A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  Oh, to be able to see the looks on their faces…

  But this had only ever been designed to be just a little diversion, a little foretaste of much worse things to come.

  For the killer had already done far, far worse. And soon they would know that another member had been removed from among their ranks. And then the terror would begin in earnest…

  Chapter 19

  Sylvia forced herself to forget all about the chocolates, and set about steering Rupert to a quiet dark corner of the stage where she could begin to weave her magic on the handsome widower. As usual, he reacted to her overtures like a nervous horse, but, again as usual, allowed himself, eventually, to be corralled.

  Sylvia, dressed in deep burnt-orange taffeta that left her shoulders completely bare, dazzled him easily enough. Although she quite liked the idea of being a beauty queen, she liked the idea of becoming the second Mrs Cowper even more.

  And earning a life of ease, comfort and luxury for herself with the added bonus of acquiring a good-looking and slightly older husband into the bargain, was worth fighting tooth and nail for.

  * * *

  Caroline Tomworthy, holding a glass of wine that she hadn’t taken so much as a sip from, was also contemplating her glorious future. And to further this aim, she watched Dennis Quayle-Jones from dark, thoughtful eyes.

  Was it time to make her move?

  She didn’t think so. Not quite yet – these things had to be judged just right, and the timing would be key.

  It hadn’t taken her long to find something that she could use against the man. His lifestyle, like those of most of his kind, was necessarily a risky one anyway. And she’d hired the best, to get the best photographs.

  Which meant her initial goal – that of winning this rinky-dink little contest – was all but secured. Unlike Sylvia, who was happy to settle for netting herself a wealthy local merchant, Caroline fully intended to win the competition, and find a much richer and far more cosmopolitan mate for herself.

  Dennis Quayle-Jones, whether he liked it or not, was going to ensure that she was crowned Miss Oxford Honey. She’d already made it clear to him just what she expected, but so far, he’d only reacted with mild amusement – and just a little alarm.

  Soon though, he’d realise how deadly earnest she was!

  * * *

  Grace Farley watched the little party from a gap in the curtains. She was sure Trudy would seek her out later and demand to know more about what she ‘knew’.

  Grace would be ready for her. Before long, Mrs Dunbar would find herself under intense scrutiny from the police. And that would give the employer’s wife far more to think about than she had right now, Grace hoped.

  She forced herself to breathe deeply. There was now hope of light at the end of the tunnel. Even so, she felt slightly sick. If anything should go wrong…

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the end-of-rehearsal get-together began to wind down that Trudy finally realised something. Something she should have noticed much earlier, but which had escaped her attention during the chaotic glittering whirl of the evening’s action-packed entertainment.

  Namely that Vicky Munnings hadn’t shown up at the theatre that night.

  Chapter 20

  Rosemary Munnings awoke that morning, as she always did, just before the alarm clock had had a chance to go off, and slipped out of bed. Silencing the clock by turning the chrome-plated key set on top of it, she yawned briefly, rose, had a quick wash, brushed her teeth and then got dressed.

  She was a small, rounded woman, who mostly managed to enjoy her life. A widow for three years now, her husband, Douglas, had had the foresight to leave his wife and only child fairly well provided for, and she was happy with her home and her adopted city. She’d been born in Leicester, but much preferred the élan that an Oxford address gave her.

  She padded down into the kitchen in her favourite fluffy slippers, and contemplated her day. She’d spend some time in her precious garden, of course, but after that, a trip to the library to change her books was always a pleasure. She was addicted to romance novels, where she could travel the world and meet all sorts of exciting men! She also often met up with friends there, and would probably have lunch in a café somewhere with one or two of them to help pass the time.

  She had the church flowers to see to that afternoon, and only hoped that old Mrs Crowther wouldn’t insist on incorporating asters from her garden again. They were usually rife with earwigs, and sometimes rather tatty-looking, but the vicar seemed loath to put his foot down. He was a kind-hearted soul, but really, his parishioners could walk all over him.

  She sighed as she waited for the kettle to boil for morning tea, keeping one eye on the clock.

  Where on earth had her daughter got to?

  Usually Vicky would be up and about by now, bustling into the kitchen to give her mother a quick kiss before giving her a hand to help make the breakfast. She started work at nine on the dot, and if she didn’t put in an appearance soon, she might miss her bus.

  Yesterday had been her day off, and Rosemary hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her all day. Not that that was surprising, since nowadays her daughter seemed to have less and less time for her poor old mother. She sometimes wished her only child hadn’t insisted on having the annexe to herself, since Rosemary could feel rather lonely at times. But she understood that young girls nowadays valued their independence.

  She went to the kitchen door that led off into the annexe and stood there, hovering uncertainly.

  It was a household rule that she never go into what Vicky called her apartment without being asked. Not even to clean. But another quick glance back at the kitchen clock assured her that Vicky really would be late if she didn’t come and have her breakfast now.

  Even so, she didn’t want to actually open the door, so instead, Rosemary tapped sharply on it. ‘Vicky love – do you know what time it is?’ she called out loudly.

  She listened intently, but there was no response.

  Perhaps she’d risen early and had already gone out? Rosemary dithered at the door, frowning uncertainly. Surely Vicky would have found time to mention if anything at work meant that she’d needed to make an extra early start today? As a rule, Vicky liked to sleep late, and would have moaned about having to leave her bed before the usual time.

  ‘Vicky, if you want to eat, you’d better get a move on, darling,’ Rosemary called again.

  This time, she actually put her ear to the door, but again she could hear no movement.

  With a sigh – and fully expecting to be told off by her temperamental offspring for stepping inside – Rosemary opened the door and peeped in.

  The first thing she noticed was that the bed/sitting room was in semi-darkness, which meant that the curtains were still drawn. And since Vicky was in the habit of opening them first thing, it meant that she was still in bed.

  The second thing she noticed was a very faint but odd mustiness to the room that she couldn’t quite place.

  With a sigh, Rosemary passed through the open door and made her way to the curtains, aware of a sense of mild relief. It was all right – her daughter had simply over-slept. So she’d have no reason to blame her mother for coming into the apartment uninvited and rousting her out.

  She pulled the curtains – which were pale cream with large pink roses on them – noisily apart and called briskly, ‘Come on, our Vicky, you’re going to be late.’

  As she spoke, however, something seemed to catch at the back of her throat, and she found herself coughing for a few moments. As she did so, she became aware of vague, slightly metallic taste in the back of her mouth.

  It wasn’t until she turned and glanced at the bed that she realised her daughter hadn’t stirred.

  Which was rather odd. Vicky had never been a light sleeper – even as a child, she’d been restive and fidgety.

  ‘Vicky?’

  Rosemary Munnings started to approach the bed and her daughter’s sleeping form. As she did s
o, she became aware of feeling just a touch light-headed. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. It was surely a little early to be getting a winter cold, wasn’t it?

  ‘Vicky, come on, sweetheart, wake up,’ she admonished, a shade impatiently.

  Her daughter was lying on her side, her back towards the room, her face to the wall against which the bed had been placed.

  Rosemary reached out and shook her daughter’s shoulder. As she did so, Rosemary noticed two things at once. Firstly, the movement of her shaking made her daughter turn slightly in the bed, turning her more onto her back – but that she was making no other movement. And secondly, that her face was looking very flushed – in fact, quite rosy.

  ‘Vicky, love, have you got a fever?’ For a second, the girl’s mother wondered if her daughter, not feeling well and coming down with something, had spent all of yesterday not out and about and enjoying herself as she’d previously thought, but in bed.

  ‘If you’ve been coming down with something you should have told me, you silly girl,’ Rosemary said, more sharply than was her wont. Because she was beginning to feel afraid. Very afraid indeed. Why wasn’t she waking up? Why wasn’t she demanding to know what was going on?

  Why was her daughter so still? It almost looked as if she wasn’t even breathing…

  And then Rosemary realised that she was having a little trouble breathing herself. Suddenly, the awful truth hit her and she began to scream. Then the frantic screams turned to a fit of violent coughing, and she sank down onto her knees, retching helplessly.

  Chapter 21

  Grace Farley awoke well on time that morning, and was up and about to get her father’s breakfast, as usual. He was always the first to leave for work, and for years he’d left the house with a smile on his face and with a cheerful whistle as he went down the garden path. Nowadays, of course, he was silent and pale.

  Grace, dressed in a smart skirt and jumper, ready to take her place in the offices at Dunbar’s, took up her mother’s morning tray. As usual, her mother was awake and smiled up at her from the bed.

  Her father had obviously seen to her having a bath, since her hair was still slightly damp at the ends, and she had a soft flush on her usually pale cheeks.

  ‘Here we go, Mum,’ Grace said, placing the tray on the bedside table, before helping her to sit up. ‘I’ve made the porridge with lots of milk and a bit of cream, and some brown sugar, just the way you like it.’

  She handed her a spoon and watched hopefully as her mother began to eat. Usually, she had more strength first thing in the morning, but after only a couple of spoonfuls, she saw her mother’s arms were starting to fail.

  Forcing a cheerful smile onto her face, she sat beside her on the bed and took over. ‘And now for the magic pills!’ she said brightly, as, little more than half the porridge eaten, her mother indicated that she was full.

  Grace reached towards the table beside the bed, which had a long, thin, narrow drawer incorporated underneath it, and extracted from it a bottle of tablets. She spilled two out, her face never by a flicker indicating just how much trouble she’d had to go to in order to obtain them.

  Her parents both thought they had been prescribed for her, free of charge, by the NHS, because that’s what Grace had told them.

  In fact, they weren’t available in the country on the NHS, and she’d bought them privately, from an expensive clinic in High Wycombe. The drugs were strictly experimental, and could only be obtained from shipping them in from the United States. Over there, although it was still early days, they had gained the reputation of being helpful to people with her mother’s rather rare condition.

  Mrs Merriweather had found out about them for her after Grace had confided in her about her mother’s devastating illness.

  Of course, the likes of Patricia Merriweather and her ilk would have thought nothing about paying the bill for the pills – it probably amounted to petty cash to them. However, to Grace, the exorbitant cost of the medication had been crippling – and still was.

  But she didn’t resent the burden they placed on her. In her heart of hearts, she knew that her mother was only still alive because of these wonderful pills. And she’d do anything – pay any price – to make sure that she could carry on providing them for her, for however long her mother had left. They not only helped ease her pain, but gave her what little energy she still maintained.

  She filled a glass with the barley water and watched her mother take them, her heart filled with love and despair in equal measure.

  With one final plump of the pillows to make sure she was comfortable, she turned and fled.

  She knew that Mrs Crawfield next door would pop in every hour or so, just to check on her. The Crawfields and the Farleys had been friends and neighbours ever since Grace could remember.

  As she left, running a little down the pavement to make sure that she caught her bus, she tried not to feel overwhelmed by everything.

  But it wasn’t easy.

  In order to pay for her mother’s pills, she’d had to do something that she never thought she’d do. Something her family would be ashamed of, if they ever found out – something that would break her mother’s heart for sure.

  Well, she was paying the price for it now, wasn’t she? Grace thought defiantly. She was in a real mess, and wasn’t sure she’d be able to get out of it, even now. Things might or might not work out as she hoped on the Trudy Loveday front, but at least there was some hope now.

  Last night, as she’d known she would, her friend had sought her out and demanded she tell her more about her suspicions. Grace had been careful to tell her exactly what she needed to hear – and no more.

  How Abigail had flirted openly with Robert Dunbar, and was clearly and openly disdainful of his wife. How she’d watched Christine Dunbar’s jealousy and hatred for the girl grow and boil. And how she, Grace, had come to believe, on hearing that Abigail had died from yew berry poison, that Christine had been the one responsible. How she’d even seen Mrs Dunbar smile with satisfaction on hearing the news of the girl’s death.

  Trudy had been fascinated, as Grace had known she would be.

  But would that be enough?

  She knew Trudy was only a lowly WPC, and didn’t have the power, really, to arrest anyone. But surely her friend would report back to her superiors? And then they must act!

  As she caught the bus and rode towards the office – a place that was now almost unbearable to her – Grace wondered what she would do if Christine Dunbar wasn’t arrested soon. If she was allowed to carry on her campaign…

  But the consequences of that were almost unthinkable, and instead Grace forced her mind to think of other, nicer things.

  She’d buy some nice red onions to go with the soup she was going to make to tempt her mother’s non-existent appetite. Maybe she could find some nice fresh herbs too…

  Chapter 22

  Trudy was out on patrol most of the morning, for there’d been reports of a spate of shoplifting in the covered market. So it was nearly lunchtime by the time she got back to the station. She’d barely had time to sit down at her desk and start typing up her reports before the door to DI Jennings’ office opened and she was summoned peremptorily inside.

  ‘Sit down, Constable,’ the Inspector said briskly.

  Trudy obeyed, taking off her policewoman’s cap and setting it neatly on her lap, as she’d been trained to do. But her eyes immediately darted to those of Sergeant Mike O’Grady, who was already sitting beside her in front of the DI’s desk.

  At 41 years of age, he was a slightly chubby man, with a quiff of sandy-coloured hair and pale-blue eyes.

  ‘Sergeant,’ Trudy said respectfully.

  The Sergeant smiled and nodded back at her. Unlike the DI, he didn’t actively resent her presence, but he too felt that women in the police force were only good for certain things – such as searching female suspects and acting as family liaison.

  Now he watched her with curiosity. Clearly, the
Inspector had been telling him all about her latest ‘case’ with the old vulture, and she doubted that the Sarge would have approved.

  But she had to break off her gloomy thoughts as Harry Jennings began to speak.

  ‘All right, Constable,’ the DI began flatly. ‘I understand you were at the theatre last night, with all this beauty pageant business?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said, wondering what this was all about. Usually the DI was happy to wait until the end of the day for her reports, and she had no idea why the Sergeant was present.

  ‘I want you to tell me anything of interest that happened there,’ her superior officer demanded abruptly.

  Trudy blinked, wondering what was up. For something definitely was. Up until now, the Inspector had showed no real interest in what she had to say about the Abigail Trent case, only wanting to be reassured that Dr Ryder wasn’t making any trouble that might rebound on him.

  ‘Well, sir – there was the incident about the chocolates,’ she conceded. Concisely, but leaving nothing out, she told him about the discovery of the expensive ‘gift’ that had appeared on the buffet table, and how she and the coroner had been unable to ascertain how they had come to be there.

  ‘But, sir, it had to be someone at the theatre. No stranger could just have wandered in and left it without attracting attention,’ she concluded. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t wanted to make sure that her DI knew her undercover work at the theatre was proving to be fully justified, and was now paying dividends.

  ‘I hope you kept this box as evidence?’ DI Jennings snapped, when she’d finished.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said smartly. Then, before he could demand that she produce them, added smartly, ‘Dr Ryder took them with him, sir. As a medical man’ – she rushed on, seeing that the DI had already opened his mouth to blast her, and not wanting to give him the chance – ‘he was in the ideal position to take them to a laboratory and get them tested. As you know, sir, sometimes, our own police lab reports can be… well, a bit slow with their results. Whereas Dr Ryder promised he’d light a fire under someone’s er… posterior… and would have preliminary results today. He said he knew someone who owed him a favour. Sir.’