A Fatal Flaw. Faith Martin
For my sister, Marion.
Thanks for being my second pair of eyes!
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.
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