Christmas is Murder (4 page)

“It is,” the woman said, pouring in stock and adding lentils and shredded chicken. She wore her hair close-cropped and sported multiple piercings in her left ear. “I’m making Mulligatawny Soup for tonight. Mrs. Smithings brought the recipe back from India in 1949 when her husband was serving over there.”

“I think I may have had it one time when I stayed here as a lad. You must be Sandy Bellows, the cook. Mrs. Smithings has been singing your praises to my mother.”

“Has she now?” The cook’s face flushed with pleasure.

Rex introduced himself and assumed a casual pose leaning against the counter. “Mrs. Smithings said you’ve been working here six years.”

“Sounds about right.” While she chopped apples, Sandy Bellows chatted on about how fortunate it was she’d prepared much of the food in advance with Louise’s help—before the snow terminated all access and egress from the hotel.

“I understand the almond tarts went down a treat. It’s a pity I wasn’t here yesterday to try one.”

“The almond tarts are my own recipe. I like nut desserts at Christmas as they’re so festive.” The cook threw handfuls of basmati rice into a saucepan. “I don’t see how that poor old man could have choked on one of them tarts, like they first said. More likely it was a heart attack. And I was just saying to Mrs. Smithings yesterday what a shame it was, him being alone this time of year.”

“Do any of the guests ever come into the kitchen?”

The cook proceeded to mince parsley. “Not usually, though that Mr. Smart did come in yesterday before tea. He wanted to know if we used organic products in the cooking. Said he was into health. And then that American woman is in and out, very fond of food she is, but has to watch her weight.”

“Don’t we all.” Rex patted his belly.

“Oh, come now. You’re a fine figure of a man.”

“Why, thank you for that, Mrs. Bellows. Still, it’s a lot of work for you, cooking for all these people …”

“We
have
been short-handed the last two days. Rosie’s run off her feet but she helps when she can, and Clifford … Well, I have to watch what I say as he’s probably earwigging in the scullery. He’s not as deaf as he makes out. Oh, he’s a cunning one, is that old bodger.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, that’s everything simmering nicely. I think I’ll go upstairs and put my feet up before I have to see to the main course.”

When she left, Rex poked his head around the scullery door and found Clifford seated at an old wooden table, polishing a pair of silver candlesticks. The metallic tang of Brasso filled the whitewashed room, all but smothering the reek of mildew rising from the assortment of Wellington boots, mackintoshes, and umbrellas stacked by the door beside a pile of flowerpots and gardening utensils.

“Just came for a smoke,” Rex said, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s too cold to stand outside.”

“Ar, de cold be purty bad. Eh don’ mind de bacca if ye don’ mind de slummocky table ’ere.”

Without fully understanding what the old man had said, Rex took this as an invitation to fill his pipe. The fragrant aroma of Clan tobacco helped snuff out the Brasso and mildew. Propping up the door frame while sucking on his pipe stem, Rex pondered how to tackle him. “Problem with rodents?” he asked, pointing to the box of rat poison on one of the shelves.

“Ar. She won’t have cats ’round the place. Dogs neither.”

Rex assumed Clifford was referring to Mrs. Smithings. “That’s a pity because I smuggled a stray puppy into my room. You won’t tell Mrs. Smithings, will you?”

Clifford grinned slyly and shook his head.

“So, you’re entrusted with the family silver?” Rex asked.

“Ar.”

“There must be a lot of heirlooms in the home.”

“Ar. But she ’ad to sell a lot to pay off the master’s debts.” Clifford seemed to relish imparting this little tidbit of gossip—his ferrety eyes gleamed. “Not the jewellery though. Still plenty of that to clean.”

“You take care of that too?”

“Nar. Not since me ’ands got the screws. The work’s too fiddly for a body wi’ rheumatics.”

“Who cleans it then?”

“The Porter girl did it last.”

“Rosie.”

“Nar, her sister wot worked here before.”

At that moment, Rex heard a rap at the window and saw Charley gesticulating frantically at him to come outside. Rex opened the scullery door.

“You’ll never guess what I found in the rubbish,” the young Cockney hissed. “There was tons to sift through since it’s not been collected for days because of the snow. Look.” He pulled a container from its newspaper wrapping. “Sodium Cyanide—it says right here on the label.”

Now that the existence
of cyanide had been established, Rex felt it his duty to Mrs. Smithings to get to the bottom of Lawdry’s death. As her oldest friend, his mother would expect it of him. He expected it of himself. He could not imagine getting back on the train to Edinburgh with the case unresolved.

Filching a few scraps of chicken from the kitchen counter, Rex wrapped them in his handkerchief and made his way back to the foyer. As he passed the parlor-office, he heard Mrs. Smithings’ shrill voice behind the door: “Tears won’t do, do you hear? We must keep a stiff upper lip. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try harder, ma’am.”

“See that you do. Now run along, Rosie, and attend to your duties.”

The next moment, the door flew open and the girl almost collided with Rex as he loitered by the stairs, emptying his pipe bowl into an ashtray. She wiped her eyes on her apron and gave him a defiant little smile.

“Is everything okay, lass?” he asked kindly.

“I’m still a bit upset about Mr. Lawdry. It’s a shame, really. He was a likeable old man. Always very polite and grateful when I brought him anything. Not like that Wanda Martyr. I think she enjoys treating me like a servant. It’s, ‘Rosie, can you do this?’, ‘Oh, Rosie, would you do that?’ Lazy cow.”

Rex ducked his chin into his other chin, suppressing a smile. “Have you been working here long?” he asked.

“Since last summer. Mrs. Smithings is a really good employer, gives me a weekend off every month to visit my family in London.”

“Oh, I took you for a fresh-faced Sussex girl.”

“The country air does wonders for a girl’s complexion,” Rosie said with a strained laugh. “But London born and bred, I am.”

“Quite a change, then. What do you do here?”

“At work? I waitress. The cleaning staff come in mornings but not since the blizzard, so I help with making up the beds and such as well.”

“Do you ever help out in the kitchen?”

“Only when we’re shorthanded.”

“Like now, I imagine.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Bellows prepared a lot in advance, stuffed the freezer sort of thing. The pastries are fresh-baked every day, of course.”

“Did you help with the almond tarts?”

Rosie gave a start of surprise. “No, they were ready on a tray for me to take in. Are you asking these questions because of Mr. Lawdry’s death? It was to be expected—he was in poor health.”

“So I understand, but Mrs. Smithings agreed that I should talk to the staff.” Rosie’s plum-dark eyes slid to her employer’s door. “So—you served tea in the drawing room,” Rex continued. “Did everyone partake of the almond tarts?”

“Well, the newlyweds weren’t down yet. All the other guests were there. Then I left. Mr. Smart doesn’t eat sweets. The two women friends—the Abs-Fabs Duo I call them—they always make a big to-do about watching their weight, but they eat whatever’s put in front of them. The American is the same way.”

“Where did you put the tray?”

“On the round table. I let everyone help themselves. They all know tea is at four thirty, but not everyone’s here on the dot, so I just leave them to it.”

“Just one more question, Rosie. Do you recall who was in the kitchen when you picked up the tray?”

“Cook and Mrs. Smithings. And when I got back, Clifford was there mucking in with the potatoes.”

After he left Rosie, Rex bounded up the stairs, reflecting that there never would have been any suspicion of cyanide poisoning, had Charlie not been around to attend to Lawdry. And he himself would not be in the process of questioning the staff and taking more than a casual interest in the guests. So much for his relaxing Christmas.

He fed the puppy the chicken scraps and decided to join his fellow guests in the drawing room for further observation. There might be more to them than met the eye, and it was just conceivable one of them had managed to slip the cyanide directly into Lawdry’s tart. As he stepped out of his room, Mrs. Dahlia Smithings was coming up the stairs.

“Did you find out anything of interest?” she asked.

“Well,” Rex said, drawing closer to her. “Charley found an empty container of sodium cyanide in the dustbin outside.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we use that for cleaning jewellery and such. We buy it by the pound from a pharmaceutical company in Brighton.”

Rex coughed politely. “A fact you omitted to mention earlier on, Mrs. Smithings.”

“It slipped my mind. Things do at my age, you know.”

He showed her the container. “Is this the jar?”

“I believe so.”

“Where did you keep it?”

“On a shelf in the scullery with the other cleaning products.”

“Clifford said the jewellery hasna been cleaned in awhile.”

“Clifford! I’m surprised you were able to make out his gibberish. He speaks that way on purpose, you know.”

“This does rather support Charley’s theory of poisoning, deliberate or otherwise …”

“Charley may be making it all up and have planted the container himself.”

“Aye, but the lad is a medic and he seems to have his head screwed on tight. I canna see him doing this just to create a bit o’ drama.”

“Young men are prone to pulling pranks.”

Ah, yes—Rodney. Her son had certainly been one for pranks. Mrs. Smithings looked wistful, as though she were thinking of him at that moment.

“Rodney died a hero,” he said. “You must be proud of him.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “Since my son is not here, what can he possibly have to do with any of this?”

“I’m sorry,” Rex stammered, somewhat perplexed. Most mothers wanted to talk about their sons, living or dead. His own mother bored the ears off the ladies of the Morningside—genteelly pronounced
Moarningsaide
—tea and scone set with accounts of his professional exploits. When she received visitors, she had him buy flowers—
Nothing extravagant, mind—
so she could boast that her doting son had given them to her.

He was on the point of asking Mrs. Smithings about Rosie’s sister when his cell phone trilled in his pocket. The LCD listed a London number. He excused himself and hurried back to his room to take the call in private. “Thaddeus,” he said. “Any luck?”

The young law clerk at the other end informed him that he’d managed to get hold of Lawdry’s solicitor and that the old man had not died intestate after all, having left everything to Claws, his cat. No human had stood to gain by his death, and Thaddeus could find no ties between the deceased and any of the hotel staff or guests, whose names and addresses Rex had supplied him from the guest book in the hall.

“I did find out that Anthony Smart was up on a charge of drunk and disorderly behaviour at a gay bar last year, but got off with a fine,” the clerk said. “Is there anything else you’d like me to check out?”

Rex said he would be in touch—right now he was at a dead end. Henry Lawdry’s alleged murder was without apparent motive.

___

Rex noticed the puppy sniffing items around the walls of his room and getting ready to raise its hind leg against a giant potted fern. “Argh, noo,” he said, scooping him up in his arms. “Ye canna do that.”

He took the dog downstairs and through the scullery to the back door, leaving him in Clifford’s care. “Och, I’ll be back later,” Rex said when it looked up at him in reproach through the raccoon markings around its eyes.

He ambled into the drawing room where most of the guests were biding time until dinner, and took up a position by one of the west-facing windows. The white-blanketed lawns disappeared into darkness.

“I love doing hair,” Patrick Vance was saying, “and Anthony has so little. If you have the rollers, I have the time.”

Turning around, Rex saw that the young man was addressing Wanda Martyr. Helen nodded to her friend in encouragement.

“When do you want to do it?” Wanda asked Patrick.

“How about after dinner?”

“All right then. That way I’ll look fab for Christmas Eve. After all, it’s not like there’s a whole lot to do around here.”

“I feel like I’m living in a Christmas card, the time we spend in this room,” Helen agreed. “It’s all very pretty, of course, but I’m beginning to get cabin fever.”

“Aye,” Rex said from the window. “And I came down from Scotland thinking I might play a bit o’ tennis and do some hiking.” He sought an armchair among the guests. Only the honeymooners were absent.

“Wanda and I managed to get some walking in before the snow started,” Helen told him. “We took the bridle path between Eastbourne and Alfriston, and crossed the downs above the ancient Long Man. It’s the size of a football field and cut out of the chalk. And there’s a pretty Norman church in Jevington that’s worth a visit too.”

As Rex observed once again, Helen was an attractive woman with a cheerful and sensible air about her. “I came here as a boy,” he told her. “It was summer—buttercups and red campion everywhere. There was a place we used to call Bluebell Valley. I was fond of nature rambles and badger-watching back then. Aye, I would’ve liked to have done some walking meself.”

“This hotel needs more activities,” Patrick said. “For a start, the old conservatory is never used. I’d put in a huge jacuzzi, paint a tropical fresco, and install lots of exotic plants.”

“We could convert the library into a pool room,” Anthony suggested.

Helen smiled. “I doubt Mrs. Smithings would approve of your renovations.”

“Mrs. Mothballs needs to move with the times. She should retire and have someone manage the place for her.”

Beyond the French doors, a ring-tone blared out the Star Spangled Banner. “I made it to page 30 of the manuscript you sent up,” Miriam Greenbaum told her caller, “and I have to say I just didn’t get off on it. The writing was nowhere near ready for prime time … Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send the standard rejection.”

With the arrival of Ms. Greenbaum, Rex observed an atmosphere of constraint settle upon the guests. Wanda, in particular, made no effort to veil her hostility, staring pointedly at the intruder. She was a woman who wore her emotions on display. Helen, on the other hand, with a barely perceptible tightening of the jaw, confined herself to studying a women’s magazine with probably more attention than it deserved. Patrick and Anthony, exchanging a glance of complicity as Miriam crossed to a vacant sofa, took up their books in unison.

She appeared not to notice the sudden cessation of chatter. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she pulled a manuscript from a box file and became engrossed in its contents, from time to time scratching annotations in the margin with a blue pen.

“Does anyone know where the name Swanmere comes from?” Rex asked his neighbors, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“
Mere
means ‘pond’, doesn’t it?” Wanda said, stretching her elegantly slippered feet toward the fire. “There’s a big pond down by the village. It’s frozen up now, but there are swans there.”

“I’d like to sketch it,” Patrick said wistfully. “Swans are such graceful creatures.”

“Oh, you have to be careful,” Helen interjected. “The cob has a wingspan of eight feet. They can be quite vicious, you know, coming at you with flapping wings and outstretched beaks …”

Finally, Rosie summoned the guests to dinner.

In the dining room, the wainscoting below the flocked wallpaper was just as Rex remembered it. The Victorian dresser displaying a Royal Albert service still stood in a corner. It was as though time had stood still. Heavy brocade curtains shut out the frigid night, while a crystal chandelier cast its glow upon the guests seated at the table spread with white linen. Rex was pleased to find that his place, reserved by a hand-written name card, was beside Helen.

“How’s the wee dog doing?” he asked Clifford, who crouched by the hearth, banking up the fire.

“I ’ad to put ’im in the cellar.”

“What dog is this?” Miriam Greenbaum demanded from across the table.

“A stray I found shivering in the snow on my way to the hotel this afternoon.”

“Oh, bless you,” Helen said. “Why can’t we have him in here with us?”

“A dog would make it seem more homey,” Wanda Martyr added, unfolding her napkin.