A Fatal Flaw. Faith Martin

the winner of the pageant would be automatically entered for the Miss Oxford contest next year, and the winner of that would then go on to enter Miss England, who, of course, would then be a contestant in Miss World.

      ‘Abby didn’t have her head so far in the clouds as to think she’d go that far,’ Vicky had defended her dead friend robustly. But she did feel that winning the competition would present her with more options. A life in London as an advertiser’s model perhaps. Or a model for one of the bigger fashion houses. Maybe, Vicky had said through some tears, her friend had even seen herself as living in Paris.

      But in order to achieve these ambitions, she needed to win.

      ‘She became obsessed with beauty products and doing things to improve her figure,’ Vicky testified. ‘Like exercises to improve her bustline and slim down her waist.’ She also took to periodic ‘fasting’ to lose weight, and had spent all her money on face creams and lotions, which, Abby constantly complained, were all so expensive.

      ‘She was always reading in women’s magazines about this herbal stuff that you could make for yourself, to make your skin glow and all that kind of thing, that didn’t cost the earth,’ Vicky had added.

      And it was here that Dr Ryder – and no doubt the jury and gentlemen of the press as well – really sat up and took notice. Because, finally, they were coming to the crux of the matter.

      When Dr Ryder asked her if it was possible that her friend might have added something ‘homemade and herbal’ to her glass of orange juice in the mistaken belief that it would somehow help improve her looks or figure, Vicky hadn’t been able to give a proper answer. She’d dithered a bit and had seemed frightened and nervous and unsure. Eventually, somewhat tearful and upset, she admitted that Abby had made some stuff for herself before her death – including some sort of oat-and-milk face pack, following a recipe she’d seen in a newspaper article. That had been followed by an experiment with a homemade shampoo that was supposed to make her hair shine more. And yes, Vicky admitted, her friend had got the ingredients from some sort of plant material that she’d picked herself, but Vicky hadn’t bothered to ask what, because she hadn’t liked the smell of it.

      But whether or not she would make stuff to actually eat or drink – she just didn’t know. When pressed, she was adamant that her friend ‘wasn’t stupid’ and that, as children, their parents had always warned them not to ‘eat berries from the hedges’.

      But she also admitted that Abby, like herself, didn’t really know anything about what was poisonous and what wasn’t.

      The parents’ testimony, as usual, was heartbreaking. Yes, they’d heard the hurtful rumours going around that their daughter was sometimes moody and volatile, and that she’d drunk the poison on purpose. But such an idea was ludicrous. Their daughter had been young and beautiful and looking forward to being in the beauty pageant, and to being on stage at the Old Swan Theatre for the final public performance. Furthermore, she had been making plans for her future. Yes, sometimes she could be a bit moody and up and down, but a lot of girls her age were the same. She had certainly not been under the doctor for depression or anything else.

      She had no real worries in her life; she had a good steady job, and a young man she’d been stepping out with, one William Hanson – although they didn’t think it was serious – and no health issues. Why would she do something so dreadful?

      The ‘young man’ in question, when called, admitted to ‘stepping out’ with her in the past, but that they’d seen less and less of each other since she’d started rehearsing for the beauty pageant, and that they’d more or less ‘called the whole thing off’. He admitted to having a new girl now, but had backed up Abby’s parents’ claim that she had definitely not been the ‘suicidal type’. He, too, couldn’t believe she had deliberately poisoned herself. Why would she do it?

      Clement wondered the same thing – and he could see that the jury did too.

      By four o’clock that afternoon, all the available evidence had been examined, and Clement could see that the jury was looking uneasy and uncertain.

      With his vast knowledge of both juries and human nature in general, it wasn’t hard for him to read their collective state of mind. They clearly didn’t believe it was a case of suicide. There had been no note left, and in any case, most juries were reluctant to bring in such a verdict, because of the effect it had on the victim’s family.

      There had been no evidence of ‘foul play’ either. Both her parents had testified that their daughter had gone to bed as normal and had obviously died in her sleep. There had been no evidence of an intruder or break-in at the house.

      That left accidental death or death by misadventure.

      Obviously the poison had been in the glass of orange juice (as chemical analysis had confirmed). But how had it got there?

      Given what they’d been told, Clement thought it a good guess that they would bring in a verdict that the girl herself had made up a ‘beauty’ potion and had sadly and fatally poisoned herself in the process.

      But Clement Ryder was not so sure.

      So in his summing up, he very cleverly played on their confusion by stressing that an open verdict would give the authorities time to explore the matter further.

      Thus feeling relieved at having the responsibility for giving a firm decision taken off their shoulders, they gratefully accepted this gift horse without so much as even a cursory look inside its mouth, and took less than ten minutes to return with the aforementioned open verdict – much to the chagrin of the police representative, who had hoped that he might be able to write this case off their books once and for all, with minimum time and effort.

      The gentlemen of the press quickly fled to file their stories – for the ‘mysterious death of a beauty queen’ could run for days, if handled properly, thus saving them the time and effort of going out and hunting down real stories. Besides, death and pretty girls always sold well, making everyone happy.

      Well, everyone except for Robert Dunbar of course, who would not be a happy man at all. He had been hoping that the demise of Abigail Trent would be settled quickly and discreetly, and would not be allowed to sully his first foray into the world of showbiz.

      * * *

      The next morning, another man who felt decidedly unhappy was DI Harry Jennings. But then, he never was particularly sanguine whenever Dr Clement Ryder chose to drop by his office. It nearly always meant trouble and inconvenience.

      But for once, the Inspector was determined not to play ball. ‘Sorry, you can’t have WPC Truelove. She’s been seconded on special duties,’ he informed the older man smugly.

      Since Trudy had already told him that said ‘special duties’ required her to search the female suspects who were being brought in during a sporadic raid on the city’s brothels, Clement didn’t feel particularly impressed.

      ‘That’s a shame,’ Clement said mildly. ‘The press are going to be all over this case, whether we like it or not.’

      ‘I don’t see why there should be any trouble,’ Jennings growled uneasily.

      ‘Well, since there seems to be a joker at work in the theatre, the more ribald daily rags might make some play with it.’

      The Inspector looked at him narrowly. ‘What do you mean? What sort of joker?’ he asked, feeling genuinely alarmed now. It seemed the wily old coroner was on to something that he didn’t know about. And that was never a good sign.

      ‘Oh, hadn’t you found that out yet?’ Clement asked casually. Luckily, Trudy had left nothing out when reciting Grace’s woes.

      ‘Apparently there’s been trouble within the beauty pageant. Spiked face creams and trip wires across the stage steps and such forth.’ He waved a hand casually in the air.

      ‘That just sounds like petty rivalries to me,’ Jennings said impatiently. ‘It hardly sounds like anything serious.’

      ‘Oh,