A Fatal Secret

by Faith Martin

  But was being the wife of an Oxford don the best she could do either? Marjorie had always been aware that being wealthy was her biggest advantage and her greatest asset in life. She was not, she’d had to admit, particularly beautiful, although cosmetics and great clothes could create the illusion of beauty – just ask Coco Chanel or Christian Dior!

  ‘Let me think about it, Martin,’ she said at last, and sitting down beside him, she let her hand wander to the side of this face, and caress his cheek gently.

  ‘Fair enough, old girl, you do that,’ Martin said casually.

  But his heart was beating sickeningly. He knew, once Oliver found out what he’d done, he’d up his own game.

  And then they would see.

  Chapter 27

  Clement Ryder, unaware of his protégé’s distressing family argument, or the angst being suffered by Martin de Lacey’s family rivalry, had plenty of troubles of his own.

  He had poured himself a very small brandy, and was sitting in front of a blazing fire, watching the flames moodily. A widower for some time now, his two children had long since flown the nest. But it wasn’t the quietness of the house – a pleasant Victorian terrace in one of the city’s more desirable areas – that was making him feel uneasy, so much as his own, unquiet thoughts.

  With a grunt, he finished his glass of spirits and set it down on the inlaid walnut table beside him, and slowly leaned his head back against the headrest.

  All right then, he thought grimly, let’s have it. He closed his eyes, and began to think.

  If he was beginning to lose either his memory or his cognitive reasoning, he’d need to find some way to measure his deterioration. Or lack thereof. He was still apt to believe that his momentary lapse this afternoon wasn’t anything really ominous or significant. But he had to face facts. His illness was only going to get worse. Very slowly worse, he thought, and hoped, and actually believed. But even so… He needed to keep track of it.

  So he would have to set up a system. Journals. Yes, he could start keeping journals, making a note of every episode – every set of tremors, every slurred word, every dragging of his feet. That way, he would have statistics – real, proper data – that he could study.

  Facts had always been his ally. You could never rely only on your emotions. He simply couldn’t afford to become afraid of every little slip that he made. Why, if he let himself dwell on every little thing that could go wrong, he could make himself afraid to get up in the morning. What if he accidentally cut his throat shaving if he had a sudden hand tremor? Choked on his piece of breakfast toast if he should begin to have difficulty swallowing? Got wiped out in his car by some maniac overtaking on a bend when his own reaction time was slower than usual?

  No. That way lay madness.

  There were other tests that could be of use as well. Tests that he could do every week that would check the progress and state of his mental abilities… Yes, there were plenty of those.

  He reached for a pen and paper, and began to make his lists, feeling calmer and more reassured, the more he made a plan of action.

  *

  As the coroner made his lists, over at Briar’s Hall, little Emily de Lacey lay in her bed up in her nursery room, and contemplated grown-ups. They could do some truly bewildering and baffling things. Things that made no sense to her or to Eddie either.

  She turned on her mattress and stared at the wall. Familiar shadows, mostly cast by the trees outside, danced against the faded wallpaper.

  Was Eddie in heaven, looking down on her? She thought he must be, because there had been nothing wicked about him. She wondered if you knew all there was to know when you died. If so, why didn’t he come back and tell her what had happened to him that day? Maybe you weren’t allowed? The vicar sometimes said that it wasn’t man’s lot to know everything – that omni… omni-something-or-other belonged only to God.

  She turned and sighed, trying to get comfortable, but she just couldn’t fall asleep.

  She was afraid.

  What if something happened to her, like it had to Eddie? Well, it might be nice to be in heaven… But she rather thought it would be scary to get there. She didn’t want to die.

  But perhaps it would be all right. They hadn’t told anyone else about the things they’d seen. So nobody else knew that she knew.

  Unless Eddie had told somebody.

  But Eddie wouldn’t. Would he?

  Chapter 28

  The next morning, Trudy deliberately got up very early and slipped out of the house before either of her parents were awake. She caught the first bus into work, surprising her colleagues working the night shift, by joining then a good two hours before she was due in.

  She didn’t waste her time, but set about trying to track down John Blandon, the groom from the Hall, who’d gone ‘up north’ somewhere. With a relatively common name and not much to go on, it wouldn’t be easy, she knew.

  By the time the Sarge and the DI had arrived, she’d made a good start, if only in eliminating most of the John Blandons who definitely weren’t her man.

  Jennings, still in his sarcastic mood of the day before, told her she’d best get off to the morgue and see what the old vulture wanted this time. By now, Trudy never even winced at this unkind nickname for her mentor, and with a muttered ‘yes, sir’ was happy enough to go.

  By the time she’d collected a bicycle and had pedalled down St Aldate’s towards Floyds Row she was beginning to feel in a better mood. Her parents were bound to get over their unreasonable grump sometime, and who knew what the day might bring?

  That was what was so glorious about doing what she did. You never knew what might happen next. But how could she explain this to her parents? Especially since they valued routine so highly, as well as the predictability that came with a safe and steady job? When she got to the coroner’s office however, it was to learn from his secretary that he was sitting in court that morning and wouldn’t be available until after lunch. Annoyed with herself for not checking his diary before she came, she trailed back outside, and stood for a moment in the spring sun feeling slightly despondent.

  Around her, the city went about its normal business, and a fitful sun played tag with grey-tinged clouds. Two men went past her, discussing work, both of them rent collectors, from the little she overheard.

  She didn’t want to go back to the station, although she knew she ought to. But Inspector Jennings wouldn’t really be glad to see her and would only have to root around and find something boring for her to do, so really, she would be doing him a favour if she saved him the bother, right?

  Pleased with this bit of sophistry, she cast around for something she might usefully do, and after a moment’s thought, went to the nearest phone box and rooted around in her police satchel for some pennies. She got through to the operator and asked for the telephone number for the dower house at Briar’s-in-the-Wold, and was eventually put through, after duly feeding the telephone box some coins.

  A maid answered on the other end. She began by primly reciting the number in full, stating the name of the residence and then asked diligently, ‘How may I help you?’ She sounded young, and said it all in such a rehearsed and expressionless manner, that Trudy was sure that the poor girl must have had the proper telephone etiquette drummed into her – probably by the mistress of the house.

  ‘I would like to speak to Mrs Sylvia de Lacey please,’ she said clearly.

  ‘Certainly, madam. Whom may I say is calling?’

  ‘WPC Loveday. It concerns Eddie Proctor.’

  There was a sharp gasp on the other end of the line, and Trudy couldn’t help but smile. Of all the possible scenarios she must have been taught on how to deal with people over the telephone (from how to correctly address a Bishop, to politely dealing with a wrong number) she doubted that receiving a phone call from the police had been included among them.

  ‘I’ll see if madam is at home,’ the girl finally managed to stutter. There was a click as the telephone receiver was put
down at the other end, and Trudy searched her satchel for another penny, just in case Mrs de Lacey was in a room far away or took her time about deciding whether or not to take the call.

  But curiosity, as her old sergeant at training college had told her, was indeed a powerful motivator, for not long after, another far more confident voice came across the line.

  ‘Yes, this is Mrs Sylvia de Lacey.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs de Lacey, this is WPC Loveday. I’m calling from Oxford. I was wondering if, by any chance, you were thinking of coming into town today?’

  There was yet another startled pause at this somewhat peremptory question, then, ‘Well, I wasn’t, but I can do so if you think it’s important?’

  ‘Yes, madam, if you’d be so kind. As you may or may not know, we’re investigating the circumstances surrounding young Eddie Proctor’s… accident?’ She allowed a slight and significant pause before the final word, and thought she sensed a sudden tension over the line. Of course, that might just be wishful thinking on her part, she acknowledged to herself ruefully.

  ‘But I thought that was all over and done with?’ Sylvia de Lacey said sharply. ‘The inquest said it was an accident or misadventure or something, didn’t it? Surely there’s nothing more to be said about the matter?’

  So Martin hadn’t told her that he called in people to run a more thorough investigation, Trudy mused. Interesting that, since he’d informed all those belowstairs to expect them, and to cooperate. Was it possible that he’d neglected to tell his aunt because he suspected she wouldn’t approve? Or did she just rank so low on his radar that he’d simply forgotten about her?

  Even more interesting, she suddenly realised a moment later, is that this woman’s own son, Oliver, couldn’t have mentioned their visit to him either. Otherwise surely she wouldn’t sound so surprised now? What was it about this family, she wondered, that they never seemed to tell each other anything? Little Emily was guarded from talking to them by both her father and the ever-faithful Mrs Roper. Oliver and his mother clearly didn’t communicate. And Clement had told her that even during his initial interview with Martin de Lacey, the squire hadn’t exactly been very forthcoming.

  ‘We still don’t know any details about how Eddie came to be in the orchard or to fall into the well, Mrs de Lacey,’ Trudy explained patiently. ‘Naturally, the poor boy’s parents need to be reassured that everything is being done to find out more. I’m sure, as a parent yourself, you can sympathise,’ she added, allowing her voice to sound gently chiding.

  ‘Oh yes, yes, of course I do,’ the other woman said at once, sounding a little irritated and flustered. ‘It’s all so dreadful! But I’m not sure how I can help?’ she added stubbornly.

  ‘We’re talking to everyone who knew Eddie, of course, and all the staff at the Hall, as well as members of your family. We’ve already talked to Mr Martin de Lacey and your son, and young Emily. And the servants – Mrs Roper, the gardening staff and so on. We’re trying to build up a picture of the boy, and what went on that Easter Sunday. Would it be possible to meet here in town?’ Trudy was sure that by listing all the others that she’d spoken to, it would leave the other woman feeling reluctant to be left out. If only to try to find out what everybody else was saying.

  ‘At the police station? You want me to come to a police station?’ Sylvia de Lacey said, sounding truly astonished.

  Trudy gave a small inner sigh. Obviously, ladies of Sylvia de Lacey’s ilk would never expect to set foot across the doorstep of such an outlandish place. ‘Oh no, of course not, Mrs de Lacey,’ she reassured her quickly. ‘I was thinking that we could meet up in town somewhere, perhaps over a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, that would be fine. Do you know Elliston & Cavell’s?’ She named a department store, which boasted a popular tearoom. ‘Or would you prefer Fuller’s?’

  Fuller’s, Trudy knew, was a rather expensive and upmarket cake shop and tearoom that neither she nor her parents had ever dared venture into, knowing they simply wouldn’t be able to afford a cake between them! ‘Elliston & Cavell will be fine, Mrs de Lacey,’ she selected hastily. ‘What time this morning would be most convenient for you?’

  ‘Oh, I have a little runabout of my own. I can be there in about forty minutes?’

  ‘That would be fine. I’ll meet you in the tearoom then,’ Trudy said with some relief. And then she wondered how nice it must be to have ‘a little runabout’ whenever you wanted to go somewhere. Of course, once Dr Ryder had taught her how to drive, she would start saving up, and in a few years she might be able to have a little car of her own. A Morris Minor perhaps or…

  ‘How shall I know you?’ The somewhat cool voice on the other end of the line interrupted her pleasant daydream and brought her back to earth with a bump.

  ‘I’ll be in uniform, ma’am,’ Trudy said, and then almost giggled as another sudden silence at the end of the line showed that she’d succeeded in startling the lady yet again.

  ‘Oh, of course, how silly of me,’ she recovered swiftly. ‘Until then, WPC…’

  ‘Loveday, ma’am,’ Trudy said gently, trying not to feel offended that she had forgotten her name, and hung up.

  With a little time on her hands she indulged herself in some window-shopping, feeling alternatively guilty over not really working, whilst at the same time glorying in that freedom you felt only when you found yourself on an unexpected (and not actually sanctioned) holiday.

  She felt proud of herself for getting Mrs de Lacey to come to her – since she didn’t fancy bicycling all the way out to the village, but then her smugness abruptly fled as an appalling thought suddenly hit her.

  Did she have enough money to pay for her share of the bill at the tearoom?

  Once more, she quickly delved among her accoutrements in her police satchel, and was relieved to find that she could at least afford a cup of tea – but probably not a cake.

  Reassured, she made her way slowly along Cornmarket Street to the department store, pausing outside a hair salon, where a photograph of a model displaying the latest bouffant style made her stop and stare. If she ever dared go home with a hairstyle like that, her mother would have a fit!

  Hastily dragging her thoughts away from the idea of yet more maternal anger and disappointment, she hurried to the store and spent the rest of her remaining time wandering past the various counters, contemplating the wares on offer. This caught the attention of the store detective, who watched her curiously for some time, perhaps wondering why the police were in his store.

  The shop girls too, watched her unobtrusively and then gathered together to whisper about her once she’d passed on. But Trudy was getting used to that sort of reaction. She was convinced, though, that more and more women would join the police force in the coming years, and then maybe she wouldn’t be considered such an oddity.

  The tearoom was a mixture of genteel efficiency and old-fashioned decor, and she chose a table in a far and rather dim corner, suspecting that Mrs de Lacey would appreciate a measure of privacy. She took a seat, told the waitress who immediately approached that she was expecting a friend, and looked around her with pleasure. She’d been here only once or twice before with her mother, and with a friend or two on special occasions – like birthdays – but never for a professional business meeting.

  A woman with lavender-tinged hair and draped in a large but rather old mink stole appeared in the doorway, making Trudy sit up and take notice. But after a quick look around, the matron quickly spotted her quarry and moved across to join a table where two other, similarly well-to-do women were sitting.

  For the next ten minutes or so, she contentedly watched the doorway as various people came and went, indulging herself by making up little stories about who they were and what their lives were like. But when a slim, elegant woman entered and paused to look around, Trudy straightened in her chair instinctively. The newcomer had salt-and-pepper hair that looked really attractive and striking, swept up as it was into a simple but elegant chig
non, which helped highlight her high cheekbones and strong jawline to their maximum advantage. She was wearing a severely tailored jacket in navy blue, which matched a pencil skirt of the same colour. Only a froth of lace at the front of her oyster-silk blouse displayed a touch of femininity.

  Her eyes quickly found Trudy, and she made her way to the corner table, all the while looking around quickly at the other customers, in case there should be someone present that she knew. Evidently there wasn’t, for her expression seemed relaxed enough when she arrived in front of Trudy.

  ‘WPC Loveday?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for coming, Mrs de Lacey.’

  The older woman took a chair, removed her gloves, and was instantly attended by the waitress. ‘A pot of tea and a plate of scones, please,’ she said at once, without consulting the menu – or Trudy.

  ‘So, how can I help?’ she asked, getting to the point straightaway, and spearing Trudy with a pair of hazel eyes that seemed to miss very little. She wasn’t exactly hostile, but Trudy could sense a certain impatience in her tone that warned her she’d better not shilly-shally.

  ‘Did you know Eddie Proctor?’ she asked first. ‘I understand he was a particular favourite of your great niece, Emily.’

  ‘Yes, I knew him,’ Sylvia said at once, rather surprising Trudy who, for some reason, had been expecting a blunt negative. ‘Or rather, I often saw him and Emily about the place,’ she qualified. ‘You know, playing in the grounds and that sort of thing. He seemed a nice enough lad.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’ Trudy asked, again, for some reason, feeling surprised. She simply couldn’t put this elegant woman and a probably grubby, 11-year-old village boy together.

  ‘Well, we didn’t exactly have conversations,’ Sylvia said, her lips – coloured in the latest fashionable lipstick – twitching slightly in amusement. ‘But he was polite, and if we ran across each other in the grounds, we’d exchange a few words. I like to walk in the grounds, you see. I’ve always enjoyed walking in the countryside.’