PH02 - Do Not Disturb (15 page)
Go in, you bugger, he silently ordered, and flicked his hand forward. The dart sailed from his fingers, sure and true, and landed solidly in the middle of the double top space.
“Game,” Dick Scroggins announced, and Ian walked up to the board amid cheers to retrieve his darts.
“Right, lads,” the portly pub owner said, clapping his hands, “who’s next?”
“I’m going to get a drink,” Ian said, putting his darts back in their case. “Let someone else have a bash for a while.” Pleased with himself, he began pushing his way to the bar through the chattering crowd of laborers. He had almost reached the counter when he saw a man he recognized.
Ian stopped short. The customer was a reporter from London. He’d been down a week or so earlier, doing a story on the lighthouse project. Ian had taken an instant dislike to the man. He’d been pushy, nosy, asking a lot of personal questions that had nothing to do with the job.
Ian didn’t like personal questions. His private life was his own business and nobody else’s. He definitely didn’t want to natter about it to a cocky newsman from the city.
He waited for a moment, hoping the bloke would down his beer and leave. Then, to his intense irritation, he heard the man ask for him by name.
Gerry, the barman, turned his head, his glance sweeping the heads that crowded the room. Ian had no idea why the
reporter should want to speak to him again. He didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, it was probably trouble. Anything to do with London was trouble for Ian. That’s why he’d left.
He moved. Quickly. Before Jerry could spot him. Ducking behind a burly northerner with a thick neck and massive shoulders, Ian slipped through the connecting door into the saloon bar.
He chose a seat in the corner, by the exit door. He could see through the glass if the reporter left the pub. And he was close enough to leave himself if the bloke came looking for him. He ordered a beer and settled down to wait.
Gertie sat at the tiny dressing table in her room and looked at the bottle sitting on the lace doily. The mixture was a thick, slimy green. Gertie didn’t want to think what it reminded her of. It was bad enough she had to drink the stuff.
She picked up the bottle and tipped it back and forth, watching a small bubble make its way down to the bottom of the bottle and back up. Half now and half tomorrow night. Then she’d know. If she hadn’t seen the curse by then, she’d know for sure that she was pregnant.
“Strewth,” Gertie whispered out loud. How the hell was she going to tell Ian he was going to be a father? More important, how would he take it? What would he do? She couldn’t bear to think about it. Half of her was scared to death that he’d take off back to London and leave her in the lurch. The other half was just as scared he’d want to marry her.
Gertie didn’t want to get married. She’d seen what it did to people. Her own mum and dad drank down the pub till all hours, then threw bloody great saucepans at each other afterward—when they weren’t threatening her within an inch of her life, that was.
She’d seen the others, too. Women dragging scruffy, barefooted nippers by the hand, freezing cold with runny noses, shouting and yelling that there’d be no dinner that night if they didn’t bring some money home.
No, she was better off with only herself to think about. Gertie looked at her face in the splotched mirror and sighed. Why couldn’t women just have fun and enjoy themselves, without worrying about ending up with a bun in the oven?
Why couldn’t the bleeding men have the babies instead? Soon put a knot in their whatsit if they did, she was bloody sure of that. They was too bleeding quick to have a bit, that was the problem. It was all right for them, they didn’t have to worry about getting lumbered.
She tried not to notice her fingers shaking as she unscrewed the lid of the bottle. She had to concentrate, that was it. If she thought hard enough, it would happen. All she had to do was swallow half of this stuff, then think really, really hard. And in the morning she’d be all right.
Gertie sniffed the mixture gingerly. It smelled like newly mowed grass, with something like peppermint mixed in. Gawd, she thought. She’d never been so flipping anxious to have the curse in her life.
Closing her eyes, she touched the neck of the bottle with her tongue. The taste was sharp, like lemons, yet it wasn’t bitter. She tipped her head back, took a mouthful of the stuff, and swallowed.
Ian was halfway through his pint when he finally saw the reporter leave the George by the street door. Taking the pewter mug with him, Ian went back to the public bar and was greeted by a chorus of cheers.
“Thought you’d gone home, mate,” one of his fellow workers said, slapping him on the back. “How about taking a few of us on, then? Last one round the clock buys the beer.”
Ian grinned. “Sounds all right to me.” He could beat every one of these yobs single-handed. It looked like being a good night after all.
Half an hour later he was going for his third win. The crowd had become boisterous, shouting insults and comments louder and louder as the beer flowed.
“Here, me old cod’s wallop,” one of the players roared, “just watch me sink this dart, then.”
Ian recognized the burly laborer he’d hidden behind to escape from the reporter.
“Sink it?” Dick Scroggins let out a belly laugh. “You couldn’t sink a paper boat full of holes. Bet you miss by a mile.”
“Oh, yeah?” The sturdy man swayed on his feet, but the hand holding the dart looked steady enough. “Well, if you’re so frigging sure I’m going to miss, what about if I aim right between your eyes? Let’s see how cocky you sound then.”
Dick’s face turned a dull shade of red. “That’s just what I’d expect from one of you ignorant bastards. This isn’t the back streets of London, you know. We’re a little more civilized than you hooligans. Dragged up through the slums, what else can you expect?”
“Here,” the laborer demanded, “who the hell are you calling a bastard?”
Ian, watching from the edge of the circle of onlookers, started backing away. The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up in another fight. His eye was still sore from the last one.
“You, that’s who I’m talking to,” Dick said belligerently, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll be glad when the bloody lot of you have gone back where you belong. You’ve brought nothing but trouble here, and we’re getting sick of it.”
“Yeah, well, talking about getting sick, you’re frigging lucky to have anyone drink your stinking beer. How many more of us are you going to poison with the stuff, that’s what I want to know.”
The last thing Ian saw before he slid out of the door was Dick throwing himself at the ugly brute.
Wouldn’t give much for the owner’s chances, Ian thought, as he hunched his shoulders against the cool night breeze. He shivered and quickened his step. A brisk walk home would put some warmth in his body and make him tired enough to sleep.
He’d gone only a few steps when he saw what looked like a sack of potatoes lying at the side of the road. Someone must have dropped them off his cart on his way home.
The wind caught the gas lamp hanging from the corner of the pub and sent shadows swooping across the road as Ian moved closer to investigate. Maybe it was apples, he thought. He could take some up to the hotel and talk Mrs. Chubb into baking him an apple pie.
Smiling at the thought, he approached the lumpy bundle. The closer he got, the less sure he was that it was a sack. In fact, now that he could see it better, it looked very much like a man lying there.
Shaking his head, Ian walked up to the still figure. The bloke was sprawled on his side, his arms clutched to his body, his face hidden. Stupid twit had probably drunk so much he’d passed out. He’d have one hell of a headache in the morning and serve him bloody well right.
Leaning over the drunk, Ian grabbed a handful of his jacket to turn him over. Might as well see who it was. Probably one of the yobs from the project.
He heaved at the jacket and rolled the man onto his back. As he did so, the wind blew the lamp again, this time sending a shaft of light across the frozen face. The man looked blue with cold.
Ian’s heart seemed to lurch in his chest. The face didn’t look real. More like a mask. No, it couldn’t be. Not another one. But he knew, before he touched the ice-cold skin, that the man was a goner.
Bile rose in his throat as he looked at the distorted face. In the swaying light of the gas lamp, he could see the features quite clearly. It was the man who had been asking for him less than an hour ago. The reporter from London. A very dead reporter.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Chubb said, one hand clutching her throat. “Not another one. Oh, dear Lord, we’ll be murdered in our beds at this rate. There’s a maniac running around out there. Whatever will we do?”
“We’ll let the police take care of it,” Ian said, huddling by the roaring stove. “That’s their job, ennit?”
“But three.” Mrs. Chubb moaned. “What if they don’t find the murderer? He could wipe out half the village at this rate.”
“I don’t think he’s after the villagers,” Ian said, staring into the blazing coals. “So far all the victims have been from London.”
Mrs. Chubb lifted the heavy copper kettle from the stove and carried it over to the sink. “Well, it’s only a matter of time before he starts on us. I hope to God the police catch him soon. I’m not going to eat another thing until they do, except what’s right here in this kitchen.”
Ian shook his head, trying to escape from the dreadful memory of the man’s twisted, agonized face. “It might not be a him,” he said carefully.
Mrs. Chubb slopped water on the floor as she carried the kettle back to the stove. Dumping it down with a crash, she sent a startled look at Ian. “Whatever do you mean, it’s not a him?”
“I heard some of the men talking down the George,” Ian said, holding his cold hands out to the oven’s steady warmth. “They was talking about Madeline Pengrath.”
He heard Mrs. Chubb’s hiss of breath and looked up. She stood looking down at him with an outraged expression on her dumpy face.
“People are always talking about Madeline,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I never take notice of what they say. People are always afraid of what they don’t understand.”
“Well, maybe they have something to be afraid of this time.”
Mrs. Chubb’s eyebrows drew together. “Just what the devil are you talking about, Ian Rossiter?”
Pleased with the reaction he was getting to his words, Ian took his time. “Oh, just something I heard down the pub, that’s all.”
He yawned, and stretched his arms above his head. “I’m
bloody tired, I am. Must be the shock of finding that dead man. I’ll never forget what he looked like—”
“Either you tell me what you heard about Madeline this instant,” Mrs. Chubb said, leaning over him, “or I’ll box your ears.”
Ian grinned up at her. “Who you going to get to help you?”
“None of your lip, young man. I’m quite capable of putting you in your place, and you know it. One word from me and Mrs. Sinclair might not be so ready to give you your job back when you want it.”
Ian knew when he’d pushed enough. “All right, all right. Give me a mince pie with my tea, and I’ll tell you what I heard.”
“You’re not getting a morsel to eat until you’ve told me. And make it fast, or you’re out on your backside, double quick.”
Ian crossed his feet and pushed them closer to the stove. “I heard that Madeline Pengrath has been picked up by the law and taken to Wellercombe for the night.”
“No.” Mrs. Chubb shook her head in disbelief. “What would they go and do a thing like that for?”
“ ’Cos they suspect her of poisoning the two blokes, that’s why.” Ian’s stomach heaved as he remembered the reporter. “Looks like it might be three now, with this one.”
“Madeline?” Mrs. Chubb made a sound of disgust. “For heaven’s sake, where are their brains? Madeline wouldn’t hurt a flea. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my entire life. Anyone who knows her knows she loves people and animals. Look at all the trouble she goes to making potions to make them well.”
“That,” said Ian darkly, “is what they think killed the blokes. Madeline Pengrath’s potions.”
He was looking at the fire and didn’t see the housekeeper’s expression. But he heard her choked gasp, followed by a shrill shriek. It made him jump.
“Oh, my God,” she said in a strange kind of whisper that made his blood run cold. “What have I done?”
He opened his mouth to ask her what she was talking about, but before he could get a word out, she’d turned and stumbled to the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in alarm, but she was gone, and he could hear the footsteps thudding down the hallway. Shrugging, he sat back in his chair. There were no understanding women. No chance at all. Even Gertie had been acting strange lately, and he couldn’t get out of her what the problem was.
Leaning his chin on his hands, he stared into the fire and tried not to think about the twisted body he’d left lying in the road.
Cecily paced in the library, unable to settle down ever since Ian had arrived with the dreadful news. She had sent Baxter in the trap to the George and Dragon right away to find out what he could.
From what she could make out from Ian’s somewhat garbled account, the newest victim was a stranger to the village. If he had, in fact, arrived that day, after Madeline had been taken into Wellercombe, that could certainly have an effect on the inspector’s case.
His whereabouts would rule out the theory that her potions were the cause of the poisonings.
Cecily sat down at the end of the table. Of course, it wasn’t certain yet that the poor man had died from the same thing as the other two. It could be a simple heart attack.
But Ian had been positive the man’s skin was blue, and the fact that he had died within several feet of the George and Dragon suggested that the victim had met the same fate as his predecessors. If that was true, then Madeline would almost certainly be cleared of suspicion.
Cecily gazed up at her late husband’s portrait. “If you are watching up there, James,” she whispered aloud, “say a prayer for Madeline.”