Thirteen

The following morning Rex sat down to breakfast bright and early, feeling clear-headed and well rested after a deep, dreamless sleep. Fortunately, his mother wasn’t down from her room yet. She was sure to make a fuss if she saw the rope burn, and he had already had a talking-to from Helen that morning on the phone about the danger he subjected himself to in his private cases. He had finally described to her the extent of his injuries and how the man had produced a knife, which he had tried, with limited success, to use on Alistair.

He heard Miss Bird approach in the hall and adjusted his white wing collar and long neckties. He was due in court at ten, and so his garb was not out of place. He also had on the tail coat he would wear under his gown.

“Is something wrong wi’ yer neck?” Miss Bird asked, entering with his breakfast and seeing him smooth down his falls.

“A bit of a sore throat,” he said truthfully enough.

“I’ll fetch ye some lozenges,” she said. “And I’ll make chicken broth for yer dinner.” In her mind, he was still Wee Reginald in school shorts and cap.

“Sit down and have a cup of tea, Miss Bird,” he urged, not that she ever ate breakfast with them.

“Och, I had my tea and porridge a while ago, and I need to get on.”

She left the parlour and Rex tucked into his cooked breakfast, washing it down with great quantities of tea. He felt unaccountably cheerful and famished, in spite of, or due to, the excitement last night. He put it down to adrenalin and a lucky escape.

The street outside was stirring to life. Through the net-curtained window he could hear people on the pavement walking their dogs, taking their children to school, and getting an early start on their grocery shopping at Waitrose. Buses rumbled along their route on a nearby road while the frequency of cars passing by the house increased with the advancing hour.

He folded his newspaper. It had now been five days since the schoolgirl in Kent had gone missing, and there were no new developments, at least none that were made available to the public. The brown and beige van had not been found and no new witnesses had come forward. Rex could barely bring himself to imagine Lindsay Poulson’s fate. Her father was a music teacher, and so it was unlikely she was being held for ransom. In any case, a demand would have been made by now.

Rex surmised that if she had been abducted and were still alive, the poor girl was probably wishing herself dead.

“Better take yer brolly,” Miss Bird advised as he put on his overcoat in the hallway.

He did so when he spied the overcast sky outside the front door.

Upon arriving at chambers he saw that Alistair’s door was ajar and found his friend standing at his desk sorting through a pile of documents.

“How are you, old fruit?” he asked upon seeing Rex.

“Wonderful. And you look a lot better.”

“John saw to my shiner and managed to counteract the red with some green camouflage makeup. I just have to remember not to touch my cheek.”

Rex asked if he still had the piece of paper that he had picked up off the ground with Pruitt’s address on it. He had remembered it as he fell asleep the previous night and had recalled its importance again upon waking.

Alistair paused with a stapled sheaf of paper in his hand and shook his head. “I emptied my pockets when I got home, as I customarily do, and tossed it into the fireplace.”

“Is it still there?”

“No, went up in smoke, my dear fellow. Was it important?”

“There was a name written on that bit of paper. Do you recall what it was?”

“I don’t. Sorry. There were a few things scribbled down. I didn’t think it was important.”

“The name was Pruitt’s suspect in the April Showers case. I called the hospital first thing this morning. He’s oot of intensive, though not well enough to receive visitors.”

“Let’s hope he makes a full recovery.”

“Aye, and I hope he can shed some light on what happened at his flat. He almost died. And you and I could have been killed too.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Alistair remarked. “But doesn’t it make you feel more alive? I feel electrified! And there I was thinking this was going to be a humdrum sort of week.”

“Humdrum sounds just fine with me. Not sure I could stand any more excitement. It was a close call, and I never even got the information I went there for in the first place. Right, well I best get going.”

The two men arranged to get together for lunch at their favourite pub close by in the Lawnmarket.

Alistair dipped his head at Rex’s court attire as he made to leave. “What’s the trial again?”

“Man charged with murdering his stepson. Open and shut. He was caught on the nanny-cam around the time of the child’s death.”

“Can’t get away with much nowadays, can you?” Alistair commented, busily bent over his papers with his hands planted on the desk.

Rex would bet Ramsay Garden was equipped with security cameras. He wished one had been installed at the back of Phoebe’s house, and then he’d have proof that something nefarious had occurred. His thoughts turned briefly to her garden and its hexagonal whitewood summerhouse. She had left a message for him the previous evening, but he had not had a chance to return her call due to all the drama at Ramsay Garden.

When he reached his office, he closed his door and rang Phoebe to give her an update on Richard Pruitt. She was shocked to hear what had happened to her father’s penfriend, but relieved that he had survived his ordeal.

“Does this have anything to do with Dad’s murder?” she asked.

“Not necessarily.” Rex flipped back the page of his desk calendar, checking his schedule. “Ramsay Garden could have been a house break-in gone wrong. I won’t know more until I can speak to him. He’s at the Royal Infirmary. They won’t let anyone visit yet.”

“I’m sorry I got you involved in all this. Are you all right?”

Rex told her only that he had been drugged, so as not to alarm her, and added, “When I met whom I thought to be Pruitt at his home, he was not wearing the bow tie I remember from the media coverage a decade ago. And he sounded different than on the phone, though he didn’t say much in person, at least to begin with. He seemed different in a lot of ways, but I just assumed it was Pruitt.”

“And people do change, especially when they’ve been through a lot,” Phoebe said.

“In addition,” Rex went on, “his impersonator didn’t seem to know about the American stamp. That’s when my antenna went up, but I was already under the influence of whatever he had put in my whisky. And then he attacked my colleague with a knife.” Phoebe gasped at the other end of the line. “Fortunately Alistair was wearing his fencing jacket under his coat. The tournament he was supposed to have been competing in was cancelled, and he came to Ramsay Garden to assist me.”

“I bet you, though, Pruitt is guilty of April Showers’ murder,” Phoebe said. “I always thought so in spite of what Dad might have thought. Why else would someone come after him if not seeking revenge? Have you looked into her family?”

“It’s been over ten years,” Rex said dubiously.

“Someone biding their time,” Phoebe suggested. “Perhaps a relative. What if her mum died recently and April’s dad decided to seek justice at last? Perhaps his wife dissuaded him from doing anything while she was alive.”

“Or else Pruitt made an enemy in his stamp business or other activities,” Rex said. “Did you know he collects third world weaponry and masks as well?”

“I always thought he was a bit strange when I saw him on TV. And I’m a little suspicious of aging bachelors. You always wonder if they have something to hide.”

“My friend Alistair has never been married,” Rex answered in amusement. “But I’m sure you’d find him quite charming. And very upfront.”

“I’d like to meet him,” Phoebe enthused. “Perhaps you could bring him on your next visit. I’d like to thank him for coming to your rescue. I wonder what your attacker planned on doing with you once you were knocked out by whatever he put in your drink?”

Rex refrained again from telling her about being bound at knifepoint. He did mention, however, that Alistair had a live-in partner, which seemed to deflate her. He realized then that he had inadvertently raised her hopes. Simultaneously, his desk phone buzzed and someone knocked at the door. The work day was beginning in earnest. He assured Phoebe he would call again when he’d had a chance to visit Richard Pruitt in hospital.

“Be careful,” she said with feeling. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”