Chapter 2
Dr Clement Ryder watched his hand, which was lying flat on the tabletop, and scowled as it began to twitch slightly. Grimly, he used his other hand to massage the palm, and after a while, the twitching slowly abated. But he knew it would be back.
He’d self-diagnosed himself as suffering from Parkinson’s disease whilst still a surgeon in London, which had led to him resigning from his medical career and embarking on his new life as a coroner in Oxford.
Although, so far, he’d managed to keep his condition a secret from everyone – his friends, family, and work colleagues alike – he was well aware that he faced an uphill struggle in the years ahead to keep the secret safe, as the disease inevitably progressed and worsened. And the symptoms became more and more obvious.
But at least, being a widower and living alone now that both of his grown children were off living lives of their own, his domestic situation put him in a good position to keep his private demons strictly private.
Which was why he scowled somewhat ferociously as he heard the doorbell ring. Visitors were seldom welcome. He glanced outside, saw that it was nearly fully dark, and wondered who could be calling at this time in the evening.
Although he was a man of influence and power, and often socialised with Oxford’s movers and shakers, his real friends were few and far between, and all of them knew that he wasn’t the kind of man that you simply ‘dropped in on’ to have a chat and a nightcap with.
He got up somewhat reluctantly from his chair, a tall man at just over six feet in height, with a shock of thick silvery-white hair. He was a few years off his sixtieth birthday, but looked comfortably closer to 50. As he walked out into the hall, he watched his feet carefully. The stumbling uneven gait of a man in his condition was a dead giveaway to well-informed eyes, and he was glad to notice that, so far, he was walking as well as he’d ever done.
Perhaps, in the future, he might have to feign some sort of leg injury to cover up any falls or mishaps? Or a touch of fictional arthritis might fit the bill? It would certainly give him an excuse to use a walking cane. He’d have to give it some thought.
He opened his front door with a peremptory sweep, and then blinked in surprise as he saw the young, tall, brunette woman standing anxiously on his step.
Trudy Loveday had never called at the coroner’s home before. On the previous two occasions that they’d worked murder cases, she’d always gone to his office to make her reports or to meet up with him.
She’d found his name and address in the phone book and hadn’t been at all surprised to have to find her way to the prestigious area near South Parks Road, where he lived in a terrace of large, Victorian houses, in a leafy street not far from Keble College.
‘Hello, Dr Ryder,’ she said now, launching nervously into speech. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this… If you’ve got company, I can always come back…’ She half-turned, almost wishing he’d say that he had, so that she could go away again.
For now that she was here, she was feeling distinctly uneasy. It was one thing to be assigned as this important man’s police liaison by her boss, but that was a whole world away from coming to his private residence, out of uniform, and begging for a favour. It smacked of presumptuousness, and as such, was enough to send her face flooding with colour.
Which was why she’d come over barely ten minutes after Grace Farley had left, as she’d felt that the sooner she got it over with, the less fraught her nerves would become.
‘No, no, I’m alone,’ he reassured her pleasantly. ‘Come on in, Constable Loveday,’ Clement said, using her title rather than her name, since he’d instantly picked up on her anxiety.
Trudy forced a smile and stepped inside a small but – to her eyes at least – still rather grand hall, with black and white tiles on the floor, and a large oval ornately-framed mirror set over a narrow console table. She noted the private telephone that rested on it and was once again reminded of the differences in their status.
If the Lovedays ever needed to make a telephone call, they used the phone box at the end of their street, like everyone else.
‘Come on through to the study,’ he said, indicating the door that stood open to their left. ‘I was just about to make some cocoa,’ he lied. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Oh, no thank you,’ Trudy said instantly. ‘I won’t stay long, and I don’t want to take up your time,’ she insisted. But even as she spoke, she wondered if it was true that the coroner had been about to drink so innocent a beverage.
Once or twice in the past, she’d wondered if he drank too much. Occasionally she’d noticed one or two signs that might indicate intoxication. But she watched him now as he led her into a pleasant, book-lined room with large sash windows overlooking the tree-lined street beyond, and he seemed to be alert and sober.
‘Take a seat,’ he offered, indicating one of the green leather button-back chairs that sat in front of a walnut desk. He took his own seat behind it as Trudy, still feeling very much the supplicant, lowered herself into the chair.
‘The reason I’ve come,’ she began, launching into her story before she could give herself time to chicken out, ‘is that I’ve just had a visit from an old friend of mine. And what she had to say… I thought you should know about it.’
‘Oh?’ Clement asked, clearly puzzled but also intrigued. Which was, Trudy hoped, a good sign.
‘Yes. It’s about the girl who died recently from ingesting poison – the yew berry case, and she—’
Clement Ryder quickly held up his hand. ‘Before you go any further, let me stop you just a moment. That’s one of my cases – I’m holding the inquest the day after tomorrow.’
‘Oh. I rather hoped it might be one of yours,’ Trudy admitted. ‘It makes things so much easier.’
Clement smiled wryly at her. He’d come to know Trudy Loveday quite well during the past year, and had come to respect her ambition and intelligence, but she could still be heart-breakingly young and naive sometimes.
‘It might, or it might not,’ he said firmly. ‘But it’s not really the done thing to discuss details of an inquest before it’s even started. And if you’re here to ask questions about the case, I’m afraid I simply can’t discuss it with you. Even if you’ve been assigned the case in your official police capacity…?’ He paused delicately, one eyebrow raised, and Trudy quickly shook her head.
‘Oh no, I’m not,’ she confirmed. And didn’t need to say any more. Both of them knew that her boss wouldn’t have assigned her to work on such an important case since DI Jennings preferred her to do office work, make the tea, and hold the hands of female victims of handbag-snatchings or lost cats.
Letting her work on a case that involved actual police work wasn’t something that would have occurred to him!
‘No,’ Clement agreed, a shade heavily and with an ironic glint in his eye. ‘But even if you had been working the case—’
This time it was Trudy’s turn to interrupt him, which she did, aware that she was blushing slightly.
‘It’s all right, Dr Ryder, I haven’t come
