Jam and Jeopardy (19 page)

‘If it was the fact that she was illegitimate, everyone knew anyway. Janet Souter had already broadcast that.’ Mrs Valentine spoke angrily.

‘I’m afraid there’s more to it than that, but I’m not at liberty to tell you.’ The inspector took his cigarettes from his pocket, then looked enquiringly at
her.

She smiled. ‘I don’t mind if you smoke. Neither of us indulge, but we’re not against people who do. We all have our little vices – mine’s chocolate. But what about
Mrs Skinner? What reason would she have had to kill Janet Souter?’

‘The arsenic that the old lady laid out in her garden to get rid of rats killed their dog, and I believe Mrs Skinner thinks it was deliberate.’

‘My God!’ Adam Valentine let out the expletive without realising it. ‘That really was despicable, if it’s true. No wonder you think Mrs Skinner’s got a
motive.’

An uncomfortable silence fell.

At last, McGillivray stood up and laid his sherry glass on the high mantelshelf. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you in the middle of your work.’

‘Not at all, Inspector.’ The minister rose and opened the door. ‘I’m only sorry that we haven’t been able to help.’

‘It’s those two poor women I’m sorry for,’ his wife said sadly. ‘Whichever of them is guilty, if either of them is, she deserves a medal for ridding the world of
that obnoxious old . . .’

‘Muriel!’ admonished her husband.

‘I entirely agree with you,’ laughed McGillivray, ‘but the law won’t regard it in that light.’

‘By the way, Inspector,’ Adam Valentine said, when he was showing them out, ‘her funeral is set for tomorrow afternoon at three. Everything’s been cleared, and I will be
officiating.’

‘Ah! Then we’ll have them all here at the same time. Good.’ McGillivray bade the minister goodnight, and Moore thanked him for the sherry.

The two detectives walked along the High Street in silence until they had almost reached their hotel, then the inspector said, ‘How about a wee snifter before we pack it in for the
night?’

‘Great.’

Unfortunately for the sergeant, who had been hoping for some fresh revelations from the locals, the bar was practically empty, and only a young man appeared to be serving.

McGillivray leaned his elbow on the counter. ‘What’s happened to Joe tonight?’

‘It’s his night off.’ The stand-in served them, then went to the other end of the bar to speak to a young girl, probably his girlfriend, and their conversation was far removed
from the murder of Janet Souter.

‘Sunday night in Scotland!’ McGillivray sounded disgruntled.

Monday 28th November, morning

The wind still whistled past McGillivray’s window, although it seemed to be quite clear and frosty when he looked out. He washed, shaved and dressed, quickly, then went
down to breakfast.

David Moore was already sitting at their table, looking, as usual, like an advertisement for ‘What the bright young executive will be wearing this season’.

When the waitress brought their coffee, she said, ‘There’s a phone call for you, Inspector.’ She moved the sugar bowl to make room for the hot water jug and followed him
out.

A smile lit up the inspector’s crooked face when he returned. ‘That was Black saying he’d had a call from the public analyst. The raspberry jam contained traces of arsenic, but
the pancakes weren’t contaminated.’

‘So it’s the jam we’ll have to concentrate on?’

‘Looks like it, but first we’re going after the missing bastard, as my friend Mrs Gray so charmingly put it. He, or she, could hold the key to this whole business.’

‘You think he, or she, could be guilty?’ Moore looked puzzled.

‘Could be.’

‘But why? What reason would they have to murder Miss Souter?’

McGillivray spread a slice of toast before saying, ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk. There could be a thousand and one reasons, lad.’

‘Give me one, then.’

‘Well, you’re a stickler, that’s one good thing about you.’ The inspector took a bite of the toast and went to work with his knife and fork on the heaped plate of bacon,
eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and black pudding. ‘I love the full English breakfast – it sets you up for the day, doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t try to change the subject. Give me one reason, that’s all I ask . . . sir.’

‘OK then. He, or she, may have learned that Janet was broadcasting about his birth mother’s own illegitimacy and wanted to stop the truth going any farther. He, or she, could have a
good position in life and is afraid it might be sabotaged by the old gossip.’

‘What would be the point of killing her after the news was out? It’s probably circulating round Tollerton like wildfire by this time.’

‘God, lad, you can’t let go, can you? I can’t read the human mind, but maybe they were afraid that she would go on to spill the beans about his, or her, birth.’

‘Aye, well, then.’ Moore looked somewhat sheepish for not having thought of it. ‘I suppose that could be it.’

‘I don’t know if that’s it or not, Moore. I’m just as much in the dark as you, but we won’t get anywhere unless we ruffle some feathers here and there, and this
chappie, or chappess, is as good a place to start as any. Now, will you stop criticising and let me get on with my breakfast? Then we can get going.’

At 126 Mayfield Avenue, Thornkirk, Mrs Eric Peters, now over eighty, looked rather startled when the inspector told her who they were, then she said, ‘You’d better
come in, though I can’t think what brings you here.’

McGillivray smiled disarmingly, he hoped. ‘We’ve come to ask some questions about your niece, Mrs Mabel Wakeford, née Dewar.’

‘Mabel? Nothing’s happened to her, has it? We were just saying we hadn’t seen her for a good while.’

‘Nothing’s wrong, but I believe she came to you for a few months when she was young?” He spoke gently, watching for the small, white-haired woman’s reaction.

‘Yes, she did. Just for a holiday, you understand.’ Mrs Peters displayed no hesitation or awkwardness.

McGillivray thought it best to be blunt. No pussyfooting around. Time was marching – no, galloping – on. ‘I have reason to believe that while your niece was here she gave birth
to an illegitimate child.’

The old lady laughed. ‘You’ve done your homework, haven’t you? I thought nobody was supposed to know about that.’

‘Nothing’s sacred in a small village, and some people have long memories. I want to find out what happened to that baby.’

She waved her hand airily. ‘Her mother made her have it adopted straight away. I don’t think Mabel even saw it.’

‘How was the adoption carried out? A society?’

‘My husband arranged it through his solicitor.’

‘May we talk to your husband?’ Callum McGillivray crossed his fingers and prayed that the old man would still be alive.

‘Certainly, but he’s upstairs in bed with a bad cold.’

At first sight of her, the inspector had thought she was quite frail, but she climbed the stairs without holding on to the handrail. Her husband, however, looked as if he were at death’s
door, his pale skin having a yellowish-grey tinge to it.

‘Here’s two detectives asking about Mabel’s baby, dear,’ the old lady said brightly. She turned to McGillivray and whispered, ‘I hope you get something from him,
his memory’s not what it was.’

Her husband looked up at them with rheumy eyes. ‘Mabel’s baby? But that was long ago. It must be . . .’

‘About forty years,’ the inspector said, helpfully.

Dr Peters nodded. ‘That’s right. It must be forty years now. She was so ashamed . . . the father was a fisherman. I think he was lost at sea . . . but a couple of young patients of
mine were desperate for a baby, so it was very convenient. They adopted it legally, you know.’ His face suddenly screwed up, but the sneeze, when it came, was quite pathetic.

His wife handed him a tissue from a box on the bedside table. He blew his nose with a flourish and dropped the paper into a bin on the floor. ‘So nice of you to call, but I’m feeling
much better today.’ He smiled vacantly.

‘He suffers from hardening of the arteries, you know,’ whispered Mrs Peters, and McGillivray’s heart sank. Surely they weren’t going to be thwarted at this stage?

‘About Mabel’s baby, dear.’ She patted the skeletal hand. ‘Can you remember that young couple’s name?’

‘Young couple? What young couple?’

‘The ones who adopted Mabel’s baby, dear. The inspector wants to find them.’

The old eyes cleared for a moment. ‘Oh, yes. They couldn’t have any of their own. Such a nice couple. They were delighted with Mabel’s baby.’ His voice became querulous.
‘Is it about time for my elevenses, Elsie? I’m thirsty.’

‘Yes, dear. I’ll go and put the kettle on. Tell the inspector what their name was, won’t you?’ The woman left the room, and her husband lay back against the pillows with
his eyes closed.

David Moore could see that the inspector was frustrated, so he bent down and spoke close to the old man’s ear. ‘Excuse me, Doctor Peters, but can you tell me the name of the people
who adopted Mabel Dewar’s child?’ He kept his voice low, but firm, not actually expecting an answer.

He was as surprised as McGillivray, therefore, when the man opened his eyes and said, in a clear, strong voice, ‘It’s no use asking me that, for I can’t tell you. It’s a
secret between Matthew Dean and me.’

He was obviously back in the past, so Moore said, gently, ‘Was it a boy or a girl, Doctor Peters?’

‘A lovely seven-pound girl.’ He closed his eyes again.

The sergeant straightened up and looked at McGillivray, who gave him the thumbs-up sign. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Moore didn’t think the old man heard him, but it made no
difference.

When they went downstairs, Mrs Peters came out of her kitchen with the teapot in her hand. ‘Oh, you’re leaving? I was making some tea for you. I’m sorry if you’ve had a
wasted journey. His memory comes and goes.’

McGillivray beamed at her. ‘It’s all right, ma’am. We got enough information to enable us to carry on. Matthew Dean would have been your husband’s solicitor?’

‘Fancy him remembering that. I was trying to think of his name myself, but it wouldn’t come to me. I’m afraid he died a few years ago. I remember Eric reading the death notice
out of the papers. I’ve been trying to think who took over from him when he retired. I should know . . . Oh, yes. Martin Spencer.’

‘That’s Miss Souter’s solicitor,’ remarked Moore.

‘By the Lord Harry, you’re only right.’ McGillivray looked ecstatic. I thought I’d heard the name before, but I couldn’t place it. Well done, lad. You’ve
earned your stripes today.’

‘I’m glad you got what you wanted, but don’t you have time for some tea?’

‘No, thank you very much, Mrs Peters, but we have to carry on with our work.’

She stood at the outside door and watched them walking down the path, but, once inside the Vauxhall, McGillivray pulled out the sheet of paper which the constable had given him when they’d
arrived in Tollerton on Saturday. ‘Martin Spencer, 21 George Square,’ he read out. ‘Right, Moore, forward to George Square. We may as well strike while the iron’s
hot.’

They had only a short distance to go, and when they enquired if the solicitor could see them, the receptionist told them that Mr Spencer was engaged with a client.

‘We’ll wait till he’s free.’ McGillivray walked over to the row of blue vinyl-covered chairs and sat down.

In a few minutes, a stout gentleman emerged from one of the doors, followed by a rather fawning man in a neat, dark suit.

The fat man said, ‘Thank you for all your help, Mr Spencer,’ and McGillivray stood up.

‘Excuse me, Mr Spencer,’ he began, ‘may we have a few words with you?’

Rather icily, the solicitor asked, ‘Have you an appointment?’

‘No, but I won’t keep you long. I’m Detective Chief Inspector McGillivray, Grampian CID, and DS Moore and myself are investigating the murder of Miss Janet Souter of Tollerton.
One of your clients, I believe?’

‘I can only spare you a few minutes, because I’ve an appointment at the other side of town in half an hour. You’d better come into my office.’

The office was far more opulent than the waiting room. A cheery fire burned at the right-hand side of the room. Spencer’s chair was covered in lovely brown hide, as were the smaller chairs
for his clients, and although these had no arms, they were still really comfortable, as McGillivray and Moore discovered when they sat down.

‘I’ll be as brief as I can,’ the inspector said. ‘We’re trying to trace an adoption undertaken by Matthew Dean about forty years ago, through a Doctor Eric Peters.
Would the records still be kept?’

‘Oh, yes, they’ll be in the archives, but it would take us some time to dig them out.’

‘I’d be obliged if you’d do it, just the same, Mr Spencer. We know the natural mother, but we’re trying to find the adoptive parents.’

‘Leave it in my hands, Inspector.’ The solicitor got up and moved to the door. ‘I’ll put someone on it right away and let you know as soon as I can.’

They left him instructing one of his clerks to find the information they required.

On their return journey to Tollerton, McGillivray observed, ‘It’s the funeral afternoon.’

David Moore wondered what was so significant about it, but smiled, ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘I was hoping to do a touch of the Agatha Christies, you know, and get them all back to Honeysuckle Cottages to spring the name of the murderer on them – and arrest the guilty party
– but I haven’t a bloody clue yet.’

‘Never mind, sir. We’re getting there. Something’s bound to give, shortly.’

McGillivray’s mouth twisted. ‘As far as I can see, lad, my sanity’s going to be the first thing to give.’

Monday 28th November, afternoon

It was a very small funeral. Only Ronald Baker and Flora, Stephen and Barbara Drummond, the Reverend and Mrs Valentine, Martin Spencer, Sergeant Black and the two detectives attended. It was
very clear that Janet Souter had not been popular in the village.

McGillivray was surprised that Mabel Wakeford hadn’t put in an appearance. Had she a guilty conscience? The absence of Grace Skinner could be excused, her sister being newly home from
hospital. They wouldn’t feel very charitable towards the dead woman, anyway, on account of their dog, and perhaps it was Mrs Skinner who had the guilty conscience.