Murder at Midnight

by C. S. Challinor

  His brain worked feverishly. What if some other drug had been substituted? Something that looked like aspirin but was stronger? Then, just before bed, the unsuspecting victim had taken her “cure” and was dead by morning.

  He retrieved the jar of resolutions, which had been left on the living room shelf. He placed the fifteen pieces of paper face down on his library desk with the names on the back showing, and began to arrange them according to where he thought the guests had been standing when the knock at the door sounded shortly after midnight. None of the three Frasers’ resolutions would ever reach fruition now, he realized with a cold feeling at the pit of his stomach.

  The papers were about the size of business cards, cream in color. He had divided two sheets of Gleneagle notepaper into sixteen pieces: one for each person and one left over. Most of the guests had only written their first names. Jason had added his last name, as had Zoe. Alistair had scrawled his unmistakable signature with customary flourish. Professor Cleverly had merely written his initials, H.L.C.

  One piece of paper was blank on one side, where part of the watermark showed. Rex turned it over and saw spidery black letters. The message in Spanish contained the name Margarita and the word “amor.” As far as Rex could fathom, it had something to do with the coming year bringing love and good health. Comparing the writing to the others, he found it to be in Cleverly’s hand. The professor had written two resolutions, silly old beggar! That meant a resolution was missing from one of the other guests.

  Glancing at the names, he quickly deduced it was Margarita’s that was absent. Her resolution, he recalled, had been to take up painting. There had been no necessity that he could see for not leaving it with the others. Had she in fact written it down? Of that he was less sure. The fact remained there were fifteen pieces of paper, two of which were from Humphrey. And there was no blank.

  Rex contemplated the array of cards before him. Had she taken her own life out of fear of prosecution, guilt for her actions, or compounded grief over her husband’s death? Was she in fact responsible for his death, as Dalgerry had suggested? Rex placed the blank-backed card to his far right on the desk in his re-enactment of where the fireplace would be and where Ace Weaver had insisted Margarita had been standing at the time of the knocking at the door. Cleverly’s second piece of paper he positioned to the left, near where the living room door would be.

  It occurred to him he should inform Cleverly of the news; if the police hadn’t contacted him first. He called the number of the professor’s Edinburgh flat and listened to the phone ring endlessly. Cleverly would have had a long drive home. He might still be asleep.

  “Hello,” a voice answered groggily at last.

  “Humphrey, Rex here. Sorry to disturb you. Glad you got home all right.”

  “Easy enough drive in spite of the weather. Hardly any traffic except for police cars on the prowl for drunk drivers. Any news?”

  “Aye, and it’s sad news, I’m afraid. Another death. Chief Inspector Dalgerry informed me just now that Margarita succumbed this morning to an overdose.” Rex heard a gasp and waited for the professor to collect himself.

  “When I asked for news, I meant … I never imagined … Margarita! Dead? Are you sure? I cannot believe it. She was fine when I said goodbye to her last night at your door. Concerned aboot the investigation, of course, and upset over the death of her relations. She said she had a bad headache but would take her aspirin. I said I’d call today to see how she was. Oh, dear,” Cleverly said in distress.

  Rex recalled what he had deciphered in the message. In spite of his amorous intentions, Cleverly had let Drew drive Margarita to her hotel, no doubt under the circumstances choosing to distance himself from a key suspect.

  “Humphrey, I have to ask, do you think Margarita was capable of suicide?”

  Cleverly hummed and hawed. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, insanity and suicide did run on that side of the Fraser clan. Margarita was a bit high-strung, I suppose. Do you really think she took her own life?”

  “I’m exceedingly sorry, Humphrey. I understand you had feelings for the lady.”

  “I admit I was quite enchanted by her. A rather exotic creature, and such wit. What the French would call spirituelle.”

  Only an academic would strive for the mot juste at such a moment, Rex thought with mild cynicism. Judging by the resolution, the professor had entertained feelings stronger than friendship. “Humphrey, I need to ask you something—”

  “One moment,” interrupted Cleverly. “I need a wee dram of something to help with the shock.”

  Rex heard the thunk of the headset being deposited on a hard surface, and waited. When the professor returned, Rex explained he had reviewed the resolutions and found two by him and nothing from Margarita.

  Cleverly took a gulp of whatever he was drinking, and said, “Now that you mention it, I did write one that I afterwards thought better of. I wrote another on a second piece of paper. The first was sentimental in nature,” he said coyly. “And inappropriate for the occasion, I felt.”

  Rex reread the slip of paper in his hand. “You had romantic intentions towards Margarita?”

  “That is so. Was so, I mean!” His old college friend sounded distraught.

  “That explains the two notes written by you,” Rex said gently. “But where’s Margarita’s? Did she throw it away? That’s what I’ve been wondering.” But perhaps this wasn’t the right moment to quiz Cleverly.

  “Ah, I might be able to help you there,” the professor said before Rex could tell him not to worry about it; he would call again at a better time. “I’ll be right back.” Again Rex heard the sound of the phone placed on the desk or table, followed by a door creaking open. A minute later, Cleverly was back on the phone. “I inadvertently put Margarita’s resolution in my spectacle case thinking it was my first try, which I was embarrassed to leave lying around.”

  “We found your spectacle case. Alistair probably thought nothing of the note. After all, we were looking for a murder weapon.”

  “It was tucked beneath the cleaning cloth,” Cleverly explained.

  “Thanks, Humphrey. I should not have bothered you with this just now. Let me know if you need anything or just want a sympathetic ear. Helen will call in the next day or so to see how you are.” His fiancée was a professional counselor, and it might do Humphrey good to talk to her. “She’s driving back to Edinburgh today with Julie. They’ll be at my mother’s house in Morningside.”

  “You are too kind,” the professor thanked him.

  After they hung up, Rex returned to his rectangles of paper, pushing them around in a pensive manner.

  A tap sounded at the door and Helen walked in, dressed for departure. He relayed the news of Margarita’s demise and asked if she would call Humphrey when she reached Edinburgh.

  “Of course I will. Poor man. It was obvious he had feelings for her. But …” She sank into a chair. “A third death? I’m just glad it wasn’t here. Suicide. Well, Margarita was a bit temperamental, I suppose.”

  “That’s what Humphrey said. I think he used the word ‘high-strung.’ ”

  “Perhaps Chief Inspector Dalgerry should not have been so heavy-handed with her.”

  “He’s not one for using kid gloves,” Rex acknowledged. “But we don’t know for sure it was suicide.”

  “Accidental?”

  “Or murder.”

  “Oh, Rex. Surely not. I think it’s best we go, after all.”

  “Don’t you want lunch before you leave?” he asked, indicating her fleece jacket.

  “I made sandwiches for the trip. I left yours in the fridge.”

  Rex got up and kissed her. “Most thoughtful, thank you. Now, don’t worry. It’ll all get sorted. Is Julie ready?”

  “Yes, she’s just collecting her things.”

  After helping the women take their luggag
e and the groceries to Helen’s Renault, which she had parked out front in readiness, they said their goodbyes.

  “Thanks, Rex,” Julie said, adding with wry humor, “It’s been a most murderous New Year!”

  More than you might think, he thought. He would let Helen fill her in on Margarita’s death on the drive back to Edinburgh. “You’re welcome, lass,” he replied in kind.

  Helen shook her head, smiling in despair. “Call me when you get a moment. What should I tell your mother?”

  “Just tell her the power went oot and nothing else. That will explain why you’re taking the food back. I’ll explain everything when I see her in person, hopefully tomorrow.”

  He waved them off, calling admonishments through Helen’s open window to drive safely. Then, failing to get the chief inspector on the phone, he made a mug of tea and ate a sandwich standing up in the kitchen, pacing and thinking. His cellular phone rang and he hastened back to the table to retrieve it. It was Dalgerry. Rex snatched up the phone, his pulse racing. That the chief inspector was calling again signified an important development.

  14

  the gleneagle arms

  “A new piece of information has come to light regarding Maigh-read Fraser,” the chief inspector informed Rex. “Her death just got a lot more complicated.”

  Rex digested the news and asked the obvious question, “Why?”

  “Because methadone was found in her system,” Dalgerry revealed. “From what I was told, and this may be crucial, methadone pills can be mistaken for aspirin. But they’re much more potent, used for severe and lasting pain and to help get addicts off heroin. Only a few would have been needed to do the trick in our victim’s case.”

  “So, the killer, if that’s what we’re looking at, would have needed a prescription?” Rex asked, hoping to narrow the list of suspects.

  “Wish it was that easy, but you can get methadone on the Internet without a prescription. We’ve traced drugs back to online pharmacies as far away as North America and once to the island of Nevis.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a volcanic island next to St. Kitts in the Caribbean. Lord Nelson was stationed there as a young naval officer. Investigations are now more global, Mr. Graves. Truth be told, I liked it better in the old days of policing. Now I need a team of computer graduates to track down half the leads.”

  “I hear you. Are you ruling oot suicide?”

  “If it was suicide, she had a better chance of success with methadone than aspirin. The paramedics reported there were four methadone pills found in the pill box by her bedside. You said you had noticed eight pills when you were searching the guests’ personal possessions, right?”

  “Correct. Margarita said they were aspirin. Presumably somebody switched them at some point.”

  “You have a verra suspicious mind, Mr. Graves,” Dalgerry said with a chuckle. “However, you may be right. Why would she lie aboot the pills she was taking? Unless she intended to use them on someone, and the tables were turned, if you get my drift. Well, I best get on,” he said in his customary leave-taking.

  “One minute, Chief Inspector.” Rex proceeded to fill him in on the meager information he had gleaned, most notably the existence of a purple and white wool scarf that Flora Allerdice had knitted for her boyfriend, and which he had subsequently told her he lost in October.

  “Did you tell her we may have found strands of wool from it on your deer trail?” Dalgerry asked warily.

  Rex explained he had asked only in a roundabout way and not mentioned its connection to the evidence found much earlier that morning. Whether Flora had made the connection, he did not know.

  “I’ll be talking to the lad today. Thanks again.”

  Following the call, Rex asked himself who could have procured the methadone. Jason’s dad kept a chemist shop, he recalled. And John Dunbar was a medic and therefore had access to pain-killers. As the chief inspector had pointed out, anyone could get hold of almost any type of drug these days, but ordering online would leave a paper trail, or at least a virtual one, and would take longer to procure. All this assuming Margarita was not knowingly carrying methadone in the first place … But then, as Dalgerry had pointed out, why tell everyone, including the police, it was aspirin?

  At that point in his train of thought, he heard the roar of a luxury engine in the courtyard lower its volume to a powerful purr. Slipping on his tweed jacket, he went to see who his visitor might be. Upon opening his front door, he spotted Alistair’s silver Porsche embellishing his driveway and watched as his friend emerged through the car door. Rex welcomed him inside and took his coat, glad of Alistair’s genial company.

  “I stayed over at John’s parents last night,” he said, following his host to the kitchen. “His mother fusses over me nonstop. So I thought I’d escape and come over to offer moral support.”

  “She probably loves the fact that you’re a respectable advocate and drive a flash car.”

  “It probably sweetens the pill,” Alistair agreed with a flash of malice in his smile. “His old man isn’t so understanding of John and me. He’s a downright crotchety so-and-so, truth be told. But he’s an invalid. Fell off a scaffold three years ago and has constant back pain as a result.”

  “Talking of sweetening pills, or pills, anyway, it transpires that my guest from Latin America is now dead from an overdose.”

  Alistair’s gray eyes clouded over as his mouth opened and stayed that way without speaking for a moment. “Margarita? You don’t say.” He plunked himself down on a kitchen chair and put a hand to his temple, where his leonine hair was receding. “Not the aspirin?”

  “Methadone, according to Chief Inspector Dalgerry.”

  “That’s what Frank takes for his back. What was Margarita using it for?”

  “It’s possible she took it thinking it was aspirin.”

  “Oh, I see.” Alistair glanced at Rex. “You think someone put the methadone in her pill box knowing she was going to take aspirin before she went to bed?”

  “We all heard her say that, didn’t we?”

  Alistair nodded, deep in thought. “Who actually took notice, I wonder?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where was she staying?”

  “At a local hotel. Drew dropped her off on his way home. And Jason would have passed The Brambles when he drove to Inverness last night after leaving Flora at her parents’.” Rex didn’t bring up the coincidence of John Dunbar living nearby and having a father who took methadone for pain management. Alistair, he knew from an earlier conversation, would never entertain the suspicion of his partner’s possible involvement. In any case, Rex failed to find a motive on John’s part for murdering the Frasers or their long-lost relative from Venezuela.

  “Methadone is powerful stuff,” Alistair remarked, brushing crumbs around on the pine table top. “Not something taken casually. John’s dad is on permanent disability. He should really be in a home with full-time care, but the Dunbars can’t afford it. His wife is run ragged looking after him. John does what he can, of course.”

  Rex blinked at his friend and legal colleague. Alistair had just unwittingly supplied a motive for John. Money to pay for his father’s care.

  “Put some coffee on, old chap,” Alistair said more brightly. “Else I’ll have to prop open my eyes with matchsticks.” He went on to lament about how much Scotch he’d had to drink the night before and how he had been unable to get adequate sleep on the Dunbars’ lumpy sofa, especially since Snowdrop, their fluffy white cat, had insisted on trying to nap on his face. Rex ceased listening as he wrote “matches, lighter!!!” in his notebook, excitedly dotting each exclamation mark.

  “Making progress?” Alistair asked with interest, breaking off his tale of nocturnal woes.

  “Maybe. Thank you for reminding me of something Dalgerry said last night regarding ashtrays. It had s
lipped my mind until now, but it’s been nagging at me because I felt deep in my bones it might hold some significance.”

  “Glad to be of assistance, old fruit,” his friend said in a puzzled tone. “So. Any chance of that coffee?”

  “Oh, right.” Rex busied himself with preparations at the coffee maker, forgetting just how many spoonfuls of ground Columbian he put in the filter. “Helen made sandwiches before she left. Would you like one?”

  “I thought we’d go to the Gleneagle Arms for lunch. They serve the best Cullen skink in the Highlands.” A gastronome, Alistair always knew where to find the best food, just as he knew all the best places to shop and go on holiday.

  A Guinness certainly appealed to Rex, and he had only eaten the one sandwich. He too loved the smoked haddock, potato and onion soup at the Gleneagle Arms. “Sold,” he said, “If it’s open today.” He had never known it to be closed. “In any case, I need you to act as a sounding board for my theory on the murders. But I have to wait for Mrs. Kerr from the village who’s coming to clean. She shouldn’t be long now. Don’t tell her aboot the murders, by the way. She might not stay otherwise.”

  “What about that police tape?” Alistair asked, nodding at the kitchen door leading outside. “Bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?”

  “Helen made the same observation. I could take it down, but I daren’t just yet, in case the investigators need to come back.”

  “Did Helen and Julie get off okay?”

  “Julie was a bit subdued. Not surprisingly, what with the murders and her falling oot with Drew.” Rex poured Alistair’s coffee into a blue ceramic bowl with a handle.

  “That was a short-lived Highland fling!” Alistair said with Byron-esque wit. The Highland Fling was a dance.

  “Aye, sadly for Julie. Here, this should set you up.” Rex placed the large mug in front of his friend and went to fetch the milk from the refrigerator. “That must be Mrs. Kerr now,” he said, hearing a stuttering car engine out front. “Good.” He was ready for a pint. “I’ll go and give her instructions.”