Nine

When Rex left St. Dunstan’s Terrace to return to Edinburgh, all the media was talking about, on Annie’s television when he went downstairs to say goodbye and on Phoebe’s car radio on the way to the station, was the disappearance of the schoolgirl from Dover, now missing for three full days. News racks displayed photos of the dimpled fourteen-year-old, and posters had begun to appear in shop windows.

His own case was progressing no faster, and, much as he’d had an interesting time in Canterbury, he was glad to return to his mother’s house in Morningside where, as he had told Phoebe, he lived during the week and most weekends when not visiting Helen in Derby or staying at his country lodge in the Highlands.

Miss Bird, his mother’s aging companion and erstwhile housekeeper, met him at the front door.

He had called his mother upon arriving at Waverley Station and tea was waiting for him in the parlour, complete with the Royal Doulton china and paper doilies. He kissed his mother’s snowy head and sat down beside her.

“Now tell us all aboot your trip to Canterbury,” she said as Miss Bird, a diminutive woman with beady eyes reminiscent of currants, joined them at table and poured the tea.

He described the sights, specifically the ancient castle ruins and the soaring spires and stained glass windows of the cathedral. He remembered the engraving he had tucked among the clothes in his bag and which he would fetch down after tea when he unpacked. He went on to tell his mother and Miss Bird about Christopher Penn at whose shop he had purchased the souvenir, and he detailed the case Phoebe Wells had asked him to take on, without expressing his growing doubts regarding her motives.

“Not much to go on,” his mother concluded.

“Noo,” Miss Bird agreed. “And why did she not call the police if she thought her father was murdered?”

Rex helped himself to an iced bun from the three-tier cake stand. “She said she would file a report for the missing items, but she doesn’t feel she has enough evidence to bring up her suspicion of murder.”

“But the more time that goes by, the more evidence might be lost,” his mother pointed out in surprise.

“I agree, Moira,” Miss Bird said. “Either she believes it or she doesna. What are ye going to do, Reginald?”

Miss Bird had been their housekeeper since he was a boy, and she and his mother persisted in calling him by his given name, instead of its derivative “Rex,” which he preferred. Now that they were well into their eighties he had lost all hope of their changing the habit.

“Tomorrow I’m seeing someone who worked with Judge Murgatroyd,” he informed them. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“I remember Phoebe Wells as rather a highly strung young woman,” his mother commented as she poured him more tea. “I hope you’ve not embarked on a fool’s errand, Reginald. But I understand why you feel you had to offer your assistance. Her father did favour you, after all.”

She spoke in the genteel tones of Morningside ladies, which Rex often thought belied a razor sharp mind that had lost none of its acuity in her advancing age. Helen had remarked how his mother reminded her in appearance and depth of perception of Miss Marple, and Rex had laughed and been forced to agree. Fortunately, however, Moira Graves did not meddle in his cases, professional or private. She and Miss Bird simply liked to offer arm-length opinions and applaud him on his success when deserved.

Once again, he doubted whether success in this case was even an option, since there might be no case at all.

After tea, he went upstairs and rang Helen. One wall of his boyhood room had been knocked through to the next bedroom and the new space remodelled to accommodate a private bath and a small study-cum-lounge. His personal suite notwithstanding, his mother had designated a separate room in the draughty Victorian house for his fiancée when she came to stay.

He stood at the window, mobile phone in hand, gazing over the walled back garden where an ancient elm provided shade in summer. Blackbirds flocked to the grey stone birdbath on the lawn, which was now filled with rainwater. A wrought-iron feeder containing black sunflower seeds was attached to the outside of his window and attracted starlings and great tits, and on occasion a Spotted Woodpecker, which he liked to watch when he got ready for work in the morning. Helen answered promptly.

“Hello, lass, I’m back home. Did you have a good day?”

“I went jogging with Jill after we spoke this morning, and then met Julie for lunch. I was just watching the news about the girl who’s gone missing in Kent, not far from where you were staying.”

“Aye, Dover is about half an hour’s drive from Canterbury.”

“It’s not looking good,” Helen predicted. She counselled teenagers at her school and Rex understood this would be a subject close to her heart. “It doesn’t matter how often you tell young girls not to walk home by themselves, they think they’re immune from danger at that age. She was wearing her school uniform and carrying a satchel. You’d think someone would have noticed her crimson blazer with the school emblem if she’d run away. Unless she had packed some clothes and left them with a boyfriend her family knew nothing about … ”

“It appears more likely she was abducted. There’s even speculation she was taken to France and sold into the white slave trade.”

“Smuggling is easier with the Chunnel, I suppose,” Helen said despondently.

“Kent Police staffs a station in Coquelles on the French side to deal with border crimes,” Rex reminded her, referring to the village near Calais where the Eurotunnel terminal was located. “Hopefully, if it’s a case of abduction, the person or people involved won’t get far.”

“You seem well-informed,” Helen said in a way that told Rex she was smiling.

“I had time to read the Sunday papers on the train since I’ve not made much headway in my own case.” He relayed his suspicions regarding Phoebe’s intentions towards him. “I think she may have made up or exaggerated the part concerning her father’s murder. She’s clearly lonely after losing both him and her husband, and in need of company.”

“Be careful, Rex. I know what a big teddy bear you are, but she may mistake your kindness for something more and get her heart broken if her feelings are unrequited.”

“Well, of course they’re unrequited! I have no romantic interest in the woman.”

“I’m just saying … Remember what happened with Moira.”

Moira Wilcox, the girlfriend preceding Helen and who shared his mother’s first name, had attempted suicide after he broke up with her. It had been a tragic and messy business, and had almost cost him his relationship with Helen.

“Did she make a pass at you?” she enquired.

Rex scratched his ear as he stared across the garden now disappearing into shadow, lying as it did on the east side of the tall house. “Ehm, I’m not sure. She got a wee bit tipsy last night … ”

“And?”

“I think she may have hoped I might kiss her. But she apologized this morning. And she asked a lot aboot you.”

“There, you see? She’s jealous. Probably a good idea if you don’t go back to Canterbury.”

“I don’t see that I’ll have cause to. As of right now, there’s no case. Can you come up to Edinburgh next weekend?”

“I’ll try.” Helen sounded reassured and sent a kissing sound over the phone as they bid each other a tender good night.

A long-distance relationship wasn’t easy, but Rex was determined to make it work. Perhaps Helen could be persuaded to make a permanent move. Phoebe’s words had unsettled him. He hoped Helen cared enough to make the sacrifice. And then he asked himself if he could turn his back on Edinburgh.