Jam and Jeopardy (5 page)

He left it where it was – Miss Souter may not have been poisoned at all – and pulled the door shut, then turned the big key protruding from the lock and slipped it in his pocket. No
sense in leaving the stuff easily available for any other prospective killer who wanted to dispose of somebody.

He let himself into the cottage and walked through the small kitchen, across the passage to the not-much-larger living room, where he sat down heavily on the two-seater settee. Removing his hat,
he laid it on the trolley beside him, and smoothed down his thinning grey hair.

He should really be searching for clues . . . No, he shouldn’t. If it
was
murder, he shouldn’t touch anything, and, anyway, the place was absolutely crammed with furniture so
he wouldn’t know where to start.

In what had once been a bed recess, there stood an old oak sideboard and an ancient Welsh dresser. Low cabinets flanked the tiled fireplace, one holding a large geranium and the other a bulky
wireless. There was no sign of a television set, so Miss Souter hadn’t moved with the times, and she wasn’t missing much, Black reflected, with the drivel that passed as entertainment
nowadays.

In front of the cabinets were two Cintique chairs, and four upright chairs were arranged round the gate-legged table under the window, but he presumed she used the trolley for eating on when she
was on her own.

Curiosity made him look behind him, and his eyebrows rose at the sight of the massive bookcase, the books, all shapes and sizes, stuck in higgledy-piggledy. Janet Souter obviously had a wide
taste in reading. Ethel M. Dell and Barbara Cartland rubbed shoulders with Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh. Leather-bound Shakespeares sat side by side with dog-eared Kiplings, Irwin Shaw with
Catherine Cookson. A few surprises!

It occurred to him as he faced the fireside again that, with the settee he was sitting on, and the trolley, the old lady must have had a hell of a job hoovering! If she had such a thing. But he
hadn’t come here to test her cleanliness, so he tried to channel his thoughts more constructively.

Whatever the result of the autopsy, he’d have to do something about the statement made by Mrs Wakeford after the body had been found. At first, he’d believed that the poor lady had
cracked up with shock, but Mrs Gill and Ned French had given him cause to think again.

It was quite upsetting, really: everything had seemed so straightforward.

The sergeant opened his eyes – he had not been asleep, but could often recall events more clearly if there was nothing to distract him – and stared, unseeingly, at
the blackness of Miss Souter’s fireplace. It was several minutes before it registered with him that the cinders hadn’t been cleared out or reset. His brain came to life instantly.

This meant that the old woman must have died last night, before she went to bed at all, since her bedclothes were undisturbed. He became more uneasy about what Mrs Wakeford had told him earlier
that evening, even though the doctor had stated categorically that it couldn’t have been a violent death.

‘There are none of the symptoms of poisoning evident.’ James Randall had been astonished when he learned what Mrs Wakeford had said. ‘It’s come to a pretty pass when a
doctor’s word is doubted.’

‘I’m not doubting you.’ Black felt confused. If he believed Mrs Wakeford, he was bound to be doubting Randall.

‘That’s what it sounded like.’ The doctor had packed his bag angrily. ‘Anyway, the post-mortem’ll prove me right. Janet Souter did not die from the effects of
arsenic poisoning. It was a coronary, pure and simple.’

‘I’ll have to tell them about the arsenic, though.’

‘Tell them what you bloody well like. It makes no difference.’

Remembering the contretemps, John Black sighed. He’d never come up against anything like this, for as long as he’d been in the Force, and he’d only a couple of months to go.
The mortuary-cold atmosphere in the room suddenly penetrated his bones, and he picked up his hat and stood up.

But . . . if it
wasn’t
heart failure, he could perhaps solve the murder single-handed and retire in a blaze of glory. A great weight lifted from his troubled mind as he made his way
to the back door.

It should be simple enough to find out what had happened. It would just be a matter of proving which of Miss Souter’s two nephews had actually done the job.

Locking the door securely, he wished that he knew what had gone on in this cottage to make the old woman suspect that they were trying to kill her.

John Black leaned back with a sigh. ‘Well, Derek, that’s the problem passed on. The Thornkirk lot’ll be here as soon as they can.’

‘It’s a shame you had to call them in,’ the young constable remarked. ‘I’m sure we could have managed on our own, even if it was murder.’

The sergeant’s mouth screwed up. ‘Maybe . . . maybe not.’

He had thought about it all the way back from Honeysuckle Cottages, and had come to the conclusion it was more than likely that he’d end up with egg on his face if he tried to cope without
help. Murder was the big one, and it needed experience to carry it off.

It was going to be difficult to explain why he’d waited for almost two hours before notifying Thornkirk, but Randall would verify that he’d said the death was from heart failure. And
it could be heart failure at that. It was this story of Mrs Wakeford’s that was the stumbling block.

He was going to look foolish either way, the sergeant reflected. On the one hand, for not believing the doctor, if he was correct, and on the other, for not reporting a murder immediately, if it
was murder after all.

Friday 25th November

Ronald Baker scowled ferociously at his wife. ‘Would you stop going on about it? I told you – there’s nothing we can do except wait. She’ll have to use
the stuff eventually.’

‘Are you absolutely sure you . . .’ Flora ventured.

‘Of course I’m absolutely bloody sure. My brain’s not pickled like yours.’

‘But that’s . . .’ She counted on her fingers. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday . . . and now it’s Friday. Seven days, now.’

‘So?’

I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand any longer of it. I’ll go round the bend. I’ll drop down in a dead faint. I’ll . . .’

‘For Chrissake, stop babbling on about what
you’d
do. What about me?’ Ronald’s nerves were stretched to near snapping-point and, if his wife had been sober, his
expression of sheer hatred would have effectively silenced her.

Flora registered only surprise at his anger. ‘What about you? You’re the one that’s needing her money for your precious business. You’re the one that thought you were
clever enough . . .’

‘You’ll be very happy to use the money, though, when it comes to me,’ Ronald interrupted. ‘You’ll spend it like water, the same as you’ve always done with all
our cash.’ He became heavily sarcastic. ‘What you spend it on, God only knows, for you’re never stylishly dressed like Barbara, and your hair never looks right, for all your
visits to your expensive hair stylist.’

Most of Flora’s spare cash
was
spent on buying good-quality, sensible clothes, and on paying out a fortune to her hairdresser every week, but she was cut to the quick by this attack
on her and burst into tears. ‘You’ve never wanted for anything, Ronald Baker,’ she sobbed. ‘You’ve always had three good meals a day, and you buy expensive suits, and
. . .’

‘Stop that! I have to dress smartly to arrange business deals with customers.’ Ronald threw up his hands. ‘I can’t have an intelligent discussion with you these days
without you turning on the waterworks. It’s the same thing, day in, day out.’

Not absolutely sure if she deserved this onslaught, Flora lapsed into offended silence.

Their resentful contemplation of each other was brought to an abrupt end by the jangle of the door bell, and the sight of Flora staggering to her feet made her husband snap. ‘I’ll
go. You’re in no fit state.’

He stamped through the hall and flung open the door, to be taken very much aback when he found two serious-faced, uniformed policemen standing on the step.

‘Ronald Baker?’

‘Yes, you’d better come in.’ As he led them into the living room, his heart was beating madly now that the crucial moment had arrived, and his tongue felt several sizes too big
for his mouth. ‘What can I do for you?’

The taller of the two constables consulted his notebook. ‘You are the nephew of Miss Janet Souter, of 2 Honeysuckle Cottages, Ashgrove Lane, Tollerton?’

‘That is correct.’ He suddenly realised that he should be showing some surprised concern, and added, ‘Nothing’s happened to her, I hope?’

‘I regret to have to inform you that, at seventeen forty, your aunt was found dead in her home.’

‘Oh.’ It came out as a sigh, and he hastily tried to call up some suitable emotion. ‘That’s bad news. Really terrible.’ He glanced at Flora, whose pallor could have
been attributed to shock at the information, but Ronald’s guilty brain feared that the callers might suspect something.

When her mouth opened, he spoke quickly, before she could say anything. ‘You’ll have to excuse my wife, she was very fond of my old aunt. Can you tell me how it happened?’

‘We were given very little information, sir.’ The same policeman did the talking. ‘We received a telephone message at nineteen thirty – half past seven, sir – that
she had been found in the kitchen of her cottage in Tollerton, and asking us to notify you and her other nephew, as her only known relatives. She had been dead since about midnight, we were
told.’

‘It must have been a heart attack.’ Ronald’s face now bore an expression of deep sorrow. ‘She was looking very tired when we visited her last Saturday. It’s only to
be expected at her age, of course, she was eighty-seven, but it’s so sudden. I’ll have to arrange the funeral, I suppose.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but the body won’t be released just yet. In all cases of sudden death, an autopsy has to be carried out to ascertain the exact cause.’

Flora moaned. ‘Oh God, Ronald. I told you . . .’

‘It’s all right, my dear.’ He dug his fingers into her arm in warning. ‘Don’t be upset about them having to do an autopsy. Aunt Janet won’t know anything
about it, you know.’ He glanced at the policemen apologetically. ‘My wife’s highly strung, and this . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders, expressively.

‘Most people don’t like the idea, sir. If there’s nothing else, we’d better be on our way to notify the other nephew.’

‘Stephen? Oh, yes, of course. Before you go, Constable, I suppose it’s all right if we go to her house tomorrow, to sort out her things, and so forth?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but no one will be allowed in meantime. It’s the usual formality until the cause of death is established, but it should only be for a few days.’

‘I see. Thank you, and I’ll see you out.’

When the door closed behind them, Flora rose to her feet with an effort and went over to the table. She was standing looking in puzzled amazement from the empty decanter to her empty glass, when
Ronald returned.

‘The brandy’s finished again.’

‘Haven’t you had enough, woman? You finished what we had yesterday, and I only bought one bottle of brandy today, so you must have drunk all that as well.’ But he
couldn’t stay angry for long, not with the exciting anticipation of imminent wealth surging through him. ‘That’s it. She’s gone at last, and we’ll soon get our hands
on all that lovely money.’

‘Yes, and no more trips to see dear old Auntie.’ She laughed, but her fuddled brain was aware that things weren’t as plain sailing as they seemed. ‘There’s
something, Ronald . . . it’s not . . .’ It came to her sickeningly. ‘It’s this autopsy. I don’t like the idea of that.’

‘Listen, Flora.’ Ronald spoke patiently, as if to a child. ‘It’s just a formality, like sealing up her house.’

‘Yes, all right, if you say so.’ The empty brandy glass was deposited on the table, and she tottered over to her chair.

‘We’d better go over to see what Stephen and Barbara are saying about it. We’ll have to agree on funeral arrangements, and all that, but we’ll wait till they’ve had
time to get over the shock.’

Flora nodded her head, lay back and closed her eyes.

‘You were a great help, I must say.’ Barbara Drummond glared at her husband. ‘Those two bobbies must have thought you were a complete halfwit.’

‘I couldn’t help it. It came as a shock, knowing she was actually dead.’ Stephen wiped his brow with his hand.

‘It shouldn’t have, seeing it’s what you’ve been hoping for. Honestly, Stephen. I thought you were going to pass out when they said she’d been found lying dead in
her kitchen. What did you expect? That she’d die neatly in her bed?’

‘No, no, but it was still a shock.’

‘You left me to do all the talking. It’s a good thing I can keep my head in a crisis.’ Barbara’s sneering tone changed suddenly. ‘It’s just a matter of
routine, this autopsy and the sealing up of the house. Only for a day or two, they said, then we’ll get in there and find the will before we contact her solicitor . . . For heaven’s
sake, man, cheer up a bit. It’s all over now, and you should be happy about it. At least you managed to do something for yourself and didn’t leave it all to me.’

He gave a wan smile in return, but looked startled when the doorbell rang again, and made no move to answer it. Barbara screwed up her mouth before she went to find out who was calling, and was
not altogether surprised to see Ronald and Flora.

‘Come in,’ she said, and stood aside to let them pass. She noticed that Flora’s gait was rather unsteady, and guessed that she’d been at the brandy, probably celebrating
the old aunt’s demise. If there had been any liquor in her own house, she’d have been celebrating too.

‘What a shock about Aunt Janet.’ Ronald’s eyes had searched for a bottle of some kind before he remembered that Stephen hardly ever had any whisky in the house.

‘Yes, isn’t it awful?’ Stephen nodded his head several times. ‘I could hardly take it in when the police told us.’

‘All’s well that ends well,’ observed Flora cheerfully, then became flustered as she realised that she shouldn’t be saying anything like that at a time like this.