Free Murder of the Bride by C. S. Challinor

was informed that an assortment of valuable Georgian and early Victorian snuff boxes, many of them exquisite and in some cases unique, had simply vanished.
    â€œGentlemen in the nineteenth century were fond of snuffing tobacco after dinner with their port and brandy, and liked to show off their boxes,” the solicitor recounted. “Cornelius Newcombe, the founder of Newcombe Court, started the collection. It was added to by Thomas Newcombe. What a damned thing to have happen when poor Victoria and her daughter are laid up in hospital! Perhaps I should try calling again.”
    Just then Rex heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside on the driveway. Stella Pembleton opened the door to admit a young constable, who took off his hat and hesitated in front of the expectant gathering.
    â€œAre you by yourself ?” Carter demanded, peering around the policeman.
    â€œJust until reinforcements arrive,” the copper answered gamely, extracting a notepad and pencil from the breast pocket of his uniform. He was a fresh-faced lump of a lad, and Rex thought at first someone might be playing a practical joke, especially when he introduced himself as PC Dimley. In addition, he spoke with braying Midland vowels that made him sound like a yokel. “So what have we here?” he asked.
    â€œWe now have a theft of family heirlooms on top of a case of poisoning of some description,” Carter informed him. “The snuff boxes were here this morning. We need a detective.”
    â€œAll in good time. Are you Mr. Newcombe?”
    â€œNo, I am not, but I feel responsible. I am the Newcombes’ solicitor. The lady of the house is in hospital, along with her daughter and Reverend Snood of All Saints’ Church in Aston. They were taken ill at the wedding reception. Besides which, we have a missing guest—one Gwendolyn Jones—who arrived from Wales this morning.” Carter was practically hyperventilating by now, the quills on his scalp all a-quiver.
    â€œQuite a lot going on then, sir,” PC Dimley agreed, scribbling away on his pad. “Anything else?”
    â€œIsn’t that enough?”
    â€œI would say so, sir. If I could just have your name.”
    Bobby Carter provided him with that information.
    â€œAnd this gentleman next to you?” the constable inquired.
    â€œReginald Graves, QC,” Rex answered. “I came as a wedding guest with my fiancée, Helen d’Arcy, from Derby.”
    â€œThank you, sir. If we could continue around the room so I can get everyone’s name, home address, and car registration …”
    Jocelyn Willington let out an exasperated sigh. “How long is this going to take, Constable?”
    â€œIt might be awhile, ma’am. Why don’t you all take a seat?”
    The younger guests gravitated toward the massive fireplace on the right and settled around the broad stone lintel propped up by a pair of spiral columns. The older generation gathered around the hearth across the hall. The catering staff huddled farther back, near where the DJ’s equipment stood silent.
    While the constable was busy with the staff from Helen’s school, Rex pulled Bobby Carter aside. “How much would the entire collection of snuff boxes fetch?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s insured for half a million pounds. There are forty snuff boxes in all. A gold case similar to one in Victoria’s collection, dating back to the 1830s, went to auction at Bonhams in Knightsbridge for forty thousand pounds. When opened, it displayed a rather saucy scene of two couples misbehaving in a garden.” Carter helped himself to a cup of coffee from a large urn on the refreshment table. “It’s uncontaminated,” he assured Rex. “I watched the man open a new tin of Maxwell House and use water from a sealed bottle.” He took a sip and nodded. “Tastes all right.”
    â€œForty thousand pounds,” Rex mused aloud.
    â€œAnother