Christmas is Murder (13 page)

She nodded shakily. “A bit. I wrote a letter to Paul explaining what happened—as far as I could explain. It’s easier than talking on the phone. I haven’t really spoken to him since he ditched me for Wanda all those years ago. I’m sure he’ll be glad he won’t have to pay alimony now,” she said with a trace of bitterness.

By the time they reached the dining room, a starter of smoked salmon adorned with a round of lemon awaited on each of the six plates. Anthony and Patrick followed them into the room.

“Well, isn’t this cosy?” Anthony commented in ironic fashion, taking his seat at the head of the table between Rex and Patrick.

Yvette and Charley completed the group.

“Just us three couples left,” the Cockney said, shaking out his linen napkin, which had been folded into a swan.

Yvette admired hers. “How sweet.” She continued to stare at it, her mind clearly elsewhere.

“Aye. Helen was telling me this afternoon how swans mate for life.”

“A bit like you and Charley,” Anthony told Yvette waspishly. “You two are inseparable. Every time a crime is committed in this house, you always seem to be conveniently together—and absent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can never be accounted for.”

“We were outside building a snowman this afternoon. Apart from that we were with other people.”

“Look, we’re all a bit rattled,” Patrick jumped in. “None of us is above suspicion.”

An uncomfortable silence spread across the table.

Clifford brought the dog into the room, creating a welcome diversion. “Young Rex ’ere to see you,” he announced. “Eh taught ’im to raise ’is paw.” Lowering his back in a series of jerks, the old man added a log to the fire.

“Here boy!” Charley called, holding out a piece of salmon.

“This will go down in the annals as one of the most surreal Christmases I ever spent,” Anthony remarked.

“And to think I could have gone to Aviemore,” Helen said. “Then Wanda would never have come here and she’d still be alive.”

Rex reached out his hand to comfort her.

“D’you think Clifford knows about the murders?” Patrick asked Rex when the old man left. “He’s pretty deaf, isn’t he? Probably doesn’t catch much.”

“Mrs. Smithings wanted to keep it from the staff.”

“Ha!” Anthony replied with derision. “She acts as though nothing’s amiss. She was tinkling away on her pianoforte all morning. A bit like Nero sawing on his fiddle while Rome burned, if you ask me.”

Patrick pronged the lemon with his fork. “It’s creepy, that’s all. Three murders, all by different methods. Who’s next?”

“There’s something you’re not telling us about how Lawdry died, isn’t there?” Anthony asked Rex.

“I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“Alarm us! You must be joking.”

“We couldn’t be more alarmed,” Patrick explained. “We just want the truth. I mean, it might be safer for us if we left.”

“You and Helen made it as far as the village today,” Yvette added, addressing Rex.

“We skied,” Helen replied. “And anyway it’s dark now.” She had barely touched her food, Rex noticed. “Besides, none of us can leave until the police get here. They’ll want to question everyone.”

“There may not be any of us left by then,” Anthony objected. “Why should we stick around?”

Rex really had no answer to that. “Look. I think I may know what’s going on, but there are pieces that don’t fit into the puzzle. If I’m right, there won’t be any more murders as long as nobody meddles. I think that’s what happened to Wanda.”

“Wanda was murdered because she tried to solve the case?” Patrick asked.

“It was more a case of her stumbling onto something.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you that for now. But once I have all the pieces, I will, I promise.”

“In the meantime, can you tell us who you think did it?” Anthony insisted. “At least tell us if it’s one of us or not.”

“I have what I term ‘valid assumptions,’ mostly arrived at by the process of elimination, but I need proof.”

“Doesn’t sound all that reassuring to me. What do you have to say for yourself, Charley? You’re not usually so quiet.”

“Well, apart from this whole thing putting a kybosh on my honeymoon, I’m just as stressed as the next person. But I think we should trust Rex’s judgment.”

“Me too,” Helen said, and Rex inwardly thanked them for their loyalty.

After dinner, when the other guests were occupied in the drawing room, Rex retired to the library. Two oil paintings hung in the room: a landscape of a mill, after the Constable school, and the bowl of mellow fruit he’d contemplated the previous afternoon while waiting to ask Yvette about the cameo. Wanda had been looking for the brooch when she opened the safe. She’d spied on Mrs. Smithings standing by one of the paintings. Rex deplored the owner’s lack of foresight. Anyone with a master key had access to the safe if they knew where it was located.

Wanda must have been at the door when she saw the owner, in which case the safe had to be behind the still life, since the other picture was on the opposite wall and not visible from the door. He closed it behind him and crossed to the built-in bookshelf. The painting would not lift off the wall. Nor was there enough space among the shelves for it to slide in any direction. He felt around the frame for a hinge. If Mrs. Smithings had not seen Wanda, the painting must swing out to the left—like so. He inserted the key in the iron safe hidden behind it and opened the door.

Inside he found a master key, an assortment of stationery, and a locked jewelry box. Mrs. Smithings presumably kept the key to that somewhere else—not that someone couldn’t just run off with the box. Another dreadful oversight. She must be getting senile.

Sorting through folders containing various deeds, he came across a business-size, creamy white envelope in which was folded the owner’s will dated three months ago. He scanned the pages and saw that Mrs. Smithings was leaving Swanmere estate, lock, stock and barrel, to Rosie Porter, along with small bequeaths to various staff, and her pearls to his mother. Rex locked the safe and put the painting back in its place.

A rap sounded at the library door.

“Come in!” he called.

Helen appeared. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“It’s all right, lassie. Did you need anything?”

“It’s just that I … I can’t sleep with Wanda lying dead in the next room,” she said in a rush, a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Can I stay in your room? I wouldn’t feel safe anywhere else. No hanky-panky, I promise.”

He acquiesced with a gentle nod and put an arm around her shoulders. Her tears seemed real enough. “Wanda must have meant a great deal to you.”

“I feel bad because when I left her the note this morning I was having petty thoughts about how I wasn’t going to let her spoil my outing with you. I was glad she was sleeping late so I didn’t have to include her in my plans.”

“It’s the grief that’s making you feel overly guilty.”

“You’re right, and that’s what I’d be telling someone if the roles were reversed, only it’s not easy to be rational when it’s you in the middle of it.”

“I know. When Fiona died I blamed myself for all the flowers I should have bought her.”

Helen sighed tremulously. “What a bloody awful Christmas.”

“Where are the others?”

“In the drawing room. It’s like we’re all scared to leave. I had Charley escort me here. You trust Charley, don’t you?”

Rex hesitated. He didn’t like what he’d just found out. He recalled Wanda hinting in her diary at something going on between Rosie and Charley. Rosie was an alluring young woman who’d been left a sizeable inheritance. Charley was faced with gambling debts and the prospect of living at his in-laws with a baby he’d not planned for. Had Rosie told him about her good fortune? Did she even know?

“I’d like to think you’re safe with him,” Rex hedged. Helen was standing so close he could feel her warmth. Her face lifted toward his in slow motion. He blinked and turned away, clearing his throat. “I’ll take you upstairs,” he said. “I’m finished here.”

When they reached the upper landing, he went to his room while Helen cleared out her belongings from her suite. He took his wash bag to the men’s room, leaving his door on the latch. In passing, he tried Lawdry’s door and found it locked. No need to remind everyone to keep their doors locked, judging by the mood at dinner.

Rex fervently prayed he was right about his valid assumptions.

“Can we keep a
small light on?” Helen asked from the bed as Rex prepared to join her in pajamas buttoned all the way to his throat. “It’ll make me feel safer.”

She snuggled up to him in her flannel nightdress, and Rex took her in his arms to comfort her. The contact caused an uncontrollable reaction. He tried to focus instead on the Presbyterian bible by his bedside. Perhaps this was the purpose of his mother’s first commandment:
Keep a bible by yer bedside!
He never would have credited her with such foresight. Unfortunately, his body did not seem to want to follow his pure thoughts.

“Hen, I’m going to have to turn my back or we’ll both regret it in the morning.”

“You may regret it, but I won’t,” Helen sniffled. “At least I know I don’t turn you off.”

“No, and I have a roaring election to prove it.”

Helen giggled. “Is that rhyming slang?”

“Aye, I got it off Charley.”

“Just think what I could do if I touched you.” She put her small hand on his shoulder blade. “You are such a bear of a man, so cuddly.” She rubbed her feet on his heels.

“Stop it, lass, stop it right there.”

“I’m just warming my feet. They feel like icicles.”

“What would Square Root say if he knew you were in bed with a Scotsman?”

“I’m so far from thinking about Clive. You have completely distracted me with your misplaced gallantry.”

“Helen …”

“Yes?”

“Do you smell smoke?”

“From the chimney?”

“The fire’s not lit.” Rex leaped out of bed and dashed into the corridor.

Wreaths of smoke escaped from under Henry Lawdry’s door. Rex ran back to his room and retrieved the master key from his trouser pocket.

“What’s wrong?” Helen asked from the pillows.

“There’s a fire in the next room. Get dressed and raise the alarm.” He ran out again and burst into Lawdry’s room.

The bed was alight. Rex grabbed a pitcher off the chest of drawers and filled it from the sink. As he approached the bed, his bare feet encountered sodden carpet. He had no time to wonder what he was stepping on, but he didn’t smell gasoline—his first thought. Dousing the flames, he brought the fire under control. He then flung open the wardrobe, pulled down the spare blankets, and piled them on top of the bed, smothering the rest of the flames.

When he switched on the main light, he saw that Mr. Lawdry’s face had escaped the ravages of fire, presumably because his head rested on a flame-resistant pillow, Rex realized when he examined it. Between the corpse’s shoulder and pillow, he discovered a half-burned box of matches with the picture of the hotel curled and blackened at the edges. A red smudge caught his attention.

Within minutes, voices and footsteps converged in the corridor. He turned to see Patrick and Anthony standing in the doorway in their dressing gowns, Charley behind them in pajamas and bare feet. Next, he heard urgent female voices, Helen’s and Yvette’s. “It’s all right,” he told them all. “The fire’s out. I got to it in time.”

“Did poor old Henry get cremated?” Charley asked.

“Not too badly, but I suspect someone wanted the body destroyed and all evidence of cyanide poisoning along with it. I can’t imagine any other reason why someone would have wanted to burn the old man.”

“So that’s how he died,” Anthony said. “You never told us it was cyanide.”

“That’s what we think, based on what was found.”

“Dear old Henry,” Yvette said, clutching Charley’s arm. “He didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Did you wake the staff?” Rex asked Helen who huddled beneath a cashmere shawl thrown over her nightgown.

Her teeth chattered. “No, I was too scared to go to the staff quarters. It’s dark on that side of the house.”

“Well, no need to now. The danger has passed. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Smithings in the morning.”

“I hope she has some smelling salts handy,” Anthony remarked.

“She seems to be bearing up quite well, considering everything that’s happened,” Helen said.

“Aye. She always was an old battle-axe.”

“I’m going back to our room,” Helen said. “It’s freezing out here.”

Charley raised an eyebrow. “
Our
room?”

Rex ignored him. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached up and unscrewed the smoke detector above the door. As he suspected, the battery had been removed. Anyone under six feet would have needed a chair to reach the alarm. Patrick, the next tallest after him, was no more than five-eleven. Rex looked about the room and found a few items of furniture that could have served the purpose, but nothing retained a visible footprint.

By the time he finished his investigation, all but Charley had dispersed to their rooms.

“Fancy a dram of choice port downstairs?” Rex asked him.

“Don’t mind if I do. I’ll see to Yvette first and meet you out here.”

When Rex returned to his room, Helen was waiting for him on the bed.

“Anything new?” she asked.

“I do know there’s a devious mind at work.” He buckled his corduroys over his pajama bottoms and flung his arms into a sweater.

“Aren’t you coming back to bed?”

“Nay, lass. I have a theory I need to work on.” Locating his sheepskin moccasins, he slid his frozen feet into them.

“That’s too bad. I wanted to work on breaking down your resistance.”

A mischievous look brightened her eyes. The thought of her rubbing her feet against his calves sent erotic visions to his brain. If Charley had not been waiting for him, the temptation of cuddling with Helen in a warm bed might have proved irresistible.

“I’ll bring you up a cup of tea in the morning,” he told her.

“Tea? As in, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

“Tea as in tea, you shameless hussy. Now, lock the door when I leave.”

“What good will that do if someone has Wanda’s master key? These doors don’t have bolts.”

“Aye, security is downright lax around here.”

He showed Helen how to prop a chair under the door handle. “Call me on my mobile if you need to,” he said, retrieving one of his business cards from his briefcase and handing it to her. “I can be upstairs in less than two minutes. Now, see me out and get to bed. You’re shivering.”

He grabbed the bottle of port, along with the toothbrush glass and left the room. The door lock clicked behind him and wood thumped on wood as the chair was slotted into position.
Good lass.

Charley loitered at the top of the stairs.

“Is Yvette safely tucked in for the rest of the night?” Rex asked.

“She was pissed I wasn’t staying, but how could anyone sleep with all this going on?”

They made their way downstairs to the drawing room where Charley stoked the dying embers. Rex would have liked to close the French doors to keep out the draft, but he wanted to be able to look out into the hall. As he dropped into a well-worn armchair, the seat cushion sounded like a bagpipe tuning up, while the compressed springs beneath reverberated in groaning protest. “Time for some new chairs,” he remarked.

“And a new sofa. This one’s probably stuffed full of horsehair. Some honeymoon. I’ll throttle Yvette’s mum when I see her. ‘A nice romantic place in the country with good home-cooked food,’” he mimicked. “A deathtrap, more like.”

“Something to tell your grandbairns about.”

When Charley didn’t answer, Rex looked over at him and saw he was locked in a pensive mood.

“Sobering thought,” the young Cockney said after awhile.

Rex wondered if he should broach the subject of Rosie and the will—but if Charley had no knowledge of it, he didn’t want to stir the marital pot by bringing it up. He uncorked the bottle of port and poured a measure into Charley’s glass.

“I like Anthony for the murders,” the young man said, impersonating a New York City cop. “Not because he’s a pouf or anything like that,” he added in his usual voice. “I think well enough of Patrick—but Anthony comes across as more evil than anyone else here.”

“That’s no indication. Ted Bundy was highly personable and the Ken and Barbie Murderers in Canada were a normal-seeming young couple.”

“Still, Anthony was in the kitchen when Miriam went in. Who’s to say he was down in the cellar?”

“Aye, he is the most probable suspect in that murder.”

“Patrick was in Wanda’s room and could’ve found the key and given it to Anthony.”

“But where are your supporting facts? You canna make them up just to fit your theory. Hercule Poirot would say to look for the
facts
.”

“Who’s he when he’s at home?”

“The little Belgian detective in the Agatha Christie novels.”

“So you read that stuff, do you?”

“My mother does. As apparently does Mrs. Smithings, judging by the books in the library.”

“A guest could have left those books. I saw a Jackie Collins in the library, and I’m sure Mrs. Smithings doesn’t read raunchy novels. The one time she had to have done it to produce Rodney, she probably lay back and thought of England, wishing the Colonel would hurry up and get it over with.”

Chuckling at the picture Charley conjured up, Rex filled his pipe from the leather tobacco pouch. “I’m sure when they were newlyweds they spent a lot of time in their room, just like you and Yvette—emerging in the radiant aftermath as though they had discovered delights known only to themselves,” he added poetically.

“You’re not past it yourself, you know. Don’t you and the fair Helen have a thing going?”

“Charley, lad, even if we were, I wouldna tell you.”

“
Noblesse oblige?
”

“Exactly. And, anyway, we’re not.”

“Do you think it’s a psychopathic serial killer?” Charley asked in the
non sequitur
way of people idling away time.

“Either way, after the first murder, the second is easier.”

Charley sat forward, cradling his tumbler of port. “Do you speak from professional experience?”

“Aye.”

Charley sprawled back on the sofa. “You know, I’m trying to imagine you prosecuting your victims. Do you wear a wig?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. And black silk robes.”

Charley laughed. “How long have you been a barrister? I mean, advocate?”

“I was appointed Queen’s Counsel three years ago and was admitted to the Scottish Bar eighteen years before that.”

“Blimey. Have you ever thought about doing anything else?”

“Aye. I’d like to run a small bar in a not-so touristy part of Spain. Perhaps I’ll do that in my retirement.” Why was he telling Charley his private fantasies? It must be the port. “But I’d never admit that to my mother. She doesn’t approve of alcohol, especially since my father was killed by a drunk driver.”

Charley shook his head slowly. “That’s terrible. My mum didn’t want me to be a firefighter, but I did that for a while before becoming a paramedic.”

Rex stared into his glass. “I wanted to be a firefighter when I was a lad.”

“What boy doesn’t? I suppose it’s too late for you to do that now, but there’s always that bar in Spain to look forward to.”

“Aye. Or perhaps Florida.”

“I’ll join you, mate.”

A companionable silence fell between them as they gazed into the dancing flames. At some point in the conversation, Rex drifted off into slumber. In his dream, he saw a chipper Mr. Lawdry at one of the games tables on the far side of the room shooting winks into a cup with Yvette. Miriam Greenbaum poured over her manuscript on the sofa, while Wanda sat across from her, legs folded sideways, filing her nails. They appeared as shadows, shades of the Underworld, and then metamorphosed into an ancient funeral pyre spouting flames.

A log cracking in the fire jogged him awake. “Do you think this house is haunted, Charley?” he asked, resuming his vigil.

The young man stirred, eyes fluttering open. “What? Ghosts?”

“Uneasy spirits coming back to claim their time and space?”

Charley scoffed. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”