Christmas is Murder by C. S. Challinor Page A

check. “Hang on,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”
    He hurried across the foyer to the front door. Upon opening it, a blast of chill air hit his face. The snow beyond the steps lay undisturbed—no one had used that door. Down the driveway, as though through a snow globe, he could just make out the tiny red brick gatehouse with its built-out bay window and flint-walled garden.
    Pondering events, he closed the door. If everyone were to be believed, no one saw Miriam enter the kitchen. Clifford had gone back to the scullery. Anthony was in the cellar, Sandy Bellows in the powder room, and Mrs. Smithings upstairs. Rosie was clearing up in the drawing room and Helen was wandering about downstairs with her phone.
    “What did you do next?” he asked Helen when he returned to the table.
    “I tried to get a signal from the drawing room. I asked Rosie where Mrs. Smithings had gone, and she said upstairs as she was complaining of a headache and needed to lie down.”
    “What was Rosie doing in the drawing room?”
    “She was tidying up. She said she would be in shortly to serve the main course. I lingered awhile as there was a big blaze in the fireplace. It was nice and warm, unlike in here.” Helen rubbed her arms. “It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?”
    The others agreed.
    “Was Rosie with you the whole time?”
    “Yes.”
    At that moment, Mrs. Smithings entered, looking even paler than usual.
    “How is your headache, Mrs. Smithings?” Rex asked.
    “Oh, that. Well, I had rather forgotten about it under the circumstances. Mrs. Bellows is ready to serve the Dover sole if anyone still has an appetite.”
    “Aye, let’s not let good food go to waste.” Rex had not eaten much at tea and had missed lunch altogether.
    Charley appeared with the candlesticks, holding each by the base. “I wasn’t sure how long you wanted me to babysit these,” he told Rex, “so I took the liberty of bringing them in.”
    “Put them down on the sideboard where I can keep an eye on them, Charley.”
    “And what do you propose doing with those candlesticks?” Mrs. Smithings demanded.
    “I’ll dust them for prints after dinner. One of them may have been used for the murder of Miriam Greenbaum.”
    “Why do you think that?” Wanda asked, her eyes round with ghoulish excitement.
    “Because the candlesticks were standing next to the tureen on the kitchen table. It’s possible that the person who struck Miriam picked up the BlackBerry after Miriam dropped it, and then threw it into the soup when he or she was replacing the candlestick on the table. I’ll need talcum powder and clear tape.”
    “I have some Yardley rose-scented talc in my room,” Yvette offered. “Will that do?”
    “That will do grand, lass.”
    A discussion about forensics ensued as Mrs. Smithings removed Ms. Greenbaum’s place setting and chair. The cook prepared the plates at the heating trays on the oak sideboard, and Rosie served the guests. No one but Charley appeared to notice the dog bolt through the door and burrow beneath the tablecloth at Rex’s feet, panting and drooling as it thumped its tail on the rug. Staying Yvette’s arm before she could put her fork to her lips, the medic surreptitiously offered the dog a piece of fish from his plate, and this went down a treat.
    “I’m not sure how I feel about us using the poor wee animal as a dog taster,” Rex murmured, dropping some of his own fish on a saucer and placing it on the floor, “but it’s no a bad idea at that.”
    His Dover sole having passed the test, Rex plunged his fork into the cream and mushroom sauce. Clifford, hiccupping, stumbled into the room and placed a log on the fire.
    “That’s much better,” Helen approved.
    Conversation turned to the snow and to when the phones might become operable again. Each guest made an effort to affect an air of normalcy. Everyone at the hotel was at present gathered in one room, and Rex looked at each person in turn,