?’

  ‘Why, yes, Sergeant. At least, he didn’t tell me it was from her. He just laid it down in the kitchen one morning, the same as he does with all the other little things his parishioners sometimes give him. I knew it was from her, because of the red gingham cover. It was probably one of the things she’d meant to give me for the Sale of Work, and that had been her way of rubbing in the fact that I didn’t go back to collect them.’

  ‘That’s right. It was originally intended for the Sale. Have you used it yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Why? Do you want to see it?’ She took him into the kitchen and lifted it off a shelf where it was sitting in the midst of several other jars of different kinds of preserves.

  ‘I’ll have to take this with me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A vital clue? How exciting.’ Mrs Valentine laughed, not taking her own words seriously.

  ‘Thank you, and good morning – or is it good afternoon?’

  Moore headed straight back to the police station, where the inspector was waiting for him with a frowning countenance.

  ‘Where have you been gallivanting off to, Moore, and what’s this stupid list?’ He held up the paper with the book titles. ‘I see you’ve finished the report, but did you find out if the chiropodist had the jam?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did, and no, he hadn’t. But look!’ The young sergeant opened the paper bag which Mrs Valentine had given him to carry the jam, and produced the jar with a flourish. ‘Voilà!’

  The bushy eyebrows quivered. ‘Somebody local, was it? Who? Come on, lad, stop mucking about.’

  ‘Well, sir, after I typed out the report, I’d really nothing to do, so I got to thinking up titles that a whodunnit writer might give to our case.’ He looked apologetic for a minute, then remembered that he’d no real cause to be sorry about it, because it was what had led him to the recovery of the jam.

  ‘When I came to the milkman, I remembered that Bill Smith, Ned French and Willie Arthur had all been regular callers at Miss Souter’s house. So I went to check if any of them had the jam.’

  ‘Which of them, Moore? You’re dragging this out on purpose.’

  ‘None of them.’ The young man smiled tantalisingly.

  ‘For God’s sake, then how did you . . . ?’

  ‘I’m coming to it. Willie recalled seeing Mr Valentine carrying a jar of jam one day, so I went to the manse to check.’

  McGillivray grunted. ‘What did the minister have to say?’

  ‘I didn’t see him, just his wife, and she thought it was a bit of a joke.’

  ‘Probably just as well.’

  ‘So, you see, my list helped me to find the jar.’ David Moore grinned broadly and waited for a verbal pat on the back.

  The inspector’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I’m indebted to your childish mentality, then.’

  Moore screwed up his face and stuck out his tongue.

  ‘What about the poison provider? Ha! You’re not the only one that can be alliterative. But, with all your creativity, did you remember to go to see him?’

  ‘Yes, I went before that, sir, and he did add something to the arsenic, in case Miss Souter got muddled and wasn’t very careful with it. Unperfumed talc, would you believe?’

  ‘Moore, I’d believe anything in this bloody case.’

  ‘And he said what he gave her couldn’t have killed her if it had got into food, though it would have given her a real bad bellyache, as he put it. Just like Mrs Grant and Mrs Spencer.’

  McGillivray grunted with satisfaction. ‘That explains why they weren’t worse.
Thank God he’d the sense to tone it down a bit, but he shouldn’t have the bloody stuff at all.’

  ‘I told him that. He’s only got a small amount left, and he says it’s safely locked away. I don’t think he’ll dish out any more.’ Moore suddenly remembered what the other man had been doing. ‘How did you get on with the beautiful May?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, lad.’ McGillivray’s slight blush whetted the young man’s curiosity.

  ‘Go on, sir, tell me the gory details. Did she try to . . . ?’

  ‘She did, my boy, but it’s not for innocent ears like yours.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Inspector, what happened?’

  ‘First, she came to the door with just a bath towel on.’

  ‘Wow! You saw quite a lot of her, I suppose?’

  McGillivray laughed. ‘Oh yes, quite a lot. Then she offered to put something on.’

  ‘What a shame, spoiling your view like that.’

  ‘I got a better view, lad. She’d put on a see-through robe, or whatever they call those titillating garments.’ He could laugh about it now.

  ‘A negligee, probably.’

  ‘Whatever, I could see every curve of her, and she made the most of it. You know, I feel sorry for all the men she boasted about. They never stood a chance.’

  ‘What about you, sir? Weren’t you even tempted?’

  McGillivray ran his fingers through his hair. He’d certainly been tempted, confirmed bachelor though he was, and if she hadn’t bragged so much about the men she’d seduced, he could easily have become involved, too. But her boasting had disgusted him.

  He looked at Moore’s eager expression and sighed heavily. ‘Yes, Sergeant, I must admit I was tempted, but I had my job to do, and I couldn’t let myself be ensnared by a cheap whore who’d laid every Tom, Dick and Harry in Tollerton.’

  David Moore was astounded. McGillivray must have come pretty close to being ensnared before he was calling her that. ‘So you managed to get out still a virgin?’

  The inspector let out a loud guffaw. ‘Who said I was a virgin when I went in? But seriously, she knows all the wiles. Even when I was leaving, without having done what she openly wanted, she dropped the bloody negligee altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I wish you’d sent me there instead. I’d have enjoyed all that.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt.’ McGillivray was at his most sarcastic. ‘And you’d likely never have been seen again. She eats young lads like you for breakfast.’

  At that moment, Derek Paul knocked and popped his head round the door. ‘That was Thornkirk on the phone. The lab’s just notified them that the jam from Spencer’s house also contained a very small amount of arsenic.’

  McGillivray smiled. ‘Fine, and here’s another jar to keep them going.’

  The constable took it from him, smiling wryly. As he was closing the door he added, ‘Oh, and the hospital phoned. Mrs Spencer is recovering nicely.’

  The inspector lit a cigarette. ‘You know, I thought the arsenic was a red herring laid by the killer, but I’m not so sure now. It might just be an unfortunate coincidence that the murdered woman had been given the stuff, and had told everybody.’

  Moore considered this. ‘At least you’ve found out that there was no attempt on the lives of the other two ladies,’ he said, helpfully. ‘So there’s only one crime to solve.’

  McGillivray snorted. ‘And we’re no nearer solving that than we were when we started, are we? There’s still the matter of Mrs Wakeford’s statement about Ronald and Stephen trying to poison their aunt. We haven’t got to the bottom of that yet.’

  ‘Does it matter, seeing it wasn’t arsenic that killed her?’

  ‘Yes, dammit! It does matter. I hate loose ends, even if they’ve nothing to do with the case.’ McGillivray drummed his fingers on the table, and stared at a mark on the formica. In any case, one of the arsenic users could have had a second attempt.’

  Moore sat in sympathetic silence and tried furiously to think of some suitable suggestion. It seemed that every time they thought they’d found a lead, it came to a dead end. ‘We don’t have to worry about anybody else being poisoned, though, now that we’ve accounted for the three jars of jam.’

  There was a brief pause before the inspector heaved a weary sigh and pushed back his chair. ‘I suppose we have placed a few more pieces in the jigsaw today, but it’s a slow, slow business. We’d better give our brains a rest for a while, and concentrate on stoking up the inner man. I function better on a full belly.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday 29th November, afternoon

  ‘We’d better have another look at our list, I think. Things have changed somewhat since we went over it last.’

  Inspector McGillivray spread the paper out on the table in the incident room. He and Moore had finished their lunch, and were ready to plan their next line of investigation.

  ‘Mabel Wakeford,’ he began. ‘We know she added arsenic to the three jars, but I don’t think she carried out the actual murder. She was too upset about the consequences of her act, and she honestly seemed to believe Janet Souter had been poisoned.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘She’s unlikely.’

  Highly bloody unlikely, thought the sergeant, but kept his opinion to himself.

  ‘Grace Skinner. It’s the same with her, really. She meant to kill the old woman, and thought she had till we told her different. And there’s no evidence of her attempt because she must have used the substitute bag.’

  ‘She’ll be unlikely, too, though?’

  ‘Yes, unless she’s a better liar than we think. Mrs White now. She may be easy – she is easy – but I don’t believe she worried about anyone knowing what she was up to, not even Janet Souter. In fact, she boasts about it, and the whole place knows . . . except her husband, probably. Another unlikely.’

  David Moore rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘That’s narrowing them down. Who’s left?’

  ‘Douglas Pettigrew’s out, anyway, but Ronald Baker . . . His motive’s all too obvious so he’s still a possible suspect. Which brings us to his cousin, Stephen Drummond. I don’t think he’s guilty, but his wife poses a problem.’

  McGillivray scratched his head. ‘She’s got the nerve, I fancy, and could have bumped off the old auntie to let Stephen get his inheritance. His jitters could have been because he knew she’d done it, though I can’t see what opportunity she had. But she’s a very strong possible. What d’you think, Moore?’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, and she could be Mrs Wakeford’s child, which might have something to do with it.’

  ‘Right. I think we’ll go back to Thornkirk this afternoon and have another word with Ronald and Stephen. It should be quite interesting without their wives being there, and I’m going to put on the pressure a bit. We seemed to be on a lucky streak this morning, so I hope it holds.’

  Ribco, Ronald Ian Baker’s small engineering firm, seemed busy enough, and he greeted the two detectives quite pleasantly when they were shown into his office. He gestured to them to take a seat, and they sat on what were obviously chairs for his prospective clients.

  ‘More questions, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We have reason to believe that you planned to murder your aunt.’

  Ronald gasped, and the colour drained slowly from his face. Even David Moore was surprised at the suddenness of McGillivray’s shock tactics, but he watched the man very closely.

  ‘I . . . I wasn’t even there at the time,’ Ronald said, desperately.

  McGillivray continued to look at him, saying nothing, but hoping that Ronald didn’t have an iron nerve.

  He didn’t. He collapsed against the back of his chair. ‘I don’t know how you got on to me. I thought it was safe enough, because I would be miles away when the arsenic killed her.’

  Moore glanced, with disappointment, at the inspector, who, although he said, ‘Tell me about it, Mr Baker’, was also thinking that this was surely another dead end.

  Ron
ald took a deep breath. ‘My Aunt Janet was a vile woman, as you’ve probably discovered. She toyed with Stephen and me like a cat toys with mice, and held her money over our heads.’

  He took a handkerchief out and wiped his brow. ‘I’d asked her for the loan of some cash – you were right about the firm being in difficulties – and she refused. Then she told us about the arsenic and the idea just drifted into my head. I thought it was foolproof. She was the one who had got it, and I wouldn’t be anywhere near when she used it.’

  ‘Where did you put it?’ McGillivray’s voice was low.

  ‘In her flour bin, of course. Isn’t that where you found it? You likely sent all her food to be tested, I’d forgotten about that, when I was making my plan.’

  The colour was gradually coming back into his cheeks as he poured out his story. ‘I’ve been living in dread this past week, but I’m glad you found out. I couldn’t have gone on much longer.’

  ‘Yes, guilt is more gruelling than any other emotion.’

  ‘I’m ready to come with you.’ Ronald stood up. ‘I’ll get my coat. But – am I allowed to phone my wife to let her know what’s happening?’

  ‘Just a minute, Mr Baker. What would you say if I told you that no arsenic was found in your aunt’s flour bin?’

  Ronald gasped again, and sat down with a thump. ‘What do you mean? There must have been. I shook in a fair amount and left it lying on top without mixing it. It might not have worked if it had been stirred in properly.’

  ‘It was only the flour bin you touched?’

  The man seemed quite perplexed by the question. ‘Oh yes. I was scared that my aunt would come through to the kitchen and catch me red-handed – um, white-handed.’ He smiled a little at his pathetic attempt at a joke, then went on, ‘I’d told Flora to keep her talking, you see, but I can’t depend on my wife for anything, so I did it as quickly as I could and put the polythene bag back in the shed.’

  McGillivray placed his fingertips together. ‘I see. You didn’t go back to her house on the Wednesday night?’