Murder of the Bride (11 page)

Unrequited Passion

“Your ex-boyfriend was had,”
Rex told Helen, who, along with everyone else in the house, had been alerted as to the arrest by some source. She watched from the portcullis window as the two constables escorted Jasmina and DJ Smoothie to the patrol car and installed them in the back seat.

“Imagine falling idiotically in love with a common thief !” Helen remarked. “Perhaps now he'll go back to wearing glasses and stop blinking like a lunatic.”

“Don't be too hard on him. We've all made fools of ourselves over a beautiful woman.”

“Even you, Rex?”

“I can't rightly recall,” he replied evasively.

“Are the police sure she and the DJ had nothing to do with the poisonings?”

“They'll be questioned at the station, but it seems unlikely in view of the circumstances. No obvious motive, for one thing; and little opportunity, for another. Listen, have you seen Bobby Carter anywhere?”

“He's outside, pacing the driveway. Before you go, what did you mean earlier about not being able to see the wood for the trees?”

“‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,' said Sherlock Holmes.”

“Rex,” Helen warned. “Please stop with all the proverbs and quotes.”

“Sorry. But think about it: Jasmina's fruit bowl was lying in full view on the kitchen table. It didn't match the white crockery provided by Pembleton Caterers, but it could have been on loan from Mrs. Newcombe. Later, when I remembered Jasmina carrying a box down the stairs, which I suspected contained the snuff boxes, I wondered where she had hidden the fruit bowl.”

“In plain sight.”

“Exactly. Same with the snuff boxes. In the middle of the floor in the DJ's speaker.”

“How did you guess?”

“I rarely guess, lass. Process of elimination. Everywhere else had been searched. The obvious hiding place was somewhere nobody would notice when it was moved. Mobile DJ—perfect cover.”

Leaving Helen to appreciate the logic of Sherlock's observation, Rex stepped out the front door into the bracing fresh air. He reached into his pocket for his pipe, trusting that the peaty vanilla aroma of the Clan tobacco would work its usual charm. Although trying to give up smoking, he kept the pipe handy for an emergency. Even so, he had not anticipated an emergency of such epic proportions.

Quo Vadis—
Whither goest thou?
the worn-smooth date-stone
questioned, compelling him to turn his head mid-stride on the
driveway, as though drawn irresistibly by a pair of watching eyes.
I'd certainly like to know where your descendent went
, Rex responded
in his thoughts. He could not help but feel that Tom Newcombe's disappearance had some bearing on the case.

He found the family solicitor pacing the gravel farther down the driveway, lit cigar in hand, and fell in step beside him. By tacit agreement, they moved away from the vehicles parked outside the manor-fort and made toward the lush purple blooms on the rhododendron hedge by the gate.

“Did you ever try to track down Victoria's husband?” Rex asked after a few moments of silence during which time he resolved not to succumb to his pipe.

“Funny, I was just thinking about him. Yes, we contacted the Salvation Army and other organizations that trace relatives in the UK and overseas. But without a clue as to where he went, it was hard to know where to start. We called everybody he knew, all his acquaintances and his business colleagues in Leicester, where he had his last meeting. Or would have, had he arrived. The police checked hospitals and morgues in the area in case he'd been mugged or run over by a bus.”

“Sounds like he didn't want to be found, or else someone didn't want you to find him.”

“That's the conclusion we came to and, eventually, Victoria decided to just get on with her life. Except at Christmas and on Polly's birthday, when she'd start wondering all over again. You know how it is. It continues to hang over one.”

Like a hangman's noose over the head of a murderer? Rex wondered. “You appear to have been close to Victoria.”

“Beyond the scope of my professional involvement with the family, you mean? Yes, we became close when her husband disappeared, but nothing improper, I assure you. And, naturally, I became attached to Polly. She's like a daughter to me.”

“She's going to need you all the more now, with her mother gone.” Assuming Polly survived her ordeal.

“Victoria gone!” Carter cried hoarsely, slowing to a stop before the perfect purple orbs on the rhododendron hedge. “I can't believe it. I thought maybe in time …” He thumb-flicked the end of his cigar, dislodging the ash. “Well, time ran out for Victoria. Just goes to show …”

He stared back at the fort. “Now that I look at that Latin inscrip
tion, which I must have passed under a hundred times without giving it a second thought, it seems to mock my procrastination. One thing's for sure: I'll see that DJ Smoothie rots in prison for the rest of his miserable life. Lucky I checked the study when I went looking for Gwen. I bet he was planning to get away with a much bigger haul. Too much of a coincidence if he didn't poison the cake as well.”

“Fact is,” Rex said, “no violence was committed during any of the thefts prior to today. Personally, I think we're looking at two unrelated crimes. The theft of the snuff boxes because the DJ had access when the occupants of the house would be busy celebrating the wedding. The murders because the intended victims would be under one roof with enough potential suspects to confuse the police.”

“Possibly,” Bobby Carter conceded.

“You declined the cake. Why was that?”

“I'm a diabetic, so I avoid sugar. Never thought my condition would actually save my life,” the solicitor said in a tone of sobering realization. “But when Gwen failed to fall into the trap of eating the portion of cake reserved for family, another way was found to dispose of her. Pretty diabolical, if you ask me.”

“Especially if it was kith or kin who plotted the poisoning,” Rex added, pensively tapping the stem of his unlit pipe on his chin, relishing the familiarity of the smooth bowl in his hand.

Carter shuddered as he looked up at the gray battlements delineated against the bleak sky. “Must have required someone of considerable strength to chuck the old girl over the turrets.”

“Mr. Carter,” Rex inquired, “Who benefits from Gwen's or Victoria's death? Do you know of any life insurance policies in effect?”

“No. Victoria's will leaves everything to Polly and her offspring, assuming Thomas Newcombe stays out of the picture. Should he ever reappear, he is entitled to the estate, which was left to him by his father. Gwen was given a settlement when she married. She had no claim to Newcombe Court except in the event of there being no surviving direct descendents of Thomas Newcombe.”

“Mr. Carter, one more thing. The name Mack came up in connection with Polly—and with yourself.”

“Ah, yes. Mack.” Carter stared for a full minute at the limp cigar between his fingers. “Polly ran around with that fellow for a while. Mack Simmons was trouble with a capital
T
.
”

“What happened to him?”

“Had to get rid of him.” The solicitor clamped small feral teeth around his cigar. “Oh, not like that,” he said, catching Rex's expression of surprise.

“You mean, not like Tom Newcombe, who also disappeared under mysterious circumstances?”

Carter pulled the cigar from his mouth. “Are you honestly suggesting …?” he began, then stopped, apparently unable to articulate his train of thought. “No, you've got it all wrong.”

“You got rid of this Mack Simmons how?”

“Paid him off, on the promise he would leave Aston. He wanted to set up a garage in Cornwall, where his mother's family was from. Far enough away, I reasoned. And far as I know, he kept his promise not to contact Polly. A solicitor friend of mine in St. Ives said he had married a local girl.”

“Is Polly aware of any of this?”

“Heavens no. Part of my agreement with him was that he wouldn't divulge his whereabouts to anyone in Aston. He was amply compensated for any sentimental feelings he professed to have had for Polly. And it's not like he went to live in Siberia. St. Ives is a lovely Cornish seaside town.”

“And was Polly's mother party to this arrangement?”

“It was Victoria's idea and her money.”

“This took place when?”

“He left in September. The thirteenth, to be precise.”

And yet Amber had told Rex that Polly and her lover had continued to meet in secret. The maid of honor was preparing to leave
with her parents. “Excuse me just a sec,” he told Carter and hurried
back to join the Willingtons at the main entrance.

“We've been released pending possible further questions,” Joce-
lyn Willington told him in a sardonic tone, waving her farewells to the remaining guests through the open door. “What a godawful day.”

“Can I borrow your daughter briefly?”

“Oh, for goodness sake. Make it quick then. Our other two daugh-ters are home alone with our granddaughter. We'll wait in the car.”

Mr. Willington nodded goodbye and accompanied his wife down the steps, leaving the gangly blonde behind at the door buttoning a coat over her flimsy pink dress.

“Amber, I know you are Polly's best friend and you don't want to betray her confidence, but I have to know—is Mack Simmons the father of her baby?”

The girl opened her mouth to speak but apparently thought better of it. “That's not for me to say,” she said primly.

“It may have a bearing on the murders. You told me she and Mack continued seeing each other behind Mrs. Newcombe's back. When did he actually leave Aston?”

“Late September? Not sure exactly. Polly and I were supposed to be clothes shopping in Derby, at least that's what she told her
mother, but she went to meet Mack in Aston. This was mid-
September. She called me on her mobile, hysterical. He'd packed up and left without saying goodbye. Nobody at the garage knew where he'd gone. I took the next bus back from Derby. Her eyes were all red and puffy. She swore her mum had something to do with it. Days later, she said she and Mack were still seeing each other but had to be careful. Victoria was a right snob and hated him. If you really want to know, I think Polly poisoned her mum and tried to commit suicide. And no, I don't think the baby is Timmy's even though she swears it is.”

“Wouldn't Polly have told you if it wasn't his?”

Amber sniffed as if recalling a hurtful slight. “She would have …
before. But after that thing with Mack, she changed. She became secretive and, well, just different. A few weeks after he was supposed to have left, she started going out with Timmy, and before you knew it, they were engaged, with a baby on the way.” A knowing smirk slid across the girl's blotchy face. “Anyway, she made up with her mum, and never mentioned Mack again. It was like he never existed. Is that all you wanted to know? My parents are waiting.”

“Aye, thanks.” But at the last moment, he called after her. The girl turned, pink dress whirling beneath her coat. “Amber,” he said again. “Forgive my impertinence, but you're in love with Dudley, are you not?” He stated this matter-of-factly, recalling the longing and greed that had consumed her face when she looked at him.

She blushed to a deep shade of crimson, conveying what Rex needed to know, and ran off with an ungainly, splay-footed gait to a waiting silver Jaguar whose engine purred on idle. She jumped in the back and the car took off, spitting gravel. Her face, a pale oval looking out of the rear window, projected a vision of hopeless, unrequited passion.

“I need to go back to Aston to do some poking around,” he said returning to Carter, who had planted himself in the middle of the driveway, frowning after the departing car, which had left deep ruts in the gravel. “I've pretty much exhausted the possibilities here for the time being.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“Thank you, no. I think you should stay behind and hold down the fort. I believe, as an outsider, I may get further on my own.”

He told Lucas he had business in Aston-on-Trent and reassured Helen it would not take long, requesting the use of her car and the keys. When she asked to go with him, he said he needed her to be his eyes and ears at Newcombe Court. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he said goodbye and left before she had time to ask why he was going.

Disappearances

Rex followed the road
back to Aston-on-Trent and stopped at a newsagent's to ask for directions to the doctors' clinic that Dudley had referred to at the reception.

“Won't be anyone at the clinic today,” said the girl behind the counter as he turned to leave, pocketing his change from the purchase of a pouch of tobacco, in case his willpower ran out before the end of the weekend. “It's Saturday.”

“Dr. Williamitis is there,” put in a female shopper behind him. “I saw his car parked outside. Is it him you want to see? There are six doctors, you know.”

“I wanted to speak to Dr. Thorpe's replacement.”

“Dr. Thorpe? Funny you should bring his name up. His son got married today at All Saints' Church. Here you go, duck,” the woman said to the shop assistant, depositing a bottle of Robinson's Lemon Barley Water and two packets of milk chocolate digestive biscuits on the counter.

“Was Dr. Thorpe your doctor?” Rex asked the woman while her items were bagged.

“He was for a time, but that was ages ago. Never had to see him for anything serious, which is probably just as well. He was a bit progressive, like. Now, when my Terry got his duodenal ulcer two years ago …”

Oh, Lord, spare me Terry's duodenal ulcer, Rex thought, suddenly gasping at his watch and excusing himself with all speed. Once inside the car, he followed the directions he had been given to Valerie Road off Weston and, after a false turn, finally found the single-story brick clinic—but no car in the parking lot. Getting out of his vehicle, he went to peer through the glass panel door. A note was taped to the inside notifying visitors that Dr. Williamitis was on a house call and would be back “
soon
.”

With a frustrated sigh, Rex cast a forlorn eye at the official hours of surgery and at the plaque on the wall listing the doctors, among them Dr. A. Williamitis. His was the only name that sounded like a disease.

Since there was nothing for him to do until the doctor returned, he drove back to the main street and without too much trouble found a space on a side road by The Malt Shovel, where he intended to plan his next move over a quiet pint. Shrugging back into his jacket, he stepped into the pub and approached the bar, which faced the weary red décor of an L-shaped lounge, the air redolent of chips and vinegar. Beneath a low beamed ceiling, the walls presented a hodgepodge of prints and farming relics, among them a yoke and shepherd's crook, recalling the region's agricultural heritage. Two chalk boards listed the menu, but in spite of the fact it was getting on for six o'clock and he was feeling the first hunger pangs of the evening, the “Fish Pie with peas & salad” failed to tempt him, still less the “Liver, onions, mash & veg.” He felt too anxious to eat with so little time to solve a triple murder. A cold fireplace stood in the far corner as sunless light filtered through the small window panes.

A burly landlord loitered by the beer taps, liquor bottles ranged on shelves behind him. “What'll you have?” he asked over a background of muted Pop Rock.

“A pint of Guinness.”

“Aah-do! Been ta wedding?” interrupted a toothless old man in a flat cap perched on a neighboring barstool. He jerked his head toward the pink silk carnation in Rex's lapel.

“I have,” Rex answered.

“Lovely girl, our Polly. Worked as barmaid here part-time. Ah were head gardener at Newcombe when her dad were still there.”

“Really?” Rex asked, turning his full attention on him.

“His missus, now, she 'ad enough of his carryings-on—”

“Now then, Jessop, that's just gossip,” the landlord remonstrated as he delivered Rex's pint. Neither he nor the old man appeared to have heard of the latest goings-on at Newcombe Court. The scattering of other customers around the bar and at the booths seemed similarly uninformed, judging by the lack of animation in the place.

“I 'eard 'em many a time up at house, at it like cat and dog,” the old man pursued earnestly.

“Are you saying Tom Newcombe was one for the ladies?” Rex asked. He'd heard about the drinking, but this was news.

His neighbor touched his nose knowingly. “Had an auld pair working at house.”

“He means an au pair,” the landlord interjected, loading clean glasses onto the overhead rack while Rex downed a draught of Guinness.

“She were from one of them countries in Eastern Europe wot keep changing names,” the old man went on. “Took care of his dooghter for two years, then the missus sent her packing. This were a year 'fore 'ee disappeared. Polly were nine by then.”

Rex bought the old man another pint of bitter and paid for his own drink.

“Hold up, old cock,” Jessop said as Rex got up to leave. “I keep a picture of the family at that time 'cause it shows the new garden.”

“You still have it?”

“I can nip 'round ta m' cottage and get it.”

Rex sat back down.

“He's leading you down the garden path,” the landlord warned when Jessop departed in surprisingly spry fashion. “He's got nothing better to do than sit in here all day hoping people will pay for his nonsense with beer.”

“But he did work for the family at the time Tom Newcombe disappeared?”

“He did, and he put the new landscaping in, what you see now.” The landlord went to attend to new customers, a couple of hikers in anoraks and muddy walking boots.

Presently, Jessop returned with a colorful photo in a cheap wood frame, showing the Newcombe family and an unfamiliar young woman holding Polly by the hand. Rex scrutinized it with interest. Mother and child were instantly recognizable. Mrs. Newcombe, in a large-brimmed straw hat, smiled her superior smile. Polly, pink ribbons in her pigtails, grinned out of the picture, advertising a missing front tooth.

Tom Newcombe proved a letdown, quite ordinary in every way, a man settling into the gray and slack-featured anonymity of middle age, the sort of person you passed on the street without registering any lasting impression.

“Married 'im for his money,” Jessop said slyly, following Rex's facial reactions.

“Is this the au pair?” Rex pointed to the young blonde squinting at the camera.

Jessop nodded and stuck his nose back in his ale. “Belter garden, in't it?”

Rex discerned a compliment was in order. “Verra nice,” he agreed, recognizing the herbaceous borders of crimson roses and lavender against a backdrop of delphiniums in dusky pink, purple and blue, still growing at Newcombe Court.

“Warn't before. It were a mess of tangled bushes and briars. We 'ad to dig it all up and put new grass down. The missus complained 'bout th' mess, but she were pleased in th' end. Even more
pleased when her old man disappeared. Warn't long before that
solicitor—”

“Jessop!” the landlord exploded. “That evil tongue will be the death of you.”

The old man wheezed. “I knows wot I sees. If the police had asked me, I'd have told 'em to dig …”

At this point the landlord flicked his bar rag over his shoulder, pushed back the flap in the counter, and squeezing through, lifted the old man—stool, pint and all—and deposited him outside the pub entrance while Rex watched through the window. Returning, he brusquely swiped his palms together. “He won't be back before tomorrow with his idle chatter. This is a warning. Next time his head gets shoved down the well for slandering the good folk from round here.”

Interesting slander, nonetheless. Rex requested the local phone book from the landlord and made a note of the doctors' phone numbers from the clinic in case the aptly named Dr. Williamitis did not return from his house call in time.

In the absence of further information regarding Tom Newcombe, he was left with Dr. Thorpe as a chief line of inquiry. Hopefully that would lead somewhere. An investigation comprised a confusion of false starts and dead ends, Rex often thought; but eventually, if one persevered, the right path led out of the maze.