A Fatal Affair

by Faith Martin

  ‘I suppose it could have been,’ Betty said slowly. ‘I know David said that Ronnie had it in for Iris for some reason, and it was making him mad. Naturally, he didn’t like it when anyone said that they didn’t think she was wonderful too,’ she added wryly. ‘Boys who think they’re in love have some strange ideas. They think everyone must agree with them about how wonderful their beloved is, and be equally smitten.’

  ‘But Ronnie clearly saw through Iris’s beauty and charm,’ Clement said dryly. ‘Odd that. I would have thought the lad would be as smitten as everyone else. Do you think it could have been the case that Ronnie was secretly hankering after her too?’

  Betty Finch thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Well, I always thought he had his eye on someone else … but it could be. I remember when I was at school, this boy, Derek Parks was infatuated with my friend Doris. Everyday he’d pull her pigtails and pretend he couldn’t stand her.’

  Trudy nodded. ‘It was the same when I was at school. Everyone knew that if a boy put you down it meant he was really interested in you. So you think that Ronnie was rather smitten with Iris too, and his pretending not to like her was just a front? That all the time he was really jealous of David and wanted to split them up so he could have a chance with Iris himself?’

  Betty shrugged helplessly. ‘Who can say? I only know David complained that Ronnie bad-mouthed Iris all the time, and he was fed up with it.’

  ‘But you don’t know if they ever actually fought?’ Clement asked.

  Betty blinked and straightened in her chair. ‘If you think Ronnie had something to do with David’s death, I can tell you now, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Those kids were always as thick as thieves. And I know their friendship would have survived Iris, once she’d dumped David and moved on. Because I know, as sure as eggs are eggs, that’s that what would have happened if …’

  She broke off and shook her head. ‘But what does any of that matter now? They’re both dead, aren’t they?’ she added hopelessly.

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed Iris?’ Trudy asked gently.

  ‘I wish I did,’ Betty Finch said bitterly. ‘I only know it wasn’t my son.’

  ‘But her death must have affected him,’ Trudy said again, even more gently.

  ‘Of course it did. He was wild with grief,’ Betty said angrily. ‘But he was determined to find out who had killed her. That’s why I know he didn’t kill himself.’ She paused and took a long breath, clearly nerving herself up for something, then said flatly, ‘I think he found out who killed her, and whoever it was, murdered him to keep him quiet.’

  She looked almost satisfied for a moment. And then, once again, her face crumpled. ‘Please, you have to find out the truth.’

  At this appeal, Trudy shot Clement a helpless look. For the first time, she felt truly frightened; because what if they couldn’t find out the truth? What if this case became one of those unsatisfactory ones that remained technically open, but really shelved, with everyone assuming David Finch’s guilt, but having no evidence to actually prove it? How could this poor woman and her husband – a superintendent of police – live the rest of their lives with that sort of nebulous black cloud following them everywhere?

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ she said, realising just how inadequate that sounded. ‘Did David ever tell you who he suspected might have killed Iris?’ she swept on, hoping that Betty hadn’t picked up on her doubts.

  ‘No,’ Betty admitted, her shoulders finally slumping in defeat. ‘He was always quite a secretive child, but what happened to Iris … It made him even more careful. I think he knew in his heart of hearts that she had been running around with other men, and that only made him even more tight-lipped than ever. You know – as if even mentioning the possibility out loud would be unforgivable and disloyal. So he never told me anything about what he was thinking or doing. His father either,’ she added, the tears finally rolling down her pale face at last. ‘I only wish he had.’

  Trudy wanted to ask more – about the last time she’d seen her son alive for instance – but she could see that the poor woman was in no fit state to answer any more questions. She was looking utterly wrung out. So it would have to wait for another time.

  Beside her, Clement, too, was making motions to rise.

  Trudy thanked Mrs Finch, told her to stay where she was and that they could see themselves out, and quietly followed Clement as he made his way back to the front door.

  Outside, a ginger cat sitting in the sun on the path saw them, got up and came sauntering up to be petted.

  ‘Well, that was awful,’ Trudy said, bending to oblige the cat with a quick ear-scratch.

  ‘It always is,’ Clement said sombrely. As a coroner, he’d had to deal with more than his fair share of grieving relatives. ‘But it was also very interesting,’ he added, almost under his breath.

  Chapter 11

  When Trudy got home that evening, she heard the sound of the radio coming from the kitchen. As she recognised the Shadow’s number one hit, ‘Wonderful Land’ she smiled and walked on through. For all her mother claimed not to think much of ‘this modern pop music’ she was often to be caught out listening to it! A quick glance around the small but cheerful room showed her that her father had yet to get in from his bus driving job, as the small table pressed up against one wall was empty. Usually Frank Loveday liked to bring back with him an evening paper, which he spread out on the table and studied whilst waiting for his tea.

  Intriguingly, she noticed a lovely bunch of flowers standing in a jug of water on the worktop near the back door.

  Her mother, Barbara, was at the sink busy peeling potatoes and she glanced around as she sensed movement behind her. ‘Oh, hello love. You’re a bit early,’ she said, glancing at the clock.

  Trudy nodded. ‘Dr Ryder said we might as well call it a day. Nobody wants to talk to you when it’s getting towards the end of the day. What’s for tea?’

  ‘Spam fritters, chips and peas.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘You still working with Dr Ryder then?’ Barbara said rather too nonchalantly. Trudy, trying to think of a tactful way of avoiding having to satisfy her mother’s inquisitiveness, was relieved when a knock came on the door, saving her the need to respond.

  ‘Oh, it’s the meter man,’ Barbara said, peering through the window. ‘Let him in will you love?’

  Trudy opened the door to the man who came to read the electric meter every three months or so, glancing again at the delivery of flowers that must have come to the house some time that day. The same man had been reading their meters ever since she could remember, and he knew he could rely on the Loveday household to sit and have a chat if he had time. Trudy let him in with a smile and watched him go through to the hallway without breaking stride.

  ‘Hello Tom, time for a cup of tea?’ Barbara called over her shoulder right on cue, as he crouched down to open the door under the stairs and peer in to read the dials on the machinery there.

  ‘Would love to, but I’ve still got most of the main street to do before I can clock off. Maybe next time, hmmm?’

  Trudy showed him back out with a cheerful wave, and again admired the large and exquisitely colourful bouquet of mixed flowers sitting in a pail of water by the kitchen door.

  ‘Mum, who sent the flowers?’ Trudy asked curiously. The bouquet looked expensive. As she turned to look at her mother at the sink, she was surprised to see her mother was beaming at her.

  ‘You tell me, our Trudy,’ she said with a knowing twinkle in her eye. ‘They’re for you.’

  Trudy almost felt her jaw drop, but she managed to stop herself from gaping just in time. ‘For me? Are you sure?’ Feeling a sense of excitement, she crouched down to check. Sure enough, attached to a slender black stick, a small envelope had been thrust down amongst the stems, with her name prominently displayed.

  Wonderingly, she pulled it free and stood up, staring at it. The only person she could think of who could afford to send her su
ch a marvellous gift was Dr Clement Ryder. But why should he? It was not her birthday …

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there gawping at it, our Trudy, open it,’ her mother encouraged impatiently, wiping her hands dry on her apron front and coming to stand beside her. No doubt, Trudy mused, she’d been on tenterhooks ever since it came, since Barbara Loveday’s curiosity was legendary in the family.

  ‘You kept quiet about it, I must say,’ her mother teased. And on seeing her daughter shoot her a baffled look, added, ‘having an admirer, I mean.’

  ‘But I don’t have an admirer,’ Trudy assured her, working her finger with some difficulty under the sealed tight and tiny flap of the envelope before managing to pry the card within free. Quickly, she pulled it out and read the message.

  For Trudy

  I hope you haven’t forgotten me?

  Duncan G.

  ‘Who’s Duncan G. when he’s at home then?’ Barbara asked, her voice a mixture of caution and warmth as she peered unrepentantly over her daughter’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s no one, Mum, honest,’ Trudy said shortly. ‘He’s just some reporter I used to know.’

  ‘Really? Young, is he?’

  ‘Well, a few years older than me,’ Trudy said reluctantly.

  ‘How many years?’ Barbara asked suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know Mum! Maybe five or six,’ Trudy said exasperatedly.

  ‘Good-looking lad, is he?’

  ‘Very,’ Trudy said, before she could stop herself, then added, ‘and engaged to someone else.’

  ‘Oh,’ her mother said, somewhat deflated, and then sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Then he has no business sending you flowers, does he, the cheeky young pup!’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Trudy agreed. But she couldn’t help but give the bouquet a lingering look. She’d never had flowers sent to her before. You couldn’t really count some daffodils picked from the family garden, that had been her one and only boyfriend’s previous gifts. But these sumptuous blooms had clearly come straight from a high-end flower shop, she could tell. And carnations were one of her favourites – they smelt so nice. Roses too … ‘But they’ll make a nice display anyway. Mum, why don’t you arrange them in Auntie Jane’s big green vase, whilst I go and have a wash?’

  Before her mother could launch in with yet more questions, Trudy beat a hasty retreat and ran up the stairs to her small bedroom. Once there, she sat on the edge of her bed, took off her shoes with a sense of relief and pushed her feet into some slippers. But all the time she was thinking of Duncan Gillingham.

  She’d first met him during her last case with Dr Ryder. At first, she’d thought he was rather interested in her, and had been a little flattered, but she’d quickly learned that he was not a man that could be trusted. Not only was he ferociously ambitious, and would do anything to get a good story, he was also engaged to the daughter of the man who owned the newspaper he worked for.

  A fact that he’d been very careful not to mention to her.

  Luckily, Dr Ryder had saved her from making a bit of a fool of herself, and now she gave a small sigh.

  She hadn’t thought of him for months … well, not really. Not often, anyway. And now he was back, sending her beautiful flowers. Of course, it didn’t take half a second for her to realise why.

  Somehow he’d found out that she and the coroner were digging into the Carmody/Finch case. And he thought he could get some sort of inside scoop by buttering her up again!

  Hah! Trudy gave a mental snort. If he thought he could sweet-talk and fool her again he was in for a shock!

  Chapter 12

  The next morning they arrived bright and early at the Dewberry farm, but even so Clement suspected that father and son had probably been up for hours and had already seen to all the first chores of the day. Luckily, they had returned to the farmhouse for what was probably their second breakfast of the day – for when Ray Dewberry answered the door to their knock, Clement could smell porridge bubbling on the stove.

  The main entrance to the old farmhouse opened directly into the kitchen, and an old black cat sat in the middle of the stone-flagged floor, lackadaisically washing its face. It paused briefly to study them, then resumed its ablutions. Seated at the large, well-scrubbed wooden table, nursing an empty mug in his hands, Ronnie Dewberry peered at them suspiciously.

  ‘Who’s that, Dad?’ he asked. ‘Not more police!’ He snorted. ‘I thought they’d done poking around the village asking about Iris.’

  ‘T’ain’t the police, boy. This is the coroner. I ’ad to tell him all about finding young David in court, and such.’ The farmer’s eyes moved shyly to Trudy then rapidly away again.

  ‘I’m Dr Ryder’s assistant,’ Trudy introduced herself, not quite truthfully, but not actually lying either. She was finding it hard to have to explain herself, for usually her uniform did it for her. Being in plain clothes was still a treat, but sometimes it had its drawbacks.

  ‘May we come in for a few minutes, Mr Dewberry? I just have some follow-up questions,’ Clement put in smoothly. ‘Inquests can be long-winded things, and we have to cross all the T’s and dot all the I’s. Everyone thinks a case is over when the court rules on a verdict, but alas, that’s not quite so.’

  ‘Oh, I daresay,’ the farmer said, clearly having no idea about such matters – and probably caring even less. ‘Paperwork be the bane of my life sometimes too,’ he muttered as he led them towards the table. ‘What the taxman wants to know …’ He shook his head sadly and moved to the old wood-burning range to give the porridge a stir and prevent it burning on the bottom of the saucepan.

  ‘We just wanted a quick word with both of you, really, about David and what happened to him,’ Clement said, glancing inquiringly at one of the chairs tucked under the table and then at the younger Dewberry male. Ronnie scowled slightly, but then shrugged, nodding his head in unspoken permission.

  Clement, ever the gentleman, first pulled out a chair for Trudy, and as she sat, she contemplated Ronnie thoughtfully. She knew from the files that he was the same age as the dead boy, which would make him just twenty. A few inches short of six feet, she judged, though it was hard to tell with him sitting down. He was a handsome enough lad, she supposed, with straw-coloured hair and nice blue eyes. A slight smattering of freckles had probably caused him to be teased at school, but when he bothered to smile, she imagined he would make a few female heads turn in interest.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Clement said, glancing at the younger farmer, ‘the evening David died, you were at the village pub?’

  Over by the range, the boy’s father gave a brief snort, but said nothing.

  Ronnie shot him a glowering glance. ‘Just to have a pint of cider and play a game of darts with the lads,’ he muttered. ‘No harm in that.’

  ‘And you stayed till closing time?’

  ‘I left just before,’ he said, a shade defensively, Trudy thought.

  Clement nodded. So the boy had an alibi for only part of the time period when David had probably died, which meant his best friend was by no means in the clear, if they were indeed looking at a case of murder.

  ‘Did you see David that day?’ Clement asked curiously.

  ‘No, not that day,’ Ronnie said heavily. ‘I wish I had. If I’d’a seen him, I might’ve got an inkling about what a bad way he was in, and done summat about it. Jollied him up a bit, like.’ He shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘Or at least … I dunno. Done something,’ he added morosely, staring into his empty mug. ‘I just don’t get it. How he could’a done it, I mean.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ Clement said softly.

  Over by the stove, Trudy noticed Ray Dewberry stop stirring the contents of the saucepan. It wasn’t hard to understand why. Her friend’s comment had had the same effect as that of a grenade tossed into the room.

  ‘But I thought the jury said it was suicide,’ Ronnie said, sounding puzzled.

  ‘Juries have been known to be wrong,’ Clement said mildly. ‘So you don�
�t think he was the type to kill himself?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t then,’ Ronnie said somewhat belligerently. ‘And nor I don’t believe he would ever hurt Iris neither. Now then!’ He shot Clement a challenging look, his chin jutting out slightly, but the coroner only smiled amiably and nodded.

  ‘I hear that you and David had a falling out over Iris not long before he died. Is that true?’

  The boy’s father, not liking the way the conversation was going, stirred restively by the range, but his son shot him another scowl, this time his sharp blue eyes clearly carrying a warning. Whatever else his parent might think, he didn’t like his father fighting his battles for him.

  At this display of grit, Trudy felt herself warming a little more to the unhappy lad. After all, he was clearly missing his best friend, and genuinely seemed to be mourning him, as well as sticking up for him and his reputation – unless, of course, it was all just an act?

  ‘Not to say a proper falling out,’ Ronnie answered the coroner, holding Clement’s mild gaze with his own, his jaw clenching slightly. ‘Me and David never really fell out about anything. Not bad like. He was the brother I never had, see.’

  ‘Me and the missus had three girls, straight off, before our Ronnie came along,’ Ray felt compelled to put in gruffly. ‘All of ’em married with kids of their own now of course. Wish the wife had seen ’em all … She’d’a loved the grand-kiddies … Ah well.’

  Pointedly ignoring his father, Ronnie smiled grimly. ‘I grew up the youngest boy surrounded by girls who all delighted in telling me what to do. David was my ally, see. He helped me find frogs to put in their beds, and helped me dig up worms to put in their shoes …’

  Clement grinned. ‘So you were still close, even after he’d gone off to university?’

  ‘He came back for the holidays,’ Ronnie said petulantly.

  ‘But wasn’t that more Iris’s doing?’ Clement asked, and the boy, after a quick scowl, grunted in acquiescence.