A Fatal Truth. Faith Martin
be accused of killing a man was just an ordinary rocket, made by the Standard Company of Huddersfield. Along with others of its kind – such as Catherine wheels, Roman candles, the ever popular bangers, and more exotic beauties, such as Mount Vesuvius, short fountains, air bombs and star shells – it had been purchased for Bonfire Night. It had been manufactured to do nothing more controversial than contribute to a half-hour or so of noisy, colourful entertainment for one and all.
That year, November 5th fell on a Sunday night, which many couldn’t help but feel was an ideal time for such celebrations. It meant that the man of the house didn’t have to worry about getting home from work as fast as possible and then gulping down his tea, thus risking incipient indigestion. Rather, he could take his time before doing his duty for his clamouring, over-excited children by setting light to the bonfire and then overseeing the traditional letting off of the fireworks, and all just before their bedtime.
Alas, that year, the weather didn’t deign to co-operate, and instead of producing the cold, frosty, clear night that everyone had been hoping for, brought torrential rain and high winds.
Some wisely opted to put off the celebrations until the following night. Most, being British, gamely ploughed on. After all, if the odd firework, caught by the wind, veered off and broke the window of someone’s new conservatory … well, there was no real harm done, was there? Rattan furniture, if it caught fire, could easily be replaced. Except that there was nearly always going to be an exception to prove the rule.
And in the suburb of Headington, set high on a hill, overlooking the beautiful city of Oxford, one firework was fated to be accused of doing something very naughty indeed. In fact, it was to be accused of ending the life of a certain Mr Thomas Hughes, a retired businessman of some standing in his community.
Ironically enough perhaps, Guy Fawkes, who was responsible for instigating Bonfire Night celebrations in the first place, might well have appreciated the murderous consequences of the aforesaid rocket. After all, his gunpowder plot in the basement of Parliament had been intended to help quite a number of people into the after world.
But of Guy Fawkes’s guilt there had been no doubt.
As to that of the rocket … well, some people, when all the facts about what had happened that night were examined in the cold light of day, had their doubts. Some people, in fact, began to seriously wonder if the rocket might not have been innocent all along.
Dr Clement Ryder, Coroner for the city of Oxford, looked out over his courtroom feeling distinctly satisfied. The start of any new and potentially interesting case always gave him a sense of anticipation. Not that investigating the circumstances of some poor unfortunate’s death was something to look forward to exactly. However, there was something to be said for overseeing the necessary telling of a sad and significant event.
A handsome man in his mid-to-late fifties, he looked around, noting that the press bench was almost full. He recognised some of the various reporters from the Oxford Times, Mail and Tribune, and wasn’t surprised to see representatives from other county newspapers as well. It wasn’t often one of the city’s more prominent and wealthy members burned to death in the family shed.
It was a wet and cold Monday morning in November, lending the courtroom a grey and melancholy air, and for some of the more superstitious in attendance, the fact that the date was the 13th only added to a general sense of foreboding. The coroner’s usher, however, showed no sense of unease as he called the first witness.
Mrs Alice Wilcox, née Hughes, eldest daughter of the victim, rose from her seat and took the stand, going through the usual formalities with a firm, low, but thankfully quite carrying voice.
Clement regarded her thoughtfully. He knew from his preliminary reports that she was forty-two years old, but she looked rather older. She was about five feet six and slightly plump, but she was dressed in a smart powder-blue skirt and jacket outfit, with a plain white blouse that did its best to hide the fact. Her greying, auburn hair was held up in a firm, no-nonsense chignon, and when she turned to look at him, Clement became aware of how pale she was under her make-up. She also clutched her handbag tightly, showing the whiteness of her knuckles, and her large hazel-coloured eyes were wide with trepidation.
Clement gave her a gentle smile. No doubt she’d been dreading this moment for some days now, and he wanted to put her at her ease as quickly as possible.
‘Thank you for your attendance, Mrs Wilcox, I understand how difficult this must be for you. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. If you need some water, or at any time feel like you’d need to rest, just say so,’ he informed her kindly.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
‘Now, I understand your father, Thomas Hughes, lived with you at your family home in Headington? Is that right?’
‘Yes. Father was widowed a while ago, and found it lonely to go on living alone. So he sold his house and bought a larger property in Headington, with the understanding that myself, my husband and my children would also live there. Since we were beginning to feel rather cramped in our own house, which we were renting, it worked out well for everyone. And it meant I could look after Father too, of course.’
‘I see. That sounds very sensible,’ Clement said. ‘Your children are Olivia, aged fifteen, and Lucas, aged twelve?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on the 5th of the month, Bonfire Night, you held a bonfire and fireworks party for all the family in your back garden?’ he prompted.
‘Yes. Father always put on a big display for us when we were children, and he kept it up for his grandchildren. That’s why all the family was there, not just those of us with children of our own.’
Clement nodded. ‘The other children belonged to your brother Matthew …’ He looked down to check his notes. ‘Benjamin, Clarissa and Helen?’
‘Yes – they’re a fair bit younger than my own, and so were very excited at the prospect. Grandpa’s fireworks parties were always a big event for them. He threw one every year.’
‘Also present were your brother Godfrey and your sister Caroline?’
‘Yes, it was always very much a family affair,’ Alice agreed, her lips firming into a thin line. She was so obviously determined not to break down, that Clement felt he could now safely ask her to tell them what the jury and the members of the press were all so eager to hear about.
‘In your own words, can you tell us what happened this particular Bonfire Night, Mrs Wilcox?’
The dead man’s daughter drew in an audible deep breath and nodded. She also turned slightly, so that she was now looking at the jury, rather than the coroner.
‘Yes. It was Sunday, and the weather had been pretty bad all day. Rain and wind, and all that. At about five o’clock, just as it was getting fully dark, I asked Father if he thought we should cancel. Although the worst of the rain had abated a bit, it was still showery, and the winds were distinctly blustery.’
As if to underline this, outside a spatter of rain was suddenly thrown against the window by a wind that had been gradually building up overnight, and Clement saw several members of the public look up at the windows and shiver.
‘But Father wouldn’t hear of it,’ Alice carried on, her voice clear in the silent room. ‘He said he’d been at bonfire parties in the past when it had actually been thundering and lightning, and it had … never done him any harm.’
As the sheer inappropriateness of these words hit her, she faltered slightly, coughed and then ploughed gamely on. ‘He said he couldn’t let the children down, but he’d be careful to make sure that he picked a really good and sheltered spot in the garden from which to light the fireworks.’
‘Were there a lot of fireworks?’ Clement put in, knowing he needed to make the