by Faith Martin
He’d crumpled it up and tossed it away without a second thought.
Then, only a week later, another one had come.
And, oddly enough, it hadn’t been more threatening, or more explicit, or even more crudely written. The message had been exactly the same. Which was unusual in itself. Sir Marcus had always assumed that nasty anonymous letters became more and more vile and explicit as time progressed.
Whether it was this anomaly, or sheer instinct, he couldn’t now say, but something about it had made him pause. And this time, instead of throwing it away, he’d kept it. Not that it really worried him, naturally.
But he’d kept the one that had come last week too, even though it had said exactly the same thing. And he’d probably slip this one, also, into the top drawer of his desk and carefully lock it. After all, he didn’t want his wife finding them. The wretched things would only scare her.
With a sigh, he unfolded the piece of paper and read it.
Yes, as he’d thought – the same wording, almost exactly.
DO THE RIGHT THING. I’M WATCHING YOU. IF YOU DON’T, YOU’LL BE SORRY.
But this letter had one final sentence – something that was new.
YOU HAVE ONE LAST CHANCE.
Sir Marcus Deering felt his heart thump sickeningly in his chest. One last chance? What was that supposed to mean?
With a grunt of annoyance, he threw the paper down onto his desk and stood up, walking over to the set of French windows that gave him a view of a large, well-maintained lawn. A small brook cut across the stretch of grass marking the boundary where the formal flower garden began, and his eyes restlessly followed the skeletal forms of the weeping willows that lined it.
Beyond the house and large gardens, which were so colourful and full of scent in the summer (and the pride and joy of his wife, Martha) came yet more evidence of his wealth and prestige, in the form of the fertile acres being run by his farm manager.
Normally, the experience of looking out over his land soothed Sir Marcus, reassuring him and reminding him of just how far he’d come in life.
It was stupid to feel so bloody… well, not frightened by the letters exactly; Sir Marcus wouldn’t admit to being quite that. But unsettled. Yes, he supposed that was fair. He definitely felt uneasy.
On the face of it, they were nothing. The threat was meaningless and tame. There wasn’t even any foul language involved. As far as nasty anonymous notes went, they were rather pathetic really. And yet there was something about them…
He gave himself a little mental shake and tramped determinedly back to his desk, sitting down heavily in his chair. And with a look of distaste on his face, he swept the letter into a drawer along with all the others, and locked it firmly.
He had better things to do with his time than worry about such stupid nonsense. No doubt the mentally deficient individual who’d written them was sitting somewhere right this moment, chortling away and imagining he’d managed to put the wind up him.
But Sir Marcus Deering was made of sterner stuff than that!
Do the right thing… Surely, it couldn’t be referring to the fire, could it? A spasm of anxiety shot through him. That was all so long ago, and had had nothing to do with him. He’d been young, still working in his first executive position, and had no doubt been wet behind the ears; but the fire hadn’t even occurred on his watch, and certainly hadn’t been his responsibility.
No. It couldn’t be about that.
Defiantly, he reached for a biscuit, bit into it, opened the first of his business letters and pondered whether or not he should introduce a new line in wireless sets into his stores. The manager at the Leamington Spa emporium was all for ordering in a large batch of sets in cream Bakelite.
Sir Marcus snorted. Cream! What was wrong with Bakelite that was made to look like good solid mahogany? And what did it matter if it was 1960 now, and the start of a whole new exciting decade, as the manager’s letter insisted? Would housewives really fork out their husband’s hard-earned money on cream Bakelite?
But at the back of his mind, even as he called in his secretary and began to dictate a reprimand to his forward-thinking executive in the spa town, his mind was furiously churning.
Just what the devil did the letter mean by ‘do the right thing’? What was the right thing? And what would happen if he, Sir Marcus, didn’t do the right thing?
CHAPTER TWO
‘That you, love?’ Barbara Loveday called out as she heard the front door open and shut. ‘I’m in the kitchen!’
And Trudy, who was wearily hanging up her things in the tiny hallway, couldn’t help but smile. Of course her mother was in the kitchen – Barbara Loveday was rarely anywhere else. Throughout their childhood, she and her older brother, Martin, had spent more time in that tiny, comforting space than anywhere else in the small terraced house in the rather rundown area of Botley they called home.
As a suburb of the city, Botley might lack Headington’s lofty hills and smart new housing, or Osney Mead’s more bohemian and colourful canal-side charm, but Trudy couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And on a cold, disappointing day, with her bones aching and her eye blackening nicely, she was more than happy to traipse through to the kitchen, where she knew the appetising smell of something tasty cooking, and a warm, loving welcome from her mother could be guaranteed to greet her.
‘You’re home earl—oh, Trudy, love!’ Barbara said helplessly, her face creasing in concern as she saw her daughter’s face. ‘What happened? Come here.’
For a moment, as her mother’s ample form enfolded her and pansy-brown eyes – the mirror image of her own – inspected her face carefully, she didn’t mind feeling as if she was about six years old again. It was, after all, very nice to know that someone loved and cared for you, and here, in this little kitchen, with its cracked linoleum floor and cheerful yellow curtains, she felt safe and appreciated once more.
Which was more than could be said of how she’d felt back at the station.
‘Here, love, sit down. Let me make you a nice cuppa. I’ll put something on that eye. I’ve got some cream that’ll do the trick. I only wish we had a nice bit of beefsteak to put on it.’
Trudy couldn’t help but grin – even though it made her face hurt. Because if the Loveday family had been able to afford a nice bit of beefsteak, she knew full well they’d never be foolish enough to waste it on her face. It would be cooked and scoffed in no time at all.
‘Mum, it’s nothing,’ she insisted, sitting down at the tiny kitchen table, shoved up against one wall to preserve space, and then looking down as Maggie the cat rubbed against her ankles. She reached down absently to stroke her black-and-white fur. But the loud purring that resulted, Trudy suspected cynically, was more likely intended as a spur for someone to feed her than as an offer of support or sympathy for her human companion.
Trudy was wise to the ways of feline cunning.
‘So, what happened this time then?’ Barbara demanded, standing by the sink as she watched the kettle start to boil, hands planted firmly on her ample hips.
Trudy sighed. She really didn’t want to get into this fight again. The same old argument about whether or not women belonged in the police force had been running in the family home ever since she’d told her parents what she wanted to do for a living.
‘Like I said, Mum, it’s nothing. I just slipped and fell on the icy pavement, that’s all.’
Well, that wasn’t totally a lie, Trudy mused. The pavement had been icy. And if she hadn’t so much slipped as launched herself into orbit in order to bring down a bag-snatcher…well, her mother certainly didn’t need to know that.
‘Don’t give me that, Gertrude Mary Loveday,’ her mother warned, making Trudy wince. Only her mother ever called her by her detested full first name – and then only when she was in trouble.
Named after one of her dad’s sisters, who had died young in the war, Trudy had always insisted on the diminutive, practically from the time she had first learned
to talk. And teasing from her schoolmates when they’d discovered her proper Christian name had only reinforced her determination to remain strictly – and only – Trudy.
Now she shot her mum a sharp glance.
‘And don’t give me that look, neither,’ Barbara Loveday shot back crisply. ‘You were out chasing villains, weren’t you? That’s how you got that shiner, my girl. Do you think I’m stupid?’
Trudy resisted the urge to slump over the table and hold her head in her hands. ‘Mum, that’s my job,’ she wailed helplessly. ‘That’s what the police do.’
Barbara sniffed. ‘I daresay it is,’ she agreed stiffly. ‘But why are you one of the ones that’s doing it, that’s what I can’t understand. Silly, I call it. I thought when you went to college to learn to do typewriting and shorthand, you’d become a secretary.’ Her mother ploughed on, with the now all-too-familiar lament. ‘You’d have been the first in either my family or your dad’s to do that! Us Butlers and Lovedays have always worked in shops or factories, or on the buses, like your dad. You’d have been the first one to work in a nice office. Even our Martin works with his hands.’
‘He’s a carpenter, Mum,’ Trudy said wryly. ‘He’s earning good money and always will. He’s got a trade.’
‘Yes, that’s true enough,’ Barbara said, taking time off from berating her daughter to beam with pride at the contemplation of her firstborn. ‘I wish he was still living at home, though.’
Trudy smiled. Martin had moved out of the family home over a year ago, to lodge with a friend of the family nearer his work up in Cowley. And, like any other young, fit and good-looking man, very glad he’d been to get out from under his parents’ watchful eyes too. Not that Trudy would ever tell them so! While she had a good idea what the rascal got up to of a Saturday night, she rather thought her mum and dad were still in blissful ignorance.
‘And you could have been a secretary.’ Predictably her mum went straight back on the attack as she heaped three spoonfuls of tea leaves into the kettle and poured boiling water over them. ‘Instead of sitting there now, looking like someone who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
Trudy bit back a groan. No matter how many times she’d tried to explain to her mother that working in a boring office, doing boring, meaningless clerical work, wasn’t for her, Barbara Loveday had never accepted it.
Which was rather ironic really, Trudy thought, fighting back the urge to laugh. For once she’d finished her police training at Eynsham Hall, and been stationed at St Aldates, she’d spent more time typing up reports, filing and making cups of tea for her superiors than any secretary.
It had all been so far removed from what she had thought of as proper police work that she’d despaired of ever being given more responsibility.
So now, just when she’d finally made it onto the beat, and had even managed to get one or two nice little arrests to her name (two shoplifters and a case of minor arson), this disaster with the bag-snatcher had to go and happen! It just wasn’t fair!
She could still see the rather guilty look on Sergeant O’Grady’s face when he’d seen her black eye, and the uncomfortable look on DI Jennings’s face when he’d read her report.
As men, they didn’t like to see women get hurt – especially as a result of violence. And while she understood it (and in a way even appreciated the gallantry of it), she also knew, with a growing sense of frustration, that while they maintained that attitude it was going to be almost impossible for her to advance her career.
Because once she’d finished her two-year probationary period in uniform, walking the beat and doing her general duties, the first chance she got she was going to sit her exams and apply to be a TDC – or Temporary Detective Constable.
It wouldn’t happen at once, of course. Nor would it be a case of working just another two years or so. More likely she’d have to get in a good four or five years before that could happen. But she was determined it would. And no man was going to stop her, superior officers or….
‘Trudy!’
Her head shot up as she realised her mother had been giving her the usual lecture, and she’d been caught out, letting her mind wander.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she muttered.
Barbara sighed wearily. ‘What’s wrong with settling down with a nice young man and having a couple of young ’uns, that’s what I’d like to know?’ she added stubbornly.
Trudy was about to tell her roundly that there would be plenty of time for all that, but then her mother’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, Trudy, love, it just scares me so, you being out there on your own, walking down dark streets and dressed in that uniform. There are plenty of louts out there who don’t care for the police sticking their noses in their business. What if you get really hurt next time?’
Trudy got up and hugged her mother hard. ‘Please, try not to worry, Mum,’ she said uselessly. ‘They train us how to cope with stuff like that. And besides, I’ve got my truncheon.’
But of course her mother worried – how could she not? And her dad did too. Although more easy-going and tolerant than his wife, and less inclined to lecture her, she was well aware he would have preferred her to find another job. Any other job – even if it was only as a clippie on one of his beloved buses.
She could still remember how he’d laughed when, as a little girl listening to his stories of life as a bus driver for the City of Oxford Motor Services, she’d told him she wanted to drive buses too, when she grew up.
Not that that was an option either, Trudy thought with a brief grin. Who’d ever heard of a woman bus driver?
Still, she knew both her parents agreed anything would be better than their ‘little girl’ working as a serving WPC.
And although she sometimes felt conscience-stricken that she was causing them so much worry and grief, she also knew there was little she could realistically do about it. She’d just have to wait for their anxiety and fears to wear off – which they would have to do eventually, right? And who knew – maybe a little further down the line, when she’d got her sergeant’s stripes and they were feeling as proud as punch of her, they’d look back on days like this and laugh.
CHAPTER THREE
Dr Clement Ryder reached for the claret jug and swore loudly as his hand began to twitch.
It was dark outside, it had been a long and tiring day, and after going out for a quick and rather unsatisfying meal of sausages and mash in his local pub, he felt like he deserved a decent nightcap by his own fireside. Having a nightcap at all was a rare occurrence for him, since he seldom drank alone. Now he realised he probably shouldn’t have bothered, since he couldn’t seem to hold the glass straight, damn it.
At least, he thought grimly, the shakes hadn’t started until after he’d left the office. And so far, praise be, he’d never had an attack of them while actually in court. Which meant the humiliating moment when he’d have to come clean about his condition to his staff and superiors could be put off a while longer yet.
Which was just as well. Clement had no intention of telling anyone anything, if he could help it.
At fifty-seven, Clement was beginning to feel the cold more and more, he’d noticed. Luckily, his thick-walled Victorian house overlooking South Parks Road was relatively draught-proof, and as he carefully poured out a small measure of his third-best claret, he was pleased to note that he didn’t spill a drop.
He smiled sourly, but knew he should be grateful for even small victories.
So far, the shaking palsy that had begun to stalk him a little over five years ago hadn’t become a major issue in his new life. Even though it had, obviously, put paid to his old one.
Born to middle-class parents in a suburb of Cheltenham, Clement had earned a scholarship to Oxford, where he’d studied medicine. From there he’d gone on to a residency at a major London hospital, culminating, after years of hard graft and more study, in a surgical position at the same hospital.
He’d then gone on to specialise in heart surgery, and by the age o
f forty had smugly assumed his life would continue in the same vein.
Of course, it hadn’t. His children had grown rapidly and, with a thirst for independence, had left home at the first opportunity. Which, as it turned out, was just as well since Angela, his wife, had died before she could reach her fiftieth birthday.
And, as if that hadn’t been enough of a blow, two years later, while preparing for surgery, he’d noticed a slight tremble in his left hand when he’d been scrubbing up.
Naturally, he’d dismissed it as probably nothing. The surgery had gone well, but two weeks later, he’d felt a slight weakness in his arm when he’d been lifting a half pint of beer at a retirement party for one of his colleagues.
Again, he’d dismissed it – but perhaps not quite so quickly, and with an added sense of unease and foreboding.
Over the next year, he monitored himself closely, noting down every little incident, every little unexplained tremble or weakness of limb. And, of course, he’d done his research.
He found that, way back in the mists of time, ‘paralysis agitans’ had been known to physicians. But it was only in 1817 that James Parkinson had published ‘An Essay in the Shaking Palsy’, which best described the familiar characteristics of people suffering from this condition, detailing the resting tremor, abnormal posture and gait, paralysis and diminished muscle strength, and the way the disease progressed over time.
At first, Clement had not accepted it. There were other possible causes of his symptoms, after all. But one thing became immediately clear – he could not continue operating on people until he knew for sure.
And so he’d taken a few weeks of leave and, under a false name, booked himself into a little clinic he knew of in the south of France, where he’d ordered and overseen a series of tests he’d had run on himself. And when the results came in, he knew they effectively meant the end of his world.
