Murder of the Bride by C. S. Challinor

murder?”
    â€œIt’s a wedding. How much more family can you get? Maybe someone didn’t want to wait for Aunt Gwen to pop off in her natural time and, when the arsenic failed, resorted to another method. How did you pick up on the arsenic in the first place?”
    â€œA pharmacologist once described the symptoms in graphic detail in court. The shocked reactions of the jury were such that the judge called for an adjournment to give them time to recover. Hard to believe anyone here would purposefully inflict that kind of suffering. And at a wedding, of all things.”
    Elaine sidled up to them. “Mr. Graves, um, Jeremy wanted me to ask if there was any news …” The girl bit into her lip, flushing all over her face. Her lashes, pale almost to the point of invisibility, gave her bulging eyes the impression of a permanent stare.
    â€œWhy didn’t your boyfriend come over himself ? Better still, he could ask the constable.”
    Elaine’s white fingers pressed into her bottled water, causing the plastic to crackle. “Jeremy and I drew straws.”
    She gazed abashedly at her shoes, and Rex relented. “Well, lass, as you surely know by now, the vicar succumbed to poisoning. We’re waiting on news of the Newcombes. As far as Polly’s aunt is concerned, it looks like she, ehm, fell or was pushed off the tower. Did you know her?”
    Elaine gulped, though she had not taken as much as a sip from her bottle of water. “I’d never met her before. This is my first visit to Newcombe Court. I only know Polly through Jeremy, because he’s friends with Timmy. We went out to the pub as a foursome a couple of times. Timmy and Polly are going to live here, in the spare wing,” the girl babbled on nervously. “Polly told me all about the nursery. Do you know how long we’re all going to have to stay here? It’s been ages.”
    â€œThat depends on the police.”
    As if on cue, two detectives in creased suits and a second mud-spattered constable pushed their way through the great hall. Rex deduced they’d had to make an emergency stop, to change a tire or dislodge one of the vehicles from the mire. PC Dimley went to consult with them as Elaine scurried back to Jeremy.
    The next moments saw a flurry of activity. The freckle-faced detective, with ginger hair like Rex’s own, before his had begun to fade to the shade of sandstone, disappeared into the caterers’ wing of the house with Dimley, after thanking everybody not to broadcast news of the events on their phones until the police had finished conducting their business. A bit late for that, Rex thought.
    The second detective, a heavyset man with buckled teeth, as though a heavy fist or crowbar had caved them in, gave instructions to the new constable, who proceeded to circulate the room requesting the guests’ car keys and explaining that all vehicles had to be searched for the missing antiques.
    â€œOh, dear,” Helen said, rooting in her bag. “They’ll have to sift through the junk in my boot. I was going to clear it out last weekend.”
    â€œI’m sure they won’t issue a ticket for a messy boot,” Rex assured her.
    She relinquished the keys to the constable, who made a note by her name. “Helen d’Arcy, 19 Barley Close, Derby. Blue Renault,” he stated.
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œAnd your passengers?”
    â€œMr. Rex Graves here. And a young couple, Meredith Matthews and Reggie Cox.”
    â€œI’ve got those names on the list. Two Reginalds.”
    Rex only used his christened name on forms, having gone by Rex since age eleven when he discovered that “Reginald” was derived from the Latin rex , meaning “king.” Unburdened of his fusty old name, he had felt freer to become his own person, and even now cringed at being referred to as Reginald.
    The constable addressed him. “I see from PC