Part 11 (2/2)
Rex coughed in apology. ”I didn't want to disturb you earlier. I'll put everything back where I found it.”
”You are quite welcome to use the skis. I would have offered them to you had I remembered we still had them.”
”Thank you. Oh, by the way, are you missing a key?”
”Yes. Did you find it? Rosie misplaced hers when she was cleaning upstairs yesterday. I had to give her mine.”
”I think I know where the other one is. How many master keys do you have?”
”Three. Mine, the one I give Louise-which is now in your possession-and Rosie's. I get them back at the end of the day and lock them up in the safe. I keep mine on my person.”
Rex thanked her again for the use of the skis and proceeded on his way. Clifford sat at the pine table slicing the bottoms off Brussels sprouts. Rex decided to leave the sherry in his pocket until the old man was alone.
”What delicious recipe have you prepared for our tea?” he asked Mrs. Bellows, who was sharpening her carving knife with gusto at the counter, no doubt in readiness for the turkey the following day.
”Marzipan-covered fruit cake topped with royal icing.”
Rex was not sure he liked the sound of that. Marzipan was almond paste and the thought of eating it made him anxious.
”I've been feeding the cake brandy since November,” the cook added. ”It's full of currants, raisins, and cherries, a bit like your Scottish Whisky Dundee.”
”Aye, my mother makes that, but without the whisky.”
Mrs. Bellows shook her head in disapproval. ”Fancy that. I put in at least two tablespoons of brandy. And I add chopped walnuts, citron peel, and angelica to make it extra special.”
”You have forty-five minutes until tea,” Mrs. Smithings reminded him.
As Rex pa.s.sed the drawing room, he caught sight of Helen chatting to Patrick and Anthony. Approaching the front door, he noticed shadows moving behind the frosted swirls of gla.s.s. Through a clear pane in the sidelight, he saw a bareheaded Charley and a hooded Yvette standing beside a snowman. While her husband studded the face with stones, forming a mirthless grin and sightless eyes, Yvette stuck twigs in its sides for arms. She was wearing smooth-soled fas.h.i.+on boots, and Rex hoped she wouldn't slip on the patches of ice glistening beneath the porch light.
He considered warning her to be careful and donating his scarf to the snowman, but the prospect of a nice warm bath lured him on up the stairs. Rosie was running a carpet sweeper along the landing. ”Do you never get a rest, la.s.s?” he asked.
She made a resigned face. ”Mrs. Smithings promised me a bonus for all the extra work. I'm saving up for a car.”
”What sort of car are you thinking of buying?”
”A Mini Cooper.”
”Good choice. I have one of those.”
”You do?” Rosie looked surprised. ”I imagine you in a bigger car.”
”I'm all about fuel efficiency. If I have to travel long distances, I go by train. That way I can get some work done.”
”I'll never take the train again,” Rosie declared.
”Oh, Rosie, I'm sorry. I heard about your sister and I forgot. How clumsy of me.”
”It's all right,” the girl said with an effort, and then in a more cheerful voice: ”You're all bundled up. Did you go out somewhere?”
”Aye, down to the pub.”
”That must have been fun.”
”It was. I heard your sister used to go to the Swanmere Arms.”
”They do like to gossip in the village, don't they?”
”So, what brought you here?”
”I thought there might be an opportunity for advancement. Marie talked about how lonely Mrs. Smithings was and how there were no young relatives to leave all this to.” Rosie looked about her in some awe. ”She said if she stayed long enough, Mrs. Smithings might leave her something. Mrs. Smithings still calls me Marie sometimes.”
”Aye, she gets a little confused on occasion. Anyhow, I best get on with my bath or I'll miss tea.”
”Wouldn't want to miss that,” Rosie said.
Rex smiled and crossed to his room. As he put his hand on the k.n.o.b, he remembered. ”Ah, Rosie? Did you get your key back?” He imagined she gave a start.
”No.”
He entered his room, pleased to see that the bed had been properly made and a new bar of lavender soap placed on a clean hand towel. Quickly exchanging his layers of clothes for his bathrobe, he grabbed his wash bag and scooted to the men's room while Rosie's back was turned, embarra.s.sed to be seen in a state of undress.
The bathroom had been modernized back in the sixties. The copper pipes shuddered as water cascaded into the white tub, spewing steam from the faucet. Hot water really did have its own distinctive smell, Rex thought. It was reminiscent of something. He paused in the act of untying his flannel belt, recalling the precise moment he had made that discovery. He'd been no more than eleven, and it was here, in this house. He and Rodney were canoeing at the old mill, shooting down the short white-water rapids, the river glacial even in summer. Rodney upturned the canoe and they clambered, frozen-limbed and s.h.i.+vering, onto the bank and sought the remedy of a hot bath. And now Rodney Smithings was dead.
Easing into the scalding water, Rex guessed it must be a little past four. Splas.h.i.+ng about in his haste, he soaped his washcloth and scrubbed from the back of his ears all the way to his toes, which were thawing out in almost excruciating pain. He swept the towel from the chair and briskly dried himself. The mirror was misted up. No matter: he would shave in his room.
The face that presented itself five minutes later was ruddy and smooth around his whiskers, which were graying to the ginger shade of sandstone. He hesitated over the blue sweater and decided on his camel-colored one instead. Surely Mrs. Smithings wouldn't object to that. Why did he care? Fear of being rebuked, no doubt dating back to his childhood, he guessed. Ludicrous that he should be afraid of her censure, even now.
With a last look around the room, he picked up the paper bag containing the sherry and made for the drawing room. Helen was seated on a sofa beside Patrick with her anorak and scarf spread around her, everyone intent on watching Anthony in the midst of a pantomime. The charades had begun, the gaiety and colored lights on the tree belying the presence of murder. Rex took a chair.
”We were just warming up while we waited for you and Wanda,” Charley told him. ”We haven't a.s.signed teams yet. It's a free for all.”
Anthony, his face animated above his gray V-neck sweater, laid two fingers on his arm.
”Film and book t.i.tle, five words,” Helen informed Rex. ”This is the first word. It's two syllables.”
Anthony mimed shooting himself in the head, then stabbing himself, and collapsed in a dramatic pose on the floor.
”Murder!” Charley and Patrick cried out in unison.
Rex stared at the entranced faces. How quickly people forgot.
Anthony touched his nose while pointing to Charley and then Patrick. Next he held up two fingers and made a sign as though measuring a tiny fish.
”Preposition!” Helen exclaimed.
Anthony made the pointing gesture again.
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