A Fatal Affair

by Faith Martin

  There was a warm ripple of sentiment from the listening crowd, and someone gave a muffled sob. Probably the boy’s mother, Clement thought, or possibly Ray Dewberry’s wife. Then he glanced down at his notes and saw that the farmer had been a widower for a few years now.

  ‘So David would have known about the ladder,’ Clement said, a comment that didn’t go unnoticed by reporters or spectators alike, and a ripple of tension shivered around the room. ‘Was there a lot of rope kept in the barn?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘Always old rope around on a farm, sir. Bits of machinery, tarps, barbed wire, you name it. I never chuck nothing out, and nor did my dad a’fore me. You never know when summat might be useful, see?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. So what did you do after finding your son’s friend in the barn that morning Mr Dewberry?’

  Ray Dewberry sighed heavily. ‘Well, I didn’t see no easy way to get him down, so I ran back to the house and called the police. We had a telephone installed a couple of years ago, when my wife got so ill.’

  ‘You didn’t think of using the stepladder and climbing up it yourself?’

  ‘Nah, didn’t trust it would hold me. It’s a rickety old thing, and I’m more solid-built than young David,’ the farmer said with unthinking candour. ‘And ’sides, I didn’t have nothing on me to cut him down with, only my old pen knife, and I didn’t know if it would saw through rope. And … well, if’n I’m gonna be honest abhat it, I needed to get out of there,’ he admitted, his voice thick and his accent more pronounced than ever now. ‘B’aint never been back in that barn yet, but I s’pose I’ll have to go back in there sooner or later …’

  Before things could begin to get maudlin, Clement briskly took him through the rest of the events of that morning – the arrival of the police and the ambulance, and that of the local doctor.

  The crowd became a little impatient as this less exciting recital went on, but there was a renewed murmur of interest at the end, when the coroner rounded up his questioning.

  ‘And when you approached the barn that morning, you noticed nobody in the vicinity?’

  The farmer looked puzzled. ‘No sir. Who’d be around at that time o’ the morning?’

  ‘And the previous evening – you hadn’t noticed anyone hanging around, seen a stranger’s car in the lane nearest to the barn, anything like that?’

  ‘No sir, but then a’rter dark I’m in the house having my tea, and then early to bed.’

  ‘I see. And when you found your son’s friend, you didn’t see anything else lying on the ground, or positioned anywhere near him – such as a piece of paper or a letter or a note?’

  ‘No sir, I didn’t then!’ Ray Dewberry said, with his first sign of asperity. Clearly, he didn’t like this suggestion that the young man he’d known from boyhood had left a suicide note. ‘But then, I don’t suppose I was noticin’ much at the time,’ he nevertheless felt compelled to add.

  ‘And you have no idea why David Finch would have come to your barn?’

  ‘Nah. Haven’t seen him for a few years, not since he were a young lad and he helped out around the place for some pocket money, like,’ the farmer said sadly.

  ‘Do you know if the barn was a meeting place for, er, courting couples?’ Clement asked delicately.

  Again, there was the expected ripple of titillated anticipation, but Ray Dewberry seemed immune to it. He merely looked at the coroner and shook his head. ‘No sir,’ he said, for the first time smiling slightly. ‘Reckon most lads and gals had more comfortable spots than a draughty old barn in the middle of nowhere. It’s not as if it was filled with hay or anything,’ he added as an afterthought.

  There was a brief, nervous titter from some of the spectators at this.

  ‘Mr Finch hadn’t contacted you, or your son, arranging to meet at the barn the evening before you found him?’ Clement pressed.

  ‘No sir, that he didn’t,’ Ray said, sounding puzzled. ‘Why would he want to meet up with me? He stopped working summers on my farm when he went up to university. And my Ronnie weren’t in that night – he was at the pub with his mates. Everyone knows that,’ he added, again darting a glance at the public gallery, as if daring anyone to gainsay him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dewberry. That’s all,’ Clement said kindly. ‘I think we’ll have the medical evidence at this point. Calling Dr Martin Breakspeare.’

  Chapter 4

  The local doctor, who’d originally been called to the scene, looked nervous, as well he might. He hadn’t been practising long, but long enough to know the formidable reputation of the man sitting in the judgement seat. Although he’d not studied at the same hospital where Dr Clement Ryder had been chief surgeon, he’d made a lot of friends in the medical fraternity who had – and the man’s legend went ahead of him.

  So, not surprisingly, as he took the podium he cast the coroner a quick, apprehensive look. There wouldn’t be any wriggle room for slip-shod testimony or waffling about the facts with this man!

  Dr Breakspeare took a deep breath and hoped that he didn’t say anything foolish.

  ‘You were called to the scene at … what time, Dr Breakspeare?’ Clement began gently enough, but even so, the young medic consulted his notes. A tall, thin, dark-haired man with a somewhat rampant moustache, of which he was rather fond, he had a long neck and a prominent Adam’s apple.

  ‘Er, I arrived at the barn at 7.10 a.m.’

  ‘Was it hard to get to?’

  ‘Not really. The barn was not within sight of the farmhouse itself, but off a farm track that rose steeply, but was reasonably navigable in a trustworthy car like mine. I was directed there by the constable on duty at the house.’

  ‘And will you tell the jury, in layman’s terms, what you found, and the results of any tests or examinations of the body since then, please.’

  The doctor cleared his throat and turned to the jury. ‘I found the police in attendance, and the body of a young male lying on the ground. I was informed by one of the officers that the victim had been found hanging from the rafters of the barn, with the rope around his neck. This rope had been loosened, removed from the body and set aside. I observed a rope-burn mark around the sides of the deceased’s neck, consistent with this testimony.’

  He paused, took a sip of water then continued steadily. ‘I ascertained that the victim was indeed deceased – that is, he had no heartbeat or pulse, and was in fact, cold to the touch. Using the standard measures – that is, body temperature and the passing of rigour – I gave the investigating officer a preliminary estimate that time of death had probably occurred not less than six and not more than twelve hours previously.’

  Clement nodded. ‘In other words, you think it most probable that the victim died somewhere from the later afternoon to the late evening of the day before?’

  ‘That would be my opinion, er, Dr Ryder, but of course, as you know, estimating time of death is fraught with difficulties. The ambient temperature in the barn, any pre-existing medical conditions the deceased may have had, and a number of other factors can all make stating a time of death, at best, a rough estimate.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘After declaring the victim dead, I left to continue my normal duties,’ the medical man said promptly.

  ‘Did you know the victim?’

  ‘No sir, not personally.’

  ‘Thank you. Call the police pathologist please.’

  As the local GP stepped down with some relief, an older, rounder, white-haired man stepped past him and took his place. There was no similar look of apprehension on his face at being called to testify, and the younger man supposed he was used to it.

  ‘You are Dr Giles Vantham?’ Clement said. He had, in fact, known Giles for years, and the two men regularly played golf together. They were also members of the same gentlemen’s club in Little Clarendon Street, and each had won money from the other in poker games. But by neither a glance nor a smile did either man acknowledge their friendship.

  ‘I am.’


  ‘And you conducted the autopsy on Mr David Finch?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Will you please tell the jury your findings?’

  ‘Yes. The deceased died as a result of strangulation, consistent with death by hanging.’

  There was a little murmur at this in the court, which both men ignored as the irrelevance they clearly thought it was.

  ‘I also found a not inconsiderable amount of barbiturates and alcohol in his system,’ the learned man continued smoothly.

  There was an even bigger sensation in the room this time, as this was the first the general public were hearing of it, although the police, of course, had long since been informed of the medical examiner’s findings. And Clement Ryder had read the files thoroughly, so he also evinced no surprise.

  ‘In your medical opinion, did these have any bearing on the cause of death?’ Clement asked instead.

  ‘No, the doses were not sufficient in themselves to cause death. The alcohol content was not so high as to incapacitate the deceased – that is, it was not high enough to say that he was seriously intoxicated – but it was significant enough to say that he would have feel the effects of it. The drug,’ here the medical man named a well-known and common sleeping draught, available in almost any pharmacy in the land, ‘was also present in sufficient amount to have affected the deceased. Indeed, to have made him sleep for many, many hours once it had taken effect, but it was not of significant enough dosage to constitute what you or I would call an overdose.’

  ‘Just to make it perfectly clear then, you would say that, although the deceased would have been tipsy from the alcohol, and woozy from the drugs, they did not in any way contribute to the cause of his death?’

  The medical man nodded graciously. ‘That is so.’

  ‘Did you discover any other injuries to the deceased? Bruises, marks on his hands, anything that might have indicated a struggle?’

  Again Dr Ryder’s question had everyone on the edge of their seats, particularly those members of the press who were hoping for something sensational.

  ‘No,’ Dr Vantham said firmly enough, but even so he hesitated slightly, and something in the way he elongated the word instantly caught Clement’s attention, as his friend must have known it would.

  Alerted by this, Clement thought for a moment or two, gave a mental nod, and then asked calmly, ‘Was there anything at all that struck you as odd about that, Dr Vantham?’

  Clement saw Giles shoot him a quick and appreciative look at the way that he’d just made it easier for him to convey all the facts that he wanted to – and his own interpretation of them – without having to struggle to do so.

  ‘Yes, in my experience, people who hang themselves nearly always panic at some point in the proceedings,’ he carried on smoothly and gratefully. ‘The survival instinct in a human being is a very strong one, and most people, when they find they can’t breathe, tend to panic and try and rectify the matter by clawing at the obstruction and trying to remove it. But there were no signs of fingernail scratching around the victim’s neck, or evidence of it underneath his fingernails.’

  At this graphic – and horrific – image, a general shudder rippled around the room, and one or two women were heard to gasp audibly. An older man on the jury went a little pale.

  ‘I see. Was the deceased, apart from the injuries caused by his death, in good physical condition and general health?’ Clement swept the proceedings along briskly. In his experience, whenever a jury began to get the collywobbles it was best to give them something else to think of, and very smartly, too.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘And there were no signs of long-term alcohol or drug abuse visible? Nothing to suggest that the alcohol or barbiturate in his system was the norm?’

  ‘No, he was a fit and healthy young man of just twenty years of age,’ Giles Vantham confirmed grimly. Like Clement, he must have been used to seeing the young die – but it always felt wrong.

  Sensing his colleague’s dour mood, Clement thanked him and dismissed him, but not first without giving him a questioning look, indicating that if there was something else he wanted to say, he was willing to hear it. But his old friend left the podium without further demur.

  ‘All right, I think it’s time we heard from the police now,’ Clement said briskly, but not before casting an eye at the clock. Seeing that it was still too early to call for a lunch break, he glanced around the room, catching a constable’s eye. ‘Who is here to speak for the constabulary?’

  Trudy Loveday watched, very interested indeed, as the Sergeant at her station pushed his way to the podium.

  ‘And you are?’ Dr Ryder asked amiably, although he knew the man’s name perfectly well.

  ‘Sergeant Michael O’Grady, sir.’

  Trudy’s Sergeant was a slightly chubby man, around five feet ten inches tall, with a big quiff of sandy-coloured hair and pale blue eyes. Although he was of Irish descent, he’d been born in Cowley and lived there for all his life.

  Trudy knew that he’d married a woman from Birmingham, a WAAF who’d been stationed at the nearby RAF base at Upper Heyford during the war, and the couple had two children.

  Although he’d always treated her reasonably well – and didn’t think she was a total waste of time, as their DI did – Trudy knew that he probably didn’t approve of her working with the coroner. In his view, lowly constables, especially those who had not long finished their probationary period, should be set to work at the lowest levels for at least three or four years, before being given any proper responsibility.

  Thus she found herself instinctively shrinking back in her seat a little, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her in the public gallery – although DI Jennings must have informed him of the situation.

  Nevertheless, she was as keen to hear what the police thinking was over the death of David Finch as everyone else in the room, and she had her pencil poised eagerly over the notebook.

  ‘Sergeant O’Grady, were you called to the scene at Mr Dewberry’s farm on the morning in question?’

  ‘Yes sir, I was.’ O’Grady reached for his notebook, and like the seasoned professional that he was, proceeded to give his account without any further prompting from the old vulture.

  Clement, who was well aware of the unflattering nickname he’d been given by the police, and who knew he was not the Sergeant’s favourite person, chose not to take umbrage, but rather to simply let him get on with it. Besides, he knew the man to be a competent officer and he was interested to hear his opinion of things.

  ‘Having been notified via a telephone call from the village constable of a suspicious death at Dewberry Farm in Middle Fenton, I and two police constables proceeded to the village, where I was directed to the farm by a local resident walking his dog. I found the owner of the farm, Mr Raymond Dewberry, at his residence and in a state of some distress. I took a brief statement from him, then proceeded to the barn in question, where I found the site being guarded by the constable. I then set about cutting the deceased down.’

  ‘Just one moment,’ Clement couldn’t resist interrupting. ‘How exactly did you set about doing this?’

  Sergeant O’Grady lifted his head from his notebook and patiently looked across at the coroner. ‘Before setting off, I requisitioned from the station a sharp knife and also a tall stout stepladder, which we attached to the roof of the police van, in case it should be needed. As it happened, it wasn’t. To cut the deceased down, all we just had to do was saw through the rope near the end attached to the base of the plough and lower him down.’

  His repressive tone of voice clearly indicated that the police were prepared for anything, as anyone of any intelligence would surely know. Several people in the room tittered nervously at this first sign of a clash of wills.

  ‘Very perspicacious of you, Sergeant,’ Clement shot back smoothly, confident that the other man would have no idea of the meaning of the long word he’d just used.

  The Sergeant, magnificently choosin
g to suppose that he’d just been complimented, inclined his head graciously. ‘I then proceeded to preserve the evidence. Shortly thereafter the local doctor arrived and confirmed death.’

  Clement nodded. ‘Did you find a suicide note at the scene?’

  ‘No sir. There were no pieces of paper visible in the barn.’

  ‘You searched the deceased’s pockets, I presume?’

  ‘Yes sir. That is standard procedure,’ the Sergeant said with a bland smile.

  ‘And made a list of the contents, no doubt?’ Clement said, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘Yes sir.’ Sergeant O’Grady allowed himself an extravagant sigh, which again made those of a more nervous disposition titter nervously. ‘We found a wallet, containing one pound, two shillings and sixpence, a handkerchief, a small set of keys, a roll of mints and a letter.’

  The last item produced the now-anticipated buzz of interest in the rapt room.

  Clement, who knew what the man giving evidence knew, played along, feeding him his lines in a now familiar dance. ‘To whom was this letter addressed?’

  ‘To the deceased.’

  ‘And had it been opened?’

  ‘It had been,’ O’Grady confirmed.

  ‘Presumably then, it had been read by the deceased,’ Clement said, for the jury’s benefit. Sometimes you had to make everything crystal clear for them. ‘Did you confirm the nature of the contents of the letter, and by whom it had been written?’

  ‘Yes sir, we did.’ O’Grady took a deep breath, knowing the sensation he was about to cause. ‘The letter was a love-letter, written to the deceased by Iris Carmody.’

  Chapter 5

  Clement waited patiently for the furore to calm down, before regarding the Sergeant steadily. ‘And you are sure of the veracity of this letter?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Clement nodded. At this point he cast a quick glance at the section of press who were straining in their seats for more salacious information. He knew that the letter in question had been written on rose-scented stationery, had been dated less than three months ago, and had been the usual sort of missive from a pretty, young girl, mainly vowing undying love to David Finch.