Christmas is Murder (14 page)

“Aye, but can you discount them so readily? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“Well, Hamlet couldn’t make up his mind about anything, could he?”

“True enough.”

Presently, Rex heard the stairs creak. He tensed in his chair. Steps approached down the carpeted hall, followed by a woman’s hoarse cough. He stretched out his left arm; the cuff of his sweater receded up his wrist revealing his watch: 5:30.

“Mrs. Bellows, getting up early to put the turkey in the oven,” Charley murmured. “I heard it was over 28 pounds. She’ll be basting all morning.” He yawned. “D’you think she knows about the fire? She must have smelt the smoke up on the landing.”

“Most of the smoke will have gone out the window by now. The whole hotel could have burned down except that the carpet was doused in water around the bed. That’s what caused so much smoke.”

“Someone made sure the smoke alarm wouldn’t go off. The person who murdered Henry probably realized the fuzz would be along soon now that the snow’s let up, and didn’t want to take any chances with them finding cyanide in his system.”

Rex relit his pipe. “Could be the same pyromaniac who burned the manuscript. I found Patrick’s matches on Lawdry’s bed. No doubt they were supposed to burn too.”

“How do you know they’re Patrick’s?”

“The box has red paint on it.” Rex drew it from his pocket and licked his finger. “It’s watercolour and comes off easily.” He showed Charley the red residue on his skin—the same shade as the robin’s breast.

“How was the fire fueled? Did you smell petrol?”

“No,” Rex said. “Would alcohol leave a smell?”

“Not if it burned.”

“I haven’t prosecuted any domestic arson cases, only large-scale fires. The culprits all knew what they were doing—though they obviously weren’t clever enough to avoid getting caught.”

“Wonder if this one will be clever enough.”

“It has to be someone who cared enough about the hotel, or maybe just themselves, not to want to let it burn to the ground.”

“An expert in fine art and antiques like Anthony wouldn’t want to destroy a Victorian manor that has most of the original furniture in it. He might try to control the fire by drenching the area around the bed with water—especially if he and Patrick have designs on the place. Just the other day, they were talking about what changes they’d like to make.”

“I see your mind’s still made up aboot Anthony. Well, I think I’ll go and see if I can rustle up a cup of tea. D’ye want any?”

“Nah, mate. I think I’ll hit the sack. You going to stay up?”

“Aye. I couldna get a wink o’ sleep now if I tried.” Rex finished the last drop of port in his tumbler and rose from the armchair. His back felt stiff. Charley was right: his days of ever fighting fires for a living were over.

___

“May I trouble you for a cup of tea, Mrs. Bellows?”

“It’d be no trouble at all,” the cook said. “I was going to make one for myself just as soon as I get this bird in the oven. There we go.” She closed the stainless steel door on the biggest turkey Rex had ever seen, dotted with pats of butter, liberally seasoned, and wearing what looked like miniature chef’s hats on its feet.

“That must have taken a ton of stuffing.”

“A ton is about right. Sage, onion and sausage. And chestnut puree on the side.”

“You’ve done us proud.” Rex stepped out of her way as she filled the kettle.

Mrs. Bellows opened a tea caddy decorated with a blue willow pattern. “There should be plenty of leftovers. I like to make curry fricassee with the turkey the day after Christmas.” She arranged the mugs, teapot, and strainer on the pine table. “I’ll just fetch the milk.”

As she returned carrying a small jug, Rex brought his mug to his lips and sniffed. “I put a bit of this white powder in my tea,” he said, indicating a canister on the table. “It may be table salt, and I’m allergic. Could you taste it for me?”

“Oh, my fault—I forgot the sugar bowl.” Without hesitation, Mrs. Bellows took a sip of his tea. “It’s sugar,” she said, sitting down. “Though I’ve no idea what it’s doing in that container. Rosie has been reorganizing things again, I shouldn’t wonder.”

The container was the one Charley had found in the trash. Rex had smuggled it into the kitchen and sprinkled a small packet of sugar from the train into his mug, curious to see if the cook would be willing to taste the sweetened tea.

“If you have an allergy to table salt, you best take care,” she remarked. “I use a lot in my cooking.”

“I take anti-allergy pills,” Rex fabricated. “I just haven’t got around to taking one today.”

“It is still early,” the cook agreed. She took a hearty swallow and let out a sigh of contentment. “Nothing like a good cuppa to set you up for the day.”

“Mrs. Bellows,” Rex began tentatively. “I’m curious why you didn’t mention the terrorist bombings in London the other night when we were talking about Rosie’s sister. It was only after I saw a reference to the attacks in the paper and tied them to the date the barman mentioned at the pub that I put two and two together.”

“We’re not supposed to talk religion or politics. It’s one of the rules. Mrs. Smithings says you never know if a guest might be listening and take offense.”

“The bombings were a national disaster transcending religion and politics.”

“I know, but Rosie feels very bitter about it, so I don’t bring it up. Having your twin taken away like that must feel like losing half of yourself.”

“An identical twin?”

Sandy Bellows nodded and gave a heavy sigh. Rex mentally slapped his forehead. Those photos in Rosie’s room were not of her, but of her twin sister.

“Very competent, Marie was,” Mrs. Bellows was saying. “Practically had the run of the place. It was the explosion on the train in Edgware Road Station that killed her. Personally, I don’t care if people are Muslim, Jewish, or gay; Labour, Liberal, or Conservative, just as long as they don’t take innocent lives. There’s just good people and there’s bad people in my opinion.”

“Those are my sentiments as well, Mrs. Bellows.”

“The young Londoner staying here—Charley, I think his name is—Rosie told me his cousin got his legs blown off in the bus bombing.” She heaved herself out of her chair. “Oh, me old bones. I feel every one of my fifty-five years on cold mornings.”

Rex watched as she rinsed out her mug at the sink. “Do you use much alcohol in your cooking?”

“What a funny question! I never met a bunch of guests so interested in what went into their food. Alcohol tarts things up, it does. Let’s see now. I put kirsch in the fruit salad and rum in the Christmas pudding. And wine in the Chicken Marsala. Then there’s …”

Rex finished his tea and drifted toward the pantry. “Ah, this is where you keep your liqueur, I see. Is any missing?”

Brushing her hands on her apron, Mrs. Bellows charged toward him. “Has that old good-for-nothing been at my bottles again?” she demanded, scanning the shelf with a suspicious eye. “Well, the bottles
look
the same as I left them yesterday afternoon. I check every day, just in case.”

“I gave Clifford a gift of sherry yesterday, so your stock is probably safe for now.”

“Hmph. I should lock that pantry, but it’s one extra thing to remember, and I have enough to do as it is. Well, I best get on,” she said, hastening back to her double oven. “There’ll be seven at table and then the staff will have theirs.”

Apparently, Mrs. Bellows still didn’t know about Wanda’s murder, and she hadn’t mentioned the fire. Rex closed the pantry door. Who else had access to inflammatory booze? He had found brandy in Anthony’s suite the night he searched the guest rooms. Just then, he heard Clifford at the scullery door, stomping the snow off his boots.

“Could you unlock the door for him?” Mrs. Bellows called. “I’m up to my elbows in flour.”

Rex let the old man in with a jovial greeting. Outside, a feeble light accompanied the crisp clean air. “Clifford, you mentioned a
twitten
yesterday.”

“Ar.”

“Show me.”

“Now? I just got the snow off me boots an’ eh be freezin’ to death.”

“Ah, now, it’s no as cold as it’s been. Did you enjoy the sherry we got for you? I’ll vouch it’s better than the brand Mrs. Smithings serves.”

Clifford grudgingly admitted it was and stepped back out the door, leading Rex beneath the eaves toward the east wing. All of a sudden, a scraping of iron jarred above Rex’s head. Springing away from the wall, he looked up and saw a pair of black-clad arms fling open the windowpanes. “What a glorious Christmas morning, Reginald,” Mrs. Smithings cawed down at him. “It will feel so good to air the rooms at last.”

Rex could not help but think of the two open windows upstairs airing dead bodies—while poor Ms. Greenbaum had to make do with a dank cellar. “Merry Christmas,” he greeted Mrs. Smithings, thinking he would have raised his hat if he had one.

He followed after Clifford who had scuttled out of sight of the window when he heard Mrs. Smithings’ voice. Upon reaching the corner, Rex stopped in surprise. Along the side of the house ran a double yew hedge. Had he not been interrupted by the argument in the honeymoon suite the preceding morning, he might have seen it from the arched window on the upstairs landing.

The hedge rose to his shoulder, the earth between the rows protected from snow by a canopy of leaves. Exiting the hedge, someone could look in the kitchen window and see the entire room. Stooping, Rex made his way through the leafy tunnel. Before he came to the other end, he passed a thinning patch in the hedge and looking out, saw that he was parallel to the library. He had forgotten about the exterior library door. When he’d been in the room, the curtains had been drawn over the door and windows. The door led out onto a small patio presided over by an Apollo on a sundial, which had fascinated him as a boy.

Too large to fit through the hole in the hedge, he continued to the end and trudged back to the library. The door had been pushed back at some point, leaving an angle of flattened snow and enough room for a person to pass through the gap.

“Clifford, are you sure no one entered the scullery from outside two days ago when you were at the sherry?”

Lines furrowed the old man’s brow beneath the misshapen brown cap. “Ar, but I didn’t see who ’twas. I was ’id in the coats and ’twas all but dark.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You didn’t ask. You asked who was in the kitchen.”

“That’s right.” Rex thought for a moment. “I had no reason to suspect someone had come through that door—I didn’t know about the hedge then. Did you hear anyone leave?”

“I don’ remember. I heard a cross voice and a
whump
.”

And Miriam Greenbaum went tumbling down the stairs …

“All right, Clifford, let’s get back inside.”

They retraced their way to the scullery.

“Is the dog still doing fine?” Rex asked, wiping his shoes on the mat.

“Ar. Ee’s a good dog an’ ’ardly ever barks.”

“Good. I was worried about that.”

Rex passed Rosie in the kitchen. “You’re up bright and early this Christmas morning.”

“I have to help Mrs. Bellows.” The girl tied an apron around her hourglass figure. “Can’t go letting her do it all by herself, can I?”

“You’re a love,” the cook told her, turning around from the countertop, rolling pin in hand.

Rex found a clean cup on the drainer and poured tea from the pot to take up to Helen. In spite of the anticipatory spring in his step, he managed not to spill any on his way down the hall.

No sooner had he placed his foot on the first step of the stairs than screams arose from the kitchen.

Dropping the tea, Rex
ran back to the kitchen wondering what new horror had befallen. He found Rosie hobbling to a chair at the pine table, bleeding at the knee where her black woolen stocking was torn. “What happened?” he asked.

“Clifford tried to kill me, that’s what. I tripped on the axe he left half buried in the snow. He did it on purpose. And he came after me with it! He was trying to kill me, the crazy old coot!”

“Warn’t!” Clifford said, hovering, cap in hand.

Mrs. Bellows examined Rosie’s knee. “That’s a nasty graze you have there. Let me get some disinfectant.”

“I just went out to feed the robin some crumbs. Ouch!” Rosie gasped as the cook dabbed a soapy paper towel on her cuts.

“He
is
a menace the way he leaves his axe lying around,” the older woman agreed. “Only a matter of time before there was an accident. There you go, dear. Best put a plaster on it.”

Rex addressed Clifford. “Did you attack Rosie?”

“Nar. Why would I do that? Eh likes Rosie well enough. Eh just picked up the axe to move it out the way.”

“Sandy, why don’t you tell Mr. Graves what happened to Clifford’s wife?” Rosie said. “Go on.”

Mrs. Bellows faced Rex, her glance slipping to the old man. “Well, I don’t know that it’s any of my business, and it was a long time ago, but there was talk of him pushing his wife down the well.”

“Nar! She fell!”

“Aye. I heard the story, but the police couldn’t prove Clifford was responsible.”

“Well, I didn’t know if you knew, but what with that American woman getting pushed down the cellar steps, I thought I should mention it.”

“I appreciate it, Mrs. Bellows.”

“Lies!” Clifford cried, retreating toward the scullery.

The cook stuck her hands on her hips, watching him until he disappeared. “I ask you, have you ever seen the like? Skulking in the scullery like some weasel and popping out when you least expect it! Makes you wonder all the same …” She looked askance at the cellar door. “When are they going to come for the body?”

“Some time today, I think. Can you walk, Rosie?” Rex helped her to her feet.

“Ow. It still hurts a bit,” the girl said, limping toward the sink. “Shall I start on the breakfast, Sandy?”

“It’s just bacon, black pudding, and eggs this morning. And make some porridge, dear. I’ll start my cranberry sauce and then help you.”

Fresh tea in hand, Rex left them to their preparations. In the foyer, he heard Mrs. Smithings’ voice up on the landing.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Vance.”

“To you too, Mrs. Smithings.”

A man’s brisk steps proceeded down the stairs. Patrick was just the person he wanted to see. Rex veered toward the drawing room and took a seat, casually drinking the tea meant for Helen. The poor woman would never get her tea at this rate. Patrick ventured into the room, his eyes searching the furniture.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Rex tossed him the box of matches he had found in Lawdry’s room.

“What happened to this?” Patrick asked, turning the charred box around in his pale hands. “Did you find it in the fireplace?”

“No, upstairs.”

Patrick looked surprised. “I only smoke down here. I leave the matches on this end table.”

“Someone must have borrowed them.” Rex paused for a second. “I wanted to ask you if Wanda told you anything of interest the other night.”

“Like what?”

“Gossip about someone at the hotel—anything at all. I’m sure you were both chatting away about this and that while you were doing her hair.”

“Oh. Well, we discussed celebrities and the latest on Charles and Camilla. We did compare notes on the murders, but it turned out we had different ideas about that.”

Rex tapped his silver teaspoon dry against the rim of his cup. For some reason, the action brought back the other night when he’d helped himself to sugar from Rosie’s coffee tray as Helen, Wanda, and the Perkins sat at the card table waiting for him to dust the candlesticks for fingerprints. “Wanda wrote in her diary that you both
argued
about who murdered Miriam,” he prodded Patrick Vance.

“It was more of a heated debate. I said I was putting my money on Clifford, and she hinted that Anthony might have done it, which set me off a little—I mean, he feels bad enough about how he treated Miriam without people thinking he killed her. Anthony wouldn’t kill the proverbial fly.”

“Did Wanda talk about Rosie?”

“She only said she saw Rosie and Charley kissing in the library and that he was playing with fire because Yvette was the viciously jealous type. He didn’t waste much time, did he?”

“Not if it’s true.” Rex asked Patrick if he’d come across a labeled key in Wanda’s room and he denied it.

“Her hair was so soft and supple.” Patrick held his hands palm upward, elegant fingers spread and slightly curled as though reliving the feel of it.

“Can I see your sketchpad a minute?” Rex asked, interrupting the young man’s reverie.

Patrick retrieved it. “Why?”

“I seem to remember seeing something of interest that didn’t register at the time.”

Rex turned to the Christmas tree scene in the pad and studied the arrangement of tea items on the round Victorian table. The teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, cups and saucers, and a pile of side plates were set up to the left of the table, along with a tiered cake tray. The coffee carafe was relegated to the right, together with a cream jug, cup, saucer, and plate. Judging from the perspective of the scene, Patrick had sketched it from this very chair.

“This picture of Anthony and the two women, with the tree in the background … is that a tray under the coffee carafe?”

Patrick leaned over his shoulder. “Yes. It’s the black lacquer tray you displayed the fingerprints on.”

“Was it on that table?”

“It must have been, otherwise I wouldn’t have sketched it in,” Patrick replied touchily.

Rex held up the pad. “Is that a smudge on top of the plate?”

“No, it’s a tart. Does that help you?”

“It’s a starting point. If I follow my theory, it may lead me to the end of the maze.”

“Mind if I get my breakfast now?”

Rex accompanied Patrick into the dining room to fetch a third cup of tea for Helen. Mrs. Smithings, arranging a vase of holly with clusters of blood-red berries, looked up from the table as they entered.

“You were out early this morning, Reginald. Did you enjoy your walk?”

“Most pleasant. I don’t remember the yew hedge being there before.”

“There used to be a rose garden, but the blooms did not do well on that side of the house. Too much shade.”

Rex filled his cup. “Did you get the missing key back, Mrs. Smithings?”

“Yes. It was sitting on my desk this morning. I must have put it there and forgotten all about it.”

He left the dining room and mounted the stairs, holding the saucer over the cup to keep the tea hot. He knocked on the door to his room. “Helen? It’s Rex.”

“Just a minute.” Four minutes later, Helen opened the door, wrapped in her shawl. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Rex detected a whiff of minty toothpaste on her breath. And she was wearing the swan earrings. She ran back to bed and buried herself under the covers. “Brrr.”

“I’ll get the fire going,” he said, depositing the cup on the bedside table.

Helen resurfaced, her hair in charming disarray, and propped up the pillows. “A fire would be lovely. And thanks for the tea. What have you been doing all this time? It’s past eight o’clock.”

Rex blew on the fledgling fire and added a birch log, wiping the palms of his hand on his trousers as he got to his feet. “I think I found the last piece of the puzzle and now I have the whole picture. No a verra pretty picture, mind.”

“Rex! You genius. Tell me!”

“I’d rather you heard my brilliant summation, which I plan to give after breakfast downstairs.”

“You are such a spoilsport, do you know that?”

“Aye, so I’ve been told.” He extracted a plaid packet of shortbread fingers from his suitcase. “Here, have one of these with your tea.” He sat down on the side of the bed.

“Oh, I love shortbread.” She took a dimpled block of buttery biscuit and nibbled on it, brushing the crumbs off the quilt. “You make a delicious cup of tea. I wish there was more.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I traipse all the way back down the stairs.”

“No. Just curious to see if you would, that’s all.”

“I might, but you need to get up and dressed, young lady.”

“ ‘Young lady.’ I like that.”

If you only knew the trouble I went to, getting you that cup, he thought.

Helen licked her thumb and finger, and stretched luxuriously. “When I’m with you, I forget all the bad stuff that’s happened. I even forgot about Wanda for a while just now.”

“And I like seeing you all cosy in my bed, but we can’t ignore the outside world.”

“Worst luck.” Her foot stole out from beneath the covers and caressed his thigh.

“Wickedness.”

“Prude.”

He tapped her on the nose. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“You don’t get off that easily.” She pulled a sprig of mistletoe from under the pillow. “If I don’t get a kiss, I’ll feel like Wanda stole you, just like she did Paul.”

Rex leaned forward. “Merry Christmas, Helen.”

“Merry Christmas—Rex.”

He kissed her warm lips, lingered a second, and withdrew. Her eyes smiled at him. He jumped off the bed. “I’m gone!”

Once on the landing, he continued along the east wing. Hoping the hotel proprietor was still downstairs, he crossed to her suite and entered with a perfunctory knock. The essence of Mrs. Smithings breathed in these rooms. He had not noticed it as much the other night when the cook had been with him. He felt the weight of dread on his heart, as though he had spiraled backward in time and were standing in a forbidden place, his socks rumpling down his shins, sweat on his palms—fearful of some dire punishment, yet rooted to the spot by something bigger than fear.

By and by, the spell was broken. He pulled himself together, amazed that as a boy he had been intimidated by Dahlia Smithings, a formidable and handsome woman back then, now a frail creature who’d suffered through the deaths of her husband and only child and struggled to hold on to her family home on her own. She no longer held sway over him. The clumsy schoolboy was gone.

The ornamental clock on the mantelpiece pointed to ten. As on his last visit, an eerie, almost sepulchral quiet reigned in her room, everything just as before—except that time can never go back, nor can it stand still.