Murder of the Bride (9 page)

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 taste
less, 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.”

Rex thought Clive more suspect, however. He clung to Jasmina, who seemed anxious now to get away from his clutches. This made him blink all the more. Most of the guests appeared fidgety as tension built in the hall.

Brass Tacks

Diana Litton produced a
bunch of keys, a compartmentalized wallet stacked with bank and library cards, a transparent topped fuchsia lipstick, and a wad of clean tissues. Meredith came up with a comb, a retro clip-purse, lip balm, and breath mints.

Most of the spectators looked disappointed that nothing incriminating had been found. Others were affronted when asked to empty their own pockets and purses. Jasmina in her clinging sequined number patently had nowhere in her clothes to hide anything. PC Dimley, recalled from searching the vehicles, made a clumsy attempt to pat her down all the same, eliciting shocked giggles from the thusly assaulted girl, who stared in wide-eyed entreaty at Clive.

“Watch where you put your hands, you inept clodhopper,” he snapped, one movement away from completing a punch in the constable's reddening face.

While the detectives questioned Diana and the young nurse's aide, Rex caught up with Roger Litton at the refreshment table as he was helping himself to coffee.

The Home Ec teacher took a tentative sip from his cup. “Tastes all right. Need something to keep me awake.”

“Roger, I hope you don't think me a busybody, but someone mentioned seeing you go up the tower steps with the Welsh lady. Did you mention that fact to either of the detectives?”

Litton flushed to the top of his bald spot. “Well, no, I didn't, actually. I only went part of the way. Up the steps, I mean.” He blushed a deeper shade of pink. “It's quite a climb up those winding stairs and she was dragging on my arm. I made my excuses and let her continue without me. Chivalry only extends so far, you know.”

“Did she mention why she wanted to go to the roof ?”

“She said the view was breathtaking. The climb alone took my breath away. No view is worth a stroke.”

“Or a broken neck.”

“Quite so. Sorry I can't help you there.”

“Any indication she was going to meet someone?” Rex asked in a final attempt to discover why the aunt had gone up the tower stairs. Could it really have been for the view on such a dismal day?

Roger Litton shook his head thoughtfully. “She was babbling away about this and that, and I ceased paying much attention. I say, what's going on over there?”

Rex turned. The older crowd was grouped on one side of the fireplace, giving a wide berth to Detective Dartford's prodigious posterior as he bent over the hearth. Surgical gloves molded to his hands, he held his tie to his chest to prevent it from catching alight while he prodded in a far corner of the fireplace with an iron poker.

“Ey-up,” he announced to himself.

Among the pile of ashes, Rex spotted two blackened figures, melted and misshapen, but still recognizable as the missing plastic bride and groom. Detective Lucas, who had finished interviewing Diana Litton, watched as Dartford fished them out of the fireplace.

“You were right,” he said, approaching Rex. “Someone got rid of them. Our suspect, more likely than not.”

“Was Mrs. Litton able to shed any light on the miniatures?”

“She left the room once Victoria Newcombe had been taken out on a stretcher. Said she wanted to go and wash her hands. Meredith Matthews escorted the vicar to the ambulance. Someone could have gone in then to get rid of any traces of arsenic. With so many people in the house and all the commotion, it's hard to know who was where. Seems most of the guests crowded around the main entrance when the ambulance arrived.”

“The poisoner would have realized that once the police got here, there would be no chance of going back into the banquet room.”

“Precisely. Forensics won't be able to confirm the existence of arsenic in the wedding cake if the evidence was removed, so we only have your hypothesis that it was in the cake in the first place. Here are the facts: The cake was in the kitchen this morning waiting to be iced. Stella Pembleton worked as a pastry chef at Price's Bakery in Derby before starting her own business. But she's not the only person who could have mixed in the poison. Her sister and niece were also here this morning, as were the two servers hired for the day. No priors on any of them. We called the station and ran a check.”

The inspector proceeded to consult his notes. “Pollard, the bartender, twenty-six years of age, lives alone in Derby. Drake, forty-two, serves at the buffet table, a family man from Aston. Rachel, Lydia Pembleton's daughter, is a student at the University of Derby and works for the catering business part-time. Don't see any of them risking their jobs to jolly up a party with a lethal dose of arsenic. The DJ came too late to have tampered with the cake, which was already iced by then. Always assuming it was the cake that had the arsenic in it, but I'm holding to that opinion since it was the surest thing that everyone would eat. Some people are vegetarians, others are allergic to shellfish, others don't like avocados. You get my drift.”

“Aye, it's tradition to eat cake at a wedding,” Rex added, sup
porting his argument that the inspector now seemed to have
adopted as his own.

“So, if it was the cake, the catering staff had opportunity, as did the people at the house this morning. Polly, Mrs. Newcombe, Mabel Thorpe, Robert Carter,” the inspector listed from his notes.

“And Amber, the maid of honour. She spent the night here.”

“Must have missed that,” Lucas said, flipping back through his
pages, clearly miffed. “Odd sort of girl. Got the impression she has
some sort of chip on her shoulder. Still, can't be easy being a
young single mum. As for the other family members, Timothy and Dudley Thorpe were in Aston this morning, Timothy at his mother's
house where he still lives, and Dudley Thorpe with his wife. I never
met such an arrogant ponce.” The inspector, evidently
remembering his position, quickly forged on with his review.
“It's unlikely Polly or Victoria Newcombe accidentally poisoned themselves. That would seem to limit possible suspects to eight, unless someone snuck in.”

“Agreed,” Rex said. “The two caterers and the three staff, Amber, Bobby Carter, and Mabel Thorpe all had access to the cake. Sticking by our theory, that takes care of opportunity. But what about motive?”

“I think we can assume the vicar's death was unintentional,
unless someone had a specific grievance against him and was prepared
to kill a pregnant girl and a middle-aged woman as collateral damage. But then there's the aunt as well, killed by other means.”

“I don't think Victoria Newcombe would have liked to be referred to as middle-aged,” Rex remarked. “She certainly didn't look it.”

“I only saw her in an unflattering hospital gown with tubes snaking out of her.” Lucas passed a hand wearily across his freckled face. “Hope the daughter makes it. She was being prepped for the operating room when we got there.”

A polite cough from PC Perrin interrupted them. “Inspector, the coroner is here.”

“About time,” Lucas grumbled. “Just as well he only attends to patients who are already dead. What's going on round back?”

“The patio's been cordoned off and a tent placed over the body,”
the constable reported. “Looks like rain, but SOCO
1
has finished processing the area.”

“Right, I'll be out directly. Any luck with the snuff boxes?”

“No, sir.”

Rex had his own ideas in that regard, having had time to mull over the day's events, but decided to keep those ideas to himself for the time being on the off chance he was wrong.

Secret Assignation

Rex looked across the
hall to where the young guests either sat around aimlessly or else frenetically texted on their phones. He considered each in turn as potential suspects. Jeremy and his girlfriend, Elaine, had driven straight from Derby to the church service in Aston-on-Trent. Ditto Reggie and Meredith, who had come up from London by train. Little chance those four had tampered with the cake.

Taking advantage of Mabel's temporary absence, Rex approached Timmy Thorpe once more. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating the chair vacated by the groom's mother.

“Go ahead,” Timmy replied, somewhat revived since Rex had last spoken to him. “I just heard that I have a son, safely delivered as of fifteen minutes ago.”

“Congratulations!”

“Son and heir to Newcombe Court,” Dudley jeered.

“He's in an incubator, but doing well,” Timmy explained, ignoring
his brother.

“And your wife?” Rex inquired.

“Not out of the woods yet. The doctor performed a caesarean earlier than scheduled because the baby was showing signs of fetal distress. I'm going to the hospital now. My mother is getting her hat. A dad. I can hardly believe it.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Drained.”

Timmy looked it. Dark rings, accentuated by an unhealthy pallor, circled his washed-out blue eyes.

“Timmy, I wanted to ask how much cake you ate.”

“Just a forkful. I was feeling a bit queasy.”

“What about you, Dudley?”

“What sort of daft question is that?”

“If you could just answer the question?” Rex said curtly, out-staring him.

“I didn't have any, did I? I already told you that. I don't have a sweet tooth. My body is my temple and all that. I don't fill it with junk.” He gave Rex a look implying that perhaps the large Scotsman should reassess what he put into his own temple.

“Are you saying the arsenic was in the wedding cake?” Timmy asked.

Dudley rolled incredulous eyes. “That's exactly what he's saying, you daft pillock. Haven't you been listening?” Dudley turned to Rex. “He has a head for figures but not much else.”

“Who would do that?” Tears welled in Timmy's eyes.

“That's what we're trying to ascertain. Any ideas?”

“It had to have been an accident.”

“I'd ask those Pembleton sisters,” Dudley suggested.

“I have.”

“Course, if it was them, they did Timmy here a whopping great favour getting rid of his mum-in-law. Wish I could be so lucky.”

“Shut up, Dud.”

“Don't pretend you're not pleased about it,” Dudley said,
apparently not caring who heard. “Now you have this whole place to yourself.”

“Just piss off.” Timmy's face had turned an unhealthy red and his eyes bulged with fury.

“Shame about the vicar, though,” his brother went on. “Still, he was getting on.”

“Have you no feelings?” Timmy asked querulously.

“Don't be so soft.” Dudley jumped out of his armchair and stalked
off in the direction of the refreshment table.

“No love lost between you two, I see,” Rex commiserated.

“Do you have brothers?” Timmy asked.

“I'm an only child.”

“Lucky you.”

“Didna feel that way growing up. My mother had me late in life and it was like being brought up by a grandmother.”

Timmy nodded in comprehension. Mabel Thorpe stood before a heavily framed mirror fastening on her cloche hat with a large metal pin. She cut a rather prim and timid figure. Ignoring Rex, she joined her son, and together they made for the entrance, Timmy walking with his hands cupped in loose fists at chest level, as though anticipating a blow or else reluctant to take up another person's space. The young man clearly lacked confidence. He was
at the mercy of the world—and, evidently, a person or persons
in it.

As mother and son left by the front entrance, Rex glimpsed two figures in white lift a black body bag into the back of a white panel van. Poor Aunt Gwen. She had arrived in a party dress for her niece's wedding, little suspecting the gruesome fate awaiting her at Newcombe Court.

Lucas stepped into the great hall. “Broken neck, the coroner confirmed. The autopsy might tell us more. A note was found on the body.” The excitement in the inspector's voice contradicted his impassive expression.

“A suicide note?” Rex asked in surprise.

Lucas showed Rex a slip of white paper protected within a transparent bag. “
Meet me at the top of the tower. An admirer
,” it read in a scrawled hand.

“An assignation,” Rex corrected himself. “That explains why she went up to the rooftop.”

“It was stuffed down her brassiere. If only we knew who wrote it. We could get handwriting samples, but if the intention was to bump off Gwendolyn Jones, the perp would likely have disguised his writing.”

“I wonder if she knew her admirer.”

“If only the dead could speak! The bartender claims the note was left on his tray when his back was turned. The name ‘Gwen' is jotted on the other side.” Lucas flipped the plastic bag so Rex could see. “After inquiring who Gwen was, the bartender delivered it to her.”

“Is there any record of anyone being seen descending the tower after the cake-cutting?”

“That's when people started dropping like flies. The guests' memories are a blur.”

“The DJ saw Roger Litton escort the Welsh woman up the stairs,” Rex imparted. “But Litton told me he didn't go to the top and he can't remember if she mentioned meeting someone.”

“We'll have to dig into all these people's backgrounds.” The inspector looked decidedly frazzled, his freckles about ready to pop off his face. He extracted a plastic container of aspirin from his coat pocket and proceeded to munch on a handful of pills. One mystery solved, Rex thought with wry amusement. But what of the murders and missing snuff boxes?

He decided to help out in one matter, whether his assistance had been requested or not.