Free Christmas is Murder by C. S. Challinor Page A

library. Now then, on to the staff accommodation,” Rex directed, letting her lead the way down the corridor. He whistled to the puppy to follow.
    “Mrs. Smithings’ is this door here,” the cook informed him. “Best keep the dog out.”
    Facing south over the garden, the suite consisted of a sitting room, bedroom, and bath. Unlike the parlor-office downstairs, it was almost Spartan in its furnishing. The few pieces in the rooms, however, were choice, including a cherry wood chest of drawers and an intricately carved armoire, which Rex opened. An aroma of mothballs and lavender enshrouded the black dresses that Mrs. Smithings favored.
    Next, he lifted the lid of a colored glass jewellery box on the dressing table. “I thought Mrs. Smithings owned a great many jewels,” he commented to the cook, his voice seeming to echo in the absolute silence of the room.
    “Most are kept in a safe downstairs.”
    A framed sepia photograph of Mrs. Smithings’ late husband, one booted foot resting on a felled elephant, stood on the mantelpiece beside a marble and ormolu clock pointing to ten on the hour. The blue Victorian tiles decorated with white swans surrounding the fireplace were cracked. It must cost a good deal of money to maintain this drafty old place, Rex reflected.
    Another photograph, this one of her son at the officer cadets’ Passing Out Parade at Sandhurst took pride of place by her bedside. A framed newspaper cutting headlined “Troop Commander Captain Rodney Smithings, Royal Artillery, Killed by RPG in Iraq” hung on the wall among a series of botanical watercolors.
    Feeling here more than elsewhere that he was intruding, Rex concluded his tour of the owner’s rooms and succinctly noted: Mrs. Smithings’ suite: Jewellery box containing one pair of pearl earrings; Rodney memorabilia; painkillers for rheumatoid arthritis.
    “You didn’t write much,” Mrs. Bellows observed.
    “Didn’t find much.”
    The cook eased the door shut behind them and glanced at her watch. “It’s a quarter to ten. Just Rosie’s room now, thank goodness—I’m ready for bed.”
    Rex checked his own watch. “The clock on Mrs. Smithings’ mantelpiece must be fast.”
    Mrs. Bellows lit the wall sconces and turned into a corridor skirting the east wall of the house. Behind a door at the end of the corridor rose a flight of narrow stairs, and Rex suddenly recalled the way to his old attic room through what he used to pretend was a secret passage.
    A warren of erstwhile servants’ rooms burrowed under the roof.
    “Most of the rooms are used for storage,” Mrs. Bellows explained.
    When Rex opened a door upon a dark space filled with sports equipment and a broken rocking horse, a squeaking horde of hump-backed shapes scurried away across the floorboards. One ran onto his foot and up his pant leg. Mrs. Bellows shrieked. Grabbing a broom, he swept the rat into the air and leaped out the door, slamming it shut.
    “Now, why did you have to go in there for?” the cook asked, her bosom heaving with emotion. “Clifford’s supposed to keep the rats under control. They’ll gnaw away at the timber until there’s nothing left.” Whisking the broom from his hands, she shielded herself with it and hastened down the corridor.
    Rosie’s room was off to the left. Squeezing through the door to the sloping-walled room, Rex bumped his head and careened into a walnut chest of drawers, sending a pile of Mills & Boon novels toppling onto the carpet. Above one of the twin beds hung a series of photos and an advent calendar sparkling with glitter. That day’s paper window remained closed. As a boy, Rex couldn’t wait to open the windows, each morning awaking in growing anticipation of ever bigger Christmas scenes.
    “That’s Rosie’s bed,” Mrs. Bellows said. “No room to swing a cat in here, is there?”
    Rex came to from his memories. “What happened to Rosie’s sister? I heard she used to work here.”
    “Oh, it was a terrible tragedy.