PH02 - Do Not Disturb (19 page)
“Smuggling?” Mrs. Chubb’s voice rose several notches. “Smuggling? What are you talking about, girl?”
Gertie looked from one to another, as if seeking escape from whatever was coming next.
“I think you’d better explain,” Cecily said quietly. “Sit down, Gertie, and tell us what this is all about.”
Gertie plopped back on the chair, her face as white as a bag of flour. “I swore I wouldn’t tell … but that was before they took Ian off, and if they find out about it, Ian said they’d put him in the clink, and I won’t see him …”
She began to sob again, and Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue.
“Perhaps a nice hot cup of tea, Mrs. Chubb?” Cecily suggested.
The housekeeper looked disapproving, but went to fill the kettle.
“Now,” Cecily said, “who has been smuggling what?”
“Dick Scroggins, that’s who. Ian says he’s been smuggling brandy in from France. That’s why he don’t want the lighthouse built. Ian says it’s him what done the mess up at the project.”
“I see.” Cecily frowned. “And Ian has been helping him?”
Mrs. Chubb snorted in disgust. “Silly young man. I thought he had more sense than that.”
Michel, who had become very quiet, murmured agreement.
“Only with the smuggling, mum, I swear,” Gertie said earnestly. “Ian never had nothing to do with the damage done on the lighthouse. Put him out of a job, it did. He was mad about it.”
“Well, let’s hope the police believe that,” Cecily said, not sure what to believe herself. “But it’s not going to help Ian by getting all upset. We will have to wait and see what happens. Then we’ll know what to do.”
Finally smothering her sobs, Gertie said between hiccups, “I’m so worried about him, mum, that’s all. You never know with the bloody police, what they’ll do next.”
“Well, I don’t think Ian has much to worry about if he didn’t have anything to do with the sabotage at the lighthouse,” Cecily said firmly. “I’m quite sure he isn’t responsible for the deaths of those men, which is what the police are concerned about right now. As soon as he’s answered the inspector’s questions, rest assured they’ll send him back here.”
“I hope so, mum,” Gertie said in a small voice.
“Well, now, I think it’s time you took a tray up to Mrs. Parmentier,” Mrs. Chubb said, looking as if she’d like to strangle Gertie. “Michel has it all ready for you.”
“I have it ready a long time,” Michel said in his thick French accent. “It will not be so ’ot, but is not my fault.”
“Don’t worry, Michel,” Cecily said with a smile, “I’m sure Mrs. Parmentier will not complain.”
“Gawd, I bloody hope not,” Gertie muttered, getting to her feet. “I can’t take much more of this, I can tell you.”
Mrs. Chubb raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
“Send me word as soon as Ian returns,” Cecily told the housekeeper. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Yes, mum, I’ll send Gertie up right away.”
Cecily threw a last glance at the subdued housemaid and left the kitchen.
At least Ian should be safe with the police, Cecily thought as she climbed the stairs to the lobby. Maybe she should have warned him about the list last night. She had thought at the time that the fewer people who knew about it the better, but now she wasn’t so sure she had done the right thing.
She could only hope that Ian would come straight back to the hotel, in which case she would tell him as soon as he arrived. Feeling a little better, she headed across the lobby for the hallway. She wanted to speak to Colonel Fortescue, and she knew where to find him.
The colonel sat on a comfortable chair in the lounge, buried behind a newspaper from which a cloud of aromatic smoke rose in the air.
Cecily paused in the doorway and sniffed appreciatively. She hadn’t enjoyed a cigar in a while, and she was almost tempted to ask the colonel for one of his. Judging from the smell, he smoked a very good brand. Probably Cuban. Suppressing the urge, she tapped on the door to let him know she was there.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” she said loudly, “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”
The newspaper rattled as the colonel lowered it and peered over it in surprise. “Well, of course, old bean.” He got clumsily to his feet. “What can I do for you?”
Thankful to find him alone, Cecily entered the room, leaving the door ajar.
“Wanted to have a chat with you in any case,” the colonel said before she could speak. “Almost Guy Fawkes, you know. Just thought I might be able to help out, what? What?”
She’d forgotten all about it, Cecily thought with a stab of guilt. With all this excitement, it had gone clear out of her head.
“I haven’t had time to finalize the arrangements yet, Colonel, but I thank you for your offer. It’s most kind of you.”
“You are going to do the fireworks, old girl, aren’t you?”
The colonel wagged his finger. “They’re all expecting it, you know. Every year we’ve had fireworks for Guy Fawkes. Can’t let them down, old bean.”
He cleared his throat several times. “I understand. With Sinclair gone, must be a damn rough ride for you, so I’ll be happy to set the blighters up for you. Can’t set them off, though, I’m afraid. Not very good around explosives anymore. Got a bit of a dickey heart, you know.”
Cecily smiled in sympathy. “Please don’t worry, Colonel. I’m quite sure Baxter can take care of it.”
Blinking furiously, the colonel nodded. “Oh, jolly good, yes, what? It will be smashing fun, watching it all from the courtyard with everyone. Champagne flowing and all that rot, what?”
Which is what he was really interested in, Cecily thought wryly. “Yes, of course. I’m sure we’ll all have a good time. Now, I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned the other day. I believe you saw a man die in the tropics. You said his skin was blue, if I remember?”
“Yes, yes.” The colonel crushed his cigar into an ashtray. “Dashed odd, that was. Poor chap must have been in agony. Looked absolutely awful, writhing about on the ground, moaning and—”
“Yes, I am sure,” Cecily interrupted hastily. “So you said. I was just wondering, did you by any chance learn the cause of his death?”
Colonel Fortescue’s eyebrows went up and down, and he blinked furiously at her. “Not thinking about those chappies who died here in the village, are you? Can’t be the same thing, that. Can’t be that at all.”
“Why do you say that, Colonel?”
The colonel shook his head. “Nasty business, that was. True, poor chap died of poisoning. But it was one of those primitive bastards who live in the jungle. Tiny little nippers, they are. Look as if a breath of wind would blow them away.”
Cecily frowned. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Natives, old bean. Ugly as a baboon, but dashed quick
on their feet. Use poisoned darts. Can kill an elephant with one of those pesky things. Just get a stick of bamboo, dip a sliver into the poison, drop it in the end, and …” He put an imaginary pipe in his mouth and puffed through his fingers. “Tally ho, down it goes. Deader than a doornail, old girl. Bloody marvelous, that.” He coughed. “Oh, beg your pardon.”
Cecily barely heard him. She was thinking about something Dr. McDuff had told her. “Tell me, Colonel,” she said, “I don’t suppose you happen to know the name of the poison they use?”
Colonel Fortescue shook his head. “Haven’t a clue, old girl. Some kind of exotic substance, shouldn’t wonder.”
Cecily nodded. “Well, thank you. I shan’t keep you any longer.”
She turned to leave, and the colonel said worriedly, “Don’t think they followed me here, by any chance?”
Confused, Cecily looked at him. “Who might that be, Colonel?”
“The little savages with the pipes. Should hate to have to go around the hotel ducking at every sound.”
Cecily smiled. “I rather doubt it. I’m sure I would have noticed any primitive native warriors running around.”
The colonel wagged a finger at her. “You never know, old bean. Never know. Clever little buggers, they are. Just be prepared to duck if you come across one.”
“I’ll remember that,” Cecily promised solemnly, and left him muttering to himself.
Heading for the library, she turned over in her mind everything she’d heard. There was only a slim chance that the men could have been struck by poison darts, of course, but it was a possibility certainly worth investigating. She shut herself in the library and then searched the shelves.
James had acquired several books on the tropics, having spent much of his youth there in the military. Cecily took down three of the heavy books and carried them to the long table. Then she sat herself down and began to go through the pages.
Almost an hour later she finally found what she was looking for. In an article on wild game hunting, she found a reference to the poisoned darts used by the South American Indians. The poison they used was curare, extracted from a tropical vine.
Reading rapidly down the page, she discovered that the poison was harmless and had no effect when swallowed. When injected into the skin, however, a small dose would slow down the heartbeat and put the victim into a deep sleep.
An overdose would be instantly fatal, producing a paralyzing effect. The poison would attack the muscles of the toes, ears, and eyes, then those of the neck and limbs, and finally those involved in respiration. In fatal doses, death was caused by respiratory paralysis.
The last paragraph caused her to catch her breath. Similar to the symptoms of cyanide, it discolored the skin, turning it blue after death.
Gertie tapped on the door of Mrs. Parmentier’s room, dreading the moment when the widow would open the door and confront her with that faceless head.
She shifted the heavy tray and got ready to thrust it into the big ugly hands of the woman, so that she could make her escape as soon as possible. She waited and waited, the edges of the tray digging into her palms, but the door remained closed.
Gertie frowned. Was it possible the widow was still asleep? Wouldn’t be surprised, all that walking the streets late at night. She’d give anything to know what the woman was up to.
Lifting her knee, she balanced the tray awkwardly with one hand and knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.
Gertie looked up and down the hallway. Now what? She’d have to take the loaded tray all the way back to the kitchen. Michel would give her hell, as if it was her fault.
She looked down at the grapefruit wedges sprinkled with
sugar, the buttered toast, the soft-boiled egg tucked into its woolen egg cozy, the silver tea service, and her mouth watered. Who would know if she ate it all and took the empty tray back to the kitchen?
The Black Widow would know, that’s who. Probably put a blooming spell on her, turn her into a frog. At least she wouldn’t be bloody pregnant—
The door opened suddenly, startling Gertie so that she almost dropped the tray. The veiled head appeared in the narrow space, then two large hands crept out to take the tray.
“You’ve been crying,” the husky voice said.
Unnerved, Gertie nodded.
“I take it you’re still … not feeling well?”
Again Gertie nodded.
“Perhaps I can help. Would you care to come in and talk to me about it?”
Gertie began backing away. “No, ma’am, I don’t think … I haven’t got time … I have to be back …” Her nerve suddenly deserting her, she turned and fled for the stairs. She didn’t stop running until she was safely back in the kitchen, too puffed to tell Mrs. Chubb what had scared her.
It was Baxter’s half day off, and he had left the hotel for his customary jaunt up to Deep Willow Pond, where he fed the ducks and strolled among the trees to unwind from the constant paperwork and the solving of departmental problems that sometimes seemed endless.
Cecily decided not to wait for his return to discuss her discovery. She was much too anxious to talk to Dr. McDuff. So she ordered the trap and went into the village by herself.
This time she made no pretense of being under the weather, but came straight to the point when the doctor showed her into his surgery. “Dr. McDuff,” she said, settling herself on a chair, “I imagine that by now you have examined the third victim. I assume he died from the same poison as the other two?”
“Now, you know I can’t discuss this with you—” the doctor began, but Cecily interrupted.
“I need to know this, Dr. McDuff. I do believe I might be able to shed some light on the puzzle.”
The doctor stared at her. “Mebbe you should be talking to the inspector, if that’s the case.”
“I can’t talk to the inspector. I think you know why.”
Dr. McDuff sighed. “Very well, what do you want to know?”
“Just tell me, if you will, if the third victim died from the same poison.”
“Aye, he did.”
Satisfied, Cecily nodded. “Then let me tell you about what I learned this morning.” She related every word that she could remember of the article, while the doctor listened intently.
When she was finished, Dr. McDuff looked at her, his fierce eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “That’s all very interesting, lassie, but I don’t see what there is to get excited about. Our victims couldn’t have died from curare, it’s a tropical plant from South America. What would it be doing here?”
“I can’t answer that, Doctor,” Cecily admitted, “but it would explain a certain part of the puzzle. The biggest question in all this is how the three men were poisoned. Since these three were the only people affected, it is safe to assume that someone singled them out and administered the poison. But how? If death was instant, as the symptoms suggest, how does that explain the length of time it took Mr. Bickley to die?”
“He could have ingested the poison in his house that night.”
“Possible, but unlikely. He was carrying nothing when he left the George and Dragon, so I’m told, and there was no sign of anyone having broken in to tamper with his food.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know all this?”
Cecily smiled. “I ask a lot of questions, Doctor. It’s amazing what people will tell you when they are excited or intrigued by something.”
“Yes, well, I still don’t see what all this has to do with a tropical plant.”