by Faith Martin
Trudy, at that moment, wouldn’t have taken any bets that the old vulture would be proved wrong.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Mavis McGillicuddy opened the door to find two strangers on her doorstep, she didn’t look particularly surprised. Perhaps it was because one of them, a pretty young girl dressed – to her eyes – rather incongruously in a policewoman’s uniform, wasn’t a totally unexpected sight.
She’d seen many police officers, in all sorts of shapes and sizes, since Jonathan had died. Even the older man looked familiar to her somehow.
‘Please, come in,’ she said vaguely, leading them into the rather chilly front room, which she hardly ever entered herself except to dust and straighten the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs. Returning a few minutes later with a tea tray, she deposited it on the oak coffee table that was one of the few bits of furniture she’d inherited from her parents.
It was only when she was seated and wondering if she should have brought in some cake that she remembered where she’d seen the man before.
‘You were in court. My Jonathan’s court. I mean, when his case…Would you like a biscuit?’
Clement, who had in fact introduced himself on the doorstep and given his name and occupation, now smiled gently. ‘No, thank you, Mrs McGillicuddy. Shall I be mother and pour the tea?’ Without waiting for an answer, he reached out and poured from the large, heavy teapot.
Trudy felt her heart squeezing tightly in her chest. The poor old lady looked so vague and so tired that she doubted she’d have had the strength to lift the teapot. Although she’d agreed with Dr Ryder that they probably should start their investigation with Mrs McGillicuddy, she now found herself wishing they’d chosen someone else. Someone who looked as if they could stand up to questioning much better than this dazed, grieving old lady.
She shot a quick, troubled glance at the coroner, but, in the event, needn’t have worried. Although he might not suffer fools gladly, and at first acquaintance could indeed come across as a cold, calculating man – and maybe even an arrogant one – her earlier assessment of him had been spot-on. He was clearly no bully.
Instead, as he began to talk very gently to the old lady, Trudy found the tension slowly easing out of her. The more she listened and learned, the more she realised just how skilfully Dr Ryder was getting Mrs McGillicuddy to talk about her son in a way that was actually beneficial to her. Instead of trying to gloss over or ignore the circumstances of Jonathan’s loss, as probably most of her friends and family members did, Clement let her talk it all out. After all, why wouldn’t she want to talk about him, and the horror and anger she felt about it all?
From time to time, Trudy marvelled at the easy way he slipped in questions that would help their investigation, and she could see that Mavis herself had no idea she was being questioned at all. Instead, she was being encouraged to speak about her boy – his early marriage, the shock of losing his wife at such a young age. Her pride in him when he’d started up his own business; and then, finally, the shock of his death.
But Clement didn’t dwell on that, and very quickly took her back to happier times. A now more animated Mavis, one with a little more colour in her cheeks and looking less vague as this obviously important man took such an interest in her boy, began to talk freely, even eagerly, about him.
However, rather frustratingly, and as time went on, it became more and more clear to Trudy that she didn’t seem to know all that much about her son. Or rather, to be more specific, that much about his relationships with women. Which was perhaps not that surprising. Most young men, Trudy knew, tried to keep such matters a secret from their mothers. She knew her own brother was just the same.
‘But after he’d had time to mourn the loss of Jenny, things must have become harder and harder for him,’ Clement was saying now. ‘A young man, and such a good-looking one too.’ He smiled over at the photograph of her son that Mavis had willingly shown them. ‘He must have started to feel lonely?’
‘Oh, yes. But he had Marie to think of, and his business to see to. He wanted to build that up, see. He had ambition, my Jonathan,’ the old woman said proudly.
‘But he must have started courting, Mrs McGillicuddy,’ Trudy put in gently, deciding it was time she earned her keep, and hoping the other woman would feel more comfortable discussing her son’s private life with her, rather than with another man. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted him to be lonely all his life, would you?’ she prompted. ‘After all, he was young enough to marry again.’
‘Well, no, of course I didn’t want him to be unhappy,’ Mavis said at once. ‘And I expect he did see girls, from time to time. But he never brought any of them home,’ she added with a sigh. ‘He always seemed to be working all hours of the day…’ She trailed off with a weary, listless shrug.
But before she could descend back into gloom, Clement was determined to come to the crux of the matter.
‘Do you remember much about that inquest he had to attend – oh, must be nearly five years or so ago now?’ he asked gently.
‘Inquest?’ Mavis looked puzzled.
‘A young girl who accidentally died. Gisela Fleet-Wright?’ he said gently.
‘Oh. Oh, yes. I think… yes, she was the daughter of one of his clients, wasn’t she?’
Trudy glanced at Dr Ryder significantly.
‘He worked for a lady in a big house up near Five Mile Drive somewhere,’ Mavis went on. ‘And her daughter was found dead in bed. Is that who you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Mavis nodded. ‘Yes, he had to testify to… oh, what was it now – something about the state of her mind? I remember, there was some talk that she might have killed herself. But she hadn’t. I think it was some tragic mistake over her medicine.’ Mavis sighed. ‘Her poor mother. She must have been devastated.’
Again Trudy and Clement eyed one another warily.
‘Didn’t she and Jonathan… Weren’t they rather close at one time?’ Clement asked gently.
But Mavis only frowned slightly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Ah,’ Clement said. Clearly, Jonathan had kept quiet about his relationship with Gisela. And given the girl’s obvious mental-health issues, perhaps that wasn’t so surprising.
And although they stayed a little longer, it was clear that, as a source of information about what might have happened between the dead girl and her son, Mavis McGillicuddy was a total dud.
After a decent interval, they extricated themselves gently from the grieving mother and stepped outside, walking briskly in the wind and rain to the coroner’s car – a Rover 75-110 P4, more commonly known by the popular nickname of ‘Aunty Rover’.
Now, as he reached forward and turned the ignition, she sighed softly. ‘His mother had no idea he’d been seeing Gisela, had she?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Which is a little surprising, don’t you think? The Fleet-Wright case must have made the local papers – and if it didn’t, you can be sure all the local gossips would have been talking about it.’
Trudy, seeing where he was going with this, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Her neighbours would have picked up on it. Even if her closest friends were too polite to mention it, somebody would have told her.’ Trudy’s lips twisted into a grim smile. ‘If only because they thought she “ought to know”. People can be so generous like that, can’t they?’ she added sardonically.
Clement smiled grimly. ‘News travels fast, bad news travels faster, and scandalous gossip travels at the speed of light.’
‘So you think… what? That Mrs McGillicuddy was lying to us?’ Trudy asked, beginning to wonder if the coroner saw lies and conspiracies everywhere.
But again he surprised her. ‘No, not necessarily. I just think Mrs McGillicuddy is very good at keeping her head down and only seeing and hearing what she wants to see and hear.’
‘Hmmm. She lives in her own little world, you mean, and doesn’t really venture out into reality much,’ Trudy mused. Yes, she could understand how that could h
appen. There were some women in her neighbourhood like that as well. Their families and homes were their entire world, and as long as the front doorstep was scrubbed, and tea was on the table at six, all was as it should be.
But Trudy was determined not to let her world shrink to such an extent. Although she wanted a home and family of her own one day, right now she was far more interested in forging a satisfying career for herself. After all, men did it all the time. Who was to say a woman couldn’t do the same?
‘And don’t forget, she’s lived all her life clinging on desperately to respectability, and keeping the family secret,’ Clement Ryder added.
She knew DI Jennings had already put him in the picture about Jonathan being illegitimate, and that the reason for his murder lay in Sir Marcus Deering’s household, rather than that of the McGillicuddys.
‘Right,’ Trudy agreed. ‘She’d have been conditioned into keeping things about her son close to her chest for fear of her unmarried state getting about. No doubt that would have rubbed off on Jonathan too. Apparently, Mrs McGillicuddy had spun him some tale about his father dying in some sort of accident before he was born. And I daresay, whenever he asked her about him, she brushed him off, or made it clear it wasn’t to be discussed.’
‘So he learned at an early age to keep anything private or in the least “not quite nice” to himself. Yes, I agree,’ Clement mused grimly. ‘The mother, careful to keep up the front of respectable “widow” at all costs and ignoring the wider world around her. And her son, the “celibate”, hard-working man, pretending that only his child and business mattered. Neither of them actually talking to the other about anything important.’
‘That’s so sad,’ Trudy said faintly.
Clement merely grunted and Trudy felt glad when he turned into the traffic and drove them away from the neat, unhappy little terraced house in Cowley.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Anthony Deering sailed across a low hawthorn fence on his favourite hunter, a handsome black horse called Darjeeling, and heard the horse snort with the effort as it landed in the ploughed field. Together, horse and man made their way around the edge of the field, both of them feeling rather pleased with themselves.
Although he had been due back at work in London, Anthony had taken a week’s leave. Like his father, he was keen to see this bloody and nasty business come to some sort of conclusion as soon as possible. And until it did, he felt unable to move on with his normal life.
How could he go back to London with all this hanging over their heads?
Clearly this maniac who was stalking his father meant business. It had come as quite a shock to him, naturally, to learn he’d had a half-brother knocking about the world all this time. And even more of a shock to learn he’d been murdered.
Although his mother had begged him to go back to London, Anthony had managed to dissuade her. After all, there was nothing to stop the killer from simply following him back to the capital and then taking a pop at him there. And in the hubbub of town, the killer could quickly be swallowed up and lost in a crowd, whereas here a stranger would stand out. Furthermore, out here, he knew the lay of the land and felt he had the home advantage.
Darjeeling suddenly snorted and gave a quick sideways trot, almost unseating him. Anthony, his heart rate accelerating rapidly, quickly got the horse under control and looked sharply around.
They were still in the ploughed field, near a small copse of hazelnut and ash trees. Was someone there in the woods, watching him?
Then a pheasant rocketed out of a clump of dead grass, giving its usual raucous cry, and Darjeeling tossed his head again. Anthony laughed and, stretching forward, patted the horse on its glossy neck. ‘Easy, boy. My nerves are stretched tight enough as it is. I don’t need you getting the skitters too.’
But as he turned his mount away from the copse and headed for the open sheep pastures on the other side of the hedge, he couldn’t help but wonder if some human agency had caused the pheasant to flee. And whether, even now, malign eyes were boring into his back as he turned and rode away.
‘Where to now?’ Trudy asked as they drove away from the McGillicuddy house and headed towards North Hinksey.
‘I thought we’d talk to Julie Wye. Now Mrs Ferris,’ Clement said.
Trudy immediately recognised the name. Julie Wye had been one of Gisela’s closest friends. She’d been with Gisela the day before she died, and had testified at the inquest as to her state of mind. She and Gisela had grown up together in north Oxford, attending the same local primary school and then local girls’ grammar.
Now living with her husband and infant son in a large, spacious flat on the ground floor of a Victorian house, she seemed surprised to find the police at her door.
When Trudy explained she wanted to talk about Gisela, though, she immediately – if somewhat erroneously – made the connection.
‘Oh, this is about Jonathan McGillicuddy, isn’t it?’ she said as she led them through to a rather cluttered living room, scattered with children’s toys, but well lit by the natural light streaming in through large, double-height sash windows.
Neither Clement nor Trudy bothered to correct her. They could always steer the conversation around to Gisela and the events of five and a half years ago when they were ready to.
‘Just let me put Charlie down, and I’ll put the kettle on,’ Julie said. She was a rather large-boned woman, with a mass of red-brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Within minutes they were seated in comfortable chairs before a large fire, surrounded by a wire-mesh guard to stop sparks from popping out and setting fire to the liver-and-white King Charles spaniel lying in front of the grate, snoozing contentedly.
‘When I read about his murder in the papers, I couldn’t believe it,’ Julie said, pouring out the tea. This time, Trudy noticed with a brief smile, the coroner didn’t offer to ‘be mother’.
‘Poor Jonathan. First Gisela, now him. It seems neither one of them had much luck, did they?’ Julie said. She had rather deep-set, almost black eyes, reminding Trudy of a teddy bear. ‘I sometimes think that was what attracted Gisela to him in the first place.’
‘Sorry?’ Trudy said, not quite following. And Julie gave herself a little shake and laughed in apology.
‘No, I’m sorry. I often think of things in my head, and then say something out loud about it, and, of course, nobody else knows what I’m talking about. It drove my mother wild when I was a kid, and now my husband! Sorry, I was just thinking about that summer they met.’
‘Yes, tell us about that,’ Trudy said encouragingly.
‘Well, it was typical of Gisela. In the first place, Jonathan was working as a gardener, little more than a common labourer. Of course, neither of her parents approved of them getting together, which was part of the attraction for Gisela. Cocking a snook at her parents’ old-fashioned ideas and all that. And it didn’t hurt that Jonathan was so good-looking. And a bit older than her.’
Julie sighed.
‘And then, of course, he had such a tragic back story, which was like catnip to a girl like Gisela!’
‘His wife dying young, you mean?’ Trudy prompted.
‘Yes, and him having a young daughter to look after.’ Julie nodded, beaming at her in approval for catching on so quickly. ‘I’m sure Gisela saw him as if he were a character in one of those Gothic novels she loved so much.’
‘The tragic hero?’ Clement put in.
‘Exactly!’ Julie smiled. ‘Mind you, that was Gisela all over. I sometimes think she saw herself as the tragic heroine too – Jane Eyre, or Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Her whole life revolved around drama.’
‘You never went to university, Mrs Wye?’ Trudy asked.
‘Me? Good grief, no. Didn’t have the brains for it,’ she said, self-deprecatingly.
‘But Gisela did?’
‘Oh, yes. Gisela was always clever. Smart as a whip, even when we were little.’ Julie beamed.
‘But a troubled
girl too,’ Trudy carried on, sensing that Clement was happy to leave most of the questioning to her.
Julie sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s fair.’
‘From what I’ve learned about her, she seemed, as far as Jonathan was concerned, to be rather… well, I suppose obsessed is the word?’ she probed delicately.
Julie sighed, then shrugged. ‘Oh, well… I suppose it doesn’t hurt to say it now. But yes, you’re right. She was really fixated on him. The trouble was, you see,’ she said seriously, fixing Trudy with an earnest, steadfast gaze, ‘that Jonathan was the first real love of her life. Now, for most of us, our first love is always special, isn’t it?’
Trudy nodded, but in fact didn’t know if that was true or not. She herself had yet to find herself a ‘proper’ boyfriend. Much to her mother’s chagrin.
‘And for most of us,’ Julie swept on, snapping Trudy’s mind back to the matter at hand, ‘we fall for someone, and then we break up and get our heart broken, and we cry, but then we get over it and find someone else. Pretty normal and run-of-the-mill, I daresay.’ She laughed lightly. ‘But for Gisela it was different.’
Trudy nodded. ‘She felt things more keenly, perhaps?’ she prompted.
‘And how!’ Julie sighed, shaking her head. ‘To her, Jonathan was the be-all and end-all of her existence, and she couldn’t possibly live without him.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Looking back on it now, it all seems so impossibly naive and… well… stupid! From the moment he broke it off it was as if Gisela’s whole world fell apart. At first, you know, she couldn’t accept the fact that anyone, let alone her Jonathan, would throw her over. It, well, it amazed her. She had a rather healthy ego, I’m afraid! And then, after the shock wore off, she got so angry.’
Julie paused and, looking down at the teacup in her hand before setting it aside, gave a little shudder. ‘I don’t mind telling you, she scared me sometimes with the sheer depth of her passion and rage. And despair. It was like she had no filter on her emotions. No protection from life’s knocks. So their breakup and the aftermath just tore her apart.’
