A Fatal Secret

FAITH MARTIN has been writing for nearly thirty years, under four different pen names, and has published over fifty novels. She began writing romantic thrillers as Maxine Barry, but quickly turned to crime! As Joyce Cato she wrote classic-style whodunits, since she’s always admired the golden-age crime novelists. But it was when she created her fictional DI Hillary Greene, and began writing under the name of Faith Martin, that she finally began to become more widely known. Her latest literary characters WPC Trudy Loveday, and city coroner Dr Clement Ryder, take readers back to the 1960s, and the city of Oxford. Having lived within a few miles of the city’s dreaming spires for all her life (she worked for six years as a secretary at Somerville College), both the city and the countryside/wildlife often feature in her novels. Although she has never lived on a narrowboat (unlike DI Hillary Greene!) the Oxford canal, the river Cherwell, and the flora and fauna of a farming landscape have always played a big part in her life – and often sneak their way onto the pages of her books.

Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series

‘Insanely brilliant’

‘I absolutely loved this book’

‘Faith Martin, you’ve triumphed again. Brilliant!’

‘If you haven’t yet read Miss Martin you have a treat in store’

‘I can safely say that I adore the series featuring Dr. Clement Ryder and Probationary WPC Trudy Loveday’

‘This book is such a delight to read. The two main characters are a joy’

‘Yet another wonderful book by Faith Martin!’

‘As always a wonderful story, great characters, great plot. This keeps you gripped from the first page to the last. Faith Martin is such a fantastic author’

Also by Faith Martin

A Fatal Obsession

A Fatal Mistake

A Fatal Flaw

A Fatal Secret

FAITH MARTIN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Faith Martin 2019

Faith Martin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008336158

Version: 2019-08-02

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers love the Ryder & Loveday series

Also by Faith Martin

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Dear Reader …

About the Publisher

For my sister Marion, with many thanks for helping me out with the research!

Prologue

Oxford, England. 1st April 1961.

It was a lovely Saturday morning, and less than three miles away as the crow flies from the city of dreaming spires, someone was contemplating how ironical it was that it should be April Fool’s Day.

The daffodils were just beginning to bud in the small woods surrounding Briar’s Hall. Birds were busy building their nests, and a weak and watery sun was promising that spring really was on its way.

But the person leaning against a still-bare ash tree, moodily observing the fine Georgian building below, cared little for the promise of bluebells to come.

That person was thinking of only one thing: death, and how best to bring it about.

Perhaps, not surprisingly, that person was feeling not at all happy. Not only was death on its own something that you would never consider in detail unless given absolutely no choice, contemplating cold-blooded murder was even more unpleasant.

Not least, of course, because if you were caught at it, you’d be hanged. Which was terrifying.

And yet death – and murder – there would have to be. The person in the woods could see no other way out.

Which instilled in that person’s heart yet another, stronger emotion. Rage.

It was simply not fair!

But then, as the person in the woods had already learned very well indeed, life had no interest in being fair.

A woodpecker struck up its rat-a-tat-tat drumming on an old dead horse chestnut tree deeper in the woods, its resonance vibrating through the air. But the human occupant of the wood barely noticed it.

Tomorrow, the silent watcher in the woods thought, would be a good day for it. With so much happening, there was bound to be confusion, which would almost certainly provide the best opportunity for action.

Yes. Tomorrow someone would have to die.

Chapter 1

Easter Sunday morning saw probationary WPC Trudy Loveday going in to work as usual.

DI Jennings, true to form, saw no reason why she should be exempt from working through the holiday. Even though, before the week was out, she was due to attend a sumptuous lunch at the very swanky Randolph Hotel, where she would be the ‘star’ guest and feted as something of a heroine by members of the local press – as well as a certain Earl of the realm.

After being angry with her for initially keeping the seriousness of the event from them, her parents were now, naturally enough, as proud as punch about it all. But whilst they were eagerly looking forward to the event, Trudy herself was not so sanguine.

Although it was true that some months ago she had tackled and arrested a murder suspect all on her own, at the same time preventing the suspect from murdering the son of the Earl, she did not feel particularly heroic. Worse still, when the news had broken that the Earl intended to set up the dinner and have her presented with a formal letter of gratitude in front of the city’s press and various high-up members of the constabulary, she’d been ragged about it constantly by her peers.

And to no one’s surprise (least of all hers!), her immediate superior had made it very plain what he thought about it all. Which was not much. In Inspector Jennings’ opinion, the only woman police officer under his command was in danger of getting above herself. And it was his job to make sure her head was not allowed to swell! But no amount of protestations on her part that she had known nothing about it had convinced him that she wasn’t secretly thrilled with the attention.

So it was that she found herself at work during the Easter break, which in truth she didn’t really mind much at all. After all, others had to do it and lowly probationary constables (as the inspector had told her with a hard gleam in his eye) were very low down the pecking order when it came to being given prime time off.

Even so, it was a skeleton staff in the police station that morning, as the city’s many bells rang out for Easter. Not that Trudy minded that. At least DI Jennings wasn’t there to keep on giving her sharp, annoyed looks, and Sergeant O’Grady, as the senior officer present, was in a mellow mood. Some kind soul had brought in a huge chocolate Easter egg, which was very quickly being consumed by the few officers minding the store and, all in all, a holiday air prevailed.

Even the telephones were mostly silent, as if the city’s thieves and lawbreakers, too, were all sitting at home, presumably eating chocolate eggs of their own. But at just gone three-thirty, the phone rang, and from the look on Sergeant O’Grady’s face, it was clear that their quiet day had just been cancelled.

A slightly chubby man, with a big quiff of sandy-coloured hair and pale-blue eyes, he began scribbling furiously, then glanced up at the station clock. ‘Right. Yes, it’s a little early maybe to fear the worst just yet, but it doesn’t sound good. And the parents are sure he wouldn’t miss his dinner? Oh, right, I see. And the address is…’ He scribbled quickly, then nodded. ‘OK, I’ll help organise the search from this end. I dare say you already have some volunteers out and about? Right. And the local constable’s already there? Fine, we’ll have our own officers at the grounds within half an hour. Bye.’

When he hung up, Trudy, PC Rodney Broadstairs and Walter Swinburne – the oldest constable at the station – were all looking at him expectantly.

‘Right, everyone,’ the sergeant began briskly. ‘We have a missing child, I’m afraid.’ The words were guaranteed to make everyone’s heart sink, and Trudy felt her breath catch. She knew that the majority of missing children were found within the first few hours of them being reported missing, of course, but still. They were words you never wanted to hear.

‘His name is Eddie Proctor, and he’s 11 years old,’ Sergeant O’Grady swept on. ‘This morning he attended – along with nearly twenty or so other youngsters from the local primary school – an Easter egg hunt in the grounds of Briar’s Hall.’

Trudy vaguely recognised the name. Briar’s Hall was located in Briar’s-in-the-Wold, a village just on the outskirts of north-west Oxford. It consisted, if she remembered rightly, of a pub, a church, a handful of mostly farmworkers’ cottages, and a modest but pretty, classically Georgian square-shaped house made out of local Cotswold stone. The big house itself, she felt sure, was surrounded by a small patch of woodland, and boasted reduced but still admirable gardens, which is where, presumably, the Easter egg hunt had been arranged.

‘Kiddie’s probably just wandered off to eat his eggs without having to share them with his friends,’ PC Rodney Broadstairs said hopefully. He was a tall, blond, good-looking young lad, who thought far too much of himself, in Trudy’s opinion, but she could only hope that, in this case, he was right.

‘Be that as it may, he should have returned home at one o’clock for his Sunday lunch. And didn’t,’ the sergeant said crisply. ‘Since it’s Easter, the family were going to have roast chicken with all the trimmings, and the boy’s favourite pudding – a chocolate sponge pudding with custard. And the boy’s mother is adamant he wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China. So…’

For the next few minutes the sergeant was busy ringing around the division’s other stations, which were also short-staffed, rounding up as many volunteers as he could find. Meanwhile, Trudy, old Walter and Rodney Broadstairs were dispatched in one of the police cars to make the short journey to Briar’s-in-the-Wold. Walter drove, since Rodney was still on the police-sponsored driving course and didn’t have his licence yet. Naturally, Trudy’s name had never been put forward.

Not that such a minor detail like that was going to stop her. Her friend, Dr Clement Ryder, had offered to teach her how to drive on their own time, and she was going to take him up on it!

But thinking of her friend, the city’s coroner, made her feel suddenly pensive. Their last case together hadn’t ended exactly how he’d thought it had, and she felt uneasy about keeping secrets from him. Oh, they’d found the killer all right, a very vindictive killer who had chosen to end their own life rather than face justice. But true to form, they hadn’t done so before leaving behind a very curious letter about the coroner, designed to do as much harm to him as possible.

A letter that Trudy had been the first to read, and – given no chance or time to consider what to do about it – she had then been forced to make a split-second decision on what to do about her unwanted knowledge. And giving in to her instinctive impulse to conceal it from her superior officers had left her feeling in something of a quandary ever since.

Withholding evidence was such a taboo that she still couldn’t quite believe she’d actually done it. But what other choice, really, had she had?

As she sat in the car, vaguely watching the scenery go by, Trudy still wondered if she could have – should have – done things differently.

Although, after much soul-searching, she had burned the letter, all she had to do was close her eyes and she could read it as if it still existed on actual paper.

To whom it may concern

I feel it my duty to inform the Oxford City Police that I have, on a number of occasions, observed Dr Clement Ryder, a coroner of the city, to show symptoms of what I firmly believe to be some kind of morbid disease.

I have noticed him to suffer from hand tremors on several occasions, and also a dragging of his feet, leading him to almost stumble.

Since a coroner is an officer of the law and holds a position of great responsibility, I feel it incumbent on me to point out that, very unfortunately, it may be possible that he is unfit to continue to serve in his present position.

I therefore advise, very strongly, that he be assessed by one of his fellow medical practitioners as soon as possible.

Faithfully—

Of course, she knew that the killer had written the letter out of sheer spite, intending to make as much trouble and inconvenience for the coroner as possible. But it had been a very clever letter, making no outright or unbelievable accusations, merely stating that Dr Clement Ryder was ill, and should thus be removed from his office as medically unfit.

On the face of it, it was a ludicrous claim. And now that she’d had ample time and space to think about it, she wondered if she shouldn’t have just left the letter where she’d found it, for wouldn’t her superiors have simply scoffed at it? Surely they would have regarded it as sour grapes on the part of a double killer, filed it away and forgotten about it.

Or would they?

Her immediate superior, DI Harry Jennings for one, was no fan of the coroner, since Dr Ryder would insist on sticking his nose into what the DI considered to be strictly police business. So he would have been very interested in pursuing anything that might help rid him of his troublesome nemesis.

And what if it turned out that there was some basis to the accusations? Trudy shifted uncomfortably on the back seat and suppressed a small sigh.

Yes, if she was going to be truly honest with herself, that was what really worried her. It wasn’t so much whether or not her chickens might come home to roost and one day blight her career. After all, nobody had seen her take the letter or even suspected its existence. No, she felt safe enough from the prospect of having to face any disciplinary proceedings.

But her suspicion that what the letter had alleged might just be true wouldn’t go away.

Because, for as long as she’d known him, she’d noticed a few odd things about her friend. The way Dr Ryder’s hands would tremble every now and then. She’d tried to put that down to age – after all, old men sometimes did have the shakes, right?

Then there was the way he would sometimes stumble slightly, as though he’d tripped over an obstacle that wasn’t there. Again, she’d put that down to him shuffling his feet. She’d noticed that sometimes he didn’t pick his feet up properly – ironically a failing that her father had often scolded her for as a child!

Of course, she’d half-suspected that he might drink a little more than he probably should, which would account for most of the things she’d noticed. A colleague had once told her that secret tipplers often kept popping breath mints to disguise the smell of booze on their breath, and it was true that, just lately, the coroner had started chewing on strong mints.

But what if he didn’t have a fondness for too much drink after all? What if the trembling hands and unsteady gait meant something else? Because if he really was ill…

Yet the only way she could know that for sure would be to ask him about it. It sounded simple enough, but Trudy had a feeling that it was going to be nothing of the kind. The coroner was a private and sometimes intimidating man, and she doubted he would take kindly to her dabbling in what he was certain to feel was none of her business.

But that was a problem for another day. Right now, Trudy thought anxiously, they had a missing child to find.

Chapter 2

It was apparent from the moment they arrived at Briar’s Hall, and reported to the officer in charge, that the boy had not yet been found.

The village Bobby wasn’t quite as old as Walter, and introduced himself as Constable Watkins.

‘Right. At the moment, we’re concentrating on the area around the lake, for obvious reasons,’ Watkins began grimly. ‘You two men make your way to the south side.’ He pointed across a small paddock. ‘You’ll see where the others are. Follow the path, but don’t bother searching the reeds where someone’s already left markers. Here…’ He handed Rodney and Walter a bunch of small wooden sticks, with red and white tapes dangling loosely from their ends. ‘Stick them in the ground at more or less twenty-yard intervals.’

Trudy glanced around, trying to get the lie of the land. They’d travelled through the length of the small village, which now sat in a shallow valley to the east of her. They were at the bottom of a slight rise, and surrounded on three sides by woodland. Presumably, the rise and the trees were keeping Briar’s Hall itself from view.

‘You, WPC…?’

‘Probationary WPC Loveday, sir,’ Trudy said smartly, earning her a sharp, beady-eyed look.

‘Oh yes? You’re the one who’s got herself in some bigwig’s good books eh?’

Trudy flushed painfully. ‘I didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t do, sir,’ she began defensively, wondering how long she’d be forced to eat humble pie with her fellow officers. ‘It was the Earl who insisted on all this fuss.’

The now infamous letter of thanks, due to be doled out to her by the Earl’s secretary during the upcoming bash, would no doubt be instantly snaffled by her mother. Much to her daughter’s horror, Barbara Loveday had insisted that she was going to get it framed so that it could hang in pride of place over the front-room mantelpiece. Next thing she knew, her father would be charging the neighbours sixpence to come and admire it!

‘Huh. Well, I suppose he would, considering it was his son’s neck you saved,’ Watkins conceded, obviously willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘All right, you can take the far edge of those woods.’ He pointed directly north and behind him. ‘I haven’t allocated anyone there yet. You’ll see the woods there come almost right up to the outer walls of the gardens of the Hall in places. But there’s a bit of an orchard area between, where formal gardens meet the farmland. Take these with you’ – he handed her a pile of the sticks – ‘and place them wherever you search. You’ve got your whistle?’ he asked abruptly.

Trudy obviously had, and lifted it from where it was hanging around her neck.

‘All right then. If you find the boy, give three short blasts. If you find anything you think needs further investigation and you need help, give two long blasts. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said smartly, and set off briskly with her pile of markers.

It was a cool but pleasant day, with the April sun playing tag with the clouds. She walked through the woods, as instructed. They felt, as most woods do, slightly damp. She kept walking uphill and through growing clumps of wild garlic and jack-by-the-hedge, carefully avoiding the freshly growing and vicious stinging nettles, until she came to the edge of the treeline.

There, below her, as she had suspected, was Briar’s Hall. She set off towards it quickly, aware of movement all around her. In one field off to her left, she could see several of her colleagues checking out a hay barn. Below, two more volunteers (villagers she presumed, as they weren’t in uniform) were tracking the line of a hawthorn hedge that separated two fields, which were both already showing green with barley shoots. If the boy had fallen in the ditch that usually accompanied a hedge, he would soon be found.

She barely paused to assess this however, instead marching quickly downhill, where she spotted the acreage of smaller, bent fruit trees that Constable Watkins had allocated her.

She could see it was surrounded by an old and mostly broken-down dry-stone wall, which would present no barrier to inquisitive children, and the ground between the trees was high with thistles, sedge grass, dock and various other weeds. No doubt, in the autumn, the estate manager let pigs from the farm estates in here to graze on the fallen or rotten fruit. As it was, she could see she had her work cut out for her avoiding the thistles – although in a few weeks’ time they’d be even higher than they already were.