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

hoping that their being called to jury duty meant that they would be given free rein to indulge their curiosity, they had very quickly been disabused of the idea.

Trudy hid a smile as she watched her mentor whip the jury into shape, even as she felt vaguely sorry for them.

Finally, as the more routine and humdrum part of the proceedings came to an end, she could feel the excitement building up around her. As she glanced around the packed room, the sight of one man in the group of reporters caught her eye. It was his head of black hair that first alerted her to the presence of Duncan Gillingham.

Then, as if sensing that he was being watched, his green-eyed gaze flashed around, and Trudy shrank back in her seat. Luckily, she was sitting between a rather portly matron with a large hat, and an equally large gentleman in a loud houndstooth jacket.

She held her breath for a moment, but was confident that he hadn’t seen her, which was just as well. The last thing she needed was to attract his attention before she’d even had a chance to get started. However, she had little doubt that, eventually, the reporter would twig to the fact that she and Dr Ryder were sniffing around, and then she could expect things to become somewhat fraught. Given their past history, Trudy was not looking forward to once again having to deal with the attractive, ambitious, treacherous reporter for one of the city’s bigger newspapers.

‘Right then. We’ll begin with the person to find the body,’ she heard Dr Ryder say in his clear, calm voice, and the usual susurration of excitement rippled through the spectators as a man made his way to the small podium to give his evidence.

From her reading of the files first thing this morning, she knew him to be in his mid-forties, although at that moment his face looked lined and weary, making him appear a little older. A few inches short of six feet, he was heavily built (his bulk the result of muscle, not fat,) with sandy-coloured hair and pale eyes – either blue or grey, Trudy guessed. From a distance, it was hard to tell.

‘You are Mr Raymond Colin Dewberry?’ Dr Ryder asked him mildly.

‘Yes sir,’ the man replied quietly but clearly.

‘You are a farmer, with steadings in the village of Middle Fenton, I believe?’

‘Yes sir, that’s right. Worked the land all me life, like.’

Trudy gave a mental nod. No doubt that accounted for the man’s build. Even with the advent of tractors and other farm machinery, she knew that being a farmer was still a labour-intensive job that required a measure of physical fitness.

‘You own the land and the barn where the deceased was discovered?’

‘Yes sir, happen I do.’

‘Then, in your own words please, tell the jury what happened on the day in question.’

Ray Dewberry drew a deep breath, but his head hung forward, in the way that shy men not used to being the centre of attention often affected. ‘Well, it were nearly six in the morning, I reckon,’ he began, his voice a low, Oxonian burr that nevertheless carried well. ‘I’d just helped my cowman get the ladies into the milking shed, and I had to go to the barn up the hill to check on the threshing machines in there. One of my lads told me the day before he thought one of ’em needed repairs. So I went inside and saw young David, hanging from the rafters.’

There was a collectively drawn breath at this simple but ugly statement, and the man giving evidence visibly flinched, as if it was his fault that they were all having to go through this, and ducked his head even lower. ‘Gave me a right turn it did, and all,’ he added helplessly.

‘I understand it was a shock for you, Mr Dewberry,’ Clement said, his voice kind but firm. ‘You recognised the deceased immediately?’

‘Oh aye, known him since he were a nipper, didn’t I? He was best friends with my own boy, Ronnie. As a kiddie, him and Ronnie were always running about the farm all over the place, playing, like. More often than not he’d end up having tea with us at the farmhouse. My wife was always feedin’ him, like. A lovely chap he were,’ he added almost defiantly. He shot a quick look at the public gallery, as if daring them to contradict him.

Clement could feel the mood in the room change to one of sympathy for the farmer, and who could blame them? It must have been awful for him to find the body of a man he’d known for nearly all of his young life. ‘I understand this is upsetting, Mr Dewberry, but if you could tell us a little more about what you observed, that would be helpful.’

Ray Dewberry once more heaved a sigh, his strong shoulders slumping a little further down. ‘Well … I dunno really. For a moment or two, I reckon I must have just stood there, gaping at the poor lad. Then I walked further in and saw that he was hanging from the main crossbeam, like. From a bit of old rope that had been thrown over it. And there was a stepladder lying on its side underneath his legs. The other end of the rope had been tied off around a heavy plough on the ground that had been in there for years, like. Too rusty to be of much use nowadays, but you don’t like to get rid of machinery, do you?’

The man paused and gave an audible swallow.

‘I looked up at him proper like, in case he was … well, still with us like … but I could see from his face … well … that he weren’t. I had to go outside and was sick in some nettles. Sorry,’ he added meekly.

After this embarrassing admission, Ray Dewberry gave a shrug and waited patiently for the next question.

Clement regarded him thoughtfully. He knew