Christmas is Murder (3 page)

“Mrs. Smithings introduced you as Reginald, but you said you prefer to be called Rex for short?” the blonde inquired.

“Same Latin root.
Rex, regis
, meaning king. As long as you don’t call me Reggie.”

“My Latin’s a bit rusty, I’m afraid. I haven’t looked at it since school, and I’m not going to admit how long ago
that
is!”

“It canna be that long,” Rex said gallantly, lifting his cup to his lips.

“I love your Scots accent.” Wanda fluttered her spidery eyelashes at him. “You sound like a gruff Sean Connery, doesn’t he, Helen?”

“We didn’t study Latin at my school,” Patrick Vance said, his looks marred by a gap between his front teeth as he smiled, gazing up from his sketchpad. He returned to his subject.

Following the direction of his line of vision, Rex saw a robin hop along the snowy ledge of the windowsill. Breathing in the wintry smell of burning logs and the lemony scent of furniture polish, he decided that Christmas would indeed have been lonely in Edinburgh. No doubt one of his legal colleagues would have invited him to Christmas dinner, but they would have probably ended up talking shop, and Rex wanted a break from case law and criminals …

“I left my smokes up in the room, luv,” Charley told his wife. “D’you mind getting them while I have a word with the new guest?” Catching Rex’s eye, he wandered to the window at the far end of the room and looked out at the snow that was taking on a bluish hue in the late afternoon.

“There’ll be more snow tonight,” the jolly-faced Cockney said as Rex approached.

“Aye, I was lucky to get here when I did. I was on the last train before they stopped the service, and even then we had to alight before we reached the station. There was packed ice blocking the tracks.”

Charley nodded. “Me and Yvette are expected at her mum’s for Christmas Eve. I don’t know if that will happen now.”

“Argh, I don’t suppose newlyweds mind too much where they are as long as they’re together in a nice warm bed.”

“Right enough, and anyway I could give Christmas at Yvette’s house a miss this year. Her mother’s a bit of a busybody, well-meaning and all, but …”

“So,” Rex said, casually picking off a frayed end of wool from the sleeve of his blue sweater. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah, that’s the other reason I’m in no hurry to leave. I don’t want to miss all the excitement—you know, when the police come and examine the body.”

“The old man who had a stroke?”

“It wasn’t a stroke, mate. He was poisoned, sure as I’m standing right here.”

“Poisoned? How?”

“I’m certain his almond tart had cyanide in it. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth. That’s what made me suspicious. What with the increased threat of terrorism and all, we have regular courses on poisons and what to do in the event of biochemical warfare. Dicobalt edetate in the case of cyanide and—”

“You are in the medical profession?”

“Paramedic.”

“So you’re saying he ate an almond tart and died as a result?”

“Looks that way. He only ate the filling. He couldn’t manage the pastry with his dentures.”

“Who else ate the tarts?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Charley said, scratching his ear. “I think everybody did, except maybe Anthony—you know, the ponce with the designer goatee? Well, he’s a health nut from what I can make out, and I don’t think he would have eaten one.”

“And where is the rest of Mr. Lawdry’s tart now?”

“I wrapped it in plastic and put it in my room for analysis in a lab when the police arrive.”

“Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“Nah—didn’t see the point in scaring people when no one can get to us. Imagine being cooped up in a house full of hysterical women.”

“Quite. Well, I admire your
sang-froid
.”

“Sig Freud is my middle name,” Charley joked, looking around the room. “Wonder where Yvette’s got to? I’m dying for a fag.”

“And you didn’t call the police about it?”

“Like I said, what was the point? I decided to wait until they got here. Then when you arrived, I thought, Here’s a man of the law—I can unburden my secret to him, sort of thing.”

“I’d be glad to help, but I’d like to see your bit of evidence first, if I may.”

They met Yvette on the stairs.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Charley his cigarettes.

“Ta. Go on downstairs. I want to show Rex something.”

The Perkins’ suite was located in the east wing. Rex waited outside while Charley fetched the remains of the tart. Unwrapping it, Rex sniffed and examined it. Most of the soft center between the fluted crust had been scooped out. He pulled a starched handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroys and dipped a corner into the filling. It tasted of sugary almonds, and something bitter and caustic besides.

“What d’you think?” Charley asked, eying him intently.

“The tart would have had to contain more than a sprinkling of cyanide to cause death, wouldn’t it?”

“The heart is very susceptible to cyanide, and Lawdry had a weak heart. Everyone knew about it. He kept his pills on the dining room table. But you’re right—it would have taken more than a sprinkling. It’s a bit of a coincidence, what with cyanide tasting like almonds and all …”

“The filling does have a slightly peculiar taste. All the same, it would help if we could establish the presence of cyanide in the house.”

“The culprit like as not got rid of the evidence. We’d have to search the house from attic to cellar. Fat chance we’d find anything, or even know what we were looking for. Perhaps you should take a look at the body.”

“Aye, though I’m no medical examiner. You’d know more about the effects of poisoning than I, so I’m just going to have to take your word for it until we can get a drug screen report.”

“A heart attack wouldn’t have caused frothing at the mouth,” Charley insisted.

Rex made a mental note to sound out the other guests about how Lawdry looked at the time of death. “It is a wee bit suspicious,” he agreed. “Perhaps I should ask Mrs. Smithings about the staff.”

“I wish you would because I’ve been a bit off my food, wondering if arsenic’s going to turn up in the soup. Know what I mean?”

The same thought was beginning to occur to Rex, and he had been so looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.

There was no time to lose. If Charley was right, they had to find out why and how the old man ended up with a poisoned iced tart.

Leaving Charley at the
honeymoon suite, Rex went back down to the foyer and knocked at the parlor-office door. Without waiting for a response, he entered a room formally and abundantly furnished in the Victorian tradition—upholstered sofas in burgundy velvet and ornate mahogany tables, every available surface crammed with Oriental vases, statuettes, and framed photographs.

Over the mantelpiece hung a curved Gurkha knife with a stitched leather scabbard that Rex remembered from childhood. The thin form of Mrs. Smithings bent over a ball-and-claw footed writing desk, an Edwardian cradle phone within her reach. With an expression of vague annoyance, she looked up at him from above a pair of reading spectacles perched on her aquiline nose.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he apologized. “I came to discuss the matter of your deceased guest.”

Mrs. Smithings sat upright. “Well, you had better shut the door and sit down.”

Rex did so. “The long and the short of it is that Charley Perkins, who is a paramedic, thought he noticed some irregularities concerning Henry Lawdry’s death.”

“I see.”

“He appears convinced the old man was poisoned by a dose of cyanide that somehow found its way into his almond tart.”

“Preposterous.”

“So it would seem, but I thought it prudent to advise you, in the remote event it might be true. Now, is there any member of your staff capable of committing such an act?”

“The very idea!”

“Mrs. Smithings, I know how hard it must be for you to even consider such a thing, but I must warn you: Charley Perkins intends going to the police with this. If there are grounds for his allegations, it would not look well if we were seen to be remiss in taking the appropriate action.”

Rex knew he sounded pompous, but Mrs. Smithings had that effect on him. A fax machine stashed in her desk whirred and beeped incongruously.

“What do you propose we do?” she asked.

“I’d like to interview the staff—discreetly, of course. And I suggest that no more tarts be made available for consumption.”

“There are no more,” Mrs. Smithings replied archly.

“When were they baked?”

“Yesterday after lunch. Please proceed with caution, Reginald. Any suspicion of a scandal would bode ill for my business.”

“I quite understand. Can you tell me who was in the kitchen yesterday?”

“The cook, naturally. Sandy Bellows has been with me for six years. Louise comes in from the village to clean, but was unable to yesterday and today due to the snow. Mrs. Bellows, who starts early to prepare breakfast, arrived yesterday before the worst of the weather. Rosie Porter is in and out of the kitchen. Her duties mainly entail waiting upon the guests. She lives in.”

Rex was well aware of Rosie, who’d brought in the tea earlier. Hard
not
to notice the sloe-eyed, dark-haired beauty with cheeks red as apples. She was the sort of girl who brought to mind such bawdy expressions as “comely wench” and “tumbling in the hay”—and visions of bosomy rollicking behind the hawthorn hedge of a May evening …

“And then there is that useless creature Clifford Beadel, whom you saw when you arrived,” Mrs. Smithings was saying. “Perhaps you remember him from all those years ago.”

“And what does he do?”

“Clifford just creaks along doing odd jobs in the house and garden. He lives alone in the lodge by the gate.”

“You said yesterday that his family has always been at Swanmere Manor. What about Rosie?”

“Rosie Porter has been with me for eighteen months. She is a most loyal and able employee.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smithings. I won’t take up any more of your time at present.”

“Are you going to talk to the staff about cyanide and ruin everyone’s Christmas?” If looks could freeze, Rex would have turned into a snowman.

“I don’t think I need bring that up. My questions will be of a general nature. I’ll explain that I’m an old friend of the family. From what you’ve told me, none of the three servants seem to be of the murdering persuasion. I just want to see what, if anything, comes up.”

“Very well. And what about the guests?”

“Not at this point. Charley and I have agreed to keep the matter to ourselves and just observe.”

“Good. It’s trying enough for the guests not to be able to leave the hotel.”

“I would like to see Mr. Lawdry’s room, however.”

“Really? How gruesome.” Dahlia Smithings fingered her pearl choker. “We put plastic beneath him and covered him up with a sheet. I have no idea what state he will be in now. Well, take this master key. It’s the one I give Louise to make up the rooms. And one more thing, Reginald … Did your mother knit you that sweater?”

“Aye, she did.”

“I thought so. She always did lack taste in clothes. The blue clashes most dreadfully with your red hair. I just thought I should mention it.”

“Er, thank you.” Feeling like he’d just been brought to task by a school headmistress for not wiping his nose, Rex got up and, careful not to upset the numerous delicate items that impeded his bulky progress to the door, gratefully left Mrs. Smithings’ presence.

Charley was hovering outside the door. “How did it go?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“I can talk to the staff, but Mrs. Smithings thinks I’m on a wild goose chase.”

“Maybe it was the old bat herself who did Henry in.”

“Why would she want to murder a paying guest?”

Charley shrugged. “Why would
anyone
want to murder him?”

“I canna imagine. But there must be a connection somewhere.” Rex checked his watch. “There’s someone in London I need to call. He clerks for a friend of mine. Perhaps he can look into Lawdry’s background and come up with a motive for someone to kill him. First you need to tell me everything you know about the old man.”

“Yvette could tell you more. She spent quite a bit of time with Henry, said she felt sorry for him. Yvette’s soft-hearted that way. She was playing Tiddlywinks with him just before tea yesterday.”

“I’ll talk to her. Oh, by the way, Charley, is there anything wrong with my sweater?”

“Is it back to front?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s inside out.”

“The colour, man. Is it a bit loud?”

“Oh! Nah, I wouldn’t say that. But then I’m a bit colour blind myself. You’d have to ask Yvette. Yvette, luv,” he called into the drawing room where she sat chatting to Helen, and knitting a scarf. “Rex wants a word. In private.”

“I’ll be in the library,” Rex told him, crossing the foyer.

He put a quick call through to the office of Browne, Quiggley & Squire, thankful that the law clerk was working late and that the library was deserted so he could conduct his conversation in private. The lamp on the leather-top partners’ desk formed a pool of light, leaving the outer reaches of the room in darkness. As Rex waited for Yvette, he contemplated, within the illuminated radius, an antique still life of flowers and pears mellowed with age and encased by books—though in his mind’s eye he was seeing the remains of Lawdry’s pastry.

Poison, Rex mused, was often a woman’s recourse, or a doctor’s. Charley had pharmaceutical knowledge and could not be ruled out, even if he had been the one to alert Rex to the possibility of cyanide in the first place—perhaps as a bluff?

Presently, Yvette joined him and, after assuring him that his sweater was nice, very nice indeed, and much better purl work than she could ever do herself, proceeded to tell him what she knew about Henry Lawdry. In her jeans and fleecy cardigan, Rex thought she looked barely old enough to be married. “Why are you asking about him?” she asked.

“I thought I’d write a wee obituary.”

“Oh, how sweet of you. From what he told me, he doesn’t have any family except that estranged son in Melbourne. He said he had no one to leave his money to. His son has done very well for himself in Australia. I don’t expect he’ll find out about his father’s death until he’s contacted by the solicitor. Don’t forget to mention Henry was one of the first paratroopers to land in Normandy in World War II,” Yvette added proudly.

Rex thanked her and, thumbing the master key in his pocket, went upstairs. Just as he set foot on the landing, he heard a squeak and saw the brass doorknob turn in number four. What was somebody doing in the dead man’s room? Flattening himself against the wall, he held his breath. The door clicked shut and steps approached down the carpet. Light on his feet for a man of his proportions, Rex darted back into the stairwell in time to glimpse a petite brunette pass along the landing toward the east wing. Close call, he thought, wondering what business Wanda Martyr had in that room.

Once the coast was clear, he inserted his key into the lock and eased open the door. The room felt colder than a tomb in spite of his warm sweater and woolen gloves. The drapes drawn across the open window admitted a ghostly light. An unusual smell, beyond what he’d expected, made him think of church. He shivered.

The deceased was laid out on a handsome sleigh bed, a sheet draped over his body. Rex switched on the bedside lamp and turned back the sheet, exposing an old face touched with the dignity and pallor of death. He noticed the empty left sleeve. Slipping his fingers into the jacket pockets, Rex encountered small smooth discs and pulled out a couple of Tiddlywinks. After re-covering the body, he inspected the items on the dressing table, which included a starched handkerchief monogrammed “H.D.L.”

Back on the landing, he let out a shuddering sigh. Since viewing his father in a coffin at age seven, Rex felt shaken to the core whenever confronted by mortality. Death had not made sense to him then, and the words spoken by the minister at the graveside, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” failed to comfort him to this day.

Clutching the banister, he made his way down to the drawing room where Patrick Vance sat by the fireside smoking a cigarette. Rex decided to take advantage of finding the young man alone to sound him out about Lawdry. Artists typically had a keen eye. “Not sketching?” he asked.

“I’m pretty much running out of subject matter. I may add some colour to the robin later.”

“I admire your talent. I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

“Still, you know Latin,” Patrick retorted with a grin, revealing the gap in his teeth which lent him a demonic air.

Rex picked up the matchbox balancing on the armrest. The lid depicted Swanmere Manor, a surprising concession to commercialism on Mrs. Smithings’ part. “I heard there was a death in this room yesterday,” he prompted. “Not what you were all expecting, I’m sure.”

“Hardly. One minute the old man is chatting away about his dentures, the next—dead as a doorpost!” Patrick described the scene at tea.

After interjecting a few questions, Rex felt he had a good idea of who was where and who did and said what. “Where’s Anthony?” he asked.

“Napping. He’d kill me if he found me smoking. Miriam can’t abide it either, so she’s working on her precious manuscript in the library at the far side of the house. Don’t get me wrong, not all Yanks are bad. Some of our American clients at Smart Design are very cultured and have impeccable taste. Most are from New York. Miriam just rubs me up the wrong way.”

“Aye, I know what you mean. How do you get on with Wanda?”

“Wanda?” Patrick blew out a puff of smoke in a disdainful manner. “She’d be all right if she stopped harping on about her bloody divorce. Why d’you ask?”

“A curious thing, really. I could swear I saw her come out of Lawdry’s room just now. I wonder who gave her the key …”

“I wouldn’t go in there if you paid me.”

“Perhaps she had a special affection for the old man.”

With an immaculately kept hand, Patrick stubbed out his cigarette in the bronze ashtray. “I don’t think so, not really. Helen spent more time with him, and so did Yvette. Old Lawdry was quite the ladies’ man! Ah, well, may God rest his soul and all that.”

“Amen. Anyhow, I’ll leave you to your solitude, see what’s brewing in the kitchen.” Hands in his pockets, Rex sauntered down the hall to the spacious scrubbed kitchen where a robust older woman in an apron was sautéing diced celery, carrots, onions, and chili pepper in an industrial-size wok. “Mm, is that curry I smell?” he asked.