A Fatal Affair Read online

  ‘Yes, Dr Ryder,’ the policeman said, deciding he might just as well leap in with both feet and get it over with. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of the murder of Iris Carmody in Middle Fenton nearly two weeks ago. The May Queen murder they’re calling it in the press.’

  ‘Yes, I read the papers,’ Clement said with an amused twist of his lips. ‘And it struck me that the killer, in posing the poor girl’s body as he’d done, might have been trying to make some kind of a point. Perhaps mocking the girl, and her role as “Queen” of the May perhaps? It wasn’t my case though. One of my colleagues conducted the inquest, which I believe was adjourned immediately so that the police might have time to gather more evidence?’

  ‘That’s right. We – that is, my officers and myself – have been tasked with investigating that case. But as you’ll find out Monday, if you haven’t already read about it in the files, young David Finch was Iris Carmody’s boyfriend.’

  Clement merely grunted.

  ‘Naturally, now the boy’s dead – and in such circumstances,’ Harry continued grimly, ‘rumours are flying around, both in the village and in the press, that the boy killed Iris and then killed himself in a fit of remorse.’

  Clement sighed. ‘You can’t stop people speculating ahead of the evidence, Inspector,’ he pointed out wearily. ‘But they will keep on doing it!’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ the Inspector agreed bitterly. ‘As it happens, so far we’ve found no evidence suggesting that David Finch is the killer. That, of course, may change,’ he felt obliged to add. So far, they’d found very little evidence at all, but he was not about to say so. Apart from the fact that the medical examiner had declared that the May Queen had been manually strangled and hadn’t been a virgin, they knew depressingly little more now than they did on the morning she had been found bound to the village maypole.

  ‘Naturally, the boy’s father doesn’t believe his son either killed his girlfriend, or himself,’ Jennings swept on. ‘And he’s asked me, with the Chief Constable’s blessing, to ask you, once the inquest is over, to … er … further investigate David’s case. Regardless of the verdict.’

  For a moment, as Harry Jennings sat tensely waiting for the storm to break over his head, he mentally tossed a coin in his mind as to how the old vulture would react.

  On the one hand, he couldn’t be happy to be told that, no matter what his jury found in the David Finch case, the police wouldn’t be satisfied with it. That would dent his pride and vanity mightily, for the former surgeon liked to think his word was law!

  On the other hand, Harry knew how much the old man liked to play the investigator – and with some success, he had to admit, albeit grudgingly. And he rather thought that being actually asked for once to stick his nose into a ripe and juicy case would prove to be too irresistible for him to resist.

  Of course, for once, it suited Inspector Jennings to have the likes of Dr Ryder poking his nose into the case. Because if the wily old so-and-so did uncover evidence that pointed towards David Finch being the killer, Harry’s superior officers could hardly blame Inspector Harry Jennings for it! And if anyone was to take the flack for ruining Superintendent Finch’s life and career, he was happy to see Clement Ryder do so.

  For a second, the younger man watched, much amused, as the silent war of fury and intrigue played out in the older man’s wonderful brain. It was almost as if he could hear the cogs turning.

  Taking advantage of the older man’s silence, he decided he might as well take the opportunity to lay down some ground rules. ‘Of course, this investigation has to be, like the other times, strictly unofficial. You’ll have to be careful not to let the press guess what you’re up to, and on no account are you to talk to them.’

  Clement smiled sourly. ‘I have no love of the gutter press, Inspector, as you should know.’

  Harry nodded. At least, on this point, he and the old vulture were as one. ‘Bloody reporters are making my life miserable,’ he unbended enough to admit. ‘I daresay you saw the headlines. I think “Tragedy of murdered May Queen” was the least sensational of them. What the girl’s poor parents are going through …’

  He paused, sighed, then shook his head. ‘And that’s another thing. You’re not to start straying into my murder case. The death of Iris Carmody is definitely not in your remit, understand?’ he said aggressively. ‘You’re only to see what you can find out about David Finch. His state of mind and so on. Anything that could help his family understand what happened. And if you discover anything that … well, that suggests that he did commit suicide, or did have anything to do with Iris’s murder, then I expect you to bring it straight to me. I hope that is clearly understood?’

  Dr Ryder wore a bleak expression. ‘I haven’t said I’d do it yet, Inspector. And we haven’t even had the inquest yet. Aren’t we jumping the gun a little?’

  The Inspector smiled wryly. For all his token resistance, they both knew that old vulture wouldn’t be able to resist poking around.

  ‘It might be a bit premature, yes,’ Harry conceded, ‘but I came to you now, as opposed to after the inquest, because I wanted to give you advance warning, so that you’d have the chance to pay especially close attention to the evidence given in court tomorrow,’ Harry said. ‘After all, nobody would deny that you’re a very clever and experienced man, Dr Ryder, and you may hear something tomorrow that strikes you as interesting or relevant. I’ll admit, you’re very … perspicacious at times, and once or twice you’ve seen things, well, that some of us might miss.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his seat, silently cursing the higher-ups who’d put him in this untenable position. Having to actually praise the interfering coroner was giving him a headache.

  Aware of the other’s man’s predicament, Clement Ryder bit back a rather savage grin. ‘I wasn’t aware that you’d noticed, Inspector,’ he couldn’t resist taunting him a little. But before Jennings could really take umbrage, he slipped in smoothly, ‘I take it I’ll be given the services of WPC Loveday again? She’ll be acting as my police liaison, as before?’

  The Inspector gave a huge sigh. ‘Yes sir. I’ll be speaking to my constable before she finishes her shift tonight. She can attend the inquest out of uniform, since I don’t want the reporters finding out about her involvement until absolutely necessary.’

  In a previous investigation with the coroner, WPC Trudy Loveday had got her picture in the papers accepting a reward from a grateful peer of the realm for saving the life of his son. No doubt, her appearance in the May Queen murder case would eventually cause a minor stir. Jennings only hoped she could keep under the radar for a while.

  ‘The last thing we need is for the press to get it into their head that because David Finch was the son of a serving, high-ranking police officer, that he or his family are getting special privileges,’ Harry Jennings said. Even if they were, he thought to himself.

  ‘The young man’s dead, Inspector, and his family in mourning,’ Dr Ryder said flatly.

  ‘That won’t stop them being out in force, trying to pick up on something that they can use to tear him to shreds,’ Harry Jennings predicted glumly.

  Chapter 3

  The Inspector’s prophetic words were brought back to Clement’s mind the following Monday morning as he officially opened the inquest into the death of David Peter Finch. For the press gallery was indeed lined with the avid faces of men – and two women – who watched and waited, hoping for sensationalism with the keen anticipation of their profession, notebooks open and pencils at the ready.

  Amongst their number was one that he knew from of old.

  Duncan Gillingham met the coroner’s gaze and gave a wide, insolent grin. Clement frowned slightly, but let his gaze sweep past the handsome young man, not giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. Although he’d had the misfortune to meet this particular gentleman of the press before, he hadn’t been much impressed by him.

  The public gallery was also packed, as it always was whenever a case smacked of
sex, scandal or intrigue. He sighed slightly, but was by now too old and resigned to mourn the more depressing aspects of human nature. Instead his eyes scanned the ranks of eager faces for one in particular, and spotted it in the middle of one of the back rows – a slender young woman with a mass of dark, curling hair, and big, appealing brown eyes.

  Trudy Loveday smiled briefly back at him, acknowledging his very slight nod of greeting.

  She’d been almost out the door of the station last night when DI Jennings had called her back and informed her that she would be working with Dr Clement Ryder once more on another case. She’d been absolutely delighted by the unexpected turn of events, but also very surprised. It was not often that her superior officers had actually sought them out to give them an assignment, as opposed to Dr Ryder more or less forcing their hand.

  Of course, she understood that Superintendent Finch would be desperate for his son to be exonerated of implied guilt in the murder of his girlfriend, but even so, she could tell from Inspector Jennings’s manner that he wasn’t particularly happy about the situation.

  It depressed her that, even now, he still thought that she was only useful for dealing with the female victims of crime, making the tea, filing and walking the deadest, most boring of beats. In other words, all the jobs that nobody else wanted!

  Now she sat up a little straighter in her seat as the coroner called the court to order and began the proceedings. As per Inspector Jennings’s instructions, she was dressed in plain clothes, consisting of a long, dark green skirt, white blouse and blue, green and white patterned cardigan. She’d deliberately left her hair long and unfettered, knowing that it helped disguise her appearance, for she knew that she looked very different with her most distinguishing feature hidden underneath a police cap. Even so, she hoped that nobody was taking much notice of her as she discreetly pulled a notebook out of her bag and prepared to use her fluent shorthand.

  This was the first time in all their collaborations that she’d been given advance notice of the case she would end up investigating, and she was determined not to miss anything. Not that she expected Dr Ryder to be anything other than eagle-eyed and observant as ever, naturally.

  She listened to him now as he went quickly through the preliminary facts, establishing that the jury were there to establish the identity of the deceased, and if possible, the cause of death. They were not there, he warned the jury, giving them a hard, slow stare, to speculate about anything other than the matter in hand and the evidence as presented to them.

  The two women on the jury flushed a little at this, as if at a personal rebuke, and even a few of the men shuffled uneasily on their seats. No doubt they had all been reading about the brutal and flamboyant murder of the May Queen, and the press speculation surrounding those closest to her – including her now deceased boyfriend. But if they had been hoping that their being called to jury duty meant that they would be given free rein to indulge their curiosity, they had very quickly been disabused of the idea.

  Trudy hid a smile as she watched her mentor whip the jury into shape, even as she felt vaguely sorry for them.

  Finally, as the more routine and humdrum part of the proceedings came to an end, she could feel the excitement building up around her. As she glanced around the packed room, the sight of one man in the group of reporters caught her eye. It was his head of black hair that first alerted her to the presence of Duncan Gillingham.

  Then, as if sensing that he was being watched, his green-eyed gaze flashed around, and Trudy shrank back in her seat. Luckily, she was sitting between a rather portly matron with a large hat, and an equally large gentleman in a loud houndstooth jacket.

  She held her breath for a moment, but was confident that he hadn’t seen her, which was just as well. The last thing she needed was to attract his attention before she’d even had a chance to get started. However, she had little doubt that, eventually, the reporter would twig to the fact that she and Dr Ryder were sniffing around, and then she could expect things to become somewhat fraught. Given their past history, Trudy was not looking forward to once again having to deal with the attractive, ambitious, treacherous reporter for one of the city’s bigger newspapers.

  ‘Right then. We’ll begin with the person to find the body,’ she heard Dr Ryder say in his clear, calm voice, and the usual susurration of excitement rippled through the spectators as a man made his way to the small podium to give his evidence.

  From her reading of the files first thing this morning, she knew him to be in his mid-forties, although at that moment his face looked lined and weary, making him appear a little older. A few inches short of six feet, he was heavily built (his bulk the result of muscle, not fat,) with sandy-coloured hair and pale eyes – either blue or grey, Trudy guessed. From a distance, it was hard to tell.

  ‘You are Mr Raymond Colin Dewberry?’ Dr Ryder asked him mildly.

  ‘Yes sir,’ the man replied quietly but clearly.

  ‘You are a farmer, with steadings in the village of Middle Fenton, I believe?’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s right. Worked the land all me life, like.’

  Trudy gave a mental nod. No doubt that accounted for the man’s build. Even with the advent of tractors and other farm machinery, she knew that being a farmer was still a labour-intensive job that required a measure of physical fitness.

  ‘You own the land and the barn where the deceased was discovered?’

  ‘Yes sir, happen I do.’

  ‘Then, in your own words please, tell the jury what happened on the day in question.’

  Ray Dewberry drew a deep breath, but his head hung forward, in the way that shy men not used to being the centre of attention often affected. ‘Well, it were nearly six in the morning, I reckon,’ he began, his voice a low, Oxonian burr that nevertheless carried well. ‘I’d just helped my cowman get the ladies into the milking shed, and I had to go to the barn up the hill to check on the threshing machines in there. One of my lads told me the day before he thought one of ’em needed repairs. So I went inside and saw young David, hanging from the rafters.’

  There was a collectively drawn breath at this simple but ugly statement, and the man giving evidence visibly flinched, as if it was his fault that they were all having to go through this, and ducked his head even lower. ‘Gave me a right turn it did, and all,’ he added helplessly.

  ‘I understand it was a shock for you, Mr Dewberry,’ Clement said, his voice kind but firm. ‘You recognised the deceased immediately?’

  ‘Oh aye, known him since he were a nipper, didn’t I? He was best friends with my own boy, Ronnie. As a kiddie, him and Ronnie were always running about the farm all over the place, playing, like. More often than not he’d end up having tea with us at the farmhouse. My wife was always feedin’ him, like. A lovely chap he were,’ he added almost defiantly. He shot a quick look at the public gallery, as if daring them to contradict him.

  Clement could feel the mood in the room change to one of sympathy for the farmer, and who could blame them? It must have been awful for him to find the body of a man he’d known for nearly all of his young life. ‘I understand this is upsetting, Mr Dewberry, but if you could tell us a little more about what you observed, that would be helpful.’

  Ray Dewberry once more heaved a sigh, his strong shoulders slumping a little further down. ‘Well … I dunno really. For a moment or two, I reckon I must have just stood there, gaping at the poor lad. Then I walked further in and saw that he was hanging from the main crossbeam, like. From a bit of old rope that had been thrown over it. And there was a stepladder lying on its side underneath his legs. The other end of the rope had been tied off around a heavy plough on the ground that had been in there for years, like. Too rusty to be of much use nowadays, but you don’t like to get rid of machinery, do you?’

  The man paused and gave an audible swallow.

  ‘I looked up at him proper like, in case he was … well, still with us like … but I could see from his face … well … that he weren
’t. I had to go outside and was sick in some nettles. Sorry,’ he added meekly.

  After this embarrassing admission, Ray Dewberry gave a shrug and waited patiently for the next question.

  Clement regarded him thoughtfully. He knew from the police reports that this witness was a man of considerable property, albeit mostly in the form of farmland that his family had worked for generations. But he also lived in a substantial farmhouse, and rented out several cottages to his workers. By your average man-in-the-street’s standard, he was a wealthy man, but he clearly wasn’t anybody’s idea of a successful businessman. He’d probably worked on the farm since leaving school at fifteen, as had his father before him, and so on back through generations.

  But just because he wasn’t sophisticated, Clement knew, didn’t mean that he was unintelligent. ‘You’d known the deceased all his life, you say. What was your opinion of him?’ Clement asked calmly.

  ‘He were a right good lad,’ Ray Dewberry said at once. ‘Clever, I reckon, too. He was studying at university, weren’t he? Had good manners too, and was always cheerful. My wife was right fond of him always – saw a lot of him growing up, like I said. He and our Ronnie were always underfoot. When he got older, he helped out on the farm in the summer holidays for pocket money, like. Trustworthy. Kind to animals. A good worker.’

  The farmer seemed to run out of words and accolades, and again stood waiting patiently.

  ‘You must know the contents of the barn where David Finch was found quite well,’ the coroner changed tack. ‘Was the stepladder found beneath the deceased part of its contents?’

  ‘Ah, I reckon it were,’ Ray said, after a moment’s careful thought. ‘Prob’ly been leaning against the wall at the back for ages. Whenever stuff got too old, but was too good to chuck out, we allus tended to leave it in the barn. Never know when summat might be needed again, do yuh?’

  ‘Did your son and the deceased know the barn well?’

  ‘Course they did. Young uns, looking for somewhere to play, explore everything. I reckon in its day, that there barn on the hill had been a pirate ship, or a robbers den, or a cowboys-and-Indians battleground.’