by Faith Martin
‘Poor girl,’ Trudy mused. ‘Grace said that she and Mrs Merriweather became friends when the old lady learned about Grace’s mother being so ill. So I thought that it was something physical with the granddaughter too. Maybe cancer, since it seemed as if it was something that nobody liked to talk about. But mental illness is also a taboo subject…’ Trudy broke off and looked at the coroner thoughtfully.
‘Do you suppose it’s mental after all? Do you think old Mrs Merriweather…’ She trailed off delicately, with one eyebrow raised.
‘What? Has mental health issues too?’ Clement asked dryly. ‘Hardly.’ But there was something in his voice that made her look at him sharply.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Did you get the impression from talking to people about Abby in particular, that she was a bit of a bully at school? Because I did – especially when we talked to her young man, that one time. He almost came out and said that she could be very cruel to plain girls. I wondered at the time if you’d picked up on it.’
Trudy slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I did. One or two other people also mentioned it. And Vicky was always her right-hand man, so to speak.’ She slowly leaned forward on her chair. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That the two of them might have bullied Millie Merriweather?’
‘Well, it makes sense. Abigail, as the new girl to the school – and already suffering from the stigma of being “not quite one of them” – would have been unsure and aggressive, and would have felt the need to establish her dominance quickly. She began by recruiting a willing acolyte in the easily-led Vicky. And what better target would there be for them, than the “slightly weird” and rather plain girl at school? Especially since poor Millie came from such a prominent local family? Nothing would have set Abigail up as top dog so fast as gathering a gang about her and picking on the odd girl out.’
Trudy blinked. ‘Bullying would have been bound to make Millie’s already precarious mental condition worse… and if it was the final straw that broke the camel’s back and led to her family having to finally commit her to a mental home…’ Trudy paused, looking a shade appalled. ‘Are we really saying that we think that nice old lady deliberately set out to kill the girls who helped drive her granddaughter over the edge?’
Clement rubbed a hand over his face. ‘First, we have to find out whether or not any of this is true. We need to visit the school and talk to the teachers.’
‘Which won’t be easy,’ Trudy predicted, sounding and feeling a shade world-weary. ‘Nobody at the school will be willing to admit to that sort of thing going on – their instinct will be to deny it and cover it up. Especially since one of the girls involved has a prominent, powerful family behind her.’
‘Hmm. In which case, whilst I tackle the teachers, you need to find out the names of some of the other pupils attending the school at the same time and talk to them. They might be far more willing to give us an accurate picture of what actually went on there.’
‘OK,’ Trudy agreed, leaping up. This was better. They might finally be getting somewhere at last!
Chapter 28
Saturday night and showtime! After a month of rehearsals, it was finally time for the real thing. The theatre was beginning to fill with paying customers, and Dennis Quayle-Jones was very much aware of the growing excitement that a full house always generated. He was at his most affable and competent, and glowing with anticipation.
This was what he lived for – a live audience and a theatrical show, even a small-time, amateur-driven beauty pageant such as this one. At least he was confident his theatre looked its best. The stage scenery he had generously donated for the occasion had come from various past plays – a backdrop of glamorous Venice for the evening gown section, and a backdrop of a beach for the swimwear slot. The flowers had arrived and would bedeck the stage when it came time for the interview section, and a small band of musicians would provide the mood-music.
Most of the girls were now feeling horribly nervous, of course, and Dennis regarded them with somewhat impatient benevolence. They were, after all, amateurs – and not real theatre people at all.
The Dunbars, as hosts, were personally ushering in those members of the audience who were in ‘their circle’ and had come more or less by personal invitation, whilst the less blessed were filtering in, tickets clutched in hand, through the main entrance.
But Trudy, who was back to being dressed in uniform, wasn’t interested in any of that.
Over the past week, both she and Dr Ryder had been steadily gathering evidence, and, like most things in life, once you knew where to look, had been finding it in steady dribs and drabs all over the place.
To begin with, they had gathered several written statements from former students of St Bart’s school, who had all agreed that both Abigail Trent and, to a lesser extent, Vicky Munnings had indeed bullied Millie Merriweather extensively during her last two years at school. Millie, unfortunately, had been a rather plain girl, and they had made much fun of her ‘ugly duckling’ features, as a running theme in their torment.
They’d also confirmed from various libraries around the city, that Mrs Patricia Merriweather had withdrawn several books on native British flora that were poisonous, as well as more books from which she could have learned how to distil poisons. These library withdrawals had all been within three weeks of Abigail Trent’s death from yew berry poisoning. Not only that, just a week before the death of Vicky Munnings, she had also withdrawn several technical manuals from which she could have learned how to sabotage the heater in the second victim’s bedroom.
A walk-through from the Merriweather mansion to Vicky’s ground-floor bedroom, confirmed that the old lady could easily have made the short journey, under cover of darkness, to the dead girl’s ‘apartment’ without being seen.
None of which, Trudy now mused gloomily, had seemed to impress her DI to any great extent. Although Sergeant O’Grady, at least, seemed convinced that they had a valid lead and solid suspect, even he had had to point out how circumstantial it all was.
The motive was valid enough, but as he’d insisted, anyone at all could have used darkness and the cover of the shrubbery in the Munnings’ garden in order to sabotage the heater inside. Just because the old lady had taken out books that showed how to create the yew berry poison that had killed Abigail, didn’t prove that she had. All of which Trudy, although frustrated, understood all too well.
What’s more, she was well aware that all the old lady had to do, if taxed with things, was to say something along the lines that she was worried about what poisonous plants might be growing in her garden, and who could call her a liar? And that she’d been thinking of purchasing a heater, and wanted to learn how to use it.
She was, after all, Mrs Patricia Merriweather – matriarch of an old and much-respected family. She had wealth and powerful friends, and social influence. And besides all that, who would ever believe such a nice and affable old lady would go about killing pretty young girls?
Even Trudy sometimes had trouble believing it.
She was standing now in one of the backstage corridors waiting for Clement to join her, and feeling highly anxious. Not only was she feeling a little sick-to-her-stomach for her friends, who would have to perform for the first time in front of a packed theatre, she was even more worried about what was to come, and the scene that would be carried out in a far more private arena.
When she had reported back to Clement that her DI was not going to even countenance bringing in Patricia Merriweather for questioning, let alone charge her with two counts of murder, he had not been at all surprised. In fact, looking back on it, Trudy was sure that he had always known what her superior’s attitude would be.
And even though she could admit to herself that the Inspector had a point, she still felt frustrated in the extreme that they were so helpless. Knowing who had killed the girls and why, was no good if you couldn’t bring the crime home to the killer.
Which was why she was hoping that Clemen
t’s scheme to confront the old lady here at the theatre might bear fruit. But she wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful.
‘What time does the show start?’
Trudy gave a little yelp and nearly leapt into the air. She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard the coroner walking up behind her. Now she turned towards him with a brief apology, noting vaguely how handsome and distinguished he looked in his black tie.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d arrived.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s still half an hour until the initial opening ceremony and parade – which is all in “normal” daywear. It’s designed to be a general introduction of the girls to the audience, and each girl has a quick “chat” to the compere.’
‘And the judges?’
‘All making themselves comfortable in the “green room” so far as I know,’ Trudy said, leading the way to a small backstage room where various drinks and snacks could be served, and a group of large, comfortable chairs were available for anyone who needed to relax.
‘Shall I go and see if she’s inside?’ she whispered to Clement outside the door. ‘Only I’m in uniform now,’ she pointed out, ‘and they might be a bit confused – especially if they recognise me as once being a contestant.’
‘No, I’ll go and lure her out. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’
‘Not really,’ Trudy said with a sigh, looking vaguely around. ‘It’ll have to be out here – and before long, the girls will be coming out of the dressing rooms, so we’ll have to make it quick.’
Clement nodded grimly. ‘I’d prefer to have more time, but…’
‘Do you really think you can make her confess?’ Trudy asked nervously.
Yesterday, when they’d been discussing their options, he had come up with an idea that had sounded very tenuous indeed to her, but she’d eventually been forced to agree that it was better than doing nothing.
Now he shrugged. ‘It all depends on how much the family name means to her. How deep and strong her love for her granddaughter really goes. How vain she is. What moral compass – if any – she has.’ Clement shrugged. ‘There are too many variables to know. We’ll just have to play it by ear. She might just laugh in our face.’
‘And if she does, she just gets away with it?’ Trudy demanded angrily.
Clement looked at her a shade helplessly. Sometimes the young could just break your heart. ‘People do get away with murder, Trudy,’ he said, his voice more severe and rough than he’d meant it to be. Quickly, he carried on more mildly. ‘Any serving police officer of any years’ standing will tell you that. It’s not like it is in the films or in penny dreadfuls, where everything gets to be tied up in a neat ribbon at the end. Life is much messier than that. No doubt, if you asked them, any of your colleagues could tell you indignant tales of people they knew to be guilty of all sorts of crimes, but they simply lacked the evidence to act. It’s just one of those nasty little facts of life that you’re going to have to face and come to terms with at some point or other, if you want to make a career out of police work.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Trudy said, but still reluctant to listen to such advice. ‘But… two murders? Two young girls, with everything to live for…’ She trailed off helplessly. It would do her no good now to start thinking of the anguish of the girls’ families and what they were going through. She’d only want to start crying, and she needed to concentrate all her efforts on the task that lay ahead.
‘Oh well, let’s get on with it,’ she muttered fatalistically.
Clement nodded, took a deep breath himself, and pushed open the door. She heard a small murmur as his fellow judges greeted him, then had to wait for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a minute or so, before the door re-opened, and Clement, closely followed by Patricia Merriweather, emerged.
The old lady looked resplendent in a shimmering grey silk evening dress. A professional hairdresser had put up her white hair into an elegant chignon, and rather large and very sparkling diamonds glinted at her earlobes and hung around her throat. She was also wearing long white gloves that reached above her elbows, and she carried a small evening bag by Chanel.
‘Trudy! My word, you’re in a policewoman’s uniform! I’d heard you pulled out of the competition, but I had no idea you were one of our splendid boys – or in your case, girls – in blue!’
Trudy found it hard to look the other woman in the face. On the one hand, she felt almost sure that Patricia must be mocking her; that she must have guessed long ago who Trudy really was and what she’d been doing, and was now just playing a game with her, taunting her with the mock-pretence of surprise.
Yet, perversely, she still found it almost impossible to believe that this friendly, slightly mischievous, larger-than-life old lady was a cold-blooded killer.
What if they’d got it all wrong?
‘Hello, Mrs Merriweather,’ Trudy forced herself to say politely. ‘Would it be possible for Dr Ryder and myself to have a quick chat with you before you have to begin your judging duties?’
‘Of course.’ The old woman’s eyes moved speculatively between the two of them before she moved a little away from the door. ‘What can I do for you?’
Trudy looked helplessly at Clement. She had no idea what he intended to say, or how he’d say it, and she had the rather depressing feeling that he didn’t know either. What she hadn’t expected him to do, however, was just to come straight out with it.
‘Did you murder Abigail Trent and Victoria Munnings?’ the coroner asked flatly. ‘Because, frankly, Mrs Merriweather, we believe that you did.’
The old woman blinked and her face went completely expressionless. For a moment, Trudy felt almost dizzy, so surreal did the moment seem. Were they really standing in a gloomy corridor in the back of the Old Swan Theatre, with the loud buzz of a waiting audience permeating from somewhere behind them, whilst asking an old and respectable lady if she was a double murderess?
‘I see,’ Patricia finally said. She sounded almost – but not quite – amused. ‘And why do you imagine I would do such a thing?’
She was looking only at the coroner, and concentrating on him so fully, that Trudy got the feeling that she’d been totally forgotten.
‘Because they bullied your granddaughter Millie mercilessly at school. Tragically, at a time when she was already so mentally fragile and vulnerable, wasn’t she?’ he added, a note of compassion clearly creeping into his voice now. ‘Which pushed her over the edge into some sort of full-blown mental breakdown.’
‘My granddaughter is no concern of yours,’ Patricia said stiffly. She was now standing very rigidly, all hint of amusement gone. Even Trudy, who was not the recipient of it, could feel the arctic chill of her disapproval.
‘I agree,’ Clement said quietly. ‘But she is very much your concern, isn’t she, Patricia? She’s your whole life, in fact, since you practically raised her yourself after her mother walked out. You’ve never been particularly close to your son, but various sources have told me that Millie has always been the light of your life.’
‘Have they indeed?’ Patricia mused, forcing a lighter note into her voice. ‘It sounds to me as if you’ve been poking that rather Roman nose of yours into places where it isn’t wanted.’
‘It must have been heartbreaking for you,’ Clement carried on, ignoring the insult completely. ‘Not being able to protect her from the slings and arrows of life. You’ve always been so strong yourself, haven’t you? A bit of a wild child in your own day, I bet. A free and independent spirit, so different – so much stronger – than Millie ever was. It must have hurt you intolerably to see her slip further and further away from life and reality. And those two girls making her life so miserable, just at the worst time of her life. Adolescence isn’t easy to negotiate, is it, even at the best of times? But having two harpies pecking at her constantly, making her life intolerable – that must have driven you almost insane.’
Patricia Merriweather pulled in a long, audible breath.
Her shoulders swept back and her chin lifted haughtily into the air. ‘I didn’t know about it at the time, Dr Ryder,’ she said, her voice almost vibrating with anger. ‘If I had, I can assure you, I would have done something about it. But Millie never spoke to me about it. Not at the time, she kept it all bottled up inside. It was only a year later… after her first attempt at suicide – that she told me what they’d done. The verbal taunts, the mental bullying, the physical punches and pinches, the tripping her over into stinging nettles…’
She was almost panting now, but suddenly she stiffened again and got herself back under control. ‘But as I’ve remarked before, this is none of your business.’
‘But the death – the unlawful killing of two girls – is very much my business, Mrs Merriweather,’ Clement said remorselessly. ‘I am the city coroner, remember? I resided over the inquest into the death of Abigail Trent.’
Patricia managed a bleak smile. ‘So? Is that supposed to worry me? Or scare me? Why should it?’ she asked flatly. ‘As I recall, everybody believed the silly little chit either committed suicide, or poisoned herself by accident.’
‘We know you took out library books in order to research poisons,’ Clement said flatly.
But, as Trudy had always feared she would, the old lady merely gave a brief, bitter bark of laughter. ‘So what? It’s hardly a smoking gun, is it?’
‘No.’ Clement surprised her by agreeing flatly, and Trudy felt her shoulders, already stiff with tension, tighten even more as she realised that her friend was about to play their only card – their last-ditch attempt at getting some sort of justice for two dead girls.
‘But we’ll keep digging, Patricia,’ he went on flatly.
Once again, their eyes locked in a duel, and once again, the old man met her unflinching gaze stoically. ‘We’ve already presented our findings to Trudy’s superior officer. And now we know where to look, it’s only a matter of time before we find proper evidence,’ he bluffed magnificently. ‘Maybe somebody saw you that night, when you sneaked across the green and into the Munnings’ garden, intent on turning the heater in her room into a deadly device. Can you be sure nobody noticed you? Or what about the day you picked the yew berries? What if you were seen and your activities noted? What about your servants – can you rely totally on their loyalty? You must have concocted the poison somewhere – probably in your own kitchen. Can you be sure none of them noticed anything?’
