“Did Archie have any enemies?” There, he had said it.
“Everyone loved Archie! Except perhaps Noel Cribben.”
Rex gave her a questioning look.
“The neighbour.”
He took a sip of the bitter-sweet lemonade and waited to hear more about this Noel Cribben.
“You’ll meet him this afternoon. His dog got into my garden and received a scratch on his nose for his efforts. Noel swore it was Archie who’d attacked him and wanted me to pay the vet bill. Of course, I refused. Cutie Pie shouldn’t have been in my garden in the first place. Isn’t that a ghastly name? He went on a rampage in my bed of delphiniums, snapping the blooms in two. Ruined half of them and dug a big hole. Fortunately, Archie chased him off before he could do more damage. He was only defending his territory, which is what cats do. I didn’t see the actual altercation, just heard the growling and howling. By the time I got to the garden, the poodle had gone. Just as likely he cut his nose on some barbed wire. Noel couldn’t prove Archie had actually attacked him.”
“How did, ehm, Cutie Pie get in? I seem to remember your back garden is surrounded by a wall. Did he jump over?”
“I should say not!” Patricia seemed almost amused. “Not on those short legs. Q-P is a miniature poodle. Part of the wall had crumbled and he must have managed to clamber over. It’s been mended, and there have been no further doggie incursions.”
“If Archie was poisoned—”
“He was. Dr. Strange, our vet, found chopped foxglove in the contents of Archie’s stomach and in his bowl.” Patricia’s tensely clenched knuckles whitened to the colour of the hankie she was holding. “Digitalis. Deadly poisonous. He didn’t stand a chance.”
A phone rang in the hall, but she took no notice. Was she hard of hearing? She didn’t wear an aid that Rex could see, although it was hard to tell behind the wild tufts of hair. She certainly didn’t appear to have difficulty hearing his questions.
“Foxglove is a common enough flower,” he said.
“Oh, yes, it’s all over the village.”
“Presumably, it was mixed in with cat food.”
“In Archie’s tinned tuna. He began to get rather picky about his food and, naturally, I indulged him. After all he had done for me…” Her words ended in a sob and her hands trembled in her lap, but she found the fortitude not to break down.
“I kept his food bowl in the conservatory. I had that put in since your last visit. It doesn’t have any windows or an exterior door. As for the rest of the house, I used to live in a city and never got into the habit of keeping my doors unlocked like some of my neighbours. In any case, I don’t like the idea of someone coming in and snooping at my unfinished manuscripts. Or typescripts, I should say. It’s not really a manuscript, is it, if it isn’t written by hand? But I suppose that’s being pedantic. It’s old age, you know. You start obsessing over little things.”
“What aboot a cleaning lady or someone visiting here? And on that note, I really would be fine at the B&B, you know.”
“Nonsense. I told Moira I wouldn’t hear of it. Charles and Connie are staying over, and it will be a bit snug, but Charles can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, really—”
“I insist. You’re the guest, and you came all the way from Edinburgh to help me find out who murdered my Archie. You can have Charles’ old room.”
“Och, I would not dream of throwing him oot his own room,” Rex said, aghast at the thought.
“A night on the sofa won’t hurt him. He’s not as busy as you are. I was so proud when you became a Queen’s Counsel. Perhaps Charles should have gone into law. His business is floundering. He won’t admit it, but I know from Connie and the stress he’s obviously under. No head for figures has Charles. Always was a dunce at arithmetic. You don’t need it to practise law, do you?”
“Not as much as for business, I imagine.”
“Well, good. That’s settled.”
Rex was not quite sure what had been settled, but he assumed it to be the sleeping arrangements; and he knew better than to broach the subject with Patricia again. She was a woman who knew her own mind. He would apologize to Charles when the opportunity arose.
“Where are Charles and Connie?” he asked. “I’m looking forward to seeing them again.” He was not, particularly. However, he was curious as to their whereabouts. He had not heard anybody else in the cottage.
“They went for a hike to Alfriston. I make Charles walk every day when he visits. He’s very sedentary.”
Rex imagined Charles in a permanent sitting posture.
“And Connie needs the exercise too. She never lost the weight after her two children. They’re with Nigel for the weekend. They get shunted from pillar to post like a pair of parcels!” Patricia set her mouth in a grim line. She had no doubt been a formidable school mistress in her day, feared by pupils and parents alike, and probably by the other teachers as well.
Attempting to get the conversation back on course, Rex repeated his earlier question about whether anyone came in to clean. Not that the house looked like it received a regular clean. All the clutter would have to be moved first, a Herculean task in itself. “Such a person would have ready access to Archie’s food,” he suggested.
“Faye comes every other week. She didn’t come this past week. No one was here the night Archie died. Apart from the killer, I mean. Anyway, Faye would never have hurt Archie. She was fond of him, as we all were.”
Someone wasn’t, Rex thought.
“And she knew that if I went before Archie, she was to live at the Poplars and take care of him for as long as he lived, and would be amply compensated.”
“I see.” Rex took a moment to ponder the situation. “I take it she was not averse to the arrangement when you discussed it with her?”
“She was delighted. She lives higgledy-piggledy with numerous siblings and a ne’er-do-well father in Eastbourne.”
“Does she receive a gratuity under the current sad circumstances?”
“A small sum, as does the gardener and a few close friends.”
“It might be as well to review the terms of your will to see if anyone benefits from Archie’s death…”
Patricia topped up their lemonade glasses. Most of the ice had melted by now. A breeze blowing in through the window helped with the heat, but not much. “It’s a natural question in a murder case, isn’t it? Even though it wasn’t my murder. Although I need to tell you about that, too. But later.” She gazed into the contents of her glass and resumed speaking before he had a chance to ask what she meant. “Apart from gratuities to my help, I have bequeathed the same sum of three thousand pounds each to my friend Dot Sharpe and Roger Dalrymple, my illustrator. My library also goes to Dot. My piano I’ve left to Roger. Neither of my children ever got the hang of it. And my property and the remainder of the contents are to be split between Connie and Charles, who receive twenty thousand pounds each. The rest of my money goes to the cat orphanage in Eastbourne where I adopted Archie.” She supplied a few further details. “No one benefits from Archie’s death, really. Only from mine.”
“Who has a key to this place?”
“My daughter. She insisted. She lives in Eastbourne and runs over when she has time, to check up on me in case I have a fall or I take ill. Charles has one too.”
“Do any of your friends have a spare key in case of an emergency?”
Patricia paused for a moment. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “Dot has a house key. I gave it to her when I was away on a book tour so she could feed Archie. I’d forgotten to ask for it back.”
“She’s a good friend, I take it, since you’ve remembered her in your will?”
“Well, we’ll have to see. She lives in the village, up by the manor house. Moved here about three years ago. She organizes our little book club.”
“Retired?”
“Oh, by a long chalk. She’s writing her memoirs. A tough sell unless you’re somebody famous.”
“Has she got a s
tory to tell?”
“Dashed if I know. I’ve only seen a few excerpts of her work. She did grow up in some exotic locations. Indonesia, and such. She’ll be joining us later.”
The clock on the mantelpiece struck three with a triple chime, reminding Rex of precious minutes ticking by before Patricia’s guests arrived for the ceremony. It had been three days since Archie’s alleged murder and in this heat he would decompose in a hurry. Had Patricia put him in the freezer? Reining in these disturbing thoughts, he asked Patricia who else could have had access to Archie’s bowl.
“No one. I kept his bowl and water dish in the conservatory,” she repeated herself, as old people tended to do. “That’s where he could go in and out through his cat flap.” She took a deep breath and appeared to draw strength from her inner core. “No one could get in there from outside. You can take a look.”
“I shall, of course. I just want to get all the facts first. The back garden is completely enclosed by the wall, but you can access it through a side gate.”
“That’s correct. In recent years, Archie did not attempt to jump over the wall. He was content to stay within the garden and just contemplate nature. Of course, when he was younger he loved to roam in the woods. I had many an anxious moment, I can tell you, when I thought he might have got lost or come to harm. But I felt it would have been cruel to keep him inside the house and restrict his natural instincts. It would have been tantamount to smothering someone’s creative freedom, don’t you think? And he did get into some fine adventures!” Patricia’s pale blue eyes lit up behind her lenses. “All fodder for my little books. And he always came home before I became too sick with worry, bless his sweet heart.”
“And you’re sure no one could have come into the house without your knowledge?” After all, at her age she could have easily forgotten to lock a door.
“The kitchen door and front door are the only means of entry. I always lock myself in. And I never leave the downstairs windows open when I’m not in the room. It’s always possible someone could come through the woods and climb over the wall and steal something.”
Rex rather thought a thief would go into shock when he saw the contents piled and crammed into the house, realizing he would have to root through everything to find something worthwhile. There were knickknacks and figurines galore, but they did not appear to his eye to be worth a great deal in resale value. Obviously, though, they held sentimental value for Patricia, else she would have thrown them out or donated them to a jumble sale; unless she was a compulsive hoarder.
At that moment the doorbell rang and Patricia responded immediately, cocking an ear, so she probably wasn’t so very deaf, after all. “That’ll be Dot,” she said, getting up heavily with one hand on the armrest. “She said she’d come early to help with tea.”
Rex heard voices in the hall, the deep one Patricia’s, the other high-pitched, almost strident in its animation. “I brought a homemade ginger cake topped with toasted almonds,” it said. “And some chocolate fingers from the shop.”
“You are such a dear. Just set the cake down in the kitchen. Perhaps the biscuits should go in the refrigerator? Connie prepared some sandwiches. I don’t know where she and Charles have got to. They went out for a walk after lunch. And Reginald Graves has arrived from Edinburgh. Come and meet him. He’s the son of one of my dearest friends. I must have mentioned Moira to you.”
A woman who looked to be in her late seventies entered the room with a cane. Rex leapt to his feet to greet her and found himself towering over her head of tight bluish-grey curls.
“I’m Dot Sharpe,” she introduced herself before Patricia could. Rex tried not to notice that her nose aptly suited her surname. “Patricia’s friend and a fellow writer,” she crowed.
“Delighted. Rex Graves at your service.” He held out his hand and took her tiny appendage into his paw.
“Dot, we are just finishing up some family chat before the others get here. We won’t be much longer.”
“Oh, of course. Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. You carry on. We’ll chat later, Rex,” Dot said amiably. In spite of her walking stick, she took herself off in spry fashion, and Patricia closed the door after her.
“I don’t want her to know I suspect murder,” she confided, sitting back down.
“Is she one of the suspects?” Rex asked.
“Doubtful, but who knows? I’ve invited everyone I can think of who might have had a hand in Archie’s death. Not that I necessarily think them capable, but because they had opportunity. Means, motive, and opportunity. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“It’s a good place to start. How many people are coming?”
“Well, Noel Cribben from next door.”
“Whose dog Archie allegedly attacked. A motive, possibly?”
“We mended our fences, so to speak, as all good neighbours must. I gave him a signed collection of Claude books. For all I know, he sold it to pay the veterinary fees. Dr. Doug Strange may drop by. He thought Archie a fine fellow. He came on a couple of house calls. Nothing serious. Once when Archie had a bit of mange on his face and another time when he had the sniffles. Couldn’t do anything for Archie this time. I put his food out at six as usual, before I went to my book club. I was back by eight or so. When he didn’t come back in by nine, I got concerned. He always came upstairs to read with me in bed last thing at night. It was beginning to get dark so I took a torch and looked in the back garden. I found him lying in the flower bed with vomit nearby. I knew he was dead, but I called Strange all the same. You know, just in case.”
Rex felt his eyes grow moist and discreetly wiped away an incipient tear. Patricia touched his hand.
“Thank you, Reginald. It’s plain to see why your mother is so proud of you. You always were such a dear boy. And such a gifted pupil and student. You are a credit to Moira, indeed.”
Rex was quite overcome. If he had managed not to succumb to tears before, he would have failed now had Patricia not suddenly distracted him by rummaging under the sofa cushions. Finally she retrieved a note from beneath a knitting magazine. She handed it to him and waited expectantly. Rex unfolded the paper, which read, in block capitals, “SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE,” just as his mother had told him.
“Aye,” he said. “Perhaps it’s telling that it says Archie and not Claude.”
“Exactly. That’s what makes me think it’s less likely to be a stranger.”
“And the person took care not to reveal his or her handwriting by cutting out letters from a newspaper.”
“And probably wore gloves so as not to leave fingerprints.”
“Did it come in an envelope?”
“Yes, with just my first and last name typed on it and posted through my letterbox some time Wednesday afternoon. But I didn’t know that at the time because Charles picked it up and put it on the hall table with all the junk mail, and I didn’t find it until Thursday morning, when it was too late.” Realizing she had raised her voice, Patricia put a hand to her mouth. Rex could hear crockery rattling in the kitchen down the hall, and then the sound of the front door opening, followed by voices.
“That’ll be Charles and Connie.” Patricia took the note from Rex’s hand and hid it between the pages of the magazine.
“Was the envelope sealed?” Rex asked.
“No, it just had the flap tucked in.”
“Have you shown this note to anyone?”
“No one. I wanted to speak to you first.”
“Keep it hidden for now. Who else is coming this afternoon?” Rex glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter to four.
“Roger Dalrymple, whom I mentioned when we were discussing my will. Rather a colourful character. I think you’ll enjoy him.”
“He lives in Woodley?”
“He does, and by some stroke of luck he became my illustrator. He’s a painter, you know. Was in advertising before. Well, when I got my idea for Claude, I asked if he’d be interested in coming up with a few cat drawings f
or my stories. He took some photos of Archie, and I told him what sort of attributes my fictional cat possessed, and he came up positively trumps. We sold the series almost right away. And it took off!” Patricia looked amazed, even after all these years.
“So the series is a joint endeavour, and couldn’t survive without either partner, I assume?”
“We’re not equal partners. It’s a sixty-forty split, which I think is fair. After all, the series was my idea. And it’s made Roger quite famous. Before, he was just selling a few pictures at art fairs and to friends.”
“What aboot merchandising. Have you explored that angle?”
“Oh, Reginald, you are so clever! My son suggested we did that years ago, but I didn’t like the idea of Claude being paraded around on school bags and tee-shirts.”
Archie would have been none the wiser, Rex thought; even when he was alive. “How does Roger feel aboot it?” he asked.
“He likes the idea of capitalizing on Claude, but can’t do anything without my say-so. I deplore the notion that an artist would sink so low, but he was in advertising, so I suppose he must have sacrificed some scruples along the way. Anyway, it’s a moot point now,” she said with a hopeless shrug of the shoulders.
“Why so?”
“Because Archie is dead!” she cried out. “There is no more Claude.”
Rex patted her hand. “I think I understand how you feel. But give it time. You may change your mind.”
“I shan’t. It’s over. It would be too painful to sit at my computer trying to conjure up stories without Archie there on the desk giving me inspiration. He did, you know. It’s as though he communicated them to me. Oh, I’m so lonely without him! I miss his chunnering and chirruping. Just seeing him laze in the sun or chase after a butterfly, jumping up with his paws in the air, made me joyful. He never caught one though. One time he swiped at a Swallowtail and took off the tip of its wing. I saved it and it managed to fly away. But I got a story out of that.” Patricia expelled a shuddering breath. “My creative juices have dried up. There’s not much left to live for.”
Rex was quite used to the morbid ramblings of elderly people, essentially living with two at home, and let her comment pass. “Could someone ghost write your stories until you’re ready to resume?” he suggested. “Perhaps someone who knew Archie?”
SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery Page 2
