Christmas is Murder

Christmas Is Murder: A Rex Graves Mystery
© 2008 by C. S. Challinor.

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First e-book edition © 2010

E-book ISBN: 978-07387-2010-4

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design by Gavin Dayton Duffy

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Editing by Connie Hill

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In Order of Appearance

Hotel Staff

DAHLIA SMITHINGS, hotel proprietor who lost her son in Iraq.

SANDY BELLOWS, head cook with more to her than meets the eye.

ROSIE PORTER, ambitious waitress with an axe to grind.

CLIFFORD BEADEL, odd-job man suspected of a past murder.

Guests

REX GRAVES, sleuth—a Scottish Barrister revisiting a childhood haunt.

HENRY D. LAWDRY, disabled WWII veteran of wealthy means.

MIRIAM GREENBAUM, New York literary agent attending a book fair in Brighton.

WANDA MARTYR, recent divorcee with a penchant for snooping.

HELEN D’ARCY, friend of the above who falls for the intrepid sleuth.

ANTHONY SMART, antiques dealer with designs on the hotel.

PATRICK VANCE, Smart’s gay partner, an odd duck of artistic temperament.

YVETTE & CHARLEY PERKINS, young newlyweds hiding a secret.

Mrs. D. Smithings requests the pleasure of
the company of Reginald Graves, QC
at Swanmere Manor, December 23 to 27.
RSVP

Rex reread the card
before thrusting it into his coat pocket in preparation for his trip, wondering again at the formal nature of the invitation. After all, Dahlia Smithings and his mother were old friends, and he had visited Swanmere Manor as a boy. Not in his wildest dreams could he imagine the place converted into a hotel. Still, he might encounter some interesting guests there and anything was better than staying home alone over Christmas. His mother was visiting a sick friend in Perth, and his significant other had left on a humanitarian mission to Iraq—three weeks ago now, and still not a word.

Surveying the suitcase gaping on the bed, Rex decided he’d packed enough warm clothes for a week in the south of England. Here in Edinburgh it was four degrees Celsius, with a chance of evening showers and a forecast of plunging temperatures. “Lucky wee beggar,” he muttered, thinking of his son in sunny Florida on a student exchange program.

Before he opened the front door he ran through a mental check-list: cell phone, wallet, car keys, supply of Clan tobacco, Sudoku puzzles. Then, after squeezing into his brand-new Mini Cooper in the dark and the drizzle, he set out for Waverley Station to catch the overnight train down to London.

Sandy Bellows blithely diced
away at onions on a wooden chopping board, her rolled-up sleeves revealing freckled forearms the size of hams. “Can you believe it? Snow. And us so near the sea. Another twelve inches tomorrow, they said on the radio.”

With a shrug of her voluptuous shoulders, Rosie picked up the laden tea tray from the counter. “You can never rely on what the weatherman says.”

“Polly in the village told me her husband found an old man by the side of the road. Stiff as a board he was with hypothermia. Another load of snow and there’ll be no getting in or out of the hotel,” Sandy Bellows pursued.

“Cook, what’s this I hear about more snow?” Mrs. Smithings asked, darting into the kitchen, a gaunt apparition in black, with pearls encircling her high lace collar.

“Another foot tomorrow,” Mrs. Bellows repeated. “Just in time for Christmas Eve.”

“Hurry along with that tray, Rosie,” Mrs. Smithings commanded the young girl. “It’s four thirty.”

As Rosie left the kitchen, Dahlia Smithings gazed out of the frost-encrusted window, her profile with the white chignon as austere as those found on Roman coins. “Some of our guests are due to leave tomorrow if the snow clears,” she mused aloud. “I do wish the American was one of them.”

“She can be quite trying from what I hear,” the cook agreed. “The others are pleasant enough, though. Like that gay couple, Mr. Smart and Mr. Vance. Nicely mannered they are. And that old gent with one arm. I wonder what his story is, alone at Christmas, and him such a—”

“Yes, yes, Cook. Enough gossip. We have dinner to prepare. Where’s Clifford?”

“Chopping wood.”

“Tell him to stockpile logs in the cellar in case we’re unable to access the woodshed over the next few days.”

“You expect it’ll get that bad?”

“Louise was unable to come in today from the village. Imagine what it will be like tomorrow if this keeps up.” Mrs. Smithings stared thoughtfully at the sheets of snow falling slantways from the sky. “Mr. Graves is supposed to be arriving tomorrow from Edinburgh—he may have to cancel his reservation. Well, call Clifford in,” she told Mrs. Bellows. “We need him here in the kitchen.”

“Not much use he’ll be,” the cook muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. She ambled over to the scullery door and called Clifford.

“Tea ready?” the wizened old man asked with glee, depositing his axe on the floor.

“We need you to help with dinner.”

“Me?”

“Can you peel potatoes?” Mrs. Smithings asked impatiently.

“Wot? Wi’ these gnarled ould ’ands?” He pulled off his mittens to display two arthritic extremities. “Eh can ’ardly chop wood.”

The cook handed him a vegetable parer. Grumbling, Clifford eased himself onto a chair at the pine table in front of a mound of potatoes. “Mind you get all the eyes out,” she directed.

“Me ’ands be so bleedin’ cold they can ’ardly hold the bleedin’ taters.”

“Watch your tongue, old man,” admonished Mrs. Smithings as she swept regally from the kitchen.

Clifford’s reply was cut short by Rosie, returning with her empty tray. “Here, give me that,” she said, snatching the parer out of his hand, and she began to peel a potato with vigor.

“Wot about my tea then?” Clifford asked, jerking his head over his shoulder at Cook.

“I’ll put the kettle on. I need a bit of a breather myself,” she said.

A sly grin spread over Clifford’s etched face. “While the cat’s away … Where’s her ladyship anyways?” he asked Rosie.

“Probably in her office.”

“She’ll be gone awhile then, allus lookin’ at them photos, she is.”

“How do you know she looks at photos?”

“I sees her sometimes through the window when I clips the hedge. Just stares at them, she does. Anything to go wi’ the tea?” he asked the cook. “Me stomach’s growlin’ like a bear in a cage.”

“I kept some iced almond tarts back.”

“Ouch!” Rosie, who had nicked herself with the parer, watched transfixed as a bulb of blood grew on her thumb.

Clifford gave a wheezy laugh. “Y’aren’t much better at it than me. Best get something for that afore you bleed all over the place. If the guests saw that in their food, they’d feel swimey, like as not.”

___

The guests, all but the honeymooners, flocked around the tea items set out on lace doilies on the Victorian table. A Christmas tree decked in silver bells and burgundy bows twinkled with fairy lights in a corner of the drawing room.

Anthony Smart, upon extricating a cup of tea from the table, commandeered a wing armchair by the fire. Late thirties and balding, with a close-trimmed beard, he wore designer spectacles and an obsidian signet ring. Stretching his long legs before him, he gazed in appreciation at the white-painted wood trelliswork surrounding the fireplace. “Webb,” he said knowingly to a charming blonde taking her seat on one of the sofas.

“Webb?” she asked, balancing a small plate on her lap while she stirred her tea, her blue eyes as bright as the sequins adorning the neck of her sweater.

“The fireplace designer,” Anthony explained.

“Oh, really?” Helen d’Arcy looked about the room, taking in the velvet curtains and soft furnishings in navy and cream, matching the vine and flower motif carpet. “The manor probably hasn’t changed much since 1898. But I daresay you’d know more about that, Anthony—being an interior decorator.”

“I’d guess Morris and Company did the design,” Smart agreed. “Such variety of pattern and color is their hallmark, after all.”

“I just adore this hunting scene,” interrupted an American voice. Miriam Greenbaum planted herself in front of the fireplace and peered over her thick-rimmed glasses at the oil painting above it. “Worth megabucks, I’ll bet.”

“No doubt,” Anthony concurred, his frown evidencing displeasure at the substantial figure in plum velour invading his space.

“Probably been in the Smithings family for generations.”

Anthony tapped the air with the toe of his polished shoe. “So, how did you find out about Swanmere Manor Hotel?” he asked the American woman. “It’s hardly well advertised.”

“Stroke of luck,” she replied. “A contact from the Brighton Book Festival told me about it.”

“Excuse me.” Patrick Vance daintily stepped around the literary agent to sit opposite Anthony, while a pert, fortyish brunette made herself comfortable beside Helen.

“Feeling better, Sleeping Beauty?” Anthony asked the new arrival.

“Much,” Wanda Martyr replied.

“Good. You need plenty of rest after the ordeal you’ve been through,” Helen soothed her friend.

“Aren’t these almond tarts to die for?” Wanda said, brushing crumbs from penciled lips.

Helen licked the icing off her fork. “Mm. Fabulous.”

“What are you sketching?” Wanda asked Patrick, who had propped a pad against one knee.

“I’m just doodling.” A pale lock of hair fell across his smooth brow.

“Don’t believe it for a minute,” Anthony said. “Patrick doesn’t doodle. He never misses a detail, do you, Patrick? That’s what makes him so in demand with our clients.”

“This is just relaxation. I’m drawing the Christmas tree with the three of you in the foreground.”

“You might want to take a stab at me sometime,” Miriam Greenbaum butted in, sinking into an empty sofa. “It would make a great souvenir to take back to the States.”

Patrick mumbled something noncommittal in response. At that moment, querulous tones arose from the far side of the room. “Urgh, I mistook the coffee for tea,” an old man complained, half rising from his armchair with the aid of his good arm.

Anthony put out a hand. “Don’t disturb yourself, Mr. Lawdry. I’m going that way for a refill. I’d be happy to bring you some tea.”

“Call me Henry. And most obliged.”

“One lump or two?” Anthony called from the table.

“Two, please. I confess to having a sweet tooth, which is why I wear dentures now, I suppose.”

“Sugar is poison,” Anthony agreed. “It wreaks havoc on the body cells, causing premature aging.”

The two women friends on the sofa suddenly came to from their private conversation.

“No!” Wanda exclaimed.

Anthony paused on his way back to Lawdry, two cups in hand. “There must be thirty grams of sugar in those iced tarts,” he said, nodding at Wanda’s plate.

“Nonsense,” Miriam Greenbaum intervened. “It’s fat that’s the killer. I know something about nutrition. Most of the nonfiction books I represent are on diet.”

“Believe me,” Patrick said, looking up from his sketchpad, “what Anthony doesn’t know about health isn’t worth knowing.”

Just then, a gasp sounded from across the room, and they all turned to look. The old man was having a seizure. Patrick reached him first.

“Was it the sugar or the fat content?” Anthony asked wryly, pointing to the fallen pastry at the old man’s feet. “He is going to be okay, isn’t he?”

Wanda set down her plate with a shaky hand. “Well, I ate two tarts and I feel perfectly all right.”

“Me too,” Helen said. “Well, just one, actually. That’s my limit.”

“Mr. Lawdry? Henry?” Patrick questioned urgently. “He’s unconscious. Quick, get Charley Perkins from the honeymoon suite. He’s a paramedic. Tell him it might be a heart attack.”

Anthony rushed from the room while the three women hovered around the afflicted man’s chair.

“Poor old thing,” Helen commiserated. “He’s gone very pale. Is that white icing he choked up?”

Wanda stared in horror, hand on her throat. Miriam Greenbaum suggested they get hold of the management.

“I’ll go,” Patrick offered, and left the room.

On the stairs outside the drawing room, a Cockney voice asked, “What did Henry eat before he got taken poorly?”

“Coffee and a tart,” Anthony answered. “I hope you can do something, Charley.”

The next second, Charley Perkins came dashing barefoot into the drawing room, shirttail half hanging out of his trousers. “Maybe something didn’t agree with his medication,” he said when he saw Lawdry. He leaned over and began checking the old man’s vitals conscientiously.

“Perhaps we should call an ambulance,” Helen suggested.

Charley straightened up and shook his head sadly. “Too late for that—he’s gone.”

Wanda gasped.

“Could it have been food poisoning?” Ms. Greenbaum demanded.

“Food poisoning?” Dahlia Smithings railed behind them. “In my establishment? Impossible!”

___

By six o’clock, Lawdry’s body had been carried up to his room, upon Mrs. Smithings’ instructions, and his death reported to the local authorities, who apologized that it would be awhile until anyone could reach the hotel due to the snow.

“Leave the window open to preserve the body,” the doctor told her over the phone. “We should be able to get to it in a day or two.”

“But the day after tomorrow will be Christmas Eve! I have guests staying, and one more expected tomorrow by train. An eminent QC from Scotland and friend of the family.”

The doctor mumbled his regrets and left Mrs. Smithings pondering the now-silent phone.

“What are we going to do?” Rosie asked, stepping into the back parlor that served as Mrs. Smithings’ office.

“Do? Continue as before,” exhorted the hotel owner. “Serve the guests more tea. Where are they?”

“In the drawing room, ma’am. If we go on at this rate, we’ll run out of tea.”

“Well, offer them sherry then. Even though it is not strictly Christmas yet, it might be appropriate under the circumstances.”

Rosie returned to the drawing room where she produced a cut-glass decanter of sherry from an armoire.

“Special occasion, Rosie?” Anthony asked, eying the decanter from his armchair.

“Mrs. Smithings doesn’t usually bring out the sherry until Christmas Eve, but she thought it might calm our nerves. I’ll be right back with some glasses.”

“What an eccentric old bird that Dahlia Smithings is,” Ms. Greenbaum observed, prodding her BlackBerry. “
Almost total Prohibition is practiced at this hotel,”
she typed to her assistant in New York. “
Sherry is served only at Christmas—or if somebody dies
.
All they drink is hot tea, a vile concoction, and I can’t even get to a pub, what with all this blasted snow!”