A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  But what might it be?

  Trudy had noticed for herself that Mrs Dunbar seemed rather jealous of the other girls and possessive about her husband. In fact, it was a bit of a standing joke between them that she kept such an eagle eye on her spouse.

  But, now she came to think about it, was that really so funny? Or was it just sound common sense on the part of Mrs Dunbar? For Trudy had picked up several pieces of gossip and innuendo about how some of the contestants flirted with the judges in order to boost their chances of winning. Who was to say that someone – Abigail, maybe – hadn’t done the same, and had chosen to flirt with Robert Dunbar?

  But even if she had, would that really lead to murder? Well, not if Mrs Dunbar was normal, no, surely not. But was she? Wasn’t that what Grace had been trying to tell her – that the woman was somehow insane?

  With a sigh (and realising that she could drive herself insane speculating wildly without any facts), Trudy gave herself over to the ministrations of the hairdresser. Who did indeed follow Grace’s advice, and commenced to sweep up her hair in a high chignon, but allowed two artfully twisted tendrils to frame either side of her face.

  Such artistry, however, was lost on Trudy, who was busy making mental notes. First, she had to coral Grace after the show so that she could say exactly why she suspected Mrs Dunbar.

  Secondly, she still had to talk to the rather elusive Vicky Munnings! Was it sheer bad luck that she kept missing her, or was the dead girl’s friend actually avoiding her? But if that was so, did it mean that she’d guessed that Trudy wasn’t all she appeared to be?

  Then, thirdly, she had to…

  ‘There you go, dear, all done,’ the hairdresser said cheerfully, and so distracted was she, that Trudy barely had a chance to thank her before she disappeared out the door to help sort out her next client.

  Absently Trudy reached for her make-up bag. The dress rehearsal started in twenty minutes, and she needed to be on time. Now what else did she need to do…? Oh yes, find out if any of the girls had been trying to vamp Robert Dunbar, and if so, had Abigail been chief among them?

  * * *

  The killer was also anticipating the start of the dress show rehearsal – or at least the little after-party event that would follow. It was going to be interesting to see what the pretty little darlings made of the ‘gift’ that had been sent to them.

  But it was rather annoying that news of the biggest surprise of all had yet to be sprung upon them, and the picker of yew berries was feeling rather disgruntled that it wasn’t already the talk of the evening.

  Something, clearly, had prevented the news from circulating. And it was a little nerve-wracking not knowing what that something was.

  But perhaps the unexpected delay was all for the best, the killer mused.

  Shock following on from shock might have a better impact than all the bad news being delivered at once.

  The killer began to smile. Patience…

  Chapter 18

  Clement Ryder took his place at the judging table, which turned out to be a set of small, wooden foldaway tables that had been placed in a straight line along the front of the stage and covered with a long white cloth. He only hoped that the foldaway chairs that accompanied them weren’t the flimsy kind that always made him wince with anticipation of whether or not they’d take his weight when sitting down on them. Luckily they weren’t, and although his creaked slightly when taking his seat, at least it didn’t collapse and dump him unceremoniously onto his behind.

  Beside him on his right-hand side, Rupert Cowper nodded with a smile of greeting as he took his seat, and he was especially pleased when Patricia Merriweather joined him on his left. If anyone could lead him through the ropes of this ridiculous judging process it would be she.

  The Dunbars, he noted, sat down, not together, but one at each end of the long line of tables – like slightly disapproving bookends.

  In between them, he vaguely recognised several of his fellow judges from before – the owners of various shops and local businesses. He was amused to note that Patricia Merriweather and Christine Dunbar were the only female judges on the panel.

  Then Dennis Quayle-Jones stepped out from behind the curtain, hands outstretched in greeting, obviously enjoying his role as the compere.

  ‘Hello, one and all, and welcome to the first Miss Oxford Honey beauty pageant.’ He paused, then looked behind him, and said as a clear aside, ‘On the night, the curtains will have swooped open to reveal a no-doubt ravishingly decorated set.’

  Everyone smiled, although by now, this had all become rather humdrum. The glamour had been quick to wear off, and most of his fellow judges, he noted, looked merely resigned and patient.

  However, as the manager-actor set a gramophone recording going (a gently sweeping tune of big-band music) and the first contestant swept out onto an imaginary red-carpet runway, both Clement, and his fellow judges, perked up.

  Candace Usherwood was first out, wearing a coffee-coloured gown that complemented her brown curly hair and did the most to accentuate her curvaceous figure.

  She walked graciously towards the table, turned, walked past them in a queenly, elegant silence and then turned, revealing that a small diamond-shaped pane was cut out of the back of her gown, revealing a pale patch of delicate skin. A little too short and plump to be truly elegant, she nevertheless glided away impressively.

  Clement, seeing that a small pad and pen had been provided, and that his judges were busily scribbling away, reached for it, and, after a moment’s thought, simply wrote – ‘Pretty girl, a little too plump, but nice smile.’ Then wondered, was he supposed to give her a mark? And if so, was it out of 10 or 100?

  Then he had to quash the sudden desire to laugh. This was so absurd! That he of all people should be doing something so outlandish. He’d far rather be sitting at home with a good book.

  Then his right hand began to tremble violently and he froze.

  Slowly, he withdrew his hand and dropped it into his lap.

  He looked out of the corner of his eye to the right, but Rupert Cowper was busy looking at the next contestant – a rather tall and skinny redhead, with a patrician nose and an air of unexpected sex appeal.

  Then he looked to his left – and felt an unpleasant jolt shoot through him as he met Patricia Merriweather’s concerned glance. Instantly, she looked away. Obviously, women of good breeding pretended never to notice anything that might be described as the least bit socially awkward.

  But Clement felt a bead of sweat form just under his hairline, and fought the surge of panic that threatened to swamp him.

  She’d seen it. He was sure she’d noticed the tremors.

  Instantly, he told himself he was over-reacting. So she’d seen it. So what? She’d assume either that he’d been drinking, or maybe had a spasm of cramp. There was no reason to assume she’d understand the importance of what she’d seen. She was no medical doctor, after all.

  He pretended to watch the skinny redhead as she swayed along the stage, dressed in a mint-green, crushed-velvet gown that did wonders for her pale skin and bright colouring. But he didn’t reach for his pen to write anything in the notebook.

  Instead he surreptitiously flexed and re-flexed his hand and fingers in his lap for a few moments, and then rested them against the top of his thigh.

  To his relief, they were still and compliant.

  * * *

  Trudy took a deep breath and walked out from behind the curtain. She was confident that she looked good. After being so distracted by Grace’s revelations, she’d slowly begun to notice what an excellent job the hairdresser had done on her long dark hair, which had in turn inspired her to be even bolder with her make-up choices than before. Consequently, she’d painted her lips with a dark-red lipstick to match her dress, and had added a sort of reddish-brown, golden eyeshadow to her lids.

  Her shoes (borrowed from the wardrobe department) had only a modest heel (since she still wasn’t sure she could wear the stiletto
high heels that the likes of Betty and Sylvia confidently paraded in) but since they weren’t visible under the long length of silk, she wasn’t that worried. She was also fairly tall anyway, so it hardly mattered, she told herself firmly.

  As she walked out, the sea of empty seats beyond the judging table reassured her somewhat. At least she wouldn’t be doing this in front of the general public in less than two weeks’ time, which was probably a good thing, she thought wryly, as she attempted her version of the catwalk ‘sashay’ across the stage.

  Had she but known it, the fact that she didn’t exaggerate her walk so much made her actually stand out from the girls who’d gone before her, and gave her a more appealing girl-next-door quality that a lot of the judges liked.

  Clement, seeing Trudy appear on the stage, felt a moment of disorientating unreality. He’d never seen his protégé in such a way before. Not only was the gown eye-catching, but with her hair up like that, and wearing sophisticated make-up, she was so different from her usual self that he almost didn’t recognise her. Gone was the unflattering uniform and the needful repression of anything feminine or individual, and instead, a lovely young woman swept past him.

  He noticed, with a wry smile, that she very carefully didn’t meet his eye and realised that, if he felt unnerved, she must be feeling positively surreal, walking past him with that over-large band around her wrist, with the number ‘18’ visible.

  Beside him, Clement heard Rupert Cowper murmur something appreciative, and curiosity aroused, glanced at his fellow judge’s paper, and realised he’d given Trudy 95 out of 100.

  Praise indeed. Trudy would be flattered!

  Again, Clement had to resist the urge to laugh out loud.

  Eventually the fashion show came to an end, Dennis Quayle-Jones did a dry bit of speechmaking and then the backstage staff started setting up the buffet.

  It was Caroline Tomworthy who noticed the lavish box of chocolates first. She was still dressed in her sleek turquoise and silver gown that had vague hints of a Japanese kimono about it, and unlike most of the others, who’d opted to have their hair intricately dressed, her long straight black hair hung down nearly to her waist.

  She noticed the chocolates first because they were so different from the usual bland fare of crustless cucumber sandwiches and the little fancy cakes that the Dunbars preferred. And also because they bore the name of a very famous brand of Swiss chocolates that could only be bought in the most exclusive of shops in London’s West End.

  Knowing the price of such things, she found the large and heavy box (clearly containing a double-layer) intriguing. They must have cost a small fortune! The box itself was made of stiff gold card, which gleamed dully but enticingly under the stage lighting, and had been wrapped around with an extravagantly large silver and gold ribbon.

  She knew that one of the judges had agreed to supply the winner of the ‘interview’ part of the show with a year’s supply of confectionery. But she had often walked past that judge’s shop, and knew for a fact that this brand of chocolate wasn’t available there. And why should it be? It would have to have been ordered from London, and she doubted that many people in Oxford would buy such a high-end luxury item on a mere whim.

  So who had bought it and left on the buffet table?

  She was still staring at it thoughtfully, when Sylvia Blane sidled up beside her. ‘Oh, they look fabulous,’ the other girl said, but with a marked lack of enthusiasm in her voice.

  ‘They are,’ Caroline said shortly. ‘And far too expensive for this little production.’

  Sylvia, who might have said something catty (since Caroline liked to give the impression that she herself was also far above ‘this little show’), found any such remarks dying in her throat. Instead, she regarded the gleaming, enticing box of delicacies with growing unease.

  Soon a few of the other contestants, perhaps sensing something ‘off’ had also gathered around, forming a tight little group at the far end of the table. Something about their tense silence alerted Trudy, who also wandered over, wondering for a moment what they were all staring at.

  When she saw the box of chocolates, she too went a little cold.

  ‘So, who’s going to be the first to take one?’ It was, predictably, Caroline who spoke, her words cool and amused and sharp.

  ‘Not me,’ Betty Darville said instantly, with a bit of a shudder. ‘I can’t see the stingy old Dunbars having forked out for those.’ Unspoken, the question of just who else might have left them hung menacingly in the air.

  ‘It might be an admirer, I suppose,’ Candace offered nervously.

  There was a general silence between the girls as they contemplated this, until eventually Betty Darville plucked up the courage to say what they were all no doubt thinking.

  ‘Yes, and perhaps our “admirer” put some yew berry juice in the liquid centres too.’

  Clement, who’d been standing to one side of the buffet table at the far end from the group, took a sip from an indifferent glass of Liebfraumilch and chatted desultorily with Rupert Cowper. Then he noticed Trudy turn and look around, clearly seeking something or someone out. When her gaze finally caught his and she jerked her head in a tiny movement, he excused himself and wandered over.

  ‘Hello,’ he said vaguely, and the girls, as they all did in the presence of a judge, made room for him and began to smile.

  ‘Hello, Dr Ryder,’ Trudy said, before any of the others could start anything embarrassing – like flirting with the old vulture! ‘We were wondering if you knew who sent these wonderful chocolates? It wasn’t one of the judges by any chance?’

  Clement, taking only a bare second to catch on, looked at the sumptuous box, with its intricate ribbon and expensive contents, and felt a cool shiver run down his spine.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to find out?’ It was, of course a rhetorical question, and he was already turning away. It didn’t take him long to find out that neither the organisers, nor the judge with the confectionery shop had had any hand in it.

  His next stop was with the old man who guarded the door, but he assured him that no ‘official deliveries’ had been made that day.

  Next, he asked around the stagehands and those responsible for setting up the table. But nobody admitted to setting out the chocolates.

  Whilst he was away, Grace had joined the small group of girls, and when the coroner returned with his mostly negative news, he added that she herself, who was in charge of ordering and overseeing the catering, had definitely not splurged her tight budget on such an outstandingly lavish object.

  The chocolates, it seemed, had just appeared on the buffet table at some point in the evening, as if by magic.

  They had yet to be opened, but nobody offered to do the job. Eventually, not really wanting to make herself conspicuous by taking charge, but feeling prodded by her conscience into doing something, Trudy cleared her throat.

  ‘Dr Ryder. You’re a medical man, aren’t you?’ she asked tentatively.

  The other girls looked at him almost as one person, and Clement, again fighting back the urge to smile, nodded solemnly.

  ‘Yes, you could say that,’ he admitted.

  ‘Would you mind… I mean…’ Trudy looked around at the others, and then glanced over Clement’s shoulder at the rest of the assembly – most of whom seemed unaware of their dilemma. ‘Could you do us an enormous favour and take these chocolates away with you and get a lab to test them for us?’

  There was a slight and general restive movement among the contestants as she said this. Although all of them, Trudy was sure, approved of her request, actually hearing it made out loud seemed to bring home to them how serious things had become.

  For now, they were being forced to face up to the stark but unmistakable possibility that someone might actually have tried to poison them.

  Clement hesitated. He knew that if he was to ‘stay in character’ he should now be heartily demanding to know why on earth he should do such a th
ing. And if they confessed their fears, perhaps make a show of pooh-poohing it all as being ridiculous.

  But he had the feeling that things had already gone too far for him to be worried about maintaining his ‘cover’.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said simply instead. If any of the girls later started to wonder just why he had been so conciliatory and helpful so quickly, they’d just have to deal with it then.

  ‘I’ll take them when I leave and ask a colleague to test them for me straightaway. Would you like me to let you and the others know, Miss… er…’ He looked at Trudy with a raised eyebrow, and she quickly took her cue.

  ‘Trudy. Yes, if you can let me know straightaway, I’ll tell the others,’ she promised.

  Clement nodded, then strolled casually away. Mentally he made a note to keep an eye on the table, and if any of his fellow judges or stage staff showed an interest in the box, then he’d have to intercept them. But it looked as if most of the others were more interested in the free drinks than in indulging in chocolates.

  But in that – at least in one instance – he was wrong.

  For one person in the theatre that night had noticed the silent congregation of contestants, and had noted, with absolute glee, their consternation over the ‘gift’ of chocolates.

  Of course, the picker of yew berries had never been hopeful that anyone would actually open and eat the chocolates. Not even such dim-witted beauties, by now, would be so silly.

  No.

  The killer had expected the ruse to be instantly spotted. Would any of them actually have the foresight to get the boxes’ contents analysed though? The killer really hoped so. For then it would be found that none of the lovely chocolates were, in fact, deadly.

  Oh, they might be found to have contained a strong laxative! Which would have proved embarrassing and inconvenient for anyone who’d eaten them.

  Even so, the news that something unpleasant and undignified had been sitting on the table waiting for them – and all wrapped up in such pretty camouflage too, just like themselves – would be bound to terrify and demoralise them all even further.