Before her mother could launch in with yet more questions, Trudy beat a hasty retreat and ran up the stairs to her small bedroom. Once there, she sat on the edge of her bed, took off her shoes with a sense of relief and pushed her feet into some slippers. But all the time she was thinking of Duncan Gillingham.
She’d first met him during her last case with Dr Ryder. At first, she’d thought he was rather interested in her, and had been a little flattered, but she’d quickly learned that he was not a man that could be trusted. Not only was he ferociously ambitious, and would do anything to get a good story, he was also engaged to the daughter of the man who owned the newspaper he worked for.
A fact that he’d been very careful not to mention to her.
Luckily, Dr Ryder had saved her from making a bit of a fool of herself, and now she gave a small sigh.
She hadn’t thought of him for months … well, not really. Not often, anyway. And now he was back, sending her beautiful flowers. Of course, it didn’t take half a second for her to realise why.
Somehow he’d found out that she and the coroner were digging into the Carmody/Finch case. And he thought he could get some sort of inside scoop by buttering her up again!
Hah! Trudy gave a mental snort. If he thought he could sweet-talk and fool her again he was in for a shock!
Chapter 12
The next morning they arrived bright and early at the Dewberry farm, but even so Clement suspected that father and son had probably been up for hours and had already seen to all the first chores of the day. Luckily, they had returned to the farmhouse for what was probably their second breakfast of the day – for when Ray Dewberry answered the door to their knock, Clement could smell porridge bubbling on the stove.
The main entrance to the old farmhouse opened directly into the kitchen, and an old black cat sat in the middle of the stone-flagged floor, lackadaisically washing its face. It paused briefly to study them, then resumed its ablutions. Seated at the large, well-scrubbed wooden table, nursing an empty mug in his hands, Ronnie Dewberry peered at them suspiciously.
‘Who’s that, Dad?’ he asked. ‘Not more police!’ He snorted. ‘I thought they’d done poking around the village asking about Iris.’
‘T’ain’t the police, boy. This is the coroner. I ’ad to tell him all about finding young David in court, and such.’ The farmer’s eyes moved shyly to Trudy then rapidly away again.
‘I’m Dr Ryder’s assistant,’ Trudy introduced herself, not quite truthfully, but not actually lying either. She was finding it hard to have to explain herself, for usually her uniform did it for her. Being in plain clothes was still a treat, but sometimes it had its drawbacks.
‘May we come in for a few minutes, Mr Dewberry? I just have some follow-up questions,’ Clement put in smoothly. ‘Inquests can be long-winded things, and we have to cross all the T’s and dot all the I’s. Everyone thinks a case is over when the court rules on a verdict, but alas, that’s not quite so.’
‘Oh, I daresay,’ the farmer said, clearly having no idea about such matters – and probably caring even less. ‘Paperwork be the bane of my life sometimes too,’ he muttered as he led them towards the table. ‘What the taxman wants to know …’ He shook his head sadly and moved to the old wood-burning range to give the porridge a stir and prevent it burning on the bottom of the saucepan.
‘We just wanted a quick word with both of you, really, about David and what happened to him,’ Clement said, glancing inquiringly at one of the chairs tucked under the table and then at the younger Dewberry male. Ronnie scowled slightly, but then shrugged, nodding his head in unspoken permission.
Clement, ever the gentleman, first pulled out a chair for Trudy, and as she sat, she contemplated Ronnie thoughtfully. She knew from the files that he was the same age as the dead boy, which would make him just twenty. A few inches short of six feet, she judged, though it was hard to tell with him sitting down. He was a handsome enough lad, she supposed, with straw-coloured hair and nice blue eyes. A slight smattering of freckles had probably caused him to be teased at school, but when he bothered to smile, she imagined he would make a few female heads turn in interest.
‘As I understand it,’ Clement said, glancing at the younger farmer, ‘the evening David died, you were at the village pub?’
Over by the range, the boy’s father gave a brief snort, but said nothing.
Ronnie shot him a glowering glance. ‘Just to have a pint of cider and play a game of darts with the lads,’ he muttered. ‘No harm in that.’
‘And you stayed till closing time?’
‘I left just before,’ he said, a shade defensively, Trudy thought.
Clement nodded. So the boy had an alibi for only part of the time period when David had probably died, which meant his best friend was by no means in the clear, if they were indeed looking at a case of murder.
‘Did you see David that day?’ Clement asked curiously.
‘No, not that day,’ Ronnie said heavily. ‘I wish I had. If I’d’a seen him, I might’ve got an inkling about what a bad way he was in, and done summat about it. Jollied him up a bit, like.’ He shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘Or at least … I dunno. Done something,’ he added morosely, staring into his empty mug. ‘I just don’t
