by Faith Martin
‘So could he have some sort of complex then? You know – could he have snapped, and killed Abby and Vicky because they were coming on to him?’ Trudy demanded impatiently. Sometimes the older man’s cautious and considered approach irritated her considerably.
‘Were they?’ Clement asked sharply.
Trudy thought about it, then sighed and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve heard they could be a little daring, but I think Sylvia was the main one chasing him,’ she was forced to admit. ‘She’s certainly possessive of him and may have warned them off him though.’
‘And she’ll probably catch him, and make him very happy in spite of himself,’ Clement said dryly. ‘Besides, I thought we’d decided to take the line – for the moment – that this isn’t the work of someone with a mental quirk? Which rules out Cowper.’
Trudy sighed. ‘You’re right. I think it all has to come down to motive. And really, when you take into account all that we’ve learned, who really has a proper motive for wanting the girls dead?’ she asked, her voice as frustrated as she felt.
‘How about Grace’s favourite – Mrs Dunbar? A jealous wife, desperate to keep her husband, she might resort to killing off her younger, lovelier rivals. It’s been done before.’
Trudy sighed. ‘But she’s had Grace reluctantly spying on him all this time, and Grace admitted to me that she’s had to report back that Mr Dunbar wasn’t straying. At least, not with the girls in the competition. Besides, I get the feeling that Mrs Dunbar is the type to put up with a straying husband, rather than risk scandal and social humiliation. Would she take the risk of actually resorting to murder?’
‘All right – let’s, for the moment, scratch the Dunbars from the list,’ Clement agreed. ‘Who else can we cross off?’
‘I can’t see that Mr Quayle-Jones has a motive,’ Trudy said after a moment’s thought. ‘If things blow up at the Miss Oxford Honey contest, his beloved theatre gets dragged through the mud, simply by association.’
‘All right. We’ll shelve the theatre manager. What about Rupert? Have we definitely finished with him?’ Clement asked.
‘If he’s not insane and has a mad grudge against women, he doesn’t have a motive either,’ Trudy pointed out.
‘We’re rapidly running out of suspects,’ Clement said wryly. ‘I take it you don’t include Grace on your list?’
Trudy shot him an appalled look. ‘What possible motive could she have for wanting them dead?’ she asked defensively. She rather suspected that the coroner hadn’t been quite as taken in by Grace as she had, and she still felt a little raw about her naivety on that score. She certainly didn’t want him finding out about the unorthodox advice she’d just given her friend. She’d never live it down – the old vulture would tease her mercilessly. ‘How about the old lady – Patricia Merriweather?’ she asked quickly.
Clement shrugged. ‘What about her? She’s a rich old woman from a prominent local family, who’s on the board to keep the theatre open. I can’t see what she has to gain. Unless you think that she might resent girls for being young and pretty, when she’s old and not? In which case, we’re back to her having some sort of mental condition.’
Trudy sighed heavily. ‘We’re not getting anywhere, are we?’
Clement shrugged. Unlike his young companion, he’d learned the importance of patience. ‘We’re agreed our killer is very sane and very clever, yes? So far he or she has managed to murder two girls, leaving us unsure even if it’s murder or not. And so far, I take it, no traces of a killer or any evidence at all has been found at the so-called crime scenes?’
‘No,’ Trudy sighed, giving him a quick run-down on what Sergeant O’Grady had told her about the verdict on the heater in Vicky’s room. ‘There were no fingerprints found at either of the crime scenes that couldn’t be accounted for and no sign of a break-in, or of anything out of the ordinary. But then, it’s believed the French doors leading to Vicky’s room were probably unlocked.’ Trudy shrugged helplessly. ‘After all, who locks their doors?’
Clement nodded. Maybe he was a cynic, but he could foresee a time coming when everybody would do so. But not, he hoped, in his lifetime.
‘You know, we really do need to go and talk to Vicky’s mother, now that she’s had some time to get over the worst of the shock,’ Trudy continued. ‘And see the room where it happened, since the lab people have finished going over it. I can go in uniform – make it official.’
‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Clement said. ‘Because as things stand at the moment, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’
Trudy glumly agreed, bid him goodnight, and climbed from the car.
Chapter 27
The next morning dawned bright and clear – one of those crisp lovely autumnal days, when the sky seemed as blue as possible, and the sunlight had a mellow yellow tinge that made everything look as though it was bathed in a spotlight.
Trudy, after reporting to DI Jennings, had pedalled her bicycle to Floyd’s Row, and after waiting half an hour for the coroner to finish up some paperwork, had climbed back into his car for the trip to Parklands.
It wasn’t until they were turning down the long, leaf-strewn road, that Clement, silent until now, suddenly perked up. ‘You know, this really is a nice area of town. I thought of buying here when I first moved back to the city, before deciding I wanted to be nearer the centre of things.’
‘Summertown was too far out for you?’ Trudy teased. But looking around the avenue, with its ranks of lime trees now shedding their leaves, she could see what he meant. A spacious ‘village’ green swept away to the right, whilst a mix of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian buildings lined up in genteel elegance to the left. Large, well-maintained front gardens led to mainly Cotswold-stone buildings, with large sash windows and an air of respectable, but not showy, affluence.
A man nodded at them as he passed the car on his way to the green, the little Yorkie he was walking pausing to bark at them with the ferocity of its kind.
‘So this is where Vicky lived,’ Trudy mused, checking from her notebook to make sure that they had the right address. The house was one of the younger ones, set a little apart from its neighbours and surrounded by a garden predominantly given over to shrubs. ‘Abigail didn’t live too far away either,’ she noted. ‘Just go further down the road, then turn right and then left. Of course, they must have lived near each other in order to have attended the same school. St Bart’s, I think it was.’
‘And that, if I’m not mistaken, is the old Merriweather place,’ Clement said, nodding across the green to a large, square, uncompromisingly Georgian edifice, gleaming like old gold in the autumnal sun. ‘I dare say, in times gone by, the family owned the land and houses for miles around.’
Trudy nodded thoughtfully. ‘In the real old days, I suppose they were proper lords of the manor with a minor title or something.’
Clement sighed. ‘Well, Mrs Munnings is expecting us. I called ahead to make sure she’d be in.’
With a small sigh, Trudy nodded and got out of the car. It was always one of the worst parts of her job – dealing with the bereaved.
* * *
Rosemary Munnings looked pale but composed as she served them tea in the front room, which overlooked the small front garden and the green beyond. She had accepted Trudy and Clement on face value when they’d presented themselves at her door, seeming not to notice Dr Ryder’s rather unclear role in the proceedings.
‘Everyone’s been so kind,’ the woman said now, somewhat helplessly, as she left her own cup of tea steaming gently and untouched on the tray. ‘My next-door neighbour has been an angel and Dr Ranking has been round every day.’
Something about her rather dreamy look and apathetic voice made Clement wonder what kind of pills she had taken, and he felt a distressing sense of déjà vu. Abigail Trent’s mother had just this same air about her. Just what right did anybody think they might have, to cause such pain and misery?
Angrily, he le
t his eyes wander around the room as Trudy began to question her gently.
‘I knew Vicky slightly,’ Trudy began, making the other woman instantly smile.
‘Oh, did you? My Vicky had a lot of friends,’ she said proudly. ‘She was always so popular at school.’
‘I’m sure she was. Abigail Trent was her closest friend, wasn’t she?’ Trudy asked, surprised to see something unhappy and uncertain flicker across the other woman’s face.
She realised the coroner had seen it too, for Dr Ryder’s gaze suddenly halted its appraisal of the room and sharpened instead on the older woman.
‘Didn’t you like Abigail?’ Trudy asked in her best casual voice.
Rosemary Munnings sighed. ‘I’d rather Victoria had chosen not to become so close to her,’ she admitted, sounding tired. ‘As you know, her family moved here from… Cowley, I think it was. Oh, I’m not being snobbish! I just never really thought that the Trents fit in here, and that can cause such problems, can’t it? I know Abigail especially felt it somewhat keenly. Well, children do, don’t they?’
‘Oh? Was she ostracised then?’ Trudy asked. ‘Children can be so cruel sometimes, can’t they?’
To her surprise, the other woman suddenly flushed angrily. ‘What do you mean? Who have you been talking to?’ she demanded. Her eyes seemed to move to the window, and her look became definitely pensive.
‘I just meant that, starting another school as a new girl can sometimes be daunting, Mrs Munnings, that’s all,’ Trudy said, a shade confused. She had obviously touched a raw nerve, but wasn’t quite sure what it was or how she’d done it. ‘It sounds as if your daughter was being quite kind – you know, going out of her way to make friends with the odd one out and helping her fit in and everything.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, that’s right.’ Mrs Munnings’ shoulders relaxed slightly. ‘That’s exactly what Vicky was. A very kind girl at heart – and don’t let anyone tell you anything different,’ she demanded fiercely. But it was as if any strong emotion quickly drained her, for again her shoulders slumped and she looked ineffably weary. ‘Of course, Abigail was so grateful to her for that. I suppose that’s why they became such firm friends. I just wish… Oh well, they’re both gone now so what does it all matter?’ She shrugged hopelessly.
Trudy nodded but glanced quickly across at Clement. From all that they’d learned about the girls, it seemed clear that it was Abigail who’d been the driving force in their friendship, and Vicky very much the follower. Did her mother really not know this?
‘I got the impression that Vicky only entered the beauty contest because Abby asked her to,’ she began cautiously, and again seemed to have said the wrong thing.
‘Oh, that ridiculous competition!’ Rosemary said fretfully. ‘I begged Vicky not to enter it. So cheap and low-class! It was typical of Abigail to want to get involved. And as ever, she had to drag Victoria into it. But then, she was always getting Vicky into some scrape or other—’ She broke off abruptly, and again her eyes seemed to gravitate towards the window.
Clement, curious as to what kept snatching her attention, got up and went to the window, ostensibly to admire a large African Violet plant that was growing on the windowsill there. In truth, he looked outside to see what Mrs Munnings found so fascinating, but could only see the green, where the man who’d passed them was now walking his Yorkie. And beyond that, the old Merriweather place.
Thoughtfully, he returned to his seat.
Trudy kept her thoughts focused on Vicky’s mother. ‘Well, children will be children, Mrs Munnings,’ she said with a smile. ‘I expect when I was in school I got dragged into the odd scrape or two myself.’
With an effort, Rosemary forced herself to smile. ‘I find that hard to believe, my dear. It’s so unusual for a young girl to join the police force. Your parents must be very proud of you,’ she said. But she didn’t sound particularly sure. Trudy could well understand how this woman would have reacted if her own daughter had told her that she wanted to make a career in the police service!
‘I understand Vicky had her own apartment here?’ Trudy changed the subject slightly. ‘Do you mind if we see it?’
‘Oh of course not, I’ll show it to you.’ She got up and led them through the kitchen, where a utility room had an internal door set in one wall. There she paused. ‘If you don’t mind, I won’t go in.’
Trudy nodded hastily. ‘No, that’s quite all right, Mrs Munnings.’
She pushed open the door and she and Clement stepped through into Vicky’s much-admired ‘apartment’.
It was, in reality, a large bed-sitting room with a small bathroom off to one side. It overlooked the side garden, and large shrubs crowded close to the French doors and large single window, cutting out a lot of natural light and making it all rather gloomy.
Still, it was her own private space, and Trudy could well understand why she had cherished it. The fatal heater had, of course, been taken away for examination, and fingerprint powder covered everything in a fine dust. Clearly, the girl’s mother hadn’t been able to bring herself to clean the room yet. A bottle of perfume, half-full, stood on the small dresser, and a pair of stockings had been draped, causally, across the back of a chair, as if its occupant would return any moment to don them.
Trudy felt tears start to come to her eyes, and quickly blinked them away. ‘She had no idea, did she, when she went to bed that night, that she’d never wake up in the morning,’ she said sadly.
Clement said nothing. He went instead to the French doors, opened them up and stepped outside to look around. As he’d thought – anyone could have crept through this garden unseen – especially at night, when it was dark by seven o’clock.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful here,’ he said quietly.
Outside, Mrs Munnings waited for them with listless patience in the kitchen. When they reappeared, she looked at them without curiosity, and led them back to the front room and their cooling cups of tea.
Once they were settled, it was Clement who had things to ask her.
‘I understand you’ve lived here for some time, Mrs Munnings,’ he began pleasantly.
‘Yes. My husband was an Oxford man, born and bred.’
‘Ah. He’d have known the Merriweathers then. Across the green.’ He nodded to the window.
Rosemary’s shoulders visibly became tense again, and her washed-out expression showed signs of a frown. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice still light and polite, but somehow strained. ‘They’re a marvellous old family.’
‘But they’ve had their difficulties, I hear,’ Clement said. ‘Didn’t someone tell me one of them – a granddaughter of the old lady – was rather ill?’
Trudy nodded, remembering that Grace had mentioned that too.
‘Oh yes. Millie. Her son Christopher’s child,’ Rosemary said. And for the first time, she sounded a little frightened.
Trudy shot the coroner a quick, surprised look.
‘It’s always frightening when a child falls ill,’ Clement said carefully. ‘How old is the little girl?’
‘Oh, she’s not a little girl, exactly. She’s Vicky’s age.’
‘Oh. So she would have gone to school with your daughter and Abigail? Or didn’t she live around here?’ Clement asked, taking a sip of his cold tea.
‘Oh yes, she did. She lived with her grandmother – well, all the Merriweathers shared the old house. It’s so big, and…’ As if running out of breath, Rosemary simply trailed off.
‘Her poor grandmother must be worried about her,’ Clement mused. ‘Is she very ill?’
‘She’s under the care of doctors, I believe,’ Rosemary said vaguely. ‘In a clinic somewhere in… I can’t quite remember where now. All this… with Vicky… My mind doesn’t seem to… I’m sorry.’
‘No, we’re the ones who are sorry,’ Clement apologised smoothly. ‘And we mustn’t take up any more of your time,’ he added, getting to his feet. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to speak to us.’
Trudy, a little disconcerted at having the interview cut off so abruptly, nevertheless got to her feet and allowed herself to be ushered out.
Outside on the pavement, she followed the coroner to his car, but instead of getting in behind the wheel, he stared out across the green towards the imposing old house.
‘What was all that about?’ Trudy asked, when she realised that he wasn’t about to break his silence. ‘Was it my imagination, or was she trying to hide something?’
‘No, I don’t think it was your imagination,’ Clement said slowly. ‘Come on, let’s go back to my office. I have some phone calls I want to make to various colleagues.’
* * *
A half-hour later, Clement hung up the phone on the last of his contacts, and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.
Trudy, who’d been forced to listen to his one-sided conversations, had nevertheless already discerned the way his mind had been working, and had already guessed what he was going to say.
‘Millie Merriweather is in some sort of mental institution, isn’t she?’ Trudy asked flatly.
‘Yes. A private clinic in Littlemore,’ Clement agreed. ‘According to my sources, she was always what you would call a “highly-strung” girl, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. She did all right at the local primary school, although she had a bit of a reputation as a loner. Her parents put things down to her being a bit of a dreamer, and always having her head in a book. In truth, she was probably, even by the time she was 11, beginning to build a fantasy world of her own to live in.’
‘Lots of children do that,’ Trudy mused.
‘Yes – but in her case, it seems the fantasy began to take over. Even so, for a year or so, she seemed to do all right at St Bart’s – the local grammar school. But then things seemed to go downhill suddenly. She was taken out of school and given private tutors. But last year she had to be committed for her own good. There were instances of self-harm, followed by a suicide attempt.’
