Jam and Jeopardy (17 page)

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.’

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.’