by Faith Martin
Trudy wasn’t surprised when all of them – albeit some with less enthusiasm than others – agreed with her.
It was as if learning that the chocolates contained only laxative and not deadly yew berry toxin, gave them some sort of permission to carry on. She was no psychologist, and so didn’t really understand the forces that were at play now, but even she too felt reluctant to let some unknown malignant stranger dictate what she could or couldn’t do.
Whatever the phenomenon was, it affected Robert Dunbar too, for after being badgered by the girls for a few minutes not to pull the contest, he finally agreed that the Miss Oxford Honey beauty pageant should, indeed, go ahead.
‘It’s only a week next Saturday before it’s put on anyway,’ he concluded. ‘And with the police here to see that nothing else happens, I think we should go ahead.’
Dennis Quayle-Jones shrugged, and turned away, metaphorically but clearly washing his hands of the whole affair.
And watching and listening to it all, a killer smiled cynically.
Oh yes. The show would go on all right.
Chapter 24
Clement, not unnaturally, became the centre of attention for some time after his unexpected and dramatic announcement, as the rest of his fellow judges and some of the theatre staff gravitated around him to try and find out what was going on.
Clearly not everyone had been aware that the Miss Oxford Honey contest had been running into difficulties, and Clement found it interesting to see how most of them reacted to news of the prankster’s efforts to upset the show.
One judge decided then and there to withdraw from the panel, but Robert Dunbar was all charm and understanding, and promised that there were no hard feelings, and that he was sure that he could find someone else to replace him at short notice.
Most of the theatre staff looked uneasy, as if worried that someone would try to pin the saboteur’s tricks on them, and generally the atmosphere became rather morose.
It had been a long day, and Clement was frankly thankful when Robert finally clapped his hands together and brought the meeting under control.
‘All right, everyone,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. ‘Since we’re going to carry on – and the show does its public performance next Saturday…’ There was a general rumpus as everyone was forced to consider, nervously, how close the final performance was becoming. ‘… I suggest we crack on with rehearsals. Tonight it’s a dress rehearsal for the swimwear section. So off you go ladies and change into your costumes. Judges, if you’d care to make your way to the panel. Grace… Where’s Grace…? Oh, there you are. Grace, if you could find us some suitable music for the record player… thank you. All right then…’
Trudy barely listened to the rest of his pep talk, for suddenly the full calamity of her situation hit her. She was going to have to parade about in her swimming costume and high-heeled shoes right now and in front of Rodney Broadstairs of all people!
Her heart sank. As if it wasn’t hard enough getting her colleagues to see her as a police officer on an equal footing with everyone else at the best of times. But dressed for a day on the beach, parading around with that humiliating number strapped to her wrist…
Trudy could have screamed. Or wept. Or both!
* * *
Clement made his way to the table in order to have another word with Rupert Cowper. He wanted to know if any other of the contestants besides Sylvia had been making a serious play for him. And if they had, had Abigail and Vicky been in their number, and had they made him feel hunted and uncomfortable?
But as he approached the end of the line of trestle tables, he felt his left foot barely move from the ground, but simply shuffle along the wooden flooring of the stage, causing him to stumble slightly and pitch forward.
As he did so, he reached out and forward, automatically putting a hand out to the table to save himself. Luckily, flimsy though it was, it was enough to save him from an embarrassing fall, and as he looked quickly along the line of tables, where most of his fellow judges were already sitting, only one person seemed to have noticed his stumble.
Gently, Patricia Merriweather smiled over at him.
‘Dr Ryder, it seems you’ve been very busy,’ she mused, in a clear and evident attempt to put him at his ease. ‘I had no idea about this prankster that we seem to have acquired! Putting laxatives into chocolates indeed!’
Clement carefully sank down into a chair, but his heart was thumping uncomfortably in his chest. This was twice Patricia had noticed him in difficulties. She was nobody’s fool, but a woman who was more than capable of putting two and two together and coming up with the right answer.
He’d been hearing from fellow medical men over club lunches and spells on the golf course, that due to an illness in the family, Patricia Merriweather had made it her business to learn a fair bit about medical matters. She was a shrewd and vastly experienced woman in the ways of the world. So what were the chances that she’d known someone else with Parkinson’s and had recognised his early symptoms?
Forcing himself not to panic – after all, even if she did suspect something, he would have bet his last guinea that she wasn’t the sort to go blurting other peoples’ woes about willy-nilly – he smiled back across at her.
‘I know – someone has a deplorable sense of humour!’ he agreed.
The old lady gave him a shrew look. ‘They certainly have,’ she agreed blandly. ‘And how lucky we were to have you on hand – such an experienced man – to deal with it,’ she added archly.
Clement grinned at her. ‘Oh, I like to be useful,’ he agreed, equally blandly.
Giving him a bright and knowing smile, she turned to look at the stage as the first of the girls made her appearance.
* * *
Trudy knew her face must be flaming with embarrassment as she stepped out onto the stage, careful to follow the chalk lines that had been put down, depicting where the red carpet would be on the night.
She was glad she had to concentrate on walking properly in her high heels, as it took her mind off the fact that she was wearing a one-piece costume that clung to every part of her.
She resolutely refused to look to the front row, where she knew PC Rodney Broadstairs would be watching and no doubt grinning up at her like the village idiot.
Somehow she got through it, and was heartily relieved to finish her stint and walk back behind the curtain and out of sight. Then she went straight to her dressing room and put on a long white robe and tied the belt at her waist with a tight, vicious movement. Forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand, she tried to forget her own predicament and decide what her next move should be.
Naturally, she was as relieved as everyone else to hear that the chocolates hadn’t contained anything deadly. But it did raise the obvious question – were the prankster and the killer the same person? For Trudy could no longer believe they were dealing with two fatal and tragic accidents.
Or could they be dealing with two separate people – someone who had a grudge against the two girls and had killed them for whatever reason, and didn’t even know, or care, about the beauty competition. And another individual who liked tormenting the beauty contestants, and had latched on to the two deaths as yet another way to make life miserable for the Miss Oxford Honey people?
Or was it possible that the killer of the two girls was simply using the beauty pageant as some sort of cover or smokescreen? Could the deaths of Abigail and Vicky have nothing to do with the fact that they were in the competition at all? After all, Trudy reasoned with growing excitement, if you wanted someone dead, you presumably had to have a motive for wanting those people dead. And if the police found that motive, your goose was well and truly cooked. But if you could set them off after a false hare, you would be sitting pretty. Whilst everyone was searching for someone with a crazy fixation about the beauty contest, the real reason behind the murders would never be suspected or sought out.
Trudy felt a growing buzz of excitement lance throug
h her. Was she really onto something at last? She couldn’t wait to discuss this theory with Clement, but even as she thought about it, she felt her confidence begin to waver. She knew from past experience that the coroner – quite rightly – tended to try and rein her in whenever she produced theories without any corroborative evidence.
So she needed to start testing her hypothesis.
For a start, she could talk to Grace again, to see if she knew anything more about Mrs Dunbar’s movements on the day and night when Vicky Munnings must have succumbed to the gas from her faulty heater. If she could begin to rule out people who were connected with Miss Oxford Honey, she would be closer to proving her new theory. Of course, even if she was right, the killer of the two girls must have some connection with the pageant, in order to take advantage of it as a cover for their murderous activities. But if she could begin to eliminate those without a real motive, she might start getting somewhere.
She now knew, thanks to Sergeant O’Grady keeping her in the loop, that the rubber tubing that had carried the gas from the canister to the valve in Vicky’s bedroom heater had developed a rupture, thus allowing the gas to escape directly in the room uncontrolled, filling it with carbon monoxide and various other chemicals.
Although there was no evidence of a clean ‘cut’ in the tubing – which would at least be unambiguous – it was still undergoing tests to see if the ‘rubbing’ that had thinned and then split the tubing, could have been caused deliberately. On the face of it, it seemed unlikely that the general wear and tear incurred by the changing of the cylinders could alone have been enough to cause such damage. But then mice had been known to nibble things, and the tubing might have become brittle over time and degraded. It could be argued either way – and the Sergeant was not happy with the ‘boffins’ who couldn’t seem to pronounce definitely one way or another.
Clearly the killer was being very careful and clever about their methods, and not to leave a scrap of forensic evidence behind. In fact, so far they had not a scrap of proof that either girl had actually been murdered.
Only Grace seemed to be sure that it was murder, and that Mrs Christine Dunbar was the killer, and Trudy could only hope that her friend had been trying to keep a record of her movements as much as possible.
Although she would be careful not to tell Grace that she was hoping to find proof that Mrs Dunbar wasn’t the culprit after all!
So Trudy made her way to one of the small back offices, where she knew Grace kept on top of the admin and took charge of the Dunbars’ paperwork. As she approached the closed door, she was suddenly very aware of how quiet and claustrophobic it was back here. The bright lights and gaiety of the stage might be a hundred miles away. Dim lightbulbs barely helped illuminate the windowless corridors and once or twice, Trudy could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise, as if someone was creeping up behind her.
But both times, when she quickly turned her head to see, nobody was there. Perhaps she just felt extra vulnerable because she was wearing so little! Even her feet were bare, as she’d kicked off her shoes with relief the moment she’d gone into her dressing room. Although she’d been practising walking in them for nearly a week, she still hated them. They were like devices of torture, pinching her toes and forcing her weight forward in a weird and unnatural way.
Give her a pair of her good, sturdy, flat, black constable’s shoes any day!
As she approached the office door, she noticed that it was very slightly ajar. Good. It meant Grace was there.
Not realising just how quiet she’d been in her bare feet, she pushed open the door and looked inside.
Chapter 25
The picker of yew berries was having an enjoyable time. The hysterical debate about whether or not to continue the show had been very amusing, and they had not been at all surprised by what the consensus had been.
Whenever greed and the opportunity to make money were concerned, finer feelings or sentiments would never win out. Ally that with the vanity of a young girl’s desire to be admired, and ‘doing the decent thing’ would never stand a chance.
The killer, gathered around the buffet table for the usual after-show nibbles, hooked a glass of indifferent white wine, and contemplated the complication that was Dr Clement Ryder.
Of course, his appointment as a judge had always been suspect, and now he’d shown his colours so clearly, it might be a good time to act a good deal more circumspectly. The man had the eyes of an eagle, and missed nothing. It would not do at all to underestimate so clever and competent an adversary.
The killer sipped the wine and contemplated a stuffed tomato thoughtfully.
* * *
Caroline Tomworthy had changed out of her gold and black bikini into a gold and black sarong that had a long slit at the side, allowing flashes of her elegant left leg to show whenever she walked.
Unlike Trudy, she hadn’t removed her extremely high stiletto heels, enjoying the added height they gave her. A matching, roomy black-leather shoulder bag hung from one arm as, slim and elegant as a reed, she watched and waited for her opportunity to act, which wasn’t that long in coming.
The first Dennis Quayle-Jones knew of her proximity was the subtle wave of jasmine that reached his nose. Turning, he eyed the raven-haired beauty beside him with the detached eye of a connoisseur, and the unmistakable lack of sexual interest of a man whose interests lay elsewhere.
Naturally, Caroline had guessed his leanings the moment she’d met the man. It had hardly required any great leap of intuition on her part. In these men, there existed an amiable tolerance and a determinedly-turned ‘blind eye’ that wasn’t to be found anywhere else in society.
All of which had offered up certain opportunities for her that she’d been quick to understand and turn to her advantage.
Now she approached him and wasted barely a flash of a smile on him. ‘Dennis,’ she purred quietly. ‘Just the man I wanted to see.’
‘Oh? Not here to try and twist my arm yet again, are we?’ the actor-cum-theatre manager drawled with an insincere smile of his own. ‘Now why do I suspect you’ve hardly been champing at the bit to keep me company because you appreciate my charms, Caroline dear?’
‘Now, now, don’t be so catty,’ Caroline said with a small laugh.
‘Sorry, sweetheart – I was forgetting, that was your prerogative. You do know that most of your fellow competitors have given you a rather feline nickname, don’t you?’ He couldn’t resist putting in a little dig. The truth was, overly confident and beautiful women had always annoyed him.
‘I dare say they have,’ Caroline said, with genuine indifference. ‘It hardly matters. And please, don’t call them my competition. As if any of them are actually that!’ This time, her smile was one of near-genuine amusement.
‘Oh, I don’t know, dearie,’ Dennis shot back. ‘One or two of them are nipping at your heels, according to my fellow judges.’
Caroline’s eyes flashed suddenly. ‘Ah yes – how clever of you to mention that, Dennis. As it happens, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’ Of course, this little minx had been pressing him to try and swing the competition in her favour for some time. He’d pretended to be shocked, and had played it with a light hand, but now he rather suspected that the determined little madam was about to up her campaign.
‘As the owner and manager of this quaint little theatre, you have the most influence over what goes on, Dennis. I do hope you’ve been giving my request some serious thought?’
She watched, amused, as the other man began to lose his smug, affected air.
‘Not sure I know what you’re getting at, dearie,’ Dennis prevaricated.
‘Oh, don’t be so modest! I’m sure you’re always very quick on the uptake! Now I happen to know for a fact that you gave old man Dunbar a very good deal on the rental of the theatre for his one-night show. So he must be feeling very grateful towards you, yes?’
Dennis shrugged his best Noel Coward shru
g, and drawled, ‘My darling girl, I doubt that man knows the meaning of the word. As long as he gets to sell pots and pots of his awful honey, he couldn’t care less!’
‘Ah, but you could make him care, Dennis darling, couldn’t you? Very easily in fact,’ Caroline mused.
They were standing close together on the far side of the stage, watching the ‘gannets’ (as Dennis always thought of them) gathered around the buffet table. For himself, the food was so bland and atrocious that he wouldn’t be caught dead eating so much as a cheese straw.
Now he began to wish that they weren’t quite so out-of-the-way and secluded. He had a feeling that this rapacious woman was up to same major mischief, and instinct told him that he wasn’t going to like it. Surreptitiously, he tried to manoeuvre them away from the back and edge out towards the lights and the crowd.
‘Now why on earth would I want to do that? Believe me, I might have to sell my theatre’s soul to mammon sometimes in order to keep the doors open, but that doesn’t mean that I have any influence over the likes of Roger Dunbar and his tawdry little pageant,’ he wheedled.
‘Come on, Dennis, being modest doesn’t suit you,’ Caroline said sharply. ‘And stop shuffling away – I’ll only have to raise my voice, and you won’t like it if others have to hear what I’m going to say. That’s better.’ She smiled, as her quarry suddenly froze.
‘Now, if you were, say, to withdraw the use of your theatre for next Saturday night, I think our Roger would be very upset indeed. And very inclined to do whatever you say in order to ensure that you change your mind and the show goes on!’
Dennis gaped at her, genuinely appalled.
‘I can hardly do that, dearie. The man does have a contract, you know,’ he said briskly. ‘Now, if you…’ He tried to extract himself again, but he didn’t get to take a single step away before her long, elegantly slim-fingered hand reached out and grabbed his forearm.
