SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery (3 page)

“I shall, of course. I just want to get all the facts first.
The back garden is completely enclosed by the wall, but you can access it through a side gate.”

“That’s correct. In recent years, Archie did not attempt to jump over the wall. He was content to stay within the garden and just contemplate nature. Of course, when he was younger he loved to roam in the woods. I had many an anxious moment, I can tell you, when I thought he might have got lost or come to harm. But I felt it would have been cruel to keep him inside the house and restrict his natural instincts. It would have been tantamount to smothering someone’s creative freedom, don’t you think? And he did get into some fine adventures!” Patricia’s pale blue eyes lit up behind her lenses. “All fodder for my little books. And he always came home before I became too sick with worry, bless his sweet heart.”

“And you’re sure no one could have come into the house without your knowledge?” After all, at her age she could have easily forgotten to lock a door.

“The kitchen door and front door are the only means of entry. I always lock myself in. And I never leave the downstairs windows open when I’m not in the room. It’s always possible someone could come through the woods and climb over the wall and steal something.”

Rex rather thought a thief would go into shock when he saw the contents piled and crammed into the house, realizing he would have to root through everything to find something worthwhile. There were knickknacks and figurines galore, but they did not appear to his eye to be worth a great deal in resale value. Obviously, though, they held sentimental value for Patricia, else she would have thrown them out or donated them to a jumble sale; unless she was a compulsive hoarder.

At that moment the doorbell rang and Patricia responded immediately, cocking an ear, so she probably wasn’t
so very deaf, after all. “That’ll be Dot,” she said, getting up heavily with one hand on the armrest. “She said she’d come early to help with tea.”

Rex heard voices in the hall, the deep one Patricia’s, the other high-pitched, almost strident in its animation. “I brought a homemade ginger cake topped with toasted almonds,” it said. “And some chocolate fingers from the shop.”

“You are such a dear. Just set the cake down in the kitchen. Perhaps the biscuits should go in the refrigerator? Connie prepared some sandwiches. I don’t know where she and Charles have got to. They went out for a walk after lunch. And Reginald Graves has arrived from Edinburgh. Come and meet him. He’s the son of one of my dearest friends. I must have mentioned Moira to you.”

A woman who looked to be in her late seventies entered the room with a cane. Rex leapt to his feet to greet her and found himself towering over her head of tight bluish-grey curls.

“I’m Dot Sharpe,” she introduced herself before Patricia could. Rex tried not to notice that her nose aptly suited her surname. “Patricia’s friend and a fellow writer,” she crowed.

“Delighted.
Rex Graves at your service.” He held out his hand and took her tiny appendage into his paw.

“Dot, we are just finishing up some family
chat before the others get here. We won’t be much longer.”

“Oh, of course.
Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. You carry on. We’ll chat later, Rex,” Dot said amiably. In spite of her walking stick, she took herself off in spry fashion, and Patricia closed the door after her.

“I don’t want her to know I suspect murder,” she confided, sitting back down.

“Is she one of the suspects?” Rex asked.

“Doubtful, but who knows? I’ve invited everyone I can think of who might have had a hand in Archie’s death. Not that I necessarily think them capable, but because they had opportunity.
Means, motive, and opportunity. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“It’s a good place to start.
How many people are coming?”

“Well, Noel Cribben from next door.”

“Whose dog Archie allegedly attacked. A motive, possibly?”

“We mended our fences, so to speak, as all good neighbours must. I gave him a signed collection of Claude books. For all I know, he sold it to pay the veterinary fees. Dr. Doug Strange may drop by. He thought Archie a fine fellow. He came on a couple of house calls.
Nothing serious. Once when Archie had a bit of mange on his face and another time when he had the sniffles. Couldn’t do anything for Archie this time. I put his food out at six as usual, before I went to my book club. I was back by eight or so. When he didn’t come back in by nine, I got concerned. He always came upstairs to read with me in bed last thing at night. It was beginning to get dark so I took a torch and looked in the back garden. I found him lying in the flower bed with vomit nearby. I knew he was dead, but I called Strange all the same. You know, just in case.”

Rex felt his eyes grow moist and discreetly wiped away an incipient tear. Patricia touched his hand.

“Thank you, Reginald. It’s plain to see why your mother is so proud of you. You always were such a dear boy. And such a gifted pupil and student. You are a credit to Moira, indeed.”

Rex was quite overcome. If he had managed not to succumb to tears before, he would have failed now had Patricia not suddenly distracted him by rummaging under the sofa cushions. Finally she retrieved a note from beneath a knitting magazine. She handed it to him and waited expectantly. Rex unfolded the paper, which read, in block capitals, “
SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE
,” just as his mother had told him.

“Aye,” he said. “Perhaps it’s telling that it says Archie and not Claude.”

“Exactly. That’s what makes me think it’s less likely to be a stranger.”

“And the person took care not to reveal his or her handwriting by cutting out letters from a newspaper.”

“And probably wore gloves so as not to leave fingerprints.”

“Did it come in an envelope?”

“Yes, with just my first and last name typed on it and posted through my letterbox some time Wednesday afternoon. But I didn’t know that at the time because Charles picked it up and put it on the hall table with all the junk mail, and I didn’t find it until Thursday morning, when it was too late.” Realizing she had raised her voice, Patricia put a hand to her mouth. Rex could hear crockery rattling in the kitchen down the hall, and then the sound of the front door opening, followed by voices.

“That’ll be Charles and Connie.” Patricia took the note from Rex’s hand and hid it between the pages of the magazine.

“Was the envelope sealed?” Rex asked.

“No, it just had the flap tucked in.”

“Have you shown this note to anyone?”

“No one.
I wanted to speak to you first.”

“Keep it hidden for now. Who else is coming this afternoon?” Rex glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter to four.

“Roger Dalrymple, whom I mentioned when we were discussing my will. Rather a colourful character. I think you’ll enjoy him.”

“He lives in Woodley?”

“He does, and by some stroke of luck he became my illustrator. He’s a painter, you know. Was in advertising before. Well, when I got my idea for Claude, I asked if he’d be interested in coming up with a few cat drawings for my stories. He took some photos of Archie, and I told him what sort of attributes my fictional cat possessed, and he came up positively trumps. We sold the series almost right away. And it took off!” Patricia looked amazed, even after all these years.

“So the series is a joint endeavour, and couldn’t survive without either partner, I assume?”

“We’re not equal partners. It’s a sixty-forty split, which I think is fair. After all, the series was my idea. And it’s made Roger quite famous. Before, he was just selling a few pictures at art fairs and to friends.”

“What aboot merchandising. Have you explored that angle?”

“Oh, Reginald, you are so clever! My son suggested we did that years ago, but I didn’t like the idea of Claude being paraded around on school bags and tee-shirts.”

Archie would have been none the wiser, Rex
thought; even when he was alive. “How does Roger feel aboot it?” he asked.

“He likes the idea of capitalizing on Claude, but can’t do anything without my say-so. I deplore the notion that an artist would sink so low, but he was in advertising, so I suppose he must have sacrificed some scruples along the way. Anyway, it’s a moot point now,” she said with a hopeless shrug of the shoulders.

“Why so?”

“Because Archie is dead!” she cried out. “There is no more Claude.”

Rex patted her hand. “I think I understand how you feel. But give it time. You may change your mind.”

“I shan’t. It’s over. It would be too painful to sit at my computer trying to conjure up stories without Archie there on the desk giving me inspiration. He did, you know. It’s as though he communicated them to me. Oh, I’m so lonely without him
! I miss his chunnering and chirruping. Just seeing him laze in the sun or chase after a butterfly, jumping up with his paws in the air, made me joyful. He never caught one though. One time he swiped at a Swallowtail and took off the tip of its wing. I saved it and it managed to fly away. But I got a story out of that.” Patricia expelled a shuddering breath. “My creative juices have dried up. There’s not much left to live for.”

Rex was
quite used to the morbid ramblings of elderly people, essentially living with two at home, and let her comment pass. “Could someone ghost write your stories until you’re ready to resume?” he suggested. “Perhaps someone who knew Archie?”

“But it wouldn’t be authentic. I’m sure my readers would see right through it. Do you believe in ghosts, Reginald?”

“Ehm, there might be a strong spirit presence that exists in the form of energy, I suppose,” he hedged. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s Archie. He’s been trying to tell me something. I have a premonition of my own death.”

*

While Rex was contemplating this strange announcement, Dot poked her curl
y head around the door. “Sorry to disturb you. Shall we set the table beneath the oak? There’s plenty of shade there.”

“Are Charles and Connie lending a hand?”
Patricia asked.

“Yes. Charles said to lay out the paisley cloth and the Spode tea service.”

“That’s fine.”

“Felicity just got here. I told her you were busy catching up with an old friend.” Dot gave Rex an ingratiating smile.

“I’ll be along in a minute.”

Dot nodded and shut the door after her.

“She means well,” Patricia said. Clearly she found Dot a trifle irritating, as evidenced by the set of her jaw.

“Who is Felicity?” Rex asked, keeping a mental account of Patricia’s acquaintance.

“My agent and publicist. She came down from London on Wednesday afternoon to discuss some business with me. And she’s down again for Archie’s send-off.”

“That’s nice of her. Archie’s demise must be a blow to her.”

“Of course. He was Claude, after all, and she did well out of him. Fifteen per cent of my earnings!”

“Did she do the publicity for a fee?”

“Yes. The publicist at my publishing firm doesn’t do very much. Alder Press is only a small publisher.” She gave a resigned sigh. “Well, I suppose we’d better join them. It’s almost four.”

The clock on the mantelpiece confirmed this a minute later with a peal of chimes. Rex helped Patricia out of the sofa, but before they could make it to the door, a tall elderly gentleman sauntered into the room and introduced himself to Rex as Roger Dalrymple.

“Aye, pleased to meet you,” Rex said. “My son enjoyed your illustrations growing up.”

“Love the Scottish accent, old chum. Patricia’s lost a bit of hers.” Roger stooped slightly, but was in good shape for his age. He also had all his hair, white, and downy as plumage. He was dressed in a light cashmere cardigan, which he removed and draped carefully over a piece of furniture, as Rex had done with his jacket. Roger had likewise put on a black tie in keeping with the solemn occasion.

“We’re taking tea outside.” Patricia led them to the kitchen where Dot and Connie, whom Rex recognized as his hostess’ middle-aged daughter, stood arranging items on a tray. Dot was looking down her pince-nez at a pile of teaspoons and small forks and counting them with nods of her head, while Connie stacked cups and saucers on the tray. Rex said hello and how nice it was to see her again. She gave a harassed smile and mumbled a greeting that trailed off mid-sentence as she continued fumbling with the crockery. A patchwork bag with a pair of needles sticking out of the opening sat on a kitchen chair.