Authors: Doris Davidson
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 baby 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.’
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.
‘Yes,’ McGillivray agreed. ‘I said, after we saw her, that she was a man-eater. But can you recall anyone else who might have got on the wrong side of Miss Souter?’
After a minute’s deliberation, Mrs Valentine said, ‘Not that I can think of, offhand, but I’ve never met a soul with a good word for her.’
‘You shouldn’t be saying that, Muriel, though I’m inclined to agree with you.’ The minister drained his glass. ‘I’ve never met such a consistently provoking
woman before. She was absolutely impossible, at times.’
‘You weren’t surprised to learn she’d been murdered?’
‘Not really. The surprise was that it hadn’t been done long before.’ The man absented-mindedly rose and refilled his glass.
The inspector addressed himself to Mrs Valentine again. ‘From what I’ve heard about her in the past two days, I’m quite surprised about that myself, but how did you get on with
the ladies in the other two cottages?’
‘They were a pleasure to talk to, Inspector, very obliging and helpful. A complete contrast to Janet Souter.’
‘Hmmm. I’m afraid we have reason to suspect two of these very nice ladies.’
‘What?’ Both the minister and his wife looked staggered by this information.
‘Surely not,’ Adam Valentine said at last. ‘They’re so gentle, all three of them. Could I ask which two are . . . ?’
‘I shouldn’t be saying anything without proof, but, in strict confidence, Mrs Wakeford and Mrs Skinner.’
‘But . . . my wife and I thought . . . what about the two nephews? They were the obvious suspects to us.’
‘That would seem natural, but there are many different factors involved. We are keeping them in mind.’
Adam Valentine shuffled the papers in front of him. ‘This makes one think, Inspector.’
‘We’ve been told that Miss Souter had unearthed some scandal about Mrs Wakeford, which that lady might not have wanted to become public knowledge.’ McGillivray looked
grave.