The Burden of Proof

by Roderic Jeffries

  He lit a cigarette. Dermott claimed he’d lost at least a thousand quid’s worth of jewellery and antiques. From all accounts, he could lose another ten thousand and not notice the difference.

  Fisher came to his car and leaned against it with his arms resting on the roof. Assuming Ventnor had given the girl those pills, where had he obtained them? According to the pathologist the use of them argued very strongly for medical knowledge. Where was Ventnor most likely to have obtained medical knowledge?

  Detective Sergeant Abbott came up to the car. “They’re working hard on prints, sir.”

  “There won’t be any. It’s a professional job.”

  “I can see us straining our guts for weeks on end.” Abbott was the strange mixture of a professed pessimist who was really an optimist.

  “If anyone thinks he’s straining his gut for long without producing results, refer him straight to me.”

  “Dermott’s yelling bloody murder.”

  “I yelled bloody murder when he was chairman of the bench last month and he let the kid go who’d done the jewellers.”

  It was nearing night and darkness had covered everything except the western sky where the dying sun still showed orange fingers. “Abbott,” said Fisher, “you’re Ventnor, and the last thing you want is your ex producing the bun in the oven because that could wreck your coming marriage and lose you a fortune. So you think about an abortion. How d’you find out what kind of pills you want and where you get ’em from?”

  Abbott rolled a cigarette — with a wife and four children he couldn’t afford tailor-made — and lit it. “Stuff like that can always be bought. The boys’d sell you your own grandmother if you’d pay anything for her.”

  “Where would he have learned about the sources?”

  “He was quite a boy about town before his old man died. Maybe one of his old pals?”

  “The Yard’s already having a look round.”

  “Or maybe he has a doctor who’s an old school pal — they say old school pals always stick together.”

  Fisher scratched the back of his neck. “Any idea where he went to school?”

  “All I know is, it wasn’t at my local council school.”

  “Probably Eton or Harrow.”

  “I see it costs more now to keep a kid at an approved school than at Eton.”

  “What’s that meant to be? A vindication of Eton? Find out where he did go to school, then organise a search into the school records and find out if any of his contemporaries, or near contemporaries, have become doctors.”

  *

  Roger was turning the hay when he saw Ritter cross the far field and stand by the gate. The cut of grass was late and a gamble that the weather would stay reasonably fine. If it came off, the gamble would be worth an extra ton of hay.

  He brought the tractor to a halt and the wire-pronged paddles of the hay turner became motionless. He jumped down from the tractor seat and walked across.

  “It’s a nice thick crop you’ve got there, sir,” said Ritter.

  Roger stared at it — the puffy rows where it had been turned, the sleek, smooth rows where it hadn’t. “I’m not speaking until it’s all baled and in the Dutch barn.”

  “Did you use much artificial?”

  “Not all that much but the ground was heavily limed and that always brings the grass on round here.”

  Ritter reluctantly pulled a notebook from his pocket. “I’m afraid I’ve still got to worry you over that other business, sir. It’s a question of when you last saw Miss Stukeley?”

  Roger’s shirt was unbuttoned and the sun beat hot on the broad V of the exposed part of his chest. Trying to trace the source of the pills was keeping the police busy. The artist father must almost certainly have given them to her and it wouldn’t be long before they found that out. That being so, there was no point in his telling the police everything or they’d begin to question him more closely if they knew he’d seen Margaret very recently. The moment that happened the news might spread to Elizabeth. Elizabeth had accepted the knowledge of his friendship with Margaret on the basis that it had, naturally, ended at the time of his meeting Elizabeth. It would shock her, unnecessarily and without the force of factuality, to learn he had seen Margaret after the engagement, and quite possibly no explanation of his would quite clear the air. “The last time I saw her was back in March.”

  “I see, sir.” Ritter wrote down the answer. “You can’t help us then about who she was going out with? The chap who was going to be the father?”

  “I don’t know anything more than that he was an artist.”

  “How d’you know that, sir, seeing you haven’t seen her since March?”

  Roger saw an expression in the detective’s eyes which, for the first time, warned him that the man was more than just a rather cheerful and happy-go-lucky policeman. “She told me about him the day we split up.”

  “Did she, sir?” Ritter looked surprised, as if he’d never met that kind of situation before. “Can you give me his name, whereabouts he lives or works, or anything else that would help us trace him?”

  “You’ve as much knowledge of the chap now as I’ve ever had — except for the fact that he wasn’t making a fortune at his work.”

  “Not a second Picasso! Thanks a lot, sir. Every little helps, as my bookmaker says to me every time he takes my money. Hope the weather keeps fine for you.”

  *

  The Prestry Weekly Courier was concerned with the events that really mattered in the world, and not the ephemeral. Khrushchev might rattle the sabres of war but the Courier concerned itself with the use the Mayor was making of the mayoral Super Snipe when he went on holiday.

  The death of Margaret Stukeley was briefly reported on page five.

  Death of Local Girl

  Miss Margaret Stukeley, the attractive brunette whose body was found in the derelict gatehouse of Reton Park Hall, died from an overdose of a drug that is sometimes used to bring about certain physical reactions.

  The editor, who divided his affections between wife and mistress, was not the man to allow the word ‘abortion’ to appear in print.

  A post mortem determined that at the time of her death she was two months gone with child.

  The word ‘pregnant’ was also never used.

  Reton Park Hall belongs to Mr. Roger Ventnor and has been in the hands of the Ventnor family from the time of the Spanish Armada, and it is believed that some of the wood from the wrecked Spanish galleons was used in the construction of the house which was designed by Inigo Jones.

  Neither the editor nor the man who wrote the piece was an ardent historian.

  Mr. Ventnor and Miss Stukeley were old friends but had not met for many months prior to Miss Stukeley’s death. Mr. Ventnor recently became engaged to Miss Elizabeth Wheeldon, daughter of the chairman and managing director of Wheeldon and Harrie.

  *

  Ritter entered the main building of Steeley and Brights. The doorman inquired his business and used one of five telephones to discover what the visitor was to do and where he was to go. The P.R.O. came downstairs and said he hoped the name of Steeley and Brights would not suffer and that the name of Steeley and Brights shone high in the firmaments of the business world. He then reluctantly escorted Ritter up to the third floor and left him with the girls who did the translations.

  Ritter had an experienced eye for girls. He knew that far more promising than soulfulness or luscious ripeness was a thick and sensuous mouth. He claimed to be able to tell the course of any affair simply from the shape and style of the girl’s mouth. He told himself what the course would be with the fulsome blonde — with thick and sensuous mouth — who did the Scandinavian translations.

  “Know she was going out with the Ventnor bloke?” repeated the blonde scornfully. “Never had a chance to forget it.”

  “She didn’t keep the affair hidden then?”

  The brunette laughed.

  “When Maggie first came,” said the blonde, “she mucked in and
we all had fun together. Used to go dancing a lot with the weirdies. Then she met him, and before we knew what was what she wouldn’t come out with us.” The blonde accepted one of Ritter’s cigarettes. She completely ignored the amorous look he gave her. Ritter was pleased. By ignoring it, she had declared she had identified it.

  “She became a real lady,” sneered the tightly angular and very thin-lipped woman of thirty-five.

  The blonde’s voice became sharp. “She’d come in here in the morning and trim her nails and criticise us for dressing cheaply or saying all the wrong things, and then she’d describe how big the house was and how much land there was. She said it had twelve bedrooms. Does it?”

  “Do bedrooms interest you?”

  The blonde ignored the clumsy question. “We thought it screamingly funny at first and pulled her leg no end, but then it stopped being funny because after a while it seemed as if she really thought she’d became Lady Muck… It’s difficult to describe properly, but she bought a book on etiquette and tried to learn how to speak to a duke or a viscount. There was no more joining in with us, either. Now it was more and more snide remarks about how we behaved and how crude we were. She wouldn’t read anything but Kafka and Iris Murdoch and people like them, though we all knew what she really liked was a good romance. I told her one day that even if she did get hitched up to him the people she’d be mixing with wouldn’t act the way she thought they would, but her trouble was she knew no one would think she came out of the top drawer so she reckoned that if she could make herself sound really clever, she’d get by.”

  Ritter wondered how far the front of the blonde’s dress would gape open if she leaned right forward. “Did you notice any difference in the way she was acting or talking about March?”

  The blonde thought. “March… About then she got so bad I was going to hit her one where it hurts, but old gumshoes from upstairs came in at the vital moment.”

  “Are you saying she became worse?”

  “I am. Spent all day telling us all the changes she was going to make to the house. That was the time when she refused to go out on the firm’s outing because she said some of the people acted so commonly.”

  “Surely she said something about her affair having come to an end?”

  “Not her. Did she?”

  The other two girls said that she most certainly did not.

  “Then what did she say when the papers picked up his romance with his present cup of tea?”

  “She just laughed it off.” The blonde’s voice momentarily expressed admiration. “Said it didn’t mean a thing.”

  “And she believed that?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  They came in all sizes, thought Ritter. “Who’s for another fag?”

  Two of them were, one wasn’t. They remembered Margaret’s efforts to master a nine-inch cigarette holder because someone had told her long cigarette holders were the latest smart. Ritter gave the two smokers lights, and when he stood close to the blonde she hitched up the front of her dress.

  “She even tried to change universities,” said the blonde. “We all knew she was out of one of the red bricks, but she started talking casually about Lady Margaret Hall. My God, didn’t she get angry when we laughed at her!”

  “You must have met her friend, the artist?”

  “What artist?”

  “The one she was going round with at the time of her death.”

  “You’ve still got it all wrong,” said the blonde.

  “All what wrong?” asked Ritter.

  “Me, apart from anything else,” replied the blonde haughtily, and she tugged at her skirt to bring it down over her knees.

  Ritter grinned at her. “There was an artist who was supposed to be going out with her. Have you ever heard her mention him?”

  “Of course I haven’t. I keep trying to tell you, there wouldn’t have been anyone else.”

  Ritter turned to the other two. “Either of you?”

  The brunette shook her head. The angular woman of thirty-five said, “She once mentioned a Paul.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And he was an artist?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t know much.”

  The blonde giggled. “Thankfully,” snapped the angular woman, “not as much as some people.”

  “Regarding Paul,” said Ritter. “She talked about him, did she?”

  “She once said she’d met him.”

  “When was this?”

  “It was quite some time ago.”

  “About how long?”

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Must have been before she met Ventnor, I’d guess.”

  “She never described him?”

  “No.”

  Ritter asked the other two, “Did you hear tell of Paul?”

  “No,” replied the blonde, in a tone of voice that called the thin-lipped woman a liar.

  Ritter shrugged his shoulders. “Did any of you meet any of her boyfriends who weren’t artists?”

  “For the last time,” replied the blonde, “she wouldn’t have gone out with anyone else, even if he were Mr. Universe. She knew what she wanted and was determined to get it.”

  “Had any of you any idea she was pregnant?”

  “Not me,” said the blonde. Then she added lewdly, “But I often wondered why he went out with her.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t like that,” said Ritter.

  “If he wasn’t, he was the first pair of trousers I’ve heard of that wasn’t.”

  “Maybe you’ve been out with the wrong types.”

  “Are there any that aren’t?”

  “I’ll suggest you don’t know the half. I wouldn’t mind proving a thing or two to you.”

  “I can see that,” replied the blonde with apparent coldness. She adjusted the level of her neckline again.

  *

  Fisher went into the general room that served as an office for Ritter, Layton and the P.C. seconded to the department for six months. “Ritter.”

  “Sir?” Ritter stood up and put the cup of tea down on the desk.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out to see the girls at the factory, sir.”

  “And since then?”

  Ritter assumed an expression of puzzlement. “I’ve only just come back.”

  “How very fortunate you’ve been to find someone to brew you a cup of tea so smartly.”

  Ritter made no answer. Since everyone else was out and the canteen didn’t function just then, it was rather obvious that he had taken time off to make the tea.

  “If you can ever find a moment to spare, perhaps you’d care to tell me what happened at the factory?”

  “Nothing much, sir. Apparently, Margaret Stukeley continued saying she was going to marry Ventnor, even after the papers picked up the romance in the gossip columns.”

  Fisher impatiently said, “What about boys?”

  “No others, sir.”

  “None?”

  “None. Oh! One of the women was an angular spinster who looked as if she didn’t want to know what life was for. She said the girl had once mentioned someone called Paul.”

  “And?”

  “That’s the lot, sir, except that this probably happened before Stukeley met Ventnor.”

  “Then I hardly think we need spend too much time worrying ourselves overmuch on that score, do you? A vague name that’s certain to be wrong, from the dim and distant past.”

  “I was only reporting the facts, sir.”

  “Remind me to strike a medal for you. They don’t know of any man she’s definitely been out with?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I wonder just how long Ventnor thought his story would hold water?” said the D.I. slowly.

  *

  The artist colony of Prestry owed its existence to Anton Hapscord, a Pre-Raphaelite, who’d lived in Thirmore Street for the last twenty year
s of his life. His paintings had gained a tremendous vogue at one time and he’d had several pupils who’d carried on working in the town after Hapscord died. They had, in turn, attracted a small circle of fellow painters.

  In the late nineteen fifties, the beatnik movement had swept through Prestry and soon it had become difficult to distinguish the artists who were mostly rebelling against formality from the beatniks who were mostly rebelling against authority.

  Questioning of the artists and would-be artists was stereotyped. “Are you an artist? Never mind what the hell I mean by art, are you an artist? Did you know Margaret Stukeley? This is a photograph of her. Did any of your friends know her? Any idea who she was going round with? Ever see her with anyone? Do you know anyone who’s moved away from the district in the past few days?”

  *

  The architect picked up his cup of coffee. “When do you want the work to start?”

  “As soon as possible,” replied Roger. He stared at the typewritten report. “When this lot’s done, the house ought to be good for another few years?”

  “I’ll stick my neck out and be rash enough to say we’ll end up by giving you something as good as new.”

  Roger poured out two cognacs and passed one across. “Every time I looked up I thought of all the faulty tiles letting in water, the bricks that need repointing, the wood that’s rotting or rotten… I suppose the old place couldn’t stand much longer without something being done to it.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far because it’s amazing what some of these old places will put up with — but by spending a pound now, you’ll save five or ten in twenty years’ time.” The architect drank the cognac quickly and without the proper appreciation. “Well, I must be moving. There’ll be three firms tendering for the work and if you take my advice you’ll accept the one which offers the firmest completion date rather than the one which may save a few pounds on the total. They’re all pretty full of work these days and if one’s not careful one can be let in for running repairs that take a month of Sundays.”