A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  Trudy blinked. She knew that a beauty pageant was being staged, of course, from the notices she’d seen around town, but it hadn’t really registered with her much. ‘Oh, she was in that, was she?’

  Grace nodded, and with her hands restlessly folding and unfolding her skirt, began to speak rapidly.

  ‘I work for Mr Dunbar, who owns Dunbar’s Jams, Honey and Marmalade. You know, the factory up past Summertown?’

  ‘Oh right,’ Trudy said. ‘You’re his secretary or something?’

  Grace gave a rueful smile. ‘Hardly! I’m not that high up! I do the odd bit of book-keeping – petty cash mostly, and fetch the coffee, do the filing and some bits of typing that the other secretaries don’t like doing… all tabs and… never mind that.’ Grace suddenly waved a hand in the air. ‘It’s not important. What is important, is that last year Mr Dunbar came up with a plan to help promote his honey. He wanted to put Dunbar Honey up there with the famous Oxford Marmalade brand.’ She paused to smile whimsically at this bit of obvious folly, and shrugged. ‘So he came up with this idea of holding an annual Miss Oxford Honey beauty pageant.’

  Trudy couldn’t help but smile. Her friend, catching her look, laughed suddenly.

  ‘I know – it’s hardly Miss World!’ Grace said, rolling her eyes a bit. ‘But actually, it’s quite a clever idea. All the papers will cover it, and Mr Dunbar knows someone who owns that old theatre just off Walton Street who’s letting him hold rehearsals there for free. He’s also agreed to host the beauty contest for the public one Saturday night next month. Tickets are already nearly sold out. That’s one of the reasons why they decided not to cancel the event after Abby died. Everybody was so excited about it, it seemed a shame to call it all off. Not only that, he’s got local shop owners putting up big prizes and acting as judges, so it’s hardly costing him a penny.’

  ‘He’s obviously quite a businessman, your boss,’ Trudy said, somewhat sceptically.

  ‘Actually, he probably is,’ Grace said flatly. ‘But that’s not really the point. I was asked to help out on the organising side of things, since I wasn’t exactly indispensable in the office,’ Grace laughed. ‘And Mrs Dunbar…’ For a moment the name seemed to catch in her throat, and then she smiled ruefully. ‘Well, let’s just say that Mrs Dunbar was adamant that her husband shouldn’t spend time on the beauty contest or let it get in the way of the business of making honey!’

  ‘Ah, I get it,’ Trudy said with a wicked smile. ‘She didn’t want her husband spending too much time hanging around with pretty girls.’

  Grace dragged in a large breath, but was obviously far too discreet to either confirm or deny her friend’s interpretation of how she’d come to be the hands-on manager of the contest. ‘So, anyway, a few weeks ago Mrs Dunbar drafted a piece for the newspapers, asking girls who lived in the city or within a twenty-mile radius, and who wanted to take part, to get in touch and sign up for the auditions. Obviously, they had to be over 18, but under 30 and well, er, they had to be, er…’

  ‘Pretty and with good figures?’ Trudy put in helpfully, when her friend seemed to struggle for a diplomatic way to phrase things.

  Grace suddenly giggled. ‘Well, you’d have thought that went without saying, wouldn’t you? But some of the women and girls who turned up…’ She rolled her eyes with yet another giggle. ‘Well… let’s just say that me and Mrs Dunbar and Mrs Merriweather – she’s the old lady who’s a Friend-of-the-Old-Swan-Theatre, and is helping us run the show – anyway, we had a bit of a job persuading some of them that they weren’t… er… quite suitable for what we had in mind.’

  Trudy shook her head. ‘The tact and diplomacy must have been quite something!’

  Again, Grace giggled. Then her face suddenly fell, as she remembered why she was there.

  ‘Yes. Well… anyway, Abigail and her friend Vicky were one of the first ones to apply, and we signed them both up straightaway. Over the next week, we whittled the applicants down to about twenty or so. Actually, the process is still ongoing but, again, that’s not what matters. The point is I got to know Abby, and… well, to put it in a nutshell, she was fairly confident that she had a good chance of winning. She was so looking forward to the competition night. She had stars in her eyes! What’s more, she was so upbeat about her “talent” spot and she just loved trying on the evening gowns and… Trudy, there was just no way that girl killed herself,’ Grace finished forcefully.

  Her eyes were now open so wide, and were fixed on Trudy with such a glare, as if she thought she could make Trudy believe her by sheer force of will. ‘And I don’t know what to do about it. If they bring in a verdict of suicide, as everyone seems to think they will… it just won’t be right!’

  Her hands were shaking again, and Trudy reached out and held them firmly. ‘Gracie, it’s all right – just calm down a bit. But I don’t quite know what you think I can do about it,’ she told her gently. ‘I’m just a probationary constable. And I didn’t know this girl, or anything about the circumstances surrounding her death.’

  ‘No, but you know this Dr Ryder man, don’t you? He’s a coroner, isn’t he? Can’t you ask him to help?’ Grace asked quickly.

  For a second or two, Trudy stared at her friend aghast. How could she possibly explain to her friend, who knew nothing about the police force and how its hierarchy actually worked, why her request was so impossible. For a start, if her boss, DI Jennings, ever found out that she’d gone behind his back about a case, he’d skin her alive! Especially since the Inspector was hardly a fan of the coroner.

  But as if sensing what was coming, Grace got in first. ‘Please, Trudy, can’t you just speak to him? At least ask him to call me as a witness or something? I can testify to her state of mind, at least, can’t I? Won’t the inquest want to know that Abby wasn’t feeling suicidal at all?’

  ‘But, Grace, how can you be so sure?’ Trudy asked helplessly. ‘None of us know, not really, how someone else is feeling.’

  Slowly, Grace’s shoulders slumped. ‘So you won’t help?’ she asked flatly, her gaze so accusatory that Trudy almost winced.

  ‘It’s not that I won’t. It’s that I can’t,’ Trudy tried to explain. ‘I’m not even one of the officers assigned to the case,’ she pointed out. ‘And believe you me, my superiors… well, let’s just say, they won’t be in any hurry to listen to what I might have to say,’ she added, a shade bitterly. The thought of the look that would cross her DI’s face if she came to him with this tale was enough to make her shudder.

  Seeing what she was up against, Grace decided that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound, and took a deep, deep breath.

  ‘It’s not only this thing with Abby,’ Grace said, sounding almost defiant all of a sudden. ‘It’s other things as well. At the theatre…’ She paused, closed her eyes for a second, and then took the plunge. ‘Things have been happening.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Trudy asked sharply.

  Grace shrugged, her eyes suddenly darting around the room so that they wouldn’t have to meet Trudy’s. ‘Oh, just things,’ she said, rather unhelpfully. ‘Stupid things. Nasty little tricks… For instance, someone tied a string over the bottom step in the stairs that leads up to the stage, so that one of the girls took a tumble. Oh, she wasn’t hurt – but she did have to rest her ankle for a few days, so she lost rehearsal time for her dance routine. And then something must have been added to one of the girls’ jars of face cream which brought her skin out in a rash… It faded after a few days, but she pulled out of the competition anyway. Just silly little pranks like that.’

  Trudy frowned. ‘But isn’t that likely to be a simple case of rivalry between the contestants? It sounds like the sort of mean tricks that some girl who wants to scare others into withdrawing from the contest might use.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what everyone seems to think,’ Grace admitted reluctantly. ‘But, Trudy, I’m not so sure. I have a bad feeling about it all. I think… Oh, I just wish you’d talk to your coron
er friend about Abby! Perhaps you could come down to the theatre sometime, during rehearsals or something, and just take a look around? See if anything strikes you as… odd. But you mustn’t tell anyone that you know me, or that I’ve been talking to you, because then I could lose my job,’ Grace added hastily, suddenly clutching her arm and holding it in a tight grip. ‘Mr Dunbar wouldn’t like it if he thought that I’d been speaking out of turn. He’s dead scared as it is that the papers will get to know about our little problems and give us bad publicity. So you mustn’t come in uniform or anything… I know!’ She suddenly beamed brightly. ‘You could pretend to be thinking of applying to be a contestant or something. It would give you the perfect excuse for being there and having a look around. Oh, Trudy, please?’

  Trudy, unable to resist the appeal in her friend’s eyes, suddenly gave in. What could it really hurt, just to put her mind at rest? DI Jennings need never know about it. Besides, she was intrigued.

  ‘OK. I’ll go and see Dr Ryder and tell him what you’ve said. If nothing else, he can at least give us some advice. But I’m not promising anything mind!’

  ‘Oh, Trudy! Thanks ever so much!’ Grace leaned across and gave her a hug. ‘Now, I’ve really got to get back to Mum,’ she said. ‘I don’t like leaving her in the house for long with just Dad to look after her,’ she admitted, and Trudy gave her a quick, fierce hug back.

  ‘Of course!’ she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. ‘And I do hope your mother gets better soon,’ she said. She simply couldn’t imagine what she’d do, or how she’d feel or cope, if her own mother suddenly got so ill. The thought made Trudy feel quite sick.

  She jumped up and ushered her friend downstairs. And with a quick ‘goodbye’ called out to the older Lovedays who were still in the kitchen, Grace was gone.

  But as Grace Farley walked to the end of the street and caught the bus across town, she sat in her seat, swaying slightly and looking out at the darkening city with a growing sense of panic.

  Had she done the right thing? What if it all backfired? What if Trudy didn’t come through for her? Or worse yet, what if she did, but didn’t get the results that she, Grace, so desperately needed her to get? And what if her old friend was really good at her job, and learned far more than was good for her?

  Grace shifted on the seat, fighting back a growing sense of unease. What if she’d miscalculated, and it all went wrong?

  For a long moment, Grace Farley felt chilled to the bone.

  She could actually end up in prison.

  Or worse yet! What would her tormentor do to her if it came out that she, Grace, had brought the police sniffing around the theatre?

  And yet… And yet, the risk had to be worth it.

  She simply had to get something on her persecutor, before… well, before things got totally out of control.

  Trudy Loveday was the only one she knew who might be able to find such ammunition. But she’d have to watch her old friend closely.

  Chapter 2

  Dr Clement Ryder watched his hand, which was lying flat on the tabletop, and scowled as it began to twitch slightly. Grimly, he used his other hand to massage the palm, and after a while, the twitching slowly abated. But he knew it would be back.

  He’d self-diagnosed himself as suffering from Parkinson’s disease whilst still a surgeon in London, which had led to him resigning from his medical career and embarking on his new life as a coroner in Oxford.

  Although, so far, he’d managed to keep his condition a secret from everyone – his friends, family, and work colleagues alike – he was well aware that he faced an uphill struggle in the years ahead to keep the secret safe, as the disease inevitably progressed and worsened. And the symptoms became more and more obvious.

  But at least, being a widower and living alone now that both of his grown children were off living lives of their own, his domestic situation put him in a good position to keep his private demons strictly private.

  Which was why he scowled somewhat ferociously as he heard the doorbell ring. Visitors were seldom welcome. He glanced outside, saw that it was nearly fully dark, and wondered who could be calling at this time in the evening.

  Although he was a man of influence and power, and often socialised with Oxford’s movers and shakers, his real friends were few and far between, and all of them knew that he wasn’t the kind of man that you simply ‘dropped in on’ to have a chat and a nightcap with.

  He got up somewhat reluctantly from his chair, a tall man at just over six feet in height, with a shock of thick silvery-white hair. He was a few years off his sixtieth birthday, but looked comfortably closer to 50. As he walked out into the hall, he watched his feet carefully. The stumbling uneven gait of a man in his condition was a dead giveaway to well-informed eyes, and he was glad to notice that, so far, he was walking as well as he’d ever done.

  Perhaps, in the future, he might have to feign some sort of leg injury to cover up any falls or mishaps? Or a touch of fictional arthritis might fit the bill? It would certainly give him an excuse to use a walking cane. He’d have to give it some thought.

  He opened his front door with a peremptory sweep, and then blinked in surprise as he saw the young, tall, brunette woman standing anxiously on his step.

  Trudy Loveday had never called at the coroner’s home before. On the previous two occasions that they’d worked murder cases, she’d always gone to his office to make her reports or to meet up with him.

  She’d found his name and address in the phone book and hadn’t been at all surprised to have to find her way to the prestigious area near South Parks Road, where he lived in a terrace of large, Victorian houses, in a leafy street not far from Keble College.

  ‘Hello, Dr Ryder,’ she said now, launching nervously into speech. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this… If you’ve got company, I can always come back…’ She half-turned, almost wishing he’d say that he had, so that she could go away again.

  For now that she was here, she was feeling distinctly uneasy. It was one thing to be assigned as this important man’s police liaison by her boss, but that was a whole world away from coming to his private residence, out of uniform, and begging for a favour. It smacked of presumptuousness, and as such, was enough to send her face flooding with colour.

  Which was why she’d come over barely ten minutes after Grace Farley had left, as she’d felt that the sooner she got it over with, the less fraught her nerves would become.

  ‘No, no, I’m alone,’ he reassured her pleasantly. ‘Come on in, Constable Loveday,’ Clement said, using her title rather than her name, since he’d instantly picked up on her anxiety.

  Trudy forced a smile and stepped inside a small but – to her eyes at least – still rather grand hall, with black and white tiles on the floor, and a large oval ornately-framed mirror set over a narrow console table. She noted the private telephone that rested on it and was once again reminded of the differences in their status.

  If the Lovedays ever needed to make a telephone call, they used the phone box at the end of their street, like everyone else.

  ‘Come on through to the study,’ he said, indicating the door that stood open to their left. ‘I was just about to make some cocoa,’ he lied. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Oh, no thank you,’ Trudy said instantly. ‘I won’t stay long, and I don’t want to take up your time,’ she insisted. But even as she spoke, she wondered if it was true that the coroner had been about to drink so innocent a beverage.

  Once or twice in the past, she’d wondered if he drank too much. Occasionally she’d noticed one or two signs that might indicate intoxication. But she watched him now as he led her into a pleasant, book-lined room with large sash windows overlooking the tree-lined street beyond, and he seemed to be alert and sober.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he offered, indicating one of the green leather button-back chairs that sat in front of a walnut desk. He took his own seat behind it as Trudy, still feeling very much the supplicant,
lowered herself into the chair.

  ‘The reason I’ve come,’ she began, launching into her story before she could give herself time to chicken out, ‘is that I’ve just had a visit from an old friend of mine. And what she had to say… I thought you should know about it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Clement asked, clearly puzzled but also intrigued. Which was, Trudy hoped, a good sign.

  ‘Yes. It’s about the girl who died recently from ingesting poison – the yew berry case, and she—’

  Clement Ryder quickly held up his hand. ‘Before you go any further, let me stop you just a moment. That’s one of my cases – I’m holding the inquest the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. I rather hoped it might be one of yours,’ Trudy admitted. ‘It makes things so much easier.’

  Clement smiled wryly at her. He’d come to know Trudy Loveday quite well during the past year, and had come to respect her ambition and intelligence, but she could still be heart-breakingly young and naive sometimes.

  ‘It might, or it might not,’ he said firmly. ‘But it’s not really the done thing to discuss details of an inquest before it’s even started. And if you’re here to ask questions about the case, I’m afraid I simply can’t discuss it with you. Even if you’ve been assigned the case in your official police capacity…?’ He paused delicately, one eyebrow raised, and Trudy quickly shook her head.

  ‘Oh no, I’m not,’ she confirmed. And didn’t need to say any more. Both of them knew that her boss wouldn’t have assigned her to work on such an important case since DI Jennings preferred her to do office work, make the tea, and hold the hands of female victims of handbag-snatchings or lost cats.

  Letting her work on a case that involved actual police work wasn’t something that would have occurred to him!