A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

‘No,’ Clement agreed, a shade heavily and with an ironic glint in his eye. ‘But even if you had been working the case—’

  This time it was Trudy’s turn to interrupt him, which she did, aware that she was blushing slightly.

  ‘It’s all right, Dr Ryder, I haven’t come here to try and find things out. I’d never presume on our…’ She found herself wanting to say the word ‘friendship’ and managed to alter her tongue just in time. ‘Acquaintance. Actually, it’s just the opposite. I’ve come here to tell you something that you might find relevant. Or not. I’m not really sure,’ she said, suddenly feeling confused and not at all as confident as she had been that that this important man would be interested in Grace’s opinion at all.

  Suddenly, sitting here in this posh house and in this rather imposing room, Trudy began to wonder what she could have been thinking.

  Had she been horribly stupid? When she’d set out, she’d been sure that, because he liked her and they’d got on well in the past, he would be glad to see her and interested in what she had to say. Now, she felt far less sanguine.

  ‘Well, I won’t know until I hear it, Trudy,’ Clement said casually, amused by her sudden lack of coherence, and determined to put her at ease. She reminded him a little of a cat set down in an unfamiliar environment, and he was glad when she began to relax. ‘So, tell me what it’s all about then,’ he advised her amiably.

  Thus encouraged, it didn’t take her long to recount the substance of Grace Farley’s visit, and when she’d finished, she waited expectantly to see what he had to say.

  Clement took only a few moments to process the information, and briefly consulted his memory – which, mercifully, was still functioning perfectly. ‘The files on the case are all back at my office, of course, but I’m pretty sure Grace Farly isn’t one of the witnesses on my list,’ he finally admitted.

  ‘Does that mean you can’t call her as a character witness then?’ Trudy asked, disappointed, and making Clement laugh softly.

  ‘It’s not a criminal trial you know,’ he reminded her gently. ‘I’ll be calling the person who found her – which was her mother, I believe – along with medical experts and such like. And her best friend, I believe, who, presumably, will be saying much the same as your visitor?’

  Trudy shrugged. ‘I don’t know if she will or if she won’t. But Grace was really adamant that Abigail wasn’t suicidal. I just thought you should know. And I promised Grace I would tell you, so…’ She shrugged graphically.

  Clement nodded. ‘So now the ball’s in my court, as they say. Both literally and figuratively speaking.’

  She grinned, then looked wistful. ‘I wish I could attend the inquest. I’m sort of interested now. But I don’t think the Sergeant will let me have the time off! Not even if I make the case that it’s all good experience for me.’

  ‘Never mind. If you come round to my office when it’s over, I’ll fill you in,’ he promised.

  ‘Will you? Thanks so much,’ Trudy said, already rising. He politely walked her to the door and was still smiling slightly as he shut it behind her.

  Her youthful enthusiasm, as always, had lifted his spirits a little and helped lighten his mood. She might not have realised it, but the coroner was glad she’d come.

  It wasn’t until after she’d thanked him and was on her way back home, that Trudy wondered what he’d made of Grace’s other concerns about the tricks being played at the theatre.

  Had he been interested in that anyway? The rather catty goings-on of a bunch of would-be beauty queens couldn’t have concerned him much.

  In any case, it couldn’t hurt to pop by the theatre herself one afternoon during rehearsals, just to satisfy her own curiosity. She knew from what Grace had said that the theatre’s owner was happy for them to use the building during daylight, as long as they vacated the premises long before the evening performances began. Presumably the place didn’t do matinees.

  It sounded fun, in a way. She’d never seen a beauty contest being held before, and it had a certain appeal. All those pretty dresses and things. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine stepping out in front of people just dressed in a swimming costume! The thought made her shudder.

  But just to have a look around and put Grace’s mind at rest – well, where was the harm in that? When Trudy had first started school, it had been a daunting time and the slighter older girl had been kind enough to take her under her wing. She’d even intervened once, when a playground bully had tried to push her into the sandpit. So far, she’d never been in a position to repay the debt, but now, finally, she could.

  It never once occurred to her that by doing so, she might be putting her own life at risk.

  Why would it?

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Christine Dunbar sighed over a large bunch of russet chrysanthemums that stubbornly failed to form into the shape she wanted, and began re-arranging them, somewhat impatiently, in a large cut-glass vase.

  She was a rather handsome but large and fleshy woman, who was never seen out and about in public without wearing her corset. Her tightly waved, rather brassy blonde hair was always hardened into submission by a lavish application of hairspray, and her face was always made up with the latest and finest cosmetics. Only her rather boiled-gooseberry blue eyes caused her real concern, but, as her practically-minded mother had always told her, there was very little she could do about those.

  Her grandfather had been a Tory politician for many years, and once, in his glory days before the Great War, had even been a member of the cabinet. And it was from him that, as an only child, she had inherited the large, whitewashed mansion just off the Woodstock road where she now lived. Sited firmly in the prestigious area in the north of the city, it boasted a large, well-tended garden, and a double garage.

  Finally having beaten the blooms into submission, she carried the now perfectly arranged vase into the lounge and placed it on top of the grand piano. Neither she nor her husband could play the instrument, not being particularly musical, but it had stood in pride of place in the room, probably since Queen Victoria had reigned.

  Her husband, sitting on the sofa and perusing the London Times, barely noticed her presence as she took a seat on the sofa opposite him, and reached for an embroidery hoop, containing her latest needlework.

  She enjoyed making religious mottoes, usually surrounded by a flower border, which she then donated to the local church bazaar.

  Now she looked over a rather fine pink peony that she had almost finished, and regarded her husband, Robert, without any obvious signs of enthusiasm.

  In many ways, she believed, she had rather married beneath her. And yet she couldn’t deny that in many other ways, her choice had been a wise and inspired one.

  Robert was not, she admitted to herself without any undue sense of worry, a particularly handsome man. Of average height at five feet seven inches, he was now, at the age of 52, going slightly bald on top, but kept his hair nicely dyed black, which went with his nearly ebony-coloured eyes. The matching moustache was similarly obsidian, but his chin was undeniably weak. Her husband liked to dress well though, and at times, it sometimes occurred to Christine to wonder (rather uneasily and with a sense of rare self-awareness) if he might not have a better sense of fashion than she did. He was one of those men who radiated an immense sense of energy. The kind of man who was used to getting things done but also seemed full of humour and bonhomie; but that, as she very well knew, was merely a front for his rapacious nature.

  Of which she approved enormously.

  For although Robert had been born of distinctly lower-middle-class parents (his father had been a chemistry teacher at a second-rate boys’ prep school) his ambitions had always been first-class. And she, on the market for a husband who could keep her in luxury, had been perspicacious enough to sense that he had the brains and the determination to succeed in life.

  As, indeed he had. He had taken her not immodest dowry and turned it into a very profitable company producing jam, honey and ma
rmalade to the discerning palate, nationwide.

  Of course, it was ‘trade’, and as such, rather below what she was used to, but Christine had made it a point never to set foot in the actual ‘works’. What’s more, she had grimly ignored any behind-the-hand sniggering that might have gone on in her set during the early years of her marriage. It was now an immense source of satisfaction to her that, as income tax began to bite so hard and many of her friends had to tighten their belts or sell off the family heirlooms, she had been able to carry on spending as much as she had ever done.

  It was just annoying that the ‘works’ had been allowed to intrude so rudely in her life in recent weeks.

  Normally, whenever her husband discussed his plans for expanding the business or crowed over his latest scheme to bring Dunbar products more firmly into the public eye, Christine barely listened.

  But this latest venture of his was causing her no end of anxiety.

  When he’d first proposed establishing Miss Oxford Honey in a bid to make their own brands as famous as those of Oxford Marmalade, Christine had been almost speechless. Her conservative soul had shrivelled at the thought of something so utterly down-market as a beauty contest, and she could imagine the sniggering starting up all over again.

  Surely, she’d protested to her husband, he had been in jest?

  And just as surely, she’d come to learn that he was not. For whilst he had become used to acceding to her requests in the normal run of things, he was adamant that ‘work’ was his domain, and in this one area he would not be dictated to.

  Eventually, therefore, she’d been forced to back down. But that did not mean that she was totally defeated. Instead, she’d magnanimously and cunningly offered to lend a hand herself, and ‘help’ him run the whole event.

  In this way, she’d pointed out cannily, he wouldn’t need to neglect the routine work, or the vital day-to-day running of the business, whilst still being able to make use of his brilliant marketing strategy.

  In reality, of course, she’d only done it to ensure that her husband would have as little to do with it as possible, because… Well, as Christine had been forced to face, rather early on in her marriage, Robert had a bit of a roving eye.

  It was annoying, of course. And when she’d been younger, overwhelmingly painful. But over the years, and by constantly telling herself that it was nothing really hideously embarrassing, she’d managed to ignore it. Well, mostly.

  After all, many of the women in her set had to put up with men who strayed, especially wealthy men; men who were used to a certain amount of power and status. It was just their way. So long as it was handled discreetly, everyone could pretend it wasn’t happening. And Robert, she had to admit, was always very careful indeed to be discreet. As he should be!

  For a second, her rather unattractive face contorted with pain.

  Although Christine had no qualms about letting her husband manage her money and capital, she’d been wise enough to keep it all under her own name. Which meant that Robert had lived for the nearly twenty-five years of their marriage well aware of which side his bread was buttered, and that keeping her sweet was definitely in his own best interests.

  But she was, by nature, a deeply suspicious woman (and subconsciously at least, a very insecure one), so it hadn’t taken her long to discover his succession of mistresses. These he kept in a discreet flat in High Wycombe, where Dunbar had a second factory, and which required Robert’s ‘input’ once or twice a week.

  This arrangement she’d been forced to accept with grace, as a woman of her intelligence and sophistication had been trained to do.

  And she didn’t – well, not really – believe that he would ever be so crass and stupid as to let himself get mixed up with some working-class dolly bird who had delusions of becoming a fashion model or some such thing, on the back of winning a local beauty contest.

  Even so, it was a fact of life that Robert liked pretty women. And when men reached middle age… well, they could often get a little bit silly. The thought of letting him run free among so much temptation had definitely been enough to raise her hackles.

  Luckily, she had a very good spy-in-the-camp in Grace Farley, whom she’d persuaded her husband to put in charge as the ‘face of Dunbar’s’ during the running of the event. And she could always make sure Grace did as she was told. And, of course, she could rely on good old Patricia Merriweather to help her keep her errant husband on the straight and narrow.

  A widow herself, the old lady knew how the world worked all right, and of course the Merriweathers were one of Oxford’s ‘old’ families, whose ancestry went back even further than her own.

  Yet, still, Christine felt vaguely uneasy about the whole thing.

  Strange things had been happening. That incident with the face cream, for instance. And that poor girl taking a tumble from the stage steps. Not usually a woman given to picking up on ‘atmosphere’ or imagining things, even she was beginning to sense something… brooding, surrounding the whole competition.

  And worse still, about a week ago, certain rumours had started to reach her ears about one of the girls boasting about ‘hooking’ a sugar daddy for herself!

  So now Christine felt as if her whole world suddenly hung in the balance. Which was intolerable! As if she would let some silly little chit of a girl threaten her wellbeing and the pleasant, well-oiled orderliness of her life!

  She glanced across at her husband thoughtfully.

  She was fairly sure that he’d paid off the girl who’d come out in a rash to keep quiet about it. He must also be aware of the other instances of petty sabotage as well, since he’d made no secret of how worried he was that bad publicity might mar the first of what he hoped would be an annual event.

  But at least things were progressing well in other ways. The Old Swan Theatre had seen better days, but it was still a respectable venue and ticket sales for the public show in three weeks’ time were selling well. All the newspapers were lined up, and even the local radio station would cover it.

  Several large local businesses, such as department stores and florists, were backing the enterprise, both by providing the prizes for the girls and by sitting in on the judging panel.

  And wasn’t she herself keeping a tight hold on the reins? She’d stepped in and taken control when she needed to and would remain in the driving seat until the whole debacle was over. There was certainly no way the contestants themselves – floozies and airheads all of them – could ever get the better of her!

  Yet, lurking in the back of her mind, was the worry that her poor fool of a husband was in danger of forgetting himself and doing something monumentally stupid. So stupid that it would put their nice cosy world in real danger.

  At this thought, Christine Dunbar stabbed her embroidery needle through the white fabric so forcefully that she pricked her finger. She stifled a very unladylike epithet and quickly sucked the blood from her throbbing digit before it could stain anything.

  Her eyes when she looked across at her husband, still reading his paper in blissful ignorance, were narrowed and calculating.

  Chapter 4

  Dr Clement Ryder opened the inquest into the death of Abigail Trent right on time. As usual when he was presiding in the coroner’s court, things tended to happen with clockwork efficiency, mostly because his staff both respected and feared him in equal measure.

  He watched the jury assemble with a thoughtful eye, and then listened attentively as the witnesses were called. He was always diligent, of course, being ever mindful of the seriousness of his job, but he had to admit that the unprecedented appeal for help from Trudy Loveday had certainly sharpened his mind even more than usual.

  He would not let what Grace Farley had to say influence him in any way, naturally, but he knew that he would be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that his curiosity about this case was definitely aroused.

  As the morning went on, the story of the dead girl, via a series of interested and professional witnesses
, slowly and clearly unfolded.

  The medical facts, at least, were all clear enough, and the pathologist was very precise in his evidence. The girl had died as a result of ingesting a taxine alkaloid associated with yew berries – namely the seeds contained within the berry. The actual cause of death came as a result of the cardiogenic shock that follows such ingestion. The victim would have suffered first arrhythmia and then heart failure.

  On the day in question, her sister Miriam had come back to the family home in order to use her mother’s newer washing tub. She disliked having to use the bowl-and-mangle that was all that was available to her in her own, rather new and as yet under-furnished, marital home. It was getting on for nine o’clock in the morning, so her mother had asked her to go upstairs to Abigail’s bedroom and check that she had, indeed, already left for work. Her mother hadn’t heard her youngest daughter come down, and although, since entering a local beauty contest, she didn’t always eat breakfast in an effort to ‘slim’, she usually called in to the kitchen to have a cup of tea.

  Miriam testified that she found her sister lying in bed, and had at first assumed that she was asleep. However, she’d been unable to wake her, and alarmed by her pallor and the coolness of her skin, had called for her mother. Mrs Vera Trent had taken one look at her youngest daughter and told Miriam to go to the telephone box and call for an ambulance.

  But Abigail had been pronounced dead when a local doctor, also called by Miriam, had arrived first at the house.

  This same doctor had noticed an empty glass on the dead girl’s bedside table that had contained what smelt like orange juice, but still held some unknown residue which had clouded the bottom of the glass. Both Mrs Trent and Miriam had been aware that Abigail had been drinking orange juice a lot lately, as she had been told by someone that the vitamins in it were good for the complexion.

  The doctor, not liking the signs he’d detected on the deceased, had insisted on calling in the police. The subsequent results of the autopsy had ensured that an inquest needed to be held.