A Fatal Secret. Faith Martin

all they could to find out what had really happened that Sunday morning.

      Trudy waited until the coroner had got behind the wheel, before speaking.

      ‘So what do you make of that? Not much to go on, is it?’ she said sadly.

      Clement shrugged. ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. Some parents do have a very strong idea of what their kids are like, and what they’re likely to get up to. I thought Mr Proctor was probably one. Didn’t you?’ he suddenly put her on the spot by asking sharply.

      Trudy, caught out, responded instinctively. ‘Oh yes. I mean, I think he’s genuine in thinking… in believing that Eddie wouldn’t have explored that well.’

      ‘So where does that leave us?’

      Trudy smiled briefly. ‘It leaves us driving up to the Hall to talk to Emily de Lacey. Yes?’

      Clement gave her a grin. ‘You’re learning, WPC Loveday. You’re learning!’

       Chapter 8

      But, as it turned out, Trudy was wrong in her prediction. For at Briar’s Hall, they encountered a very formidable obstacle indeed to their plan of action, in the form of one Mrs Cordelia Roper, the de Laceys’ housekeeper of many years’ standing.

      It was this rigid-of-mind and rigid-of-body person who answered the door, surprising Clement slightly since he would have expected a butler. Instead, they found themselves being kept firmly on the outer portico’s steps by a woman in her mid-fifties, with a fierce glint in her brown eyes. Her hair, which must once have been a fiery red, had turned mostly to silver, and was held high on her head in a tight bun. She introduced herself, reluctantly, as Mrs Roper, the housekeeper. She wore a plain black dress, which matched the look she gave them, when Clement introduced himself and asked if he might speak to young Miss Emily de Lacey.

      ‘May I ask why you are inquiring after her, sir? Madam?’ she added, as a distinct afterthought, and eyed Trudy and her uniform with such a look that it made Trudy want to squirm on the spot. Clearly, her face said, the place for people in uniform was at the side entrance.

      Trudy raised her chin and met the dragon’s gimlet stare with her best blank expression. It managed to convey a mixture of mutiny and insubordination whilst leaving no room for actual complaint. It was a look she’d learned to cultivate very quickly when dealing with less-than-polite members of the public.

      ‘We’re calling at the behest of Mr Martin de Lacey,’ Clement responded at once, deciding that, when dealing with one of the housekeeper’s ilk, it was best to try to avoid outright battle if at all possible. And the one thing that he thought might earn them entrance was to invoke the squire’s name.

      ‘I’m afraid Mr de Lacey hasn’t given me instructions on this matter, or informed me of your visit… er…?’

      ‘I’m Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner. And this is WPC Loveday.’

      Mrs Roper’s eyes widened slightly at Trudy’s name, and Trudy fought back a flush, wishing – for about the millionth time in her life – that her parents had possessed a far less memorable surname. As it was, it gave every male colleague she ever met the perfect opportunity for unwanted teasing or fresh remarks.

      ‘I see. Well, I’m afraid, Dr Ryder, that Miss Emily is indisposed at the moment,’ she said firmly, thus dashing their hopes of an interview with the little girl that day. ‘But I will certainly consult with Mr de Lacey when I see him,’ she added reluctantly. ‘Good day.’ She managed to say the last two words with a semblance of conviviality that, nevertheless, totally bypassed her eyes, and the door was shut firmly in their faces.

      Trudy wasn’t aware that she was holding her breath until she felt it leave her in a painful whoosh.

      ‘Well, she wasn’t very friendly, was she?’ Trudy said crossly, not sure whether to laugh or feel insulted.

      ‘No, she wasn’t,’ Clement agreed, his voice both mild and thoughtful. ‘Of course, she’s probably just feeling protective of the child. She’s only 10 years old and bound to be grieving still for the loss of her friend. The last thing she probably feels like doing is talking to strangers.’

      ‘Oh. Yes, I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’ Trudy agreed, a bit shame-faced now at her previous anger.

      Clement, though, continued to stare at the door thoughtfully for several long seconds. He didn’t know that on the other side of the wooden barrier, Cordelia Roper was standing stock-still, listening for the sounds of their retreat. But he wouldn’t have been very surprised. In his opinion, the woman’s show of recalcitrance had far more to do with fear than innate bloody-mindedness. And he wondered exactly what it was that was worrying her.

      *

      Behind the door, Cordelia Roper’s sharp features remained pinched and white, but eventually she moved away from the front entrance, crossed over the black-and-white tiled floor and made her way back into the sunroom, where she’d been seeing to the flowers. Her hands, however, shook a little, as she carried on arranging the mixed daffodils, forsythia and tulips that she’d brought in from the gardens into three cut-glass vases.

      Contrary to what she’d told her unwanted visitors, Mr de Lacey had in fact mentioned that someone from the coroner’s office might be calling to ask questions, and that she was to give them every courtesy. But she had not approved of this then, and she didn’t approve now, and she was determined to do the best she could to make sure that no harm was allowed to come to the de Lacey family name.

      It was all very well for Mr de Lacey to be so cavalier when throwing the door open to all sorts, in this new modern way, but in her experience it just didn’t do. And it most certainly wouldn’t have been allowed had his mother still been alive.

      Cordelia Roper snapped some twigs off a bunch of forsythia branches and jabbed them viciously into the vases. Mrs Vivienne de Lacey had been a proper lady, and she knew how things ought to be done. She also knew how dangerous it could be to let strangers poke their noses into places that didn’t concern them.

      The housekeeper glanced through the window and paused, one orange-trumpeted jonquil in hand, as she watched the odd pair wander down the drive in the direction of the kitchen gardens. The older man was saying something to that young girl in a police uniform, and for a moment, Cordelia Roper felt her heart flutter.

      It had been said in her family that her Scottish grandmother had ‘the sight’ and in that moment, she felt for the first time as if some of that dubious gift might actually run in her veins also. For as she watched the duo, she felt a distinct shiver of foreboding ripple up her spine. It was as if someone had just said aloud that the old man and pretty young woman were harbingers of disaster to come – disaster for the family, and, therefore, disaster for herself and her own comfortable world.

      For a second, she couldn’t catch her breath, and she groped for a chair and sat down quickly.

      She told herself she was being morbid and silly, and made a concerted effort to pull herself together. As she did so, she couldn’t help but glance up, as if she could see right through the ceiling and plaster, past the floor above that, and all the way up to the top of the house, where the nursery was located.

      Soon, Emily would be allocated a bedroom of her own on the adult floor. But for now, the child slept in her single bed next to her younger brother’s rooms and the old schoolroom. And Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: what was the child thinking right now?

      Emily was such a clever little thing, whose quiet manners and innocent smiles could often make you forget just how much it was that she actually heard and understood. Mature for her age though she may be, she was still only a little girl, and she had been so very fond of that farmer’s lad. And soon her grief would turn to anger. Cordelia Roper’s lips thinned. And who knew then what she might let slip if she was ever allowed to talk to outsiders unsupervised? For Cordelia