Christmas is Murder (9 page)

“I’ll get my jacket and meet you back here. Oh, and you might want to put some rat poison down while you’re at it. A gigantic rodent tried to run up my leg last night and Mrs. Bellows almost fainted. And then perhaps you should hide the poison,” he added, thinking it safest not to leave anything lethal in temptation’s way.

By the time he returned to the scullery with his jacket, Helen was waiting for him, looking fetching in a blue anorak and a pale blue bonnet that matched her eyes.

“It’ll be an easy run down to the village,” he said pulling on his gloves. “Coming back will be a different story.”

She giggled. “Won’t it be wonderful to get away for a while? I feel like I’m playing truant. I left Wanda a note in case she worries something happened to me.”

“Well, try not to break a leg. Have you skied much?”

“Every year for the past four Christmases.”

Clifford brought the skis to the door.

“My goodness, they look like they belong in a museum,” Helen exclaimed, stepping outside. “Oooh, it’s cold!”

“Aye, but they’ll get us there and back.”

Helen wrinkled her nose prettily. “Back. I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Couldn’t we just stay in the village?”

“I’m not sure there
is
anywhere to stay down there. Anyway, I want to catch our killer, don’t you?” He handed her the shorter skis and poles and placed the boots at her feet.

“I don’t like the sound of the word ‘killer’ either. Strange, I never thought about it in quite those terms. I think my subconscious is holding onto the idea of a heart attack and a tripping accident.” She sat on the doorstep lacing her boots. “I think these will do. I put on three pairs of socks—I have poor circulation.”

Clifford was standing by with a pair of goggles. “Eh only found the one pair.”

“I have my sunglasses,” Helen told Rex. “You take the goggles. Thanks, Clifford. If I find a shop open, I’ll bring you something back.”

“The pub’ll be open,” the old man said hopefully.

Smiling, Rex clapped him on the back. “Did ye not have enough alcohol last night, Clifford?” He winked at Helen before adjusting the goggles, then snapped his boots onto the narrow skis and stuck his hands through the loops of the poles, which barely reached his hip. “Ready?” he asked Helen.

“As I’ll ever be,” she said, pushing herself off on her skis.

“Follow in my tracks. That’ll make it easier.”

The crisp snow held his weight as he half walked, half glided across the back lawns, making for the tree line where filigree frost shining among the pine branches resembled enchanted cobwebs. A glance over his shoulder assured him that Helen was keeping up with him.

“Watch out for stumps,” he cautioned.

Once they were through the trees, the ground began to slope downward. Two miles away in the fold of the valley lay Swanmere, a cluster of white roofs and puffing chimneys, the village green transformed into a clean white handkerchief surrounded by tiny stone-wall shops and cottages. By the pond at the far end, Rex could just make out the Swanmere Arms aglow with fairy lights.

Helen slid to a stop beside him, panting slightly as she looked down the hill. “I wish I’d brought my camera, but I really didn’t have anywhere to put it.”

“Aye, it looks like a picture postcard. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”

He set off again, launching himself with his poles and bending his knees as the slope carried him past isolated copper beech trees and knots of sugar-sprinkled pines. The chill air whipped past his face, cutting through his slacks. Twisting around at the waist, he saw Helen follow after him in a stiff but competent style. The downhill momentum brought them to the edge of the village.

Cheeks flushed pink, Helen smiled from ear to ear. “That was exhilarating! Do you think there’s a letter box on the way to the pub?”

“I need to make a quick detour first to see the constable. I can meet you at the pub if you like.”

“I’ll come with you. Where does he live?”

“Down this lane, according to Mrs. Bellows. She told me last night he was laid up with the flu.” Rex stepped out of his skis. “It might be easier to walk. Just loosen your boots a wee bit.”

Helen did as he suggested and he shouldered both pairs of skis, hoping against hope he wasn’t going on a wild goose chase.

“Here we are,” Rex
said, a quarter of a mile down a street lined on both sides with stationary, snowed-over cars. He knocked on the green door of a semi-detached Victorian, and a cheerful-looking woman in her mid-fifties answered. He stuck out his hand. “Mrs. Bowles? Rex Graves, QC. I’ve come to see your husband about an important matter. Sorry I couldna phone in advance, but the phones are out up at the Manor.”

“Marjorie,” the woman introduced herself, taking the proffered hand. “The phones are down here too. And you can’t get through on a mobile because people are resorting to those, and everyone calling because it’s Christmas.”

“This is my friend Helen d’Arcy, a guest at the hotel.”

The women smiled at each other.

“Well, you best come in out of the cold. So you skied down? Just leave those on the mat and come on through. John has the flu but he’s out of bed now.”

She led them through the front room, past a narrow stairway and into the living room.

A television blared in front of the prostrate form of John Bowles wrapped in a blanket on a recliner, surrounded by the minty menthol smell of Vicks VapoRub. When he saw them, he picked up the TV clicker and turned down the volume on the soccer game. “Don’t get too close,” he warned through a clogged nose. “This one’s a rotter.”

“I hate to be disturbing you on Christmas Eve, especially when you’re ill,” Rex said, “but I understand Dahlia Smithings called you two days ago regarding a death at the hotel …”

John Bowles stared up at him in surprise, watery eyes streaming tears down his blotched face. “I don’t think so.”

Marjorie fluttered her hands. “She did call, John, but you were in bed. I told her you had the flu. She never said what it was about.” While her husband gave vent to a phlegmy coughing fit, which he tried to confine to a wad of tissues, she poured two glasses of eggnog and set them down with a plate of mince pies on the coffee table. “Please sit down,” she told the visitors. “When the snow started, John went out to help an elderly man who’d succumbed to hypothermia. That’s when he caught cold.”

The constable snorted mucous up his nose. “What’s this about a death?” he asked Rex. “I feel like death warmed up myself. Margie, any chance of a toddy? Lots of lemon and honey and a dash of brandy. It’s the only thing that really helps,” he informed his visitors as his wife went into the kitchen. “The Vicks soothes the chest and clears the nose passages a bit, but the hot toddy works best.”

Rex was beginning to wonder if their visit would serve any purpose other than to contaminate them with the flu germs that were almost palpable in the air. He imagined green gargoyles on legs winging around spewing virus.

“Will you be getting home for Hogmanay?” Mrs. Bowles called from the kitchen.

“Hopefully,” Rex said, raising his voice.

“The train station said they would resume service on Boxing Day,” the constable told him. “Oh, yes, tell me about the death up on the hill.”

“Two deaths now,” Rex said, lowering his voice again. “I suspect murder.” Succinctly he filled John Bowles in on all the pertinent details. “Mrs. Smithings did, apparently, talk to the police and was given some advice from the doctor regarding the first case.”

“That must be the ME over in Eastbourne. We’ve not even a GP here now since Peabody retired. Not big enough of a practice. Mrs. Bellows was his nurse.”

Marjorie returned with the toddy, which Bowles proceeded to sip with fervor.

“I’ve written up an account for you,” Rex told him. “I’m afraid I haven’t got verra far in my investigations. I was hoping you could shed some light on the staff or perhaps be able to come up with some ideas from what I’ve told you.”

The constable perused the brief statement. “No apparent motive for murdering the old man, I see—”

“Murder?” Marjorie said, shocked. “I thought it was a regular death.”

Bowles cut her off with a glance. “So, he may have been murdered for the cameo,” he resumed. “But if it’s only worth 500 pounds … if that’s an accurate evaluation. Now, that other murder—”

Marjorie gasped. “A second one?” Catching herself, she hastily served the visitors more eggnog before sitting down beside Helen on the sofa.

“Not a popular woman, this Ms. Greenbaum, as you describe her,” the constable told Rex, “but that’s hardly an adequate motive either. I wish I could help.”

“What can you tell me about the people who work at the hotel?”

“I can tell you that Mrs. Smithings has become unhinged since her son’s death.”

“Quite natural,” Helen said, “especially since he was her only son and she lost her husband shortly before that.”

“True,” the constable wheezed. “However, there is a history of mental illness on her side of the family. Her grandmother thought she was Lady Godiva, and one summer day rode stark naked on a white horse through the village and then went wading into the pond. Had some illusions she was a swan or something and almost drowned. She was put in an institution after that.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven. “Now that Rodney is dead, I don’t know who will inherit the manor,” Bowles concluded, honking into his tissues.

“Well, I think we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Rex said, depositing his glass and rising from the sofa.

The constable waved his tissues. “Hold hard. That story about the drowning just reminded me of something. The old man that lives in the gatehouse was suspected of pushing his wife down a well, must be ten years ago now.”

“Clifford Beadel?”

“That’s right. He was found comatose. Nothing could be proved, though. His wife had an almost lethally high dose of alcohol in her as well. She used to be the housekeeper at the manor. That was when the colonel was still alive.”

“Clifford is still fond of his drink. Well, I hope you feel better soon.” Rex turned to Marjorie. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mrs. Bowles.”

She showed them to the door. “That place is cursed if you ask me. Sandy Bellows is my sister-in-law’s second cousin. She’s not one for idle chatter, but she’s worked at the manor going on seven years now and knows all the family history. The colonel pretty much ruined the family. A chinless wonder, that one, and—”

“Margie,” her husband called, “It’s time for my antibiotics. Ach-choo!”

“No rest for the wicked,” Mrs. Bowles apologized. “Good luck to you. Two murders … Well, I never!”

Once he was back outside, Rex took a deep cleansing breath. The cold burned his lungs but it felt good. “I hope we didna catch anything in there,” he commented to Helen as they trudged back down the lane, skis anchored on his shoulder.

“I know what you mean. I wanted to throw all the windows open. Remind me to take a double dose of vitamin C when we get back to the hotel. Slow down a little, will you?” she said with a laugh. “I don’t have your long legs.”

“Sorry, hen.”

“Did you learn anything of interest back there?”

“There’s something that struck a chord, but it’s escaping me for now.”

“That bit about Clifford makes one wonder, doesn’t it? I mean, if he actually did murder his wife in a drunken stupor …”

“Aye. The drinking and pushing aspects are reminiscent of the circumstances surrounding Miriam’s death. Clifford polished off half a decanter of sherry. Careful!” He grabbed Helen by the arm as she slipped on a slick patch of snow.

“Thanks,” she said, recovering her balance. “Perhaps he was reliving the moment. If he passed out after pushing his wife down the well, he might not remember having done it when he came round. He may not have done it at all, but if he couldn’t remember, he may have been plagued by guilt all these years. Then when the chance arose, he wanted to replay the event to see if he was capable.”

“That’s a convoluted theory, Helen.”

“Perhaps, but it’s amazing how the subconscious works.”

“Aye, there’s no denying that. I wish I could remember what it is that’s niggling me.”

They turned onto the village green.

“It’s aggravating when that happens,” Helen sympathized. “It happens to me more and more. A sign of approaching senility, I suppose. Think of something else while we have a drink—it might pop right into your head when you least expect it.”