Christmas is Murder (16 page)

“Mrs. Smithings?” Charley cried. “And Rosie? Never!”

“Shows
you
, doesn’t it?” Yvette said with smug satisfaction.

“I was in the drawing room when Ms. Greenbaum died,” Rosie protested. “Helen saw me. You can’t pin that on me.”

“Let me finish,” Rex said. “With a well-timed blow of the candlestick, Mrs. Smithings knocked Miriam off balance, and the literary agent fell down the cellar steps to her death. In spite of, or by virtue of, her rheumatoid arthritis pills, Mrs. Smithings had adequate strength and range of motion to accomplish this feat. I saw her vigorously push open the large windows of her suite only this morning. She did not, however, have the strength to kill Wanda Martyr.”

“Oh, blimey. I never thought …,” Cook mumbled as Rex pressed on.

“Wanda was under the impression that Yvette had put the brooch in the library safe. Using Rosie’s master key, she opened the safe and discovered not the brooch but Mrs. Smithings’ will bequeathing Swanmere Manor to Rosie. This made her suspicious. She mentioned in her diary that Rosie had been acting guiltily ever since Lawdry played Tiddlywinks with Yvette before tea. That is, from around the time he died, Rosie’s attitude changed. Was she feeling guilt over his murder, or guilt over flirting with Charley in the library? Most likely the former.

“As best as I can reconstruct, Wanda confronted Rosie when the girl came in to clean yesterday morning. Rosie said she went in at about eleven and left when she saw the guest was still asleep. Rosie would have known from the note Helen left Wanda that Helen would be away from the hotel for a while. We canna be exactly sure when she went in, but by the time she left, Wanda was dead. Whatever Wanda told her, it was enough to make Rosie panic and smother her to death. Not only did Rosie fear being implicated in Lawdry’s murder, she was afraid she wouldna inherit the hotel.

“Rosie retrieved her key from Wanda’s room. Caught off guard when I asked her about it, she denied having it. Mrs. Smithings tried to cover up for her by saying the missing key inexplicably turned up on her desk this morning, when in fact it was in the safe last night where she locked it up. Only Mrs. Smithings had access to Lawdry’s room. She went in to cover up evidence of poisoning by setting fire to his bed. She knew the police would be here this morning—because I told her.” He hazarded a glance at Mrs. Smithings, who fixed him with a steely glare.

“I admit to murdering the American,” she declared.

“She’s crazy!” Patrick exclaimed from the window.

“Crazy with grief,” Rex explained. “She felt George W. Bush was personally responsible for her son’s death. Rodney Smithings was killed in southern Iraq when his convoy was ambushed, and Ms. Greenbaum was unfortunate enough to have been working on getting the president’s biography published. Mrs. Smithings’ destruction of the manuscript and murder of the literary agent were acts of vindication. As for Rosie—she lost her sister in a terrorist bombing launched in retaliation to the war. She and Mrs. Smithings were kindred spirits in crisis.”

“A lot of people lost relatives in the London bombings,” Rosie replied bitterly. “Anyway, Mrs. Smithings was in her suite when the American woman died. No one saw her downstairs.”

“Mrs. Smithings entered the kitchen through the outside door to the scullery, as I discovered this morning. I already had my suspicions regarding her involvement. From the start, she was curiously tight-lipped about her son’s death and yet her room is a shrine to his memory. The clock stopped at ten o’clock on the fourteenth of September, 2004. Am I right, Mrs. Smithings?”

“As always, Reginald.”

“We never meant to hurt poor old Henry,” Rosie burst out.

“Henry was a casualty of war,” Mrs. Smithings shrilled. “And it was probably a blessing for him. He was alone, as am I.”

“Escort Mrs. Smithings to her private quarters, please, Charley. We’ll lock Rosie in the office.”

Before anyone had time to react, Rosie grabbed the hunting rifle from Anthony’s hands and backed out of the room. “It
is
loaded, you know. Nobody move or I’ll shoot!”

Rosie crouched over the
gun, her dark eyes reflecting the desperation of a cornered animal. Everyone in the drawing room froze. The solid French doors leading into the hall banged shut behind her. Rex ran toward them and wrenched one open, unable to tell in which direction she had gone. Not having heard the front door, he chased across the foyer and into the library. Lucky guess. The outside door stood ajar. Passing through it, he almost slipped on the hardened snow. He righted himself and looked up and down the alley between the house and the yew hedge. The dog, which had followed him, yelped in a frenzy of excitement at his feet.

“Seek,” he coaxed. “Go find.” Rex ran the length of the yew hedge, guessing that Rosie was hiding in there. He knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up with her if he went inside. She was more nimble in spite of her injury, the extent of which he suspected she’d exaggerated.

The dog, doubtless thinking this was a game and remembering the sugar lumps Rosie had fed him, burrowed under the hedge and began barking, giving away her position. The branches of the hedge quivered as she fled toward the back of the house.

Skidding and sliding, Rex sprinted to the end of the tunnel and caught her as she flew out. He wrested the gun off her. “It’s over, Rosie,” he said. “Come back inside out of the cold.”

She eluded his grip and sank wailing into the snow, as the dog nuzzled into her pockets. “I don’t want to go to prison,” she sobbed. “My parents won’t be able to afford a good defense.”

“I have a colleague who is a partner in one of the best criminal defense firms in London. I’ll talk to him.” Rex pulled her to her feet and took her back to the house. Voices rang out from the front and back of the hotel. “I have her!” he yelled, dragging her through the library door.

“All I did was put the almond tart on the American’s plate. I didn’t add the poison.”

“And Wanda Martyr?”

“I had to do it. She was too nosy. She would have ruined everything.”

“
Abyssus abyssum invocat.
”

“Excuse me?”

“One wrongdoing causes another.”

“But that’s it, I swear! I had nothing to do with Ms. Greenbaum’s death and I didn’t burn poor old Mr. Lawdry.”

“Did you take the brandy from Anthony’s room?”

“Mrs. Smithings asked if I knew where there was something to help burn the evidence. She never said what evidence. If I’d taken anything from Sandy’s pantry, she would have noticed.”

Rex locked the exterior door after them, with one eye on Rosie to make sure she didn’t bolt from the room. Anthony and Patrick appeared in the doorway.

“We’d better tie her to a chair in the office until the police get here,” Rex told them. “I’ll have Clifford fetch some rope.” He delivered the girl into their custody and went to check on Mrs. Smithings, who was in Charley’s care.

“She insisted on being left alone until the police get here,” the Cockney informed him outside the owner’s suite. “She’s quite safe—she won’t be able to escape through the window.”

“I’ll send someone up to relieve you in half an hour.”

Rex returned to the drawing room, aggrieved that his mother’s oldest friend had resorted to murder and dragged an impressionable young girl into her schemes. Clearly, Mrs. Smithings was
non compos mentis
. He would testify to that fact in court and hopefully her mental state would be taken into consideration.

What would happen to Rosie was another matter.

___

Now that the veil of suspicion had been lifted from the rest of the residents, they began to relax.

“How long until the police get here?” Yvette asked from the loveseat. “I want to go home.”

“Not me,” Anthony said, having left Patrick in charge of Rosie. “I’m going to write a book. Patrick can do the illustrations. Rex, when did you start to suspect Rosie and Mrs. Smithings?” he questioned in reporter-like fashion.

“Once I realized Ms. Greenbaum’s death was linked to the manuscript, my line of enquiry regarding Dahlia Smithings took on a domino effect. I just couldn’t figure out how she returned to the kitchen unseen the night of Miriam’s murder until Clifford showed me the covered path between the yew hedges.”

“Reckon eh did show ’im,” Clifford informed the gathering.

“My suspicions were reinforced by the fire in Lawdry’s room. I told Mrs. Smithings yesterday afternoon that the police would be here today, and this must have prompted her to take action.”

“And Rosie?” Anthony asked.

“Aye, well, Mrs. Smithings couldn’t have acted alone. At first I thought Sandy Bellows had assisted her.” Rex smiled apologetically at the cook. “She made the tarts, had a flimsy alibi for Ms. Greenbaum’s murder, and was physically capable of smothering Wanda Martyr. But if Rosie had Mrs. Smithings’ key, and Rosie’s key was in Wanda’s drawer, how would she have got in—unless there was a fourth key Mrs. Smithings hadn’t told me about?”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully. “Possible.”

“Anything was possible at that point,” Rex agreed. “And I admit to being taken in by Rosie’s act of wide-eyed innocence. But then, the generosity of the will was just too big to ignore. Why would Mrs. Smithings leave everything to a girl who’d been in her employment for eighteen months? There had to be a special bond between them. This train of thought was corroborated by Mrs. Bellows when she described how Rosie’s twin had perished in the London bombings last year. I played a little trick on the cook at the same time by presenting her with the jar of cyanide and asking her to taste some tea, which I said contained a substance from that jar. She passed with flying colours, and I was able to eliminate her as a suspect.”

Mrs. Bellows stared at him in indignation. “Well, aren’t you a devious one!”

“As I said before, Mrs. Bellows: ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ I heard that from Mrs. Smithings the day I arrived, though I had no idea then what she was referring to.”

“So, after that you concentrated on the Rosie theory,” Anthony prompted.

Rex reached for Patrick’s pad and showed Anthony the sketch. “Once I saw there was a single plate by the coffeepot, Rosie stood out as the obvious suspect. Mrs. Smithings devised the original plan and Rosie executed it—but it went awry. Rosie, feeling guilt over Lawdry’s death, somewhat superstitiously left the last window of her advent calendar unopened. And then there was her little drama in the kitchen this morning when she tried to distract me from the truth by shifting blame onto Clifford.”

At that moment, a blood-curdling scream rang out from the top of the stairs.

“Mercy,” Mrs. Bellows cried, rushing from the room while the guests followed to the foot of the stairwell, none of them willing to proceed any farther. “That sounded like Mrs. Smithings. Whatever can be the matter?”

As she started up the stairs, Charley appeared on the landing. “Mrs. Smithings killed herself with a dagger. I rushed in when I heard the scream, but I was too late. There’s blood everywhere.”

“Hari-kari,” Anthony muttered.

“I suppose we should have kept a suicide watch on her,” Rex said with remorse. “I should have known she’d try something like this. If it’s the Nepalese dagger from her office, she must have taken it upstairs at some point and been planning to use it.”

Mrs. Bellows shook her head sadly. “This is the way she wanted to go in any case. She never wanted to end up in a home, let alone an institution like prison.”

“Now Rosie will inherit the hotel,” Yvette said.

“Not necessarily. The will may be deemed void if proven to have been drawn up as an inducement to commit an illegal act.”

“Mrs. Smithings was genuinely fond of Rosie,” the cook pointed out. “She could’ve written the will before she hatched the plot to murder the American guest.”

“The jury might be sympathetic about Rosie losing her twin sister,” Charley ventured.

“They might, were it not for Wanda’s murder.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” Mrs. Bellows said. “I suppose I’m out of a job. I’ll still serve Christmas dinner, of course. I hope it’s all right if me and Clifford join you.”

“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say it’ll be our pleasure,” Rex replied.

“Did you really have no idea what was going on?” Charley asked the cook.

“I wasn’t here all the time before the snow started. And the last couple of days, I’ve been too busy to notice everything.”

The doorbell chimed at that moment, and the people in the foyer froze in a stupor. Most of them had not seen a new face in days. Rex had almost forgotten about the police. “Well, I suppose we had better let them in,” he said.

Grumbling, Clifford rose from his chair. “I’ll get it. There be no peace around ’ere. This be the most ’orrible Christmas ever.”

Rex gathered his notes and followed him to the front door.

“Merry Christmas, all,” announced a man in a fluorescent yellow police parka, followed by a similarly dressed cop in a tall bobby hat. “Inspector Richard Driscoll at your service. This here is Sergeant Graeme Horne.”

“Rex Graves, QC.” Rex held out his hand while a team of black uniformed police filed past them, tracking slush across the parquet floor. “I spoke with you on the phone yesterday,” he told the inspector. “The co-murderer is locked in the office.” He indicated the door. “She and Mrs. Smithings concocted the first murder between them. I’ve written up a report.”

“Right-oh. Three stiffs, wasn’t it?”

“Four. Three murders—albeit, one accidental—and a suicide.” Rex gave the inspector the master key and explained where the bodies were to be found.

“The coroner’s right behind me, so we’ll get cracking. As soon as we get all your statements, you can be on your way.”

“We’re staying for Christmas dinner to pay our respects to the departed. Mrs. Bellows here has been basting since daybreak. Turkey with chestnuts and brandy pudding.”

The police officer chuckled. “Gluttons for punishment, the lot of you,” he said, making his way through the hall.

After a quiet word with Rex, Helen followed the coroner upstairs. Mrs. Bellows headed for the kitchen. Rex ushered the rest of the residents back into the drawing room while the police conducted their business. He watched through the doors as the Forensic Science Service passed to and fro in white coveralls.

“What was the old lady hoping to achieve by bumping off Miriam Greenbaum and destroying the manuscript?” Patrick asked, returning from guard duty now that the police had arrived.

“It was a personal crusade to impede the Bush propaganda,” Anthony said. “The murder was politically motivated.”

“She was off her trolley,” was Charley’s comment. Reclining on the loveseat, he put his feet up on Yvette’s lap.

“I feel sorry for her,” she said.

“You feel sorry for everybody.”

Clifford twisted his cap in his hands. “Now she be dead.”

Rex could not conceive of his mother’s reaction to the news. He would wait to tell her until she returned from visiting her sick friend in Perth—she had enough on her plate for now.

Some time later, Helen stepped into the room. “Well, I should be going.”

“Aren’t you staying for Christmas dinner?” Yvette asked.

“I spoke to the medical examiner. They’ll be ready to take Wanda to the morgue soon. I thought I’d go with her.”

“How awful for you.” Yvette pushed Charley’s feet off her lap and got up to embrace Helen.

“This is my number and address in Derby,” Helen told her. “Do write.”

“We will.”

“Patrick, Anthony.” Helen hugged them both. “I wish we could have met under happier circumstances.”

“We’d love to keep in touch,” Anthony said. “Here’s our card.”

Helen nodded and with a glance at Rex, sidled into the hallway.

“I have a big lump in my throat,” he said, following her to the front door.

“Not bigger than mine.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“Stop it.” Pressing her lips together, she stood staring at her boots.

“Shall I come with you to the morgue?”

Helen shook her head, ensconced in the blue woolen bonnet. “No need. I’ll head on home afterwards. The main roads should be clear. I only hope my car starts.”