Murder of the Bride (3 page)

“Thought we'd never make it anyway,” Reggie said. “We were stuck on the stupid train about twenty minutes from Derby.”

“Don't tell me,” Rex said. “Mechanical problems.”

“Actually, there was a body on the tracks.”

“You're joking!” Helen said.

“Swear to God,” Reggie told her. “Somebody jumped off the bridge. We had to wait for ages while the police investigated and the person was finally carted away in a mortuary van.”

“Some passengers got off to watch,” Meredith added. “It seemed
a bit ghoulish, so we stayed in our compartment, but people were discussing it up and down the train.”

“How awful. Was it a young person?” Helen asked. “That always
seems worse.”

“Don't know,” Reggie replied. “Someone said the body was so badly mangled from an oncoming train it was hard to tell.”

“Oh, goodness,” Helen said. “I shouldn't have asked. What a terrible thing to talk about at a wedding.”

As drizzle began to trickle down the car windows, she set the wipers in motion. At the White Hart Inn, the pink Mercedes turned onto Weston Road and led the slow line of cars into the gently undulating South Derbyshire countryside.

Rex thought it felt more like a funeral procession.

Quo Vadis

The cortege climbed a
long incline past meadows brimming with cowslip and fields where soggy sheep grazed in the lush grass. The line of cars slowed to a crawl as it passed through a pair of tall iron gates and followed along a semicircular driveway bisecting the grass parkland. Standing sentry at regular intervals, life-size white statues of graceful limbed women draped in stolas gazed blindly from blank stone eyes at the procession. Two men in anoraks directed the vehicles to parking spaces at the apex of the gravel driveway.

“You've got to be joking,” Reggie said before Rex had time to formulate his own astonishment at the structure looming before him, the central part of which comprised a red brick fort six stories high, each level punctured by a lancet window set directly above the front door, culminating in a gray crenellated parapet, reminiscent of All Saints' Church in Aston.

Flanking the narrow fort, symmetrical extensions presented
a
lower wall of stone and a projecting upper story of white pla
s
ter
façade interlaced with black timber and inset with recessed dia
mond pane windows. What should, thematically, have been a thatch
roof instead continued the turret design of the tower. Climbing rose, clematis, and white honeysuckle lent a certain cottage charm, but failed to soften the austere aspect of the central fort whose brick wall rose to three times the height of the mock Tudor wings.

The pink Mercedes pulled up in front of an iron-studded oak door, pierced with a portcullis window. The door opened to reveal a woman in a white blouse, black skirt, and low heels, who stood aside as the wedding party mounted the shallow flight of steps draped in rain-saturated red carpet.

“It can't decide whether it wants to be a fortress or a manor house,” Rex said, examining the building with curiosity through the windshield while Helen parked the car behind a white van.

“I know,” Meredith said with a sigh. “It's hideous. I used to stay here weekends and pretend I was on a set for the shooting of a film about Henry VIII.”

“What is its history?” Rex asked.

“The fort was built in the mid 1800s by Mrs. Newcombe's husband's great-great-grandfather or something. The wall surrounding the four acres of property was Mr. Newcombe's grandfather's doing after he sold off some of the land, and he converted the carriage house into a garage. The wings were added in the 1980s by Mr. Newcombe's parents, who passed away before he married Victoria.”

“What happened to Mr. Newcombe?” Rex asked Meredith, recalling the conversation between Bobby Carter and Mrs. Newcombe.

“Nobody knows.”

The four occupants of the Renault got out and made their way to the front steps of the fort. A date-stone embedded in the brickwork above the door was inscribed with
1855
and two Latin words:
Quo Vadis
,
which Rex translated poetically as “Whither goest thou?” for the benefit of his companions. He explained that Latin had no interrogation point, the question being implied in the “quo.”

“Is it a motto?” Meredith's boyfriend asked.

“I suppose it could be a philosophical one. Do you know where you're going in life, Reggie?”

“Haven't a clue. What about you?”

“It's taken me long enough to get where I am.”

“Where's that then?”

“Queen's Counsel at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh.”

“Sounds impressive,” Reggie said with a respectful nod. “So's this place in a fakey sort of way.”

Red carpet squelched underfoot as they mounted the steps. The woman at the door took Meredith's coat and beret. Rex made sure to dry his shoes carefully on the mat before entering the great hall, which extended the breadth of the fort.

A massive stone fireplace at either side created an illusion of warmth and welcome, mitigating the starkness of the brick walls that cried out for gleaming suits of armor and a pair of crossed halberds to complete the effect of a medieval castle. Instead, tapestries of pastoral scenes, looking suspiciously like replicas to Rex's critical eye, adorned the four soaring walls, while floral rugs, on which gathered tight knots of people, covered the flagstone floor.

The guests had not yet availed themselves of the groupings of
faux antique sofas, as they waited for the rest of the invitees to arrive.
Amber, the sourpuss maid of honor, chatted with Polly, but her eyes were fixed on Dudley Thorpe as on an irresistible pair of shoes she could never afford. Rex sensed drama afoot.

In the back right-hand corner of the hall, a cylindrical tower built of curved blocks of stone signaled a spiral stairway. A centered archway led into its murky depths, gaping dark and sinister
as a grotto and secretive as a shell. Rex fancifully imagined a
dung-eon lurking beneath the flagstone floor, with rusty implements of torture attached to dank walls impregnated with ghostly cries.

In the opposite corner, a DJ station stood empty, two mammoth speakers facing into the hall. A girl in a short black dress, black stockings, and white apron, offered guests flutes of champagne from a silver tray. Reggie and Meredith took theirs and eagerly went off to explore.

“Don't mind if I do,” Rex thanked the server, whisking a glass off the tray and clinking it with Helen's. “No doubt there'll be plenty of toasts later on, but, for now,
Slàinte
.” He downed half the contents. “That's better,” he said. “Though a beer would have done just as well.”

“The bar and buffet are through here,” announced the woman who had opened the front door to them, making Rex wonder whether she had overheard his comment.

He followed into an adjoining room. Spacious, yet with a low beamed ceiling, the reception area was decked out in silky chintz fabric and rococo furniture. A tri-panel Chinese lacquer screen, depicting stylized peacocks, stood in front of the far door to deter guests from venturing beyond that point. Pink and white floral arrangements graced the marble-top tables, while soft romantic hits played in the background. Against the French doors across the salon, a long table draped in white linen held the wedding gifts. Remembering the box under his arm, Rex added the fruit bowl to the collection.

To his relief, he was able to procure a pint of Guinness from the full-service bar.

“I never saw anyone so indecently pregnant!” hissed a snarky female voice. “Isn't Polly a bit far along to be flying to Majorca for her honeymoon?”

Rex pretended not to hear. “Shotgun wedding” was the next indignant phrase to assail his ears. He was about to turn and upbraid the gossipers with a sharp look of rebuke when an authoritative voice interrupted him.

“Helen!” Victoria Newcombe air-kissed his fiancée on the cheek. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Mrs. Newcombe had removed her hat, and Rex found she stood
up commendably to close scrutiny. A blonder and slimmer version of her daughter, her flawless makeup accentuated well-modeled bones, her body, as youthful as her face, evidently no stranger to a regular workout routine. “Sorry I didn't get around to greeting you at the church,” she told them both, “but I was so busy. Honestly, once I'm through with this, I won't know what to do with myself !”

“You've done a wonderful job,” Helen dutifully replied. “Everything is perfect. This is my fiancé, Rex Graves.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves. I am so happy for Helen. Just
goes to show—one should never give up! Ah, the vicar has arrived.”
The elderly man, divested of surplice, hesitated in the doorway. “Catch up with you later, darling,” Victoria Newcombe promised Helen as she breezed off in the clergyman's direction.

“Never give up!” Helen mimicked in good humor when their hostess was far enough away not to hear. “She's one to talk! I suspect Bobby Carter has been keeping her company in her husband's long absence.”

“He's somewhat older than Victoria, isn't he?”

“Somewhat,” Helen said enigmatically.

Rex wrapped an arm around her waist and watched the guests congregate at the bar. Helen's ex-boyfriend, taller and more athletic than Rex had anticipated, stood with the bride and groom. His date, glimpsed from the back in church, now faced them, clad in a slinky silver sequined dress, one hand possessively encircling Clive's arm. Hmm, Rex thought; Clive has great taste in women. “Aye, verra nice,” he let slip.

“Rex, are you looking for a kick in the shins?” Helen inquired.

“I prefer blondes. And if you were a redhead, I'd prefer redheads.”

“Watch it, or I'll pour this champagne all over your red head.”

Clive guided his companion toward them with what Rex took to be a smile of triumph. The teacher blinked as he announced, “Helen, I'd like to present Jasmina,” as though he were presenting a trophy.

The two women clasped hands, Jasmina emitting a nervous little giggle. The silver hoops on her ears offset the smooth honey matte of her skin. Adeptly applied black liquid liner underscored almond-shaped eyes of shiny licorice. By and by, Rex became aware of Helen's insistent gaze on his own face and slid his eyes to Clive's more pedestrian features. Stepping forward and introducing himself, he shook the teacher's hand. As predicted—a wimpy grip.

“Down for the weekend?” Clive asked.

“That's right. Hope to go hiking in the Peak District tomorrow.”

“Helen told me you were an avid walker,” Clive said, making Rex wonder what else she had told him in his regard. Her ex launched into a rapturous soliloquy about the District's rugged charm and recommended which trails to take, blinking all the while and leading Rex to suppose he was trying contact lenses, or else his current pair was drying up on him. It made Rex feel a compulsion to blink too. Soon bored by Clive's hyper enthusiasm, he listened with one ear to the women's conversation.

“I love Polly's gown,” Jasmina said. “Antique lace. Must have cost a fortune.”

“And your dress is simply gorgeous,” Helen complimented.

“Oh, thanks.” Jasmina giggled and sipped her champagne.

“Are you a designer?”

“Oh, no. I'm in media. Clothes are just a hobby.” Another giggly squeal. “And you?”

“Student advisor at Clive's school.” Helen glanced at her ex as though surprised he had not mentioned this fact to Jasmina.

“Oh—right,” Jasmina said. “And that's how you know Polly …,” she ventured.

“Yes, I got to know Polly during her teenage years. And, to some extent, Timmy. Timmy was Clive's pupil.”

Jasmina gazed adoringly at Clive as though mathematics was the sexiest subject ever, and gave his arm a playful tweak. “Thanks to you, he became an accountant.”

A pleased flush crept over Clive's bland face. “Oh, I don't know that I can take all the credit,” he said, obviously ready to do just that.

“Funny to see them both grown up and married,” Helen remarked, waggling her fingers at the newlyweds across the room. “Timmy has perked up. Probably glad to get the wedding ceremony out of the way.”

“I know!” Jasmina said. “He was so nervous, he kept asking the vicar to repeat the prompts.”

Rex asked Clive if he would like another beer and when Clive declined, went off to get one for himself, hoping to find an interesting guest to talk to. Preferably someone who knew something about Tom Newcombe, their hostess's conspicuously absent husband. He decided the sister, the garrulous aunt from Wales, might be a good start.

Family Skeletons

“So Gwen turned up
in time to catch the bridal bouquet,” Rex remarked to Bobby Carter, who was standing at the drinks table waiting for the bartender to finish serving a guest.

“Better late than never, I suppose. Mr. Graves, isn't it? What's your poison?” Carter relayed Rex's order to the bartender and requested another scotch for himself. “Have you visited Newcombe Court before?” he asked.

“No, never had the pleasure. Meredith, one of Polly's friends, was telling us a bit about its history on the drive over.”

“It does have some historical interest,” Carter acknowledged as they moved away from the bar with their drinks. “The National Trust would be very interested in acquiring it. They'd probably tear down the wings and restore it to its original glory. There used to be a moat and drawbridge, but the moat was filled when the wings were built. The dungeon is now used as a wine cellar. Mr. Newcombe liked his plonk. A bit too much, actually. There was also a jousting enclosure where the orchard and meadow now stand beyond the south wall. Old Cornelius Newcombe, the first
owner, was something of a military buff. Victoria removed the weap-
ons from the hall and from the stairwell to the battlements, which she prefers to call a widow's walk. It was all too masculine for her taste.”

“Have you known Mrs. Newcombe long?”

“Since she and Thomas were married. I'm the family solicitor.”

“Is Mr. Newcombe deceased?” Rex didn't let on that he had been privy to the conversation between Carter and Victoria outside the church.

“We don't know. That's the devil of it. Victoria could have procured a divorce in all this time, but she was afraid if he came back,
she might lose Newcombe Court. Without knowing what happened
to him, the legal situation regarding this property is somewhat vague, especially as he has a living sister.”

“What, ehm, were the circumstances of his disappearance, if I might ask?” Aunt Gwen had not been able to elucidate on this point, telling Rex only that her brother had seemed unhappy and agitated the last time she saw him, which had been a decade ago.

“As long as you don't ask Victoria about it,” the solicitor cautioned. “She gets a bit touchy. Well, it happened that Newcombe went on a business trip to Leicester and never came back. Victoria, thinking he might be seeing another woman, failed to inform the police. I expect she hoped to avoid a scandal and thought he would return under his own steam.”

“Were the police ever informed?”

“Yes, but by then the trail had gone cold. People's memories had faded and no one could say for certain when or where he was last seen. He dealt in antiques and went all over the country.”

“He never checked into a hotel? His car was never recovered?” Rex had covered a missing persons case in the past.

“He usually took the train from Derby to wherever he was going. Actually,” and here Carter coughed discreetly, “he had a suspended licence. And no hotel reservation was made for that last trip. Ah, there's my girl,” he bellowed, wrapping his arm around Polly's substantial waist. Sleepy-eyed, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Bearing up?” he asked. “Not too tired after being on your feet all morning?”

“My shoes are pinching a bit. My feet have swollen up disgustingly since the pregnancy,” she added, smiling apologetically at Rex beneath a surfeit of blue eye shadow.

“I don't think I've had the chance to congratulate you in person,” Rex said with a slight bow. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“I positively love Helen. She helped me lots.”

“Excuse us, Mr. Graves. Let's get some of this delicious buffet down you, Polly, to give you strength for your wedding night.” Carter chuckled as he led the bride away.

“As if !” she said with a hearty laugh. “Soon as my head hits the pillow, I'll be out like a light.”

How romantic, Rex thought.

“Oh, Uncle Bobby,” he heard her exclaim as they distanced themselves. “Will it ever end? I hope he's early. My back is that sore, and this little blighter kicks for England. Just wait and see—he's going to be the next Beckham or else my name's not Polly Thorpe.” She laughed in wonder. “Fancy that! I'm not Polly Newcombe no more.”

“
Any
more,” her mother corrected in passing. “Honestly, Polly.”

Helen strolled over to Rex, glass in hand. “Enjoying yourself ?” she asked.

“Enormously. I've unearthed a family mystery.”

“You would. And what mystery might that be?”

“The missing Mr. Newcombe.”

“That's no mystery. Everybody knows about Tom Newcombe.”

“Aye, but not what happened.”

“Well, I can guess,” Helen said meaningfully, flicking her eyes in the direction of Victoria Newcombe, who was circulating among the guests playing the gracious hostess, clearly in her element. “And you have decided to get to the bottom of it?”

“I doubt I could succeed where the police have failed.”

“Don't be so transparently modest, Rex. You've done it before.”

“This happened a long time ago. Still, it makes for an intriguing social event. I shall now take extra interest in the Newcombe family, knowing this big question mark hangs over their heads.”

“There's only Victoria, Polly, and the merry widow from
Wales
who actually constitute family,” Helen reminded him. “And now Timmy—and, by extension, his brash brother and coddling mother.”

Aunt Gwen, alluded to by Helen as the “merry widow,” stood on the other side of the reception room in the company of the bald home economics teacher and a distinguished-looking gentleman, whom Rex had noticed on the groom's side of the aisle in church. Champagne glass in one hand and waving an hors-d'oeuvres on a cocktail stick in the other, the plump little Welsh lady looked to be having the time of her life as she alternately roared and hooted with laughter at what her companions were saying. Rex wondered if she bore any resemblance to her mysterious brother.

“I'm sure many a man has dreamt of simply disappearing and starting a new life,” he said with a faraway gleam in his eye, prompting Helen to ask how much beer he'd had to drink. “One and a half pints. Take someone like Tom Newcombe,” he pursued. “Born into a life of ease—or so I imagine, judging by this place that's been in his family for generations. He gets married, has a child. Maybe it was all too predictable. Perhaps he had a midlife crisis and decided he needed a change.”

“You mean got a new identity and started over?”

Rex hitched his shoulders. “Why not? He could have had funds stashed away that no one knew about.”

“Maybe Bobby Carter helped his client disappear so he could have access to the beautiful wife. Or perhaps he was murdered and his body hidden away where no one could find it.”

Rex glanced at Helen in amusement. “You're intrigued as well, admit it.”

“It certainly is food for thought,” she conceded.

“It certainly is.”