Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

“It was not until later that I realised what was different.” Ian Dollar had the healthy leathering skin of a countryman. He stood outside of his office, over the door of which was a sign which read Dollar’s Garden Centre. “I left the Minto house more or less the same time that Mrs. O’Sullivan left. Just after her, in fact, but for pretty much the same reason. I just didn’t like the household. I didn’t like Mrs. Minto messing about with her fancy man behind Mr. Minto’s back and her attitude... I mean, not bothering what me and Mrs. O’Sullivan thought, or even at all concerned that we knew what was happening. The attitude that the hired hands don’t matter, not really human beings, just robots doing tasks that they’ve been set to do. That attitude belongs to another age, and we’re well shot of it. But above that, more than that, Mr. and Mrs. Minto were ‘new’ money, they’d come up from the housing schemes. They’re the last people that should treat people like that... He was all right, but, see, her...”

“So you left?”

“Well, Mrs. O’Sullivan showed me the way. She left to have a pleasant final job to retire from. Me, I was a youngish lad, late twenties. I left to do what I’ve always wanted, start a garden centre.”

King looked around him. “You’ve done all right.”

“It’s fairly stable now. Didn’t realise the amount of work it would involve, but I stuck it and now I’m into profit.”

“So, tell me what you noticed to be different.”

“The pickaxe handle in the potting shed. About the time that Mr. Minto disappeared. It had been moved and wiped clean.”

“Really?” King saw the significance.

“Yes. I assume you’ve found his body, hence the interest.”

“You can assume what you wish to assume. Tell me about the pickaxe handle.”

“Well... confess I like your caution... well, the pickaxe handle stood in the potting shed, never used, just stood there, painted black, thick end on the ground, thinner end up against the wall. Remained like that for years gathering dust. I went into the shed shortly after Mr. Minto had disappeared and I noticed that the handle was gleaming black, as though it had been washed clean, and that it had been inverted. I didn’t see the significance at the time, if there is any significance at all.”

“I think there is a significance. Tell me, who had access to the potting shed?”

“Just myself and Mr. and Mrs. Minto.”

“Do you think the handle will still be there?”

“Who can tell? The potting shed is behind the garage. All you need to do is look.”

Mrs. Minto was still Mrs. Minto. She swayed as she looked at Richard King and the two constables who had accompanied him to her house. A woman well fallen from grace, thought King, two-bottle-a-day merchant at least. It was, by then, three P.M. and she was already “well on.” She looked at King with bleary eyes and then leered as if fancying him as her new young lover. Her home seemed to King to be a rambling mess, the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, the smell of stale tobacco, the garden overgrown.

“Can’t keep staff,” she slurred.

“We have found your husband’s body, Mrs. Minto.”

She seemed momentarily sobered, then seemed to look ill, and then she recovered.

“He did it, then?”

“Who...?”

“Durham, Mr. David Durham... bold boy David, the boy-wonder lover. He did it.”

“Mr. Durham?”

“Head of physics at Partick Academy, last I heard. No time for old Sheila now. Left old Sheila to the bottle. He was my boy... my young man.”

“I’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the police station, Mrs. Minto.”

“To where?”

“To the police station.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. After a night in the cells and plenty of nonalcoholic liquid, we’ll have a chat with you and tell you why you’ve been arrested, and perhaps you could throw a bit of light on the circumstances surrounding your husband’s disappearance. If not his murder.”

“Murder...” Mrs. Minto croaked the word as she was led gently towards the waiting police vehicle. She walked calmly, as if in a dream. Richard King closed the door of the house, knowing that it would later be searched, though he doubted anything of value to the police would be found after twelve years. He walked into the garden and opened the door of the potting shed. The lock opened stiffly, and the door opened and let out a draught of musty air. There, leaning against the wall, was the pickaxe handle, thin end on the ground, just as Ian Dollar had described. Now dusty again, it had last been used to cave in the skull of Douglas Minto. King closed the door of the shed, leaving the pickaxe handle where it stood. He would draw the attention of the Scene of Crimes officer to the handle, but for now it was better left untouched. He glanced at his watch. The city’s schools would be coming out. He drove to Partick Academy.

“Sense of relief.” David Durham was a man in his early thirties. He laid the pile of exercise books on the bonnet of a Landrover in the school car park.