A Fatal Flaw

by Faith Martin

  The wily old coroner was right in what he’d said. Her neighbours would delight in seeing the Merriweather family name dragged through the mud.

  No, it was intolerable.

  Oh, she knew very well just what that cold-hearted and hard-headed coroner had been hinting at all along, damn him. That she should just do everyone the favour of putting an end to things once and for all – with no fuss and no mess, thus making it easy on everyone concerned. And with the unspoken but tacit understanding that, if she did, no charges would be pursued and the whole affair would be allowed to drop, with no smear on the Merriweather family name.

  Right now, feeling pleasantly squiffy and too old and tired to care, she had no real objection to killing herself and fulfilling her part of that bargain. After all, she was old and would probably die soon anyway. She’d never have Millie come back to live here with her and brighten her days. What, really, was the point of carrying on?

  But she’d always been a fighter and the thought of being bested by someone, anyone – even as worthy an opponent as Dr Clement Ryder – sat very uneasily on her shoulders. In fact, it made her feel downright spiteful.

  In the old days, when she’d been young and determined to grab the world by the throat, the thought of just throwing in the towel would be anathema to her.

  But there was, perhaps, one way she could kick over the traces still. Something she could do to make sure that Clement Ryder didn’t have things all his own way, and that would leave her having the last laugh!

  Yet, as she thought about how she would take her revenge, she felt a moment of near-shame sweep over her. After all, it was hardly playing the game, as her poor old, long-dead spouse, would have said. He’d been a gentleman through and through. And she’d always agreed with his philosophies – up to a point. There were certain things that went beyond the pale. Ratting out one of your peers was definitely high on that list.

  But in the end, that night, the picker of yew berries was in no mood to be sporting.

  And so, before gathering together a nice little collection of sleeping powders and a variety of medications that had been prescribed for her by her doctor (it was so handy to be old – you had so many pills to choose from!) Patricia Merriweather sat down at her desk and began to write two letters.

  One was addressed – irony of ironies – to the coroner. She had no idea whether Dr Ryder himself, or one of his contemporaries, would get to read it, but in any case she kept it short and sweet. She merely stated that she was taking a mixture of pills and alcohol, which she fully expected to end her life, of her own free will and that no other persons were involved in this enterprise. She gave no reasons whatsoever for her decisions – because it was none of their damned business! She offered only a brief apology to her maid, who, she expected, would be the one to discover her tomorrow morning.

  As she signed it, she smiled briefly and viciously.

  The other letter she addressed to the police. This took her more time to compose, but, in the end, she was happy with what she wrote:

  To whom it may concern

  I, Mrs Patricia Merriweather, feel it my duty to inform the Oxford City Police that I have, on a number of occasions, observed Dr Clement Ryder, a coroner of the city, to show symptoms of what I firmly believe to be some kind of morbid disease.

  I have noticed him to suffer from hand tremors on several occasions, and also a dragging of his feet, leading him to almost stumble.

  Since a coroner is an officer of the law and holds a position of great responsibility, I feel it incumbent on me to point out that, very unfortunately, it may be possible that he is unfit to continue to serve in his present position.

  I therefore advise, very strongly, that he be assessed by one of his fellow medical practitioners as soon as possible.

  Faithfully – Mrs Patricia Merriweather.

  She carefully dated the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and folded the flap neatly inside the back. Then she placed both letters where they would be easily seen, propped up against her dressing-table mirror, and finished her final glass of Cognac.

  By now it was almost one o’clock in the morning.

  She stood at the window for a while, swaying slightly and taking one last long look at a moonlit Oxford. Beautiful! Then she slipped under the covers of the bed and began to steadily swallow pills.

  Chapter 30

  Trudy arrived at the station well in time for her 7 a.m. shift. After getting her assignments from the officer on duty, she slipped out into a cold, still dark city, and made her way towards Parklands.

  Her first official assignment could wait. She knew Clement probably wouldn’t approve, but she wanted to go one more round with Mrs Merriweather.

  She took the bus to Summertown, then walked the rest of the way, greeting people who were setting out for work with a reassuring nod. She knew the PC who walked this beat, and hoped she wouldn’t encounter him (as she might end up with some explaining to do), but she was lucky, and made it to the Merriweather place unchallenged.

  She went straight to the rear entrance and knocked at one of the back doors. She wasn’t surprised to find it opened by a woman who was obviously the cook, but she was surprised to be all but dragged in and greeted so effusively. Normally, in her experience, nobody liked to see a police officer on their doorstep.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got here ever so quick! I’m so glad. She’s upstairs. Beatrice, Mrs Merriweather’s maid, is staying with her until someone comes.’

  The woman was middle-aged and comfortably plump, but her round face was rather pale and her eyes were round with suppressed panic.

  Trudy allowed herself to be compelled out of the kitchen, down a long corridor and out into the hall. She managed to restrain the desire to ask what on earth was going on or what it was all about, and when they got to the foot of the steps, and her escort pointed upwards, she merely nodded and ascended the stairs. These were comfortably carpeted in a deep red and brown pile, and the dark mahogany banisters glowed with much polishing.

  ‘Second door on the left it is,’ the woman below called up helpfully and then quickly darted away.

  Trudy, her heart hammering in her chest, turned the corner at the top of the stairs and saw a young woman standing just outside a door. She was dressed in a traditional black and white maid’s uniform, and Trudy could tell she’d been crying recently.

  ‘My, that was quick. I’ve only just t-telephoned for the p-police.’ She gulped, her voice slightly raspy. She was a slender girl, with pale hair, pale eyes and a pale complexion, blotched red now from weeping. ‘M-madam is inside. I didn’t touch an-anything.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Trudy said, her mind racing. Clearly something had happened to Patricia Merriweather, and her maid had just sent out a 999 message. Which meant her colleagues would soon be on the scene, and she would be quickly dismissed as irrelevant.

  But she couldn’t let herself be sidelined just yet. This whole case had been so frustrating and unsatisfying, she needed to be in at the end of it, at least.

  ‘I’ll just go inside. When my colleagues arrive, show them up,’ she said, marvelling at how cool and in command she sounded. The maid nodded, and glanced away as Trudy opened the door and slipped inside.

  The bedroom was still rather dark, even though the maid had drawn back the curtains. It was extremely spacious, with room for a huge bed, a desk under the window, two bedside tables, and a large wardrobe.

  The bed itself was a large one – even bigger than a double bed, but it wasn’t a four-poster, in which Trudy had always fondly believed that all landed gentry must sleep.

  She approached the slight hump under the blankets slowly and cautiously. She wasn’t sure why, but she half expected the occupant of the bed to suddenly sit up and laugh at her, making her jump out of her skin. Just one last prank, with the joke firmly centred on a certain WPC.

  But as she got closer, she could see that the old lady was beyond all that. Her face looked peaceful, but Trudy could see that
she had vomited some time in the night, which had discoloured the pretty lace-lined pillow below her head.

  When she reached out and touched the old lady’s hand, her skin was clammy and cold.

  Silently, Trudy looked at her. On the bedside table was a carafe of water, and several empty pill bottles. So she had taken the easy way out, for she had no doubts that this death was a natural one. What had been going through her mind? How desperate must she have been? And then, out of the blue, the thought hit her with all the cruel force of a thunderbolt.

  She and Clement had driven her to this!

  Last night, all that talk of pursuing her, dragging her family name and reputation through the mud…

  Trudy staggered back with a soft cry. What on earth had they done?

  Then she remembered the coroner’s troubled face last night, when he’d told her that he’d been worried that they hadn’t had time to finish their conversation with this woman. Bitterly, and feeling like an utter fool, she finally understood. This was what Clement had been afraid of all along. That the old lady would think they had been suggesting she take what was euphemistically called ‘the honourable way’ out.

  She put a hand up to her mouth as tears shimmered in her eyes, blurring her vision, feeling sick with guilt.

  They had, albeit unintentionally, driven an old lady to suicide.

  True, she was also the cold-blooded murderer of two young women.

  Even so…

  She continued to back away until she bumped into the desk behind her. It was only then, as she turned around, grateful to tear her eyes away from the pitiful sight on the bed, that she spotted the two white squares that stood out in the gloom of the room, propped against the back of the desk behind her.

  She leaned closer and saw two white square envelopes. She picked up one, marvelling at its weight and good quality. It even bore a crest – the Merriweather family crest, she supposed, embossed in a dark-coloured ink in the lower right-hand corner.

  It was addressed, simply, to ‘The Coroner’.

  Trudy dropped it as if it had been white-hot, as something ancient and superstitious shot through her. She quickly glanced around, as if expecting to see the old lady’s ghost standing there, pointing an accusing finger at her. It was as if, with this last message, she was reaching out eerily from beyond the grave to denounce them both.

  Then she took a deep breath, told herself not to be so silly, and nervously put the envelope back where it had been. Apart from anything else, Clement should be the first to read it.

  Then she noticed the second envelope and supposed it must be a letter to her family. But when she peered more closely at it, she saw that it was addressed to the police.

  Once more, her heart rate ratcheted up a notch. Was this a confession of her crimes? She glanced out the window anxiously, torn between the desire to do her duty, which was to safeguard the scene – without any interference – until the proper officers got here, and to open it and read the contents whilst she still had the chance.

  After all, it was her case, Trudy reasoned. She and Clement had been investigating it long before DI Jennings even believed there was anything to investigate. And, in a way, it was addressed to her wasn’t it? It could be argued that she was the police, in manner of speaking, right?

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, she picked it up and saw with relief that the envelope had not been sealed down, but that the flap had merely been tucked in at the back. She pulled it out, knowing that she would have to admit to handling both envelopes anyway, since her fingerprints would be on them, and pulled out and opened the single page that had been inside, and began to read.

  But, holding it up to the window and the growing daylight coming through it, she quickly realised that it was not the confession to murder she had been expecting and hoping for.

  It was something far more startling. And vindictive.

  At first, as she read the spiteful words, Trudy couldn’t quite take them in. Then, slowly, all the sense of guilt that she’d been feeling began to finally drain away.

  As her last act before dying, Patricia Merriweather hadn’t been thinking of redemption at all, or putting things right, or even in easing her conscience. No. All she’d wanted to do was make trouble for the man who had bested her.

  She heard the sound of a car, and glancing outside, saw that it was a police vehicle, which was pulling up by the front door. Suddenly, the importance of the words on the page began to sink in.

  She herself had seen Dr Ryder’s hand tremble. She had also noticed him drag his feet on occasion. Until now, she’d always suspected that he had a drinking problem. But what if her friend really was suffering from some potentially incapacitating illness?

  She shook her head, trying to clear it and think. Surely this was just the final parting shot of a bitter, murderous old lady?

  Even so, she could still imagine how DI Jennings would pounce on this with glee. He’d never liked Dr Ryder, and would absolutely crow over it. What’s more, he would be sure to take the opportunity to argue that it couldn’t hurt for him to submit to a medical.

  And what if it was true? Clement might be forced to retire before he wanted to.

  She could hear men climbing the stairs now and the slight babble of voices. Within seconds the door would open and she would have to account for her presence here.

  She had only a moment to make a decision.

  One part of her mind was screaming at her that it was unthinkable for her to tamper with evidence, even as she thrust the paper and envelope in her hand into her satchel, burying them deep beneath her accoutrements.

  Suddenly, she felt a chill creep up her spine. What if the maid who had discovered her dead mistress had noticed that there had been two envelopes on the desk? And said so?

  If she was forced to submit to a search, and the envelope and letter were found in her possession, she’d be instantly dismissed. She might even be prosecuted as tampering with evidence and impeding a police investigation.

  Her parents would be mortified! She’d be publicly shamed. She felt suddenly extremely nauseous. A moment of panic hit her.

  What on earth was she going to do?

  As the door to the bedroom opened, Probationary WPC Trudy Loveday stood stiffly at attention, her face a careful blank, and nodded calmly as a plain clothes detective she didn’t know walked through the door.

  ‘Sir,’ she said briskly.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank all those who have been kind enough to share their memories of the 1960s (and especially of Oxford during that era) with her.

  The next book from Faith Martin is coming in 2019

  Turn the page for an extract from A Fatal Obsession

  Prologue

  Oxford, July 1955

  The body on the bed lay sedate and demurely silent as the middle-aged man looked slowly around the room. It was a lovely room – large, well proportioned and lavishly decorated in tones of blue and silver. One of two large sash windows was partly open, allowing a warm summer breeze to blow in, gently wafting the fine net curtains and bringing with it a faint scent of honeysuckle from the lush and well-tended gardens below.

  The man wandered slowly around the opulent bedroom, his eyes greedily taking in everything from the quality of the silk bedsheets to the bottles of expensive perfume on an ornate antique dresser, while being careful not to touch anything. Having been born into a working-class family, he knew nothing about the pedigree of the paintings that adorned the walls. But he would have been willing to bet a week’s wages that the sale of just one of them would be more than enough to set him and his family up for life.

  He’d never before had cause to visit any of the mansions that proliferated in the swanky streets that stretched between the Woodstock and Banbury Roads in the north of the city, or any of the leafy avenues in the area. So now he took his time, and a considerable amount of pleasure, in looking around him, luxuriating in the deep tread of the plus
h blue Axminster carpet beneath his feet, which was so reminiscent of walking on mossy lawns.

  His eyes turned wistfully to the jewellery box on a walnut bedside table, left carelessly open. Gold, pearls and a few sparkling gemstones winked in the summer sun, making his fingers positively itch.

  ‘Very nice,’ he muttered quietly to himself. But he knew better than to slip even a modest ring or two into his pocket. Not this time – and certainly not with these people. The man hadn’t reached his half-century without learning there was one law for the rich, and one for everyone else.

  Thoughtfully, his eyes turned once more to the body on the bed. A pretty little thing she was. Young too. Just out of her teens, perhaps?

  What a damned shame, he thought vaguely.

  Then the breeze caused something on the bedside table to flutter slightly, the movement instantly catching his eye. He walked closer to the bed and the dead girl, again careful where he put his feet, and saw what it was that had been disturbed. It had clearly been deliberately propped up among the pots of face cream and powder compacts, lipsticks and boxes of pills.

  Bending ponderously at the waist, the man, who was definitely beginning to run to fat, squinted down at it and read some of the words written there.

  And slowly, a large, beaming smile spread over his not particularly attractive face. He gave a long, slow, near-silent whistle and then looked sharply over his shoulder to make sure nobody from the house had come upstairs behind him and could see what he was about to do. Confident he remained alone and unobserved, he reached out for the item and put it safely away in his large inside jacket pocket.

  Then he lovingly patted the place over his heart where it lay. For, unless he was very much mistaken, this precious little find was the best bit of luck he’d had for many a year – if not in his whole life. And it was certainly going to make his imminently approaching retirement years far more pleasant than he’d ever previously anticipated.