On his way out, he stopped to examine a rack of gilt-framed engravings of the city. He decided to purchase one that highlighted the medieval grandeur of Canterbury Cathedral as a gift for his mother. He returned to the counter and discovered Mr. Penn to be a wealth of information on its history, distracting as his blind eye was as he was giving his fascinating discourse.
All the more inspired to see where Archbishop Thomas Becket had been slain by four of Henry II’s sword-wielding knights, Rex made his way to the cathedral, while pondering his own case of murder. It appeared the album held nothing of significant value, and the retired high court judge had pursued stamp collecting solely as a pastime, with no view to making money out of it. So why had the other been stolen?
All he had was Phoebe’s assertion that the album had in fact been stolen, along with the watch. A close look in the garden before he had left her house had revealed nothing suspicious around the old cast-iron drainpipe by the window or at the surmountable gate next to the garage. The judge, despite his phobia about draughts, might have simply taken it into his head to open the window that night, however inclement the weather, and forgotten to lock it.
And yet, another old man had been mugged in the same street. A strange sequence of events, perhaps, but did it amount to murder?
Six
When Rex returned to St. Dunstan’s Terrace almost two hours later, he was no more convinced there was enough evidence to hang a murder on than before. Failing to encounter Phoebe on the main floor, he went down to the basement kitchen to return the carrier bag to her housekeeper.
Annie was spooning loose black tea into a pot on the counter. The tantalizing aroma of a casserole wafted from the Aga. Rex suddenly realized how hungry he was after his walk around town.
“Will ye be wanting a cup of tea?” she asked.
“Gladly.” He watched as she strained the tea into an enamel mug embossed with a gold coat of arms, no doubt that of Phoebe’s late husband’s family. “I’ve been walking around Canterbury,” he told her in a casual tone. “St. Dunstan’s Terrace is a grand location, central and yet quiet. Though Mrs. Wells mentioned a local resident was mugged here recently?”
“Dinna fear.” Annie took in his height and breadth. “You could take two of them muggers on.”
“Were you acquainted with the victim?”
“Noo.”
“What time of day did it happen?” he asked in gossipy fashion, enhancing his Scots accent for her benefit.
“Early evening, I think they said on the news. One or two louts taking advantage of a pensioner. I dinna ken more than that.”
“An opportunistic attack, by all accounts.” Rex shook his head perplexedly and helped himself to the milk and sugar the housekeeper put in front of him.
He thanked her for the tea and took the mug upstairs where he found Phoebe in the drawing room plumping up the sofa cushions. “I would have brought you some tea if I’d known you had come down,” he said. “Did you have a good rest?”
“Wonderful and just what I needed. Thank you, but I think I’ll have some wine.” She crossed to a custom-built drinks cabinet, where a panelled door concealed a mini-fridge, and retrieved a bottle of Venezie Pinot Grigio.
He declined the glass she offered. “I was asking Annie aboot the mugging, but she could not tell me much.” He joined Phoebe on the capacious sofa. “Did you know the old man?”
“Only slightly. He was a retired chartered accountant. He came to the house a few times to play chess with Dad. But having a conversation with Albert was a challenge because he was rather deaf, in spite of his hearing aid. He lived with his sister Elspeth three doors down. I didn’t tell Dad what happened to Albert. It would only have upset him. And then he passed away himself a few days later. Do you actually think there might be a connection?”
“I would not discount it.” Rex did not add: “If your father did not die of natural causes.” He went on, “Two attacks on retired men in the space of a few days makes me wonder, especially in light of the unlocked window and the missing watch and album. Taken together, the incidents assume greater significance, even if I am at a loss as to who might have perpetrated the crimes.”
Phoebe nodded, apparently satisfied with his analysis. With nothing left to glean about the mugging, he proceeded to tell her about his outing in town and what the stamp dealer had told him.
“No, I’m not interested in selling,” she confirmed when she heard Christopher Penn’s offer. “Perhaps I can continue the collection in my dotage.” Her laugh sounded hollow to Rex’s ears.
“You could start now,” he suggested, thinking it might be good for her to have another interest, although he didn’t really know how she spent her time. “It might help you feel close to your father, and you might meet some interesting people. On the subject of interesting people, Mr. Penn is a curious individual. Have you ever met him?”
Phoebe shook her head.
“He takes stamp collecting very seriously, naturally enough, not that I saw any stamps on display at his shop, and he appears to regard those who dabble in it with mild contempt.”
“Collectors can be snobs that way. They think you can’t appreciate things unless you’re an expert. I’m assuming Mr. Penn is one of those people?”
“A nice man, but a wee bit, well, I hesitate to say sinister, because he’s not, really. I suppose his false eye contributes to that regrettable impression. I can’t help but think he could possibly get a better one nowadays.”
“He lost it as a boy, Dad told me. An older boy accidentally shot him in the woods with a BB gun. I don’t know why he wouldn’t get a new eye. An optician told me you have to take them out to clean them.” Phoebe shuddered.
“At any rate, you should get a second opinion regarding the album’s value to ensure Penn’s appraisal is unbiased.”
“I could take it to an expert in London. Now, I don’t want your weekend to be all about work!”
Rex smiled and said if the weather was nice the next day, they could visit Westgate Gardens and get a pub lunch.
Phoebe’s face lit up at the suggestion. “Yes, I’d like that. I haven’t been in ages, and the Gardens are still pretty at this time of year. We could go punting if the weather holds up.”
Annie came to tell them dinner was ready, and they repaired to the formal dining room.
Rex looked about him. “Dining in style, I see.”
A crystal chandelier dangled from a crown medallion of white plaster above the oval mahogany table. Murals depicting Dionysus wreathed in vine leaves and frolicking with a bevy of nymphs lent an appropriate backdrop to entertaining. Phoebe explained that her late husband had engaged an artist to paint the scenes from a collection of ancient Greek urns.
“I think they came out rather well,” she said, contemplating the figures in ochre relief on the walls. “Doug had excellent taste. I daren’t change a thing in the house and spoil the effect.”
“It’s a most elegant and yet comfortable home,” Rex agreed.
Two place settings had been laid at one end of the table. In the centre, a decanter of red wine waited by the silver salt and pepper shakers in a matching antique cruet. Rex did the honours and raised his glass to his hostess. Phoebe went on to tell him about other objets d’art she and her husband had brought back from their travels. Only when they were half way through the meal did the conversation return to Judge Murgatroyd and his, in Phoebe’s words, suspicious death.
“I think there must be more to Dad’s murder than a random burglary,” she said.
Rex refilled their wine glasses. “When I get back to Edinburgh, I’ll ask Mr. Doyle, the former clerk of court, if he remembers anyone from your father’s past who might have held a grudge. But after all these years it’s a long shot,” he cautioned. “Your father hadn’t presided in court in over a decade.”
“But he did have a reputation
for being severe in his rulings. He used to tell me, ‘Why should the buggers get off lightly when they didn’t show the same consideration for their victims?’”
Rex chuckled and dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin. “That certainly sounds like him.”
“But Dad was fair. There was an accused man, his name was P something.” Phoebe furrowed her brow. “It’s on the tip of my tongue. So frustrating! It’ll probably come back to me at four in the morning. Anyway, the jury on this particular case was all but deadlocked. The man was accused of assaulting a young girl and dumping her body in Skinner’s Close. The very name of the place makes me shiver.”
Skinner’s Close in Edinburgh, one of several dark passages tucked between grey stone tenements and serving as shortcuts from one part of the Old Town to the other, had become notorious after the murder. “I remember,” Rex said. “His name was Pruitt. Richard Pruitt.”
It was a name no one acquainted with the case could easily forget.
Seven
“That’s right,” Phoebe exclaimed. “Well done! I knew his name began with a ‘P.’”
“I recall the public outcry when the verdict came in ‘not proven.’”
Scottish law allowed for three verdicts: Guilty, not guilty, or not proven. Not proven applied where the evidence was deemed insufficient to convict beyond reasonable doubt and yet sufficient to suppose the accused might be guilty.
“Nobody thought Richard Pruitt should go free, but Dad managed to convey to the jury that an outright conviction was not a fair verdict in his case.”
“That’s not strictly the purview of a judge,” Rex countered with a smile.
“Well, the police never found the murder weapon, or the second witness, and there wasn’t enough DNA. Richard Pruitt sent Dad a postage stamp as a token of gratitude and they kept in touch.”
“And your dad accepted the stamp?” Rex asked in surprise. Judges had to be careful about receiving gifts that might be construed as bribes. However, Judge Murgatroyd had been about to retire to the relief of many at court and perhaps not overly concerned about allegations of corruption.
“It wasn’t a valuable stamp, I don’t think,” Phoebe explained in her father’s defence. “And it was after the verdict was reached. Mr. Pruitt collected stamps and must have found out about Dad’s interest in them. It was an American stamp representing the scales of justice. Dad was quite pleased with it.” She shook her head, smiling. “I’d forgotten all about that stamp. I wonder if it’s still in the album.”
Rex thought for a moment. He had looked at many stamps that afternoon and this one did not stand out in his memory. “We could take another gander.”
“He lives in Ramsay Garden. Pruitt, I mean. You wouldn’t expect a killer to live at such a smart Edinburgh address, would you? But that’s silly of me,” Phoebe said, coming back on her question. “Monsters can live anywhere, and do.”
“Pruitt wasn’t found guilty,” Rex reminded her. “I know Ramsay Garden quite well. Perhaps I can pay him a visit.” After all, Pruitt was one of the few people who had continued to have contact with Phoebe’s father after the judge retired.
Annie placed a platter of cheeses and a tin of crackers on the table and made her exit again after enquiring if they would like coffee. Rex helped himself to a wedge of Blue Stilton.
“Richard Pruitt continued to protest his innocence to Dad,” Phoebe said. “He even had a theory about who was responsible for the girl’s death.”
Rex found the stamp connection interesting, but more anecdotal than helpful in the matter at hand—that of the judge’s possible murder. After all, Pruitt was indebted to the old man, and therefore not a likely suspect. He suggested to Phoebe a more practical approach. “You could always report the watch and album missing to the police. No need to say you suspect murder at this point, just theft.”
Phoebe reflected as she took a sip of wine. “I’d rather have more to go on. Not sure they’d be very interested in an old watch and an unfinished stamp collection.”
“But what if the watch should turn up in a pawn shop? Or someone tries to sell the stamps? Then we’d know who was in the house.” If someone was, he mused.
“I hadn’t thought of that. Dad’s name was engraved on the back of the watch face, so it would be easy to trace.” Phoebe became more animated. “It was a present from my mum on their tenth wedding anniversary. That’s why he cherished it.”
She paused and gazed wonderingly at Rex. “Dad hasn’t been buried long. Do you think we could have his body exhumed in case the coroner missed a vital clue, not knowing Dad might have been murdered? I know one shouldn’t disturb the dead, but my father didn’t believe in the Hereafter. He was very pragmatic and would have wanted us to bring the perpetrator to justice.”
“I hope an exhumation won’t be necessary,” Rex faltered, appalled at the thought of unearthing the old man’s remains. He was surprised Phoebe should even suggest it. How close had she really been to her father? And yet she appeared to feel deeply about finding the culprit in his alleged murder. Perhaps it was the wine talking. His hostess was on her third glass and proved to be a little tipsy when she rose from the table. He helped her upstairs to her father’s old room.
Once there, he switched on the desk lamp and put on his reading glasses. They perused the album again and found Pruitt’s stamp in the United States section inconspicuously aligned among an assortment of postage depicting variously hued presidents’ heads and famous landmarks. The stamp in question was a vertical rectangle in ultramarine with a perforated edge, issued in 1961 and costing four cents at the time, in pristine condition and bearing no discernible water or franking marks. Rex peeled off the folded transparent hinge and inspected the reverse side, which proved blank. Everything in this case was coming up blank, he all but despaired, replacing the stamp and crossing to the large sash window.
He parted the russet panels and looked out, just as a hard, bright moon slid behind a scalloped bank of clouds, eclipsing the garden in pitch black. He gave a sudden start when Phoebe touched his arm. Deep in thought, he had not heard or sensed her approach while he gazed towards the faint light by the back gate.
“A penny for them,” she said softly.
After locking the album up in the drawer, she enticed him back downstairs with the offer of a nightcap, saying she had a bottle of Glenlivet which she remembered he liked. She helped herself to some whisky at the drinks cabinet and brought the cut-glass tumblers to the sofa.
“This is a rare treat,” Rex thanked her. “And dinner was grand. I’ll be sure to thank Annie.”
“She’s a treasure.” Phoebe’s lisp had become more pronounced. “I never was much of a cook. Doug was in his element in the kitchen. It’s one of the many things I miss about him.”
After some desultory conversation, Phoebe asked if he would like to watch the news, and he readily agreed. There had been enough conversation, and he was beginning to feel tired after his day of travel and sightseeing. She retrieved the remote from the coffee table and clicked on the television encased in a mahogany entertainment unit. A recognizable face appeared on the screen, but Rex couldn’t place it at first. From the commentary, he quickly realized it belonged to the girl who had gone missing in Dover, whom he had first heard about in Phoebe’s kitchen that afternoon.
Much was made of the fact that Lindsay Poulson was a model pupil and a gifted flute player, popular and fun-loving. She was happy at home and had no reason to run away, an aunt told a reporter. If the girl had been abducted, could the culprit now be in France? The talking heads discussed this possibility. And, if so, what had he done with the girl? The grieving parents and grandparents made appeals to the abductor, and the police to the public. Five foot-two, slender build, light brown hair and blue eyes, with a mole on her left cheekbone. Had anyone seen her?
“Heart-breaking,” Phoebe said with a sigh, muting the sound
on the television. “Almost makes me glad I don’t have daughters to worry about. Nor do you. Is it me, or are child abductions getting more frequent?”
“I’ve been dealing with more crimes against minors,” Rex allowed. “Both girls and boys. They’re by far the most troubling.”
“What is wrong with people who intentionally hurt children?” Phoebe deplored, lifting the tumbler to her lips. She swallowed the remaining whisky and slumped back against the beige kidskin sofa, arms akimbo.
Rex hoped he would not have to help her to bed. He was wary of inebriated women, especially those in an emotionally vulnerable state. Her head lolled towards him on the padded backrest and she gazed into his eyes with her mouth partly open. Some of her lipstick had rubbed off and smeared the rim of her glass.
Fortunately for him, Annie interrupted the moment by knocking on the open door and approached the sofa. “Dinner is all cleared away, Mrs. Wells. Will there be anything else?” She stood with her roughened red hands clasped at the front of her white apron. “Can I turn down the bed for ye?”
Phoebe raised her fingers in a gesture of kind dismissal, but Rex jumped in, saying, “I was just going to bed myself. Why don’t we both escort Mrs. Wells upstairs?”
Annie caught on quickly and leaned forward to take Phoebe’s arm under the elbow. “Up ye come,” she said in a gentle yet no-nonsense tone. Evidently this wasn’t the first time her employer had been in need of assistance up the stairs. Rex took Phoebe’s other arm, but hung back at the bannister, which she managed to hold on to while Annie walked up beside her. The housekeeper was wheezing by the time they reached the landing.
Rex bid his hostess good night and thanked Annie for the wonderful beef casserole; privately thanking her also for saving him from a potentially awkward situation on the downstairs sofa.
He climbed the next flight of stairs to his room, keenly aware of a few aching joints. The guest bathroom featured a claw-foot Victorian tub, which he decided to take advantage of before retiring to bed. The following morning he would take Phoebe to enjoy the river charms of Westgate Gardens and then catch the train back to London after lunch. He felt he had done as much as he could in Canterbury. Investigating a doubtful murder was one thing; comforting a lonely, grief-stricken woman who might have designs on him was another quandary entirely.
Judgment of Murder Page 3
