Christmas Is Murder Part 4

"On the round table. I let everyone help themselves. They all know tea is at four thirty, but not everyone's here on the dot, so I just leave them to it."

"Just one more question, Rosie. Do you recall who was in the kitchen when you picked up the tray?"

"Cook and Mrs. Smithings. And when I got back, Clifford was there mucking in with the potatoes."

After he left Rosie, Rex bounded up the stairs, reflecting that there never would have been any suspicion of cyanide poisoning, had Charlie not been around to attend to Lawdry. And he himself would not be in the process of questioning the staff and taking more than a casual interest in the guests. So much for his relaxing Christmas.

He fed the puppy the chicken sc.r.a.ps and decided to join his fellow guests in the drawing room for further observation. There might be more to them than met the eye, and it was just conceivable one of them had managed to slip the cyanide directly into Lawdry's tart. As he stepped out of his room, Mrs. Dahlia Smithings was coming up the stairs.

"Did you find out anything of interest?" she asked.

"Well," Rex said, drawing closer to her. "Charley found an empty container of sodium cyanide in the dustbin outside."

"Ah, yes. Well, we use that for cleaning jewellery and such. We buy it by the pound from a pharmaceutical company in Brighton."

Rex coughed politely. "A fact you omitted to mention earlier on, Mrs. Smithings."

"It slipped my mind. Things do at my age, you know."

He showed her the container. "Is this the jar?"

"I believe so."

"Where did you keep it?"

"On a shelf in the scullery with the other cleaning products."

"Clifford said the jewellery hasna been cleaned in awhile."

"Clifford! I'm surprised you were able to make out his gibberish. He speaks that way on purpose, you know."

"This does rather support Charley's theory of poisoning, deliberate or otherwise ..."

"Charley may be making it all up and have planted the container himself."

"Aye, but the lad is a medic and he seems to have his head screwed on tight. I canna see him doing this just to create a bit o' drama."

"Young men are p.r.o.ne to pulling pranks."

Ah, yes-Rodney. Her son had certainly been one for pranks. Mrs. Smithings looked wistful, as though she were thinking of him at that moment.

"Rodney died a hero," he said. "You must be proud of him."

Her lips tightened into a thin line. "Since my son is not here, what can he possibly have to do with any of this?"

"I'm sorry," Rex stammered, somewhat perplexed. Most mothers wanted to talk about their sons, living or dead. His own mother bored the ears off the ladies of the Morningside-genteelly p.r.o.nounced Moarningsaide-tea and scone set with accounts of his professional exploits. When she received visitors, she had him buy flowers-Nothing extravagant, mind-so she could boast that her doting son had given them to her.

He was on the point of asking Mrs. Smithings about Rosie's sister when his cell phone trilled in his pocket. The LCD listed a London number. He excused himself and hurried back to his room to take the call in private. "Thaddeus," he said. "Any luck?"

The young law clerk at the other end informed him that he'd managed to get hold of Lawdry's solicitor and that the old man had not died intestate after all, having left everything to Claws, his cat. No human had stood to gain by his death, and Thaddeus could find no ties between the deceased and any of the hotel staff or guests, whose names and addresses Rex had supplied him from the guest book in the hall.

"I did find out that Anthony Smart was up on a charge of drunk and disorderly behaviour at a gay bar last year, but got off with a fine," the clerk said. "Is there anything else you'd like me to check out?"

Rex said he would be in touch-right now he was at a dead end. Henry Lawdry's alleged murder was without apparent motive.

___.

Rex noticed the puppy sniffing items around the walls of his room and getting ready to raise its hind leg against a giant potted fern. "Argh, noo," he said, scooping him up in his arms. "Ye canna do that."

He took the dog downstairs and through the scullery to the back door, leaving him in Clifford's care. "Och, I'll be back later," Rex said when it looked up at him in reproach through the racc.o.o.n markings around its eyes.

He ambled into the drawing room where most of the guests were biding time until dinner, and took up a position by one of the west-facing windows. The white-blanketed lawns disappeared into darkness.

"I love doing hair," Patrick Vance was saying, "and Anthony has so little. If you have the rollers, I have the time."

Turning around, Rex saw that the young man was addressing Wanda Martyr. Helen nodded to her friend in encouragement.

"When do you want to do it?" Wanda asked Patrick.

"How about after dinner?"

"All right then. That way I'll look fab for Christmas Eve. After all, it's not like there's a whole lot to do around here."

"I feel like I'm living in a Christmas card, the time we spend in this room," Helen agreed. "It's all very pretty, of course, but I'm beginning to get cabin fever."

"Aye," Rex said from the window. "And I came down from Scotland thinking I might play a bit o' tennis and do some hiking." He sought an armchair among the guests. Only the honeymooners were absent.

"Wanda and I managed to get some walking in before the snow started," Helen told him. "We took the bridle path between Eastbourne and Alfriston, and crossed the downs above the ancient Long Man. It's the size of a football field and cut out of the chalk. And there's a pretty Norman church in Jevington that's worth a visit too."

As Rex observed once again, Helen was an attractive woman with a cheerful and sensible air about her. "I came here as a boy," he told her. "It was summer-b.u.t.tercups and red campion everywhere. There was a place we used to call Bluebell Valley. I was fond of nature rambles and badger-watching back then. Aye, I would've liked to have done some walking meself."

"This hotel needs more activities," Patrick said. "For a start, the old conservatory is never used. I'd put in a huge jacuzzi, paint a tropical fresco, and install lots of exotic plants."

"We could convert the library into a pool room," Anthony suggested.

Helen smiled. "I doubt Mrs. Smithings would approve of your renovations."

"Mrs. Mothb.a.l.l.s needs to move with the times. She should retire and have someone manage the place for her."

Beyond the French doors, a ring-tone blared out the Star Spangled Banner. "I made it to page 30 of the ma.n.u.script you sent up," Miriam Greenbaum told her caller, "and I have to say I just didn't get off on it. The writing was nowhere near ready for prime time ... Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send the standard rejection."

With the arrival of Ms. Greenbaum, Rex observed an atmosphere of constraint settle upon the guests. Wanda, in particular, made no effort to veil her hostility, staring pointedly at the intruder. She was a woman who wore her emotions on display. Helen, on the other hand, with a barely perceptible tightening of the jaw, confined herself to studying a women's magazine with probably more attention than it deserved. Patrick and Anthony, exchanging a glance of complicity as Miriam crossed to a vacant sofa, took up their books in unison.

She appeared not to notice the sudden cessation of chatter. Pushing her gla.s.ses up her nose, she pulled a ma.n.u.script from a box file and became engrossed in its contents, from time to time scratching annotations in the margin with a blue pen.

"Does anyone know where the name Swanmere comes from?" Rex asked his neighbors, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

"Mere means 'pond', doesn't it?" Wanda said, stretching her elegantly slippered feet toward the fire. "There's a big pond down by the village. It's frozen up now, but there are swans there."

"I'd like to sketch it," Patrick said wistfully. "Swans are such graceful creatures."

"Oh, you have to be careful," Helen interjected. "The cob has a wingspan of eight feet. They can be quite vicious, you know, coming at you with flapping wings and outstretched beaks ..."

Finally, Rosie summoned the guests to dinner.

In the dining room, the wainscoting below the flocked wallpaper was just as Rex remembered it. The Victorian dresser displaying a Royal Albert service still stood in a corner. It was as though time had stood still. Heavy brocade curtains shut out the frigid night, while a crystal chandelier cast its glow upon the guests seated at the table spread with white linen. Rex was pleased to find that his place, reserved by a hand-written name card, was beside Helen.

"How's the wee dog doing?" he asked Clifford, who crouched by the hearth, banking up the fire.

"I 'ad to put 'im in the cellar."

"What dog is this?" Miriam Greenbaum demanded from across the table.

"A stray I found shivering in the snow on my way to the hotel this afternoon."

"Oh, bless you," Helen said. "Why can't we have him in here with us?"

"A dog would make it seem more homey," Wanda Martyr added, unfolding her napkin.

"Aye, but from what I hear Mrs. Smithings won't have it in the house. No doubt she sees it as a health hazard."

"I should think the almond tarts are more of a hazard," Anthony quipped, presiding at the head of the table.

"Mrs. Smithings should have turned this place into a boarding school," Ms. Greenbaum remarked. "There are more rules and regulations at Swanmere Manor than in a sorority house."

Rex chuckled. "Aye, she's already made me feel like an ill-favoured schoolboy on occasion."

"What sort of dog is it?" Helen asked.

"A Jack Russell terrier, I believe. He's a bonny wee thing."

Miriam Greenbaum grabbed a bread roll. "Well, the old harridan can't very well turn him out into the snow. And the cellar's no better. It must be icy cold down there."

The guests heatedly debated what to do about the dog while Rosie filled the water gla.s.ses.

"So what's on the menu tonight, Rosie," Anthony inquired. "I brought up red and white wine from the cellar."

"Oh, you should have sent Clifford down for it," Rosie said.

"The cellar steps are steep and badly lit. It's too dangerous for an old fellow like Clifford." Anthony looked around for him, but he had already left the room.

Sandy Bellows, beaming in a starched white ap.r.o.n, brought in a silver tureen wafting wreaths of steam, and set it down on the table. The soup's surface was swirled with cream and sprinkled with fresh parsley. The guests immediately launched into a volley of speculations as to what sort of soup it might be.

"Smells deliciously like curry," Patrick said.

The cook began ladling it into bowls. "It's Mulligatawny, which means 'pepper water' in Indian. Just the ticket for a cold winter's night."

"This claret is corked," Anthony announced testily. "I'll have to run down to the cellar and get another bottle."

"Anthony is our self-appointed sommelier," Patrick explained to Rex as his partner left the room. "Mrs. Smithings is teetotal and knows nothing about wine. When Anthony discovered yesterday that the late Colonel kept a respectable cellar, he suggested we drink some of it before it goes bad. Mrs. Smithings is only charging twelve pounds a bottle."

"Thank goodness for Anthony," Miriam Greenbaum chimed in. "I don't know about the rest of you but I'm ready for some booze. The sherry didn't even begin to tickle the spot."

Wanda and Helen concurred wholeheartedly. Mrs. Bellows removed the tureen from the table and entreated the guests to enjoy their soup.

"I'll go with Anthony and rescue that poor dog," Miriam declared, getting up from her chair.

"Oh, yes, do," Helen said. "Shall I come with you?"

"No, I'll manage. Go ahead and start without us."

Recalling the cyanide in the tart, Rex tentatively dipped his spoon in his soup and eyed Patrick, Wanda, and Helen to see if they were hesitant to taste theirs. They all attacked the Mulligatawny with gusto, but before Helen could put her spoon to her lips, her cell phone rang.

"Blast," she said, extracting it from her cardigan pocket and checking the display. "Oh, it's Pauline. Excuse me while I take this call," she told her dinner companions as she rose from the table. "Pauline? How are you, dear?" Her voice trailed off as she left the room.

"That's one of her special cases at the school where she counsels," Wanda explained. "Pauline is from a broken home and has serious substance-abuse problems. But she's a promising student and Helen has taken her under her wing."

"Helen seems like a very nice person," Patrick commented, mopping up the soup with his bread.

"Yes, she is. And she has really helped me through my divorce. She's a wonderful listener. I can't imagine this is much of a holiday for her."

Rex risked some of the soup himself. "Aye, 'tis spicy, right enough." Feeling his lips start a slow burn, he reached for his water gla.s.s.

"Fantastic for clearing the sinuses," Patrick said, taking a hanky from his pocket and blowing his nose. "I must get the recipe from old Bellows. Well, h.e.l.lo, you lovebirds. Deigning to join us at last?"

The honeymooners sheepishly took their places across from Rex. "Where are the others?" Charley asked.

"Anthony went to fetch some wine, Miriam left to rescue Rex's dog, and Helen had to take an important call," Patrick summarized.

"You have a dog?" Yvette asked Rex.

Before Rex could answer, Anthony burst into the dining room. "Oh, G.o.d! Oh, G.o.d! Miriam had a bad fall. I think she broke her neck!" he cried.

The table jostled with a rattle of china as the guests rose in haste. Rex bade Charley go with him and everyone else stay. Helen stepped into the dining room just as Rex and Charley were leaving. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's the American woman ..." Charley blurted, rushing past her.

Rex heard Helen's gasp but did not stop. Anthony followed the two men into the deserted kitchen. On the pine table, Rex noticed the soup tureen and the pair of candlesticks that Clifford had been polishing in the scullery that afternoon.

"Careful," Anthony said when Rex approached the cellar. "There's ice melting on the steps. Looks like she might have slipped on it."

Rex sidestepped the ice and gingerly made his way to the bottom with one hand on the wall, Charley behind him carrying a lit candlestick. Miriam Greenbaum's body lay face first at the bottom of the stone steps, her neck twisted to the side, the thick-rimmed gla.s.ses askew beside her.

Charley placed the candlestick on the flagstone floor and felt for a pulse. "She's a gonner," he murmured. "Just like poor old Lawdry. And look here. She couldn't have got this contusion on the back of her neck from falling headlong."

Rex studied the red welt. "We'll have to leave the body here exactly as we found it." He looked around the musty cellar, bare except for broken garden furniture, a stack of chopped wood, and racks of wine. Finding a rock that had crumbled from the chalkstone wall, he outlined the deceased's body as a precaution. He wanted it left unmoved until the authorities arrived.

Anthony was waiting, ashen-faced, at the door to the cellar.