Christmas Is Murder Part 15

"I'll bring you up a cup of tea in the morning," he told her.

"Tea? As in, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

"Tea as in tea, you shameless hussy. Now, lock the door when I leave."

"What good will that do if someone has Wanda's master key? These doors don't have bolts."

"Aye, security is downright lax around here."

He showed Helen how to prop a chair under the door handle. "Call me on my mobile if you need to," he said, retrieving one of his business cards from his briefcase and handing it to her. "I can be upstairs in less than two minutes. Now, see me out and get to bed. You're s.h.i.+vering."

He grabbed the bottle of port, along with the toothbrush gla.s.s and left the room. The door lock clicked behind him and wood thumped on wood as the chair was slotted into position. Good la.s.s.

Charley loitered at the top of the stairs.

"Is Yvette safely tucked in for the rest of the night?" Rex asked.

"She was p.i.s.sed I wasn't staying, but how could anyone sleep with all this going on?"

They made their way downstairs to the drawing room where Charley stoked the dying embers. Rex would have liked to close the French doors to keep out the draft, but he wanted to be able to look out into the hall. As he dropped into a well-worn armchair, the seat cus.h.i.+on sounded like a bagpipe tuning up, while the compressed springs beneath reverberated in groaning protest. "Time for some new chairs," he remarked.

"And a new sofa. This one's probably stuffed full of horsehair. Some honeymoon. I'll throttle Yvette's mum when I see her. 'A nice romantic place in the country with good home-cooked food,'" he mimicked. "A deathtrap, more like."

"Something to tell your grandbairns about."

When Charley didn't answer, Rex looked over at him and saw he was locked in a pensive mood.

"Sobering thought," the young c.o.c.kney said after awhile.

Rex wondered if he should broach the subject of Rosie and the will-but if Charley had no knowledge of it, he didn't want to stir the marital pot by bringing it up. He uncorked the bottle of port and poured a measure into Charley's gla.s.s.

"I like Anthony for the murders," the young man said, impersonating a New York City cop. "Not because he's a pouf or anything like that," he added in his usual voice. "I think well enough of Patrick-but Anthony comes across as more evil than anyone else here."

"That's no indication. Ted Bundy was highly personable and the Ken and Barbie Murderers in Canada were a normal-seeming young couple."

"Still, Anthony was in the kitchen when Miriam went in. Who's to say he was down in the cellar?"

"Aye, he is the most probable suspect in that murder."

"Patrick was in Wanda's room and could've found the key and given it to Anthony."

"But where are your supporting facts? You canna make them up just to fit your theory. Hercule Poirot would say to look for the facts."

"Who's he when he's at home?"

"The little Belgian detective in the Agatha Christie novels."

"So you read that stuff, do you?"

"My mother does. As apparently does Mrs. Smithings, judging by the books in the library."

"A guest could have left those books. I saw a Jackie Collins in the library, and I'm sure Mrs. Smithings doesn't read raunchy novels. The one time she had to have done it to produce Rodney, she probably lay back and thought of England, wis.h.i.+ng the Colonel would hurry up and get it over with."

Chuckling at the picture Charley conjured up, Rex filled his pipe from the leather tobacco pouch. "I'm sure when they were newlyweds they spent a lot of time in their room, just like you and Yvette-emerging in the radiant aftermath as though they had discovered delights known only to themselves," he added poetically.

"You're not past it yourself, you know. Don't you and the fair Helen have a thing going?"

"Charley, lad, even if we were, I wouldna tell you."

"n.o.blesse oblige?"

"Exactly. And, anyway, we're not."

"Do you think it's a psychopathic serial killer?" Charley asked in the non sequitur way of people idling away time.

"Either way, after the first murder, the second is easier."

Charley sat forward, cradling his tumbler of port. "Do you speak from professional experience?"

"Aye."

Charley sprawled back on the sofa. "You know, I'm trying to imagine you prosecuting your victims. Do you wear a wig?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. And black silk robes."

Charley laughed. "How long have you been a barrister? I mean, advocate?"

"I was appointed Queen's Counsel three years ago and was admitted to the Scottish Bar eighteen years before that."

"Blimey. Have you ever thought about doing anything else?"

"Aye. I'd like to run a small bar in a not-so touristy part of Spain. Perhaps I'll do that in my retirement." Why was he telling Charley his private fantasies? It must be the port. "But I'd never admit that to my mother. She doesn't approve of alcohol, especially since my father was killed by a drunk driver."

Charley shook his head slowly. "That's terrible. My mum didn't want me to be a firefighter, but I did that for a while before becoming a paramedic."

Rex stared into his gla.s.s. "I wanted to be a firefighter when I was a lad."

"What boy doesn't? I suppose it's too late for you to do that now, but there's always that bar in Spain to look forward to."

"Aye. Or perhaps Florida."

"I'll join you, mate."

A companionable silence fell between them as they gazed into the dancing flames. At some point in the conversation, Rex drifted off into slumber. In his dream, he saw a chipper Mr. Lawdry at one of the games tables on the far side of the room shooting winks into a cup with Yvette. Miriam Greenbaum poured over her ma.n.u.script on the sofa, while Wanda sat across from her, legs folded sideways, filing her nails. They appeared as shadows, shades of the Underworld, and then metamorphosed into an ancient funeral pyre spouting flames.

A log cracking in the fire jogged him awake. "Do you think this house is haunted, Charley?" he asked, resuming his vigil.

The young man stirred, eyes fluttering open. "What? Ghosts?"

"Uneasy spirits coming back to claim their time and s.p.a.ce?"

Charley scoffed. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"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 hoa.r.s.e 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 ma.n.u.script. 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 frica.s.see 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?"

Brus.h.i.+ng her hands on her ap.r.o.n, 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."