Christmas is Murder Read Online Free PDF

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 assuring 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 brass doorknob 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 petite brunette pass 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