“And if I were Liz, I’d give it to you.” Almost reluctantly, Patricia smiled. She needed optimism and when he offered it she was glad to accept it without inquiring too deeply into it. “Make yourself useful and go and see if the eggs are ready.”
“I’ll drop them on the floor. If they bounce, I’ll bring them in.” He left the room and he thought about the man who had drafted the letter from the insurance people. Some pale-faced office type to whom mortgages were statistics and nothing more. No bricks and mortar, tiles and beams, which had weathered the centuries… He entered the kitchen. Life had shrunk to normal size and what had seemed to be mountains had become stripped down to mole hills. Margaret had taken pills that had killed her: he hadn’t given them to her so that he could never be accused or found guilty of giving them to her.
He used a plastic spoon to fish the eggs out of the boiling water.
*
Detective Constable Williams lifted the front door knocker of Doctor Franch’s house. As he waited, he studied the pear tree that was in the middle of the small front lawn and which was obviously going to produce a heavy crop later on. The door was opened. “May I speak to Doctor Franch, please,” he said, “It’s a police matter.”
“You’re very early. He’s still having his breakfast,” said Mrs. Franch coldly.
“An important case, madam, and time waits for no one, so they say.”
“You’d better come in. You can’t keep him long because he’s got to go out to morning surgery at ten, even though he was up half the night with a difficult delivery.”
“I know just how he feels, madam, as it’s many a night I’ve spent awake when by rights I should be asleep.” Williams, balding but chirpy, was determined, pleasantly, to point out that doctors were not the only people in the world who worked odd hours.
He was taken through to the front room. Too thundering neat for him. Two specks of dust coming face to face wouldn’t recognise what each other was.
Franch came into the room and shook hands. “Are you from the local outfit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought I knew you all but I haven’t seen you before.” Franch took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it.
“I’ve just been seconded into this division.”
“That explains that. How about a cup of coffee?”
“Wonderful idea, sir.”
Franch opened the door and called out and asked his wife to prepare some coffee. He closed the door and lit his pipe. “What’s the trouble?”
“Do you know Mr. Roger Ventnor, sir?”
“We were at school together.”
“Have you seen him at all recently?”
Franch twisted the stem of the pipe clear of the bowl and then blew down the stem. A wad of tobacco landed on the carpet. He bent down and picked it up, put the pipe together and drew on it. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“When?”
“Earlier this month.”
“What was the reason for his visit, sir?”
“Suppose you fill in some of the background to the questions?”
Williams stared down at the notebook that lay on his knee. “The case comes from Prestry, sir, so up here we don’t know too many details, but a young woman has died as a result of some pills she took to try and induce an abortion.”
“Has there been any mention of this case in the papers?”
“I haven’t seen any. Not really important enough.”
“Do you know what kind of pills the girl took?”
“I don’t.”
Franch rubbed his nose with the bowl of the pipe, apparently insensible to the smoke that curled around his eyes. “You chaps are always tossing problems into my lap. What is the limit of the doctor/patient relationship? To whom do I owe the most duty, the state which merely taxes me out of existence, or the wounded criminal who has so much faith in me that he puts his life in my hands? What price friendship? Does that raise a medical relationship? And if so, where does the state lie? …I wish you people would stay away from me.”
Franch relit his pipe which had gone out. “If women were only made to study the cases of abortion that have gone wrong — Roger Ventnor came here and asked me for the address of an abortionist or the name of a drug that would do the trick.”
Williams wrote in his book. “And you told him?”
“That as he claimed he wasn’t the father of the child, if he’d an ounce of common sense he’d get clear of the mess. If he’d admitted parentage, I’d have given him the same answer a little less bluntly.”
“Did you give him the name of any drugs, sir?”
“Certainly not. I thought I’d just made that quite clear.”
“To me, sir, but the higher-ups have to have everything in black and white. Can you tell me what day he came to you?”
“My wife and I had a night out and went to see Ross. She’ll remember the date, never forgets ’em.” Franch left the room and came back very shortly afterward with a cup of coffee. “Sugar’s in the saucer… Roger Ventnor was here on July the second.”
*
“Well,” said Fisher, “if that hasn’t all but cooked his goose, I don’t know what hasn’t.”
“Not enough yet, sir, for an arrest,” said Detective Sergeant Abbott.
“You wouldn’t accept the dying declaration of a saint.”
“We can’t yet prove there isn’t an artist.”
“And you can’t prove you’re not a man from Mars. No one can prove a negative.”
“Be better if we can trace the source of the drug, sir.” Abbott was the one person who dared to argue with, and sometimes laugh at, Fisher.
“It would be even better if Ventnor made a full confession, but until that happens we’ve work to do.” Fisher crossed to the window behind his desk. “Is there anything in the report from London about whether the doctor had warned Ventnor of the effect the drugs could have?”
“Don’t remember any.” Abbott picked up the message that had come through on the telex machine. “Nothing here,” he said, after reading.
“Bloody typical. Who else but those highly self-satisfied coppers from London could forget to include one of the most important facts? Get on to them again and ask them if, when they’ve a moment to spare, they could possibly carry out the job they were originally requested to do.”
“Right.”
The message Abbott sent was somewhat more tactful than the one he had been told to send.
*
“Sorry to bother you again,” said Williams.
“Now what?” demanded Doctor Franch. “I’ve a patient up the road who’s fallen over and broken his arm.”
“Did you tell Mr. Ventnor what the effects of an abortion drug could be?”
Franch jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. As he started the engine, he yelled through the open window, “I told him that if the drug could kill the child it could kill the mother.” He backed down the short drive.
*
Ritter entered the chemist shop. It was small, and because it seemed to be packed from floor to ceiling with an endless succession of cabinets, bottles, jars, and from wall to wall with display counters heaped high with scents, face powders, hot-water bottles, soap packs, etc., it appeared to be even smaller.
A young girl wearing a pink linen coat over her skirt and blouse came up to the counter. “Can I help you?”
Hee studied her. Given time, she probably could and would. “Is the boss in?”
“Mr. Canon?”
“If he’s the man.”
She turned and walked away with swinging hips. Ritter stared at them.
Canon, a small man with heavy horn-rimmed glasses, came into sight. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Detective Constable Ritter at your service. Someone from the police has already been in and seen you?”
Canon pursed his lips. “I was asked whether a bottle of aspirins had been sold from this shop. My reply was that I was unacquainted with the ch
aracteristics of each and every bottle of aspirins I sold.”
Ritter stared past the pedantic little man and watched the assistant. She was polishing her nails. “You can take it that the bottle has been traced through to you.”
An elderly woman came into the shop and went across to the far counter.
“I’ve brought some photos for you to have a look at,” said Ritter. He pulled out of his pocket a brown envelope which he opened. There were twelve photographs inside and he placed them on the counter. “We’re wondering if you’ve seen any of these people?”
Canon removed his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief, replaced them. He picked up the photographs and began to study them, carefully and slowly.
Fisher hurried into the shop and walked over to Ritter. “How far have we got?”
“Mr. Canon’s just begun to look through them, sir.”
Fisher waited with scant patience while Canon picked his way through the photographs. “Recognise any of them?”
Canon shook his head. “None of them is a regular customer.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“I’ve just said so.”
“That removes one possibility.” Fisher picked up the photographs and looked through them, shuffled them around with apparent aimlessness. “I’m sorry to keep troubling you, but it’s important.”
Ritter noted, with resentment, how affable the D.I. could be when it paid him.
“We’re dealing with a very serious case,” said Fisher.
“What kind of case?” Canon was now showing slight interest.
“Poor devil of a girl.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t think I’d better tell you until after you’ve made quite certain just once more that you don’t recognise any of these photographs. We must be fair to the man, even if he does need castrating.”
“A sexual case?”
“I didn’t say so.” Fisher began to play with the photograph that was on top of the pile. He looked down at it.
“This have something to do with the bottle of aspirins?”
“In a way.”
“Is the man you’re asking me to identify from the photographs the man who bought the aspirins?”
“Now there’s a question I’m not possibly allowed to answer!”
“Let me have another look through those photographs. If the man were a casual customer…”
Fisher hesitated. “We’d better make it fair. I’ll mix these up a little.” He picked up the top photograph and slid it into the centre of the pack. Canon watched.
Fisher handed the photographs to Canon. Canon searched through them quickly until he came to number seven, which had previously been the top one. He stared at it, adjusted his spectacles more firmly on his nose, looked at Fisher.
“I think I’ve seen this man before,” said Canon.
“Have you?” Fisher’s voice was smooth and interested.
“Perhaps he bought the aspirins.”
“Do you know he did?”
“Not for certain.”
“We mustn’t load the dice, Mr. Canon. The bloke’s in enough trouble as it is.” Fisher leaned on the display counter. “Do you identify that chap?”
Canon nodded his head. “Yes, I do.”
“Are you positive? You must have a very large number of customers.”
“I remember him.”
“You don’t think there might be some mistake?”
“I’m not the man to make a mistake in a question such as this one.” Canon was showing slight signs of anger.
“No offense meant, but we have to be quite certain. This chap, now. Not one of your regular customers of course?”
“No. Not that.”
“Just a casual?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t remember him.”
“Being just a casual, though, and seeing you remember him so clearly… Might mean he’s been in recently?”
“It almost certainly does.”
Fisher gathered the photographs together, with the one of Ventnor on the top. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Canon.”
“What’s he done?”
“Supplied a girl with abortion pills. They killed her.”
“That chap who was in the local paper? Comes from a big family?”
“That’s the one.”
“You’re not trying to say I sold him the abortifacient, are you?”
“Not for one second.” Fisher stared down at the photograph. “Sad to know what some people’ll do, isn’t it?” Quite slowly, he replaced the photographs in the brown envelope that Ritter handed him.
The detectives left the shop and made their way to the police car.
“Very helpful,” said Fisher, in a mocking voice.
The poor bastard, thought Ritter unemotionally, he doesn’t stand a chance.
*
The telephone in the office of Reton Park Hall rang and Patricia limped through to the room and lifted the receiver. The caller asked for Roger. She opened the window and called out to him as he weeded one of the front rose beds.
He came through to the office. “Who is it?”
“Long distance. A man called Finch, I think, but the line’s bad.”
“Finch?” He took the receiver. “Roger Ventnor here.”
“John Franch speaking, Roger. I want you to know that the police have been along asking me if you’d ever tried to get an abortifacient from me.”
His mouth seemed to have dried out and he had difficulty in speaking. “What answer did you give?”
“Sorry, Roger, but it was the truth.”
He stared at the untidy pile of papers on his desk. The ghost of Margaret Stukeley was back, riding him more heavily than ever.
Chapter 10
George Lindy and Co. had been founded in 1892, and some people said they carried on as if hardly any water had flowed under the Thames’ bridges since then. Their offices were rather dark and rather dismal, and the small waiting room never contained anything more left-wing than Punch, but the trappings were not a true mirror of the substance. George Lindy, a stooping and grey-haired sixty, was a very able man with the remarkable talent of being able to please most of his clients most of the time. By nature, he was a benevolent autocrat, and it had only been pressure of work some ten years before that had forced him to promote two of his assistants to partners. And being so very able, he had made certain the articles of partnership favoured him far more than the new partners at first realised.
Roger, in the waiting room, picked up a copy of The Field. Almost immediately, he put it down again. His mind was split down the centre. Half of it said he was a fool to worry, half said he was a fool ever to have believed he needn’t worry.
“Mr. Lindy will see you now, Mr. Ventnor.”
He went up the circular stairs that were in semidarkness and out on to a landing that was painted top and bottom in a filthy shade of brown. Lindy’s room was at the end.
Lindy always dressed for business in traditional black coat and striped trousers, and he carried tradition further back than most by wearing a wing collar. “Morning, Roger. Slightly less warm, I think. A great advantage for people like myself whose years are climbing. How’s Patricia?”
“Pat’s O.K., thanks.”
“Good, good. Now. What brings you here?”
“It looks as though I’m heading for trouble.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. I suppose this latest credit squeeze has hit you rather hard?”
“Did you read in the local paper about Margaret Stukeley?”
Lindy considered the question. “I do not know the name.”
“She died in my old gatehouse from an overdose of abortion pills.”
“Yes?”
“I knew her before I became engaged and she called me in to help her when she was pregnant. I tried, once, to get something for her, but failed. Now the police are convinced it was I who gave her the pills.”
“Offenses Against
the Person Act.”
“I didn’t give her those pills, I don’t know who gave them to her, and I didn’t know she was going to take them. What’s more, I was not the father of the child. What in the hell do I have to do to convince the police of the truth?”
Lindy leaned back in his chair and fingered the heavy gold albert that hung across his chest. “I think, Roger, you’d better have a word with our Mr. Yerby. He’s the criminal expert.” Lindy made it clear that he, himself, preferred not to be mixed up in a criminal case that had such unpleasant undertones.
Yerby was approaching forty. He sported a rather luxurious moustache, spoke with a slight drawl, and wore a tie with the kind of pattern that was inclined to disturb Lindy. He listened in silence to the facts.
“You saw the girl on the sixth and that’s when you told her you couldn’t and wouldn’t get the pills because they were so dangerous?”
“That’s right.”
Yerby wrote on the sheet of foolscap in front of him. “And you didn’t meet her on the seventh?”
“No.”
“Are you quite certain? You must let me have all the facts, Mr. Ventnor, so that I can know how best to act.”
“I didn’t see her after the sixth, so how can anyone with an ounce of sanity drag me into the case?”
“You could, of course, have given her the pills on the sixth — the charge would still be the same. However, you can be quite certain that no charge will be brought unless the facts warrant it.”
“And suppose they bring a case against me?”
“Then it’ll mean they feel fairly certain about their facts.”
“If I didn’t give her the pills, they can’t become certain?”
“No.”
“Let’s hurry up, then, and convince them they’re barking up the wrong tree in the wrong forest.”
“At the moment, there’s little to be done. The police haven’t presented a case and for all we know they’re busy now finding the evidence that’ll clear you completely. About the only action I could suggest would be to hire a private detective to see whether he could trace the artist. But frankly, if the police have searched and failed, I don’t think we can give anyone else much of a chance.”
The Burden of Proof Page 8