A Fatal Secret. Faith Martin
would be, so long as she didn’t do anything to seriously blot her copybook, she reminded herself with an inner grimace.
Of course, there were some of her colleagues back at the station who grumbled that, with what amounted to an unofficial award for bravery being meted out to her, she was almost bulletproof in that respect.
But Trudy wasn’t so sure. Her immediate superior, DI Jennings, was of the opinion that the only right and true way to acknowledge a police officer’s gallantry, was to award them the Queen’s Police Medal – which, in his opinion, should never be awarded to women. Also, such medals only tended to be awarded to those with the rank of sergeant and above. And she was sure he was not the only member of the force to think like that.
All of which left her feeling that if she so much as put a foot wrong, they’d be only too happy of any excuse to get rid of her.
Of course, her superiors had to admit that today would provide good publicity for the force – hence their appearance at that morning’s luncheon. There would certainly be enough Chief Superintendents and even higher ranks to make Trudy feel like Daniel walking into the lion’s den.
But she was thankful that at least DI Jennings wouldn’t be present. His glowering presence would almost certainly put her off her soup! Not that she thought, at that moment, that she would be able to swallow a thing.
Her heart was hammering in her chest and her hands felt clammy. She almost wilted with relief when she saw Dr Ryder striding down the pavement towards them, looking debonair and totally unruffled by all the fuss. A quick glance at her watch told her that he was right on time.
At just a touch over six feet in height, and with his shock of silvering white hair, the city coroner cut a fine figure of a man, and dressed in a dark navy suit and his old school tie, he caught many a passing matron’s approving eye.
‘Trudy, you look splendid,’ Clement said. ‘And Mr and Mrs Loveday – good to see you again. You must be so proud of your daughter,’ he added, turning to address her parents.
‘Oh please, call me Barbara,’ her mother said at once. ‘And yes we are, very proud, aren’t we, Frank?’
Her father, who was shaking the coroner by the hand, nodded wordlessly. In truth, he would be glad when the whole thing was over. He’d spent the last week, it seemed, trying to memorise which knife and fork was which, and the difference between a dessert spoon and his soup spoon. (He’d been full of disbelief when his wife had shown him a magazine photograph of a dinner setting at the grand hotel.)
But of course, underneath all that, he felt as if his chest must be thrust out like a pouter pigeon because, of course, he was as proud as punch of his daughter’s achievements, as Clement had surmised.
Not that that had been either his or Barbara’s first reaction when Trudy had learned of the proposed ceremony, for then she’d had to confess exactly why she had been singled out for it. And tackling a killer all on her own – thus saving a Lord of the Realm in the process – was enough to give any parent nightmares.
She was still in the doghouse for not telling them properly all about it at the time, instead, merely passing the incident off as if she’d just made a normal arrest.
Trudy, remembering her manners, introduced Brian to the coroner. True to his usual, tongue-tied form, Brian muttered something indistinct and shook Clement’s hand heartily.
‘Right, I think we’d best go in,’ Clement said briskly.
Trudy, her heart rising to her throat, shot him a dark look. She had her suspicions that Dr Clement Ryder had been one of the driving forces in urging the Earl to instigate this morning’s ceremony, and she wasn’t sure whether to hug him or kick him.
But right now, she hadn’t the energy to do anything except concentrate on not making a fool of herself, for now they were stepping up towards the door, and the liveried doorman was coming to greet them. Behind her, she heard the press photographers snapping away again, and swallowed hard.
Taking a deep breath, she, Brian and her parents followed Clement into the dining room, where the crystal chandeliers alone made her blink in amazement.
The following Monday morning, Martin de Lacey of Briar’s Hall travelled into town and made his way to Floyds Row, where the mortuary and coroner’s office was situated.
He wasn’t particularly surprised to be regarded with some favour by the secretary who guarded the coroner’s inner sanctum.
At six feet tall, with dark, slightly receding hair, a luxuriant moustache and big grey eyes, he was used to women from 20 to 60 regarding him with a certain interest. It helped that he was a well-set-up man, who had a curiously scholarly look about him that gave him a totally spurious air of distinction.
He was not, he knew, particularly clever, but he was very comfortably wealthy, and his family had owned land in the north of the county for centuries. And he did wear his country clothes very well indeed.
Widowed, with two children, Martin de Lacey was usually very happy with his lot.
But not recently – no not recently.
‘I wondered if I might have a word with Dr Ryder please?’ He approached the secretary sitting at her desk and gave his usual smile. It was naturally winsome, and under the dark curl of his moustache, his teeth seemed rather more white and sparkling than they actually were. As a man of some social standing, he was used to getting his own way, and he foresaw no particular difficulties in getting his way this time.
‘May I ask your name, please?’ The slightly thin woman, who could have been any age between 40 and 60, asked the question with that friendly disinterest cultivated by secretaries who guarded the doors to their boss’s kingdom.
‘Martin de Lacey. It’s about the Edward Proctor case that he heard on Wednesday.’
It was now Monday, and already the papers had moved on to another sensation.
‘I’ll see if he can spare you a few minutes. Would you take a seat, please?’
Martin nodded, but didn’t, in fact, sit down. Instead he wandered over to the nearest window and stared out pensively over the cobbled courtyard and brick buildings of Floyds Row. He was uncomfortably aware of the presence of a mortuary nearby, and wished that he were walking across the fields surrounding his house, instead of feeling cooped up so close to all this death and unpleasantness.
He frowned slightly, wondering if he was doing the right thing in coming here. But damn it, he couldn’t just—
‘Dr Ryder can see you now.’ The secretary was back, holding open the door to the inner sanctum.
He nodded at her and strode in.
The first thing he noticed was the welcome fire, roaring away in the fireplace, and a rather fine landscape painting hanging on one wall. The man, who rose from behind a large and rather fine desk to greet him, seemed vaguely familiar.
Although it had been his land agent who’d testified at the inquest as to the condition of the Hall’s grounds – including that damned old well – Martin realised now that he’d seen the coroner around somewhere before. In a social setting.
At the golf club maybe? Or at the lodge? As he shook hands, he gave the Mason’s greeting, and was not surprised to have it reciprocated.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s a sad business I’ve come about, but then, I expect in your line of work, you’re used to that,’ he began pleasantly.
Clement inclined his head. ‘I’m afraid so. Please, take a seat.’ He indicated one of the padded chintz chairs that faced his desk, curious as to what could have brought the owner of Briar’s Hall to his office.
If he wanted