A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  ‘What on earth…?’

  She withdrew her hand from her coat pocket and stared down at the small brown object she had scooped out, which was now sitting in the palm of her hand. ‘Ugh! How could this have got into my pocket?’ she demanded, glancing around her with sudden sharp suspicion.

  As everyone crowded around to look, Trudy tried to get a good view, but whatever it was, it wasn’t a big object, and it was hard to see in any detail.

  ‘What is it?’ It was Candace who asked the question, her big eyes opening as wide as saucers.

  ‘It’s a dead moth,’ Betty Darville said blankly. ‘It must have flown into your coat and just died.’

  ‘Oh no! It hasn’t eaten any of the material has it?’ Candace wailed. ‘I hate it when moths get into your best clothes.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Betty said with a grin. ‘It’s not that kind of moth! They’re rather small and nondescript. This is bigger. I can’t remember seeing one quite like it before.’

  ‘Here, I’ll have it,’ Trudy offered eagerly and at once. ‘I have a little brother who collects stuff like that,’ she temporised quickly, as Betty Darville shot her a quick, quizzical look. ‘Dead beetles, animal bones, you name it. Mind you, Mum wouldn’t let him keep a dead grass snake that he found.’

  ‘Ugh, little brothers are the limit,’ Candace agreed. ‘Well, I’m off. Night night, everyone.’

  Trudy moved forward and held out her hand, and with a brief frown, Sylvia shrugged and tipped her hand, letting the desiccated little corpse fall into Trudy’s open palm.

  As casually as she could, she wrapped it loosely in her handkerchief and let it rest on top of the stuff in her handbag so that it wouldn’t get squashed.

  When she looked up, she was vexed to see that Vicky Munnings had managed to slip away. Again!

  But Trudy wasn’t that put out. She knew she would corner Abby’s so-called best friend sooner or later.

  Right now, she was far more interested in her latest piece of ‘evidence’.

  For her eagle eye had spotted something strange about the dead moth that she hoped that none of the others had noticed.

  Namely, it’s unusual markings. Markings that, to her eye at any rate, resembled the rather macabre and sinister shape of a human skull.

  Chapter 13

  ‘It’s called a Death’s Head Hawkmoth!’ Clement said the next day.

  They were sitting in his office, and he was leaning forward on his chair, staring intently at the pathetic offering that Trudy had just placed before him. ‘I haven’t seen one of these in years! Where did you find it?’

  ‘One of the girls found it in her coat pocket when we were leaving the theatre after rehearsals last night. I think most of the others presumed that it had just flown or crawled in there and died. But I don’t think that’s very likely.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Clement said cautiously. ‘But I think, like you, it would be a remarkable coincidence if it had. Far more likely someone had put it there on purpose. Especially this particular species.’

  Trudy eyed the little corpse thoughtfully. ‘It’s certainly got a gruesome name. I take it that it earned it because of the skull-like markings on it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clement said. ‘There was quite a bit of folklore and superstition surrounding it back in olden times. Its melancholy shriek when disturbed made it the stuff of legend – when folks were more inclined to believe in all sorts of dark and dreadful things.’

  ‘It shrieks?’ Trudy said, her jaw dropping. ‘A moth?’

  Clement’s lips twitched. ‘I don’t suppose it’s very loud – like the call of a shriek-owl or anything. But loud enough to be heard, certainly. For centuries, it was regarded as being a bringer of doom, and was always an omen of death.’

  Trudy gulped. ‘So this is another death threat then?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘It certainly could be,’ Clement mused. ‘Some say its appearance in King George III’s bedchamber pushed him into madness.’

  ‘Well, that’s just wonderful,’ Trudy huffed. ‘Anything else that can be laid at its door while we’re at it?’ she asked, intending it to be a rhetorical question. She was appalled to hear that the coroner hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘Oh, plenty!’ Clement swept on enthusiastically. ‘For instance, others believed that should its wings extinguish a candle by night, those nearby will be cursed with blindness.’

  ‘Oh,’ Trudy said, beginning to feel rather chilled. At first, when Sylvia had found the moth and Trudy had noticed the skull markings, she’d been a little concerned. Now that all this stuff was coming out, she was beginning to feel as if something dark and evil might really be stalking the Old Swan Theatre. What kind of person would put something like this in someone’s pocket?

  ‘It’s very name – Acherontia Atropos – derives from Greek mythology.’ Clement carried on the lecture with remorseless relish, eyeing the moth with some fascination. ‘Acheron – the river of pain, and Atropos, the Fate that severs the thread of life.’

  ‘Please stop now,’ Trudy begged. River of pain? She was beginning to feel slightly ill! ‘Who’d have thought so much hate and bile could be represented by one little brown insect?’

  Clement sighed and leaned back. As a threat, this latest offering certainly punched well above its weight. But it also revealed quite a bit about the person behind the ‘pranks’.

  He frowned, not liking where his thoughts were going. More and more it seemed to him that the likelihood that Abigail Trent’s death had been accidental was receding.

  So if she had been murdered, the chances were fairly high that the joker at the theatre and her murderer were one and the same. Was it time to demand that Trudy resign from the contest?

  ‘Well, luckily, I don’t think that any of the girls really took much notice of it, thank goodness,’ Trudy said, unaware of her friend’s growing concern for her safety. ‘If they’d known all that stuff that you just told me, they’d have been climbing the walls!’

  ‘Yes, so I would imagine,’ Clement agreed dryly.

  ‘Do you think all this could be aimed at the Dunbars?’ Trudy asked curiously. ‘Because it seems to me that everyone at the theatre has a lot to lose if the contest fails. Even the theatre will be out of pocket. So it could, conceivably, be someone with a grudge against anyone involved. Maybe it’s not just the girls themselves who are the target?’

  ‘You’re right, but we don’t have enough information yet to say,’ Clement said.

  ‘No, I suppose not. But this all feels so… personal, doesn’t it?’ Trudy said, deciding then and there that she was going to leave the dead moth where it was – on the coroner’s desk. She didn’t want to ever touch it – or see it – again. If it needed to be logged into evidence at some point in the future, she was sure Dr Ryder wouldn’t mind handing it over to the Sergeant. ‘I’m beginning to get a feel for our prankster now, and I can’t help but think that there’s something really dark and deep behind it all. I don’t know… that there’s something sort of insane about him or her.’ She gave a little shudder, making the older man look at her severely.

  Clement sighed. ‘You mustn’t let your imagination run away with you,’ he warned her. ‘This’ – he nodded at the dead moth – ‘was meant to make all the contestants feel repulsed and alarmed. Whoever it is who’s doing this, wants to instil fear, panic and suspicion in the theatre. Don’t let them succeed.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she agreed, stiffening her backbone and thrusting out her chin a little. ‘I won’t mention any of the stuff you told me about our dead friend here,’ Trudy promised. ‘With a bit of luck, everyone will forget it ever existed.’

  Clement nodded. ‘Until the next time something happens,’ he added darkly.

  Chapter 14

  Rupert Cowper usually went home at lunchtime, leaving his flower shop in the capable hands of his assistant. His housekeeper, used to his ways, often left him a cold collation, and he was just cutting some bread
when he heard his doorbell ring.

  He wondered who could be calling at that hour, and when he opened the door to find a tall, grey-haired man – who looked only vaguely familiar – on his doorstep, he wondered uneasily if he’d made an appointment and had then forgotten about it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Cowper, isn’t it? Sorry to bother you – I’m Dr Clement Ryder. One of your fellow judges on the Miss Oxford Honey panel? I believe I saw you at the rehearsals the other night?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Rupert smiled, taking the hand the older man was holding out. ‘Won’t you come in?’ he asked politely, but was clearly puzzled by his visitor’s presence.

  Quickly Clement spun his tale of needing judging advice, and within a few moments, they were sitting at the dining table, where Rupert had insisted the coroner join him to share his lunch.

  ‘My daily woman always leaves out too much food anyway,’ he insisted.

  Clement accepted a slice of bread and some cold roast beef, added a dash of horseradish sauce, and munched happily for a while. Then he sighed. ‘The thing is, I’ve never done anything remotely like judging a beauty pageant contest before,’ he began, with a wry smile. ‘So I suppose I feel rather… er…’

  ‘Embarrassed? Wrong-footed. A little silly?’ Rupert offered, with an understanding smile of his own. As Clement nodded, he sighed heavily. ‘Me too. I never wanted to sit on the panel either, but Robert insisted. Mind you, I think he only wanted me because he knew that I’d volunteer to provide the big standing floral displays on “show night”. Six six-foot stands with cascades of roses, lilies, freesias… sorry, you don’t want to know about that!’ Rupert grinned, breaking off to cut himself a small wedge of mature cheddar.

  ‘I understand that a lot of the judges are providing something – prizes and what-have-you,’ Clement mused. ‘Mr Dunbar certainly has a way of cutting down his costs and keeping an eye on his overheads.’

  Rupert laughed. ‘I’ll say. What that man won’t do for money… Still, I suppose it’s a bit of fun.’ But he sounded distinctly dubious, and Clement eyed him curiously.

  ‘You sound as if you think it’s anything but?’ he said mildly.

  The younger man shrugged, looking rather shame-faced. ‘Oh, the amount of ribbing that I’ve taken about it from my friends! Well, male friends, that is. They seem to think I’m a lucky old so-and-so. I suppose I can see why they think that. Mind you, it’s not as glamorous a job as you might imagine. Though on the other hand, a lot of the members of the fairer sex of my acquaintance are treating me with either cool amusement or downright finger-wagging. So, all things being equal, I wish I’d never agreed to sign up for it!’

  ‘So how exactly are we supposed to do this judging?’ Clement asked casually. ‘Do we meet the girls and talk to them ourselves, or is there a more complicated and regimented points system?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing very scientific,’ Rupert laughed. ‘On show night, we’ll all be given forms and have to fill in points out of ten for all the different categories like talent, and interview performance and whatnot. But also more general things like choice of costume, walk, grace, all sorts of rubbish really,’ Rupert said, picking up a tomato and frowning at it. ‘Then, at the end, you tally them up and come to a total figure. Whoever has the highest tally wins.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound that harrowing,’ Clement agreed. ‘But you’re looking at that innocuous tomato as if you want to murder it.’

  Rupert laughed, looking a little abashed. ‘Sorry. Yes, I suppose I was really.’ He sighed and lowered the fruit to his plate, then shot the older man a thoughtful look. Seeing only an older, presumably wiser and definitely benevolent face looking back at him, he leaned a little forward over the table, and said, ‘Just between ourselves, Dr Ryder…’

  ‘Oh, call me Clement, please.’

  ‘I’m Rupert then. Between us then, Clement, I’m beginning to seriously wish that I’d followed my first instinct, which was to say “no”. With hindsight, I would never have let Robert talk me into this whole fiasco.’

  ‘Oh? Why? They all seemed like a pleasant bunch the first time I met them. The girls are certainly keen and eager to win,’ Clement said mildly.

  ‘Oh, aren’t they just,’ Rupert mused bitterly. ‘But that’s half the trouble. You wouldn’t believe half the things that go on in that theatre sometimes.’

  Clement carefully reached for a piece of cheese and took a casual bite. ‘Sounds ominous. What do I need to look out for, exactly?’

  Rupert had the grace to laugh. ‘Sorry. I dare say I sound ridiculous – if not melodramatic! But what’s a chap to do when pretty girls will, well, cosy up to one? I mean, how’s a chap supposed to put them off and still be a gentleman about it?’

  Clement bit back the desire to smile and instead forced himself to look serious. ‘I take it you’re not married then?’

  ‘No, I’m a widower. My children are both in their late teens now.’

  ‘Ah. So you’re an eligible man again. What’s more, you own your own business, and you’re still in your prime. I suppose it’s no wonder you come in for more than your fair share of interest.’ Clement shrugged. ‘There are worse problems to have, surely?’

  Rupert again laughed, but Clement could see his heart wasn’t in it. For such a good-looking man, he seemed rather unusually bashful and shy. Or was there something deeper and darker at the heart of his reluctance? It wasn’t usual for a good-looking and still relatively young man to find the attentions of women – especially young and pretty women – so alarming.

  ‘I know, I know. I sound like a bit of a prig,’ Rupert confessed at once. ‘But really, you know, it’s no joke. Sometimes I feel like a character in one of those awful Carry On films they’re making nowadays; but it’s no laughing matter, I can tell you. First of all, there was that poor girl who died who kept trying to corner me, and now she’s gone it’s Syl… Well, never mind. Just take my advice, and don’t give them even a spark of encouragement, that’s all I’m saying, Clement. Otherwise you’ll turn your head and find them clinging to your arm like a limpet! Here, have some mustard. It’s French, and I go down to London especially for it.’

  Clement spread a bit on his second, open-topped beef sandwich and looked at the florist thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, it’s odd you mentioning Abigail Trent. I presided at her inquest. Such a sad case. What do you think happened to her?’

  Rupert shrugged. ‘Oh, I have no doubt she made the concoction herself, thinking it would help her complexion or make her eyes shine or who knows what nonsense. Either that or someone else made it for her, promising the same thing. I tell you, these girls will do anything to win. They’re all desperate to get their picture in the papers. Which seems to be the greatest thing on earth, if you ever stop and listen to their endless chatter!’

  Clement nodded. ‘So I take it Abigail was one of those who tried to suborn your vote?’

  ‘Yes. But at least she was subtle about it and didn’t make a pest of herself. Unlike… well, never mind. Just watch out, that’s all I’m saying. Unless, of course, you’re quite happy to have some female company…?’ He looked at Clement with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Good grief, no!’ Clement said, genuinely appalled. ‘I’m old enough to be their grandfather!’

  ‘Oh, that won’t stop them,’ Rupert glowered darkly.

  ‘You make it sound like they’re all positive man-eaters!’ Clement said with a smile.

  Again, the florist sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps they are,’ he said a shade darkly. Then, catching the older man’s stare, forced another laugh. ‘Sorry, don’t listen to me. I’m just an old grump sometimes. Or perhaps I’m just old-fashioned. But I like women to be… well… a little more reticent. Oh, never mind. A pickled onion?’

  He offered the jar of onions, and began to talk about the merits of carnations over roses.

  * * *

  Clement parked his car in the cobbled yard of Floyd’s Row and sat for a mom
ent, thinking hard.

  His interview with the florist had left him feeling distinctly uneasy. On the face of it, Rupert Cowper was a good-looking, affluent businessman, with two grown children and not a care in the world. By his own admission, he’d been given a task to do that made his male friends envious.

  And yet he seemed to be afraid of women.

  One thing was for certain – Clement would be willing to bet that the good-looking florist’s relationships with women were tricky, uncertain things at the best of times.

  Or was he just seeing problems where none existed? Had the prankster/probable murderer got him seeing suspicious and odd behaviour where none really existed? Perhaps Rupert Cowper was nothing more than a shy, handsome widower who had never learned how to cope with women?

  Angry with himself for prevaricating, he again contemplated whether or not Trudy should remain undercover at the theatre. He knew that she would be very angry with him if he pulled her out now. But if it turned out that there really was something dark and mad at work there, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Trudy Loveday were to be its next victim.

  * * *

  But at that same moment in time, Clement Ryder was not the only one who was thinking long and hard about murder and madness.

  The picker of yew berries was also thinking very hard indeed.

  Mostly about domestic heaters and how obliging carbon monoxide could be. As a gas and a poison it really was a gem! You couldn’t smell it or taste it to any great degree. And it robbed your body of oxygen so very competently, sending you into a peaceful – and permanent sleep – with the greatest of ease and the minimum of fuss and attention.

  Again, a trawl of the libraries had provided such a plethora of useful information.

  For instance, victims who had breathed in too much of it were left with cherry-red faces.