by Faith Martin
‘And if he does decide to put in an appearance at the theatre, I’ll be sure to tell him not to approach you,’ the DI said reluctantly.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Trudy swallowed hard, sensing that more sarcasm was yet to come.
‘No doubt it was Dr Ryder’s idea to take up Mr Dunbar’s hare-brained scheme that you entered the competition as a contestant?’ he shot at her.
Trudy, for a half a second, wondered whether or not to take the easy way out and simply agree. Then her innate honesty got the better of her.
‘Well, sir, it was more of a joint decision really. Mr Dunbar was eager to have someone looking into the pranks that were being played, and was most insistent that it should be me. And I thought that, if there was any connection between Abigail’s unexplained death and the competition, it wouldn’t hurt to put myself in an ideal position to explore the possibility. Sir.’
DI Jennings sighed heavily. ‘Just don’t do anything to make us the laughing stock of the police force, probationary WPC Loveday,’ he gritted, stressing her probationary status with near relish. ‘Don’t forget, the Chief Constable won’t take it kindly if the press get a hold of what’s going on.’
Trudy gulped. ‘No, sir.’
‘All right. Well, carry on then.’
‘Yes, sir!’
When she was gone, the Inspector leaned back in his chair and groaned. If it wasn’t for the fact that Dunbar was a big donor to the Police Widows and Orphan fund…!
Perhaps this time the interfering Dr Clement Ryder would fall flat on his face for once? This so-called investigation into a dead girl who might or might not have been poisoned on purpose smelt like a no-hoper of a case to him. And if he brought down Trudy Loveday with him – well, the DI wouldn’t be sorry to see her kicked off the force. She’d become one less headache for him to have to worry about.
He scowled down at the anonymous letter ferociously. Of course, it would be just his luck if it turned out that there was something iffy about the girl’s death after all. Perhaps he’d better give some more thought over whether or not to make sure that Sergeant O’Grady took the poison pen threat seriously?
Just in case.
* * *
The picker of yew berries was once again contemplating murder. Of course, it couldn’t be poison again. That was far too risky. Besides, all the little darlings of the competition were thoroughly alerted to that wheeze by now. Nobody would be likely to fall for that again.
The killer of Abigail Trent gave a wry smile. Not even pretty airheads were that dumb!
No. It would have to be a more direct method this time. Which, of course, presented another set of problems.
How did you kill someone easily, without getting caught, and without any risk to your own life and limb?
Drowning? Hardly.
A knife or cosh or blunt instrument? Too dangerous. What if the weapon was somehow wrested from you and used against you?
No.
It had to be more subtle than that. More crafty. More safe and sure.
But the picker of yew berries was clever, and confident that a way could be found. What’s more, the killer could be patient. At some point, the right method would present itself…
Chapter 12
Vicky Munnings left her apartment by her usual side entrance and walked quickly to the bus stop. The ride into town was short, and she made her way quickly to the main library.
There, she handed back the books she’d taken out a while ago. If the librarian noticed that all the books were natural history books, mostly detailing the native flora of Britain, he made no sign of it. Probably, Vicky mused, he barely noticed the titles of books after so many years of handling them.
Vicky was not, by nature, much of a reader, and usually preferred female fiction, if anything. The books on native plants had been rather dry and boring. Even the bits about poison – which you’d have thought would be just a bit exciting.
But they’d told her what she wanted to know.
Abby would have suffered.
She stood at the bus stop, feeling cold and suddenly alone. For all that she was glad that Abby was gone – yes, she could openly admit that now – there were still times when she felt oddly lonely.
It was as if Abby was the only other person in the world who had truly known her. Had understood her. Had shared her darkest, nastiest secrets. Whilst it was a relief that she’d never have to think about such things again, it also made her feel isolated – as if she was living on an uninhabited moon, instead of a busy city.
Inwardly, she squirmed with shame as she thought of some of the things that Abby had made her do. They hadn’t been nice. No, not nice at all.
Suddenly Vicky thought of the new girl, Trudy something-or-other, and what she’d said about having a friend of her own that had been no angel. Vicky gave a silent grunt of bitter amusement. Whatever the new girl’s friend had been like, Vicky was sure she had been nothing compared to Abby.
If Trudy whatever-her-name-was knew all there was to know about Abby… But she was gone now, and couldn’t cause anyone any more trouble.
Her bus came, and Vicky sighed and climbed wearily aboard.
* * *
Trudy tucked her hated recorder under her arm and poked her head into the kitchen. She was just in time to see her mum put some shillings into the milkman’s canister (formerly used to keep tea) and realised that tomorrow, being Friday, was the day she paid him.
‘I’m just off, Mum – I won’t be late.’
‘OK. I didn’t know Grace played the recorder though.’
Trudy ducked her eyes so that she didn’t have to meet her mother’s gaze. To explain her sudden propensity for going out on a weeknight, she’d told her parents that she was going to Grace’s house to help her practise her music.
‘We all learned at school, Mum,’ Trudy temporised. Which was true enough. Of course, Grace had no more kept up with the instrument than Trudy had!
‘Give my love to her mother,’ Barbara Loveday said.
‘I will,’ Trudy called back, feeling smaller and smaller by the minute, and she made her escape with some relief.
She walked quickly to the bottom of the road, where the coroner’s Rover was parked and waiting for her. It was not another ‘judging’ night at the theatre, thank goodness, but Dr Ryder wanted to visit some of his fellow judges and had offered to save her a bus fare into town.
He was going to use the excuse of needing to ask for their advice on judging to probe them about what they knew of the girls’ private lives.
‘So it’s the talent spot rehearsal tonight, is it?’ the coroner asked spying the recorder right away.
Trudy sighed heavily. ‘I’m terrible at it! I never was much good even at school. And it’s taken me ages to find a “proper” piece to play. You know, by a real, classical-type composer. I don’t think “London Bridge is Falling Down” will cut it somehow! I’m not even sure I’m reading the score right, since I’ve never been musical. It’s going to be a complete disaster!’
Clement smiled. ‘Never mind. Remember, it’s not as if you’re actually going to be in the competition when it plays out in front of the public, are you? So it doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘No,’ Trudy laughed. ‘But I’m still going to look like a right nit-wit in front of the others, when they get to listen to me tootling away!’
Clement grinned heartlessly at the imagined scene, and blithely dropped her off at the theatre, before going on to the Eagle & Child in St Giles. It was the pub made famous by some of Oxford’s more well-known authors, but it was also the chosen local, or so he’d been told, where one of his fellow judges often went for his evening pint.
Before he went in, he popped a breath mint into his mouth, and was still sucking on it as he pushed through the door and stepped over the threshold. Then he felt his foot catch on the uneven flooring and stumbled slightly, forcing him to catch hold of the edge of the door to prevent himself from pitching forward.
>
He glanced around nonchalantly and was relieved to see that none of the drinkers already inside had noticed the incident. In fact, the haze of smoke from cigarettes was so thick in the rather small bar room that he doubted that anyone would have noticed if he’d come in wearing a tartan kilt and a tam-o’-shanter.
He checked his gait as he walked up to the bar and was relieved to discover that he hadn’t begun shuffling his feet just yet – another symptom that would manifest itself sooner or later as his disease progressed.
He celebrated by ordering a small brandy, crunching and swallowing his breath mint as he waited. When he then took a sip of his drink, standing at the bar and glancing around, he had to hide a wince of distaste. The trouble with constantly having mints in your mouth was that it tended to overwhelm all other tastes – like those of a fine brandy!
‘Is Ronald Palmer in tonight, landlord?’ he asked the man behind the bar amiably.
‘Yes, sir, that’s him over yonder, by the window,’ his host informed him with a smile. It pleased him when his customers ordered the finest – and most expensive – brandy.
‘Thanks,’ Clement said, taking his drink and approaching the table with the best view of St Giles beyond.
Ronald Palmer, according to the paperwork given to him by Grace Farley, was a member of one of the city’s ‘old money’ families. Given that he’d been married four times, and to progressively younger brides, it was considered that he might have considerable experience of judging youthful beauty. That, at least, was how Dennis Quayle-Jones had put it to him, but no doubt, when being asked if he’d like to sit on the judging panel, the Dunbars had been rather more flattering.
That his family’s most recent fortune had been built on hosiery – and thus his company could provide one of the prizes in the form of a selection of silk stockings and suchlike to the winner of the talent contest stage – had probably been an added bonus.
He was a man in his early fifties, doing his best to look as if he was in his early thirties. His hair was dyed a rather suspiciously uniform dark-brown, and he sported a tan – which he’d probably picked up in the summer months on the French Riviera somewhere. He had the beginnings of a stomach paunch, which excellent tailoring was so far managing to hide.
It looked as if he’d been steadily drinking for some time, even though the hour was early, for when Clement introduced himself, he was most effusive in his welcome.
‘Well, well, so you’ve been forced to join our merry band of judges, have you?’ he asked, with a knowing smile. ‘I dare say they had to twist your arm, yes, like me?’ He eyed the coroner’s bulbous brandy glass enviously, and Clement, raising it so that the bartender could see, tapped it, then indicated his drinking companion.
Ronald Palmer beamed as one of the young girls serving behind the bar hastened to bring his glass over.
‘Decent of you, cheers,’ he said, as Clement handed over half a crown to the barmaid and told her to keep the change.
‘I was hoping you could give me some pointers,’ Clement said. ‘I have to say, I never thought I’d find myself in the position of being a judge on a beauty pageant. It’s not something I’d normally agree to, you understand,’ he said, somewhat wryly. He had to wonder what some of his friends would make of it once it became more widely known! ‘But the Dunbars talked me into it.’
‘Oh, they would,’ Ronald agreed, his dark-brown eyes closing in bliss for a moment as he savoured the brandy. ‘Bit of an odd couple, of course. She has all the money – and he has all the brains and drive.’
‘Yes, I gathered as much,’ Clement agreed, happy to encourage the man to gossip. ‘But he didn’t strike me as the downtrodden sort, mind you.’
‘Oh no. Not our Robert,’ Ronald agreed, nodding solemnly. ‘Between you and me, he’s a bit of a lad. Not that he isn’t discreet, mind. He lets Christine have her head most of the time without complaining, but he doesn’t let that spoil his fun.’
‘Ah,’ Clement said. So the man kept a mistress somewhere. It didn’t altogether surprise him. ‘Mind you, from what I saw of her, his wife didn’t strike me as the kind who’d put up with that sort of thing.’ He thought of the big-boned woman with the tightly corseted figure and bright brassy hair and remembered most of all her set, tight, and rather unhappy face. ‘She looked like the kind of woman who might become rather hysterical about that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, probably, probably,’ Ronald agreed vaguely. ‘She certainly keeps a close eye on him, I know that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s rather amusing, really, seeing her watching all those pretty young things, and watching her husband watching them!’
‘Yes. It can’t be easy for her,’ the coroner agreed. ‘I’m surprised this beauty pageant was allowed to take place at all.’
‘Ah, but that’s business, old man,’ Ronald said easily, and with all the casualness of a man who had managers to run all his own concerns. ‘Robert likes to make money, and he’s determined to put his wretched honey on the map. Ever tasted the beastly stuff?’
‘I’m more of a marmalade man,’ Clement agreed.
‘Me too. Still, mustn’t grumble. It gives me the chance to go the Old Swan now and then and look at pretty girls. I remember that place when it used to put on musical variety shows.’
‘Talking of pretty girls,’ Clement put in smoothly, ‘I had the misfortune of residing over the inquest of one of them who ended up dead recently. Abigail Trent?’
‘Oh yes, dear Abby. A pretty girl, and one of the hot favourites. Such a damned shame. What a damned foolish thing to go and do – make up some dodgy potion out of berries and whatnot! Still, you can’t tell ’em. The young nowadays, they think they know it all.’
‘You ever see her taking herbal stuff at the theatre?’
‘Good grief, no. I just sit out front and watch them parade past, bless ’em. Of course, I dare say our Christine didn’t shed too many tears to see her go,’ he added morosely finishing his glass and then staring at it gloomily.
‘Why would Christine Dunbar be glad to see one of the contestants go?’ Clement asked sharply. ‘Surely, anything that reflects badly on the contest, and as such, Dunbar Honey, must be a bad thing for her?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, I don’t suppose it pleased them, what they wrote in the daily rags at the time. But, between you and me, there’s been a rumour going around that Robert Dunbar was, er… taking a sip of honey where he shouldn’t be!’ He laughed happily at his own supposed wit, then slumped back in his chair. ‘Of course, all the girls come on to us judges at some point or other.’ He contemplated this state of affairs happily. ‘Can’t blame ’em, really, can you? They all want to win the prizes, and all of them want the top money prize. Well, that and a shot at becoming Miss Oxford.’
‘You think the girls are willing to bribe us to vote for them?’ Clement asked, not sure whether he found the prospect of being propositioned by a determined young lady amusing or horrifying.
‘Oh, not all. Some of them are just good sorts. Mind you, I could tell you some dark things about one or two of them,’ he muttered darkly.
Clement, aware that his witness would soon become too drunk to be reliable, asked quickly, ‘And was Abigail Trent one of them?’
‘Hmm? Oh, pretty Abby. Well, yes, I suppose so. To some extent, that is. But she wasn’t the real dark horse. If you ask me…’
But before Clement could ask him anything, Ronald Palmer went neatly and unobtrusively to sleep.
Instantly one of the barmaids came over and turned off the lamp nearest to him – a big, pink-fringed affair – which left her inebriated customer slumped and snoring slightly in semi-gloom. ‘Don’t you worry, sir, we’re used to Mr Palmer’s little ways around here. We’ll wake him up and send him home come closing time,’ she assured Clement.
* * *
Trudy was in no hurry to publicly practise her recorder, and kept handing over her time slot to one of the other contestants.
Candace Usherwood did her comedy
skit, and really was as funny as Betty Darville had said. Everyone had stopped to watch as Caroline, in a lovely pale rose-pink tutu, danced a piece from Swan Lake.
‘Do you think she once danced professionally?’ Trudy whispered to Grace, who had left her typewriter for the moment to come and watch the rehearsals.
‘Maybe – but never as a principal dancer, I’d say. She’d still be doing it, if she’d been good enough to make it that far. Miss Tomworthy is the sort who likes to be a big fish in a small pond.’
Trudy glanced at her friend thoughtfully. ‘You don’t like her.’
‘Nobody does.’
‘Did Abby?’
‘Good grief, no,’ Grace said shortly. She felt tired and irritable, and not in the best of moods. It was as if being Christine Dunbar’s cat’s-paw was eroding everything good in herself. How long, she wondered in despair, before she began to actually hate herself? But what was the use? She had no choice. ‘I need to get those invoices sorted out for Mrs Dunbar before she leaves,’ she muttered helplessly, and slipped back behind the curtains and disappeared.
Trudy watched her go and felt sad. Poor Grace – she looked as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She only hoped her mother hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. Earlier on, Grace had told her that her mother was taking some new experimental drug or other. But she had sounded so depressed and resigned – as if her mother was dead already.
Trudy could only hope that the new drugs worked some sort of a miracle.
Luckily the time slots ran out before she could do her ‘recorder rendition’ and she was so relieved at this, that she was slipping on her coat to leave before she remembered that she still needed to chat to Vicky Munnings.
She hung about around the cloakroom where everybody left their coats and hats, waiting stoically as all the other girls began to leave their dressing rooms.
Betty Darville was first out, and donned a pretty, lightweight, pale-grey top-coat that looked rather expensive. Trudy was still admiring it when Vicky and Candace came out together. Behind them, Sylvia Blane reached for her coat and slipped it on, but before Trudy could manoeuvre herself to stand beside Vicky and think up some opening gambit, Sylvia gave a sudden, surprised exclamation.
