A Fatal Mistake. Faith Martin

      The porter duly laughed. And Trudy, who’d begun to feel impatient with all this chit-chat, suddenly (and rather belatedly) cottoned on to the fact that the coroner was actually working his way up to something specific.

      ‘Of course, nowadays, undergrads have far more, er, esoteric things to form clubs about, I daresay,’ Clement mused idly.

      ‘Oh, yes, sir. Take young Mr Gulliver, sir, the young man you’re enquiring about,’ the porter went on smoothly. ‘A nice chap – his uncle was once Bishop of Durham. Hoping to emulate him one day, I daresay. Now, he’s a member of several clubs.’

      ‘All harmless, I’m sure.’ The coroner played along. ‘Being a theology student and all that.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Harmless, mostly. One’s a birdwatching outfit, and one is a folklorist society. And, of course, since his uncle on his mother’s side is a baron, he’s also a member of Lord Littlejohn’s club,’ the porter tossed in, very casually.

      At this, Trudy stiffened like a pointer spotting a falling pheasant. She was very careful now to keep absolutely quiet and still, in case she should attract attention to herself, and her uniform should stop the porter’s tongue.

      ‘Ah, yes… Lord Littlejohn,’ Ryder said, his voice as bland as milk. ‘He had to give evidence at the inquest. An… interesting sort.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ the porter agreed flatly.

      ‘Rather taken with himself and his social ranking, I thought,’ Ryder swept on, having accurately guessed that the porter’s opinion of His Lordship exactly matched his own. ‘In fact, I got the impression that he thought he deserved to be next in line to the throne, as opposed to being the mere son of a duke – and the second son at that.’

      But this was a step a little too far for the porter, who made an indistinct murmuring sound, and the coroner quickly backed off.

      ‘Still, I daresay the club he formed is harmless enough. Does it have an official name?’ he enquired casually.

      ‘Yes, sir – they call themselves the Marquis Club. I think the title is a reference to their aristocratic credentials.’

      Trudy looked nonplussed at this but Ryder caught the reference at once. ‘Oh, of course. The fighting men! So Lord Littlejohn regards himself as a man with backbone, does he? Funny. I saw no sign of it in my court.’

      The porter’s lips didn’t actually smile, but managed a twitch. And having decided he’d done his civic duty in a manner that in no way brought his college into disrepute, he brought the conversation smoothly to an end by informing the coroner that he was sure he would find Mr Gulliver in. Clement, accepting he’d got all he was going to, thanked him and moved gracefully away.

      As they walked through the grounds to the staircase indicated by the porter, Trudy looked about her with interest. It wasn’t often that she had cause to set foot inside one of the city’s famous colleges. All was pretty much as she’d expected (golden stone buildings, velvet grass lawns, neatly tended flowerbeds), and she quickly turned her thoughts to the matter in hand.

      She refused to show her ignorance by asking Dr Ryder about the origin of the club’s name. Besides, she didn’t need to – clearly the original Marquis, whoever they were, had been fighters of some kind. And from the porter’s comments about Lionel Gulliver having a relative who was a baron, it seemed as though you had to be some sort of ‘gentry’ in order to become a member.

      Instead, she zeroed in on the porter’s behaviour.

      ‘He clearly didn’t think much of Lord Littlejohn, did he? Or his chosen name for their club.’

      ‘No, and I don’t blame him,’ Clement said shortly with a little huff. ‘A more indolent, lazy and self-indulgent specimen I have yet to meet.’

      Trudy was about to say something when, at the bottom of the stone staircase, she saw the coroner stumble slightly as he lifted his foot to mount the first stair. As she automatically reached out to help him, however, the coroner clutched at the wooden rail lining the inner wall and, without a word, began to climb vigorously.

      Wisely, she said nothing. She knew that, sometimes, older folk weren’t quite as robust as they once had been. And if her old granny was any indication, they didn’t like to be reminded of it!

      For his part, Dr Ryder mounted the steps with tight lips – he knew the stumble had had nothing whatsoever to do with incipient old age.

      A few years ago, he’d noticed a slight tremor in his left hand – and, as a surgeon, it had instantly raised alarm bells. Under an alias, he’d undergone a set of tests, and had been diagnosed with what his medical colleagues were beginning to call Parkinson’s disease. The condition had been known about for centuries, of course, and under a variety of different names – the Shaking Palsy in Europe, and under the ancient Indian medical system of Ayurveda as Kampavata.

      But whatever name you gave it, it had meant the end of his time wielding a scalpel, and hence his change of career. He’d been very successful, so far, in keeping his condition a secret from both his friends and work colleagues, knowing that, if they found out about it, it would end his working life.

      But as the condition slowly progressed and worsened, and his various symptoms became more and more obvious, he reluctantly acknowledged that it could only be a matter of time before he was found out.

      Still, he was determined to keep going for as long as possible before that happened. And, so far, he was sure nobody even suspected. He could only hope his young protégé hadn’t noticed his uneven gait or had put it down to a simple misstep.

      At the top of the staircase they found room eight. With a brisk rap of the iron ring knocker against the centuries-old wooden door, he announced their presence.

      The door was opened quickly enough by a small, lean youth, whose face fell the moment he recognised his visitor. He had a short cap of dark-brown hair with a propensity to curl (which was probably the bane of his life), a rather nobbly chin and large hazel eyes. The expression in them, when they slid from that of the coroner and took in Trudy’s uniform, became almost panic-stricken.

      ‘Mr Gulliver? You remember me? Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner.’

      ‘Oh, er, yes, of course.’

      ‘I have just one or two more questions concerning the death of Mr Derek Chadworth.’

      The young theology student gulped. ‘Oh. Really? I, er, rather thought that was all over and done with.’

      ‘No, sir. Not with an open verdict. We’re still investigating,’ he said with quiet satisfaction. ‘May we come in?’ he demanded, his tone indicating he didn’t know what the youth of today were coming to, keeping their elders and betters standing about on doorsteps.

      The young man instantly flushed and hastily stepped to one side. ‘Oh, of course. Sorry. Do come in. Excuse the mess. I’m in the process of packing up to “go down”.’

      Trudy, glancing around the room thoughtfully, didn’t think much of the ‘mess’. The room looked neat and tidy, if perhaps a little bare.

      ‘We’ll try not to keep you long,’ Clement assured him mildly. ‘There were just a few things that struck me in the evidence you gave in my court that I’d like to have clarified.’

      ‘Oh, er, right. Please, sit down. Can I nab a scout and see if I can lay on some tea or something?’ he offered, indicating chairs and glancing half-heartedly out of the window.

      For a moment, Trudy was stymied by his use of the word ‘scout’, then vaguely recalled that college servants were called that, for some arcane reason or other.

      ‘Oh, no, thanks. We’re fine,’ Clement said.

      Trudy took the chair furthest from the student’s eyeline and tried to make like she was invisible. Nevertheless, as she slipped her notebook out of her satchel, she noticed his eyes swivel in her direction and then