"Tempus fugit," Mrs. Smithings uttered wistfully, commenting on the all too swift pa.s.sage of time.

"Ita vero," Rex agreed, already deploring his next birthday.

"Keeping up with your Latin, I see. I suppose you need it in your profession. Your mother tells me you took silk a few years ago. Do you still prosecute?"

"Aye, someone has to bring the criminals to justice. Just when I think I've heard what must surely be the last remaining mitigating plea ever to be dreamt up in someone's defense, I am surprised anew."

The last one, which he was too modest to cite in present company, being the PMS plea. A lawyer had actually argued that his client never would have doused her deceiving husband's membrum virile in lighter fluid and then set fire to it had she not been suffering from the hormonal effects of Aunt Flo's impending visit.

"Quite, but desperate times call for desperate measures," Dahlia Smithings remarked as though reading his thoughts. She crossed to the door. "I trust you will have a pleasant stay, in spite of this infernal snow."

"I'm sure I shall," Rex replied, bowing slightly as she left-at the same time wondering why he felt compelled to revert to such anachronistic behavior in her presence.

Closing the door, he began unbundling himself of surplus clothing. Mercifully, the puppy was still asleep in his pocket. Rex planted himself at the oak washstand that would have held a bowl and pitcher prior to indoor plumbing and now accommodated a sink. As he smoothed down his beard and whiskers, he speculated on the pair of single women from north-central England and the American lady whom Mrs. Smithings had mentioned.

He was not free per se-Mrs. Wilc.o.x had fulfilled his bachelor needs quite satisfactorily since his wife pa.s.sed away years before-and yet the company of women could add charm to a room. His mother's absence from Edinburgh would have provided an ideal opportunity to spend Christmas with Mrs. Wilc.o.x, but alas, she too had left on an errand of mercy. His brush hung in midair as he pondered what might have befallen Moira. Even if the phone lines were down in her part of Baghdad, she could have written to him or at a pinch sent an e-mail if she had access to a computer. He wished he could have managed to persuade her to stay, but Moira Wilc.o.x was a very stubborn woman.

The cold wind and exercise lent a ruddy glow to his already florid complexion, making the green of his eyes all the more vivid. Rex did not consider himself a vain man, but he believed in making the most of what G.o.d had seen fit to bestow upon him. Accordingly, he now donned the powder blue lamb's wool sweater his mother had knitted, fretting as she always did about his catching the flu, as if anywhere could be as bleak and bitter cold as Scotland in the depth of winter. With a glance at his watch, he decided to dispense with the unpacking and go down to tea. As he descended the stairs, he schemed how he might sneak some cake back up to his room for the stray puppy. He hoped it didn't bark. In his experience, the smaller the dog the more predisposed they were to yapping.

All seven of his fellow guests had congregated in the drawing room by the time he arrived. Mrs. Smithings adroitly made the introductions and then excused herself, leaving the others to sit with cups and saucers in hand, nibbling on cake and sizing up the newcomer.

"So you're an advocate from Edinburgh?" Anthony Smart asked from a fireside armchair, swinging his shoe over his knee. "Is that the same as a barrister?"

"Aye, it is."

"Do you defend the b.u.g.g.e.rs or put them away?"

"Put them away. Almost without exception."

"Our dear Ms. Greenbaum is from New York, so I expect she is very familiar with your breed."

The lady in question, a forthright person of fifty or thereabouts, sat on a sofa jabbing at a handheld gadget. She peered at Rex over the rims of her gla.s.ses. "Hate them-can't live without them. Publishing lawyers aren't so bad. Criminal lawyers and personal injury attorneys are the worst."

"I'm a criminal lawyer."

"Ah, well. But then, it's a more respected profession in England."

"And Scotland."

Miriam Greenbaum looked blank as though she thought Scotland was in England, and Rex remembered why he sometimes lost patience with Americans.

"The poor man hasn't been here five minutes and here we are laying into him," the pretty blonde on the sofa said with a laugh.

Rex had already decided he preferred Helen d'Arcy of the three single female guests. She was approachably attractive, her thick, lackl.u.s.ter hair worn in a casual sweep to her shoulders, a pale shade of pink on her lips. Her friend Wanda looked the neurotic type, and the New Yorker came across as more irritating than a kilt with burrs up the inside. Yvette Perkins, the fourth female guest, sat Velcro-stuck to her husband on a loveseat located by one of the windows.

"Mrs. Smithings introduced you as Reginald, but you said you prefer to be called Rex for short?" the blonde inquired.

"Same Latin root. Rex, regis, meaning king. As long as you don't call me Reggie."

"My Latin's a bit rusty, I'm afraid. I haven't looked at it since school, and I'm not going to admit how long ago that is!"

"It canna be that long," Rex said gallantly, lifting his cup to his lips.

"I love your Scots accent." Wanda fluttered her spidery eyelashes at him. "You sound like a gruff Sean Connery, doesn't he, Helen?"

"We didn't study Latin at my school," Patrick Vance said, his looks marred by a gap between his front teeth as he smiled, gazing up from his sketchpad. He returned to his subject.

Following the direction of his line of vision, Rex saw a robin hop along the snowy ledge of the windowsill. Breathing in the wintry smell of burning logs and the lemony scent of furniture polish, he decided that Christmas would indeed have been lonely in Edinburgh. No doubt one of his legal colleagues would have invited him to Christmas dinner, but they would have probably ended up talking shop, and Rex wanted a break from case law and criminals ...

"I left my smokes up in the room, luv," Charley told his wife. "D'you mind getting them while I have a word with the new guest?" Catching Rex's eye, he wandered to the window at the far end of the room and looked out at the snow that was taking on a bluish hue in the late afternoon.

"There'll be more snow tonight," the jolly-faced c.o.c.kney said as Rex approached.

"Aye, I was lucky to get here when I did. I was on the last train before they stopped the service, and even then we had to alight before we reached the station. There was packed ice blocking the tracks."

Charley nodded. "Me and Yvette are expected at her mum's for Christmas Eve. I don't know if that will happen now."

"Argh, I don't suppose newlyweds mind too much where they are as long as they're together in a nice warm bed."

"Right enough, and anyway I could give Christmas at Yvette's house a miss this year. Her mother's a bit of a busybody, well-meaning and all, but ..."

"So," Rex said, casually picking off a frayed end of wool from the sleeve of his blue sweater. "You wanted to talk to me."

"Yeah, that's the other reason I'm in no hurry to leave. I don't want to miss all the excitement-you know, when the police come and examine the body."

"The old man who had a stroke?"

"It wasn't a stroke, mate. He was poisoned, sure as I'm standing right here."

"Poisoned? How?"

"I'm certain his almond tart had cyanide in it. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth. That's what made me suspicious. What with the increased threat of terrorism and all, we have regular courses on poisons and what to do in the event of biochemical warfare. Dicobalt edetate in the case of cyanide and-"

"You are in the medical profession?"

"Paramedic."

"So you're saying he ate an almond tart and died as a result?"

"Looks that way. He only ate the filling. He couldn't manage the pastry with his dentures."

"Who else ate the tarts?"

"That's the funny thing," Charley said, scratching his ear. "I think everybody did, except maybe Anthony-you know, the ponce with the designer goatee? Well, he's a health nut from what I can make out, and I don't think he would have eaten one."

"And where is the rest of Mr. Lawdry's tart now?"

"I wrapped it in plastic and put it in my room for a.n.a.lysis in a lab when the police arrive."

"Did you tell anyone else about this?"

"Nah-didn't see the point in scaring people when no one can get to us. Imagine being cooped up in a house full of hysterical women."

"Quite. Well, I admire your sang-froid."

"Sig Freud is my middle name," Charley joked, looking around the room. "Wonder where Yvette's got to? I'm dying for a f.a.g."

"And you didn't call the police about it?"

"Like I said, what was the point? I decided to wait until they got here. Then when you arrived, I thought, Here's a man of the law-I can unburden my secret to him, sort of thing."

"I'd be glad to help, but I'd like to see your bit of evidence first, if I may."

They met Yvette on the stairs.

"Here you go," she said, handing Charley his cigarettes.

"Ta. Go on downstairs. I want to show Rex something."

The Perkins' suite was located in the east wing. Rex waited outside while Charley fetched the remains of the tart. Unwrapping it, Rex sniffed and examined it. Most of the soft center between the fluted crust had been scooped out. He pulled a starched handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroys and dipped a corner into the filling. It tasted of sugary almonds, and something bitter and caustic besides.

"What d'you think?" Charley asked, eying him intently.

"The tart would have had to contain more than a sprinkling of cyanide to cause death, wouldn't it?"

"The heart is very susceptible to cyanide, and Lawdry had a weak heart. Everyone knew about it. He kept his pills on the dining room table. But you're right-it would have taken more than a sprinkling. It's a bit of a coincidence, what with cyanide tasting like almonds and all ..."

"The filling does have a slightly peculiar taste. All the same, it would help if we could establish the presence of cyanide in the house."

"The culprit like as not got rid of the evidence. We'd have to search the house from attic to cellar. Fat chance we'd find anything, or even know what we were looking for. Perhaps you should take a look at the body."

"Aye, though I'm no medical examiner. You'd know more about the effects of poisoning than I, so I'm just going to have to take your word for it until we can get a drug screen report."

"A heart attack wouldn't have caused frothing at the mouth," Charley insisted.

Rex made a mental note to sound out the other guests about how Lawdry looked at the time of death. "It is a wee bit suspicious," he agreed. "Perhaps I should ask Mrs. Smithings about the staff."

"I wish you would because I've been a bit off my food, wondering if a.r.s.enic's going to turn up in the soup. Know what I mean?"

The same thought was beginning to occur to Rex, and he had been so looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.

There was no time to lose. If Charley was right, they had to find out why and how the old man ended up with a poisoned iced tart.

Leaving Charley at the honeymoon suite, Rex went back down to the foyer and knocked at the parlor-office door. Without waiting for a response, he entered a room formally and abundantly furnished in the Victorian tradition-upholstered sofas in burgundy velvet and ornate mahogany tables, every available surface crammed with Oriental vases, statuettes, and framed photographs.

Over the mantelpiece hung a curved Gurkha knife with a st.i.tched leather scabbard that Rex remembered from childhood. The thin form of Mrs. Smithings bent over a ball-and-claw footed writing desk, an Edwardian cradle phone within her reach. With an expression of vague annoyance, she looked up at him from above a pair of reading spectacles perched on her aquiline nose.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he apologized. "I came to discuss the matter of your deceased guest."

Mrs. Smithings sat upright. "Well, you had better shut the door and sit down."

Rex did so. "The long and the short of it is that Charley Perkins, who is a paramedic, thought he noticed some irregularities concerning Henry Lawdry's death."

"I see."

"He appears convinced the old man was poisoned by a dose of cyanide that somehow found its way into his almond tart."

"Preposterous."

"So it would seem, but I thought it prudent to advise you, in the remote event it might be true. Now, is there any member of your staff capable of committing such an act?"

"The very idea!"

"Mrs. Smithings, I know how hard it must be for you to even consider such a thing, but I must warn you: Charley Perkins intends going to the police with this. If there are grounds for his allegations, it would not look well if we were seen to be remiss in taking the appropriate action."

Rex knew he sounded pompous, but Mrs. Smithings had that effect on him. A fax machine stashed in her desk whirred and beeped incongruously.

"What do you propose we do?" she asked.

"I'd like to interview the staff-discreetly, of course. And I suggest that no more tarts be made available for consumption."

"There are no more," Mrs. Smithings replied archly.

"When were they baked?"

"Yesterday after lunch. Please proceed with caution, Reginald. Any suspicion of a scandal would bode ill for my business."

"I quite understand. Can you tell me who was in the kitchen yesterday?"

"The cook, naturally. Sandy Bellows has been with me for six years. Louise comes in from the village to clean, but was unable to yesterday and today due to the snow. Mrs. Bellows, who starts early to prepare breakfast, arrived yesterday before the worst of the weather. Rosie Porter is in and out of the kitchen. Her duties mainly entail waiting upon the guests. She lives in."

Rex was well aware of Rosie, who'd brought in the tea earlier. Hard not to notice the sloe-eyed, dark-haired beauty with cheeks red as apples. She was the sort of girl who brought to mind such bawdy expressions as "comely wench" and "tumbling in the hay"-and visions of bosomy rollicking behind the hawthorn hedge of a May evening ...

"And then there is that useless creature Clifford Beadel, whom you saw when you arrived," Mrs. Smithings was saying. "Perhaps you remember him from all those years ago."

"And what does he do?"

"Clifford just creaks along doing odd jobs in the house and garden. He lives alone in the lodge by the gate."

"You said yesterday that his family has always been at Swanmere Manor. What about Rosie?"

"Rosie Porter has been with me for eighteen months. She is a most loyal and able employee."

"Thank you, Mrs. Smithings. I won't take up any more of your time at present."

"Are you going to talk to the staff about cyanide and ruin everyone's Christmas?" If looks could freeze, Rex would have turned into a snowman.

"I don't think I need bring that up. My questions will be of a general nature. I'll explain that I'm an old friend of the family. From what you've told me, none of the three servants seem to be of the murdering persuasion. I just want to see what, if anything, comes up."