SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery by C.S. Challinor Page B
Authors: C.S. Challinor
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shown it to the police and, if so, whether they had taken it seriously. And why not a ransom note instead? Patricia was well off. Abducting the cat and demanding money for its return would have been less callous, relatively speaking, and he felt sure Patricia would have paid up. Obviously the motive for murdering Archie had not been monetary. So what had it been? Spite? Envy?
He continued to ponder. Would reporters be at her home? He supposed he would have to ask her the usual questions in such a situation: Did Archie have any enemies? Was he acting strangely before his death? Cats had a premonition about death, he had heard. Patricia might have noticed Archie reacting in a negative way towards a particular individual. All these thoughts ran through his brain as fast as the dreary fields and hedgerows streaming past the window as he drank the mediocre coffee provided courtesy of Network Rail. He would get the Eastbourne train from Victoria Station, arriving in Woodley in the early afternoon. How he was supposed to wrap up the case of a murdered muse in two days was the more puzzling mystery as far as he was concerned.
A vista of saffron yellow fields opened up beyond the tracks. The rapeseed in flower, much admired by Japanese tourists, looked artificial against the green countryside. Rex did not feel kindly towards this interference with the landscape. Hopefully, the village of Woodley had retained its traditional charm since he last visited the Poplars with his mother a decade ago. He unfolded the Guardian on his lap and began to read the newsprint, reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his spectacles. He had not needed these a decade ago.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the case of the murdered cat and what, if anything , the weekend might reveal. The sinister note could have been an unfortunately timed practical joke and coincidental to the alleged poisoning. He retained a few signed copies of the early Claude books at the Morningside house, gifts to his son when Campbell was nine or ten; when his wife was still alive, and before he took silk and became a QC. Seemed like a lifetime ago. He felt a stab of pain for Patricia Forsyth. She’d had Archie for eighteen years, longer than he had known Fiona, who had died of breast cancer. He seemed to remember Patricia had rescued Archie from a cat shelter on the advice of her doctor when she was mourning the loss of her husband. Archie had been a young cat then, not much more than a kitten. How cruel of someone to deprive her of one extra year or more of his life; if, in fact, the cat had been murdered. It seemed a bit far-fetched, in his opinion. He had called his fiancée to tell her about his latest private case and she’d been hugely amused, in spite of a natural empathy for the old lady.
Helen was a student counsellor and had a degree in psychology. He wished he could have taken the opportunity to visit her in Derby while he was in England, but she was attending a weekend course in Manchester.
“Well, this is a new departure for you, Rex, I must say,” she had said the previous night. “But I hope you catch Archie’s killer. People who kill animals often progress to murdering people.”
*
Patricia had offered to send a friend to meet Rex off the train, but he had said on the phone he would avail himself of a taxi. Woodley was but a short drive from Eastbourne, a Victorian seaside resort that had seen better days. Yet, viewing the village of Woodley again after so many years, he found it barely changed. The white manor house stood on a hill lording it over the other residences, stone and brick homes and converted barns, nestled in a valley surrounded by woods, with the one road leading through to a dead end in front of the Poplars—so named for a line of such trees fronting the property, which at present waved in the soft breeze. He paid the cab fare and pushed open the black wrought-iron gate, which he noticed did not have a lock, and strolled with his
He continued to ponder. Would reporters be at her home? He supposed he would have to ask her the usual questions in such a situation: Did Archie have any enemies? Was he acting strangely before his death? Cats had a premonition about death, he had heard. Patricia might have noticed Archie reacting in a negative way towards a particular individual. All these thoughts ran through his brain as fast as the dreary fields and hedgerows streaming past the window as he drank the mediocre coffee provided courtesy of Network Rail. He would get the Eastbourne train from Victoria Station, arriving in Woodley in the early afternoon. How he was supposed to wrap up the case of a murdered muse in two days was the more puzzling mystery as far as he was concerned.
A vista of saffron yellow fields opened up beyond the tracks. The rapeseed in flower, much admired by Japanese tourists, looked artificial against the green countryside. Rex did not feel kindly towards this interference with the landscape. Hopefully, the village of Woodley had retained its traditional charm since he last visited the Poplars with his mother a decade ago. He unfolded the Guardian on his lap and began to read the newsprint, reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his spectacles. He had not needed these a decade ago.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the case of the murdered cat and what, if anything , the weekend might reveal. The sinister note could have been an unfortunately timed practical joke and coincidental to the alleged poisoning. He retained a few signed copies of the early Claude books at the Morningside house, gifts to his son when Campbell was nine or ten; when his wife was still alive, and before he took silk and became a QC. Seemed like a lifetime ago. He felt a stab of pain for Patricia Forsyth. She’d had Archie for eighteen years, longer than he had known Fiona, who had died of breast cancer. He seemed to remember Patricia had rescued Archie from a cat shelter on the advice of her doctor when she was mourning the loss of her husband. Archie had been a young cat then, not much more than a kitten. How cruel of someone to deprive her of one extra year or more of his life; if, in fact, the cat had been murdered. It seemed a bit far-fetched, in his opinion. He had called his fiancée to tell her about his latest private case and she’d been hugely amused, in spite of a natural empathy for the old lady.
Helen was a student counsellor and had a degree in psychology. He wished he could have taken the opportunity to visit her in Derby while he was in England, but she was attending a weekend course in Manchester.
“Well, this is a new departure for you, Rex, I must say,” she had said the previous night. “But I hope you catch Archie’s killer. People who kill animals often progress to murdering people.”
*
Patricia had offered to send a friend to meet Rex off the train, but he had said on the phone he would avail himself of a taxi. Woodley was but a short drive from Eastbourne, a Victorian seaside resort that had seen better days. Yet, viewing the village of Woodley again after so many years, he found it barely changed. The white manor house stood on a hill lording it over the other residences, stone and brick homes and converted barns, nestled in a valley surrounded by woods, with the one road leading through to a dead end in front of the Poplars—so named for a line of such trees fronting the property, which at present waved in the soft breeze. He paid the cab fare and pushed open the black wrought-iron gate, which he noticed did not have a lock, and strolled with his
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