A Bridge too Far

When Rex had set out for Aston-on-Trent in the search for
answers, he had not anticipated running into thugs who were capable of resorting to bodily harm as a means of persuasion. However, as well as taking an unexpected turn, his investigation had turned up a few interesting leads. On the drive back to Newcombe Court, he called Dr. Williamitis at the clinic. The doctor picked up on the first ring.

“It’s Rex Graves calling. I had a couple more questions aboot Dr. Thorpe, if you have time.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is arsenic trioxide used as a cure for leukemia?”

“Under the trade name Trisenox, it’s sometimes used in cases where the leukemia is unresponsive to first line agents.” Rex strained to hear over the noise of the engine and passing cars. “But due to the toxic nature of arsenic, Trisenox, which works partly by killing cancer cells, also carries significant risks. In Dr. Thorpe’s case, the drug caused acute promyelocytic leukemia differentiation syndrome, which ultimately proved fatal.”

“How was the drug administered?”

“Intravenously, at home,” Williamitis stated. “You had another question?”

Clearly, this was the end of the discussion on Dr. Thorpe’s battle with cancer.

“I’m wondering if you might have heard of a Dr. Forspaniak?”

This time a marked pause ensued. “Yes,” said the doctor, drawing out the word with obvious reluctance. “I know a Dr. Forspaniak. Not sure if it’s the same person you’re enquiring about.”

“Well, tell me about the one you know.”

“He’s a gynecologist with a practice in Derby. He also performs abortions. In extreme cases, I refer patients to him.”

After thanking the doctor for his help, Rex pressed his foot on the gas, anxious to reach Newcombe Court before Inspector Lucas departed.

By the time he arrived, noticeably fewer vehicles filled the drive-way. Night enshrouded the park. The men in anoraks assisting with the parking earlier that day had been the bartender and carver.

“Had to let the servers and most of the guests go,” the inspector told Rex, meeting him inside the front door of the great hall.

Only a handful of people remained, seated now as one group by the fireplace opposite the one from which the miniature bride and groom had been salvaged. Rex could not see Helen.

“My gut tells me Bobby Carter knows more than he’s saying,” Lucas said, “but we can’t prove anything. He just waffles on about his attachment to the family and his failure to protect them. Crocodile tears, if you ask me. Now then, you went to Aston.” Lucas put the emphasis on the word Aston, evidently demanding an explanation.

Rex filled him in on his visits with Dr. Williamitis and Donna Thorpe, sticking to the facts for now and skirting around his suspicions and suppositions. “I went to her house on spec and found out more than I anticipated.”

“Donna Thorpe was our next stop,” Lucas informed him. “So her husband was out this morning on some unexplained business, hmm? We’ll need to talk to the bookie.” He made a note in his pad. “How much is our Dudley in the hole for?”

“She doesn’t know, but apparently enough to make it worth hiring some heavies to retrieve it.”

“It’s motive for the poisoning,” the inspector surmised. “Especially if you factor in what you found out about Dr. Thorpe using arsenic to treat his leukemia. Too much of a coincidence, by half. Of course, we would need to prove that Dudley got hold of the arsenic and was able to inject it in the cake without anyone noticing him. No one saw him here this morning.”

Perrin hovered expectantly.

“Well, what is it?” the inspector snapped.

“Call from the divisional commander, sir. Wants to know why you won’t answer your mobile.”

“Because I’ve got my ruddy hands full, that’s why.”

“He says it’s important.” Perrin gingerly held out a cell phone at the end of a lanky arm.

The inspector swiped it off him. “Yes, sir,” he said brightly into the phone. “We are making fair progress. Sergeant Dartford is down at the station going over Jasmina Patel’s and Harry Futuro’s statements—” As he listened, he fidgeted in his pocket. At length, he drew out an elastic band, which he wound around the thumb of his free hand with his forefinger, pulling tight with a fixed expression of glee as though going through the motions of garroting the senior officer. Suddenly he stopped. “Really, sir? … I see. Romania. Yes, this case does seem to be getting bigger. No, I’m sure we can contain it.”

His caller monopolized the conversation for some minutes. “I’ll send Sergeant Dartford over to Worley Station right away,” Lucas said. With an absent gesture, the inspector pressed the call-end button on the phone.

“Developments, sir?” Perrin asked, arms clasped respectfully behind his back as he flexed his calves in his standard issue black shoes.

“You could say that.” Lucas turned to Rex. “The presumed suicide off the bridge at Worley Station has been identified as Thomas Newcombe. A preliminary examination of the body showed a perforation in the heart and a small amount of blood. We are now treating the death as suspicious.”

“Thomas Newcombe, as in Victoria Newcombe’s husband?” Perrin asked. Rex could tell the youth was having a field day and doubtless enjoyed the diversion from routine shifts on the beat writing up reports on acts of vandalism and public disturbance.

“The same. Seems he flew into Heathrow from Bucharest last night and got a train to Worley this morning.”

“That’s about twenty minutes from here, isn’t it, sir?”

“That’s right.”

Rex stood by while Lucas got back on the phone and relayed the information to Sergeant Dartford at the police station. “He arrived at Worley at 9:15 this morning. There was a note in his briefcase. I want you to bring it to me … No, the note was addressed to him, giving instructions where to meet and signed ‘M.’”

“‘M’ for Murder?” Perrin asked Rex in an excited aside.

“This isn’t a Hitchcock movie, Perrin,” Lucas sniped, and switched his attention back to the phone. “Hole consistent with a small sharp instrument. Go and see the coroner … No, cause of death looks like the fall and/or impact of the train. The briefcase contained his boarding pass stub and return flight information. He was planning to return to Romania Tuesday … No, only the briefcase; perhaps he left a bag at the hotel or wherever he stayed last night. Find out what you can.” Lucas flipped the phone shut and stared meditatively at the floor.

“The plot thickens?” Rex asked the inspector with a wink at Perrin.

“The body count is certainly mounting. Vicar dead, Mrs. Newcombe dead, Polly Newcombe in limbo, the aunt dead, and now her brother turns up dead.”

“On the subject of Tom Newcombe, I found out something that may have some bearing.” Rex repeated the gossip he had heard at the pub relating to the dead man and the au pair from Eastern Europe. “Jessop is the old man’s name. Claims to have witnessed some domestic disturbance while working here as head gardener. Not sure how reliable his information is, but the landlord at The Malt Shovel can let you know where to find him.”

Inspector Lucas wrote in his notepad. “Thanks.” He punctuated his gratitude by stabbing the page with his pencil. “Who’ve we got left here among the guests?” he asked Perrin.

The constable looked around, sparing the inspector the trouble. “The solicitor, the Thorpes, Littons, Helen d’Arcy, Meredith Matthews, and her boyfriend Reggie Cox. And the two caterers.”

“Ask who knew Thomas Newcombe was on his way to the wedding today. A clipping of the announcement of his daughter’s engagement was found at his home in Romania, according to my superior. Stands to reason he was back in the country to see her get married.”

“Was this his first time back in England in ten years?” Rex inquired.

“Appears so. The home address on his EU driving licence is a farm in a small village outside Bucharest. The local police went to notify the residents of his death this afternoon. A woman who identified herself as his wife confirmed that he had travelled to England on business, but she didn’t know much else except that he was aware of his eldest daughter’s engagement. Seems she and Newcombe have a young daughter together.”

The inspector delved into his pocket and pulled out his container of aspirin, which he upturned into his mouth, staring up at the remote ceiling through bloodshot eyes.

“Shall I get you some water, sir?” Perrin offered.

His superior ground down on the pills, looking as dazed and woebegone as a man waking up from a hangover. He gave the plastic bottle an inquiring shake of the contents.

How many more did the man intend to take? Rex wondered. “Perhaps some coffee,” he told the constable. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”