"We'll be lucky if he's finished by Christmas morning," Mrs. Bellows remarked from the sink. "I'll have to do the peas and carrots myself."

"Clifford, I bought you a bottle of sherry. It's in the drawing room. Helen had a drop because she had a bit of a turn, but the rest is for you."

The old man's beady eyes lit up.

"Is she all right now?" the cook asked. "What happened?"

Apparently, she hadn't heard about Wanda. "She will be. By the way, it seems you're famous at the Swanmere Arms."

" 'Bull's-Eye Bellows,' they call me in the village. Our team took the East Suss.e.x darts trophy again this year."

"Well done. Anyway," Rex said turning back to Clifford. "The sherry is my way of saying thank you for looking after the wee dog. How is he, by the way? I brought him a treat."

"I keep him in the lodge now. He's right at home. Won't bother her there."

"He's getting fat off all the sc.r.a.ps from the kitchen," Mrs. Bellows added. "It's better than throwing stuff away."

"I put a sign up in the village with the hotel number on it. If they ever get the phones working, someone may call to claim him."

"Nar!" Clifford cried, staring accusingly at Rex. "Ee be mine now. 'Ee likes it 'ere. In the spring 'ee'll be chasing rabbits and 'aving 'isself a rare ould time."

Rex hesitated. "Well, I see no reason why you canna keep him. He was clearly abandoned. If Mrs. Smithings gives you trouble over it, I'll talk to her." Clifford looked appeased. "You could train him to go after the rats in the attic-terriers are hunting dogs. Have you got a name for him yet?"

"Rex."

"A grand name! And I'm glad he found a home. I hope I'll see him before I leave."

"I'll bring young Rex over later when She retires for the evenin' so you can see how well 'ee's doing."

"Well, give him this in the meantime." Rex deposited a sliver of moist cake on the table, and Clifford s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and dropped it in his pocket with a speed Rex hadn't known the old man possessed. "Is Mrs. Smithings aboot?" he asked the cook.

"She's in the library looking over the accounts. There's more room at that desk. She said she didn't want to be disturbed for half an hour."

Returning to the deserted drawing room, Rex sank into an armchair and filled his pipe with slow deliberation. His gaze drifted across the navy blue and cream tones of the carpet and up the blue walls to the cross-beamed ceiling. A third murder to unravel. With a sigh of discouragement, he stuck the pipe in his mouth and wrote up his notes: Patrick last-known person to see Wanda alive.

Rosie mentioned in diary flirting with Charley and in context of

there being something in the safe that might interest her.

Key missing from Wanda's drawer.

People with access to room:.

Patrick could have taken key when he was in Wanda's room

styling her hair.

Rosie had Mrs. Smithings' key.

Pencil poised on the next line, Rex hesitated. Helen said the adjoining door to Wanda's room had been unlocked. This possibility was not one Rex wished to pursue, but he must explore every angle and not let his feelings for Helen blind him to the facts. He duly wrote: Helen did not need key to enter Wanda's room.

Now he had to consider how Wanda's murder fitted in with the other two. Who had motive? Was it someone who wanted to discredit the hotel, hoping subsequently to purchase it at below market value? Or was it someone who wished to cause embarra.s.sment to Mrs. Smithings? Perhaps the culprit harbored an old grievance against one of the guests and caused the multiple deaths as a cover-up. Or maybe it was a medical professional with a G.o.d complex who thought they could simply get away with murder.

If time would just stand still for a while, perhaps he could puzzle it all out clearly and calmly ... Time standing still, no ticking clock. Losing all sense of time in this place. No newspapers delivered in days. A stack of old ones by the hearth, ready for tinder. A burning ma.n.u.script. Charred bits of words. 1 Qa ...

Rex sprang from his chair and rummaged through the pile of newspapers by the fireplace, skimming the headlines. Al Qaeda. Of course. The terrorist organization was all over the news. The "l" wasn't the number "one" but the letter "l"; "Qaeda" hadn't made it into the hotel library's old edition of the Concise Oxford Dictionary.

Where did that lead him in his investigations? Anthony's comment at breakfast about President Bush could implicate him as the arsonist. But did he murder the literary agent? On impulse, Rex retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed his mother's temporary number in Perth, surprised when the call held and his mother answered, "The McTaggart residence."

"Mother!"

"Reginald, is that you, dear? You sound so far away. Are ye well?"

"Aye, and yerself? How is Jean doing?"

"Better, I think. She ate some broth and kept it down. But I don't want ye running up those long distance cell phone minutes! Ye know how expensive those bills can be."

"Don't worry about that. I may not have long-my connection might be interrupted again."

"How is Dahlia, poor lamb?"

Rex could think of various ways to describe Mrs. Smithings. A lamb was not one of them. He decided not to go into details. "Bearing up fine," he told her.

"Have ye heard from Moira?"

Moira and his mother shared the same first name, which was why he referred to his girlfriend as Mrs. Wilc.o.x, to avoid confusion. A member of the Charitable Ladies of Morningside like his mother, she had left Edinburgh's wealthy south-west district to restore schools and water purification systems in Baghdad.

"Not even a Christmas card," he said, closing the drawing room doors for privacy. "Mother, is Mrs. Smithings p.r.o.ne to violence?"

"No-oo! Why d'you say that? What's going on down there? Why are ye-"

"Mother!" Rex shouted into the phone-but the call had been dropped. He tried dialing again without success; his mother wouldn't call on her friend's phone, worried as she would be about cost. In any case, his line of inquiry was a long shot. Mrs. Smithings had not been around at the time of the first two murders and lacked the strength to commit the third. He wandered to the round table, which Rosie had not yet cleared, and served himself a cup of lukewarm tea.

Of everyone, Rosie had had the most opportunity to poison Lawdry, but no one recalled her serving him. The guests had all helped themselves. Could she have pushed Miriam down the stairs? According to Helen, she had been collecting teacups in this room. In any case, what motive did the young girl have for murdering the guests, especially if she had a stake in the hotel's success? Her sister had been hoping for something in Mrs. Smithings' will. Quite possibly Rosie was hoping for the same.

He was going round in circles and getting nowhere.

By the time he managed to make a few local calls, Mrs. Smithings had vacated the library, and he knocked at the parlor-office door. Her voice bade him come in.

"h.e.l.lo, Reginald," she said from her desk. "No doubt you have come to talk about Wanda Martyr. Quite an extraordinary turn of events."

"Ah, you heard."

"Well, naturally. Walls have ears. Rosie told me. But we are going to keep it from Clifford and Mrs. Bellows if we can. We cannot afford to lose our cook. We're short-handed as it is."

Rex perched on a straight-back chair. "They'll find out soon enough. The police will be here asking questions. I was able to make a few calls on my mobile just now."

"When do you suppose they will arrive?"

"Tomorrow morning. And the village constable expects train service to resume the day after."

"I see. And whom will you put forward as your likely suspects?"

"At this point in time, everyone is a suspect and no one is a suspect."

"Poppyc.o.c.k. I'm sure you have formed an idea."

"Ideas are not facts. Actually, I wanted to ask you if you saw anyone go into Wanda Martyr's room this morning?"

"I was here in the parlour from eight until eleven, catching up on paper work and practicing on the pianoforte."

Rex noticed the instrument squashed in a corner. "Were all the rooms made up this morning?"

"I believe so." Mrs. Smithings sounded weary.

"I can imagine how exhausting this must be for you ..."

"Can you? I wonder ..." She reviewed her claw-like hands. "The arthritis alone causes chronic fatigue, you know. My playing is not what it used to be, but it helps to keep the fingers exercised."

"Aye, I noticed you had rheumatoid arthritis medication in your suite."

"The anti-inflammatory pills work better on the smaller joints. My elbows and shoulders suffer most."

"Clifford has the same complaint," Rex remarked, nodding in a gesture of sympathy.

"And complains about it incessantly!"

Rex listened patiently to her ailments, though Mrs. Smithings was no older than his mother, a woman still spry for her age. They'd both had their sons late in life.

Rex picked up a small oval-framed photograph of Rodney taken at about the age Rex had seen him on his last visit to Swanmere. "I'm sorry about what happened to your son. I spoke briefly with my mother this evening before we were cut off. She sends her warmest regards."

"Dear Moira." Mrs. Smithings took the photograph and gazed at it through her reading spectacles. "It was too big a sacrifice, Reginald. He was all I had left."

All those sons lost in Iraq and Afghanistan, all those grieving mothers. Rex considered how his own mother would cope if something happened to him. The thought made his heart contract most painfully.

Mrs. Smithings returned the photograph to its place on the table. With nothing else to add, Rex retreated to the drawing room where the fire flickered cheerfully in welcome counterpoint to the formal atmosphere of the parlor. He was itching to look in the library safe and see what Wanda had referred to in her diary, but decided to wait until he was sure he wouldn't be seen. Settling into an armchair, he pulled out his notebook.

When Rosie entered the room to announce dinner an hour later, he was so absorbed by the lists and Venn diagrams covering the pages that he jumped in his seat.

"Where are the others?" she asked in surprise.

"Keeping to their rooms, I expect. I'll round them up for you."

"I'd be so grateful. My legs are killing me. I've been up and down those stairs like a yo-yo."

"Rosie," he said. "Did you make up room number five this morning-Ms. Martyr's room?"

"I knocked, and when she didn't answer, I went in. But she was asleep so I crept out again."

"What time was this?"

"Must've been about eleven."

"Are you sure?" Wanda would probably have been dead by then.

"Yes. I left her room until last since she sometimes slept late. She was out like a light."

"Whose key did you use?"

"I didn't need a key. The door from Ms. d'Arcy's room was unlocked. I did her room first." Rosie chewed her bottom lip.

"What is it, la.s.s?"

"Well, about an hour before that, I was about to knock on Ms. d'Arcy's door to deliver clean towels when I heard her say something like, 'Oh, Wanda, I'm sorry to have to do this but you deserve it. You took Paul from me and I'm not going to let you stand in my way again.' The door was slightly ajar and I heard her clearly. I didn't think much about it at the time, but later, when I learned that her friend had died, I-I ..."

"You interpreted the words in a different light."

"Exactly."

"What did Wanda say in reply?"

"Nothing. It was like Ms. d'Arcy was talking to herself, only she sounded a bit worked up. Anyway, I had my hand to the door, ready to knock, and decided not to as it sounded private."

Rex nodded and turned toward the French doors. What was the significance of what Rosie had heard Helen say? The fact that Rosie mentioned the name Paul gave her story a ring of truth. Deep in thought, he mounted the stairs and knocked at the honeymoon suite, then Helen's room, and finally at Patrick and Anthony's. "Dinner is ready," he told the guests. He escorted Helen downstairs. "Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded shakily. "A bit. I wrote a letter to Paul explaining what happened-as far as I could explain. It's easier than talking on the phone. I haven't really spoken to him since he ditched me for Wanda all those years ago. I'm sure he'll be glad he won't have to pay alimony now," she said with a trace of bitterness.

By the time they reached the dining room, a starter of smoked salmon adorned with a round of lemon awaited on each of the six plates. Anthony and Patrick followed them into the room.

"Well, isn't this cosy?" Anthony commented in ironic fashion, taking his seat at the head of the table between Rex and Patrick.

Yvette and Charley completed the group.

"Just us three couples left," the c.o.c.kney said, shaking out his linen napkin, which had been folded into a swan.

Yvette admired hers. "How sweet." She continued to stare at it, her mind clearly elsewhere.

"Aye. Helen was telling me this afternoon how swans mate for life."