A Recipe for Murder

  A Recipe for Murder

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1980

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1980 by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  1

  The rain was heavy and the north-east wind was driving it against the window with a slashing, drumming sound: the edge of the lawn was almost under water. It was more like mid-November than mid-September.

  Detective Sergeant Kelly said: ‘Proper weather for ducks.’ He had a round, plumpish face whose underlying expression was one of relaxed contentment. It was easy to judge that not much rattled him.

  Scott crossed to a wall switch and started the fan blower. Heat began to spread through, the small, beamed room. ‘Grab a seat. And how about a cup of coffee?’

  When Kelly said he’d like one — ‘Can’t ever resist a coffee’ — Scott went through to the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. He collected together mugs, milk, sugar, and instant coffee. The kettle boiled and he put water in the mugs and added coffee. It took time to find a tray because Avis was not the tidiest of housewives, but having found it he carried the coffee through to the sitting-room.

  ‘It’s certainly not the weather for farming,’ said Kelly.

  ‘If you listen to any farmer, no weather ever is.’

  ‘You don’t farm, then?’

  ‘I write.’

  ‘D’you mean, you write books?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My missus’ll be tickled pink to hear I’ve met you: tremendous reader, she is. What name do you write under?’

  ‘My own.’ He was cynically amused to note from Kelly’s expression that he’d obviously never even seen a book by Kevin Scott.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll have read and liked your books,’ said Kelly manfully. ‘The trouble for me is, I don’t get much time for pleasure reading.’

  ‘These days, not enough people do … Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Kelly leaned forward until he was sitting on the edge of the chair. He put three spoonfuls of sugar in one of the mugs. ‘I’ve always had a sweet tooth. When I was a nipper I used to stand in front of the farthing tray of sweets and wonder which offered the best value … It’s a long time since there were trays of farthing sweets.’

  Scott waited for the further observation that the world had changed a lot, but this didn’t come. Kelly added milk; then picked up the mug and sat back. A spring twanged loudly, startling him.

  ‘It always does that. We bought the suite at a sale for twelve pounds and it’s been ringing the changes ever since.’ Scott offered a pack of cigarettes.

  ‘Thanks. The missus is always on at me to give up smoking, but —’ He came forward, balancing the mug in his right hand, and took a cigarette from the pack. When he settled back, the spring twanged again. ‘Sounds a bit like loose change to me.’

  Scott smiled.

  Kelly rested the mug on his right knee. ‘As I said, we’ve had this report. I hope you’ll understand, Mr Scott, that it doesn’t matter how crazy a report, we have to check on it.’

  ‘So what crazy report has brought you here?’

  ‘We’ve been told that your wife’s missing and something must have happened to her.’

  ‘Who in the hell’s been wasting your time with that nonsense?’

  ‘A Miss Holloway. Apparently Mrs Scott was due to ring her in London, but didn’t, and this so worried her that she repeatedly rang this house without getting an answer.’

  ‘And that was enough to make her get on to you with that crazy allegation? She’s even more mentally unstable than I thought.’

  ‘Your wife is perfectly all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is she here now, in this house?’

  ‘No, she isn’t.’

  ‘When did you last actually see her?’

  ‘I went up to London on Tuesday and she drove me to the station.’

  ‘When did you return from London?’

  ‘Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘And she didn’t meet you at the station — weren’t you expecting her to?’

  ‘Yes, but she wasn’t there so I caught a taxi.’

  ‘Surely you were worried by her absence?’

  ‘No.’

  Kelly chose his words carefully. ‘But if your wife had made all the arrangements —’

  ‘She’s an independent person who often pursues her independence fairly vigorously.’ Scott’s tone was ironic. ‘When she wasn’t at the station, I assumed she’d decided on the spur of the moment to go and stay with friends and had just forgotten about meeting me.’

  ‘But …’ Kelly clearly found difficulty in envisaging a wife who could act like that. ‘But in that case, surely you’ve rung friends to check where she’s staying and that she’s all right?’

  ‘No. I respect independence.’

  Kelly, still bewildered, changed the conversation. ‘I presume Miss Holloway is a close friend of your wife?’

  ‘That is how she’d describe the relationship.’

  ‘I heard that she was almost hysterical when she telephoned.’

  ‘She is hysterical both by nature and choice.’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t like her?’

  Scott didn’t answer.

  Kelly rubbed his square, blunt chin. ‘Rightly or wrongly, she is very worried that something has happened to your wife.’ He hesitated, then said rather diffidently: ‘Mr Scott, would you describe your marriage as a normally happy one?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the normal marriage is happy?’

  ‘I’m asking you about yours.’

  ‘I was brought up only to discuss other people’s marriages, never my own.’

  Kelly sighed. ‘I think the best thing I can do is leave you my telephone number.’ He took a card from his battered wallet and put this down on the occasional table by his side. ‘When you know for certain where your wife’s staying, perhaps you’d give me a ring?’ He stood. ‘Sorry to have interrupted your writing: I hope it hasn’t upset the inspiration.’ He walked across to the panelled wooden door, reached for the thong which lifted the broad latch but then checked his action. He turned back. There is one more thing. Do you know a Mrs Ballentyne?’

  ‘How’s that of the slightest consequence?’

  ‘Miss Holloway said that you and the lady were friends?’

  ‘Quite right. But friends in the old fashioned, pre-permissive-age sense.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Please don’t forget to phone, then, as soon as you’ve had word from your wife.’ He pulled open the door of the sitting-room and went into the hall and Scott followed him. As he stared through one of the windows, he said for the second time: ‘Just the weather for ducks.’

  2

  After a wet, miserable June, July had finally introduced summer to the countryside. Much of the sunshine seemed to fade for Scott when he went downstairs and saw the parcel on the porch seat, left there by the postman an hour earlier: he could be certain that this was his script, sent
to the publishers five weeks before. Of course, they might merely be returning it for minor alterations …

  He went along the hall to the kitchen, where he plugged in the electric kettle to boil and then made two mugs of coffee.

  Avis was sitting up in bed, reading a women’s magazine. She was looking provocatively lovely. Her blonde, naturally curly hair was in some disorder yet it artfully framed her oval face: her peaches-and-cream complexion needed no make-up: her deep blue eyes, set above a classically shaped nose were, without any deliberation on her part, looking slightly soulful: her full lips, so promising in shape, were moist and slightly apart: her nightdress was filmy and the outlines of her shapely breasts were visible. Oh well, he thought, as he put one mug down on her bedside table, he wasn’t the first man to have made a fool of himself over a beautiful woman.

  She looked up. ‘D’you know what I’ve just read?’ Her voice was low and a shade husky. ‘In the fur sales in London, Marquans offered a ten-thousand-pound Russian sable coat for three thousand. I’ve always wanted a sable coat.’

  He wondered if there were anything expensive which she had not, at one time or another, coveted.

  ‘I ran into Maureen the other day when I was in Fishers. She couldn’t wait to tell me that Joe has bought her a new fur coat.’

  ‘Sable?’

  ‘Ranch mink.’

  ‘Tightwad.’

  She frowned. ‘Why do you always sneer about everybody?’

  ‘Sheer envy.’ He didn’t really envy Joe one little bit, but his major defence to an unhappy marriage was an ironic amusement of life’s absurdities.

  ‘If you’d get a proper job and make some money you wouldn’t be so eaten up by envy.’ She’d said the same thing too often to sound truly resentful now. ‘When we were engaged and just after we were married we used to go out and have fun, but you won’t go anywhere now.’

  A man’s engagement should never be held against him: innocence was so often naive.

  ‘When did we last go out to a dance? Not since the midsummer ball, and I only got you to that after a hell of a struggle. Yet Joe takes Maureen out at least once a week. They’re off to the Grand to-morrow. She asked me why didn’t we make up a party?’

  ‘I trust you explained the facts of life as related to expense accounts?’

  ‘I keep telling you, I’ll pay.’

  ‘Thanks, but we’ll wait until I can afford to take you.’

  ‘You’re riddled with ridiculous pride.’

  Could one have pride in one’s lack of success? ‘God, how I hate living here, in this grotty place.’ The clapboard cottage was two hundred years old. It had beamed ceilings, low lintels, ingle-nook fireplaces, a hall which had been an outshut, and some of the original plaster made with cow dung. He loved it because it was quiet, time passed.

  ‘What is so terrible is that you’ve got a good brain. If only you’d chuck up writing and get a job you could earn a decent salary and we wouldn’t have to live like paupers.’

  He suddenly needed to explain, deliberately forgetting all the previous times he’d tried. He wrote, despite his lack of financial success, because he had faith in himself as a writer. Every time he sat and typed ‘Chapter One’, he was certain that now he was going to write the book which would win recognition from the critics and the public. Then, as chapter followed chapter, he sadly became aware there had been a communications breakdown between mind and fingers and that although this book would (hopefully) be published, it would not be the knife to life he had intended. It was this which so frustrated and depressed him. Yet he ‘knew’ that with the next book the miracle would happen and intention and performance would become one. That was why he had to go on writing.

  She said petulantly: ‘I just don’t understand the point of going on and on when you don’t make as much as a garbage collector.’

  He should have saved his breath for cooling the coffee. He drank, to discover that the coffee had become cool without the effort.

  She put her empty mug down, climbed out of bed and stretched. ‘I think I’ll go up to London for the day. I haven’t been around the shops in ages.’ She crossed to the cupboard, which was built to the side of the huge central chimney which came up from downstairs, opened the door, and stared at her many dresses. She chose one and put it on the bed, pulled her nightdress up and over her head. She smiled with satisfaction when she saw the expression on his face. He thought, as he left the bedroom, that God had overarmed the female sex when He gave them both a tongue and a body.

  He went downstairs and put the mugs in the kitchen, returned to the hall and unlocked the porch door. He picked up the parcel and two letters with it: both the letters were for Avis.

  Back in the kitchen he used a sharp knife to open the parcel. There was a folder and inside that his script and a letter.

  The editor, a charming man in his late fifties, possessed endless, at times repetitious tact. Two readers had read the script and unfortunately their reports had been somewhat critical. He himself had read it and was forced to agree with their criticisms. Knowing what a perfectionist Kevin was, he was certain Kevin would not wish the script to be published in its present form. Kevin, of course, might be tempted to submit the script elsewhere, but he did most sincerely (underlined) hope that Kevin would accept the verdict and put the script to one side and not bring an end to a collaboration which had led to several very good books being published.

  Scott swore.

  *

  It was the following Tuesday, cloudy but with sunshine forecast for the afternoon, when Avis looked across the breakfast table and said: ‘Shouldn’t you be hearing from the publishers about your latest script?’

  If an element of the unexpected helped keep a marriage from becoming stale, then his should have been as fresh as the proverbial daisy: there were many times when Avis totally surprised him. He would have said she was far too uninterested in his work to have the slightest idea when he’d sent the script off. He buttered a second piece of toast. ‘As a matter of fact, I heard from them the other day.’

  ‘Did they like it?’

  ‘Along the lines of the curate’s egg.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Charles admired my punctuation. Unfortunately, he was less enthusiastic about the opening, the way the plot developed, the characterisation, and the ending.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s rejected it?’

  ‘But in style, as one would expect from Charles. Pass the marmalade, will you, please.’

  Her voice rose. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say — pass the marmalade? What are we going to live on now? My money, I suppose?’

  ‘I’ve never asked you for a penny towards housekeeping and I’m not starting now.’

  ‘You’re great on declarations. The integrity of the writer. The distance between art and money. But you’d soon start moaning if I didn’t keep on buying extra food which you can’t afford.’

  ‘I could probably survive without brie and smoked salmon.’

  ‘You eat them quickly enough when they’re on the table.’

  ‘I’m far too afraid of pain to cut off my nose to spite my face.’

  ‘Always the smart answer. If you’re so clever, why in the hell don’t you write a smart book and make some money for a change?’

  It was a good question.

  She suddenly stood up. ‘I just can’t take the atmosphere any more. You’re always the same when something goes wrong with your writing. I’ll stay with someone for a couple of days until you’ve got over it.’

  ‘Who’s the someone — Fiona?’

  ‘What if she is? She’s been my friend from way back and I’m not going to stop seeing her just because you don’t like her. And if we’re going to start criticising each other’s friends, what about yours?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know about Jane.’

  He looked astonished, then laughed. ‘With your imagination and my punctuation, we o
ught to be able to write a book that even Charles would really like.’

  She hurried out of the room. He heard her feet clack across the tiled kitchen and hall floors. The stairs creaked one after the other, as they always did. She went into their bedroom. Her footsteps were muffled when she was on the carpet, hard and sharp when she moved off this onto the floorboards.

  The logical thing to do was to cry quits, divorce, and put the five years down to experience. Writers were supposed to be ready to pay heavily for experience. But he’d been blessed with parents who’d lived by outdated precepts. They had believed in duty. When a man gave his word, he stuck to it through thick and thin. (Small wonder that in the last ten years of their lives they had found the world a very odd place.) They had taught him to believe in duty and this was why he would never divorce Avis; though should she divorce him he would accept her decision with relief.

  3

  Avis’s mother, a woman of very decided opinions, had succinctly explained the facts of life. ‘They’re all the same, even your father: only one thought in their heads. And don’t you ever forget — beforehand its orchids, afterwards it’s dandelions.’

  Her parents had been wealthy. They’d lived in a large house, set in a garden of over two acres which had been landscaped by Mills. At a time when very few people employed even a single servant, they had employed a married couple as butler and cook, a fulltime parlourmaid, and a chauffeur/gardener: in addition, on four days a week a woman had come up from the village to do the more menial housework. Before going to finishing-school in Yverdon, Avis had never cooked, washed-up, made a bed, darned a sock, or sewn on a button. At the finishing-school, as a preparation for Life, she had been taught to cook mignon de boeuf en croûte.

  Frank had proposed to her, but his parents had been rather coarse. Jonathan had proposed to her, but he was the second son and as her mother had so wisely said, a second son came into neither the title nor the property. Peter had been going to propose to her, but after a while something must have happened because he’d seen less and less of her and in the end had become engaged to a woman of doubtful social status. And then she’d met Kevin and after three weeks and two days he’d proposed to her and she had accepted … If only her parents hadn’t been in that road smash which had left them both invalids, unwilling to bother about anybody but themselves. If only, after their deaths within six months of each other, it hadn’t turned out that they’d been living on capital and overdrafts so that instead of leaving her a fortune, her father, the last to die, had left her a bare thirty thousand pounds …