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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 Brasso filled the whitewashed room, all but smothering the reek of mildew rising from the assortment 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 Brasso 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 assumed 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 Cockney 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 scraps of chicken from the kitchen counter, Rex wrapped them in his handkerchief and made his way back to the foyer. As he passed 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 apron and gave him a defiant little smile.
    “Is everything okay, lass?” 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 Sussex girl.”
    “The country air does