Four

Rex stood leafing through a moleskin-covered album entitled “Worldwide” on the inside page in green ink, written in the judge’s distinctive curlicue longhand. Multicolour postage stamps of different shapes and currencies swelled the gridded pages arranged by country of origin, everywhere from Norway and Spain to the Sudan and minor republics. Postmarked images of ships, astronauts, birds, buildings, and flags were interspersed with mint commemorative sets of topical themes and religious scenes.

By far the largest number of stamps featured Queen Elizabeth II’s crowned head in various muted shades assembled under Great Britain and its Commonwealth Realms. Some preceded her long reign. A few looked to be quite old, but how rare, Rex could not tell.

Had the alleged murderer been seeking valuable stamps, unaware that the completed album was secreted in the locked drawer of the desk, or had he found what he was looking for in the unfinished collection lying on top? Rex hoped the dealer would be able to shed some light on the matter.

The missing album had left a large space in the centre of the desk. On the periphery remained a soaking bowl, a magnifying glass, miniature tongs, and a box containing a jumble of small glassine envelopes, first-day covers, and packets of adhesive hinges.

“Where did he procure the stamps?” he asked Phoebe who was quietly watching while he examined the items.

“He sent off for them, mostly, and he attended stamp auctions. My husband received international mail from his book publications and saved the envelopes for him. Dad wasn’t at his collection all the time. It was more of a hobby than an investment, I think. He also liked to compile crossword puzzles for the Canterbury Tales, a weekly newsletter for retirees. It helped occupy his time and kept his brain active.”

Inserted among the reference works on philately and stamp catalogues stacked beneath an angle-poise reading lamp lay a hardcover Oxford English Dictionary. Law books lined the surrounding shelves.

“Anybody at the newsletter I should talk to?” Rex queried, turning towards Phoebe and resting a hand on the back of the brown leather chair in front of the desk.

“I don’t think he ever met the editor in person. They talked on the phone, and Dad sent his crosswords by post. He’d use a theme connected with Canterbury, like Chaucer, for instance. I could never finish one. Far too erudite for me. A small prize was awarded for the first correct entry, usually a book on local history.” Phoebe sighed. Rex had noticed she did that a lot. “Not sure what I’ll do with this room now,” she announced. “Perhaps keep it as a library. Would you like any of the books? I’m sure Dad would have wanted you to have some.”

She walked towards the large sash window across from the desk. “I could turn it into a sewing room as it gets decent light, but I don’t do much dress-making these days.”

The multi-paned window, draped and valanced in russet brown velvet, took in a view of the rear garden. As Rex approached, his gaze alighted upon a hexagonal whitewood summerhouse in the middle of the lawn, with what looked to be a gold-painted pineapple atop its cupola.

“The summerhouse was there when we bought the property,” Phoebe explained beside him. “It has wooden benches built into the six walls. I put cushions inside when the weather’s nice so I can sit out and read. You should see it when it’s surrounded by roses.”

Rex could picture the delightful setting. No doubt the view was one of the reasons the judge had taken this room. His eye followed a crazy-paving path through the flowerbeds, shrubs, and silver birch trees to a separate garage. He supposed the garages had replaced the coach-houses originally built for the affluent terrace of homes. “Is that gate by the garage kept locked?” he asked.

“Yes, but anyone halfway fit could get over it. It leads to New Street. The intruder must have climbed the drainpipe to gain access to this room. I would have notified the police, but I thought they’d only think I was overreacting from grief. And quite frankly I didn’t relish the idea of them traipsing all over the house and poking around until I was quite sure the watch and album weren’t lying around somewhere. Dad would lose things in the strangest places.”

“My mother does the same thing with her keys and her knitting; puts them down and then forgets where.” Rex pulled back the iron catch on the window frame and pushed up the lower panel, which opened with relative ease and only a faint squeak. Sniffing the metal tracks, he was unable to detect any distinct odour of lubricant. “When was this last oiled?”

“My handyman takes care of all that, but I haven’t had to call him in a year. He’s been coming since before my husband died. Doug couldn’t put up a shelf to save his life and he never had the right tools. He said it wasn’t worth his time fiddling around with that sort of thing when an expert could do it in half the time.”

“What is the name of your handyman?”

“Alan Burke.”

Rex could find no suspicious gouges or scratches on the windowsill or frames. Old defects had been painted over. No evidence of fingerprints existed, at least none visible to the naked eye. However, a professional housebreaker would have worn gloves, he reflected.

“Has the room been cleaned since your father passed away?”

“Annie came in and did a thorough clean and airing.”

The queen-size bed, flanked by matching antique nightstands and shade lamps, had been stripped. A copy of Bleak House missing a dust jacket sat on the near-side table, a yellow silk ribbon separating half the thick block of pages. The judge’s spectacles were still folded on top of the cover.

If the housekeeper had cleaned thoroughly enough, any clues would have been eliminated; an unfortunate state of affairs, in the event the police were called.

“Did you check the window that night?”

“I didn’t think to. The curtains were drawn, and, anyway, Dad never opened the window, and that particular night it was damp and cold. I only discovered it was unlocked the next morning.”

“And the exterior doors?”

“They’re fitted with alarms.”

Rex tried to imagine what the old man would have thought upon finding a stranger in his room. If indeed it was a stranger. Possibly he had not had much time to react. “Any dogs in the neighbourhood that might have been heard barking in the night?” he asked. He knew he was grasping at straws. Over a week had passed since the judge’s death, and he doubted any of the neighbours would remember a disturbance in the wee hours.

She thought for a moment. “There’s a dachshund at the far end of the street, but I never hear it.”

“Any sensory lights?” Rex asked, peering out again into the garden.

“Just a security light by the garage. It’s not very bright.”

“I’ll take a look when I go down. Have you had much rain this past week?”

Phoebe nodded. “A fair amount.”

She looked tired and drawn, and sounded weary. Rex told her he would get on with his investigation and let her rest. She nodded gratefully and took off to her room, saying she would see him later.

He stopped by the guest suite he had been allocated at the top of the stairs and exchanged his shirt for a cashmere sweater to wear beneath his tweed jacket. He planned to walk to the stamp dealer’s shop and take in the cathedral and the ruins of the Norman castle while he was about it. In the event he was on a wild goose chase, he thought he might as well do some sightseeing and make the most of his sabotaged weekend.