"You can't shout out unless it's the actual word," Yvette objected.

"What's a preposition again?" Patrick asked.

Anthony sighed eloquently.

"It's a part of speech," Helen replied. "Above, under, over, on-"

Anthony pointed.

"Murder on something something something," Helen reflected aloud.

"Anthony, you can't do that," Yvette complained. "Helen was just explaining to Patrick what a prep-thing was. She wasn't actually guessing."

Yvette does whine a lot, Rex thought.

"I was just trying to move things along."

Charley jumped up in excitement. "Wait, I've got it! Murder on the Oriental Express!"

"Orient Express, not Oriental," Patrick piped up. "Murder on the Orient Express."

Anthony pointed at his nose and Patrick simultaneously, and everyone clapped except Charley.

"Not fair!" he exclaimed at Patrick. "You mightn't have guessed it if I hadn't been so close. But well done, mate," he added graciously.

"Let's do another one," Anthony said. "Your turn, Patrick."

The young man stood up and took Anthony's place on the center of the rug. After a brief pause, he pretended to crank an old-fashioned movie camera.

Rex studied each partic.i.p.ant in turn. What did he know about these people? Patrick was twenty-eight and a graduate of the Slade School of Art. He'd joined Smart Design as a faux and mural artist four years ago. Anthony, a decade older, also owned a half share in an antiques shop in Kensington specializing in timepieces from the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian periods-as Rex had memorized from a conversation with him.

His knowledge of the Perkinses was even more sketchy. Yvette, twenty-one, worked as a receptionist at a solicitors' firm in Woking. She and Charley, twenty-six, had met at a Rave concert. Helen, forty-four, had brought her newly divorced friend Wanda to Swanmere for a change of scene: "somewhere peaceful where she could re-center herself."

Rosie brought in the tray at that moment, disrupting his thoughts along with the game of charades.

"We'll have to continue after tea," Yvette declared.

I hope not, Rex said to himself, thinking of a viable excuse to leave straight after his tea. Ah, yes, the wee dog. He hadn't seen it since this morning.

"I admit Murder on the Orient Express wasn't in the best possible taste," Anthony said. "But it's the first thing that came to mind."

Rosie glanced round at the guests in surprise from where she was setting out the plates.

"Is that the mystery where everyone dies one by one?" Helen inquired.

"No, you're thinking of And Then There Were None," Anthony said. "In Murder on the Orient Express, everyone is involved in the murder of one pa.s.senger."

Helen rose from the sofa. "Well, I had better get Wanda. Has anyone seen her?"

"Not today," Charley replied.

Everyone else looked blank.

"You should join in the charades, Rex," Yvette said, on her way to the tea table. "You look so serious sitting there by yourself."

He smiled distantly, wondering who among them might be involved in a real-life charade-acting out their role as an innocent bystander and succeeding in duping everyone around them. It would take a person of nerve, of sang-froid. He had complimented Charley for possessing just such a quality. Who else fit the bill?

"Mind if I take a look at your sketches?" he asked Patrick, indicating the pad on the sofa. Perhaps the drawings would reveal something his naked eye could not.

"Help yourself."

While the others crowded around the Victorian table, Rex flipped through the pad, which showed numerous studies in charcoal of Anthony's face from various angles. Patrick had managed to capture his slightly sardonic expression. He had done some caricature portraits of the other residents as well. Henry Lawdry looked a bit lecherous, Rosie sly, and Mrs. Smithings demented. Rex chuckled to himself.

"These are excellent," he told Patrick. "I particularly like this one of Clifford." The furtive figure in cap and tweeds-attire befitting a fly-fisherman after salmon in Scotland, though in its current state more suited to a scarecrow-was captioned "Faithful Family Retainer."

Turning the page, Rex came to the picture of the robin, the breast delicately colored in red. Another watercolor showed a portion of the room with Anthony in his armchair, Helen and Wanda on the sofa, and behind them, the round table and Christmas tree with its bells and burgundy bows. His eye focused on the table. He compared it to the actual table. "Rosie," he asked as the girl was leaving the room. "There's no coffeepot today."

"I thought the American lady was the only one who took coffee in the afternoon," she replied. "Will you be requiring some?"

"No, I never touch the stuff. I just wondered, that's all."

Rosie threw him a puzzled look as she stepped out the French doors into the hall.

"Coffee is probably not the best thing for someone with your condition," Anthony approved, returning to the fireplace with his tea. "I only drink it in small doses myself, and then only the Arabica beans which have half the caffeine of the other main variety."

Charley and Yvette sat down on the sofa with their tea and cake. "Anthony, you are a mine of useless information," the husband pointed out.

At that moment, Helen stumbled into the room.

"What's wrong, luv? You look pale as a ghost."

"W-Wanda." Helen delivered the word through frozen lips.

Rex leaped up from his armchair. "What do you mean?"

"She's ... Oh, please, no! She's dead!"

Charley jumped up too, sloshing tea on the carpet. "Where is she?"

"In her room. She never got up this morning. I think she took an overdose. She's not breathing. I thought she was sleeping, but there's no pulse!" Helen burst into tears.

Rex was unsure whether to stay and console her or follow Charley up the stairs. He thrust the bottle of sherry into Anthony's hands. "Here, give Helen some of this," he directed, and ran after Charley.

He reached Wanda's door just as Charley was approaching the bed.

"She's getting stiff," Charley said. "She's been dead at least six hours."

That would put her death at around the time he and Helen left for the village, Rex calculated. She had said Wanda was sleeping late.

Charley straightened up from examining the body. "I'll get a thermometer and record time and temperature for the police."

"Overdose?"

"I don't think so. There are no pill containers by the bedside and no suicide note, which you'd expect if someone tried to kill themselves. Wanda would have written one of those, I'm sure. She'd want everyone to know why she did it. And see this? The pillow beside her is scrunched up. I think someone used it to suffocate her."

Rex took in Wanda's perfectly manicured nails, the glossy ringlets spread on the pillow. "There's no sign of a struggle. Her nightdress isn't even askew. She must have been asleep or else not been surprised to see the person in the room." It would have had to be someone strong, he reasoned. Though pet.i.te, Wanda was in good shape.

"My guess is she was smothered by that pillow, just like Desdemona. Except there's no Oth.e.l.lo or any equivalent of a jealous husband that I'm aware of."

"So, you know your Shakespeare, Charley?"

"Amateur dramatics."

"Really."

"Why d'you say it like that?"

"Look, we're up against the clock so I'm just going to dispense with etiquette and ask you outright about an exchange I heard between you and Yvette in your room this morning. Something about murder, and Henry, and getting found out, and I don't know what else without referring to my notes."

"Oh, that." Charley scratched his lightly stubbled chin. "Well, it's like this. Yvette stopped taking the pill without telling me. When I found out, I went ballistic. I wanted her to have an abortion-I mean, we don't have the dough for our own place, and living at her mum's with a baby, well, it would be the end. Anyway, Yvette said that was murder and she's right. I've had time to think about it and I've done a complete three-sixty-I want us to have the little blighter."

He opened his arms wide. "I just don't know how we're going to be able to afford a deposit on a flat. I got into a bit of trouble gambling and owe some money. Anyhow, Yvette got all upset about my first reaction and accused me of fancying Rosie and I told her she was one to talk after flirting with old Henry and, well ... ," Charley tapered off. "Does that answer your question?"

"Aye, you always seem to have an answer for everything." Or maybe Charley was a good improviser.

"We c.o.c.kneys are known for thinking on our feet," Charley said brightly. "We walk the walk and talk the talk. So, are we going to put Wanda into cold storage with Henry?"

"I think we'd better leave her here with the window open as the doctor instructed for the first body."

"Blimey. First a poisoning, then a clobbering, and now a smothering. I think I'll keep Yvette locked in our suite."

"Not a bad idea. It's been one murder a day since the first." Rex opened the bedside drawer and rummaged among the various items. The master key was missing.

"Here, check this out," Charley said, turning a page of the small photo alb.u.m Rex had inventoried the night before. "It's a diary, and you are mentioned, mate-in very flattering terms, I might add."

"I thought it was just photos."

"Well, I never," Charley continued, immersed in the diary. "Talk about immature."

Rex reached for it, hoping to find something useful as he leafed through the pages written in a spiked longhand. The bulk of Wanda's recent entries was dedicated to her thoughts and feelings regarding her divorce, her New Year resolutions, and hyperbolic descriptions of the glorious snow, which turned to invective as the pages progressed: "Sod this snow!; When's this b.l.o.o.d.y snow going to end?"

He read the entry for yesterday, December 23: "... Rosie left her key in my door this morning when she came in to clean. I took it and later went into Henry's room but couldn't find the antique cameo he promised me. No wonder-Anthony told me tonight he'd advised Y. to put it in the safe. How did the little minx get hold of it? I bet she stole it ..."

The next entry, for the same day but in different ink, must have been written late last night: "Patrick curled my hair. New look for the New Year!! We argued about who had murdered Miriam. He thinks it's Clifford, though Rex doesn't appear to agree-he seems quite friendly with the old man. He had better hurry up and find the killer ..."

Amen to that, Rex thought, and read on: "Helen seems cosy with Rex, though she refuses to discuss it. I got a kiss off him under the mistletoe. I think he's rather hunky. He has gorgeous green eyes that give off sparks when he is amused. I wonder what he's like in bed?!! ..."

Rex felt his face go scarlet. "... The other day, I saw Mrs. S. go into the safe behind the painting in the library. I was surprised to find it was an old-fashioned key lock safe-I suppose a combination safe is too high-tech for the old dragon. No cameo in there, but I came across something else of interest. I wonder if Rosie knows yet and if she told Charley. I think there is something going on between them. I caught them flirting yesterday in the library when Y. was playing Tiddlywinks with Henry. She's been looking very guilty since then ..."

Overactive imagination or boredom, or both? Rex pocketed the diary. "You're in here too," he told Charley. "Featured with Rosie."

"Oh, that," Charley replied in an off-hand manner.

"Did you find anything else of interest lying around?"

"Nothing in the bathroom that she could have taken if she'd wanted to kill herself. I found this note from Helen by the door."

Rex read the folded sheet of hotel stationery.

Wanda, Am skiing down to the village with Rex. Didn't want to wake you. See you later.

Helen As the men left the room, Helen came rushing up the stairs and bowled into Rex's arms. "I shouldn't have left her!" she wailed. "I was just so thrilled at the prospect of going down to the village."

"We can't be sure exactly what time it happened, hen."

"And there I was sitting in the pub telling you how emotionally fragile she was!" Helen sobbed against his chest.

"We don't think it was suicide," he said, cupping the back of her head in his hand.

Charley paused at the top of the stairs. "I'll go and tell the others, shall I?"

"Aye. Tell them to be on their guard. And let's try to keep everyone in one room for now." He turned his attention back to the woman in his arms. "Helen, listen to me. Did Wanda keep her door locked?"

Helen nodded. "I entered her room through mine when I found her and left through her door to the corridor. I should have gone in to check on her this morning, but I didn't want to wake her. I just slipped the note under the door to let her know I was going to the village."

"Shhh." He stroked her hair, which gave off an effervescent scent of lacquer. "Did you know Wanda had a spare key to Henry's room?"

Helen glanced up with a puzzled frown. "No, I didn't." She pulled away from him. "Do you think she could have taken it from Mrs. Smithings' office?"

"No, she stole it from Rosie. Mrs. Smithings keeps the keys locked up. The strange thing is, I couldna find the key just now when I searched the room, and Rosie told me she didn't have it either. It was there last night."

"I don't know anything about it."

"Wanda used the key to go into Lawdry's room and burn incense."

Helen furrowed her brow. "How bizarre. Maybe she was trying to transfer the grief over her divorce onto something she was more familiar with, like death. Her parents pa.s.sed away last year."

"Did you see her after she left with Patrick last night?"

She shook her head. "I heard their voices next door, but then I fell asleep. I don't know how long Patrick was in there doing her hair."

"I'll ask Mrs. Smithings about the key, see if it found its way back to her."

Rex wondered how the proprietor was taking the news of a third death in her hotel.

Clifford sat at the old pine table working on the Brussels sprouts when Rex left Helen and came downstairs.

"Goodness, man. How many of those do you have left to do?" Rex asked.