About the Author

FAITH MARTIN has been writing for nearly thirty years, under four different pen names, and has had her 50th novel published recently. She began writing romantic thrillers as Maxine Barry, but quickly turned to crime! Her latest series of classic-style whodunits, featuring amateur sleuth Jenny Starling is now being reissued. 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, 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 Obsession

A Fatal Mistake

A Fatal Secret

A Fatal Flaw
FAITH MARTIN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Faith Martin 2019

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.

E-book Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008297787

Version: 2019-09-21

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love the Ryder & Loveday Series

Also by Faith Martin

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Oxford, England, 1960

Prologue

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

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my sister, Marion.

Thanks for being my second pair of eyes!

Oxford, England, 1960

Prologue

The fine September morning had dawned that day with a very welcome and concealing mist. Even so, as a figure slipped cautiously into one of the many churchyards that were scattered about the city, it looked around quickly.

The clock in the bell tower was yet to chime six. Unsurprisingly, there was no one else out and about so early, save for the stray milkman or conscientious dog-walker. Yet the figure – who was dressed in a rather disconcertingly ghostly-looking pale-grey mackintosh – nevertheless made sure that the attached hood was up and pulled well forward, thus concealing their face.

A lone blackbird perched on a gravestone gave its familiar chinking alarm but the figure in grey ignored it, making quickly but carefully towards the oldest part of the graveyard. Here the stones were made illegible by lichen and time, and an ancient yew tree survived in defiant and baccate splendour.

The only living inhabitant of the graveyard looked anxiously around, making sure that their next action would remain unseen and forever secret, before reaching out and plucking several choice, wax-like red berries.

These precious berries were quickly picked and thrust into a small brown paper bag, which was then hidden out of sight in one of the mackintosh’s large side pockets.

The anonymous figure in grey paused at the churchyard gate and peered carefully down the deserted small side street in either direction. As expected, nobody else stirred the early morning mist.

A clock in the city of dreaming spires chimed the hour, and the gatherer of berries paused to count them and smiled whimsically. Oxford. Here, in the hallowed halls of academe, the knowledge of the ages could be found. From the most obscure fact about a minor metaphysical poet, to the latest breakthrough in nuclear fusion. In this world-famous university city, with just a little time and effort, you could discover whatever you wanted to know, about any subject under the sun.

Like the properties of poison, for instance.

The figure slipped out of the churchyard gate and moved silently along the slick and damp pavement.

How many people knew that yew berries were poisonous? And of those that did, how many of them ever gave it a single passing thought that they could be so significant?

People were so complacent; so ignorant and oblivious to the ugliness in the world. So long as they were all right, and their own small personal universes were running smoothly, they cared little for anything or anybody else.

But as the person in the mackintosh headed quickly but cautiously for home now that the precious cargo had been safely harvested, they began to smile and nod. For soon the whole city would be made aware of just what the fruit of the humble yew could do. Oh yes. There would be a fuss made then, all right.

People always sat up and took notice when the young and the beautiful began to die.

Chapter 1

Grace Farley paused outside the garden gate of her old friend, Trudy Loveday, and took a deep breath. At just turned 22, she was a few years older than Trudy, whom she’d first met at their local primary school. But it had been a few years now since she’d last seen her, and she needed a moment or two to compose herself.

She was not at all sure that what she was about to do was the right thing. What if it all backfired on her? A worried frown creased her pretty, freckled face as she debated whether or not to just turn around and go back home.

Part of her was sorely tempted to do just that. After all, so much could go awry, yet things were getting increasingly desperate, and there was no doubt in her mind that she needed help. Everyone knew that Trudy had joined the police and was doing really well. Grace’s Auntie May had heard from the hairdresser that Trudy had helped solved two murders. Mind you, everybody believed it was really one of the city’s coroners who had been the true force behind the cases. But even so.

Grace, a pleasingly plump girl, with short, curly reddish-brown hair that lent itself nicely to the poodle cut she favoured, glanced around, knowing that she couldn’t stand hovering outside the Lovedays’ garden gate all day long. People would begin to notice and wonder, and that was the very last thing she needed. Drawing attention to herself could be disastrous. Besides, it was getting on for six o’clock, and would soon start getting dark, so she needed to get back to her mum. She’d promised to help give her a bath, and…

Realising that she was still putting the moment off, she determinedly pushed open the gate, marched up to the front door and before she could stop herself, firmly rapped the knocker three times.

She realised then that her hands were trembling visibly, and quickly thrust them into her coat pocket. In her head on the way over here, she’d rehearsed time and time again what she would say, but most of it was swept away when the door opened, and there stood Mr Loveday, Trudy’s father. She knew he drove the buses, though not the one she took into work each day.

She forced a bright smile onto her face, and said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘Hello, Mr Loveday. Is Trudy in?’

Frank Loveday looked down at the worried face of the girl looking up at him, her big grey-green eyes open wide and unblinking, and gave her a friendly smile in return.

‘Grace! Long time, no see. Of course our Trudy’s in. Come on in, Barbara’s just put the kettle on.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any bother,’ Grace said quickly, stepping into the small hallway, and then following him down the little corridor to the back, where the kitchen was. Her own council house, when she’d lived in this area just a few streets away, had the exact same layout, as did their house once they’d moved to the other side of the city for her dad’s job.

‘Look who’s come to pay a visit,’ Frank Loveday said, ushering a suddenly shy and obviously nervous Grace into the kitchen. Cheerful yellow was the dominating colour, and the tiny space was filled with the appetising aroma of the shepherd’s pie that the family had just consumed for their tea. Grace smiled uncertainly at Barbara Loveday, who was at the sink washing up. Quickly drying her hands on a towel, Trudy’s mother bustled forward to give her a quick hug.

‘Grace Farley! My, but you’ve grown into a pretty girl. Hasn’t she, Frank?’ Barbara demanded of her husband.

‘She certainly has,’ Frank agreed, taking his seat back at the kitchen table, where a copy of the local paper lay spread out at the sports section.

‘How’s your mother doing, Gracie?’ Barbara asked, lowering her voice a few notches. ‘Is she feeling any better?’

Her eyes sharpened in concern when the girl paled slightly, but Grace nodded bravely.

‘Oh, well, you know, the doctors are doing all they can,’ she said, with forced briskness. Then her eyes moved over the older woman’s shoulder and met those of a tall, dark-haired girl with large pansy-dark eyes and a wide smile. ‘Hello, Trudy.’

‘Grace!’ Trudy, who’d been drying the dishes as her mother passed them to her, put down her own towel, and correctly reading the appeal in her old friend’s eyes said, ‘I’ve had my bedroom redecorated since you moved away. Want to come and see it?’

‘Oh, I’d love to,’ Grace lied with a bright smile. ‘I bet it’s green. That’s your favourite colour, right?’

‘One of them.’ Trudy laughed, and leaving her parents to listen to Tony Hancock on the wireless, she led her old school friend to the hall then up the narrow flight of stairs to her small bedroom at the back of the house.

Little more than a box room really, it had enough room for a single bed, a wardrobe and a small dressing table. As they had done when they were still both in pigtails, Grace and Trudy sat side by side on the bed without thinking, the years dropping away.

Although Trudy was glad to see her, her mind was nevertheless working overtime. The Farleys had left this area of town some four years ago now, and although she’d heard the odd bits and pieces of news about them from various sources, she had no idea what could have brought Grace back to her door.

She knew that her old school friend had a good job working as a secretary or book-keeper or something for some shop or business in the ‘posh’ end of town. She’d also heard, sadly, that Grace’s mother was now rather seriously ill.

As if sensing her curiosity, Grace suddenly gave a wry smile, and began to nervously pleat and re-pleat the folds of the skirt she was wearing. It was a habit she’d had ever since she was little, and Trudy frowned, knowing that she only ever did it when she was upset or nervous.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ Grace said abruptly. ‘I’m not sure, really, if I should have come at all. But I didn’t know who else I could talk to. I mean, with you being in the police and everything.’

Trudy blinked in surprise. Whatever she’d expected Grace to say, it hadn’t been that. For what on earth could someone like Grace want with the police? A more law-abiding, respectable family than the Farleys was hard to imagine.

‘Blimey, Grace, that sounds ominous,’ Trudy said, trying to force a touch of lightness into her voice. ‘What’s up?’

Uneasily, she wondered if it was possible that one of her family was in trouble with the law, and Grace was expecting her to help pull some strings? But if one of her relatives had been caught in some minor unlawful practice, there was really nothing Trudy could do about it. She was a mere humble probationary WPC – and as such, had no power or clout whatsoever. Even if she was inclined to do anything, which she wasn’t, particularly. In her opinion, people who deliberately broke the law should take the consequences.

‘It’s about my friend, Abigail. Abigail Trent. The girl that died,’ Grace said abruptly, the words shooting out of her mouth so fast and hard, that it was clear she’d been holding her breath without realising it.

For a second, Trudy was flummoxed. Died? It was nothing petty then, Trudy thought with dismay. Nothing to do with an unpaid fine, or a car tax ‘misunderstanding’ or…

And then Trudy suddenly remembered. ‘Oh! The girl who died from drinking poison,’ she said, somewhat belatedly putting two and two together. She’d read all about the case over the past few days in the Oxford papers, of course. A girl aged around 20 or so had drunk orange juice laced with some kind of poison and had sadly died because of it. The inquest was due to open any day now. ‘Wasn’t it something to do with a poisonous plant. Berries or something?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Grace nodded miserably. ‘Yew.’

‘That’s right. And she was a friend of yours?’ Trudy mused quietly. ‘Oh, Gracie, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful. Did you know her well?’

‘Sort of. I mean, not that well, but…’ Grace sighed and took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Trudy, everyone’s saying that she committed suicide. At work, in the neighbourhood, people you overhear chatting in the café or on the bus… You know how people gossip.’

Trudy nodded. ‘Yes. These things tend to get around. Everyone seems to know everyone else’s business. They’re saying she was depressed and moody, I expect?’

‘Well, see, that’s just it,’ Grace said flatly. ‘I don’t think she did commit suicide. To begin with, I don’t think Abby knew anything about poisons, let alone which berries were poisonous or how to turn them into something that could kill. I mean’ – the older girl twisted a little around on the bed, the better to look at her friend – ‘I don’t know anything about that stuff either, I’m not a chemist or what-have-you. I didn’t even do science at school, and what’s more neither did Abby! But don’t you have to distil stuff like that, or put it through some sort of process before it becomes really lethal? Surely it can’t be something as simple as just… I don’t know, pouring some hot water over some berries and then drinking it. Can it?’

Trudy looked at Grace’s big grey-green eyes and saw how troubled she looked, and shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know either. But maybe it is? I’m sorry. But didn’t she drink the stuff with orange juice to help mask the taste? That’s what the papers said, anyway.’

Grace shrugged and sighed heavily. ‘I think so. But I just know that Abby wouldn’t have killed herself,’ she insisted stubbornly.

‘All right.’ Trudy nodded amicably, not willing to argue. Clearly, her old friend believed she was right. But now that she was remembering more details, things didn’t seem to quite bear out what Grace was saying.

Tentatively, she said, ‘But didn’t the people who were closest to her say that she was… well, rather moody? That she could be depressed sometimes? I think even her own mother was reported as saying that she could be a bit… intense?’

Grace again sighed heavily. ‘Oh, that was just her way. She was only 19 after all, and yes, she could be a bit up and down. A row at work would get blown up out of all proportion, or a present from her boyfriend would have her walking on air. It was just her way. But that doesn’t mean that she was suicidal!’ Grace argued. ‘Abby had great plans for her life. She talked about them often. And she enjoyed herself far too much to seriously want to die! For a start, she was looking forward to the beauty contest too much!’

Trudy blinked. She knew that a beauty pageant was being staged, of course, from the notices she’d seen around town, but it hadn’t really registered with her much. ‘Oh, she was in that, was she?’

Grace nodded, and with her hands restlessly folding and unfolding her skirt, began to speak rapidly.

‘I work for Mr Dunbar, who owns Dunbar’s Jams, Honey and Marmalade. You know, the factory up past Summertown?’

‘Oh right,’ Trudy said. ‘You’re his secretary or something?’

Grace gave a rueful smile. ‘Hardly! I’m not that high up! I do the odd bit of book-keeping – petty cash mostly, and fetch the coffee, do the filing and some bits of typing that the other secretaries don’t like doing… all tabs and… never mind that.’ Grace suddenly waved a hand in the air. ‘It’s not important. What is important, is that last year Mr Dunbar came up with a plan to help promote his honey. He wanted to put Dunbar Honey up there with the famous Oxford Marmalade brand.’ She paused to smile whimsically at this bit of obvious folly, and shrugged. ‘So he came up with this idea of holding an annual Miss Oxford Honey beauty pageant.’

Trudy couldn’t help but smile. Her friend, catching her look, laughed suddenly.

‘I know – it’s hardly Miss World!’ Grace said, rolling her eyes a bit. ‘But actually, it’s quite a clever idea. All the papers will cover it, and Mr Dunbar knows someone who owns that old theatre just off Walton Street who’s letting him hold rehearsals there for free. He’s also agreed to host the beauty contest for the public one Saturday night next month. Tickets are already nearly sold out. That’s one of the reasons why they decided not to cancel the event after Abby died. Everybody was so excited about it, it seemed a shame to call it all off. Not only that, he’s got local shop owners putting up big prizes and acting as judges, so it’s hardly costing him a penny.’

‘He’s obviously quite a businessman, your boss,’ Trudy said, somewhat sceptically.

‘Actually, he probably is,’ Grace said flatly. ‘But that’s not really the point. I was asked to help out on the organising side of things, since I wasn’t exactly indispensable in the office,’ Grace laughed. ‘And Mrs Dunbar…’ For a moment the name seemed to catch in her throat, and then she smiled ruefully. ‘Well, let’s just say that Mrs Dunbar was adamant that her husband shouldn’t spend time on the beauty contest or let it get in the way of the business of making honey!’

‘Ah, I get it,’ Trudy said with a wicked smile. ‘She didn’t want her husband spending too much time hanging around with pretty girls.’

Grace dragged in a large breath, but was obviously far too discreet to either confirm or deny her friend’s interpretation of how she’d come to be the hands-on manager of the contest. ‘So, anyway, a few weeks ago Mrs Dunbar drafted a piece for the newspapers, asking girls who lived in the city or within a twenty-mile radius, and who wanted to take part, to get in touch and sign up for the auditions. Obviously, they had to be over 18, but under 30 and well, er, they had to be, er…’

‘Pretty and with good figures?’ Trudy put in helpfully, when her friend seemed to struggle for a diplomatic way to phrase things.

Grace suddenly giggled. ‘Well, you’d have thought that went without saying, wouldn’t you? But some of the women and girls who turned up…’ She rolled her eyes with yet another giggle. ‘Well… let’s just say that me and Mrs Dunbar and Mrs Merriweather – she’s the old lady who’s a Friend-of-the-Old-Swan-Theatre, and is helping us run the show – anyway, we had a bit of a job persuading some of them that they weren’t… er… quite suitable for what we had in mind.’

Trudy shook her head. ‘The tact and diplomacy must have been quite something!’

Again, Grace giggled. Then her face suddenly fell, as she remembered why she was there.

‘Yes. Well… anyway, Abigail and her friend Vicky were one of the first ones to apply, and we signed them both up straightaway. Over the next week, we whittled the applicants down to about twenty or so. Actually, the process is still ongoing but, again, that’s not what matters. The point is I got to know Abby, and… well, to put it in a nutshell, she was fairly confident that she had a good chance of winning. She was so looking forward to the competition night. She had stars in her eyes! What’s more, she was so upbeat about her “talent” spot and she just loved trying on the evening gowns and… Trudy, there was just no way that girl killed herself,’ Grace finished forcefully.

Her eyes were now open so wide, and were fixed on Trudy with such a glare, as if she thought she could make Trudy believe her by sheer force of will. ‘And I don’t know what to do about it. If they bring in a verdict of suicide, as everyone seems to think they will… it just won’t be right!’

Her hands were shaking again, and Trudy reached out and held them firmly. ‘Gracie, it’s all right – just calm down a bit. But I don’t quite know what you think I can do about it,’ she told her gently. ‘I’m just a probationary constable. And I didn’t know this girl, or anything about the circumstances surrounding her death.’

‘No, but you know this Dr Ryder man, don’t you? He’s a coroner, isn’t he? Can’t you ask him to help?’ Grace asked quickly.

For a second or two, Trudy stared at her friend aghast. How could she possibly explain to her friend, who knew nothing about the police force and how its hierarchy actually worked, why her request was so impossible. For a start, if her boss, DI Jennings, ever found out that she’d gone behind his back about a case, he’d skin her alive! Especially since the Inspector was hardly a fan of the coroner.

But as if sensing what was coming, Grace got in first. ‘Please, Trudy, can’t you just speak to him? At least ask him to call me as a witness or something? I can testify to her state of mind, at least, can’t I? Won’t the inquest want to know that Abby wasn’t feeling suicidal at all?’

‘But, Grace, how can you be so sure?’ Trudy asked helplessly. ‘None of us know, not really, how someone else is feeling.’

Slowly, Grace’s shoulders slumped. ‘So you won’t help?’ she asked flatly, her gaze so accusatory that Trudy almost winced.

‘It’s not that I won’t. It’s that I can’t,’ Trudy tried to explain. ‘I’m not even one of the officers assigned to the case,’ she pointed out. ‘And believe you me, my superiors… well, let’s just say, they won’t be in any hurry to listen to what I might have to say,’ she added, a shade bitterly. The thought of the look that would cross her DI’s face if she came to him with this tale was enough to make her shudder.

Seeing what she was up against, Grace decided that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound, and took a deep, deep breath.

‘It’s not only this thing with Abby,’ Grace said, sounding almost defiant all of a sudden. ‘It’s other things as well. At the theatre…’ She paused, closed her eyes for a second, and then took the plunge. ‘Things have been happening.’

‘What do you mean?’ Trudy asked sharply.

Grace shrugged, her eyes suddenly darting around the room so that they wouldn’t have to meet Trudy’s. ‘Oh, just things,’ she said, rather unhelpfully. ‘Stupid things. Nasty little tricks… For instance, someone tied a string over the bottom step in the stairs that leads up to the stage, so that one of the girls took a tumble. Oh, she wasn’t hurt – but she did have to rest her ankle for a few days, so she lost rehearsal time for her dance routine. And then something must have been added to one of the girls’ jars of face cream which brought her skin out in a rash… It faded after a few days, but she pulled out of the competition anyway. Just silly little pranks like that.’

Trudy frowned. ‘But isn’t that likely to be a simple case of rivalry between the contestants? It sounds like the sort of mean tricks that some girl who wants to scare others into withdrawing from the contest might use.’

‘Yes. That’s what everyone seems to think,’ Grace admitted reluctantly. ‘But, Trudy, I’m not so sure. I have a bad feeling about it all. I think… Oh, I just wish you’d talk to your coroner friend about Abby! Perhaps you could come down to the theatre sometime, during rehearsals or something, and just take a look around? See if anything strikes you as… odd. But you mustn’t tell anyone that you know me, or that I’ve been talking to you, because then I could lose my job,’ Grace added hastily, suddenly clutching her arm and holding it in a tight grip. ‘Mr Dunbar wouldn’t like it if he thought that I’d been speaking out of turn. He’s dead scared as it is that the papers will get to know about our little problems and give us bad publicity. So you mustn’t come in uniform or anything… I know!’ She suddenly beamed brightly. ‘You could pretend to be thinking of applying to be a contestant or something. It would give you the perfect excuse for being there and having a look around. Oh, Trudy, please?’

Trudy, unable to resist the appeal in her friend’s eyes, suddenly gave in. What could it really hurt, just to put her mind at rest? DI Jennings need never know about it. Besides, she was intrigued.

‘OK. I’ll go and see Dr Ryder and tell him what you’ve said. If nothing else, he can at least give us some advice. But I’m not promising anything mind!’

‘Oh, Trudy! Thanks ever so much!’ Grace leaned across and gave her a hug. ‘Now, I’ve really got to get back to Mum,’ she said. ‘I don’t like leaving her in the house for long with just Dad to look after her,’ she admitted, and Trudy gave her a quick, fierce hug back.

‘Of course!’ she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. ‘And I do hope your mother gets better soon,’ she said. She simply couldn’t imagine what she’d do, or how she’d feel or cope, if her own mother suddenly got so ill. The thought made Trudy feel quite sick.

She jumped up and ushered her friend downstairs. And with a quick ‘goodbye’ called out to the older Lovedays who were still in the kitchen, Grace was gone.

But as Grace Farley walked to the end of the street and caught the bus across town, she sat in her seat, swaying slightly and looking out at the darkening city with a growing sense of panic.

Had she done the right thing? What if it all backfired? What if Trudy didn’t come through for her? Or worse yet, what if she did, but didn’t get the results that she, Grace, so desperately needed her to get? And what if her old friend was really good at her job, and learned far more than was good for her?

Grace shifted on the seat, fighting back a growing sense of unease. What if she’d miscalculated, and it all went wrong?

For a long moment, Grace Farley felt chilled to the bone.

She could actually end up in prison.

Or worse yet! What would her tormentor do to her if it came out that she, Grace, had brought the police sniffing around the theatre?

And yet… And yet, the risk had to be worth it.

She simply had to get something on her persecutor, before… well, before things got totally out of control.

Trudy Loveday was the only one she knew who might be able to find such ammunition. But she’d have to watch her old friend closely.

Chapter 2

Dr Clement Ryder watched his hand, which was lying flat on the tabletop, and scowled as it began to twitch slightly. Grimly, he used his other hand to massage the palm, and after a while, the twitching slowly abated. But he knew it would be back.

He’d self-diagnosed himself as suffering from Parkinson’s disease whilst still a surgeon in London, which had led to him resigning from his medical career and embarking on his new life as a coroner in Oxford.

Although, so far, he’d managed to keep his condition a secret from everyone – his friends, family, and work colleagues alike – he was well aware that he faced an uphill struggle in the years ahead to keep the secret safe, as the disease inevitably progressed and worsened. And the symptoms became more and more obvious.

But at least, being a widower and living alone now that both of his grown children were off living lives of their own, his domestic situation put him in a good position to keep his private demons strictly private.

Which was why he scowled somewhat ferociously as he heard the doorbell ring. Visitors were seldom welcome. He glanced outside, saw that it was nearly fully dark, and wondered who could be calling at this time in the evening.

Although he was a man of influence and power, and often socialised with Oxford’s movers and shakers, his real friends were few and far between, and all of them knew that he wasn’t the kind of man that you simply ‘dropped in on’ to have a chat and a nightcap with.

He got up somewhat reluctantly from his chair, a tall man at just over six feet in height, with a shock of thick silvery-white hair. He was a few years off his sixtieth birthday, but looked comfortably closer to 50. As he walked out into the hall, he watched his feet carefully. The stumbling uneven gait of a man in his condition was a dead giveaway to well-informed eyes, and he was glad to notice that, so far, he was walking as well as he’d ever done.

Perhaps, in the future, he might have to feign some sort of leg injury to cover up any falls or mishaps? Or a touch of fictional arthritis might fit the bill? It would certainly give him an excuse to use a walking cane. He’d have to give it some thought.

He opened his front door with a peremptory sweep, and then blinked in surprise as he saw the young, tall, brunette woman standing anxiously on his step.

Trudy Loveday had never called at the coroner’s home before. On the previous two occasions that they’d worked murder cases, she’d always gone to his office to make her reports or to meet up with him.

She’d found his name and address in the phone book and hadn’t been at all surprised to have to find her way to the prestigious area near South Parks Road, where he lived in a terrace of large, Victorian houses, in a leafy street not far from Keble College.

‘Hello, Dr Ryder,’ she said now, launching nervously into speech. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this… If you’ve got company, I can always come back…’ She half-turned, almost wishing he’d say that he had, so that she could go away again.

For now that she was here, she was feeling distinctly uneasy. It was one thing to be assigned as this important man’s police liaison by her boss, but that was a whole world away from coming to his private residence, out of uniform, and begging for a favour. It smacked of presumptuousness, and as such, was enough to send her face flooding with colour.

Which was why she’d come over barely ten minutes after Grace Farley had left, as she’d felt that the sooner she got it over with, the less fraught her nerves would become.

‘No, no, I’m alone,’ he reassured her pleasantly. ‘Come on in, Constable Loveday,’ Clement said, using her title rather than her name, since he’d instantly picked up on her anxiety.

Trudy forced a smile and stepped inside a small but – to her eyes at least – still rather grand hall, with black and white tiles on the floor, and a large oval ornately-framed mirror set over a narrow console table. She noted the private telephone that rested on it and was once again reminded of the differences in their status.

If the Lovedays ever needed to make a telephone call, they used the phone box at the end of their street, like everyone else.

‘Come on through to the study,’ he said, indicating the door that stood open to their left. ‘I was just about to make some cocoa,’ he lied. ‘Would you like some?’

‘Oh, no thank you,’ Trudy said instantly. ‘I won’t stay long, and I don’t want to take up your time,’ she insisted. But even as she spoke, she wondered if it was true that the coroner had been about to drink so innocent a beverage.

Once or twice in the past, she’d wondered if he drank too much. Occasionally she’d noticed one or two signs that might indicate intoxication. But she watched him now as he led her into a pleasant, book-lined room with large sash windows overlooking the tree-lined street beyond, and he seemed to be alert and sober.

‘Take a seat,’ he offered, indicating one of the green leather button-back chairs that sat in front of a walnut desk. He took his own seat behind it as Trudy, still feeling very much the supplicant, lowered herself into the chair.

‘The reason I’ve come,’ she began, launching into her story before she could give herself time to chicken out, ‘is that I’ve just had a visit from an old friend of mine. And what she had to say… I thought you should know about it.’

‘Oh?’ Clement asked, clearly puzzled but also intrigued. Which was, Trudy hoped, a good sign.

‘Yes. It’s about the girl who died recently from ingesting poison – the yew berry case, and she—’

Clement Ryder quickly held up his hand. ‘Before you go any further, let me stop you just a moment. That’s one of my cases – I’m holding the inquest the day after tomorrow.’

‘Oh. I rather hoped it might be one of yours,’ Trudy admitted. ‘It makes things so much easier.’

Clement smiled wryly at her. He’d come to know Trudy Loveday quite well during the past year, and had come to respect her ambition and intelligence, but she could still be heart-breakingly young and naive sometimes.

‘It might, or it might not,’ he said firmly. ‘But it’s not really the done thing to discuss details of an inquest before it’s even started. And if you’re here to ask questions about the case, I’m afraid I simply can’t discuss it with you. Even if you’ve been assigned the case in your official police capacity…?’ He paused delicately, one eyebrow raised, and Trudy quickly shook her head.

‘Oh no, I’m not,’ she confirmed. And didn’t need to say any more. Both of them knew that her boss wouldn’t have assigned her to work on such an important case since DI Jennings preferred her to do office work, make the tea, and hold the hands of female victims of handbag-snatchings or lost cats.

Letting her work on a case that involved actual police work wasn’t something that would have occurred to him!

‘No,’ Clement agreed, a shade heavily and with an ironic glint in his eye. ‘But even if you had been working the case—’

This time it was Trudy’s turn to interrupt him, which she did, aware that she was blushing slightly.

‘It’s all right, Dr Ryder, I haven’t come here to try and find things out. I’d never presume on our…’ She found herself wanting to say the word ‘friendship’ and managed to alter her tongue just in time. ‘Acquaintance. Actually, it’s just the opposite. I’ve come here to tell you something that you might find relevant. Or not. I’m not really sure,’ she said, suddenly feeling confused and not at all as confident as she had been that that this important man would be interested in Grace’s opinion at all.

Suddenly, sitting here in this posh house and in this rather imposing room, Trudy began to wonder what she could have been thinking.

Had she been horribly stupid? When she’d set out, she’d been sure that, because he liked her and they’d got on well in the past, he would be glad to see her and interested in what she had to say. Now, she felt far less sanguine.

‘Well, I won’t know until I hear it, Trudy,’ Clement said casually, amused by her sudden lack of coherence, and determined to put her at ease. She reminded him a little of a cat set down in an unfamiliar environment, and he was glad when she began to relax. ‘So, tell me what it’s all about then,’ he advised her amiably.

Thus encouraged, it didn’t take her long to recount the substance of Grace Farley’s visit, and when she’d finished, she waited expectantly to see what he had to say.

Clement took only a few moments to process the information, and briefly consulted his memory – which, mercifully, was still functioning perfectly. ‘The files on the case are all back at my office, of course, but I’m pretty sure Grace Farly isn’t one of the witnesses on my list,’ he finally admitted.

‘Does that mean you can’t call her as a character witness then?’ Trudy asked, disappointed, and making Clement laugh softly.

‘It’s not a criminal trial you know,’ he reminded her gently. ‘I’ll be calling the person who found her – which was her mother, I believe – along with medical experts and such like. And her best friend, I believe, who, presumably, will be saying much the same as your visitor?’

Trudy shrugged. ‘I don’t know if she will or if she won’t. But Grace was really adamant that Abigail wasn’t suicidal. I just thought you should know. And I promised Grace I would tell you, so…’ She shrugged graphically.

Clement nodded. ‘So now the ball’s in my court, as they say. Both literally and figuratively speaking.’

She grinned, then looked wistful. ‘I wish I could attend the inquest. I’m sort of interested now. But I don’t think the Sergeant will let me have the time off! Not even if I make the case that it’s all good experience for me.’

‘Never mind. If you come round to my office when it’s over, I’ll fill you in,’ he promised.

‘Will you? Thanks so much,’ Trudy said, already rising. He politely walked her to the door and was still smiling slightly as he shut it behind her.

Her youthful enthusiasm, as always, had lifted his spirits a little and helped lighten his mood. She might not have realised it, but the coroner was glad she’d come.

It wasn’t until after she’d thanked him and was on her way back home, that Trudy wondered what he’d made of Grace’s other concerns about the tricks being played at the theatre.

Had he been interested in that anyway? The rather catty goings-on of a bunch of would-be beauty queens couldn’t have concerned him much.

In any case, it couldn’t hurt to pop by the theatre herself one afternoon during rehearsals, just to satisfy her own curiosity. She knew from what Grace had said that the theatre’s owner was happy for them to use the building during daylight, as long as they vacated the premises long before the evening performances began. Presumably the place didn’t do matinees.

It sounded fun, in a way. She’d never seen a beauty contest being held before, and it had a certain appeal. All those pretty dresses and things. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine stepping out in front of people just dressed in a swimming costume! The thought made her shudder.

But just to have a look around and put Grace’s mind at rest – well, where was the harm in that? When Trudy had first started school, it had been a daunting time and the slighter older girl had been kind enough to take her under her wing. She’d even intervened once, when a playground bully had tried to push her into the sandpit. So far, she’d never been in a position to repay the debt, but now, finally, she could.

It never once occurred to her that by doing so, she might be putting her own life at risk.

Why would it?

Chapter 3

Mrs Christine Dunbar sighed over a large bunch of russet chrysanthemums that stubbornly failed to form into the shape she wanted, and began re-arranging them, somewhat impatiently, in a large cut-glass vase.

She was a rather handsome but large and fleshy woman, who was never seen out and about in public without wearing her corset. Her tightly waved, rather brassy blonde hair was always hardened into submission by a lavish application of hairspray, and her face was always made up with the latest and finest cosmetics. Only her rather boiled-gooseberry blue eyes caused her real concern, but, as her practically-minded mother had always told her, there was very little she could do about those.

Her grandfather had been a Tory politician for many years, and once, in his glory days before the Great War, had even been a member of the cabinet. And it was from him that, as an only child, she had inherited the large, whitewashed mansion just off the Woodstock road where she now lived. Sited firmly in the prestigious area in the north of the city, it boasted a large, well-tended garden, and a double garage.

Finally having beaten the blooms into submission, she carried the now perfectly arranged vase into the lounge and placed it on top of the grand piano. Neither she nor her husband could play the instrument, not being particularly musical, but it had stood in pride of place in the room, probably since Queen Victoria had reigned.

Her husband, sitting on the sofa and perusing the London Times, barely noticed her presence as she took a seat on the sofa opposite him, and reached for an embroidery hoop, containing her latest needlework.

She enjoyed making religious mottoes, usually surrounded by a flower border, which she then donated to the local church bazaar.

Now she looked over a rather fine pink peony that she had almost finished, and regarded her husband, Robert, without any obvious signs of enthusiasm.

In many ways, she believed, she had rather married beneath her. And yet she couldn’t deny that in many other ways, her choice had been a wise and inspired one.

Robert was not, she admitted to herself without any undue sense of worry, a particularly handsome man. Of average height at five feet seven inches, he was now, at the age of 52, going slightly bald on top, but kept his hair nicely dyed black, which went with his nearly ebony-coloured eyes. The matching moustache was similarly obsidian, but his chin was undeniably weak. Her husband liked to dress well though, and at times, it sometimes occurred to Christine to wonder (rather uneasily and with a sense of rare self-awareness) if he might not have a better sense of fashion than she did. He was one of those men who radiated an immense sense of energy. The kind of man who was used to getting things done but also seemed full of humour and bonhomie; but that, as she very well knew, was merely a front for his rapacious nature.

Of which she approved enormously.

For although Robert had been born of distinctly lower-middle-class parents (his father had been a chemistry teacher at a second-rate boys’ prep school) his ambitions had always been first-class. And she, on the market for a husband who could keep her in luxury, had been perspicacious enough to sense that he had the brains and the determination to succeed in life.

As, indeed he had. He had taken her not immodest dowry and turned it into a very profitable company producing jam, honey and marmalade to the discerning palate, nationwide.

Of course, it was ‘trade’, and as such, rather below what she was used to, but Christine had made it a point never to set foot in the actual ‘works’. What’s more, she had grimly ignored any behind-the-hand sniggering that might have gone on in her set during the early years of her marriage. It was now an immense source of satisfaction to her that, as income tax began to bite so hard and many of her friends had to tighten their belts or sell off the family heirlooms, she had been able to carry on spending as much as she had ever done.

It was just annoying that the ‘works’ had been allowed to intrude so rudely in her life in recent weeks.

Normally, whenever her husband discussed his plans for expanding the business or crowed over his latest scheme to bring Dunbar products more firmly into the public eye, Christine barely listened.

But this latest venture of his was causing her no end of anxiety.

When he’d first proposed establishing Miss Oxford Honey in a bid to make their own brands as famous as those of Oxford Marmalade, Christine had been almost speechless. Her conservative soul had shrivelled at the thought of something so utterly down-market as a beauty contest, and she could imagine the sniggering starting up all over again.

Surely, she’d protested to her husband, he had been in jest?

And just as surely, she’d come to learn that he was not. For whilst he had become used to acceding to her requests in the normal run of things, he was adamant that ‘work’ was his domain, and in this one area he would not be dictated to.

Eventually, therefore, she’d been forced to back down. But that did not mean that she was totally defeated. Instead, she’d magnanimously and cunningly offered to lend a hand herself, and ‘help’ him run the whole event.

In this way, she’d pointed out cannily, he wouldn’t need to neglect the routine work, or the vital day-to-day running of the business, whilst still being able to make use of his brilliant marketing strategy.

In reality, of course, she’d only done it to ensure that her husband would have as little to do with it as possible, because… Well, as Christine had been forced to face, rather early on in her marriage, Robert had a bit of a roving eye.

It was annoying, of course. And when she’d been younger, overwhelmingly painful. But over the years, and by constantly telling herself that it was nothing really hideously embarrassing, she’d managed to ignore it. Well, mostly.

After all, many of the women in her set had to put up with men who strayed, especially wealthy men; men who were used to a certain amount of power and status. It was just their way. So long as it was handled discreetly, everyone could pretend it wasn’t happening. And Robert, she had to admit, was always very careful indeed to be discreet. As he should be!

For a second, her rather unattractive face contorted with pain.

Although Christine had no qualms about letting her husband manage her money and capital, she’d been wise enough to keep it all under her own name. Which meant that Robert had lived for the nearly twenty-five years of their marriage well aware of which side his bread was buttered, and that keeping her sweet was definitely in his own best interests.

But she was, by nature, a deeply suspicious woman (and subconsciously at least, a very insecure one), so it hadn’t taken her long to discover his succession of mistresses. These he kept in a discreet flat in High Wycombe, where Dunbar had a second factory, and which required Robert’s ‘input’ once or twice a week.

This arrangement she’d been forced to accept with grace, as a woman of her intelligence and sophistication had been trained to do.

And she didn’t – well, not really – believe that he would ever be so crass and stupid as to let himself get mixed up with some working-class dolly bird who had delusions of becoming a fashion model or some such thing, on the back of winning a local beauty contest.

Even so, it was a fact of life that Robert liked pretty women. And when men reached middle age… well, they could often get a little bit silly. The thought of letting him run free among so much temptation had definitely been enough to raise her hackles.

Luckily, she had a very good spy-in-the-camp in Grace Farley, whom she’d persuaded her husband to put in charge as the ‘face of Dunbar’s’ during the running of the event. And she could always make sure Grace did as she was told. And, of course, she could rely on good old Patricia Merriweather to help her keep her errant husband on the straight and narrow.

A widow herself, the old lady knew how the world worked all right, and of course the Merriweathers were one of Oxford’s ‘old’ families, whose ancestry went back even further than her own.

Yet, still, Christine felt vaguely uneasy about the whole thing.

Strange things had been happening. That incident with the face cream, for instance. And that poor girl taking a tumble from the stage steps. Not usually a woman given to picking up on ‘atmosphere’ or imagining things, even she was beginning to sense something… brooding, surrounding the whole competition.

And worse still, about a week ago, certain rumours had started to reach her ears about one of the girls boasting about ‘hooking’ a sugar daddy for herself!

So now Christine felt as if her whole world suddenly hung in the balance. Which was intolerable! As if she would let some silly little chit of a girl threaten her wellbeing and the pleasant, well-oiled orderliness of her life!

She glanced across at her husband thoughtfully.

She was fairly sure that he’d paid off the girl who’d come out in a rash to keep quiet about it. He must also be aware of the other instances of petty sabotage as well, since he’d made no secret of how worried he was that bad publicity might mar the first of what he hoped would be an annual event.

But at least things were progressing well in other ways. The Old Swan Theatre had seen better days, but it was still a respectable venue and ticket sales for the public show in three weeks’ time were selling well. All the newspapers were lined up, and even the local radio station would cover it.

Several large local businesses, such as department stores and florists, were backing the enterprise, both by providing the prizes for the girls and by sitting in on the judging panel.

And wasn’t she herself keeping a tight hold on the reins? She’d stepped in and taken control when she needed to and would remain in the driving seat until the whole debacle was over. There was certainly no way the contestants themselves – floozies and airheads all of them – could ever get the better of her!

Yet, lurking in the back of her mind, was the worry that her poor fool of a husband was in danger of forgetting himself and doing something monumentally stupid. So stupid that it would put their nice cosy world in real danger.

At this thought, Christine Dunbar stabbed her embroidery needle through the white fabric so forcefully that she pricked her finger. She stifled a very unladylike epithet and quickly sucked the blood from her throbbing digit before it could stain anything.

Her eyes when she looked across at her husband, still reading his paper in blissful ignorance, were narrowed and calculating.

Chapter 4

Dr Clement Ryder opened the inquest into the death of Abigail Trent right on time. As usual when he was presiding in the coroner’s court, things tended to happen with clockwork efficiency, mostly because his staff both respected and feared him in equal measure.

He watched the jury assemble with a thoughtful eye, and then listened attentively as the witnesses were called. He was always diligent, of course, being ever mindful of the seriousness of his job, but he had to admit that the unprecedented appeal for help from Trudy Loveday had certainly sharpened his mind even more than usual.

He would not let what Grace Farley had to say influence him in any way, naturally, but he knew that he would be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that his curiosity about this case was definitely aroused.

As the morning went on, the story of the dead girl, via a series of interested and professional witnesses, slowly and clearly unfolded.

The medical facts, at least, were all clear enough, and the pathologist was very precise in his evidence. The girl had died as a result of ingesting a taxine alkaloid associated with yew berries – namely the seeds contained within the berry. The actual cause of death came as a result of the cardiogenic shock that follows such ingestion. The victim would have suffered first arrhythmia and then heart failure.

On the day in question, her sister Miriam had come back to the family home in order to use her mother’s newer washing tub. She disliked having to use the bowl-and-mangle that was all that was available to her in her own, rather new and as yet under-furnished, marital home. It was getting on for nine o’clock in the morning, so her mother had asked her to go upstairs to Abigail’s bedroom and check that she had, indeed, already left for work. Her mother hadn’t heard her youngest daughter come down, and although, since entering a local beauty contest, she didn’t always eat breakfast in an effort to ‘slim’, she usually called in to the kitchen to have a cup of tea.

Miriam testified that she found her sister lying in bed, and had at first assumed that she was asleep. However, she’d been unable to wake her, and alarmed by her pallor and the coolness of her skin, had called for her mother. Mrs Vera Trent had taken one look at her youngest daughter and told Miriam to go to the telephone box and call for an ambulance.

But Abigail had been pronounced dead when a local doctor, also called by Miriam, had arrived first at the house.

This same doctor had noticed an empty glass on the dead girl’s bedside table that had contained what smelt like orange juice, but still held some unknown residue which had clouded the bottom of the glass. Both Mrs Trent and Miriam had been aware that Abigail had been drinking orange juice a lot lately, as she had been told by someone that the vitamins in it were good for the complexion.

The doctor, not liking the signs he’d detected on the deceased, had insisted on calling in the police. The subsequent results of the autopsy had ensured that an inquest needed to be held.

These, then, were the facts.

Not quite so easy to ascertain were the more nebulous details surrounding the personality and circumstances of the deceased, in the weeks prior to her death.

Abigail Trent, according to all who knew her, was a pretty 19-year-old girl who had lived with her mother and father all her life. First that had been in Cowley, before the family moved to an area near Parklands on the outskirts of Summertown – a much more upmarket suburb of the city – when she was just 9 years old. She had three sisters and two brothers – all of whom were older than herself – and she had clearly been a young lady who had intended to ‘get on’ in life.

Unlike her sisters – who had married local lads before reaching their twenties – and her brothers – who both worked as labourers in a local construction firm – Abigail had always had (as her mother had proudly stated) ambition.

Being the youngest child, she had been the one to benefit most from the family’s relocation to Summertown, especially since (after passing her eleven-plus exams) she had attended a very good local school, where the mix of children tended to belong to the more professional and mobile middle-classes. She had done fairly well at school, and her exam results – though nothing spectacular – had allowed her to go on and do secretarial training. She had subsequently gone on to find her first ever job as an office ‘junior’ in a small but well-respected solicitor’s office.

But as her friends and contemporaries called to the stand to testify made clear, the dead girl did indeed have ambitions far beyond the environment of the office.

Dr Ryder had not added Grace Farley’s name to this list of witnesses, as he hadn’t wanted to complicate matters. As it was, her non-appearance hardly mattered, for Abigail’s friends told pretty much the same story. All agreed that Abigail had been very popular at school, being good at sports and music, and aided, no doubt, by her obvious physical beauty. The coroner and jury were shown some photographs of the dead girl, who turned out to be a tall, leggy brunette with a very good figure and undeniably pretty face. She even had a mole, widely known as a ‘beauty mark’, just above and slightly to the right side of her mouth, giving her even more appeal.

So nobody had been unduly surprised when she’d answered the advertisement for an upcoming beauty pageant to find Miss Oxford Honey.

Her best friend, Vicky Munnings, testified that Abigail had talked her into applying as well, although she had been rather less keen than her friend, but when both of them passed the initial auditions, Abigail (or Abby as everyone who knew her called her) had been delighted.

‘From that moment on, she was determined to win the competition,’ Vicky stated. Her friend, according to Vicky, had seen winning the pageant as a step towards something bigger and better. Everyone knew that the winner of the pageant would be automatically entered for the Miss Oxford contest next year, and the winner of that would then go on to enter Miss England, who, of course, would then be a contestant in Miss World.

‘Abby didn’t have her head so far in the clouds as to think she’d go that far,’ Vicky had defended her dead friend robustly. But she did feel that winning the competition would present her with more options. A life in London as an advertiser’s model perhaps. Or a model for one of the bigger fashion houses. Maybe, Vicky had said through some tears, her friend had even seen herself as living in Paris.

But in order to achieve these ambitions, she needed to win.

‘She became obsessed with beauty products and doing things to improve her figure,’ Vicky testified. ‘Like exercises to improve her bustline and slim down her waist.’ She also took to periodic ‘fasting’ to lose weight, and had spent all her money on face creams and lotions, which, Abby constantly complained, were all so expensive.

‘She was always reading in women’s magazines about this herbal stuff that you could make for yourself, to make your skin glow and all that kind of thing, that didn’t cost the earth,’ Vicky had added.

And it was here that Dr Ryder – and no doubt the jury and gentlemen of the press as well – really sat up and took notice. Because, finally, they were coming to the crux of the matter.

When Dr Ryder asked her if it was possible that her friend might have added something ‘homemade and herbal’ to her glass of orange juice in the mistaken belief that it would somehow help improve her looks or figure, Vicky hadn’t been able to give a proper answer. She’d dithered a bit and had seemed frightened and nervous and unsure. Eventually, somewhat tearful and upset, she admitted that Abby had made some stuff for herself before her death – including some sort of oat-and-milk face pack, following a recipe she’d seen in a newspaper article. That had been followed by an experiment with a homemade shampoo that was supposed to make her hair shine more. And yes, Vicky admitted, her friend had got the ingredients from some sort of plant material that she’d picked herself, but Vicky hadn’t bothered to ask what, because she hadn’t liked the smell of it.

But whether or not she would make stuff to actually eat or drink – she just didn’t know. When pressed, she was adamant that her friend ‘wasn’t stupid’ and that, as children, their parents had always warned them not to ‘eat berries from the hedges’.

But she also admitted that Abby, like herself, didn’t really know anything about what was poisonous and what wasn’t.

The parents’ testimony, as usual, was heartbreaking. Yes, they’d heard the hurtful rumours going around that their daughter was sometimes moody and volatile, and that she’d drunk the poison on purpose. But such an idea was ludicrous. Their daughter had been young and beautiful and looking forward to being in the beauty pageant, and to being on stage at the Old Swan Theatre for the final public performance. Furthermore, she had been making plans for her future. Yes, sometimes she could be a bit moody and up and down, but a lot of girls her age were the same. She had certainly not been under the doctor for depression or anything else.

She had no real worries in her life; she had a good steady job, and a young man she’d been stepping out with, one William Hanson – although they didn’t think it was serious – and no health issues. Why would she do something so dreadful?

The ‘young man’ in question, when called, admitted to ‘stepping out’ with her in the past, but that they’d seen less and less of each other since she’d started rehearsing for the beauty pageant, and that they’d more or less ‘called the whole thing off’. He admitted to having a new girl now, but had backed up Abby’s parents’ claim that she had definitely not been the ‘suicidal type’. He, too, couldn’t believe she had deliberately poisoned herself. Why would she do it?

Clement wondered the same thing – and he could see that the jury did too.

By four o’clock that afternoon, all the available evidence had been examined, and Clement could see that the jury was looking uneasy and uncertain.

With his vast knowledge of both juries and human nature in general, it wasn’t hard for him to read their collective state of mind. They clearly didn’t believe it was a case of suicide. There had been no note left, and in any case, most juries were reluctant to bring in such a verdict, because of the effect it had on the victim’s family.

There had been no evidence of ‘foul play’ either. Both her parents had testified that their daughter had gone to bed as normal and had obviously died in her sleep. There had been no evidence of an intruder or break-in at the house.

That left accidental death or death by misadventure.

Obviously the poison had been in the glass of orange juice (as chemical analysis had confirmed). But how had it got there?

Given what they’d been told, Clement thought it a good guess that they would bring in a verdict that the girl herself had made up a ‘beauty’ potion and had sadly and fatally poisoned herself in the process.

But Clement Ryder was not so sure.

So in his summing up, he very cleverly played on their confusion by stressing that an open verdict would give the authorities time to explore the matter further.

Thus feeling relieved at having the responsibility for giving a firm decision taken off their shoulders, they gratefully accepted this gift horse without so much as even a cursory look inside its mouth, and took less than ten minutes to return with the aforementioned open verdict – much to the chagrin of the police representative, who had hoped that he might be able to write this case off their books once and for all, with minimum time and effort.

The gentlemen of the press quickly fled to file their stories – for the ‘mysterious death of a beauty queen’ could run for days, if handled properly, thus saving them the time and effort of going out and hunting down real stories. Besides, death and pretty girls always sold well, making everyone happy.

Well, everyone except for Robert Dunbar of course, who would not be a happy man at all. He had been hoping that the demise of Abigail Trent would be settled quickly and discreetly, and would not be allowed to sully his first foray into the world of showbiz.

* * *

The next morning, another man who felt decidedly unhappy was DI Harry Jennings. But then, he never was particularly sanguine whenever Dr Clement Ryder chose to drop by his office. It nearly always meant trouble and inconvenience.

But for once, the Inspector was determined not to play ball. ‘Sorry, you can’t have WPC Truelove. She’s been seconded on special duties,’ he informed the older man smugly.

Since Trudy had already told him that said ‘special duties’ required her to search the female suspects who were being brought in during a sporadic raid on the city’s brothels, Clement didn’t feel particularly impressed.

‘That’s a shame,’ Clement said mildly. ‘The press are going to be all over this case, whether we like it or not.’

‘I don’t see why there should be any trouble,’ Jennings growled uneasily.

‘Well, since there seems to be a joker at work in the theatre, the more ribald daily rags might make some play with it.’

The Inspector looked at him narrowly. ‘What do you mean? What sort of joker?’ he asked, feeling genuinely alarmed now. It seemed the wily old coroner was on to something that he didn’t know about. And that was never a good sign.

‘Oh, hadn’t you found that out yet?’ Clement asked casually. Luckily, Trudy had left nothing out when reciting Grace’s woes.

‘Apparently there’s been trouble within the beauty pageant. Spiked face creams and trip wires across the stage steps and such forth.’ He waved a hand casually in the air.

‘That just sounds like petty rivalries to me,’ Jennings said impatiently. ‘It hardly sounds like anything serious.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ Clement said. ‘But it does mean that you’ll have to concentrate some of your efforts around this competition. Just in case the prankster went too far, and maybe didn’t quite understand the poisonous possibilities of yew?’

‘So?’ Inspector Jennings tried to sound off-hand, but his unease was growing.

Clement shrugged. ‘I think the owner of the theatre and the organiser of the contest, not to mention the girls themselves, might take it amiss having big-footed male constables tramping about all over the place. Catching them out “accidentally” in their undies during the changes, gawping at them in their swimsuits and generally making a nuisance of themselves.’

Inspector Jennings flushed. ‘I hardly think that’s likely! My men are professionals through and through.’

‘Hmm. But men will be men. You don’t think they’re going to take advantage of so many pretty witnesses?’

‘I do not!’ Jennings huffed.

‘Because if they do, and there are any complaints… Can you just imagine the headlines in the papers?’ Clement gave a mock shudder.

‘It won’t happen,’ Jennings said flatly. ‘I’ll make sure of that!’

‘But why risk it? Don’t you think, since you’re lucky enough to have a woman police constable assigned to you, that it makes perfect sense to make use of her in a situation that’s clearly calling out for her services?’ he asked mildly.

The Inspector – who didn’t feel at all lucky to have had a woman foisted onto his previously all-male police station – eyed the older man warily. He didn’t like it when the old vulture talked in such a mild and reasonable tone. It made him feel very wary indeed.

Besides, he was damned if he was going to let the older man bamboozle him into doing what he wanted.

‘WPC Loveday is too inexperienced to be given any real responsibility yet,’ he said adamantly.

Clement, who was wearing his usual impeccable suit (today a dark-grey creation with a dark-red pinstripe so thin it was almost invisible), casually crossed one leg over the other at the knee, and regarded thoughtfully the short length of his burgundy-coloured sock which his actions had just revealed.

‘But unless she’s given the opportunity to gain experience, she’ll never get to learn, will she?’ he pointed out reasonably.

The Inspector sighed softly. ‘This is an ongoing case thanks to y… to the verdict brought in by the jury,’ he gritted. He was, of course, well aware that the coroner had directed the jury into the verdict, and was determined that the interfering old so-and-so wouldn’t get his way this time. For once, he and his little pet would have to learn they couldn’t win every time.

‘And for that reason,’ he swept on with a blithe smile, ‘I’ve decided to appoint a more able police officer to continue the inquiries into Abigail Trent’s death.’

Clement looked at him curiously. That the Inspector was being deliberately obstructive didn’t really surprise him. But he wondered, idly, what was behind it. Misogyny perhaps? Or was it Clement himself that Jennings objected to?

Either way, it didn’t really matter. He was in no mood to cross swords with such a feeble opponent. It was far easier – and quicker – to simply go over his head.

‘Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,’ he said with a pleasant smile, putting both his feet to the floor and rising abruptly from his chair. As he crossed to the door, putting his hat on his head as he went, he was aware that the policeman was watching him with both surprised and wary eyes.

‘Good day, Inspector,’ Clement said pleasantly from the doorway, before walking through the outer office and nodding every now and then to the polite greetings from the few officers who were working at their desks.

Back in his own office, it took the wily old coroner only two minutes to decide which of his friends he needed to call. There were several men who owed him a favour – and now he thought of one in particular. Back in the old days, he’d saved one of his colleagues from making a potentially disastrous mistake when he’d misdiagnosed a patient with a rare condition. It had been a mistake almost any doctor would have made, but Clement had been lucky enough to have had a similar case early in his own career, and thus he’d recognised the very subtle signs.

His friend was now a VIP on a large scale, with thumbs in many pies, and had been itching to get out of Clement’s debt for years. So it would make his day to hear that he could finally do Clement a good turn in exchange and feel that they were now even.

Ten minutes later, a fuming DI Jennings received a phone call from above ordering him to offer the coroner the police liaison services of WPC Trudy Loveday for the Abigail Trent investigation.

* * *

At that moment, Trudy was in the cells going through the handbags of several prostitutes while they watched, calling her names and offering her suggestions that would have made her mother’s ears burn.

She gamely tried to pretend her own weren’t burning at some of the more raucous jeering coming from the confined women, but in truth she was rather glad when she was relieved by another officer who told her that she was wanted in the DI’s office.

Naturally, this set off a whole barrage of innuendo from her tormentors, and she could only hope that her cheeks weren’t still burning when she knocked on the DI’s door a few minutes later and was bade, crisply, to enter.

Right from the start, she could tell by her superior officer’s sarcastic tone and short, sharp sentences, that he was in a right royal tizzy. But she hardly cared, when he told her the good news that she was going to be working with the coroner again.

And the fact that she was going to be working with the coroner again on Abigail Trent’s case was the icing on the cake. Grace Farley would be so pleased!

At least now, Trudy thought with some satisfaction as she collected a bicycle and pedalled off towards Floyd’s Row, where the coroner’s office was situated, she might be able to give her friend some peace of mind.

Chapter 5

‘So where do we start?’ Trudy asked, beaming a thank-you smile at Dr Ryder’s secretary as she delivered a tray containing a large pot of tea, three cups and a tin of Huntley and Palmer biscuits, and then left with her usual silent discretion.

By now, Trudy was beginning to think of Dr Ryder’s office as a home-away-from home, and as she took a sip of tea, she looked across his big, but neatly ordered desk-top with an expectant look on her face.

‘Well, I thought we might start with your friend Grace,’ Clement said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning her at work, and she’s agreed to come down here in her lunch hour’ – he checked his watch – ‘which should be in about ten minutes’ time.’

Trudy nodded happily. ‘So, what are your thoughts so far?’ she demanded eagerly.

Clement smiled. ‘I have none, in particular,’ he said, amused, as ever, by her eagerness. He reached for a biscuit and put it on the side of his saucer and with no trace of tremor in his hand today, lifted the full cup of tea with confidence.

In due time, he knew his speech would become slurred, and he’d begin to shuffle. But with luck he could still eke out a few more years before anyone would guess he had serious health issues, and he might even get another year or more after that before anyone dared challenge him on it.

In the meanwhile, he was determined to make the most of these last precious, golden years of his life before enforced retirement and illness finally got the better of him. Besides, as he listened to the young girl in the chair opposite him, he was very much aware that acting as Trudy Loveday’s mentor and champion was going to give him an investment in life for the foreseeable future.

‘But surely you got a picture of what we’re dealing with from the inquest? I only wish I’d been able to attend,’ she added, a shade forlornly.

Clement contemplated lighting his pipe, then decided he couldn’t be bothered to try and get it going, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh instead. ‘The only things to be gained from inquests are basic information and a general “feel” for the case,’ he pointed out patiently. ‘It’s not as if new evidence is ever revealed. It’s a question of making official the facts that are already known to the police and the medical authorities.’

‘All right,’ Trudy said, trying to quash down a feeling of impatience. ‘So what’s your “feeling” for this one? Do you think she committed suicide?’ she demanded. Now that her friend Dr Clement Ryder had become involved and the investigation was officially ‘above board’ with her superiors, she was eager to move the case forward.

‘Your friend was adamant that Abigail wasn’t suicidal, wasn’t she?’ he mused quietly.

‘Yes. Why? Did the other friends you called as witnesses say otherwise?’ Trudy asked sharply, and for some reason was rather surprised when the coroner shook his head.

‘No. Her parents were adamant she wasn’t depressed, of course, and her friends seemed to feel the same way. Nobody said that she seemed the “type” to take her own life. Not that there is such a thing, of course.’

‘Oh. So all the gossip about her being moody and whatnot was just that? Idle gossip and speculation, and people being spiteful? Or…’ Trudy’s eyes widened slightly as a sudden thought hit her. ‘Could it be that someone was deliberately spreading such rumours around to try and make people believe it was suicide, when it wasn’t?’

‘Maybe,’ Clement said, a twinkle appearing in his rather watery blue eyes at her evident excitement. ‘But it sounds a little far-fetched to me.’

Trudy sighed and reluctantly nodded.

‘Then again,’ the coroner swept on, ‘she might have been moody and occasionally depressed without wanting to kill herself. Most of us are down from time to time, but we don’t all go throwing ourselves off the top of tall buildings. No, the impression I got of her, reading between the lines, was of a pretty and ambitious girl, who was perhaps a shade on the selfish and self-obsessed side, and was determined to get on in life.’

‘So not suicide then,’ Trudy said with some satisfaction. ‘When Grace gets here, she’ll be pleased about that, at least. So – not suicide, and I take it we can strike out murder?’ she offered, a bit more tentatively. She nibbled on a biscuit, her face thoughtful.

Clement verbally ran through the evidence – or rather lack thereof – for the case for murder. No break-in, no medical evidence of an attack or struggle, or that the poison had been forced into her system. Nor had the victim complained of being afraid of anyone, or of anyone menacing her prior to her death.

‘Of course, none of that means that someone couldn’t have sneaked the poison into her juice somehow,’ he pointed out reasonably in summation.

‘Which would put the people in the house with her in the spotlight,’ Trudy mused, sitting a little forward on her chair now. ‘Namely, her family.’ Then she slumped back again. ‘Can you really see her mum or dad or one of her siblings poisoning her?’ she asked sceptically.

Clement had never met Trudy’s parents, but he had been able to tell from the way she spoke about them, that she enjoyed a very close and loving relationship with them – as she did with her brother. So it wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t really believe in murder within a family.

However, he’d presided over too many cases (and read too many depressing news articles) to be unaware that one’s supposedly nearest and dearest often did want to poison one another. And sometimes did just that!

‘Her parents and the sister who found her seemed genuinely grief-stricken,’ he temporised. ‘Sometime soon I’m going to have to talk to them privately and in more detail. But I think you should concentrate on what your friend Grace has to say about this beauty pageant thing, and the strange goings-on there. Just in case there’s a connection.’

Trudy nodded, then, picking up something in the coroner’s tone, she shot the older man a look. ‘You sounded rather disapproving of the beauty contest, Dr Ryder. Don’t you follow the Miss World competition?’ she asked, a shade tongue-in-cheek. Most men, she knew, liked looking at pretty girls.

‘No, I don’t,’ Clement said, half-amused and half-appalled by the idea. ‘I’d rather watch the cricket!’

Trudy shrugged. ‘I suppose I can see why most of the girls doing them think it’s fun. And the money prizes can be staggering – I did a little research on it after Grace came to me,’ she admitted, seeing the doctor’s thick eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘But I think the Miss Oxford Honey only gives out prize money to the actual winner, and prizes for the runner up and winners of each round. Grace said the shop owners who are helping sponsor it are donating the prizes. You know, stockings from the clothes shops, and cosmetics from the chemists, and stuff like that. I think they’re being rewarded for their generosity by getting to sit on the judging panel, along with Mr Dunbar and the owner of the theatre.’

‘I’ll bet they are,’ Clement grunted, secretly thinking that most of them would be only too glad of the excuse to participate in a little glamorous showbiz under the auspices of a business banner.

‘So, you think it’s unlikely to be murder?’ Trudy got the conversation back on track, trying not to sound disappointed. ‘I suppose that leaves us with accidental death then? I mean, that the dead girl thought she was drinking something herbal and good for her that she’d made herself, and was in fact drinking poison instead. That’s so sad. To think, she thought that what she was doing was going to help her reach her goals in life, when in fact, she was putting an end to her future once and for all.’

Clement blinked at this rather torturous statement and then shrugged. ‘Or perhaps she didn’t make the poisonous concoction herself, but was given it by someone else?’

‘So you do think it’s murder?’ Trudy said, grinning with excitement.

‘Or it’s possible that the person who made the concoction made a genuine mistake, and is now too scared to own up to it?’

‘Her best friend Vicky, perhaps?’ Trudy proffered absently, reading the coroner’s inquest notes in between chatting and sipping her tea.

‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as the adventurous kind. Not the sort of girl to try making up ointments and such,’ Clement disagreed. ‘She didn’t seem that bright, for one thing. No, I got the distinct feeling she was more the follower, and Abby the leader.’

‘Oh. One of her other friends then?’

‘Or a rival in the competition, perhaps?’ Clement mused. Although he considered it part of his remit to try and rein Trudy in on some of her more fanciful theories, he had to admit that it could be fun to let the imagination run riot now and then. ‘Perhaps this prankster your friend told you about has struck again, but this time went too far? Possibly without meaning to?’

‘Would that be murder then?’ Trudy mused.

‘Manslaughter, probably,’ Clement said. ‘But I’m not a QC, and besides, this is all idle speculation, remember.’

Just then, and before Trudy could reply, the secretary knocked on the door, announced the arrival of Miss Farley and ushered Grace inside.

Trudy took one look at her pale, tired face, and got to her feet. ‘Grace. How’s your mother?’ she asked abruptly and urgently.

Clement took the opportunity to reach into his desk, unroll a pack of strong mints and pop one into his mouth. Another annoying side effect of Parkinson’s was halitosis, and he had got into the habit of sucking on mints on a regular basis.

Grace, shrugging wearily and taking the seat the coroner rose from and offered her, slumped down rather heavily and gave a small smile.

‘Oh, you know. She’s been taking this new medication for a little while now, and at first she seemed to be improving. Now some of the doctors at the Radcliffe Infirmary seem to think that an experimental operation might be her only hope, but others are advising against it. So we’re not sure what to do. Dad’s at his wit’s end. But you didn’t invite me here to talk about all this,’ she said, and with an obvious mental effort, stiffened her shoulder and looked across the desk.

‘Thank you for calling me up Dr Ryder and for taking on Abby’s case,’ she said politely.

Clement, whose previous life as a surgeon made it easy for him to recognise all the signs of someone with a terminally ill loved one, poured her a cup of tea and insisted she take and eat two biscuits.

‘I’m only too pleased to help,’ Clement said and smiled at her gently. ‘So, what can you tell us about Abby? How did you first meet her?’

Grace sighed, and then opened her handbag and reached inside for a packet of Camel’s cigarettes and a small lighter.

She offered them around, but both Trudy and Clement refused.

‘Well, I’ve only really known her since the beauty pageant started when Abby and Vicky showed up at the initial interviews. We’re still having one or two girls coming in even now, though rehearsals are well under way.’

‘I’m not sure I know just how a beauty contest works,’ Trudy admitted, sensing that her friend was very nervous indeed. Whether it was because she knew that the morgue was so close by, or whether Dr Clement Ryder’s somewhat imposing presence was getting to her, she couldn’t tell.

‘Well, neither do I really,’ Grace admitted ruefully. ‘But I know how Miss Oxford Honey is being run. Basically, we want girls from Oxford or within a twenty-mile radius to come for an interview so we can see if they’re suitable. After that, they need to do a piece for the talent contest to make sure they have a certain flair – and that’s really the main reason for the rehearsals, which is why we’re so lucky to have the theatre. What’s more, the resident make-up lady and wardrobe mistress are helping out with the evening wear section and swimsuit catwalk bit.’

‘OK. And Abby was one of the favourites to win, was she?’ Trudy gently led her back on course.

‘Oh yes. Well, perhaps her and three or four of the others. Caroline Tomworthy is very exotic-looking, and a bit older, at 28. So she has a bit more glamour, I suppose, though 30 is the cut-off age,’ Grace explained, puffing assiduously on her cigarette. ‘Then there’s Betty Darville and Sylvia Blane. And maybe Candace Usherwood. But she’s only just 20 and acts much younger, so…’

‘And how did Abby get on with these girls – the ones who were her main rivals?’ Trudy asked curiously.

‘Oh, I would have said they got on fine. I just can’t imagine who’s playing such nasty tricks on everyone. Just last night a girl’s shampoo was doctored with glue! Poor thing, it took us all ages to wash it out. Even then, she had to have a hairdresser come in and cut her hair. Luckily, we all agree the shorter style suits her better than her long hair, but even so she was very upset…’

Grace sighed heavily. ‘Poor Mr Dunbar is at his wit’s end! So far the press haven’t caught a whiff about the sabotage, but when they do…’ She broke off helplessly, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table and wearily folded her hands neatly in her lap. She didn’t really want to talk about Mr Dunbar. She felt bad enough steaming open and reading his private mail, then reporting back the contents to his wife. It made her feel dirty and incredibly shabby. And that was not the only demoralising thing she’d had to do.

‘So it couldn’t have been Abby who was playing the tricks then,’ Trudy said with a quick glance at the coroner. It wasn’t a theory they’d discussed before – but it was obvious that if the prankster was still at work, then it couldn’t possibly have been the dead girl who was causing the nuisances. ‘Unless someone has taken over from her,’ Trudy theorised. ‘Maybe one of the girls might have known or suspected she was behind the pranks, and then decided to simply follow on where she left off? Especially if it was working, and some of the girls were being spooked into leaving the competition!’

Clement felt his lips twitch.

Grace looked at Trudy a little shocked. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

‘I think it very unlikely,’ Clement interposed firmly. ‘But Trudy has raised an interesting question. Have any of the girls dropped out?’

‘Only two so far,’ Grace said unwillingly. ‘But most seem determined to try and win. Even the girl who had to get her hair cut shorter is carrying on. It’s the prize you see – not the money so much, but the automatic entry into the Miss Oxford competition.’

‘Did Abby suspect anyone of being the prankster?’ Trudy asked abruptly.

‘No, I don’t think so. She never said anything about it to me if she did. But you should ask Vicky. She’d be the one who’d know. She and Abby were always thick as thieves. So if she’d told anyone, it would be her.’

‘Did you ever hear her mention anyone who was trying to help her out by giving her beauty tips?’ Trudy asked next.

‘No. Oh, I know she and some of the other girls tried all sorts of homemade things to try and help. Some girl said putting cucumber slices on her eyes at night was marvellous for stopping her getting bags, and that sort of thing. But nothing about making concoctions and stuff to drink!’

‘So you think it was an accident then, Miss Farley?’ Clement put in smoothly. He was watching Grace closely and sensed a tension in the girl that seemed rather out of place.

Like Trudy, he’d sensed her nerves the moment she’d walked into the room. But again, like Trudy, he’d initially put that down to her being in an unfamiliar environment. The legal and medical professions made most people feel nervous, and here, at Floyd’s Row, both of those combined. And, of course, a lot of people were uncomfortable around the trappings of death. As a coroner, he was used to people feeling unhappy in his presence.

But now he was beginning to think there was more to it than that. It seemed to him that Trudy’s friend was holding something back. And he wanted to find out, at the very least, where to start probing for that information.

‘An accident?’ Grace echoed, her mouth suddenly going a little dry. She darted a quick look at her friend sitting beside her, then looked at the coroner, and quickly away again. It was one thing to try and manipulate Trudy Loveday, Grace suddenly realised, but rather a different thing altogether to try and hoodwink a man like the one now sitting across the desk from her.

‘Well, what else could it be?’ she heard herself say, and looked down into her lap. There, surely that sounded feeble and unsure enough? Or maybe it didn’t? Maybe they’d just take the words at face value. Clement could see that Trudy was frowning. Clearly she was perplexed by her friend’s behaviour.

‘Grace, if you know anything, you need to tell us,’ Trudy said gently. She reached out and touched Grace’s hand, still resting on the handbag in her lap. ‘Even if you think it might not be important, or you don’t quite know what to make of it. Just tell us and leave it to us to sort it all out.’

Grace quickly looked down, a feeling of relief flooding over her. It was all right. She’d done it. She’d planted the necessary suspicions in their minds. Surely her part was now done? She could just sit back and wait for things to unfold as they must. And then she’d be safe.

Wouldn’t she?

She looked up at her old school friend, and took a deep breath. ‘Trudy, you will come to the theatre, won’t you? The Old Swan Theatre, you know the one, just off Walton Street? I’d feel so much happier if you’d just come and take a look around. It’s run by Mr Quayle-Jones. He used to be an actor himself, but now he owns and manages the theatre.’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ Trudy said, nobly ignoring Grace’s nervous habit of waffling. ‘But it’ll have to be one evening, when I’m not in uniform.’

‘Tonight?’ Grace said urgently. ‘There’s a rehearsal on for the evening gown section of the show. Some of the dresses are on loan from the dress shops, and Mr Quayle-Jones has even said we can have our pick of some of the costumes. You have to see the gowns sometime, Trudy, they’re sensational! Tonight won’t be all that exciting since the girls will just be going through the motions in their normal clothes. But it’ll give you a chance to meet everyone and…’ Grace trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

Trudy smiled and patted her hand. ‘I’ll be happy to come!’

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ Grace said, making a show of glancing at her watch and then getting up. ‘I really have to go – I can’t be late back from lunch. So I’ll see you tonight then? About seven-thirty? Just go around the side entrance and knock. The doorkeeper will let you in. I’ll let him know to expect you.’

She nodded across at Clement and left, her step much lighter than when she’d entered.

Clement watched her go and wondered what, exactly, the curly-haired young lady was up to. Because he was pretty sure that she had some sort of agenda that she wasn’t sharing with Trudy Loveday.

‘Poor Grace,’ Trudy said, when her friend had left. ‘She’s got so much on her plate at the moment, with her mother being so unwell, and all this extra workload with the beauty contest. Still, if we can put her mind to rest about Abby, that’ll be one less thing for her to worry about.’

Clement nodded. ‘You two seem close?’

‘Oh yes. Well, we were once, at school, where she sort of looked out for me,’ Trudy felt compelled to add. ‘But you know how important and intense childhood friendships can be. At the time, I felt I would have died if Grace hadn’t been around.’

The coroner understood immediately that Trudy didn’t suspect her friend of anything underhanded. And it certainly hadn’t even crossed her mind that she might be playing some part in what was going on. He wondered, briefly, if he should say something to her about his suspicions, but almost instantly decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea. For one thing, he might just be wrong (although he didn’t think so!) But more importantly, he knew that if he told Trudy, she would begin to act differently around Grace, and as things stood at the moment, the more sanguine Grace Farley felt about things, the better he’d like it. She was far more likely to give herself away if she thought she was in the clear.

But he’d be watching her closely from now on, and one thing was for certain – when Trudy went to the theatre tonight, he’d be going with her.

‘So,’ Trudy said, ‘where do we start?’

‘What about the former boyfriend?’ Clement said. ‘He hardly spoke much at the inquest, and if anybody can tell us what sort of girl the victim was, it’s bound to be him.’

‘Great! Where does he work?’ Trudy enthused.

‘The council offices. He’s a clerk in the roadworks department.’

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