A Fatal Truth by Faith Martin

Author:Faith Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-02-19T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Sir Basil Fletcher glanced at his watch when Dr Clement Ryder walked into the hotel dining room where they’d arranged to meet, and saw that it was just gone noon. It was rather early to be thinking of eating lunch, but Sir Basil had another appointment at two o’clock, and he wasn’t the kind of man who liked to rush his meals. At fifty-six, his digestion wasn’t as good as it once was.

But when one of the city’s coroners called him and asked to meet for a friendly chat, his newspaperman’s nose for a story had twitched irresistibly. Although he now owned several regional papers, and his days as a cub reporter working for someone else were long gone, he still felt excitement run through his veins whenever the possibility of a good story loomed on the horizon.

True, he had perfectly good editors overseeing the day-to-day running of each of his papers, and they in turn had a whole flock of reporters and stringers to call upon to gather in the hot stories and report the latest scandals, but still. Every now and then he liked to dip his toe in the water, so to speak.

He recognised Dr Ryder the moment he appeared in the doorway, of course, for his lunch guest was a man of some significance. First as a surgeon, and now as a coroner, he was a man of influence with powerful friends in high places in both town and gown. In a city like Oxford, Dr Ryder often dined at High Tables in various colleges. He also had the ear (reluctantly, or so it was rumoured) of the police.

Naturally, over the last few years especially, the Tribune had reported on some of the inquests where this man had held sway. Known to be someone of high principles and with no tolerance whatsoever for suffering fools gladly – or suffering them in any other way, come to that – he was what Sir Basil recognised as definitely being a ‘character’. And thus he was someone that it didn’t pay to ignore.

Tall, handsome, with a shock of white hair and impeccably dressed in a suit that screamed of the attentions of a tailor in Savile Row, Sir Basil wasn’t at all surprised when the head waiter himself deigned to leave his reservation podium and offer his services in person.

Sir Basil was under no illusions that he himself could so effortlessly command a room. He had neither the looks nor that certain air that made head waiters notice him. Only the fact that he was well known here in his home city (and that he had acquired a title for services to journalism in the Honours List a decade ago) ensured that he could get the best table and the best efforts of the waiters.

He watched in slightly disgruntled amusement as the head waiter (a terrible snob who went by the unlikely name of Cedric) escorted Clement to his table, and smiled a friendly acknowledgement as the coroner reached him.

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