Читать книгу A Fatal Flaw - Faith Martin - Страница 15

‘So where do we start?’ Trudy asked, beaming a thank-you smile at Dr Ryder’s secretary as she delivered a tray containing a large pot of tea, three cups and a tin of Huntley and Palmer biscuits, and then left with her usual silent discretion.

By now, Trudy was beginning to think of Dr Ryder’s office as a home-away-from home, and as she took a sip of tea, she looked across his big, but neatly ordered desk-top with an expectant look on her face.

‘Well, I thought we might start with your friend Grace,’ Clement said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning her at work, and she’s agreed to come down here in her lunch hour’ – he checked his watch – ‘which should be in about ten minutes’ time.’

Trudy nodded happily. ‘So, what are your thoughts so far?’ she demanded eagerly.

Clement smiled. ‘I have none, in particular,’ he said, amused, as ever, by her eagerness. He reached for a biscuit and put it on the side of his saucer and with no trace of tremor in his hand today, lifted the full cup of tea with confidence.

In due time, he knew his speech would become slurred, and he’d begin to shuffle. But with luck he could still eke out a few more years before anyone would guess he had serious health issues, and he might even get another year or more after that before anyone dared challenge him on it.

In the meanwhile, he was determined to make the most of these last precious, golden years of his life before enforced retirement and illness finally got the better of him. Besides, as he listened to the young girl in the chair opposite him, he was very much aware that acting as Trudy Loveday’s mentor and champion was going to give him an investment in life for the foreseeable future.

‘But surely you got a picture of what we’re dealing with from the inquest? I only wish I’d been able to attend,’ she added, a shade forlornly.

Clement contemplated lighting his pipe, then decided he couldn’t be bothered to try and get it going, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh instead. ‘The only things to be gained from inquests are basic information and a general “feel” for the case,’ he pointed out patiently. ‘It’s not as if new evidence is ever revealed. It’s a question of making official the facts that are already known to the police and the medical authorities.’

‘All right,’ Trudy said, trying to quash down a feeling of impatience. ‘So what’s your “feeling” for this one? Do you think she committed suicide?’ she demanded. Now that her friend Dr Clement Ryder had become involved and the investigation was officially ‘above board’ with her superiors, she was eager to move the case forward.

‘Your friend was adamant that Abigail wasn’t suicidal, wasn’t she?’ he mused quietly.

‘Yes. Why? Did the other friends you called as witnesses say otherwise?’ Trudy asked sharply, and for some reason was rather surprised when the coroner shook his head.

‘No. Her parents were adamant she wasn’t depressed, of course, and her friends seemed to feel the same way. Nobody said that she seemed the “type” to take her own life. Not that there is such a thing, of course.’

‘Oh. So all the gossip about her being moody and whatnot was just that? Idle gossip and speculation, and people being spiteful? Or…’ Trudy’s eyes widened slightly as a sudden thought hit her. ‘Could it be that someone was deliberately spreading such rumours around to try and make people believe it was suicide, when it wasn’t?’

‘Maybe,’ Clement said, a twinkle appearing in his rather watery blue eyes at her evident excitement. ‘But it sounds a little far-fetched to me.’

Trudy sighed and reluctantly nodded.

‘Then again,’ the coroner swept on, ‘she might have been moody and occasionally depressed without wanting to kill herself. Most of us are down from time to time, but we don’t all go throwing ourselves off the top of tall buildings. No, the impression I got of her, reading between the lines, was of a pretty and ambitious girl, who was perhaps a shade on the selfish and self-obsessed side, and was determined to get on in life.’

‘So not suicide then,’ Trudy said with some satisfaction. ‘When Grace gets here, she’ll be pleased about that, at least. So – not suicide, and I take it we can strike out murder?’ she offered, a bit more tentatively. She nibbled on a biscuit, her face thoughtful.

Clement verbally ran through the evidence – or rather lack thereof – for the case for murder. No break-in, no medical evidence of an attack or struggle, or that the poison had been forced into her system. Nor had the victim complained of being afraid of anyone, or of anyone menacing her prior to her death.

‘Of course, none of that means that someone couldn’t have sneaked the poison into her juice somehow,’ he pointed out reasonably in summation.

‘Which would put the people in the house with her in the spotlight,’ Trudy mused, sitting a little forward on her chair now. ‘Namely, her family.’ Then she slumped back again. ‘Can you really see her mum or dad or one of her siblings poisoning her?’ she asked sceptically.

Clement had never met Trudy’s parents, but he had been able to tell from the way she spoke about them, that she enjoyed a very close and loving relationship with them – as she did with her brother. So it wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t really believe in murder within a family.

However, he’d presided over too many cases (and read too many depressing news articles) to be unaware that one’s supposedly nearest and dearest often did want to poison one another. And sometimes did just that!

‘Her parents and the sister who found her seemed genuinely grief-stricken,’ he temporised. ‘Sometime soon I’m going to have to talk to them privately and in more detail. But I think you should concentrate on what your friend Grace has to say about this beauty pageant thing, and the strange goings-on there. Just in case there’s a connection.’

Trudy nodded, then, picking up something in the coroner’s tone, she shot the older man a look. ‘You sounded rather disapproving of the beauty contest, Dr Ryder. Don’t you follow the Miss World competition?’ she asked, a shade tongue-in-cheek. Most men, she knew, liked looking at pretty girls.

‘No, I don’t,’ Clement said, half-amused and half-appalled by the idea. ‘I’d rather watch the cricket!’

Trudy shrugged. ‘I suppose I can see why most of the girls doing them think it’s fun. And the money prizes can be staggering – I did a little research on it after Grace came to me,’ she admitted, seeing the doctor’s thick eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘But I think the Miss Oxford Honey only gives out prize money to the actual winner, and prizes for the runner up and winners of each round. Grace said the shop owners who are helping sponsor it are donating the prizes. You know, stockings from the clothes shops, and cosmetics from the chemists, and stuff like that. I think they’re being rewarded for their generosity by getting to sit on the judging panel, along with Mr Dunbar and the owner of the theatre.’

‘I’ll bet they are,’ Clement grunted, secretly thinking that most of them would be only too glad of the excuse to participate in a little glamorous showbiz under the auspices of a business banner.

‘So, you think it’s unlikely to be murder?’ Trudy got the conversation back on track, trying not to sound disappointed. ‘I suppose that leaves us with accidental death then? I mean, that the dead girl thought she was drinking something herbal and good for her that she’d made herself, and was in fact drinking poison instead. That’s so sad. To think, she thought that what she was doing was going to help her reach her goals in life, when in fact, she was putting an end to her future once and for all.’

Clement blinked at this rather torturous statement and then shrugged. ‘Or perhaps she didn’t make the poisonous concoction herself, but was given it by someone else?’

‘So you do think it’s murder?’ Trudy said, grinning with excitement.

‘Or it’s possible that the person who made the concoction made a genuine mistake, and is now too scared to own up to it?’

‘Her best friend Vicky, perhaps?’ Trudy proffered absently, reading the coroner’s inquest notes in between chatting and sipping her tea.

‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as the adventurous kind. Not the sort of girl to try making up ointments and such,’ Clement disagreed. ‘She didn’t seem that bright, for one thing. No, I got the distinct feeling she was more the follower, and Abby the leader.’

‘Oh. One of her other friends then?’

‘Or a rival in the competition, perhaps?’ Clement mused. Although he considered it part of his remit to try and rein Trudy in on some of her more fanciful theories, he had to admit that it could be fun to let the imagination run riot now and then. ‘Perhaps this prankster your friend told you about has struck again, but this time went too far? Possibly without meaning to?’

‘Would that be murder then?’ Trudy mused.

‘Manslaughter, probably,’ Clement said. ‘But I’m not a QC, and besides, this is all idle speculation, remember.’

Just then, and before Trudy could reply, the secretary knocked on the door, announced the arrival of Miss Farley and ushered Grace inside.

Trudy took one look at her pale, tired face, and got to her feet. ‘Grace. How’s your mother?’ she asked abruptly and urgently.

Clement took the opportunity to reach into his desk, unroll a pack of strong mints and pop one into his mouth. Another annoying side effect of Parkinson’s was halitosis, and he had got into the habit of sucking on mints on a regular basis.

Grace, shrugging wearily and taking the seat the coroner rose from and offered her, slumped down rather heavily and gave a small smile.

‘Oh, you know. She’s been taking this new medication for a little while now, and at first she seemed to be improving. Now some of the doctors at the Radcliffe Infirmary seem to think that an experimental operation might be her only hope, but others are advising against it. So we’re not sure what to do. Dad’s at his wit’s end. But you didn’t invite me here to talk about all this,’ she said, and with an obvious mental effort, stiffened her shoulder and looked across the desk.

‘Thank you for calling me up Dr Ryder and for taking on Abby’s case,’ she said politely.

Clement, whose previous life as a surgeon made it easy for him to recognise all the signs of someone with a terminally ill loved one, poured her a cup of tea and insisted she take and eat two biscuits.

‘I’m only too pleased to help,’ Clement said and smiled at her gently. ‘So, what can you tell us about Abby? How did you first meet her?’

Grace sighed, and then opened her handbag and reached inside for a packet of Camel’s cigarettes and a small lighter.

She offered them around, but both Trudy and Clement refused.

‘Well, I’ve only really known her since the beauty pageant started when Abby and Vicky showed up at the initial interviews. We’re still having one or two girls coming in even now, though rehearsals are well under way.’

‘I’m not sure I know just how a beauty contest works,’ Trudy admitted, sensing that her friend was very nervous indeed. Whether it was because she knew that the morgue was so close by, or whether Dr Clement Ryder’s somewhat imposing presence was getting to her, she couldn’t tell.

‘Well, neither do I really,’ Grace admitted ruefully. ‘But I know how Miss Oxford Honey is being run. Basically, we want girls from Oxford or within a twenty-mile radius to come for an interview so we can see if they’re suitable. After that, they need to do a piece for the talent contest to make sure they have a certain flair – and that’s really the main reason for the rehearsals, which is why we’re so lucky to have the theatre. What’s more, the resident make-up lady and wardrobe mistress are helping out with the evening wear section and swimsuit catwalk bit.’

‘OK. And Abby was one of the favourites to win, was she?’ Trudy gently led her back on course.

‘Oh yes. Well, perhaps her and three or four of the others. Caroline Tomworthy is very exotic-looking, and a bit older, at 28. So she has a bit more glamour, I suppose, though 30 is the cut-off age,’ Grace explained, puffing assiduously on her cigarette. ‘Then there’s Betty Darville and Sylvia Blane. And maybe Candace Usherwood. But she’s only just 20 and acts much younger, so…’

‘And how did Abby get on with these girls – the ones who were her main rivals?’ Trudy asked curiously.

‘Oh, I would have said they got on fine. I just can’t imagine who’s playing such nasty tricks on everyone. Just last night a girl’s shampoo was doctored with glue! Poor thing, it took us all ages to wash it out. Even then, she had to have a hairdresser come in and cut her hair. Luckily, we all agree the shorter style suits her better than her long hair, but even so she was very upset…’

Grace sighed heavily. ‘Poor Mr Dunbar is at his wit’s end! So far the press haven’t caught a whiff about the sabotage, but when they do…’ She broke off helplessly, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table and wearily folded her hands neatly in her lap. She didn’t really want to talk about Mr Dunbar. She felt bad enough steaming open and reading his private mail, then reporting back the contents to his wife. It made her feel dirty and incredibly shabby. And that was not the only demoralising thing she’d had to do.

‘So it couldn’t have been Abby who was playing the tricks then,’ Trudy said with a quick glance at the coroner. It wasn’t a theory they’d discussed before – but it was obvious that if the prankster was still at work, then it couldn’t possibly have been the dead girl who was causing the nuisances. ‘Unless someone has taken over from her,’ Trudy theorised. ‘Maybe one of the girls might have known or suspected she was behind the pranks, and then decided to simply follow on where she left off? Especially if it was working, and some of the girls were being spooked into leaving the competition!’

Clement felt his lips twitch.

Grace looked at Trudy a little shocked. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

‘I think it very unlikely,’ Clement interposed firmly. ‘But Trudy has raised an interesting question. Have any of the girls dropped out?’

‘Only two so far,’ Grace said unwillingly. ‘But most seem determined to try and win. Even the girl who had to get her hair cut shorter is carrying on. It’s the prize you see – not the money so much, but the automatic entry into the Miss Oxford competition.’

‘Did Abby suspect anyone of being the prankster?’ Trudy asked abruptly.

‘No, I don’t think so. She never said anything about it to me if she did. But you should ask Vicky. She’d be the one who’d know. She and Abby were always thick as thieves. So if she’d told anyone, it would be her.’

‘Did you ever hear her mention anyone who was trying to help her out by giving her beauty tips?’ Trudy asked next.

‘No. Oh, I know she and some of the other girls tried all sorts of homemade things to try and help. Some girl said putting cucumber slices on her eyes at night was marvellous for stopping her getting bags, and that sort of thing. But nothing about making concoctions and stuff to drink!’

‘So you think it was an accident then, Miss Farley?’ Clement put in smoothly. He was watching Grace closely and sensed a tension in the girl that seemed rather out of place.

Like Trudy, he’d sensed her nerves the moment she’d walked into the room. But again, like Trudy, he’d initially put that down to her being in an unfamiliar environment. The legal and medical professions made most people feel nervous, and here, at Floyd’s Row, both of those combined. And, of course, a lot of people were uncomfortable around the trappings of death. As a coroner, he was used to people feeling unhappy in his presence.

But now he was beginning to think there was more to it than that. It seemed to him that Trudy’s friend was holding something back. And he wanted to find out, at the very least, where to start probing for that information.

‘An accident?’ Grace echoed, her mouth suddenly going a little dry. She darted a quick look at her friend sitting beside her, then looked at the coroner, and quickly away again. It was one thing to try and manipulate Trudy Loveday, Grace suddenly realised, but rather a different thing altogether to try and hoodwink a man like the one now sitting across the desk from her.

‘Well, what else could it be?’ she heard herself say, and looked down into her lap. There, surely that sounded feeble and unsure enough? Or maybe it didn’t? Maybe they’d just take the words at face value. Clement could see that Trudy was frowning. Clearly she was perplexed by her friend’s behaviour.

‘Grace, if you know anything, you need to tell us,’ Trudy said gently. She reached out and touched Grace’s hand, still resting on the handbag in her lap. ‘Even if you think it might not be important, or you don’t quite know what to make of it. Just tell us and leave it to us to sort it all out.’

Grace quickly looked down, a feeling of relief flooding over her. It was all right. She’d done it. She’d planted the necessary suspicions in their minds. Surely her part was now done? She could just sit back and wait for things to unfold as they must. And then she’d be safe.

Wouldn’t she?

She looked up at her old school friend, and took a deep breath. ‘Trudy, you will come to the theatre, won’t you? The Old Swan Theatre, you know the one, just off Walton Street? I’d feel so much happier if you’d just come and take a look around. It’s run by Mr Quayle-Jones. He used to be an actor himself, but now he owns and manages the theatre.’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ Trudy said, nobly ignoring Grace’s nervous habit of waffling. ‘But it’ll have to be one evening, when I’m not in uniform.’

‘Tonight?’ Grace said urgently. ‘There’s a rehearsal on for the evening gown section of the show. Some of the dresses are on loan from the dress shops, and Mr Quayle-Jones has even said we can have our pick of some of the costumes. You have to see the gowns sometime, Trudy, they’re sensational! Tonight won’t be all that exciting since the girls will just be going through the motions in their normal clothes. But it’ll give you a chance to meet everyone and…’ Grace trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

Trudy smiled and patted her hand. ‘I’ll be happy to come!’

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ Grace said, making a show of glancing at her watch and then getting up. ‘I really have to go – I can’t be late back from lunch. So I’ll see you tonight then? About seven-thirty? Just go around the side entrance and knock. The doorkeeper will let you in. I’ll let him know to expect you.’

She nodded across at Clement and left, her step much lighter than when she’d entered.

Clement watched her go and wondered what, exactly, the curly-haired young lady was up to. Because he was pretty sure that she had some sort of agenda that she wasn’t sharing with Trudy Loveday.

‘Poor Grace,’ Trudy said, when her friend had left. ‘She’s got so much on her plate at the moment, with her mother being so unwell, and all this extra workload with the beauty contest. Still, if we can put her mind to rest about Abby, that’ll be one less thing for her to worry about.’

Clement nodded. ‘You two seem close?’

‘Oh yes. Well, we were once, at school, where she sort of looked out for me,’ Trudy felt compelled to add. ‘But you know how important and intense childhood friendships can be. At the time, I felt I would have died if Grace hadn’t been around.’

The coroner understood immediately that Trudy didn’t suspect her friend of anything underhanded. And it certainly hadn’t even crossed her mind that she might be playing some part in what was going on. He wondered, briefly, if he should say something to her about his suspicions, but almost instantly decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea. For one thing, he might just be wrong (although he didn’t think so!) But more importantly, he knew that if he told Trudy, she would begin to act differently around Grace, and as things stood at the moment, the more sanguine Grace Farley felt about things, the better he’d like it. She was far more likely to give herself away if she thought she was in the clear.

But he’d be watching her closely from now on, and one thing was for certain – when Trudy went to the theatre tonight, he’d be going with her.

‘So,’ Trudy said, ‘where do we start?’

‘What about the former boyfriend?’ Clement said. ‘He hardly spoke much at the inquest, and if anybody can tell us what sort of girl the victim was, it’s bound to be him.’

‘Great! Where does he work?’ Trudy enthused.

‘The council offices. He’s a clerk in the roadworks department.’