by Faith Martin
‘Strangers?’ Oliver repeated, frowning slightly. ‘Well, you always get the odd hiker or two.’
Trudy had to reluctantly concede the cleverness of that answer. Not knowing what his mother might have said, or what Trudy was leading up to, it was so broad and general – and undeniable – that it could cover almost anything. And people did still hike about a lot. Walking holidays had been all the rage for a few decades, and if the advent of the car now made them less popular than they once were, there were still plenty of ramblers to go around.
And still, annoyingly, she was no further forward in figuring out just what mother and son were hiding. Because, by now, she was sure they were hiding something.
‘Do you think it likely a hiker came across Eddie Proctor in your family orchard and pushed him into the well, Dr de Lacey?’ Trudy asked heavily.
‘I think it highly unlikely,’ Oliver said flatly.
‘Your mother seemed to know the boy quite well.’ Trudy tried another tack, and again succeeded in surprising him. Although the look of near-panic had now gone from his eyes.
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought they’d have been bosom buddies,’ he drawled, with that hint of lazy amusement that was beginning to get on her nerves.
But mostly she was annoyed with herself because she knew that, somehow, she had been successfully steered away from the ‘danger zone’ – whatever that was.
Now she was the one who felt her shoulders tighten with tension, because she had no idea what to ask next.
Clement, sensing her dilemma, chose that moment to rise and walk to a sideboard, where a range of silver-framed photographs had been displayed. He picked one up, showing a younger, just-matriculated Oliver de Lacey in front of a splendid building.
‘That’s Trinity, Cambridge, right?’ Clement said, and with some relief, Oliver left his chair to join the older man.
‘Yes, that’s my old alma mater,’ he agreed. ‘But I came back to Oxford to do my DPhil.’
‘I’m surprised you chose Cambridge to do your undergraduate studies. Living locally, as well,’ Clement mused, ‘that must have raised a few eyebrows?’
‘Ah, see, that was the problem. It felt somehow too… parochial,’ Oliver said with a smile. Clearly he felt much more comfortable talking to a fellow egghead. And Trudy had no objections now to letting them get on with it. It wasn’t as if she had any piercing, insightful questions of her own to ask him, was it?
‘You know how it is when you’re 18.’ Oliver laughed. ‘You get these ideas! I wanted to be far away from home, and it gave me a sense of rebellion to fly the light-blue colours!’
Clement laughed. ‘Yes. But you live and learn, I’ve found. And now you’re back in Oxford, where it’s much more convenient for your work in London, if nothing else.’
‘True! Rebellion is all very well, but a comfortable train, and an hour’s commute into town has its benefits.’ Oliver laughed again. ‘Especially when you work in such a high-pressure field as nuclear physics.’ He deliberately kept his back turned to the unnerving young woman police constable, and began to talk shop.
He’d always found that his work tended to overwhelm and overawe most people, and it gave him a comforting sense of superiority. ‘I began working for a government committee following the 1953 announcement of a civil nuclear power programme. Shortly afterwards, the Atomic Energy Authority Act created UKAEA, which took responsibility for the nation’s nuclear energy programme. Naturally, they need experts, and… well, I was recruited,’ he finished modestly.
‘It must be challenging – and nerve-racking work,’ Clement said, deciding to stroke his ego.
‘Oh it was. I was one of those who oversaw the first FBR – fast breeder reactor – in March of ’54 up in Dounreay in Caithness.’
‘I remember the young Queen opening some site or other…’ Clement snapped his fingers. ‘Where was that?’
‘Calder Hall, probably. I was there too,’ Oliver said blandly. ‘The reactor was the first of eight small prototype Magnox units. The codename for Calder Hall was PIPPA – pressurised pile producing power and plutonium. But I mustn’t bore you. Marjorie often warns me that I tend to run away on the subject, making people go cross-eyed.’
‘Not at all, I’m fascinated,’ Clement assured him. And, in a way, he was. Oliver de Lacey was clearly not only a clever man but an also an influential one in his own world. He probably had the ear of quite a number of ministers and boffins in Whitehall, for instance. And men like that often needed watching, in his experience.
‘Well, we won’t keep you any longer, Dr de Lacey,’ he said, clearly to the younger man’s relief. ‘And once again, thank you for your time.’
Trudy rose silently, and with a brief nod and a murmur of thanks of her own, allowed herself to be ushered out of the room.
By mutual, unspoken consent, they were silent as they walked down the stone spiral staircase and stepped out onto the open, large green lawn that was the centre of the quad.
‘Well?’ Trudy finally demanded eagerly. ‘I was right, wasn’t I? He was definitely hiding something. You saw that, yes?’ she asked nervously.
‘Oh yes. He’d got the wind up about something,’ Clement agreed. ‘And I found it very interesting that he chose to go to Trinity, in Cambridge, as a youth.’
‘Did you?’ Trudy said vaguely. She knew that clever men set a lot of store by such things, but that didn’t interest her. ‘I think his mother saw something in the estate grounds. And probably he did too. Something to do with strangers.’
Clement didn’t disagree with her, but his mind was thinking along different lines altogether. Because ever since he’d seen that photograph of a young Oliver de Lacey, posing happily at Trinity College, Cambridge, a thought had struck him, so outlandish, and yet so plausible, that it blotted out almost everything else.
Of course, it was highly unlikely… And even if it wasn’t, there was no possible way he could pursue it. And even if he was right… Could any of it fit in with Eddie Proctor’s death? Well, yes, it just might, Clement conceded. They’d heard that Emily and Eddie often played spies, and were inquisitive little mites. No, wait a minute, Clement thought, he was letting his imagination run away with him. Which was usually an accusation that he cast young Trudy’s way!
Even if – and it was an enormous if – what he was thinking had any basis in reality, was it really likely that there would have been anything for an 11-year-old boy to discover in the woods surrounding Briar’s Hall?
No, Clement thought reluctantly, there wasn’t. It was absurd. He was just indulging himself in a sheer flight of fantasy. He just couldn’t see how little Eddie Proctor could ever have proved enough of a threat that he would need to be removed. It was preposterous.
‘Dr Ryder!’ With a start, he heard Trudy say his name loudly, and realised it couldn’t have been the first time she’d done so.
He looked at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was thinking.’
‘I’ll say,’ Trudy said, clearly exasperated. ‘You were miles away.’ Then she stared at him closely. ‘Have you thought of something about why Oliver might want to kill Eddie?’ she asked accusingly.
Clement blinked. Had he? Yes. No. Probably no. ‘I can’t see… No, I don’t think so. Come on, I have to get back to the office,’ he said abruptly. Absurd idea or not, it wouldn’t hurt to do just a little checking around. He must have friends of friends who could ask a question here or there… but he’d have to be discreet.
Very discreet indeed.
Trudy was silent as they walked back towards his office, and kept shooting him suspicious glances. Clearly, she suspected he was on to something, and resented the fact that he wasn’t sharing his thoughts with her. But the more he thought about things, the gladder he became that she hadn’t picked up on his hint about Trinity College and Cambridge.
Because if there was even a hint of truth about what he suspected… or even if there was no truth in it at all, they might find themselves in very hot
water indeed.
Chapter 30
Feeling distinctly uneasy about things, Trudy and Clement parted company, with the coroner striding away towards St Giles. She made no attempt to match his long strides, but wondered, resentfully, what he was going to do now. Because she didn’t think for one minute that it was his duties as a coroner that were making him so anxious to get back to his office.
Somewhere in that interview with Oliver de Lacey Trudy was sure that something had occurred to him, and it frustrated her mightily that she didn’t know what it was. And it made her even more angry that he clearly wasn’t going to fill her in. Did he really have so little respect for her abilities? Even though he treated her with far more respect than any of her work colleagues, it was becoming more and more obvious to her that their partnership was by no means an equal one.
And not for the first time, it gloomily occurred to her that she just might not have the brains to rise much higher in her chosen career. But then she thought of Sergeant O’Grady, and told herself that you didn’t need to have a brain the size of Dr Clement Ryder or Oliver de Lacey in order to be a good police officer!
And if Clement had things to do, then so did she!
Abruptly cancelling her intention to go back to the station and lick her wounds, she detoured to the library instead, and then several other civil buildings, determined to track down the whereabouts of one John Blandon, former groom at Briar’s Hall.
People had to live – which meant they had to pay utility bills, pay their rates and taxes, apply for drivers’ licences, and all sorts of other things that left a paper trail.
And eventually – by dint of spending three hours ploughing grimly and determinedly through various county censuses and cross-referencing with several other bodies, – she felt flushed with success.
She had finally found her man!
Tomorrow, she would inform Clement that she had done so, and let him keep his secrets to himself. She would show him that good, honest, detective work was worth just as much as fancy brainpower any day of the week!
*
As Trudy Loveday went wearily home on the bus after a hard and frustrating day’s work, Emily de Lacey crept down the stairs of Briar’s Hall and glanced around the newel post.
The hallway was silent, but even so, she went on tiptoe to the front door, reached up to the latch – and almost jumped out of her skin.
‘And where do you think you’re going, young Miss Emily?’ Mrs Roper’s voice cut through the air, making Emily whip around and swallow convulsively.
‘Nowhere,’ she said instinctively.
‘Indeed? But clearly “nowhere” is “somewhere” outside, since you were about to open the door,’ the housekeeper pointed out, her eyes fixed beadily on the little girl.
‘I just wanted to play, Mrs Roper. I’ve been indoors all day,’ Emily whined.
‘And you know why!’ the older woman hissed. ‘What has your father told you?’
Emily sighed, but repeated dutifully, ‘I can’t go outside unless someone is with me.’
Mrs Roper made a vastly exaggerated show of looking around. ‘And is anyone with you?’ she demanded archly.
Emily heaved a sigh. ‘No, Mrs Roper.’
‘No. And it’ll be dark soon. Have you no sense, Miss Emily?’
The girl sighed. ‘It’ll be ages yet before it gets dark,’ she pointed out stubbornly.
Mrs Roper glanced automatically out the nearest window, but wasn’t to be distracted. ‘And just who were you going to play with?’ she asked flatly, making Emily freeze on the spot.
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, Emily underestimated the housekeeper.
‘You said you were going out to play,’ Mrs Roper went on relentlessly. ‘That implies you had a playmate in mind. But most of the village children are at home having their tea.’
Emily nodded. ‘I just meant, I wanted to go out and play by myself.’
Mrs Roper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Miss Emily, were you trying to sneak out to meet someone?’
Emily stiffened. ‘Don’t be silly, Mrs Roper. There’s no one in the garden to meet, is there?’
For a moment, the two of them stood there, so vastly different in almost every way, staring at each other across an equally vast gulf.
‘I think you should go back upstairs. It’ll be your own teatime soon,’ Mrs Roper finally said heavily. ‘And if I catch you trying to sneak out again, I shall tell your father. Do you understand me, young madam?’
Emily nodded soberly. ‘Yes Mrs Roper,’ she said, and turned and ran back up the stairs, her heart pounding.
Chapter 31
The next morning, rather gratifyingly, Clement was wise enough to congratulate Trudy heartily on her diligence and perseverance in finding the de Laceys’ former groom, and declared himself more than happy to drive her to Northamptonshire, where John Blandon was now the landlord of his own pub.
‘When they said he’d moved up north, I have to confess I was thinking that they meant a little further north than just the next county,’ he commented with a wry smile as they left tthe city behind.
Trudy shrugged. She herself had never left Oxfordshire, and she supposed a lot of people she knew hadn’t either. To her, Northamptonshire was north. But she was becoming more and more aware that people like the coroner – and certainly the de Laceys – probably thought of the north as grouse shoots in Scotland, where, no doubt, they had a small hunting lodge. Or perhaps the Lake District, where they probably had a small motor launch they could take out on summer days around Windermere.
‘What’s the name of the village again?’ Clement asked, glancing across at her and no doubt seeing a rather sour look on her face.
‘Forge Keating. It’s in the east of the county. Shall I find it on the road map for you?’ she offered dully.
‘Yes please. You all right, Trudy? You look a bit down in the dumps.’
Trudy sighed. Where to start? She’d ditched a boyfriend, had a row with her parents, didn’t like the way her so-called ‘partner’ was happy to keep her in the dark about things, and was beginning to feel resentful of anyone who had money! Although she knew that the latter was only a reaction to feeling so disgruntled about things in general. In truth, she didn’t really envy the rich. In her experience, they didn’t tend to be any happier than most other people.
‘I’m fine,’ she said simply. But contented herself for most of the journey by simply watching the way her friend drove, noting the movement of clutch and gear stick, when and how often he braked, and how much he used his mirrors. Since her driving lessons would start soon (for she almost had almost saved up enough to buy her learner’s permit) it made sense to learn as much of the theory as possible before getting behind the steering wheel herself.
The coroner, not liking her unusual silence, continued to watch her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was because he was so intent on her that he failed to notice a nondescript Hillman that followed him all the way from Oxford, being careful to always keep one or two cars between them.
*
Forge Keating was a decently sized village, which tended to sprawl somewhat around a large Norman church, a slightly more modern manor house, and a bend in a river. Larger houses were clustered along the riverbanks, having the best view across the meadows, whilst smaller, mostly farmworkers’ cottages had to be content to straggle along small lanes in a maze of unnamed roads and cul-de-sacs.
It had only one pub though, called ‘The Tench’. Its painted sign depicted the eponymous fish flying and arching through the air, fighting against the hook and line of an unseen fisherman.
‘Probably attracts a lot of anglers,’ Clement commented, as they parked outside. It was a pleasantly warm day, and the rear of the pub did indeed overlook the river. Garden tables and benches had been placed outside in the pub garden, no doubt hoping to attract the attention of the first of the season’s holidaymakers. Although Trudy thought Mr Blandon was being a bit optimistic there. It was only spring, after
all, and the breeze could still be a trifle arctic at times.
The pub – a large, white-painted, picturesquely thatched place – looked well maintained and had two tubs full of bright yellow and red tulips standing either side of the main door, like two colourful sentinels.
It was only just opening time when they arrived, and the place was still all but deserted. Only an old man and his dog sat at the bar, the old man supping a rather muddy-looking pint, the dog stretched out on the red-tiled floor below and trying to doze.
‘What can I get you… er lady and gent?’ The man behind the bar caught sight of Trudy’s uniform and looked surprised.
He was indeed a handsome man, at a little over six feet tall, with black hair and bright-blue eyes, with the classic, square-jawed chin so beloved of Hollywood leading men. His accent held a soft, Dorset burr.
He did like to move around, Trudy thought.
‘A pint of the best local bitter for me,’ Clement said. ‘Trudy?’
‘A lemonade, please.’
The old man’s shaggy dog lifted his head long enough to look at them, then drooped back onto the floor with a sigh.
‘And one for yourself,’ Clement said, handing over a generous amount of coinage.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have half a shandy,’ the landlord said.
‘You wouldn’t be John Blandon would you?’ Clement asked, accepting his drink and some change, and taking an experimental sip. It obviously wasn’t too bad, because he took a slightly larger sip, and settled himself more comfortably at the bar.
Trudy, who’d found the tall barstool a bit of a trial to get onto with any real decorum, shifted to a more comfortable position as well but left her fizzy drink untouched.
The landlord looked at Clement closely. ‘Can’t say as I recognise you, sir.’ He avoided answering the question cautiously.
‘No reason why you should,’ Clement reassured him. ‘I’m a coroner from Oxford. I understand you once worked in a village nearby – Briar’s-in-the-Wold?’
The old man sitting at the bar sighed and took his pint to a far corner. Clearly, he was a man who didn’t like his drinking to be interrupted by idle chatter. His dog dutifully traipsed after him, then sprawled out again with a world-weary sigh. Trudy had a feeling both of them spent a lot of time at ‘The Tench’.
