by Faith Martin
About the Author
FAITH MARTIN has been writing for nearly thirty years, under four different pen names, and has published over fifty novels. She began writing romantic thrillers as Maxine Barry, but quickly turned to crime! As Joyce Cato she wrote classic-style whodunits, since she’s always admired the golden-age crime novelists. But it was when she created her fictional DI Hillary Greene, and began writing under the name of Faith Martin, that she finally began to become more widely known. Her latest literary characters WPC Trudy Loveday, and city coroner Dr Clement Ryder, take readers back to the 1960s, and the city of Oxford. Having lived within a few miles of the city’s dreaming spires for all her life (she worked for six years as a secretary at Somerville College), both the city and the countryside/wildlife often feature in her novels. Although she has never lived on a narrowboat (unlike DI Hillary Greene!) the Oxford canal, the river Cherwell, and the flora and fauna of a farming landscape have always played a big part in her life – and often sneak their way onto the pages of her books.
Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series
‘Insanely brilliant’
‘I absolutely loved this book’
‘Faith Martin, you’ve triumphed again. Brilliant!’
‘If you haven’t yet read Miss Martin you have a treat in store’
‘I can safely say that I adore the series featuring Dr Clement Ryder and Probationary WPC Trudy Loveday’
‘This book is such a delight to read. The two main characters are a joy’
‘Yet another wonderful book by Faith Martin!’
‘As always a wonderful story, great characters, great plot. This keeps you gripped from the first page to the last. Faith Martin is such a fantastic author’
Also by Faith Martin
A Fatal Obsession
A Fatal Mistake
A Fatal Flaw
A Fatal Secret
A Fatal Truth
FAITH MARTIN
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Faith Martin
Faith Martin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008336165
Version: 2020-03-02
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series
Also by Faith Martin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Author’s Note:
Extract
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For all my readers who remember the 1960s with affection. And to all my readers too young to remember them!
PROLOGUE
Oxford, 1961
The firework that was later to be accused of killing a man was just an ordinary rocket, made by the Standard Company of Huddersfield. Along with others of its kind – such as Catherine wheels, Roman candles, the ever popular bangers, and more exotic beauties, such as Mount Vesuvius, short fountains, air bombs and star shells – it had been purchased for Bonfire Night. It had been manufactured to do nothing more controversial than contribute to a half-hour or so of noisy, colourful entertainment for one and all.
That year, November 5th fell on a Sunday night, which many couldn’t help but feel was an ideal time for such celebrations. It meant that the man of the house didn’t have to worry about getting home from work as fast as possible and then gulping down his tea, thus risking incipient indigestion. Rather, he could take his time before doing his duty for his clamouring, over-excited children by setting light to the bonfire and then overseeing the traditional letting off of the fireworks, and all just before their bedtime.
Alas, that year, the weather didn’t deign to co-operate, and instead of producing the cold, frosty, clear night that everyone had been hoping for, brought torrential rain and high winds.
Some wisely opted to put off the celebrations until the following night. Most, being British, gamely ploughed on. After all, if the odd firework, caught by the wind, veered off and broke the window of someone’s new conservatory … well, there was no real harm done, was there? Rattan furniture, if it caught fire, could easily be replaced. Except that there was nearly always going to be an exception to prove the rule.
And in the suburb of Headington, set high on a hill, overlooking the beautiful city of Oxford, one firework was fated to be accused of doing something very naughty indeed. In fact, it was to be accused of ending the life of a certain Mr Thomas Hughes, a retired businessman of some standing in his community.
Ironically enough perhaps, Guy Fawkes, who was responsible for instigating Bonfire Night celebrations in the first place, might well have appreciated the murderous consequences of the aforesaid rocket. After all, his gunpowder plot in the basement of Parliament had been intended to help quite a number of people into the after world.
But of Guy Fawkes’s guilt there had been no doubt.
As to that of the rocket … well, some people, when all the facts about what had happened that night were examined in the cold light of day, had their doubts. Some people, in fact, began to seriously wonder if the rocket might not have been innocent all along.
Chapter 1
Dr Clement Ryder, Coroner for the city of Oxford, looked out over his courtroom feeling distinctly satisfied. The start of any new and potentially interesting case always gave him a sense of anticipation. Not that investigating the circumstances of some poor unfortunate’s death was something to look forward to exactly. However, there was something to be said for overseeing the necessary telling of a sad and significant event.
A handsome man in his mid-to-late fifties, he looked around, noting that the press bench was almost full. He recognised some of the vario
us reporters from the Oxford Times, Mail and Tribune, and wasn’t surprised to see representatives from other county newspapers as well. It wasn’t often one of the city’s more prominent and wealthy members burned to death in the family shed.
It was a wet and cold Monday morning in November, lending the courtroom a grey and melancholy air, and for some of the more superstitious in attendance, the fact that the date was the 13th only added to a general sense of foreboding. The coroner’s usher, however, showed no sense of unease as he called the first witness.
Mrs Alice Wilcox, née Hughes, eldest daughter of the victim, rose from her seat and took the stand, going through the usual formalities with a firm, low, but thankfully quite carrying voice.
Clement regarded her thoughtfully. He knew from his preliminary reports that she was forty-two years old, but she looked rather older. She was about five feet six and slightly plump, but she was dressed in a smart powder-blue skirt and jacket outfit, with a plain white blouse that did its best to hide the fact. Her greying, auburn hair was held up in a firm, no-nonsense chignon, and when she turned to look at him, Clement became aware of how pale she was under her make-up. She also clutched her handbag tightly, showing the whiteness of her knuckles, and her large hazel-coloured eyes were wide with trepidation.
Clement gave her a gentle smile. No doubt she’d been dreading this moment for some days now, and he wanted to put her at her ease as quickly as possible.
‘Thank you for your attendance, Mrs Wilcox, I understand how difficult this must be for you. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. If you need some water, or at any time feel like you’d need to rest, just say so,’ he informed her kindly.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
‘Now, I understand your father, Thomas Hughes, lived with you at your family home in Headington? Is that right?’
‘Yes. Father was widowed a while ago, and found it lonely to go on living alone. So he sold his house and bought a larger property in Headington, with the understanding that myself, my husband and my children would also live there. Since we were beginning to feel rather cramped in our own house, which we were renting, it worked out well for everyone. And it meant I could look after Father too, of course.’
‘I see. That sounds very sensible,’ Clement said. ‘Your children are Olivia, aged fifteen, and Lucas, aged twelve?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on the 5th of the month, Bonfire Night, you held a bonfire and fireworks party for all the family in your back garden?’ he prompted.
‘Yes. Father always put on a big display for us when we were children, and he kept it up for his grandchildren. That’s why all the family was there, not just those of us with children of our own.’
Clement nodded. ‘The other children belonged to your brother Matthew …’ He looked down to check his notes. ‘Benjamin, Clarissa and Helen?’
‘Yes – they’re a fair bit younger than my own, and so were very excited at the prospect. Grandpa’s fireworks parties were always a big event for them. He threw one every year.’
‘Also present were your brother Godfrey and your sister Caroline?’
‘Yes, it was always very much a family affair,’ Alice agreed, her lips firming into a thin line. She was so obviously determined not to break down, that Clement felt he could now safely ask her to tell them what the jury and the members of the press were all so eager to hear about.
‘In your own words, can you tell us what happened this particular Bonfire Night, Mrs Wilcox?’
The dead man’s daughter drew in an audible deep breath and nodded. She also turned slightly, so that she was now looking at the jury, rather than the coroner.
‘Yes. It was Sunday, and the weather had been pretty bad all day. Rain and wind, and all that. At about five o’clock, just as it was getting fully dark, I asked Father if he thought we should cancel. Although the worst of the rain had abated a bit, it was still showery, and the winds were distinctly blustery.’
As if to underline this, outside a spatter of rain was suddenly thrown against the window by a wind that had been gradually building up overnight, and Clement saw several members of the public look up at the windows and shiver.
‘But Father wouldn’t hear of it,’ Alice carried on, her voice clear in the silent room. ‘He said he’d been at bonfire parties in the past when it had actually been thundering and lightning, and it had … never done him any harm.’
As the sheer inappropriateness of these words hit her, she faltered slightly, coughed and then ploughed gamely on. ‘He said he couldn’t let the children down, but he’d be careful to make sure that he picked a really good and sheltered spot in the garden from which to light the fireworks.’
‘Were there a lot of fireworks?’ Clement put in, knowing he needed to make the point for the jury.
‘Oh yes. Father was a fairly wealthy man, and whilst he was always very careful with money, he did, on occasion, like to indulge in certain things. And the annual bonfire party was one of those. So he’d bought boxes and boxes.’
‘And these were stored in the wooden shed at the back of the garden?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. Please continue.’
Alice Wilcox again took a deep breath. ‘Well, when Father had got an idea fixed in his head, it was no use trying to talk him out of it,’ she said, then aware that this might sound disloyal, forced a brief smile to her pale lips. ‘Father was always a very strong-minded man, and he liked things just so.’
‘I understand,’ Clement soothed her. He could see she was getting flustered, thinking she’d said the wrong thing, and he helped her out with a brisk question. ‘Did the other members of the family ring to ask if the festivities would be cancelled?’
‘Oh no,’ Alice said. ‘They knew I would have telephoned them and let them know if Father’s plans had changed.’
‘I see. At what time was the fireworks display due to start?’
‘Six-thirty. Joan – that’s my brother’s Matthew’s wife – wanted to make sure her little ones were in bed by seven-thirty at the latest. So we lit the bonfire at about quarter past six, and then father went into the shed to begin collecting the fireworks.’
Again, the room became very quiet, with not even the odd shuffle of feet or the rasp of clothing against clothing to mar the stillness.
‘Was this the usual routine?’ Clement asked encouragingly.
‘Yes. We’ve lived at the big house in Headington since 1958, so we’d had three previous parties there, and that was always how Father did it. He wouldn’t have fireworks in the house, he said it wasn’t safe. In case of … fire.’
Alice dipped her head and faltered again on the last word. Somewhere, someone in the public section gave a soft gasp of sympathy.
‘He sounds eminently sensible,’ Clement said, keeping his voice both crisp and calm. He glanced down at his notes and said, ‘Your father was a retired businessman I understand?’
For some reason, this brought her head up sharply. She turned her attention from the jury back to the coroner, and Clement could see that she’d gone almost white. Her gaze, too, was definitely startled – and alarmed.
‘Well … yes, that’s right, yes he was,’ Alice mumbled, after a visible hesitation.
A handsome young man on the press bench smiled somewhat grimly at this, and made a quick, predatory note, his pencil digging deeply into the notebook on his lap.
Clement, not sure why such an innocuous question – which again he had asked only to help her out of an uncomfortable moment – should cause her such unease, moved on briskly.
‘Did you have difficulty lighting the bonfire? The wood and detritus must have got thoroughly soaked during the daytime rain?’
‘Oh yes, Godfrey and Kenneth had a real job getting it going. In the end, I think they used a little paraffin.’
‘This paraffin was normally kept stored in the shed?’ Clement asked gently.
‘Yes, I believe so,’ Alice acknowledged miserably.
‘I think so. Yes, I’m pretty sure I saw my brother put it back, just inside the door.’ Again, his witness responded unhappily, and he cast the jury a quick look to make sure they’d got the point. The garden shed, as well as containing a large stack of fireworks, was also the repository of other, very flammable materials.
‘What happened then?’
Alice squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Once the bonfire was going, I went back into the kitchen and began wrapping up some sausages and potatoes to put into the base of the bonfire. Father liked to make use of the fire to cook the food, as they did when he was a boy. Caroline, my sister, helped me with this.’
‘And then?’
‘I took them out, all piled onto a tray, and left them on an old iron garden table that we keep near the kitchen window. Later, when the bonfire wasn’t so fierce, I was going to push them into the base of the fire with an old shovel or something to bake. So I went in the shed for something to use, and, yes, I’m sure I remember Father coming up the path towards me as I left with an old rake. I assumed it was to get the fireworks. I smiled at him as he passed.’
Here she paused, then took another deep breath and pushed on. ‘I went back to the bonfire … no, wait, sorry. I went back into the kitchen again to fetch the hot chocolate for the children. That’s right. I’d just bought out the jug and mugs, and had put them on the table, when I heard a big bang behind me. It made me jump. Of course, I realised right away what it was,’ she said with a nervous smile. ‘It was a banger going off. I thought at first that it must have come from one of the neighbour’s back gardens. Children do so love bangers, don’t they?’ She managed another smile and shot a quick glance at the jury.
One or two of them smiled back at her and nodded.
‘But then I heard someone – I think it was my brother Matthew – shout something about the shed, and I turned around and saw flames were coming out of open doorway.’