PRELUDE TO MURDER: A Rex Graves Mystery

by C. S. Challinor

  “I had my suspicions. I saw her tampering with his medicine once. I’m not sure what she was doing exactly because I only saw the hand that was holding the bottle. The other was hidden by the cabinet door. Then, when I found the dropper, but the ear ointment missing, well, I just thought I should warn him. I didn’t know about the antifreeze then. I’d just never known him to be ill before January, and I’d been working for them a whole year by then.”

  A whistle blew urgently.

  “What did Tom say?” Rex yelled above the sudden whoosh and rumble of the train preparing to depart.

  “He laughed. Then he looked thoughtful, then he went pale. I wrapped the dropper in one of her hankies and hid it in my bag to use as evidence if necessary. I was convinced she was up to something. I was trying to protect Tom.”

  Rex deposited his bag and briefcase on the concrete platform and opened the door to the carriage. He pushed his baggage inside and followed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” he asked standing by the open door.

  A guard slammed it shut.

  “My mom said not to get involved, but she did it. I know she did. Lydia, I mean. I want justice for Tom, and I don’t think Hannah or anyone else should take the blame, even if Lydia killed herself too.”

  It was getting harder to hear Tracy over the drone of the train, which suddenly lurched forward and then juddered to a stop just as abruptly, catching him off balance. He braced himself against the door with his free arm, wondering about the delay.

  “I asked my friend Pete to drop the bag off at your fiancée’s house anonymously…,” Tracy’s voice dwindled in his ear.

  After a semi-inaudible exchange of goodbyes, Rex cut the phone connection. He found the compartment half empty and relatively quiet. Few tourists travelled to Edinburgh at this time of year, and this morning he spotted mostly single passengers on business or those visiting family, most of them plugged into laptops and smartphones.

  He placed his weekend bag in the overhead rack and settled into his seat with his briefcase beside him. As he glanced out the grimy window he saw a familiar figure hurry past on the platform in the company of an overweight woman, both of them towing small suitcases on wheels and franticly gesticulating at the train. Rex pressed himself back against the seat in a desperate attempt to avoid detection. When the pair disappeared from sight and, minutes later, had not appeared in his carriage, he began to relax.

  The coincidence of running into Leath the first time had been fortuitous, but twice was too much of a good thing. Rex had no doubt the salesman would have hailed his fellow countryman and plonked himself down with his wife within speaking distance. His sort never allowed silence to interrupt their words, and Rex had plenty enough to occupy his time for the next four hours, not least Lydia’s diary, which he held in his hands.

  The train pulled out of the station, gathering speed. He had made this trip so many times that the industrial suburbs and low, undulating hills of the Derbyshire countryside beyond the window were a familiar sight. He watched in a state of apprehensive anticipation, wondering whether the pages would contain further revelations or else jumble and contradict the pieces of the puzzle he had painstakingly assembled in his head.

  Without further prevarication, he opened the diary and began reading Lydia’s entries from the first of the year, and did not stop until he reached the final one written the day before she died. Cheryl had not exaggerated the overall detached nature of the journal. Had he not been looking for hidden clues, he would have found the non-edited passages less than enthralling.

  He remembered the wrapped sandwiches and thermos of coffee Helen had packed in his bag and stood to get them. The fleeting view of fields and pastures from the windows was now obscured by a persistent grey drizzle. Some of the passengers slept, lulled by the thrum of the train. He sat back down and ate his lunch while ruminating whether Lydia had kept journals before she started this one. He decided it was unlikely. The purpose of the diary, he now saw, was to lay the groundwork for her cold-blooded crime.

  She had fictionalized her life with Tom, not disclosing the arguments between them for the simple reason that marital discord would show motive. Nor did she harp on about his affair or name the other woman, for the same reason.

  She chronicled Tom’s “flu” to account for his symptoms of poisoning. To anyone who later questioned those symptoms, she would have insisted the doctor had said he had influenza. Rex further surmised it would have been suspicious for him to die alone with his wife at a Paris hotel and inconvenient having to deal with a death in a foreign country. Consequently, Lydia had held off on his regimen of antifreeze for the duration and waited to resume until after his birthday party, where everyone would see them as a happily married couple recently returned from their second honeymoon.

  Thereafter, Tom had succumbed once more to his symptoms and was no doubt back on his tainted medicine, with the fatal dose of antifreeze possibly slipped into the ice cream the family ate upon returning from their outing to Chatsworth. Lydia, in her mind, was giving him his just desserts for getting back to his first wife. Not satisfied with cheating on him with his uncle, she had wanted him dead as well. The keying of the intern’s car had shown what a vindictive vixen she was.

  Rex closed the diary. There remained one piece of the puzzle to slot into place.

  Chapter 21

  At his chambers in Edinburgh, Rex made a call to a barrister friend in Derby, who in turn contacted the Gladstone family solicitor. It transpired that Tom had changed his will two days before his death and left half of everything to his first wife and mother of his son, and the other half in trust to Hannah for when she came of age, thereby disinheriting Lydia.

  “Must have been a reason for that,” the friend remarked after reporting the terms of the will.

  “She was trying to kill him,” Rex said. “What better reason?”

  Lydia might have ended up poisoning Rob Gladstone as well. Why not, if she had managed to get away with the murder of her first spouse?

  “Perhaps the couple should have tried marriage counselling?” his acquaintance said facetiously before ringing off at his end.

  The news of the will only confirmed to Rex that Tom had finally discovered what his wife was planning. Subsequently, he had taken precautions to safeguard his personal assets, if not his life. He might have started criminal and divorce proceedings once he had proof of her treachery, but he never got the chance.

  Rex phoned Cheryl and commended her for her accurate account of the diary’s contents. He felt Lydia had underestimated her friend’s loyalty and had expected her to report the diary to the police sooner in the event of Tom’s death. Of course, Lydia had not anticipated her own demise. Had Cheryl kept quiet about the journal, Rex had no doubt Lydia would have left it in a place where it would be found, without being too obvious about it.

  He told Cheryl the diary served to prove she had no motive to kill Tom and to cast suspicion on Tracy, who had a fondness for Lydia’s possessions. The valuables found in Lydia’s office were presumably the items missing from the house and reported stolen to the police. Lydia had been framing the nanny for Tom’s death, hinting at unrequited love as a motive. “That,” he explained to Cheryl, “was how she had hoped to get away with murder.”

  Cheryl sounded devastated by the notion her friend could have manipulated her and murdered her husband. Never in a million years would she have guessed the truth, she said when she had heard the story, and which Rex asked her to keep under wraps for now. He would tell her the rest later.

  He called his fiancée and asked if it would be convenient if he headed down to Derby on Thursday, providing he had cleared his desk by then. “We could make a long weekend of it,” he added.

  “Of course!” she said. “What brought this on? No, don't tell me! Something came up in the diary…”

  “The Paris trip was a smokescreen, as was Tom’s flu,” he briefly explained. “Ever since the company Christmas party, when Lyd
ia’s affair with her wealthy boss began, she planned on getting rid of her husband. In the end, her web of deceit cost her her own life.”

  “But I still don’t see…,” Helen began.

  “There are still a few loose ends to tie up. I want to see Paula Simmons and Daniel in person, out of courtesy.”

  The public scandal of mutual murder and adulterous motives would be hard to bear and also bad for the family business, but Rex was convinced it was better for the victims’ nearest and dearest to know the truth than to live with doubt and suspicion, even if the truth was as unpalatable as poison.

  Rex regretted in his last private case writing to the police about his findings instead of confronting the killer and trying to extract a confession, especially since he had known the person in question. However, in this instance, there was no danger to weigh against a sense of obligation, or so he perceived at the time.

  Chapter 22

  When Rex arrived back in Derby later that week, he took a taxi straight from the station to the Fruité Furniture offices. It was not yet noon, and Helen was working.

  The bosomy receptionist greeted him with a nod of recognition and a pert smile. “I remember you!”

  “I've come to see Daniel Gladstone. Is he free?”

  “I'll find out.” She fluttered her false eyelashes at him. “Who shall I say?”

  “Rex Graves, QC.”

  She manipulated the switchboard. “Danny? A Rex Graves to see you. He'll be right down,” she told Rex. “So you're a Queen's Counsel! I saw ‘Silk’ and thought it was fabulous,” she said of the TV drama. “Do you wear a wig and gown in court?”

  “I do.”

  The switchboard grew busy of a sudden and she had to turn her attention back to the phones. Daniel appeared in a casual suit, and she winked at him as she redirected a call. He glanced away, smiling shyly and running a hand through his light brown hair.

  “Nice your callers are not given the recorded run-around,” Rex said to him.

  “Mr. Gladstone wouldn't hear of it. He's very old school.”

  “A man after my own heart. Can I take you to lunch?”

  Daniel glanced at his watch and drew in his breath. “I'd like that, but I can only spare you a quarter of an hour. I have a looming deadline. Do you have new information?”

  “Aye, and it’s private.”

  “My cubicle is cluttered with all sorts of tech gear, and there’s only the one chair. I'd take you to the conference room, but I'm not an executive here. The break room should be empty for the next thirty minutes.” Daniel led him behind the reception area and summoned a lift. Inside, he pressed a button to the third floor, and they rose the short distance in silence. The car pinged to a stop.

  “The police have granted the family access to my brother’s house,” he told Rex as they made their way along a corridor with offices leading off on one side. “I need to get there before that vulture cleans it out.”

  “I take it you’re referring to Paula Simmons.”

  “Right. She had better not touch Tom’s stuff. Here we are,” Daniel said, leading him into a small common room equipped with a basic kitchen. He helped himself to coffee from the machine on the table and offered Rex a cup.

  When they were seated at the Formica table, Rex explained what he had discovered about Lydia’s involvement in Tom’s death, including the dropper Tracy had found and his affair with his ex-wife.

  “So, not an accident?” Daniel asked in dismay.

  Rex shook his head. “Means, motive, and opportunity. There was one person who had ready access to Tom’s medicine and food, and that was his spouse. And let’s not forget the life insurance incentive. Lydia may have hoped to cash in on a considerable amount. Any idea how much?”

  “No idea.”

  “Hundreds of thousands of pounds, I imagine. Enough, no doubt, to at least pay off the mortgage on their house, which is a concern for most people if a working spouse dies.”

  “So her motive was money?” Daniel asked.

  “Money, greed, revenge… The usual.”

  “Well, not saying that Tom deserved to die, not saying that at all; just that he should have been more careful of people’s feelings. Bad karma. Know what I mean?”

  Rex nodded slowly. “He must have hurt Lydia very badly.”

  “But none of this explains how she died. Was that an accident?”

  Rex had been preparing for this moment. He took a deep breath. “Daniel, I regret to tell you your brother is not blameless in the crime either. Unless Lydia suffered belated qualms of conscience about murdering him and poisoned herself in an act of contrition, it appears he poisoned her.”

  “Are you sure?” Daniel stared at Rex, his mouth ajar.

  “He changed his will. And Cheryl recalls overhearing him on the phone saying, ‘What’s your poison, sweetheart?’ shortly before they both died.” Tom must have been standing close, perhaps close enough to force the Absinthe down his wife’s throat… “They watched a true crime programme in January about antifreeze poisoning,” Rex continued. “Presumably your brother had been paying more attention than Lydia supposed. He finally realized what she was up to and gave her a hefty dose of her own medicine—before it was too late.”

  “Dear God,” Daniel murmured, his face as white as the walls surrounding them. “But he acted in self-defence, right?” His gaze fell to his mug of coffee, which he pushed aside. “Poor Hannah. And Devin. What now?”

  “The case is circumstantial and might not even hold up in court if either party were still alive. Yet, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the only logical conclusion to be drawn. The police may come up with something different, but I’ll be taking the dropper to the station later today.” Rex had just finished speaking when he received a call from Jill on his phone.

  “Just thought you’d like to know Paula Simmons is back at the Gladstone house,” Helen’s friend and neighbour informed him.

  “Thanks, I’ll be right over. I wanted to talk to her.” He looked across the table at Daniel, who held his head in his hands. “The vulture has landed,” he said, preparing once more to be the bearer of bad news.

  Chapter 23

  Rex took a taxi to Helen’s house, where he dropped off his briefcase and bag inside the door, before hurrying on to the Gladstone residence.

  The Mercedes Benz was parked outside, the police tape had been removed. After ringing the front door bell to no avail, he walked into the spacious hallway and called out “Hello?” across the marble floors. “Paula?”

  He had not seen the house in daylight and noticed for the first time the plush cherry sofa in the curve of the staircase and a large rubber plant in a brass urn. It felt as chilly indoors as outside.

  “Up here,” Paula’s voice travelled down to him.

  He mounted the stairs and halted outside a door, where an assortment of small furniture had been assembled: tripod tables, wrought-iron lampstands, Italian statuettes in stone, and other transportable items. He poked his head around the door and found Paula folding items of clothing in a gaping suitcase on the king-size canopy bed.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about what I found out in the course of my investigation. I’m afraid it may not be what you want to hear.”

  “Well, nothing’s going to bring her back, is it?” Paula fetched a fur-lined coat from a large wardrobe and came out of the bedroom and placed it over the banister. She was on her way back to the bedroom when Rex addressed her again, more sternly this time.

  “Mrs. Simmons, I have reason to believe your daughter was responsible for Tom’s death, and he hers.” He explained about the dropper and medicine and the elaborate lengths Lydia had gone to in her diary to absolve herself of any wrongdoing. “And she set her nanny up for his murder by, among other things, claiming valuables had disappeared from this house.”

  “What valuables?” Paula demanded, facing him on the landing. “Not her sapphires and pearls, or gold necklace and bracelet. I
have all that.”

  “Items she took to her office, and which are now in police custody.”

  “Will I get them back?”

  Rex made an effort to curb his exasperation. He had just accused her daughter of murder, and all she appeared concerned about was Lydia’s jewellery. “At some point,” he said. “But as far as the life insurance, I think it could become extremely litigious.”

  “Litigious?”

  “A drawn-out legal dispute.”

  “Drawn-out?” Paula repeated, pouncing on the word.

  “The insurance policy on Tom might be voided altogether. Murderers are precluded from benefitting monetarily from their crimes, and this might apply to their estate, in Lydia's case, you, if the insurer found out what really happened.”

  Paula had grown pale. “I won't get a penny?”

  “It could further be argued she was instrumental in her own death,” he added. “In which case, Hannah might get nothing from Tom’s side. It could get complicated. You might want to consult with an insurance lawyer.”

  “And how much will that cost me?” Paula riled. “It would be money down the drain if I don't win.” She glared at him as if he were the enemy. “And the insurance company will have a better lawyer than I could ever afford.”

  “Insurance companies will try to hold on to their funds at all costs,” Rex agreed.

  “Then I'm sunk!” Paula cried, her face crumpling and turning a mottled red beneath her pale makeup. “Why didn't the selfish little cow just divorce him? Now I’m raising my granddaughter on my own, and I scarcely make enough from the salon to scrape by.”

  While Rex listened in stupefaction to her tirade, he became aware of someone outside the front door turning the brass knob.

  “Have you spoken to the police?” Paula demanded.

  “Not yet.”

  “The tabloids and talk shows will have a field day!” she cried in alarm, unaware of what was happening downstairs, with Rex’s bulk blocking her view of the front door.