Read Christmas is Murder for Free Online Page B

perplexed. Most mothers wanted to talk about their sons, living or dead. His own mother bored the ears off the ladies of the Morningside—genteelly pronounced Moarningsaide —tea and scone set with accounts of his professional exploits. When she received visitors, she had him buy flowers— Nothing extravagant, mind— so she could boast that her doting son had given them to her.
    He was on the point of asking Mrs. Smithings about Rosie’s sister when his cell phone trilled in his pocket. The LCD listed a London number. He excused himself and hurried back to his room to take the call in private. “Thaddeus,” he said. “Any luck?”
    The young law clerk at the other end informed him that he’d managed to get hold of Lawdry’s solicitor and that the old man had not died intestate after all, having left everything to Claws, his cat. No human had stood to gain by his death, and Thaddeus could find no ties between the deceased and any of the hotel staff or guests, whose names and addresses Rex had supplied him from the guest book in the hall.
    “I did find out that Anthony Smart was up on a charge of drunk and disorderly behaviour at a gay bar last year, but got off with a fine,” the clerk said. “Is there anything else you’d like me to check out?”
    Rex said he would be in touch—right now he was at a dead end. Henry Lawdry’s alleged murder was without apparent motive.
    ___
    Rex noticed the puppy sniffing items around the walls of his room and getting ready to raise its hind leg against a giant potted fern. “Argh, noo,” he said, scooping him up in his arms. “Ye canna do that.”
    He took the dog downstairs and through the scullery to the back door, leaving him in Clifford’s care. “Och, I’ll be back later,” Rex said when it looked up at him in reproach through the raccoon markings around its eyes.
    He ambled into the drawing room where most of the guests were biding time until dinner, and took up a position by one of the west-facing windows. The white-blanketed lawns disappeared into darkness.
    “I love doing hair,” Patrick Vance was saying, “and Anthony has so little. If you have the rollers, I have the time.”
    Turning around, Rex saw that the young man was addressing Wanda Martyr. Helen nodded to her friend in encouragement.
    “When do you want to do it?” Wanda asked Patrick.
    “How about after dinner?”
    “All right then. That way I’ll look fab for Christmas Eve. After all, it’s not like there’s a whole lot to do around here.”
    “I feel like I’m living in a Christmas card, the time we spend in this room,” Helen agreed. “It’s all very pretty, of course, but I’m beginning to get cabin fever.”
    “Aye,” Rex said from the window. “And I came down from Scotland thinking I might play a bit o’ tennis and do some hiking.” He sought an armchair among the guests. Only the honeymooners were absent.
    “Wanda and I managed to get some walking in before the snow started,” Helen told him. “We took the bridle path between Eastbourne and Alfriston, and crossed the downs above the ancient Long Man. It’s the size of a football field and cut out of the chalk. And there’s a pretty Norman church in Jevington that’s worth a visit too.”
    As Rex observed once again, Helen was an attractive woman with a cheerful and sensible air about her. “I came here as a boy,” he told her. “It was summer—buttercups and red campion everywhere. There was a place we used to call Bluebell Valley. I was fond of nature rambles and badger-watching back then. Aye, I would’ve liked to have done some walking meself.”
    “This hotel needs more activities,” Patrick said. “For a start, the old conservatory is never used. I’d put in a huge jacuzzi, paint a tropical fresco, and install lots of exotic plants.”
    “We could convert the library into a pool room,” Anthony suggested.
    Helen smiled. “I doubt Mrs. Smithings would approve of your renovations.”
    “Mrs. Mothballs