Murder of the Bride

by C. S. Challinor

“If you mean clues, nothing much,” Rex fudged. “Perhaps a forensics team will have better luck.”

  “Fancy my wife stumbling on the body.” Mr. Willington’s light gray eyes scanned the people sitting around the fireplaces. “The murderer must be in the room, unless someone snuck in when no one was looking and pushed that poor woman off the tower.”

  “Chances are that someone enticed her up there. Somehow, I can’t imagine her choosing to go up there alone.”

  “She might have gone up for some fresh air and exercise.”

  “She would have got that, all right. I was almost out of breath when I reached the top. Those steps are steep.”

  “Gwen drank a fair amount of champagne,” Diana Litton, the history teacher, interjected, detaching herself from her husband at the refreshment table. “She could have got it into her head to go up and admire the view.”

  “Can either of you remember when you last saw her?” Rex asked.

  Willington shook his head. “I spoke to her before the buffet. After that, I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “I saw her during the cutting of the cake,” Diana replied. “There was quite a bit of activity then, so I’m not sure who was there, but I do remember her refusing any and me wishing I had her self-control.”

  “Right,” Rex concurred. “Mrs. Newcombe was serving the cake. I remember the bride and groom sharing some. Mabel was there, so too was the vicar, and your wife,” he told Willington. “There were a lot of people standing around.”

  “Gwen wasn’t around when Polly collapsed,” Diana Litton supplied. “Nor was Timmy. That was about half an hour after the cake was cut.”

  “The ambulance came at two forty-five,” Mr. Willington contributed to the timeline. “I kept looking at my watch because I was getting anxious about Polly and her mother’s condition.”

  “Mr. Carter went up to the tower roof to look out for the ambulance,” Diana recalled. “Aunt Gwen may have met her death by then. Or shortly afterwards,” she added meaningfully.

  Rex wondered if she knew her husband had been seen going up the tower steps with Aunt Gwen. He would confront Roger Litton about it at the first available opportunity. “Carter wouldn’t have seen her body if he was facing the road. He would have had to be looking directly over the turrets onto the patio on the south side.”

  “If we could find out who pushed the Welsh woman, we might have a good idea who poisoned the Newcombes and the vicar with arsenic. Mr. Carter admitted it was arsenic,” Willington added, intercepting Rex’s narrowed gaze. “And not the naturally occurring kind.”

  Not exactly discreet of Carter, Rex thought, but he saw no point in denying it. “I agree the two might be related. The poisoning would have been a bit hit-and-miss, but the assault on Mrs. Jones was direct and deliberate. Always assuming she was pushed and it wasn’t an accident or suicide. How long has Timmy been in your employ, Mr. Willington?”

  “Less than a year. He works as a junior accountant. Timmy is hardworking and has a head for figures. He does seem to have a morbid interest in his health, though. Last week he took off early to get a flu shot, and he keeps hand sanitizer on his desk, which is something the female staff do. I don’t mean to sound sexist …”

  “That’s his mother’s influence,” Diana put in.

  “Timmy’s ambitious,” Willington added. “He’s talking about becoming an actuary.”

  “Isn’t that where they calculate risk and probability and all that gubbins?” Diana asked.

  “So that life insurance firms can more safely gamble on their clients’ longevity, among other things.” Willington turned to Rex. “Might be interesting to know who benefits in this case, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly. I’ll ask the family solicitor.”

  Bobby Carter would be the very person to ask. He appeared informed on every aspect of the Newcombes’ business; in fact, intimately so.

  The Cavalry

  At that point, PC Dimley and Jocelyn Willington reappeared, and Mr. Willington excused himself to join his wife.

  “Talk of beneficiaries and arsenic has made me think of something,” Diana told Rex. “Did you know that in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, members of the European nobility—most notoriously, the Borgias—resorted to arsenic to kill off their rivals? It was so widely used for getting rid of family members it came to be known as ‘inheritance powder.’ Same symptoms as cholera, which was prevalent at the time, so it was very convenient. And, as there was no way to test for arsenic poisoning back then, malfeasance couldn’t be proved.”

  “Your historical take is most interesting,” Rex said. “The Romans used it too. So you think this is a family-related murder?”

  “It’s a wedding. How much more family can you get? Maybe someone didn’t want to wait for Aunt Gwen to pop off in her natural time and, when the arsenic failed, resorted to another method. How did you pick up on the arsenic in the first place?”

  “A pharmacologist once described the symptoms in graphic detail in court. The shocked reactions of the jury were such that the judge called for an adjournment to give them time to recover. Hard to believe anyone here would purposefully inflict that kind of suffering. And at a wedding, of all things.”

  Elaine sidled up to them. “Mr. Graves, um, Jeremy wanted me to ask if there was any news …” The girl bit into her lip, flushing all over her face. Her lashes, pale almost to the point of invisibility, gave her bulging eyes the impression of a permanent stare.

  “Why didn’t your boyfriend come over himself ? Better still, he could ask the constable.”

  Elaine’s white fingers pressed into her bottled water, causing the plastic to crackle. “Jeremy and I drew straws.”

  She gazed abashedly at her shoes, and Rex relented. “Well, lass, as you surely know by now, the vicar succumbed to poisoning. We’re waiting on news of the Newcombes. As far as Polly’s aunt is concerned, it looks like she, ehm, fell or was pushed off the tower. Did you know her?”

  Elaine gulped, though she had not taken as much as a sip from her bottle of water. “I’d never met her before. This is my first visit to Newcombe Court. I only know Polly through Jeremy, because he’s friends with Timmy. We went out to the pub as a foursome a couple of times. Timmy and Polly are going to live here, in the spare wing,” the girl babbled on nervously. “Polly told me all about the nursery. Do you know how long we’re all going to have to stay here? It’s been ages.”

  “That depends on the police.”

  As if on cue, two detectives in creased suits and a second mud-spattered constable pushed their way through the great hall. Rex deduced they’d had to make an emergency stop, to change a tire or dislodge one of the vehicles from the mire. PC Dimley went to consult with them as Elaine scurried back to Jeremy.

  The next moments saw a flurry of activity. The freckle-faced detective, with ginger hair like Rex’s own, before his had begun to fade to the shade of sandstone, disappeared into the caterers’ wing of the house with Dimley, after thanking everybody not to broadcast news of the events on their phones until the police had finished conducting their business. A bit late for that, Rex thought.

  The second detective, a heavyset man with buckled teeth, as though a heavy fist or crowbar had caved them in, gave instructions to the new constable, who proceeded to circulate the room requesting the guests’ car keys and explaining that all vehicles had to be searched for the missing antiques.

  “Oh, dear,” Helen said, rooting in her bag. “They’ll have to sift through the junk in my boot. I was going to clear it out last weekend.”

  “I’m sure they won’t issue a ticket for a messy boot,” Rex assured her.

  She relinquished the keys to the constable, who made a note by her name. “Helen d’Arcy, 19 Barley Close, Derby. Blue Renault,” he stated.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And your passengers?”

  “Mr. Rex Graves here. And a young couple, Meredith Matthews and Reggie Cox.”

  “I’v
e got those names on the list. Two Reginalds.”

  Rex only used his christened name on forms, having gone by Rex since age eleven when he discovered that “Reginald” was derived from the Latin rex, meaning “king.” Unburdened of his fusty old name, he had felt freer to become his own person, and even now cringed at being referred to as Reginald.

  The constable addressed him. “I see from PC Dimley’s notes that you live in Edinburgh and are visiting Ms. d’Arcy for the weekend. No personal connection to the family that lives here.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Lucky you’re here, isn’t it, sir? You being in the business of murder, as it were.”

  “My profession isn’t usually described that way, but I suppose you’re right up to a point. I prosecute criminals who commit the most heinous of crimes, including murder.”

  “I was referring to your sleuthing activities, Mr. Graves. I read about your case down in Sussex with great interest. The article was in Private Detective.”

  “I’m not familiar with the article,” Rex said, making a mental note to seek out a back issue of the publication forthwith. “But I’d be happy to help out here.”

  Helen shot him a raised eyebrow, as if to say, I just bet you would.

  “I’ll let Detectives Lucas and Dartford know. We’re a bit short-handed as you can see.”

  “I was wondering aboot that.”

  “We’ve been investigating the latest in a string of burglaries north of here. We responded to this emergency as quickly as we could once arsenic trioxide poisoning was confirmed by the hospital, following your tip. DI Lucas has gone to inform Robert Carter of the death of Victoria Newcombe.”

  Helen gasped in shock. “She’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am. Did you know her well?”

  “Her daughter attended the school where I work. This was the first time I ever saw Victoria in a social capacity. How is Polly?”

  “I can only assume that she has survived the ordeal so far or else we would have been notified.”

  “She’s expecting, you know. You must catch the monster that did this.”

  “I assure you we’ll do everything within our power, ma’am.”

  “Can I see your list of guests, PC …?” Rex asked.

  “Perrin, sir,” the constable replied, obliging him.

  “Thanks. I only know some of these people by their first name.” Rex scanned the notes, filling in some of the blanks on the spiral pad he carried on him. Helen had bought him a voice recorder for Christmas but he didn’t trust it not to break down and omit to register his verbal notes. He returned the list, and the constable moved away and asked Dudley Thorpe for his car keys.

  “I didn’t nick anything,” Timmy’s twin objected. “And I don’t want anyone touching my Miata. I just waxed it.”

  “You can accompany PC Dimley and myself, and watch while we perform the search,” the constable said amiably yet firmly, giving Dudley little option but to comply.

  “Polite young man, that constable,” Helen said as the trio moved toward the front door. “And pretty sharp. I don’t know why people have to react so abusively when the police are just trying to do their job. Oh, my God, that’s three deaths with Victoria. First the vicar, then Aunt Gwen. Now this. I wonder who will break the news to Polly.”

  “Carter doesn’t look like he’s up to it at present,” Rex remarked when he saw Carter emerge from the manor wing in the company of the freckly detective. Crumpled in upon himself, Polly’s uncle seemed to have aged ten years.

  “Hopefully, the police will find those snuff boxes and we’ll learn who’s responsible for the murders,” Helen said with indignation. “They must be related.”

  “If only it might be that simple.” Rex knew from experience that premeditated crimes rarely were.

  At that juncture he heard vehicles on the gravel outside, followed by a series of car doors slamming. A forensics team in white overalls trooped through the front entrance. They certainly had their work cut out for them, Rex reflected wryly.

  Arsenic, blood, skull fragments. A positive field day. And, despite a niggling premonition that morning, the worst he had dreaded was disco-dancing and boredom.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Ducks in a Row

  After conferring with the head of the crime scene detail, Detective Inspector Lucas wandered over to Rex and stuck out a speckled hand. “Your reputation precedes you,” he said. Up close, the freckles on his clean-shaven face merged in places to form patches of orange, matching his hair.

  “Thank you,” Rex said, pleased that the inspector had sought him out of his own volition. “How are you getting on with the burglaries young Perrin said you were pursuing?”

  “There are, admittedly, peculiar difficulties with regard to the crimes.”

  “Such as?” Rex inquired politely.

  “No ruddy evidence. These burglars are pros. No one sees ’em coming or going. There’s never any evidence of a break-in, never any mess. We thought the state of the economy was driving some of these wealthy people to commit insurance fraud and claim on items that had never been stolen in the first place, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. A flat screen TV fitting the owner’s description, down to a tiny scratch in the plasma, turned up at a pawn shop in Nottingham. But so far we’ve been unable to get a lead on the individual who received cash for the item.”

  “You think the theft at Newcombe Court may be related?”

  “Not sure. Two burglaries in two days hasn’t happened before.” The inspector rattled something in his pocket; a tube of Smarties or Tic Tacs? “And only the antique snuff box collection seems to have been taken here. Why not the TVs and paintings? Some of them are worth a bob or two. Course, moving the big stuff unobserved at a wedding reception would be well-nigh impossible. Perhaps they were waiting until later to finish the job. We’re searching the residence and vehicles right now. You arrived when today?”

  “In time for the church service in Aston. My fiancée and I, and two of the guests, came straight here afterwards with everyone else.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual at the reception?”

  “Nothing, until Polly collapsed.”

  “I take it you were the first person Jocelyn Willington notified about Mrs. Jones’ death?” The inspector leveled shrewd blue eyes at Rex, taking his measure.

  “The constable was busy with the poisoning and theft. I did suggest she speak to him.” Wanting to keep a few cards up his sleeve, Rex decided not to mention yet to the inspector that the DJ had seen Roger Litton go up the tower steps with Gwendolyn Jones. And he doubted DJ Smoothie would volunteer the information himself and risk being detained any longer than necessary. He made a mental note to talk to the teacher next, to see if there was any truth in what the DJ had said.

  “Well, first things first,” the inspector said. “When Polly Newcombe collapsed, what was your first reaction?”

  “I thought her contractions had begun. Then, when her mother and the vicar succumbed to similar symptoms, I knew it had to be poisoning of some kind.”

  “Were you able to pinpoint the source of the poisoning?”

  “I suspect it was the wedding cake.”

  “Based on?”

  “For one thing, after the ambulance took the three victims away, I returned to the reception room, and the miniature figures of the bride and groom had been removed from the top tier, which makes me think someone might have tampered with the evidence during my absence.”

  “SOCO will bag up samples.”

  “I doubt that will reveal much. The crumbs are gone from the top tier and the foil base was probably replaced.”

  “You believe the arsenic was confined to the top tier?” That unnerving dry rattle again in the inspector’s pocket, which Rex found peculiarly distracting.

  “The bride, mother, and vicar were served first, from the top tier.”

  “What about Robert Carter, the solicitor?”
Lucas asked.

  “He didn’t eat any cake.”

  Lucas made a note in his pad. “Would he have been considered family, do you think?”

  “He gave Polly away and she calls him ‘Uncle Bobby.’ He would have been among the first to be served, along with the vicar.”

  “Your theory fits in with the witness statements so far, and the time sequence. Arsenic trioxide is a fast-acting compound. It’s also tasteless, odorless, and white, and could easily be mixed in with the icing. But who did the mixing, eh?” The inspector manically shook whatever it was he had stashed in his pocket. “Robert Carter’s grief seemed genuine enough when I informed him of Victoria Newcombe’s death. Appears they were quite close.”

  Appearances can be deceiving, Rex thought, glancing about the room where the guests sat about tensely. He gave a reassuring wave to Helen, who sat with Diane, the history teacher.

  Inspector Lucas turned to address them. “Did anyone take the bride and groom figures from the cake? There may be a sentimental reason for doing so. No guilt will be inferred.”

  When no one spoke, he told Rex in a low voice, “That seems to indicate someone has something to hide. Who else was in the reception room apart from the victims when the miniatures were still there?”

  “Diana Litton and Meredith Matthews. Mrs. Litton was a caregiver to her ailing mother. Meredith is a nurse’s aide.”

  Detective Lucas barked out their names. All eyes turned to the startled women as he asked them to turn out their pockets and the contents of their handbags. Rex would have liked to see what it was the inspector kept in his pocket.

  He rejoined Helen. Slumped in the armchair in her cornflower-blue suit, she had lost her dewy freshness of the morning, and looked in dire need of reviving.

  “I wish we could go home,” she said. “I never expected to be here so long. And looking through Diane’s handbag is a waste of time. She’s the last person who would steal anything.”

  “She and Meredith were in the room around the time the miniatures went missing, and the police have to start somewhere.”