PRELUDE TO MURDER: A Rex Graves Mystery

by C. S. Challinor

  “Well, what about Rob, then?” Helen asked.

  “He’s a better prospect, I think, for murdering Tom,” Rex agreed. “But Lydia?”

  “Perhaps he saw her romantic trip to Paris with Tom as a sign it was over between them.”

  “And perhaps Lydia had more of a stake in the business than he would have liked. The fruit motif furniture was her idea, after all.” Rex mulled over the possibility further.

  “He was a pretty regular visitor. I often saw his Porsche go by.”

  “But was he there the evening they died and did he give Lydia a large dose of antifreeze? Tom is more problematic. It seems his poisoning dated back to the beginning of the year with a spell of remittance when they went to Paris and up until his birthday party a week later.”

  “Rob wouldn’t have had a chance to poison him in Paris,” Helen noted.

  Rex finished his tea. “I wonder what his alibi is. I’d like to meet with him before I go back to Edinburgh. I’m not sure I can give much more time to the case. I have others piling up in my chambers, which I’m paid to take care off.”

  “It’s a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, isn’t it?” Helen joked.

  “Natalie.”

  “Oh, are we continuing? Envy,” she said when he nodded. “She saw Tom’s new life with Lydia and got fed up ferrying Devin back and forth.”

  “She has a new life too,” Rex pointed out, setting down his empty mug. “And she was still seeing Tom, if Paula is to be believed. Perhaps it was the perfect arrangement for both of them.”

  “But not for Dr. Purvis if he’d known. Perhaps he did.”

  “The deadly dentist.” Rex smiled in amusement. “It’s just possible his jolliness is a façade. Did you know there’s an elevated rate of suicide among dentists?”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Perhaps because they don’t get to interact much with their patients. Or else staring into people’s mouths all day is depressing.”

  “It would depress me,” Helen agreed. “But from what Jill said, Dr. Purvis has plenty of interaction with his captive audience.”

  Rex chuckled. “Cheryl?”

  Helen stared at him in surprise. “Well, okay. She’s not been entirely forthcoming with the diary. What if Lydia knew a secret Cheryl didn’t want known, and that’s why Cheryl went to retrieve it; before anyone else could? That might explain why her details of its contents are so sketchy. For example, she didn’t mention Tom and Lydia’s rows, did she? And yet their direct neighbours heard them.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t think anyone heard a big blow-up or anything that Sunday night. But you’d think Lydia would have mentioned in her diary if she was having arguments with her husband. I mean, it’s not inconsequential. If you ask me, Cheryl’s been very selective with what she’s told you.”

  “Arguments between married couples are normal, especially when affairs are involved. If Madame Mathilde is right concerning restless spirits, Lydia and Tom are not having a very good time of it even now.”

  He saw Helen was tired and decided there had been enough theorizing for one night. He could not, in any case, think of anyone left to round off the list of possible suspects. He felt the parents of the victims could be excluded for now, even if Paula Simmons was a gold-digging piece of work.

  They were about to go upstairs to bed when the doorbell rang.

  “It’s a bit late for someone to be calling round,” Helen said, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

  “I’ll get it.” Rex rose from the sofa and went to answer the door. No one was there, but across the street he spied a lanky man in dark leather mount a small motorbike, rev up, and take off with the engine whining. Rex stepped onto the path and could not see anyone else on the dimly lit street. As he turned to go back in the house, he noticed a folded up plastic bag by the door. When he picked it up, he felt something soft inside, itself containing a slim object, harder to the touch. He took the bag inside and closed the front door.

  “Who was it?” Helen asked from the hallway.

  “I don’t know. The only person I saw was a motorcyclist wearing a full-face helmet and those black moon boots. But I found this on the doorstep.”

  He switched on the lamp on the phone table and looked inside the generic shopping bag. He pulled out a wad of fine snow-white cotton and unfolded it to reveal an amber-coloured tube capped with a rubber top, such as one might use to administer eye drops, and large enough to contain a teaspoon-full of liquid.

  “It reminds me of the pipettes we used in school chemistry experiments,” Helen said, eying it closely. “But those were clear glass. This looks like acrylic, and it appears to be part of a bottle.”

  Rex examined the lace-trimmed handkerchief it was wrapped in and caught a whiff of fragrance. “This is embroidered with the letter L,” he noted.

  “It’s very fancy.” Helen took a closer look. “I know that rose-scented perfume. It’s Joie de vivre. That’s what Lydia wore.”

  “And Cheryl,” Rex reminded her.

  “Do you think…,” Helen trailed off, staring up into Rex’s face.

  His thumb and forefinger draped in the white material, Rex held up the dropper by its rubber end. “I think we just found the murder weapon,” he announced.

  Chapter 19

  Eureka, Rex thought. Something tangible, at last, but why now? After a mere moment’s hesitation, he called Cheryl and, after apologizing profusely for the late hour and for upsetting her earlier, he came right out and asked, “Did you drop something off at Helen’s just now?”

  “Like what?” Cheryl asked, sounding stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my office, making a copy of the diary.”

  “Why?”

  Cheryl paused for a second before speaking. “I’ve decided to hand it over to the police, like you asked.” She told Rex she had fretted all day, but finally decided she could not shoulder the responsibility for what might be a key piece of evidence alone.

  “And you’re keeping a copy for yourself.”

  “Yes. I think it’s best. What was I supposed to have dropped off?” she repeated.

  “Did Lydia have any handkerchiefs embroidered with her first initial?”

  “She did. She got them in Paris and gave me three with the letter C on them. Not that I use them, but they’re nice to have.”

  “Listen, Cheryl. If you know who dropped it off at my door, you must tell me.”

  “Stop accusing me! I didn’t, I tell you! Why would I? And I wasn’t anywhere near her house the night she was poisoned.”

  Her outrage sounded genuine, and nor did she betray knowledge of the dispenser found wrapped in the handkerchief. “Well, I’d like to know just who delivered it,” he backed down.

  “Well, so would I!” Cheryl swore softly on the phone.

  “It’s just that it has Lydia’s perfume on it, the one you wear as well.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like it one little bit! It’s creepy. What’s Helen going to do when you go back to Edinburgh? She must be scared stiff. I wouldn’t want to be home alone with strangers leaving dead people’s stuff at my door. When are you returning to Edinburgh?”

  “Tomorrow. Cheryl, just do me a huge favour, please, and make me a copy of the diary as well.” He told her it was now all the more imperative that he see the journal. Without it, he was just floundering in the dark and no one could be cleared. And no one was safe.

  The next morning, she graciously dropped the copied diary off on her way to work. Rex, unsure up until that moment whether she would deliver the pages, and heartily relieved when she did, assured her he would exercise the utmost discretion. “And you’ll give the police the original without delay?” he asked.

  “I’m going to say Lydia left it in my car for safe-keeping. I don’t want to have to explain I went into their house to retrieve it. Okay, have to run,” she exclaimed, turning back down the path.
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  He leafed through the stapled pages and saw that whole paragraphs had been redacted. “Cheryl, what’s this?” he called after her from the front door before she could get in her white Volvo.

  “I just edited out the bits about Rob and Lydia’s assignations.”

  “I didn’t need a censored edition!” he returned. “At my age, I’ve seen and heard it all.”

  Cheryl grinned at him. “Bet you haven’t,” she said.

  “I’m a prosecutor. You don’t think I’m familiar with all manner of perversions?”

  The young woman appeared to make an effort not to laugh. “I suppose. But you seem so…”

  “Staid?” he demanded.

  “Buttoned-up?” Cheryl bit her lip as if reluctant to offend him. “But I swear there’s nothing important left out.”

  Rex expelled a deep breath. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said, brandishing the sheaf of pages in the air.

  “Is that the copy of the diary?” Helen asked, coming out of the kitchen as he was closing the front door.

  “The PG version. Cheryl saw fit to protect my sensibilities by blacking out the naughty parts about Lydia and Rob. He’s older than I am. If he can do it, surely I can read about it!”

  Helen let out a peal of laughter. “She must think you’re an old fuddy-duddy. It’s really quite sweet!”

  “And completely misguided,” he reminded his fiancée.

  While she finished getting ready for work upstairs, he drank another cup of tea at the kitchen table. A disjointed picture was beginning to form in his mind, and one thing was apparent: The deaths had been no accident. Tom had been the victim of chronic poisoning, quite possibly aided by a dropper. And the person who had delivered it knew something.

  Suicide was even less likely. From what he had learnt, neither Tom nor Lydia had been the type. Presumably, the police had reached the same conclusions, which was why the case was still open; and might remain so without the diary—and the dropper. He would need to hand it over. Their forensics lab could test for traces of ethylene glycol.

  He planned to meet with Rob Gladstone before catching the train back to Edinburgh. The uncle was the last link in the chain with Tom’s parents away in Berkshire. Rex had spoken with everyone else closest to the victims.

  Helen didn’t have to be at the school until later in the morning and said she would run a few errands while he was at Fruité Furniture, and then take him to the station.

  The premises were around the corner from where he had met Daniel for coffee the previous week. The street’s white stripes, designating its use for pedestrian traffic, swept in a long curve flanked by tall buildings, one side more modern than the other, and each containing shops or offices at ground level. People hurried to get to their places of work by nine. Rex located the Fruité Furniture headquarters in one of the older buildings embellished with arched windows and ornate, ruddy-hued brickwork on the upper storey façades.

  He crossed a lobby promoting the trademark armchairs, and approached the front desk, where a sallow young man prematurely balding on top lifted his head to greet him.

  “I was hoping to have a brief word with Mr. Robert Gladstone.”

  “He’s at the factory and then he’ll be conducting interviews all day,” the man in shirt and tie explained in a regretful tone.

  Rex had done his research and knew the factory that produced the furniture was a converted mill on the outskirts of Derby. “Interviewing for which position?” he asked with casual interest.

  “Sales Director and Marketing Director.”

  “Key personnel. Replacements for Tom and Lydia Gladstone?”

  “Right.” The young man cut him a sharp look. His gaze fell to Rex’s business attire visible beneath the dark brown overcoat, as though to determine whether the visitor was from the Inland Revenue or else some other red-tape institution, and how best to fob him off in light of his employer’s busy schedule. “Can I make an appointment for you next week?”

  “I’m heading back to Edinburgh this morning.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Gladstone’s been rushed off his feet since he got back from the furniture fair in Munich. A ton of orders to fill. And, of course, the two positions,” the receptionist trailed off in apology.

  Rex was at least able to elicit the dates of the trip. The five days in Germany spanned the weekend the Gladstone couple had been poisoned, and Rob, it seemed, had had a full schedule that entire week, no doubt verified by the police. Rex was about to leave when he had a further thought. “I suppose—”

  The phone at reception rang, interrupting him, and the young man lifted a finger, motioning for him to wait briefly while he answered the call. He expressed a formal and friendly greeting and, with a “Just one second, I’ll put you through,” transferred the caller. He looked back up at Rex with an attentive expression.

  “I suppose the police searched Tom and Lydia Gladstones’ offices?” Rex finished what he had been about to say.

  “They did.”

  “Removed laptops and personal items?” Rex queried the male receptionist.

  “You’re late!” he admonished a young woman hastening towards them from the main entrance, where other people were still arriving singly and in pairs.

  “My bus was,” she responded, short of breath, her bosom jiggling as she removed her coat on her way across the lobby.

  With a stern look, the man relinquished his swivel chair to her and walked around the side of the desk to join Rex. He stood half a foot shorter than the Scotsman who also eclipsed him in bulk. “Sorry. As you were saying…”

  “The police,” Rex said in a low voice, so the female receptionist would not hear.

  “Right. I led them to the offices in question. I’m the building manager,” he explained. “Lydia Gladstone always locked her door, so I had to open it with a duplicate key.”

  “Why did she lock her office?” Rex asked. “Is that unusual here?” It wasn’t a high-tech company, after all, or one that housed sensitive records.

  “I expect it was because she kept some of her jewellery in there. I saw it being removed, and it looked like she had some expensive shelf ornaments as well. Or, more like dressing table ornaments. I suppose she must have changed at the office sometimes. She had asked me to install a full-length mirror at the back of the door. She was a bit of a clothes-horse. Very nicely dressed,” the building manager added quickly to soften the note of criticism. “Why do you ask?” he enquired with a politely puzzled expression.

  “Some valuables allegedly went missing from her house,” Rex told him.

  “Ah.” The building manager smiled and nodded. “You’re an insurance investigator. I thought you might be something like that. Best bet would be to check with the police.”

  “Aye, it might,” Rex agreed evasively. He thanked the young man and bid him good day. A fruitful visit to Fruité Furniture, he congratulated himself.

  After he left the building, he searched on his phone for photos of the fair in Munich, and found one with none other than Rob Gladstone standing in front of his booth, proudly holding up a framed award. Eliminate Uncle Rob, he concluded, not wholly undeterred. His alibi only served to substantiate his predominant theory.

  Helen reached her car in the parking lot minutes after he did. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t get in to see Gladstone, but it’s of no consequence, since he was on business in Germany when Tom and Lydia were poisoned.” Rex opened the driver’s-side door for her. “Did you get everything done?”

  “I went to the bank and dropped off the dry cleaning. I can do the rest later. Let’s get you to the station. There’s a lot of traffic and you don’t want to miss your train.”

  On the way, Rex received a call from the legal colleague he had asked to look into Larry Leath’s background. Nothing much to report on the vacuum cleaner salesman, he was told: One arrest as a student at a protest rally in Edinburgh opposing spy satellites in space; now lived in a flat over his appliance r
epair shop in Derby with his wife of thirty years.

  “You remember Jill’s Hoover salesman?” he said to Helen as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “He might be a bit of a crackpot, but he’s apparently harmless. However, the curious thing is he told me Tracy was wearing sapphire earrings and a diamond on her ring finger when he visited the Gladstone house. And some of Lydia’s jewellery and other valuables turned up in Lydia’s office. What do you make of that?”

  “I think quite a bit could be made of that,” Helen replied.

  Chapter 20

  Rex said his farewells to Helen outside the terminal and promised to call that same evening. The high-speed train bound for Waverley Station was waiting on the tracks, but he had almost fifteen minutes to spare, enough time to call Tracy.

  She didn’t answer. He left an urgent message on her voicemail and paced the platform with his briefcase and bag, impatient for her call. Five more minutes passed. The last passengers were boarding. His phone rang.

  “Tracy, I know it was you,” he said without preamble. “You would possibly know where Helen lives and you had access to Lydia’s personal items.”

  “I’m not the only one. Try Goldilocks.”

  “Goldilocks? You mean Cheryl?”

  “She was always at the house.”

  “I spoke to Cheryl. It wasn’t her. Why did you have someone leave that bag at Helen’s door?”

  He heard a sigh of resignation. “I found the dropper in Lydia’s medicine cabinet hidden behind a roll of makeup removal pads.”

  “What were you doing looking in her medicine cabinet?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you’re thinking. Hannah had an ear infection. I was looking for the homeopathic treatment we used. She was very prone to them last year, but hadn’t had an infection in a while.”

  “The dropper was from that bottle?”

  “I think so, but I couldn’t find the bottle anywhere.” Tracy paused before adding, “I told Tom about it. I went to see him at his office after Lydia got home that last Friday.”

  “Why?”