A Fatal Secret Read online

  It was no good trying to run away from things, she reminded herself stalwartly. The truth, so the vicar said, always found you out. And it turned out that he was right about that. Which was sort of odd, Emily thought with a frown, when you stopped to actually consider Reverend Cryer. Old and dithery, Eddie had called him. He seemed, on the face of it, the last sort of grown-up you’d expect to actually know what he was going on about.

  Oh well. Emily heaved a sigh, and dragged her thoughts back to ‘the truth’. Which had to be ‘faced’. Just like the vicar, Mrs Roper had always maintained that it was no use trying to hide from unpalatable facts. (Emily had had to look up the word in the dictionary, and finding it pleasing, used it whenever she could. It amused her father to hear her use it, which was always nice and gave her a pleasant feeling in her tummy.) Facts, Mrs Roper had gone on to lecture her at length, needed to be faced down and ‘firmly dealt with’.

  So, up in her room, 10-year-old Emily de Lacey faced down the facts.

  She knew that Eddie wouldn’t have tried to climb down that well. Eddie didn’t like heights, so he wouldn’t have gone down the well on purpose.

  And Eddie wasn’t silly, so he didn’t fall in by accident.

  Which left only one thing. Somebody, Emily de Lacey thought tiredly, had put him in there.

  And what if it was all her fault? What if the thing she’d told him all those weeks ago had got him into trouble? Or (an even more terrible thought this) what if someone had noticed what they’d been doing since then?

  Would that same someone put her down the well too?

  Alone, at the top of her house, surrounded by views of her family’s fiefdom, little Emily de Lacey began to cry again.

  Chapter 12

  ‘The Bell’ was busy enough for a small country village pub that lunchtime, which is why Clement suggested, after leaving the dower house, that they have lunch there.

  He wasn’t expecting more than sandwiches or an indifferent pie and a pint, and so was pleased to see that ham off the bone, fresh-baked bread, cheese and pickles were on offer. He ordered and paid for two hearty dishes, and returned to the window seat with them, where Trudy was waiting.

  When they’d first stepped inside, her uniform had attracted immediate attention, but after a moment, the backs and faces that had been turned their way, turned back again, and conversation had slowly drifted back around the smoke-filled bar.

  Most of the thirsty drinkers, Trudy could tell at once, were farm hands, but she made no attempt to engage them in conversation. Well, not just yet, anyway. She had an idea that Dr Ryder would want to talk to the locals about the Proctors and she didn’t want to queer his pitch by making them nervous of her police uniform.

  One whiff that this was to be a formal interview by the police and she could forget about them offering any real confidences.

  So she smiled her thanks as Clement brought the food over and accepted her glass of lemonade gladly. The coroner, she noted, had a modest half-pint of the local brew from Hook Norton.

  She watched him take a sip, sigh, and then reach for the dish of butter and begin to spread a slice of bread generously. But her smile wavered a little as she noticed that the hand holding the butter knife was trembling slightly.

  Should she just pluck up her courage when they were alone and simply ask him outright why he sometimes had the shakes? But the thought of being so outspoken made her go a little cold.

  What if he took offence and reprimanded her for not minding her own business? She would hate to ruin their friendship! And it would be horrible if she never saw him again.

  Surely it was better to just let sleeping dogs lie. Her dad always said you couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle.

  So she determinedly thrust the problem to the back of her mind and quashed it once more, then picked up her knife and fork and cut into her ham. ‘Hmm, this is good,’ she said, both truthfully and loudly enough for the landlord to hear and beam his approval.

  Mine host was a small, red-faced man, going bald on top, but with a look of sincere bonhomie on his face that had probably stood him very well in his chosen profession over the years.

  ‘Pigs be butchered fresh by the chap up at Manor Farm,’ he called across amiably. ‘And smoked in his own smokehouse. And the wife makes the cheese herself with Grandma’s old churn out back, and milk from the Jerseys.’

  ‘The cheese is spectacular,’ Clement concurred, again quite truthfully. ‘And the onions aren’t bad either.’

  An old man, who’d been playing dominoes in one corner with an even older crony, gave a sudden cackle. ‘Don’t you go trying Elsie’s piccalilli mind, mister, or it’ll blow the top of your ’ead orf!’

  There was a general ripple of mirth at this, and the landlord grunted good-naturedly. ‘That’s what you want from a good piccalilli, Cyrus, you old coot.’

  Clement, seeing that there was no time like the present, leaned back in his chair and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. I’m Dr Clement Ryder, by the way,’ he added, his bass, educated voice addressing the room in general, and sounding impressive, even to Trudy’s ears. ‘I was the coroner who held the inquest on little Eddie Proctor. We’ve just been up at the Hall, offering our condolences.’

  There was a small, sad silence as the room digested his bona fides, then the landlord took up the mantle. ‘Ah. That was a very sad business that. Very sad.’ He nodded his head several times as he began to clean and polish some glasses with a spotless cloth.

  Clement nodded. ‘Yes. I see some very sad things in my profession, I’m sorry to say. The Proctors are having a hard time of it right now.’

  There was another general shifting in the room. ‘Vince, he’s out over by Folly Meadow now. Reckons he’s better off working, and who’s to say he’s not right?’ one man, a large, muscular chap with the kind brown eyes of a spaniel and hands like spades, spoke up over his glass of cloudy cider.

  ‘I take it you all knew his Eddie?’ Clement asked, whilst Trudy, wisely, kept silent and got on with her lunch, trying to make herself as invisible as possible.

  ‘Oh yerse,’ the big man continued heavily. His work boots were caked with mud, and his big, chapped hands restlessly turned his glass around and around on the tabletop. ‘A real bright spark he were. Happy chap, always out and about and up to larks.’

  ‘Great pals with Emily de Lacey, or so I’ve been told,’ Clement mused casually.

  ‘Another bright spark that ’un,’ someone else piped up from the back of the bar. Because of the smoke and the smallness of the windows, which let in little light, Trudy couldn’t actually make out who it was who spoke, but his pronouncement seemed to meet with approval, because everyone nodded or smiled.

  ‘Clever as a monkey, she is,’ the old man with the dominoes agreed. ‘I often seen her and Eddie conspiring together. Had a notebook, she had, and giggling like little gals do as she wrote stuff down. When they seen me coming they hid it right quick.’ The old man laughed. ‘Told ’em that diaries were good things to keep, for them that could read and write, and she told me it weren’t no diary but their secret codebook.’

  Clement smiled. ‘Secret codebook eh? Sounds mysterious.’

  ‘Oh, they be playing spies, or some such,’ the anonymous voice again spoke up from the back. ‘Eddie told me they suspected the milkman was a German spy, and they was making a note of his rounds, and checking to see no hidden messages had been written on his milk bottles!’

  The room exploded in mirth at this. ‘So that’s why old Sissie Mayflower thought he was trying to snaffle her milk,’ the big man said with a grunt of laughter. ‘She stopped me one day in the road, and said I was to guard my milk. I thought the old maid had finally gone daft!’

  Clement let the fond laughter subside, then said gently, ‘Sounds like he was the adventurous sort. I dare say that old well proved a real temptation for him to explore. It’s a pity the de Laceys didn’t make sure it was better covered.’

  There was a brief, hard
silence, then the landlord, once again, took up the challenge.

  ‘Well, that’s true enough, no way around it,’ he agreed gruffly. ‘But I dare say they never thought nothin’ on it. Who’d have thought a kiddie would fall in?’

  There was a general murmur of agreement at this, which didn’t surprise Trudy at all. After all, every one of these men worked on de Lacey land, and lived in de Lacey property. Even the landlord must have been given the licence and the living at the pub by the grace and favour of the powerful family. So none of them were going to criticise the likes of Martin de Lacey openly.

  But she also sensed that their sympathy for the family was genuine.

  ‘And they’re filling in the well now, I understand,’ Clement said, no doubt sensing the same thing, and not wanting to lose their goodwill. ‘Which I recommended they do at the inquest. So at least nobody else has to worry about their own children playing in the orchard and not being safe.’

  ‘Yerse, praise be,’ the big man said. ‘I told my own nippers I’d have their hides if I found ’em in there, mind.’

  Clement nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘I tried to speak to little Emily, but the housekeeper wouldn’t let me past the door.’

  At this, there was another gust of laughter. ‘Ah, she wouldn’t. Old lady Vivienne’s dragon we call her,’ the old man said, and moved a double-six onto the line of dominoes in front of him with a small grunt of satisfaction. ‘All starch and vinegar she is!’

  Clement cast his net a bit wider. ‘We also tried to call on Mr Oliver de Lacey, but he was out.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll be lucky to find him in, mister,’ the old man warned. ‘He’s one of them nuclear bomb people.’

  At this, Trudy nearly choked on her lemonade.

  ‘Sorry?’ Clement asked, just as startled.

  ‘He means,’ the landlord said, casting the old man a glare, ‘he’s one of those nuclear electric wallahs. Off to London whenever he’s not teaching at the university, see. Advising the Gov’ment on them power stations them’s set on building and all.’

  ‘Oh I see. So he’s a physicist,’ Clement said. ‘A clever man then.’

  ‘Oh yerse, no doubt,’ the landlord said slyly. ‘Well, when it comes to having it up here.’ He tapped his temple meaningfully. ‘Mind you, he has other interests ’sides all that atomic stuff. And just as hot a topic, I’ll be bound.’

  And again there was a general ripple of mirth.

  ‘Oh? Bit of a ladies’ man is he,’ Clement guessed, catching on pretty quickly. Given that he’d just been told Oliver and Martin de Lacey were showing an interest in the same woman, it seemed to him to be a good bet.

  And from the guffaws that followed, he realised that he was right.

  ‘Never get married and settled down, he won’t,’ the old man predicted. ‘Having too much fun being the bachelor boy. Despair of his poor mother, no doubt. She might want grand-kiddies to dandle on her knee, but she’ll have to wait a while yet, I reckon!’

  ‘Good-looking chap is he?’ Clement asked, polishing off the last of the bread with gusto.

  ‘He thinks so,’ the big man said, again to general merriment.

  Wondering if news about the cousins’ mutual interest in the rich American lady was known in the village, Clement took a sip of his excellent beer, and mused, ‘Mr Martin de Lacey now – he seems a very different sort altogether.’

  ‘Oh yerse,’ the landlord said at once. ‘Salt o’ the earth, is Mr Martin.’

  ‘Ah,’ the big man said. ‘He understands how things should be done all right. Got a real feel for sheep, he has.’ He said this with such finality and reverence that it was clear that, as far as he was concerned, nothing more needed to be said.

  ‘Installed indoor privvies in all the cottages too, he did,’ the anonymous voice nevertheless piped up in affirmation from his hidden spot in the corner. ‘My wife was in seventh ’eaven for months.’

  ‘And he don’t put up the rent, ’cepting every now and then,’ the old man with the dominoes agreed.

  Trudy, who’d been watching the pair of old fellows on and off for some time, had yet to see his even more ancient companion actually move, and she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he must be asleep. She couldn’t see much of his face under the peak of his cap, so his eyes might well be closed.

  ‘He must be having a hard time of it now though,’ Clement said sympathetically. ‘What with what happened to Eddie playing on his mind. I know for a fact he’s doing all he can to help Vincent Proctor, but that sort of thing must lay heavy on a man. Pity his wife’s not still alive to comfort him.’

  At this, there was a subtle but unmistakable withdrawal. One moment, the room had been inclined to be friendly and affable. And the next… it was as if Trudy and Clement became the instant outsiders again.

  ‘Another half, sir?’ the landlord inquired of Clement.

  But Clement, no mean psychologist, understood at once that it would be pointless staying now. ‘No thank you.’ He got up, Trudy silently following suit. ‘But please give my compliments to your wife. That was some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten.’

  The landlord beamed. ‘I’ll tell her, sir.’

  Trudy nodded her own thanks, but could feel the eyes boring into her back as she and Clement walked the short distance to the door.

  Once outside, she drew a long, steady breath.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ she said, a shade ruefully.

  ‘Wasn’t it just?’ Clement agreed with a grin. ‘I wonder just what the late Mrs de Lacey did to get in their bad books?’

  Trudy sighed. ‘Let me guess. You want me to find out all I can about her, right.’

  Clement smiled. ‘You know me so well, young Trudy,’ he teased.

  But do I? Trudy wondered, as she climbed into the passenger seat in the Rover beside him.

  As he turned the ignition, she plucked up her courage and said as casually as she could manage, ‘So how have you been keeping lately?’

  But it sounded unbelievably clumsy and out of the blue, even to her own ears, and she wasn’t surprised when he looked across at her with one white eyebrow raised questioningly.

  ‘I just wondered how you’ve been, that’s all. There was that nasty bug going around a few weeks back. It seemed everyone I met had had it or was coming down with it,’ she heard herself gabbling.

  ‘Really? I must have been one of the lucky ones then,’ Clement said briskly.

  Trudy nodded, but having finally broached the subject, couldn’t quite let it go yet. ‘So you’re feeling in the pink then?’ she prompted. Surely, if there had been anything that he’d been trying to confide in her about his health, she’d just given him the perfect opening for it.

  Again Clement shot her a swift, assessing glance. But his eyes had grown wide. ‘Yes, I’m perfectly well,’ he said flatly. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me? Oh I’m fine,’ Trudy said, swallowing hard. ‘But if I wasn’t, I’d tell you.’ She turned and smiled at him, hoping she wasn’t grinning like a ghastly clown or something. ‘As I dare say you’d tell me too. If you were ever under the weather.’

  Clement smiled vaguely and put the car into gear. Trudy, feeling an idiot, stared miserably out of the windscreen.

  *

  They had been gone a few minutes, before two men in the back of the pub rose from their seats and also quietly left. In their mid-forties, they were both dark-haired and clean-shaven, with regulation short-back-and-sides, and wore good quality (but not ostentatiously so) suits. They’d arrived not long before noon, and had been ensconced in the darkest part of the bar for some time. Long enough, at any rate, for the regulars to have noted their presence, and then more or less forget about them, since neither had spoken much – not even to each other.

  It was observed by those seated nearest to them that neither of them had finished their pints of beer, which made them even more of a distinct oddity.

  The pub’s inhabitants watched them go thou
ghtfully. But once rid of their surprising presence, the talk quickly turned to the coroner and the woes of the Proctor family. Some said that Doreen had begun taking to the drink too much, though her best friend, Flo Robbins, insisted that it wasn’t so.

  Outside the pub, the two men climbed silently into their car, and drove away.

  Chapter 13

  Clement dropped Trudy off at his office, where a pile of paperwork patiently and persistently awaited him. She retrieved her bicycle from the courtyard where she’d left it, and pedalled back the short distance to the station, mulling over all that they’d learned so far. Which didn’t seem much, she mused ruefully. She certainly didn’t feel confident that they were getting anywhere nearer to establishing whether or not Eddie Proctor’s death had been an accident or a well-concealed and executed murder.

  She briefly reported her actions to her uninterested DI, who brusquely gave her permission to spend some time in the local library on the research the coroner had asked her to carry out, and within twenty minutes, she was once more pedalling through the city streets.

  With a grin, she had to acknowledge that she didn’t mind doing paperwork of her own, when it involved researching something interesting like this, and she contentedly hummed the Everly Brothers’ latest hit ‘Walk Right Back’ under her breath as she went.

  The sun was out, making the city’s Cotswold stone buildings shine palely, wherever they weren’t blackened by the city’s habitual pall of coal fire smoke and traffic fumes. A laden Foden lorry, carrying slack from a quarry not far away, made a blatant traffic violation near Carfax, but Trudy turned a blind eye to it.

  During her first month on the job she wouldn’t have done so, and would have flagged him down, forcing the driver to pull over and writing him a citation without a second’s thought. Now, though, she felt as if she had more important things to do, but did wonder guiltily if she was committing the cardinal sin of ‘relaxing her standards’. This, so her tutors had drummed into her during her training period, was something she would always need to be vigilant about.