by Faith Martin
About the Author
FAITH MARTIN has been writing for nearly thirty years, under four different pen names, and has published over fifty novels. She began writing romantic thrillers as Maxine Barry, but quickly turned to crime! As Joyce Cato she wrote classic-style whodunits, since she’s always admired the golden-age crime novelists. But it was when she created her fictional DI Hillary Greene, and began writing under the name of Faith Martin, that she finally began to become more widely known. Her latest literary characters, WPC Trudy Loveday and city coroner Dr Clement Ryder, take readers back to the 1960s, and the city of Oxford. Having lived within a few miles of the city’s dreaming spires for all her life (she worked for six years as a secretary at Somerville College), both the city and the countryside/wildlife often feature in her novels. Although she has never lived on a narrowboat (unlike DI Hillary Greene!) the Oxford canal, the river Cherwell, and the flora and fauna of a farming landscape have always played a big part in her life – and often sneak their way onto the pages of her books.
Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series
‘Insanely brilliant’
‘I absolutely loved this book’
‘Faith Martin, you’ve triumphed again. Brilliant!’
‘If you haven’t yet read Miss Martin you have a treat in store’
‘I can safely say that I adore the series featuring Dr. Clement Ryder and Probationary WPC Trudy Loveday’
‘This book is such a delight to read. The two main characters are a joy’
‘Yet another wonderful book by Faith Martin!’
‘As always a wonderful story, great characters, great plot. This keeps you gripped from the first page to the last. Faith Martin is such a fantastic author’
Also by Faith Martin
A Fatal Truth
A Fatal Secret
A Fatal Flaw
A Fatal Mistake
A Fatal Obsession
A Fatal Affair
FAITH MARTIN
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road
Dublin 4, Ireland
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Faith Martin
Faith Martin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008410490
E-book Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008410483
Version: 2021-01-05
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series
Also by Faith Martin
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue: Tuesday 1st May, 1962
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
Prologue
Tuesday 1st May, 1962
No one in the city of dreaming spires on that chilly May Day morning would have been thinking about death. Why would they, when the birds were singing, and everyone was congregating around Magdalen Tower, counting down the moments until it was 6 a.m.; that magical moment when the city began its celebrations in earnest?
Certainly, the excited young choristers clustered at the very top of the college building had no reason to ponder on tragedy. Rather, their minds were firmly fixed on their soon-to-be-given rendition of that lovely piece, ‘Te Deum Patrem colimus’, the singing of which had been customary from Magdalen Tower on May Day since 1509.
Even the influx of foreign visitors to the city on that special morning were far more interested in watching, with bemusement and disbelief, the quaint and colourful antics of the Morris Dancers that thronged the city streets, with their jingling bells and clacking sticks, than in contemplating murder.
After all, who in that beautiful and ancient city could believe on such a wonderfully auspicious and bright spring day that anything dark and fatal could be happening anywhere? Weren’t the daffodils and tulips, the forsythia bushes and polyanthus, blooming in multi-coloured glory in all the gardens, proclaiming that life itself was good? Little children, perhaps bored with Latin hymns, were laughing and playing and singing their own, far more down-to-earth, songs, every bit as traditional to May Day, and carried on the breeze – ‘Now is the Month of Maying’ competing with ‘Oh the Little Busy Bee’ for dominance.
Tourists took photographs. The choristers, flushed with triumph, eventually left the tower. The people in the streets, flushed with having witnessed proper ‘English culture’ sought out any cafés that might be open so early in the morning in search of that other British stalwart, a hot cup of tea.
And less than seven miles away, in a small country village that had for centuries celebrated May Day almost as assiduously as its nearest city, a plump, middle-aged woman made her bustling way through the quiet lanes and barely stirring cottages, towards the village green.
Margaret Bellham had lived in Middle Fenton for all her life, first attending the village school there, and then marrying a lad who’d grown up four doors from her down the lane, and moving into a tied cottage on one of the farm estates.
In her younger days, she had missed out on being chosen May Queen for the day by the narrowest of margins, and had long since mourned the fact. Still, such disappointments hadn’t stopped her from cheerfully ruling the roost on the May Day Committee for the last twenty years.
It was her job to see that the May Day Procession, including all the infants and juniors from the school went like clockwork, with the flower-festooned ‘crown’ and four lances being allocated to only the most responsible (and strongest) children to carry. It was she who organised the village ladies who would be producing the food for the afternoon picnic, traditionally held around the village duck pond. And, naturally, it was her responsibility to ensure
that the village maypole, a permanent structure erected in pride of place on the village green nearly two centuries ago, was ready for the maypole dancing by all the village maidens under the age of eighteen, which would start promptly at noon.
Margaret puffed a bit as she crossed the lane in front of the school, and looked across to check the time on the church clock opposite – barely 7 a.m., so she was well on schedule. Nevertheless, she was mentally making a list of all the things she still needed to do as she turned the corner that would take her past the duck pond and onto the village green proper.
She only hoped, she thought with a scowl, that Sid Fowler had remembered to secure the ribbon-bedecked wooden crown on top of the maypole before it got dark last night. For whilst the stone maypole itself was left in situ to withstand the weather all year round, the wooden piece at the top, with multiple slats carved into it through which the long, colourful ‘ribbons’ were secured, was always kept stored in the school shed.
Sid wasn’t the most reliable of men, though, and she had the spare key to the school shed in her pocket, just in case. She had delegated Rose Simmonds, the barmaid of the village pub, to make sure that all the many ribbons, traditionally the seven colours of the rainbow, had been cleaned and would be bright and sparkling for when the children began their dances.
As a child who had once danced around the maypole herself, weaving and ducking around her fellow schoolmates in order to create the intricate patterns so iconic of the maypole, she knew how much better it all looked when the ribbons were bright and fresh. Spider’s Web and Gypsies’ Tent were her favourite dances, but the Twister …
At that moment in her reverie, Margaret looked towards the maypole to check all was as it should be, and stopped dead in her tracks. For a second or two, she merely stood and blinked, not really sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing.
Falteringly, her brain buzzing like a hive of disturbed bees, she stumbled forward, but as her feet stepped onto the soft green grass of the green, she felt the strength leeching out of her, and she sank awkwardly onto her knees.
She felt her mouth open, but was incapable of making a sound.
Instead, she just stared at that year’s May Queen.
Nobody had been surprised when Iris Carmody had been chosen. Traditionally, all the village men (in a closed ballot) elected a village girl between the age of sixteen to twenty to be Queen of the May. And Iris, with her long pale fair hair, big blue eyes, heart-shaped face and hourglass figure had been breaking the hearts of local boys since she’d hit puberty. And probably even before then! Now, at the age of seventeen, she had swept all other challengers before her.
As May Queen, she was to rule the village for the day, for tradition had it that the May Queen’s every wish had to be met. Of course, in the past, this had led to some jolly japes, with one May Queen famously ordering that all the pigs must be ‘painted’ green, and all lads must have daisy-chains for belts!
Margaret, for one, had had severe misgivings about giving Iris Carmody, the little minx, so much scope to make mischief, and she didn’t believe that she was alone in that. There had been more than one wise matron who had taken her aside and muttered darkly about the village’s choice this year.
But looking at Iris now, dressed in a long white gown embroidered with a swathe of tiny colourful flowers and her long, waist-length hair topped by a crown of violets, bluebells, primroses and narcissus, even Margaret had to admit that she epitomised youthful beauty and the spring.
Even the colourful ribbons, hanging from the crown of the maypole, and which were now wrapped tightly around and around her body, holding her fast to the stone edifice, looked pretty.
But underneath the swathe of beautiful fair hair that was framing her profile, Margaret Bellham could see a string of darkly smudged bruises around Iris’s neck, and even more horrifically, the congested, contorted face and lolling blue tongue that made the dead girl look like a grotesque parody of what a May Queen should be.
Finally, the monstrousness of what she was seeing freed Margaret Bellham from her paralysis, and she began to scream, before wailing pitifully.
Chapter 1
It was a week and four days after the murder of Iris Carmody, and DI Harry Jennings was beginning to feel the strain. His officers had been working on the case non-stop, with the press breathing down their necks every inch of the way. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, as a beautiful girl dressed as a May Queen and found strangled and bound to a village maypole was many a newspaper editor’s dream.
But it was just one more headache that he didn’t really need.
And he knew that another one was about to walk through his office door at any moment. He sighed heavily and leaned back against his chair, feeling the lack of sleep catching up on him. The trouble was, for such a spectacular crime, the investigation of it was turning out to be frustratingly pedestrian.
For a start, nobody had seen the dead girl on the day of her death. The girl’s parents had no idea why she’d dressed so early and left the family home when she had such a busy day ahead of her. And nobody in the village had heard anything untoward occurring at the village green, either the night before she was found, or early in the morning – not even those sleeping in the cottages surrounding the crime scene.
And whilst there had been gossip and speculation aplenty within the village about the dead girl – and her love life – there was very little confirmatory proof to actually go on. Oh, it quickly became very clear after the PCs had finished interviewing everyone in the small village that everyone and their granny had a lot to say about the dead girl – and not much of it flattering. Or too flattering, depending on who was doing the talking. According to most of the women, she was a flighty girl at best, a man-eater at worst, but nobody could actually point the finger with any conviction at the supposedly long list of her potential victims or lovers. And whilst a fair proportion of the men had liked to hint that they knew Iris rather well, on being pushed for times, dates and proof, nobody would actually go so far as to admitting to being the girl’s paramour.
Everyone agreed that her ‘official’ boyfriend of the moment had probably been taken for a fool, but unsubstantiated gossip didn’t provide rock-solid motives for murder.
And now, piling tragedy upon tragedy, there had been a second death that was almost certainly connected to the murder of the May Queen. Although this one looked, thankfully, far more straightforward to deal with, and the Inspector had high hopes that it could soon be closed. Especially once his next visitor had been tactfully dealt with.
Well, perhaps …
Here DI Jennings heaved a massive sigh. As he did so, there was a sharp, peremptory rap on his office door, and before he could bid anyone enter, the door was thrust open and a tall, brown-haired man walked in. Dressed in a slightly rumpled, charcoal-grey suit, he was not fat but not particularly lean, and although he was a handsome enough individual, he looked noticeably pale and hollow-eyed. He also looked much older than the fifty-two years that Harry Jennings knew him to be.
As well he might, poor sod, the Inspector thought grimly. Jennings hastily shot to his feet. ‘Superintendent Finch, sir,’ he barked out awkwardly. ‘Er … won’t you sit down?’
The Superintendent nodded and sat very carefully and precisely in the chair in front of the Inspector’s desk, a clear indication of how rigidly he was controlling himself. The Superintendent had already given his formal statement to Jennings yesterday morning, which had been painfully awkward for both men concerned, but Harry hadn’t been surprised to have received the call from Keith Finch late yesterday afternoon asking for another ‘informal chat’ today.
‘Sir, again, I’d like to say how very sorry I am about your son. I assure you, his case is being treated with the utmost care and respect,’ Harry said flatly, retaking his own seat.
His superior officer grimaced. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is,’ he agreed. Then his shoulders slumped slightly. ‘Look, let’s not b
eat about the bush, Harry,’ he said wearily, suddenly dropping the formality and looking and sounding more like the bereaved father that he was, rather than a still-serving police officer of some rank. ‘David’s death has left us, my wife and me, I mean … well … all at sea, as you can probably imagine.’
Harry cleared his throat helplessly. He was beginning to feel a shade angry and resentful at being put in this position, but he knew it was hardly the Super’s fault. Even so, he wished the man would just take some leave and keep well out of things. It would make things so much easier for everyone all around. But he knew, just from looking at the other man’s face, that that was not going to happen any time soon.
‘Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?’ Superintendent Finch said grimly. ‘There’s no denying that my boy, David, was head over heels about this Carmody girl. He’d not yet brought her home to meet us, even though they’d been stepping out together for some weeks, but we were all well aware that he was well and truly smitten. And I don’t mind telling you, his mother was worried about it. Even before her murder, we’d been hearing rumours about her. You know what it’s like – women gossip and delight in bringing bad news to your door, and a number of people went out of their way to warn Betty that, well, this girl he was seeing might have been two-timing him.’
‘Very distressing for you and your family, sir, I’m sure,’ Harry said soothingly.
‘Yes, well, his mother was concerned, as I said, but for myself I thought … well, David was a good-looking lad, young, doing well at university … and frankly, Harry, I thought it would all blow over. When I was his age …’ He trailed off and shrugged.
Again Harry nodded, wishing that this was all somebody else’s headache. But it wasn’t. The mess had been dropped well and truly in his lap, and now he had to try and steer a course that kept a superintendent happy, whilst showing no bias or favour in his pursuit of closing the Carmody case.
And the best of British luck with that, he thought sourly. On the one hand, he had his immediate bosses braying at him to close the case, and on the other, he had Superintendent Keith Finch, who was not going to be happy if he solved the case at the expense of his family and his dead son’s reputation.
