"Very well. And what about the guests?"

"Not at this point. Charley and I have agreed to keep the matter to ourselves and just observe."

"Good. It's trying enough for the guests not to be able to leave the hotel."

"I would like to see Mr. Lawdry's room, however."

"Really? How gruesome." Dahlia Smithings fingered her pearl choker. "We put plastic beneath him and covered him up with a sheet. I have no idea what state he will be in now. Well, take this master key. It's the one I give Louise to make up the rooms. And one more thing, Reginald ... Did your mother knit you that sweater?"

"Aye, she did."

"I thought so. She always did lack taste in clothes. The blue clashes most dreadfully with your red hair. I just thought I should mention it."

"Er, thank you." Feeling like he'd just been brought to task by a school headmistress for not wiping his nose, Rex got up and, careful not to upset the numerous delicate items that impeded his bulky progress to the door, gratefully left Mrs. Smithings' presence.

Charley was hovering outside the door. "How did it go?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"I can talk to the staff, but Mrs. Smithings thinks I'm on a wild goose chase."

"Maybe it was the old bat herself who did Henry in."

"Why would she want to murder a paying guest?"

Charley shrugged. "Why would anyone want to murder him?"

"I canna imagine. But there must be a connection somewhere." Rex checked his watch. "There's someone in London I need to call. He clerks for a friend of mine. Perhaps he can look into Lawdry's background and come up with a motive for someone to kill him. First you need to tell me everything you know about the old man."

"Yvette could tell you more. She spent quite a bit of time with Henry, said she felt sorry for him. Yvette's soft-hearted that way. She was playing Tiddlywinks with him just before tea yesterday."

"I'll talk to her. Oh, by the way, Charley, is there anything wrong with my sweater?"

"Is it back to front?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh, I get it. It's inside out."

"The colour, man. Is it a bit loud?"

"Oh! Nah, I wouldn't say that. But then I'm a bit colour blind myself. You'd have to ask Yvette. Yvette, luv," he called into the drawing room where she sat chatting to Helen, and knitting a scarf. "Rex wants a word. In private."

"I'll be in the library," Rex told him, crossing the foyer.

He put a quick call through to the office of Browne, Quiggley & Squire, thankful that the law clerk was working late and that the library was deserted so he could conduct his conversation in private. The lamp on the leather-top partners' desk formed a pool of light, leaving the outer reaches of the room in darkness. As Rex waited for Yvette, he contemplated, within the illuminated radius, an antique still life of flowers and pears mellowed with age and encased by books-though in his mind's eye he was seeing the remains of Lawdry's pastry.

Poison, Rex mused, was often a woman's recourse, or a doctor's. Charley had pharmaceutical knowledge and could not be ruled out, even if he had been the one to alert Rex to the possibility of cyanide in the first place-perhaps as a bluff?

Presently, Yvette joined him and, after a.s.suring him that his sweater was nice, very nice indeed, and much better purl work than she could ever do herself, proceeded to tell him what she knew about Henry Lawdry. In her jeans and fleecy cardigan, Rex thought she looked barely old enough to be married. "Why are you asking about him?" she asked.

"I thought I'd write a wee obituary."

"Oh, how sweet of you. From what he told me, he doesn't have any family except that estranged son in Melbourne. He said he had no one to leave his money to. His son has done very well for himself in Australia. I don't expect he'll find out about his father's death until he's contacted by the solicitor. Don't forget to mention Henry was one of the first paratroopers to land in Normandy in World War II," Yvette added proudly.

Rex thanked her and, thumbing the master key in his pocket, went upstairs. Just as he set foot on the landing, he heard a squeak and saw the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b turn in number four. What was somebody doing in the dead man's room? Flattening himself against the wall, he held his breath. The door clicked shut and steps approached down the carpet. Light on his feet for a man of his proportions, Rex darted back into the stairwell in time to glimpse a pet.i.te brunette pa.s.s along the landing toward the east wing. Close call, he thought, wondering what business Wanda Martyr had in that room.

Once the coast was clear, he inserted his key into the lock and eased open the door. The room felt colder than a tomb in spite of his warm sweater and woolen gloves. The drapes drawn across the open window admitted a ghostly light. An unusual smell, beyond what he'd expected, made him think of church. He shivered.

The deceased was laid out on a handsome sleigh bed, a sheet draped over his body. Rex switched on the bedside lamp and turned back the sheet, exposing an old face touched with the dignity and pallor of death. He noticed the empty left sleeve. Slipping his fingers into the jacket pockets, Rex encountered small smooth discs and pulled out a couple of Tiddlywinks. After re-covering the body, he inspected the items on the dressing table, which included a starched handkerchief monogrammed "H.D.L."

Back on the landing, he let out a shuddering sigh. Since viewing his father in a coffin at age seven, Rex felt shaken to the core whenever confronted by mortality. Death had not made sense to him then, and the words spoken by the minister at the graveside, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," failed to comfort him to this day.

Clutching the banister, he made his way down to the drawing room where Patrick Vance sat by the fireside smoking a cigarette. Rex decided to take advantage of finding the young man alone to sound him out about Lawdry. Artists typically had a keen eye. "Not sketching?" he asked.

"I'm pretty much running out of subject matter. I may add some colour to the robin later."

"I admire your talent. I don't have a creative bone in my body."

"Still, you know Latin," Patrick retorted with a grin, revealing the gap in his teeth which lent him a demonic air.

Rex picked up the matchbox balancing on the armrest. The lid depicted Swanmere Manor, a surprising concession to commercialism on Mrs. Smithings' part. "I heard there was a death in this room yesterday," he prompted. "Not what you were all expecting, I'm sure."

"Hardly. One minute the old man is chatting away about his dentures, the next-dead as a doorpost!" Patrick described the scene at tea.

After interjecting a few questions, Rex felt he had a good idea of who was where and who did and said what. "Where's Anthony?" he asked.

"Napping. He'd kill me if he found me smoking. Miriam can't abide it either, so she's working on her precious ma.n.u.script in the library at the far side of the house. Don't get me wrong, not all Yanks are bad. Some of our American clients at Smart Design are very cultured and have impeccable taste. Most are from New York. Miriam just rubs me up the wrong way."

"Aye, I know what you mean. How do you get on with Wanda?"

"Wanda?" Patrick blew out a puff of smoke in a disdainful manner. "She'd be all right if she stopped harping on about her b.l.o.o.d.y divorce. Why d'you ask?"

"A curious thing, really. I could swear I saw her come out of Lawdry's room just now. I wonder who gave her the key ..."

"I wouldn't go in there if you paid me."

"Perhaps she had a special affection for the old man."

With an immaculately kept hand, Patrick stubbed out his cigarette in the bronze ashtray. "I don't think so, not really. Helen spent more time with him, and so did Yvette. Old Lawdry was quite the ladies' man! Ah, well, may G.o.d rest his soul and all that."

"Amen. Anyhow, I'll leave you to your solitude, see what's brewing in the kitchen." Hands in his pockets, Rex sauntered down the hall to the s.p.a.cious scrubbed kitchen where a robust older woman in an ap.r.o.n was sauteing diced celery, carrots, onions, and chili pepper in an industrial-size wok. "Mm, is that curry I smell?" he asked.

"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 a.s.sumed 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 ap.r.o.n. "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 Bra.s.so filled the whitewashed room, all but smothering the reek of mildew rising from the a.s.sortment 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 Bra.s.so 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 a.s.sumed 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 c.o.c.kney 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 sc.r.a.ps of chicken from the kitchen counter, Rex wrapped them in his handkerchief and made his way back to the foyer. As he pa.s.sed 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 ap.r.o.n and gave him a defiant little smile.

"Is everything okay, la.s.s?" 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 Suss.e.x 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?"