A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  ‘Oh, do what you like with it,’ Betty said at last, and with a final shudder, rose to her feet, leaving the note and envelope lying on the tabletop. ‘I’m going to the stage. You’d better come too – you don’t want to be late for your first rehearsal.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be right behind you,’ Trudy promised. Then, the moment the other girl disappeared, she quickly picked up a tissue paper and manipulated the letter back into the envelope, then wrapped the whole thing up in her handkerchief and slipped it into her handbag.

  She was fairly sure that the culprit wouldn’t have left any fingerprints on it, but she was taking no chances.

  When she made her way to the stage, with her borrowed dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, she found that Candace had already spread the news of the letter, and several groups of girls were standing around, gossiping nervously and looking over their shoulders. It quickly became clear that nobody had seen who had left the letter at the ticket office counter, but Trudy wasn’t surprised. Their joker was far too canny to be caught in so simple an act.

  There was definitely an air of tension and unease in the theatre, and Trudy didn’t feel immune to it either. After all, she was one of the ‘flawed beauties’ herself now, and as such, was presumably just as much a target as anyone else. It was odd quite how vulnerable and exposed she felt, wearing just a bathing suit and in bare feet.

  Suddenly, Trudy began to appreciate her robust uniform and sensible shoes.

  ‘All right, ladies.’ Grace Farley’s voice suddenly rose above the hysterical-tinged babble. ‘Let’s make a start. Line up – everyone is wearing their numbers, yes? Now just imagine there’s some appropriate music playing, Frank Sinatra or something… The compere will be here…’ Grace moved to a spot on the stage and Trudy watched her friend, fascinated. It was odd to see Grace in such a position of authority.

  ‘What did she mean by “wearing their numbers”? What number?’ Trudy hissed at Candace, who looked startled, and then held up her hand automatically.

  A round white cardboard disc with the number ‘12’ on it was secured around her wrist with an elastic band. ‘We all have a number so the judges can easily make a note of us and mark down points. It’s easier for them than having to try to remember all our names, Mrs Dunbar says. Haven’t you got one?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Trudy whispered back. Presumably Grace would give her one before too long. Although something inside her instinctively rebelled at being regarded as a mere number.

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t get number thirteen,’ Candace promised solemnly. ‘Nobody would have it, except Caroline. She just smiled like a cat with the cream and graciously offered to take it. I think that woman’s probably a witch!’

  Trudy grinned. Well, either that, or she just wasn’t superstitious.

  ‘All right. We’ll go in order – number one, off you go please.’

  Trudy watched as ‘number one’, a rather short redhead with a round but attractive lightly freckled face, swayed obediently towards the end of the stage, did the hands-on-hips classic turn at the end, and sauntered back.

  Trudy watched her in dismay. Good grief, was she supposed to actually walk like that?

  Apparently she was, as the next girl did the same. Presumably, being a very late arrival, she’d missed out on the training sessions on how to parade for the judges. How could she possibly manage it in her bare feet? At least high heels made that exaggerated swaying a little more accessible.

  Number ten was a girl with lots of naturally honey-blonde hair and a very good figure indeed. ‘Who’s that? Her legs are marvellous!’ Trudy whispered to Candace.

  ‘That’s Vicky Munnings. She was best friends with the poor girl who died,’ Candace said, then opened her eyes wide and clapped a hand to her mouth. The gesture was, Trudy suspected, something of a habit with Candace who probably spent much of her life saying the wrong thing. ‘Oh, sorry, we’re not supposed to talk about her,’ she said. ‘You won’t tell Mrs Dunbar I did, will you? We’re not supposed to say anything that might reflect badly on the show!’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll keep mum!’ Trudy promised.

  ‘Thanks – oh it’s my turn next,’ Candace said, and shot forward as number eleven left the stage.

  Trudy was still chewing over all this ‘numbering’ business. Why couldn’t the compere just announce their names as they came on? Were the judges so lazy, or so illiterate, they couldn’t just write down a name on their notepads as easily as a number?

  Since she didn’t know her order in the group, she hung back until last, and after removing her dressing gown (and perforce in bare feet) did her best to mimic the ‘catwalk’ sashay to the end. She felt incredibly stupid doing so, even in an empty theatre. Luckily, it was soon over.

  ‘Thank you, girls,’ Grace called. ‘We’ll take a little break then do it again. Miss Dobbs, I’ll get a number card for you – and see if I can find you some shoes to practise in.’

  Trudy’s lips twitched helplessly. ‘Thank you, Miss Farley’ she sing-songed. Just wait until she got Grace alone. She’d give her ‘practise’ indeed!

  There was a stand set up backstage where soft drinks and snacks could be had, and as Trudy accepted a glass of orange squash from someone she took to belong to the theatre staff, she wandered about wondering who to talk to first.

  Over in a corner, the Dunbars conversed briefly, then split up. Patricia Merriweather, the old woman who was on the committee championing the theatre, was talking to a rather distinguished-looking man who looked both familiar, and most definitely theatrical.

  This, Trudy knew, must be the actor-cum-theatre owner, Dennis Quayle-Jones. Although her mother had never attended a theatre performance in her life, she’d always subscribed to a cinema and theatre magazine. After going through some of the back-issues, Trudy had come across a piece on the great man himself when he’d been playing some minor role or other in London’s West End.

  An early glittering career – and most of the wealth that came with it – seemed to have dwindled over the years, however. Nowadays, he wasn’t quite so matinee-star good-looking, nor quite so slim, but he still undeniably had a certain ‘presence’.

  Trudy gave him a wide berth. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where a man like that would be interested in sabotaging a beauty pageant or murdering pretty young women. Especially since it would bring his theatre into disrepute!

  Instead she drifted and aimlessly chatted, always contriving to bring the subject around to Abigail. Some girls openly talked about her, others, minding the Dunbar’s taboo on the subject, shied away.

  But the news about the nasty letter cast a definite pall over the whole affair, and naturally, speculation was running rife. Trudy could only hope that she wouldn’t be asked to give up the letter to somebody in authority before she managed to get away from the theatre.

  Then she spotted Vicky and casually strolled over. ‘Hello – I’m Trudy, the new girl. I don’t think we’ve met?’ She smiled and held out her hand, and the other girl, after a moment’s hesitation, reached out and shook it.

  ‘It still feels very strange to me, all this’ – Trudy cast a quick hand around to encompass the theatre – ‘but I understand from the others that you and your friend were among the first to join up,’ she carried on, trying to sound a little gushing. In her experience, a little bit of hero-worship put people quickly at ease. ‘I have to say I envy you your confidence!’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Vicky Munnings said vaguely. She looked about to walk off with barely a few words so Trudy had no option but to force the issue a little.

  ‘I just wanted to say I was so sorry to hear about your friend. Abby, was it?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Somebody told me what happened. You must miss her awfully.’

  Vicky went a trifle pale, then slowly nodded, but for a moment she looked a shade uncertain. Perhaps, Trudy thought, with a quickening heartbeat, the two girls weren’t as close as people thought?

  ‘Abby was one of a kind,’ Vi
cky said carefully, with a brief flash of a smile that was more a twist of her lips than anything else.

  ‘Oh, one of those,’ Trudy decided to gamble. ‘I used to have a friend like that. Very popular and everybody loved her and all that, but’ – she leaned a little closer to Vicky, who froze on the spot – ‘underneath… well, I could tell you a thing or two! She wasn’t as angelic as people thought.’

  She paused, hoping that Vicky might now trade confidences. Instead the girl looked decidedly alarmed.

  Damn, Trudy thought. She’d come in too strong.

  ‘Well, I have to go,’ Vicky said next, confirming her fears. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you,’ Trudy said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I’m sure your friend was very nice,’ she added, desperately trying to salvage the situation.

  Vicky Munnings shot her a quick, rather wry look, and said dryly, ‘Are you?’

  And before Trudy could reply to that enigmatic response, the other girl smiled determinedly and moved away.

  Trudy watched her go in frustration. Clearly, it would be no good pressing the other girl now – she’d only get suspicious, or worse, uncooperative. But at some point soon, she’d have to try to talk to her again and find out what the dead girl’s best friend meant by her last remark.

  There was something more to be learned in that quarter.

  * * *

  The picker of yew berries was having a wonderful time. The atmosphere was so tense it could be cut with a knife. And watching everyone flutter around like a flock of alarmed starlings was really most entertaining, not to mention gratifying.

  Everyone was casting everyone else sly looks, no doubt wondering who the culprit could be. Pretty soon all the camaraderie and trust they’d built up would erode away altogether. Already they must be wondering. Was the death of their fellow contestant really connected to the run of ‘bad luck’ at the theatre, or wasn’t it? Of course, none of them wanted to think that it was.

  But now they must be seriously wondering.

  Well, that was all well and good. Let the poison pen work its magic. Before long, they’d be left in no doubt at all that Abigail Trent was only the first of them who was going to die.

  Chapter 10

  Trudy had no idea that the judges were due to arrive for the second run-through of the swimwear competition until she noticed a rising level of noise front-of-stage, and looking through the gap in the curtain, saw a middle-aged man take a seat in the front row.

  Nervously, she sought out Betty Darville, who sighed heavily and confirmed that tonight was indeed a ‘judging’ night.

  Trudy went hot, then cold.

  ‘They don’t come every time, of course,’ Betty explained patiently. ‘Only when we have a full dress rehearsal mainly, like tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ Trudy gulped. Out there, presumably, Dr Ryder was already taking his place along with a whole group of perfect strangers – all of them intent on judging her appearance and performance. And here she was – barefoot, green as a cabbage, and still not sure how to ‘sashay’ properly!

  ‘Oh hell,’ Trudy muttered under her breath.

  * * *

  By refusing to look anyone in the eye, especially Dr Ryder, and simply concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Trudy managed to get through the second run-through. Afterwards, somewhat to her surprise, the judges joined them behind the curtains backstage, and helped themselves to the refreshments.

  Trudy had changed out of her swimwear right away, and was thus the only girl to be fully dressed as she mingled with the judges. Although Mrs Dunbar had insisted that all the other girls put on a robe, it was clear that this didn’t stop the majority of the contestants from allowing the judges, up close and personal, to judge just how well the bathing costumes fitted!

  She watched with almost shocked eyes as Sylvia Blane flirted outrageously with a rather nervous-looking but attractive man of around 40 or so.

  ‘Mr tall, dark and handsome is Rupert Cowper,’ Betty said with a smile, sidling up to her and offering her a glass of sparkling wine. ‘When the judges come, Mrs Dunbar lets Grace spend a bit more of the “entertaining” budget!’ she explained, shaking her half-filled glass in explanation.

  Trudy accepted the glass and eyed it casually, hoping that her curiosity and excitement didn’t show, because she had never actually tasted wine before. Although her parents sometimes drank it at Christmas time, she’d always been told that she could have some only when she reached the age of 21.

  Obviously, she couldn’t refuse the offering or she’d look silly, so Trudy thanked her, took a cautious (and somewhat guilty) sip and found that she didn’t really like it! It tasted a bit like sour lemonade to her, and made her wonder what all the fuss about drinking alcohol was all about.

  ‘They do make a striking couple,’ she said, masking her disappointment in the Liebfraumilch and nodding instead at the short, blonde-haired Sylvia and her captive audience.

  ‘They sure do, and doesn’t our Sylvia know it!’ Betty giggled, making Trudy wonder how much wine she’d already consumed before coming over. ‘Rupert Cowper owns Cowper’s Florist, in the covered market – do you know the one I mean? But he also has several shops all over the place – Banbury, Bicester, Witney. He’s providing the flowers for the stage on show night, which is why he’s on the judging panel. Even more interestingly, he’s a widow with nearly grown children. Mind you, with his looks, he’d be quite a catch even without all that money.’ Betty sighed. ‘It’s no wonder Abigail and Sylvia were scrapping over him.’

  At this, Trudy’s ears pricked. ‘Oh? That must have made for bad blood between them?’

  ‘Oh, it did,’ Betty agreed blithely, draining her glass and then looking longingly at the table, clearly wondering if she dared get another refill.

  Trudy hoped it was just the shock of finding that nasty letter that was behind her need for alcohol. ‘Do you want mine?’ she offered kindly, holding out her glass. ‘I’ve barely taken a sip.’

  ‘Oh thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ Betty said eagerly, exchanging her empty glass for the full one. ‘It doesn’t do to… Oh hello, Mrs Merriweather.’ She broke off as the old woman appeared beside them.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you snaffle that second glass, young lady,’ the old woman said, then at Betty’s dismayed face, suddenly smiled widely. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. When I was a deb I used to snaffle whole bottles of champagne and sneak them out to the garden to drink with my friends! So drink up.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs M, you’re a brick,’ Betty said. ‘Oh, this is Trudy Dobbs, a new recruit. Trudy, Mrs Merriweather. She’s one of the judges and works on a committee to help keep the theatre going.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ the old woman said, shaking hands politely. ‘I must say, I think you did a good job on that walk-through without any shoes.’

  Trudy blushed. ‘I must have looked awful!’

  ‘I doubt anybody thought that,’ Patricia Merriweather said, with yet another smile. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon pick it all up. It’s been a bit of an eye-opener for me as well, I can tell you, watching all you young girls go through their paces. In my younger day, the older generation would have had a fit.’

  Betty giggled. ‘It’s 1960 now, Mrs M,’ she said with slightly drunken smugness.

  ‘Indeed, it is. And I suppose all of you who are now just out of your teens think you’re so grown-up and sophisticated! But I still wouldn’t have let my granddaughter take part in something like this,’ she said firmly. But her eyes, Trudy thought, looked a shade wistful. It was only then that Trudy noticed that Betty suddenly looked a bit disconcerted, and with a vague murmur, quickly excused herself.

  ‘Poor Rupert is looking rather cornered, don’t you think?’ the old woman continued the conversation with a bit of a grin. ‘You’d have thought a man who looks like that would be better able to take care of himself, wouldn’t you? B
etween you and me, I think poor Rupert is a bit of a sheep in wolf’s clothing!’

  Looking at the couple again, Trudy had to agree that the judge did indeed look a little alarmed at the way Sylvia was holding on to his arm and leaning forward, to give him a better view of her undoubted charms and assets. ‘I’d better go and rescue him, I suppose,’ Patricia said with a sigh. ‘Good-looking middle-aged men are apt to get themselves into all sorts of difficulties, if you let them. And Sylvia, who has to be 24 if she’s a day, has had time enough to learn some very interesting little ways.’

  Trudy hid a smile as the unlikely Sir Galahad sailed forth to do battle on behalf of the florist.

  Then she had a sudden thought. Florists were used to dealing with all kinds of flora and leaves and that sort of thing, weren’t they? So wouldn’t Sylvia’s potential beau know all about yew? She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be used in big flora displays, since the leaves were too spiky and dark to be pretty, but florists also made up Christmas wreaths, didn’t they? If they used ivy and holly, perhaps they used yew too. Yews had bright red berries too. Which meant…

  She nearly jumped out of her skin as Clement Ryder crept up behind her. Putting aside her idle musings about florists and yew trees, she launched instead into an account of what she’d been dying to tell him ever since she’d learned that he was in the theatre. Keeping her voice low, she related the rest of the evening’s events.

  ‘I’ve got the letter in my bag,’ she concluded. ‘But I’ll have to hand it over to DI Jennings straightaway. As you know, there’s now an official police investigation into the case running parallel with ours, and the officer in charge will want to see it.’

  ‘Hmm. Too bad,’ Clement mourned. ‘Whilst there was nothing definitive to link the beauty contest and Abigail Trent’s death, the Inspector was prepared to indulge us. Now it looks as if there might be a connection after all, we might find ourselves sidelined.’

  Trudy sighed. ‘But the message is a bit… well… up in the air, isn’t it? Do you think the killer actually wrote it? Or was it just someone here taking advantage of Abby’s death to make everyone scared of their own shadows?’