A Fatal Flaw. Faith Martin

information and a general “feel” for the case,’ he pointed out patiently. ‘It’s not as if new evidence is ever revealed. It’s a question of making official the facts that are already known to the police and the medical authorities.’

      ‘All right,’ Trudy said, trying to quash down a feeling of impatience. ‘So what’s your “feeling” for this one? Do you think she committed suicide?’ she demanded. Now that her friend Dr Clement Ryder had become involved and the investigation was officially ‘above board’ with her superiors, she was eager to move the case forward.

      ‘Your friend was adamant that Abigail wasn’t suicidal, wasn’t she?’ he mused quietly.

      ‘Yes. Why? Did the other friends you called as witnesses say otherwise?’ Trudy asked sharply, and for some reason was rather surprised when the coroner shook his head.

      ‘No. Her parents were adamant she wasn’t depressed, of course, and her friends seemed to feel the same way. Nobody said that she seemed the “type” to take her own life. Not that there is such a thing, of course.’

      ‘Oh. So all the gossip about her being moody and whatnot was just that? Idle gossip and speculation, and people being spiteful? Or…’ Trudy’s eyes widened slightly as a sudden thought hit her. ‘Could it be that someone was deliberately spreading such rumours around to try and make people believe it was suicide, when it wasn’t?’

      ‘Maybe,’ Clement said, a twinkle appearing in his rather watery blue eyes at her evident excitement. ‘But it sounds a little far-fetched to me.’

      Trudy sighed and reluctantly nodded.

      ‘Then again,’ the coroner swept on, ‘she might have been moody and occasionally depressed without wanting to kill herself. Most of us are down from time to time, but we don’t all go throwing ourselves off the top of tall buildings. No, the impression I got of her, reading between the lines, was of a pretty and ambitious girl, who was perhaps a shade on the selfish and self-obsessed side, and was determined to get on in life.’

      ‘So not suicide then,’ Trudy said with some satisfaction. ‘When Grace gets here, she’ll be pleased about that, at least. So – not suicide, and I take it we can strike out murder?’ she offered, a bit more tentatively. She nibbled on a biscuit, her face thoughtful.

      Clement verbally ran through the evidence – or rather lack thereof – for the case for murder. No break-in, no medical evidence of an attack or struggle, or that the poison had been forced into her system. Nor had the victim complained of being afraid of anyone, or of anyone menacing her prior to her death.

      ‘Of course, none of that means that someone couldn’t have sneaked the poison into her juice somehow,’ he pointed out reasonably in summation.

      ‘Which would put the people in the house with her in the spotlight,’ Trudy mused, sitting a little forward on her chair now. ‘Namely, her family.’ Then she slumped back again. ‘Can you really see her mum or dad or one of her siblings poisoning her?’ she asked sceptically.

      Clement had never met Trudy’s parents, but he had been able to tell from the way she spoke about them, that she enjoyed a very close and loving relationship with them – as she did with her brother. So it wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t really believe in murder within a family.

      However, he’d presided over too many cases (and read too many depressing news articles) to be unaware that one’s supposedly nearest and dearest often did want to poison one another. And sometimes did just that!

      ‘Her parents and the sister who found her seemed genuinely grief-stricken,’ he temporised. ‘Sometime soon I’m going to have to talk to them privately and in more detail. But I think you should concentrate on what your friend Grace has to say about this beauty pageant thing, and the strange goings-on there. Just in case there’s a connection.’

      Trudy nodded, then, picking up something in the coroner’s tone, she shot the older man a look. ‘You sounded rather disapproving of the beauty contest, Dr Ryder. Don’t you follow the Miss World competition?’ she asked, a shade tongue-in-cheek. Most men, she knew, liked looking at pretty girls.

      ‘No, I don’t,’ Clement said, half-amused and half-appalled by the idea. ‘I’d rather watch the cricket!’

      Trudy shrugged. ‘I suppose I can see why most of the girls doing them think it’s fun. And the money prizes can be staggering – I did a little research on it after Grace came to me,’ she admitted, seeing the doctor’s thick eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘But I think the Miss Oxford Honey only gives out prize money to the actual winner, and prizes for the runner up and winners of each round. Grace said the shop owners who are helping sponsor it are donating the prizes. You know, stockings from the clothes shops, and cosmetics from the chemists, and stuff like that. I think they’re being rewarded for their generosity by getting to sit on the judging panel, along with Mr Dunbar and the owner of the theatre.’

      ‘I’ll bet they are,’ Clement grunted, secretly thinking that most of them would be only too glad of the excuse to participate in a little glamorous showbiz under the auspices of a business banner.

      ‘So, you think it’s unlikely to be murder?’ Trudy got the conversation back on track, trying not to sound disappointed. ‘I suppose that leaves us with accidental death then? I mean, that the dead girl thought she was drinking something herbal and good for her that she’d made herself, and was in fact drinking poison instead. That’s so sad. To think, she thought that what she was doing was going to help her reach her goals in life, when in fact, she was putting an end to her future once and for all.’

      Clement blinked at this rather torturous statement and then shrugged. ‘Or perhaps she didn’t make the poisonous concoction herself, but was given it by someone else?’

      ‘So you do think it’s murder?’ Trudy said, grinning with excitement.

      ‘Or it’s possible that the person who made the concoction made a genuine mistake, and is now too scared to own up to it?’

      ‘Her best friend Vicky, perhaps?’ Trudy proffered absently, reading the coroner’s inquest notes in between chatting and sipping her tea.

      ‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as the adventurous kind. Not the sort of girl to try making up ointments and such,’ Clement disagreed. ‘She didn’t seem that bright, for one thing. No, I got the distinct feeling she was more the follower, and Abby the leader.’

      ‘Oh. One of her other friends then?’

      ‘Or a rival in the competition, perhaps?’ Clement mused. Although he considered it part of his remit to try and rein Trudy in on some of her more fanciful theories, he had to admit that it could be fun to let the imagination run riot now and then. ‘Perhaps this prankster your friend told you about has struck again, but this time went too far? Possibly without meaning to?’

      ‘Would that be murder then?’ Trudy mused.

      ‘Manslaughter, probably,’ Clement said. ‘But I’m not a QC, and besides, this is all idle speculation, remember.’

      Just then, and before Trudy could reply, the secretary knocked on the door, announced the arrival of Miss Farley and ushered Grace inside.

      Trudy took one look at her pale, tired face, and got to her feet. ‘Grace. How’s your mother?’ she asked abruptly and urgently.

      Clement took the opportunity to reach into his desk, unroll a pack of strong mints and pop one into his mouth. Another annoying side effect of Parkinson’s was halitosis, and he had got into the habit of sucking on mints on a regular basis.

      Grace, shrugging wearily and taking the seat the coroner rose from and offered her, slumped down rather heavily and gave a small smile.

      ‘Oh, you know. She’s been taking this new medication for a little while now, and at first she seemed to be improving. Now some of the doctors at the Radcliffe Infirmary seem to think that an experimental operation might be her only hope, but