by Faith Martin
She listened to his side of the conversation, and from picking up the odd clue here and there, concluded that he was talking to the chairman – or whatever he was – of the local golf club.
As expected, Martin de Lacey was also a member. And, also as expected, with a little delicate probing, the wily old coroner was soon able to find out who he’d been seen dining with about town lately.
He hung up with a smile and a promise to his friend on the other end of the line that a box of the best Panamas would be winging their way to him come next Christmas. Trudy, after a moment’s amused thought, decided Dr Ryder must mean the cigars, rather than the hat!
‘Her name’s Marjorie Chandler. She was up at St Hilda’s, he thinks,’ Clement said, forcing Trudy away from her rather whimsical musings, and back to the business at hand. ‘Anyway, the grapevine has it that the lady likes to think of herself as something of an academic and is in no hurry to return to America, and the bosom of her family millions. She has a flat near the park, overlooking Keble, Lord help her!’
Trudy gave a splutter of laughter. She knew that the gaudy white-and-red checkerboard edifice that was Keble College was either loved or loathed, depending on who you talked to, and she concluded that Dr Ryder, clearly, was not a fan!
*
It didn’t take long for them to drive from Floyds Row, past the Martyrs’ Memorial, through St Giles’, and then turn off right towards the park.
The coroner found a parking place easily right outside the house and beneath a spreading lime tree, which was just beginning to bring forth its lime-coloured leaves into a rather grey and overcast spring morning.
They stepped into the vestibule and consulted the small list of occupants, which had been pinned to the wall beneath a large and rather attractive arts-and-crafts wooden-framed mirror. Miss Chandler’s flat, it turned out, occupied the entire top floor of the large, Victorian building, and probably would indeed command great views of the park and surrounding architecture.
‘Well, if we didn’t already know the lady was rich, we’d be left in little doubt about it now,’ Clement said, huffing slightly as they climbed to the top floor. There, he reached automatically into his coat pocket for a roll of mints, and slipped one into his mouth, chewing quickly. Halitosis, alas, was yet another symptom of Parkinson’s, and one he was particularly keen to combat.
Trudy gave a disinterested shrug, then reached for the doorbell and gave it a firm ring.
Chapter 17
A tall, thin woman with obviously dyed blonde hair answered the door. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was dressed in a beautiful Balmain suit that showed off her boyish figure to its best advantage, and was impeccably made-up. Trudy instantly noticed the flash of precious gemstones that caught the sunlight as she lifted one hand to brush a stray strand of hair off her cheek. She was wearing at least three rings plus a large, multifaceted bracelet.
‘Hello. Miss Chandler?’ Trudy asked pleasantly, since the woman’s eyes had gone instantly to her, widening in clear astonishment at her uniform.
‘Yes? Police?’ she asked uncertainly, as if not convinced that such a thing as a woman police officer were quite feasible. It made Trudy wonder if they didn’t yet have women in the police in the United States of America. ‘Oh don’t tell me I’ve got parking fines again?’ the woman wailed, her broad American accident sounding odd to Trudy’s ears. She couldn’t remember actually having met an American before. She quickly smiled and held up a reassuring hand.
‘Oh no, madam. We’re not here about traffic violations. I’m WPC Loveday, and this is Dr Clement Ryder.’
‘Dr?’ the American woman echoed, instantly transferring her attention to Clement, and smiling widely. Clearly here she felt on much surer ground. ‘One hesitates to ask, in this city, but are you a doctor of medicine or…?’ She left the question open-ended, at the same time stepping back and with a gracious wave of her bejewelled hand, inviting them in.
‘Indeed, my doctorate is in medicine. But I’ve also studied law,’ Clement admitted, belatedly remembering that he had, indeed, some very creditable initials that he could legitimately add after his name, since he’d crammed several law courses when he’d changed his career. ‘I’m one of the county’s coroners, Miss Chandler. Before that I was a surgeon at the Radcliffe Infirmary.’
‘Really? How fascinating,’ the thin blonde woman said, and clearly meant it.
And with this, Clement had no trouble at all in marking her out as (what a rather waspish-tongued friend of his always called them) an academic acolyte. They came in all shapes and sizes, he’d averred, but all of them had an overwhelming love for Oxford, academia, and themselves, in no particular order.
Wanting to get her onside immediately, he looked around the large living room, and beamed. ‘How marvellous. I can see by your collection, you’re a connoisseur of art. Have you come to Oxford to study it, by any chance?’
As expected, the wealthy American immediately looked pleased. ‘Oh, I already have my BA – from Somerville. But I’m thinking about doing a more in-depth study as a post-graduate, specialising in the Surrealists,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Please, won’t you sit down?’
Trudy and Clement both did so, in a rather sumptuous leather settee overlooking big sash windows that gave a panoramic view of one of Oxford’s more leafy streets. And glancing around, Trudy could see for herself that the walls were indeed choc-a-block with works of art. Most of which looked extraordinarily ugly to her eyes, she saw, with some surprise. At least, they certainly weren’t what she thought of as pretty pictures.
There weren’t many landscapes or paintings of flowers for instance, she noted, trying not to stare at one really odd print of a clock that seemed to be melting…
‘We’re here to talk about the tragedy at Briar’s Hall,’ Clement said, dragging Trudy’s rather bemused mind from the bewildering world of art and back to something with which she felt far more familiar. ‘I headed the inquest into little Eddie Proctor’s case.’
‘Oh yes! Oh my word, that was awful,’ Marjorie Chandler said. ‘Poor Martin and Oliver were both so cut up about it.’
Trudy thought, somewhat cynically, that the death of an insignificant village boy probably wouldn’t have made that much of an impact on the likes of the de Lacey family – and even less on someone like Marjorie, with her huge flat in the city, and her fancy clothes.
And once more, her thoughts went painfully back to the Proctor home – the boy’s mother too tired to even see them and his father who seemed so helpless and beaten but determined to do right by his boy.
‘I’m sure they felt guilty about it,’ Trudy couldn’t help but say, then flushed with her own guilt as the coroner shot her a quick, warning look of remonstrance. ‘But they are going out of their way to be helpful in our inquiry,’ she added quickly, hoping to redeem herself. Because Dr Ryder was right. It was no use antagonising the witness. They were here to get information, and her gran had always said that you caught more flies with sugar than vinegar.
‘Oh, yes, well of course,’ Marjorie said, clearly a little taken aback. ‘But I don’t see what I can do to help?’ She turned once again to Clement, clearly feeling more sure of herself with an erudite, academic man, than with a spiky, unknown quantity such as Trudy.
‘I take it you were at the Hall on Easter Sunday, when it happened?’ Clement stepped in smoothly, and Trudy wisely subsided and let him do all the running, careful to keep her eyes off the bewildering artwork surrounding them.
‘Oh yes. Martin had invited me to lunch. Oliver’s mother wasn’t there, but the rest of the family were,’ Marjorie agreed instantly, again looking pleased with herself. Obviously she felt it was something of a feather in her cap to be on dining terms with minor British nobility. ‘Briar’s Hall is such a lovely and charming example of Georgian architecture, don’t you think? And the de Laceys, of course, came over with the Conqueror.’ As an American, she must find it almost unbelievable that families h
ere could trace their ancestry back more than a thousand years.
Clement was happy to talk about the merits of several local architects, remarking that he quite liked the work of Dalrymple-Champneys, before guiding her back to the day that little Eddie Proctor had died.
‘As I understand it, the adults didn’t actually attend the Easter egg hunt itself?’ he mused.
‘Oh no. That was strictly for the local children, and Martin’s own two, of course. Some members of the WI and the teachers at the local school oversaw it, I think,’ Marjorie said. ‘Cigarette?’
She opened a lovely Art Deco mother-of-pearl and jet cigarette box, and Clement accepted one, then used his own lighter to light first her own cigarette then his own. Trudy, who knew he preferred his pipe, bit back a smile. He certainly was intent on buttering up the wealthy American, and she wondered, with a sudden start, if he actually found her attractive.
She herself declined with a brief smile and a shake of her head. She’d only tried cigarettes a few times, and they just made her cough.
‘Do you get on with Emily?’ Clement surprised both women by asking next. But after only a momentary pause, the American woman recovered smoothly.
‘Oh yes, she’s a darling child. Very bright you know. I’m determined to persuade Martin that she should be encouraged to attend the university here. He, I’m sorry to say, still has a rather parochial Englishman country gentleman’s view that proper education should be strictly for the boys only.’
‘Oh, I’m sure if anyone can make him see the error of his ways, it’s someone such as yourself, Miss Chandler.’ Clement smiled urbanely. ‘Yes, several people have told us that little Emily is a clever child. And probably mature for her age. I don’t suppose you ever met Eddie Proctor?’
‘The child who died? No, I’m afraid not, but I do happen to know that he was a particular favourite of hers. On the other few occasions I’ve been at the Hall, she did chatter on so about their exploits. It was awful, learning later that day that a child had died, and even worse to realise it was Emily’s friend. I was so upset, I had to leave at once. I’m rather sensitive about that sort of thing, I’m afraid. Being so in tune with art and beauty, I find the realities of life rather unbearable sometimes.’
Trudy blinked at this blatant self-absorption but, having already learned her lesson, said nothing.
‘I’m sure it was very upsetting for you,’ Clement said smoothly, and only Trudy, who was getting to know him so well, could hear the hidden contempt behind his tone. ‘So you never saw anything of the Easter egg hunt that day?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘I don’t suppose Martin, or perhaps Mr Oliver de Lacey, mentioned anything about the boy? I understand you know them both quite well?’ he asked, being careful to keep his voice mild and totally free of innuendo.
‘Oh yes, I know them both,’ the American said blithely. ‘I met Martin first, and later I was introduced to his cousin. Oliver is such an interesting man, you know. Not only does he lecture in physics, he’s also on a very important committee that advises your government on its nuclear energy strategy.’
‘Yes, so I’d heard,’ Clement said, hiding his amusement. Clearly, to a lover of all things cerebral, Mr Oliver de Lacey had it on points over his cousin, who, as far as Clement was aware, could claim no particular academic laurels for himself.
‘Of course, Martin is so much the village squire and steeped in tradition, that he’s equally fascinating, in his own way,’ Marjorie mused, her voice taking on a slightly dreamy quality.
Ah, Clement mused wryly. Clearly the lady was torn between seeing herself as the wife of an Oxford don, and the lady of the manor.
‘We’re trying to discover what took the boy to the orchard – and the well – in the first place. I don’t suppose Emily ever said anything to you about a secret meeting there?’ Clement asked casually. ‘We’ve been trying to talk to Emily, but she seems to be rather well guarded by Mrs Roper – the housekeeper.’
‘Oh, her!’ Marjorie sniffed, clearly not impressed by the likes of the de Laceys’ guardian dragon. And probably, Trudy guessed with some amusement, that feeling was very much reciprocated. She couldn’t see the likes of the swanky Marjorie Chandler impressing Mrs Roper much!
‘Don’t you worry, Dr Ryder, I’ll be sure to talk to Martin for you, and make sure you get to speak to his daughter,’ the American said, thankfully taking his hint. ‘And to answer your original question, no, I can’t say that she did mention anything to me about the orchard or the well. But having said that, she can be a rather secretive child you know. I noticed that. She likes to keep secret notebooks and all that sort of thing. But then, it’s her age… Mind you, now that I think about it, I do believe her father told me that the dead boy was her ever-willing sidekick in her escapades. So if anyone does know why the poor boy went to the orchard that day, it probably will be her.’
‘I see. Well, if you could just clear the way for us to see Emily,’ Clement said, seizing the opportunity of making their visit worthwhile, ‘I really would be grateful.’
‘No problem. In fact, I can call Martin for you right now,’ she said, taking a quick look at her wrist, which – Trudy was not surprised to note – was adorned by a diamond and platinum lady’s wristwatch. ‘He’ll be in for lunch. He’s always up early and lunches early too.’
She was supremely confident, not only that he would be happy to take her call, but that he would want to oblige her in any way he could, and Clement didn’t doubt it either.
‘Well thank you. We won’t keep you any further,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m sure you must have a busy day ahead.’
‘Oh yes. I want to see the latest Klimt exhibition at the Ashmolean.’
‘Ah, you’ll be impressed. I saw it a few days ago,’ Clement lied with aplomb as Trudy scrambled to put her notebook away.
‘You be sure to head over straight to the Hall now,’ Marjorie encouraged them. ‘By then, I’ll have talked Martin around to letting you talk to little Emily.’
‘Thank you,’ Clement said, taking her hand and actually raising it to his lips and kissing it. Trudy found herself gaping at him, but after a quick look, saw that the American woman was almost glowing at this unexpected, continental chivalry.
It wasn’t until they were headed back down the oak staircase to the public lobby, and he’d heard the door shut firmly behind them, that he glanced across at Trudy and smiled wryly. ‘Rather hard work, isn’t she, our Miss Chandler?’
‘I’ll say,’ Trudy grumped. ‘Did you see those clothes and make-up and all that jewellery? At this time of the day? And those pictures!’ She shuddered.
‘Ah, not a fan of modern art then, young Trudy?’
‘Not if that’s an example,’ she said, looking upwards. ‘What on earth were those melting clocks all about?’ she demanded.
‘Dalí,’ the coroner said succinctly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Salvadore Dalí, a leading exponent of surrealism,’ Clement said. ‘That image, along with a gent in a bowler hat with an apple for a face, is a very famous…’ And all the way on the drive over to Briar’s-in-the-Wold, the coroner instructed her in the precepts of surrealism in art.
Trudy found herself wondering, almost constantly, whether or not her friend was pulling her leg.
Chapter 18
When they pulled up once more outside the Hall, she was glad to have a break from the coroner’s dizzying lecture. It was not as if she didn’t have other things to think about.
By the end of summer her probationary period would be over and then she’d be a fully fledged WPC. That deadline loomed larger and larger as the days went by, filling her with a sense of accomplishment, mostly because, when she’d first joined the force, everyone had expected her to have to acknowledge defeat and bow out before even six months had passed. But she had proved them all wrong, and now that her first goal – that of surviving her probationary period – was almost within her grasp
, she felt nearly buoyant.
Of course, that ebullience was now offset, somewhat, on account of her being in the doghouse back home. She was not looking forward to tonight at all. She had a feeling that dinnertime was going to be something of an ordeal – either of silent recrimination, or yet another lecture on the perils of being ‘left on the shelf’.
‘Well, time to see if Miss Chandler’s confidence in her influence over the lord of the manor is justified or not,’ Clement said with a smile.
But it was clear, from the frigid look of bitter acceptance on the face of Mrs Roper when she answered their summons to the doorbell, that the American lady’s word held sway at Briar’s Hall. Or at least, for as long as Martin de Lacey had hopes of marrying into all her wealth.
‘Miss Emily is in the library, and is expecting you,’ Mrs Roper said coldly. ‘Her father is with her,’ she added, looking better pleased to be able to impart this piece of news.
She showed them through the hall and down a short corridor, veering off into one of a line of doors on her left, reluctance oozing from her every pore.
The de Lacey library was typical of many country house examples, displaying as it did shelves and shelves of (almost certainly) unread books, long, rather dusty-looking floor-length faded red velvet curtains, and the almost obligatory green-leather settees, armchairs, and chaises longues. Large sash windows let in bright rays of sunshine, which picked up the dust motes dancing in the air. Over in one corner, a large globe stood, with a vast swathe of pink around its circumference showing the extent of the British Empire. In another corner, a Georgian writing desk stood in solitary splendour, displaying a pen and inkwell set, carved out of ivory.
But it was to the two people in the room that Clement and Trudy immediately turned their attention.
Martin de Lacey rose first. He was dressed in a slightly shabby tweed jacket, sturdy trousers and country boots. All he needed was a filthy English Setter at his side, and he could have posed for a portrait of a Typical Country Gentlemen by any one of the noted Victorian artists, who would have had no truck with such things as melting clocks and men with apples for faces.
