A Fatal Affair by Faith Martin (top e book reader TXT) 📕

himself, his chosen new career meant that he was still a man of considerable influence and power.

His social circle included presidents of colleges, city councillors, politicians and captains of industry. Over the years he’d not been above using that power, on occasion, to delve further into the cases that sometimes passed through his courtroom. Although a jury of the good old British public could nearly always be relied upon to get things right, in Clement’s opinion – which was the only one that really mattered to him – that wasn’t always the case.

Neither, in his opinion, were the city police infallible! This had led to him investigating one or two deaths that had been attributed to either accident or suicide, but which had proved to be murder instead.

So although he cursed his trembling hand for playing up just when an eagle-eyed member of the constabulary had come to call on him, he was also very much intrigued. Harry Jennings was amongst one of many people who would no doubt be delighted to know of his illness – since it meant it could be used against him to force his retirement – but Clement was confident that the police officer would notice nothing amiss. So far, his illness hadn’t progressed to the state when he was slurring his words.

Nevertheless, he leaned back in his chair a little as DI Harry Jennings passed through the door at his secretary’s behest, took a deep calming breath, and made sure to keep his hands still.

‘DI Jennings, a pleasure and something of a surprise,’ he greeted his visitor amiably. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He nodded at the comfortable leather padded chair on the opposite side of his desk.

‘Thank you, sir,’ DI Jennings said, glancing around curiously. Clement watched him take in the book-lined walls, thick carpet and tall standing lamps, his eyes wandering with some surprise to the oil paintings that were hanging on the walls. These were Clement’s own personal contribution to the décor, some rather fine English country landscapes. A fire roared away in the fireplace, since, for May, it was still a bit on the chilly side. Wordlessly, the policeman regarded the large oak and leather desk positioned impressively in front of two large sash windows, which overlooked the less-than-salubrious outer cobbled courtyard of Floyd’s Row, where the morgue and coroner’s offices were situated.

‘Nice office you have, sir,’ the Inspector commented as he took the proffered seat in front of the desk. Jennings, a man who had not long since celebrated his fortieth birthday, was slender, with thinning fair hair, a rather large nose, and hazel eyes that, at that moment, didn’t look any too happy. They flitted about the room, reluctant to settle on any one spot, and Clement found his lips twitching with amusement.

‘Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?’ he asked, deciding to put the man out of his misery as quickly as possible.

‘Er, yes, sir, there is. It’s about the case you’re overseeing on Monday,’ Jennings said, clearing his throat.

Immediately, Clement cast his eyes to the large stack of files still sitting on his desk. ‘Oh? The David … er …’ For a moment he couldn’t remember the last name of the deceased, and once more he silently cursed the illness that was slowly but surely nibbling away at his faculties.

‘Finch,’ Harry Jennings said, clearly too annoyed at having to be here at all and ask this man a favour, to realise that the old vulture had suffered a momentary lapse in memory.

‘Ah yes – young lad, found hanging in a friend’s barn,’ Clement added crisply. ‘I was reading the preliminary notes earlier this morning.’ He paused, eyeing the Inspector with a gimlet glance that had the officer shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Clement had already noted that the boy’s body had been found in the same village where Iris Carmody had been murdered barely a week before, and suspected a link. ‘Is there something about the proceedings that I need to know about in advance?’ he demanded.

Harry Jennings flushed slightly. ‘The, er, deceased, is the son of Superintendent Keith Finch,’ he said flatly, running a finger under his tie, which suddenly felt a little tight.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clement said, after a moment’s thought. ‘The boy’s father is a friend of yours?’

Harry Jennings visibly hesitated. ‘I’ve known the Superintendent a long time,’ he finally conceded carefully. ‘He’s a good man. A good officer. Naturally, this business of his son has been a severe blow.’

Clement nodded, but his face was beginning to tighten. ‘Inspector, if you’re here to ask me to try and influence the verdict of the jury …’

‘Perish the thought!’ the Inspector burst in quickly. He knew, from past experience, just how withering the old vulture could be if he thought you were trying to stick your nose into his territory.

‘I understand, of course, how upsetting it can be for families when suicide is suspected,’ Clement said, slightly mollified but his voice still a shade cold. ‘And we try and spare their feelings as much as possible, but—’

‘You think it is suicide then?’ Harry Jennings interjected craftily.

‘Certainly not,’ Clement shot back, sounding and looking shocked. ‘I have yet to even hear the evidence, or listen to the witness testimony. And as you know, I never, ever, pre-judge a case.’

The Inspector hid a smile and nodded solemnly. Just as he’d known it would, the implied slur on Dr Ryder’s impartiality had diverted him nicely from his intended harangue.

‘No, of course not, Dr Ryder. But I am here on the family’s behalf – in a way.’

Clement slowly sat forward in his chair. His watery grey gaze was now fixed firmly on the man in front of him. ‘Again, if you’re asking me to do anything other than conduct a proper and full inquest …’

‘I’m not, Dr Ryder. I wouldn’t ever be so foolish,’ Harry Jennings said, and meant every word of it. Nobody but an idiot would ever try and put one over on the old vulture. Only