Christmas is Murder (11 page)

The barman approached, drying a glass. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

“Aye. D’ye know anybody up there?”

“I’m acquainted with the cook, Sandy Bellows. She joins her husband of an evening for darts. A dab hand, she is.” The barman, a middle-aged man with elaborate tattoos on his forearms, paused to think. “I don’t know the new girl, but her sister used to come in all the time with her young man. He worked for the phone company—heard he moved to Essex. Marie went home to London in July last year to share her birthday with her sister, and we never saw her again. Killed on the seventh, the day of her birthday. Nobody’ll forget that day in a hurry.”

“Tragic,” Helen said with feeling.

The barman eyed her with a glimmer of primal interest. Rex was stunned by the emotions that look roused in him—pride mixed with a protective instinct that made him want to grab the man by the throat. Rex, me old man, he thought with wry amusement.

“I wouldn’t live in London for nothing,” the bartender was telling Helen. “Nor in any big city. I like it right here where it’s peaceful and nothing happens out of the ordinary, except for a freak snow storm.” He winked at her. “One for the road?” he asked them.

“Not for me,” Rex said. “Helen?” She shook her head. “But I’ll buy a bottle of Croft Sherry off you if I may. For Clifford,” he explained to Helen as the barman went to fetch one down from the shelf. “And a bottle of your best vintage port,” he called after him.

A local who had appropriated the neighboring bar stool leaned in toward Rex. “There were two men from the hotel in here before the snow started,” he imparted in a broad Sussex dialect. “Saying as how they’d like to give the old manor a face-lift, if they could get it for a knockdown price. I think one of them was in the antiques business.”

“Anthony Smart,” Helen murmured.

“Got quite boisterous after a few shots.”

“I remember him and his young friend,” the barman said, returning with the bottles. “Thought I’d have to throw ’em out.” He rung up the total and Rex delved into his wallet.

“I don’t suppose your phone is working?” Rex asked.

The man lifted the receiver of the phone behind the bar, put it to his ear, and shook his head.

Rex cursed to himself. He’d wanted to call home and ask the housekeeper if a letter had come for him postmarked Iraq. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “Could ye put this sign up somewhere? A puppy was abandoned by the station.”

The barman nodded and took the sheet, wishing them a good Christmas.

As Rex and Helen headed toward the entrance, she whispered, “Did you feel me kick you when he was going on about nothing out of the ordinary ever happening in Swanmere? I couldn’t keep my face straight.”

A blast of frigid air hit Rex as he held the door open for her. “Well, time to head back,” he said, collecting the skis and poles he had propped against the wall.

Helen pouted in jest. “Must we?”

“Aye, lass. I’ve undertaken an investigation in the absence of the police. No one can leave until they’ve been cleared.”

“I hope nothing happened while we were gone,” Helen said, sounding slightly out of breath as she bent over to tighten her bootlaces.

The movement stretched the fabric of her ski pants over her backside, and Rex thought it a pity he had nothing better to entertain himself with later than a dreary game of charades.

And the more daunting challenge of catching the killer.

Helen pointed across the
street from the pub. “Oh, look, there’s a shop open on the corner.”

Rex resisted the impulse to look at his watch, though he was now anxious to get back to the hotel. “Do you need anything?”

“Not really, but I never pass up the opportunity to look. There might be something interesting in the way of souvenirs.”

Rex carried the skis through the slush to the store. The front door opened with a tinkle.

A young Pakistani stood reading a paper behind the counter. “Most Merry Christmas,” he greeted them. “And how may I be helping you today?”

Rex felt he should buy something to reward the man for being open on Christmas Eve and asked for his brand of tobacco while Helen surveyed the shelves.

“Oh, look at these,” she squealed, holding out a pair of earrings in the shape of swans.

“These are very popular,” the man enthused. “They are hand-crafted by my wife using sterling silver and turquoise stones for the eyes.”

Rex indulgently held out his hand for the earrings and asked the shopkeeper to add them to his purchase.

“Oh, Rex, thank you. I love them!”

The man smiled happily as he packed the earrings in a small box wadded with cotton wool. They wished him a Happy Christmas and left the shop.

“Isn’t it lucky we went in there?” Helen chirped as they retrieved their skis. “Now that nice man can tell his wife how much we liked her jewellery and that it was worth staying open today.”

“Aye,” Rex said, suppressing a grin. It never failed to amaze him how women always managed to find a way to justify their purchases.

___

It was almost dark by the time they finally made it back up the hill through the forest. His gloves had become soaked through when Helen, toppling into a shallow ravine, had dislodged her ski and he’d had to wipe off the ice to get her boot back in the binding. The lights blazing in the windows of the hotel were a welcome sight, and Rex hoped all was as peaceful inside as it looked from the south garden.

He stood his skis against the wall by the scullery door and helped Helen off with hers. Once inside, he gratefully pulled the boots off his feet.

Mrs. Smithings waylaid them in the kitchen. “Good afternoon, Ms. d’Arcy. What a nice colour you have in your cheeks.”

“Oh, we had a wonderful time.”

“I dare say you did,” the hotel owner replied, watching with a curious expression as Helen walked on through the kitchen. She turned her attention to Rex. “Reginald, you never cease to amaze me—you found yet another way across the snow. Even as a child, you were always one step ahead of everyone else. How was the skiing?”

Rex coughed in apology. “I didn’t want to disturb you earlier. I’ll put everything back where I found it.”

“You are quite welcome to use the skis. I would have offered them to you had I remembered we still had them.”

“Thank you. Oh, by the way, are you missing a key?”

“Yes. Did you find it? Rosie misplaced hers when she was cleaning upstairs yesterday. I had to give her mine.”

“I think I know where the other one is. How many master keys do you have?”

“Three. Mine, the one I give Louise—which is now in your possession—and Rosie’s. I get them back at the end of the day and lock them up in the safe. I keep mine on my person.”

Rex thanked her again for the use of the skis and proceeded on his way. Clifford sat at the pine table slicing the bottoms off Brussels sprouts. Rex decided to leave the sherry in his pocket until the old man was alone.

“What delicious recipe have you prepared for our tea?” he asked Mrs. Bellows, who was sharpening her carving knife with gusto at the counter, no doubt in readiness for the turkey the following day.

“Marzipan-covered fruit cake topped with royal icing.”

Rex was not sure he liked the sound of that. Marzipan was almond paste and the thought of eating it made him anxious.

“I’ve been feeding the cake brandy since November,” the cook added. “It’s full of currants, raisins, and cherries, a bit like your Scottish Whisky Dundee.”

“Aye, my mother makes that, but without the whisky.”

Mrs. Bellows shook her head in disapproval. “Fancy that. I put in at least two tablespoons of brandy. And I add chopped walnuts, citron peel, and angelica to make it extra special.”

“You have forty-five minutes until tea,” Mrs. Smithings reminded him.

As Rex passed the drawing room, he caught sight of Helen chatting to Patrick and Anthony. Approaching the front door, he noticed shadows moving behind the frosted swirls of glass. Through a clear pane in the sidelight, he saw a bareheaded Charley and a hooded Yvette standing beside a snowman. While her husband studded the face with stones, forming a mirthless grin and sightless eyes, Yvette stuck twigs in its sides for arms. She was wearing smooth-soled fashion boots, and Rex hoped she wouldn’t slip on the patches of ice glistening beneath the porch light.

He considered warning her to be careful and donating his scarf to the snowman, but the prospect of a nice warm bath lured him on up the stairs. Rosie was running a carpet sweeper along the landing. “Do you never get a rest, lass?” he asked.

She made a resigned face. “Mrs. Smithings promised me a bonus for all the extra work. I’m saving up for a car.”

“What sort of car are you thinking of buying?”

“A Mini Cooper.”

“Good choice. I have one of those.”

“You do?” Rosie looked surprised. “I imagine you in a bigger car.”

“I’m all about fuel efficiency. If I have to travel long distances, I go by train. That way I can get some work done.”

“I’ll never take the train again,” Rosie declared.

“Oh, Rosie, I’m sorry. I heard about your sister and I forgot. How clumsy of me.”

“It’s all right,” the girl said with an effort, and then in a more cheerful voice: “You’re all bundled up. Did you go out somewhere?”

“Aye, down to the pub.”

“That must have been fun.”

“It was. I heard your sister used to go to the Swanmere Arms.”

“They do like to gossip in the village, don’t they?”

“So, what brought you here?”

“I thought there might be an opportunity for advancement. Marie talked about how lonely Mrs. Smithings was and how there were no young relatives to leave all this to.” Rosie looked about her in some awe. “She said if she stayed long enough, Mrs. Smithings might leave her something. Mrs. Smithings still calls me Marie sometimes.”

“Aye, she gets a little confused on occasion. Anyhow, I best get on with my bath or I’ll miss tea.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss that,” Rosie said.

Rex smiled and crossed to his room. As he put his hand on the knob, he remembered. “Ah, Rosie? Did you get your key back?” He imagined she gave a start.

“No.”

He entered his room, pleased to see that the bed had been properly made and a new bar of lavender soap placed on a clean hand towel. Quickly exchanging his layers of clothes for his bathrobe, he grabbed his wash bag and scooted to the men’s room while Rosie’s back was turned, embarrassed to be seen in a state of undress.

The bathroom had been modernized back in the sixties. The copper pipes shuddered as water cascaded into the white tub, spewing steam from the faucet. Hot water really did have its own distinctive smell, Rex thought. It was reminiscent of something. He paused in the act of untying his flannel belt, recalling the precise moment he had made that discovery. He’d been no more than eleven, and it was here, in this house. He and Rodney were canoeing at the old mill, shooting down the short white-water rapids, the river glacial even in summer. Rodney upturned the canoe and they clambered, frozen-limbed and shivering, onto the bank and sought the remedy of a hot bath. And now Rodney Smithings was dead.

Easing into the scalding water, Rex guessed it must be a little past four. Splashing about in his haste, he soaped his washcloth and scrubbed from the back of his ears all the way to his toes, which were thawing out in almost excruciating pain. He swept the towel from the chair and briskly dried himself. The mirror was misted up. No matter: he would shave in his room.

The face that presented itself five minutes later was ruddy and smooth around his whiskers, which were graying to the ginger shade of sandstone. He hesitated over the blue sweater and decided on his camel-colored one instead. Surely Mrs. Smithings wouldn’t object to that. Why did he care? Fear of being rebuked, no doubt dating back to his childhood, he guessed. Ludicrous that he should be afraid of her censure, even now.

With a last look around the room, he picked up the paper bag containing the sherry and made for the drawing room. Helen was seated on a sofa beside Patrick with her anorak and scarf spread around her, everyone intent on watching Anthony in the midst of a pantomime. The charades had begun, the gaiety and colored lights on the tree belying the presence of murder. Rex took a chair.

“We were just warming up while we waited for you and Wanda,” Charley told him. “We haven’t assigned teams yet. It’s a free for all.”

Anthony, his face animated above his gray V-neck sweater, laid two fingers on his arm.

“Film and book title, five words,” Helen informed Rex. “This is the first word. It’s two syllables.”

Anthony mimed shooting himself in the head, then stabbing himself, and collapsed in a dramatic pose on the floor.

“Murder!” Charley and Patrick cried out in unison.

Rex stared at the entranced faces. How quickly people forgot.

Anthony touched his nose while pointing to Charley and then Patrick. Next he held up two fingers and made a sign as though measuring a tiny fish.

“Preposition!” Helen exclaimed.

Anthony made the pointing gesture again.

“You can’t shout out unless it’s the actual word,” Yvette objected.

“What’s a preposition again?” Patrick asked.

Anthony sighed eloquently.

“It’s a part of speech,” Helen replied. “Above, under, over, on—”

Anthony pointed.

“Murder on something something something,” Helen reflected aloud.

“Anthony, you can’t do that,” Yvette complained. “Helen was just explaining to Patrick what a prep-thing was. She wasn’t actually guessing.”

Yvette does whine a lot, Rex thought.

“I was just trying to move things along.”

Charley jumped up in excitement. “Wait, I’ve got it! Murder on the Oriental Express!”

“
Orient
Express, not Oriental,” Patrick piped up. “Murder on the Orient Express.”

Anthony pointed at his nose and Patrick simultaneously, and everyone clapped except Charley.

“Not fair!” he exclaimed at Patrick. “You mightn’t have guessed it if I hadn’t been so close. But well done, mate,” he added graciously.

“Let’s do another one,” Anthony said. “Your turn, Patrick.”

The young man stood up and took Anthony’s place on the center of the rug. After a brief pause, he pretended to crank an old-fashioned movie camera.

Rex studied each participant in turn. What did he know about these people? Patrick was twenty-eight and a graduate of the Slade School of Art. He’d joined Smart Design as a faux and mural artist four years ago. Anthony, a decade older, also owned a half share in an antiques shop in Kensington specializing in timepieces from the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian periods—as Rex had memorized from a conversation with him.

His knowledge of the Perkinses was even more sketchy. Yvette, twenty-one, worked as a receptionist at a solicitors’ firm in Woking. She and Charley, twenty-six, had met at a Rave concert. Helen, forty-four, had brought her newly divorced friend Wanda to Swanmere for a change of scene: “somewhere peaceful where she could re-center herself.”

Rosie brought in the tray at that moment, disrupting his thoughts along with the game of charades.

“We’ll have to continue after tea,” Yvette declared.

I hope not, Rex said to himself, thinking of a viable excuse to leave straight after his tea. Ah, yes, the wee dog. He hadn’t seen it since this morning.

“I admit
Murder on the Orient Express
wasn’t in the best possible taste,” Anthony said. “But it’s the first thing that came to mind.”