One
Hon. Lord Gordon Murgatroyd QC, 80, passed away peacefully at his home in Canterbury, Kent, early yesterday morning.
Rex Graves set the newspaper down on his desk, leaving his hand resting on the obituaries page. So the old judge had passed away, he mused with a sense of regret. On many an occasion, Rex had prosecuted under his eagle eye at the High Court of Justiciary, Scotland’s supreme criminal court, and had found him to be a rather caustic and cantankerous man. Universally considered severe in his sentencing, “Judge Murder” had been Murgatroyd’s sobriquet, uttered with trepidation in the halls of justice.
Yet for some reason unknown to Rex, the judge had taken a shine to him, giving him terse pointers and sage advice in the privacy of his chambers.
He left behind a daughter, Phoebe Wells, whom Rex had met a few times in the past. She had moved from Edinburgh when she got married and now lived in Canterbury on the southeast coast of England. Her husband had been a renowned psychiatrist.
Rex spent some minutes on the phone locating her number through directory enquiries. Once obtained, he made the dutiful call.
“I don’t know if you remember me, Mrs. Wells,” he began when she answered. “Rex Graves QC. I wanted to offer my deepest condolences. Your father took me under his wing when I started out and he taught me a lot.”
“Of course I remember you! It’s so kind of you to ring. Not many of our old acquaintance have, you know.” Phoebe Wells spoke in a cultured voice, with the slightest of lisps. “There’s to be a small service on Monday. Can you come down?” she asked in the next breath. “My father liked you, and he didn’t like many people.” She laughed awkwardly. “And, well, I’m troubled, you see.”
“Troubled?” Rex repeated in surprise.
“This might sound silly, but … ”
“Go on,” Rex prompted.
“Well, it’s just that Dad’s stamp collection went missing from his room the night he died. And his window wasn’t locked. He always kept it shut as he had a phobia about draughts.”
Rex attempted to collect his thoughts as Phoebe’s words tumbled out in a rush. This was not the conversation he had anticipated having with the bereaved daughter. “I had assumed he died of natural causes,” he ventured.
“Presumed heart attack,” Phoebe qualified. “Which could have been provoked by shock. I think someone broke into the house and suffocated him. In fact, I’m all but positive that’s what happened. I’m glad they put that bit in the paper about him passing away peacefully because I don’t want people phoning to enquire, out of morbid curiosity, how exactly he died. I’ve had newspapers and legal publications requesting interviews as it is. Did you see an obit or did someone tell you?”
“I saw the one in the Scotsman.” Rex quoted it.
“I always found Dad’s titles to be a bit confusing,” Phoebe Wells fretted at the other end of the line. “Oh, do say you’ll come,” she pleaded.
“It’s a bit short-notice, I’m afraid,” Rex replied. “I’ll be in court all next week.”
“Oh, I see.” Then, after the briefest of pauses, “How about next weekend? It would mean so much to me, and to Dad. I’ve heard you’ve had considerable success in solving murders.”
Rex sighed inwardly. He had been looking forward to a long-overdue game of golf with his friend and colleague Alistair Frazer. “Are you convinced your father was murdered?” he asked carefully. He could not see an eighty-year-old man being much of a threat to anyone, even if he had been known as Judge Murder.
Phoebe Wells spoke firmly. “I know my father was old, but much as I’d like to believe he died in his sleep, I just can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. My late husband always said to trust one’s instincts. Physical feelings, he told me, never lie, and I’ve been feeling on edge ever since it happened; I don’t know—sort of jittery. But I need someone of sound judgement to properly air my suspicions to before I involve the police. I don’t want to appear paranoid.”
“I’m sure they would not think that. Your father was an eminent jurist.” Rex debated with himself for a brief moment. “I’ll come,” he agreed. He felt he owed it to the old judge. The golf could wait. Murder could not.