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.