Christmas is Murder Read Online Free

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 buggers 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 glasses. “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, lackluster 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 Cockney 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