Christmas is Murder (17 page)

“I asked Clifford to clear the snow off your windscreen.”

Helen winced. “Now I know I’m in trouble.”

“Let me take your suitcase.”

“You really should put on a coat. You’ll freeze.”

Rex picked up the case and followed her out the door and down the newly shoveled path to the parking area off the driveway. She popped open the trunk of a Renault and tucked in her bags, leaving space for the suitcase. Rex closed the hatch while she tried to start the car. The engine neighed slowly on the first two attempts and then caught.

Leaving the car idling, she got out and turned to Rex. “So this is goodbye,” she said with a trembling smile.

“I canna stand goodbye, so ’tis farewell.”

Helen fell onto his chest, sobbing against his sweater. “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I meant to be so brave.”

“Ah, lassie.” He cupped her bonnet in one hand and held her against him while she regained control of herself.

“It’s just been too much, what with Wanda and everything,” she explained.

“I know.” Holding her elbow, he assisted her back into the car.

She pulled the door closed and buzzed down the window. Her smudged mascara brought out the pale blue of her eyes. “I best get going. The coroner’s van is pulling out.”

Turning around, he saw the van inch its way toward them through the grooves in the snow. As it passed, he tapped on the roof of the car, and Helen put it into gear. He stood back and watched her leave. The exhaust chugged out gray plumes in the cold air, which penetrated his sweater like needles of ice.

“Stay in touch,” he called out, forming a megaphone with his numb hands.

Helen waved back from the car.

“Promise!”

He could not hear her reply. The car turned out of the gates. His hands fell to his sides, a mass of emotions writhing in the pit of his stomach. Would he ever see her again?

It was up to him. He held the cards—until she met someone else, or resigned herself to Clive. Rex felt a twinge of panic. He had lost too many people.

“Chestnuts roasting on an
open fire,” Patrick sang out as he stalked toward the fireplace with a handful of mahogany-shelled nuts. “Bellows gave me these and chased me out of the kitchen. Said she could manage quite well with Clifford and that dinner would be on the table in half an hour. She apologizes for the delay due to the police investigation.”

Rex sat back in his armchair with a tumbler of vintage port in one hand and his pipe in the other. The dog scrambled into his lap and rested its black muzzle on its forepaws. He patted its wiry coat, remembering how he’d brought it to Swanmere Manor only three days before—so much had happened in that short time.

“
Acta est fabula,
” he said, speaking before he knew it.

“You what?” Charley asked.

“It’s Latin,” Patrick said.

“The drama has been acted out,” Rex translated.

“It certainly has.” Anthony, legs crossed in his chair by the fire, held up his glass of port as if to admire the amber lights reflecting off the flames. “To absent acquaintances,” he toasted.

“To absent acquaintances,” Rex repeated solemnly. “Patrick, when are you going to let me see that drawing you did of me?” he asked after observing several moments of silence.

The young man picked the sketchpad off the sofa and showed him the portrait.

“It makes me look superior.” Though Rex thought it was actually quite flattering. “Can you add a wee bit of colour? Mrs. Wilcox might like to have it.” He wondered again how she would be spending Christmas in Iraq.

“On one condition,” Patrick said.

“What’s that?”

“That you let me change the colour of that cravat.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s orange.” Patrick made a disparaging face. “Aubergine would bring out the green of your eyes more and would go better with your brown corduroy suit.”

“Corduroy!” Anthony lamented.

“Oh, verra well then.”

“So what’s this about a Mrs. Wilcox?” Charley asked.

Yvette nudged him. “It’s rude to ask questions.”

“He asked us all those questions. It’s only right he should answer ours.”

Rex ducked his chin, smiling. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“About this Mrs. Wilcox, for starters.”

“Anything but that. Thanks,” he said, accepting the fire-cracked chestnut from Patrick’s iron tongs.

He juggled it from one hand to the other. Once it was cool enough, he peeled off the shell and bit into the sweet meat. This, more than anything, encapsulated the taste of Christmas, he reflected. He dedicated a wistful thought to Helen who would be on the long drive north to Derbyshire by now. He thought about the swans on the lake, her bare feet on his heels, the kiss under the mistletoe …

“Cheer up, Rex, it’s Christmas,” Patrick murmured, intent on his drawing.

“Aye, so it is.”

Rex fell into a reverie. So much for a peaceful Yuletide. On top of everything, he had witnessed the downfall of the indomitable Mrs. Smithings—disconcerting to realize that one of the bastions of his childhood had crumbled so ignobly … He wondered if she had subtly thrown him the challenge of solving the mystery. He wouldn’t put it past her. She may even have hoped he would solve it. Her voice echoed in his head:
Reginald, you always were one step ahead of everybody else.