PH02 - Do Not Disturb (22 page)
“That’s it,” Cecily excitedly told Baxter later, after summoning him to the library. “The curare. Louise’s husband must have brought some back with him at some time. Or maybe it was shipped back with his effects after he died. Whichever it is, there’s no doubt now that Louise Atkins is our killer.”
“But why?” Baxter said, his brow wrinkling in bewilderment. “What possible reason can she have for killing all those men? And why is she after Ian?”
“That I don’t know,” Cecily said grimly, “but I have an idea it’s something to do with the death of her granddaughter. We have to stop her before she gets to Ian.”
“I agree. I will go and see the inspector right away and tell him what you have discovered.”
“No, Baxter,” Cecily said, fixing him with a determined look. “You will not. In the first place, it is unlikely he will take our word for it. He will want to conduct his own investigation, by which time Louise could realize he is on to her. She would either make every effort to complete her list of victims and kill Ian, or she would make good her escape, in which case Ian would be in danger until she is caught.”
“Madam, I—”
“In the second place, the inspector is bound to ask several questions, for which you will not have the right answers. May I remind you that the Pennyfoot’s existence could be in peril if we antagonize him too much.”
Baxter ran an agitated hand over his hair. “Then, pray tell me, madam, what do you intend to do?”
This was going to be a trifle tricky, Cecily thought, but nonetheless she plunged ahead. “Louise still has her room at the George and Dragon. I intend to search it.”
“No! I cannot allow you to—”
“You don’t have any choice, Bax.”
“I shall simply refuse to help you. I shall go to the police. Against your wishes if I have to, but—”
“You would risk Ian’s life? And the closure of the Pennyfoot?”
His mouth opened and shut, while he floundered around for an answer. Finally he muttered, “It would be preferable to losing you, madam.”
Her heart gave a tiny flutter. “Why, Baxter, that is the very nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
Stretching her neck, he ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “Yes, madam.”
“I appreciate your concern, Baxter,” Cecily said firmly, “but I intend to search that room. If I can prove that Louise is our murderer and hand her over to the inspector, so to speak, he just might forgive me for my interference. It is her day off, so it would be most dangerous to attempt a search today. I shall be forced to do so, however, if you insist on talking to the police.”
Baxter wore an expression of quiet desperation. “I shall respect your wishes, madam.”
“Good.” Cecily began to relax a little. “Very well. I will conduct the search tomorrow, at midday, when Louise will be occupied at the tearoom. The George and Dragon will be busy with the lunchtime crowd, and no one will notice me slipping in there.”
Baxter looked more unhappy by the second, but he murmured a resigned, “Yes, madam.”
“What I need you to do, Baxter, is to go in there first and find out which room is Louise’s. You have that thingamajig you use to open the hotel rooms—you can unlock the door for me. Then you can come and tell me and keep watch downstairs while I slip up there and search the room. If you watch for me through the window, I will signal when I am
finished. If I find what I’m looking for, as I feel certain I shall, we can have Samuel drive us to Wellercombe, where we will present the evidence to the inspector. He can then arrange to have Louise detained before she leaves the tea shop at the end of the day.”
“It sounds so very simple,” Baxter said miserably. “I wonder why I have this terrible feeling that everything is going to go horribly wrong?”
“Because you worry too much, Bax.” Cecily smiled up at him, determined he should not see her apprehension. “You will see, it will all work out perfectly. Trust me.”
Cecily arose early the next morning, after a restless night. The skies had cleared, allowing the sun to warm the windows and turn the heavy dew on the croquet lawns into a carpet of sparkling crystals.
Gazing out across the gardens, Cecily saw John Thimble making his way down the crazy paving path, pushing a loaded wheelbarrow. In spite of his age, and his slightly stooped shoulders, the gardener was strong and healthy, and Cecily reflected, as she often did, how fortunate it was for the Pennyfoot to have such a reliable staff to take care of it.
Every person on the Pennyfoot staff was important to her, in many ways, and she would fight for their well-being as fiercely as any mother defending her young.
She left the window and crossed the room to her bureau where she kept her thick notebook. In it she had kept notes of each development of the past few days. When the time
came to explain things to Inspector Cranshaw, she would have a full record to present to him of every detail in the case.
Another reason she had kept the diary, though it wasn’t something she cared to dwell upon, was that if something happened to her, the record would be left to pass on to the police.
Taking up her pen, Cecily dipped it into the inkwell, then shook off the excess drops. She opened a new page and wrote carefully, “Today Baxter and I will go to the George and Dragon to search the room occupied by Louise Atkins. There I hope to find the evidence that will prove her guilty of the murders of three men.”
Staring at the lines she’d written, Cecily would have given anything to know the content of the words she would be writing next.
“Hallo, me old love!” Ian said cheerfully as he grabbed Gertie around the waist. “How about making me one of those nice juicy ham sandwiches for lunch, then?”
Gertie, who had been busily slicing bread at the kitchen table, whirled away from him, the bread knife held threateningly in her hand. “Whatcha think I am, then, your bleeding servant? Get your own sandwich, Ian Rossiter, and keep those blinking hands off me, or I’ll cut ’em off.”
Ian’s jovial mood vanished. He’d been bored to death the last two days, he’d missed two nights at the pub, and though Gertie had slipped him a brandy or two it wasn’t the same as a dirty big foaming pint in his hand.
“What’s the bleeding matter with you?” he demanded, staring at Gertie’s flushed cheeks. “You’ve been as prickly as hell for days. If you’ve gone off me, for Christ’s sake say so, and I can go find meself another bit of stuff who’s a bit more lively.”
To his utter dismay, Gertie promptly dropped the knife and burst into tears.
“ ’Ere, ’ere,” Ian said, patting her on the shoulder with his fingers. “Don’t go on like that, then. Tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing,” Gertie managed to say between sobs.
“Got to be something, me old duck. Is it Mrs. Chubb getting on to you?” He lifted her chin and stared at her tear-stained face with real concern. “You’re not ill, are you?”
Gertie snatched her chin away. “No, I’m not ill, you big twerp.” She gulped, held her breath for several seconds, then blurted out, “I’m blinking pregnant, that’s what.”
Stunned, Ian stared at her, trying to make sense of her words. “Pregnant? But you can’t be.”
“Well, I flipping well am.” Her chest heaved, but she managed to control the sob. “I tried everything. Hot baths and gin,” she said, making a face. “Bloody awful it was, and I even took one of Madeline’s potions, but nothing worked. None of it. I’m blinking pregnant, Ian Rossiter, and you’re going to have to take care of me.”
He wanted to slap her. Shaking with anger, he gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists. “Oh, no, I’m bloody not. I got caught like that once before. If you’re frigging pregnant, Gertie Brown, then you’ve been mucking about with someone else. It ain’t mine. You ain’t going to dump it on me. You can go back to whoever it was and tell him that.” He spun around and headed for the door.
“I hate you, Ian Rossiter!” Gertie screamed and picked up the knife.
“Good!” Ian yelled back. “Then you won’t want me to marry you, will you. If Mrs. Sinclair wants to know where I am, tell her I’m at the bleeding pub. Drowning me sorrows in beer.”
He slammed through the door and let it swing to behind him, muffling Gertie’s wailing.
Today was perfect for a walk, and Phoebe had thoroughly enjoyed her stroll along the Esplanade. The mid-autumn air had a definite nip in it, giving her a ravenous appetite. Usually she didn’t bother with lunch, preferring her afternoon tea at Dolly’s, but there were several more hours to go before then, and she was hungry.
She would stop in at the Pennyfoot, she decided, and see if Cecily would care to join her for lunch at the tearoom. That way she could ride in the trap, saving her the long walk back.
Reaching the steps, she pranced up them, anticipating Cecily’s pleasure at her invitation. Inside the foyer she spied Mrs. Chubb, bustling down the stairs with her arms full of curtains.
“Why, Altheda,” she said in surprise as the housekeeper arrived at the bottom huffing and puffing, “whatever are you doing? Why aren’t the maids doing that?”
Mrs. Chubb’s red face peered back at her over the mound of red-and-gold damask.
“It’s Ethel’s half day off,” she said, wheezing a little, “and Gertie isn’t feeling too well.” She paused to get her breath, then added, “Had to get these down before the chimney sweeps come tomorrow.”
“You won’t be feeling well yourself if you do too much of that climbing up and down,” Phoebe said with a frown. She and Altheda had been friends ever since dear Sedgeley had died, and it had always been Phoebe’s contention that the housekeeper was entirely too lenient on her staff.
Mrs. Chubb smiled. “Good for the knees, so I’m told.”
“Yes, if you’re Gertie’s age.” Phoebe suddenly remembered why she was there. “Is Cecily in her room? I want to invite her to lunch.”
“Oh. Madam left with Mr. Baxter just a few minutes ago. You just missed them.”
“Oh?” Phoebe shook her head. “I wonder why I didn’t see them on the Esplanade. They must have taken the back road.” She frowned at Mrs. Chubb. “She didn’t say where she was going, by any chance?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Not a word.”
Phoebe stared suspiciously at her for a moment, wondering if that was indeed the truth, then sighed in resignation. “Ah, well, I shall simply have to eat lunch alone, then. Thank you, Altheda.”
She turned to go, then paused as she heard her name
called in a voice that was all too familiar. “Mrs. Carter-Holmes! How fortunate to bump into you like this. Could I please have a word with you?”
Phoebe cast a nervous glance at the bearded face of the artist, who had materialized right in front of her. “Oh, Mr. Rawlins. I’m so sorry, I have an urgent appointment. I was on the point of leaving.”
The despicable creature actually had the gall to touch her arm. “I won’t keep you more than a moment, I promise, but it is most urgent that I speak to you.”
Phoebe looked desperately at Mrs. Chubb, but the housekeeper merely nodded, then hurried across the lobby to the kitchen stairs. Deciding to put an end to the ridiculous situation once and for all, Phoebe said in a voice that barely hid her irritation, “Very well, Mr. Rawlins, but I have only a moment to spare.”
The artist rubbed his hands together and gave her a fawning smile that she found quite insincere. “I would like to paint your portrait,” he said, fixing his strange, dark eyes on her.
Once more she felt herself being drawn down a long, mysterious corridor. She moistened her lips. “My … my portrait?” She considered the request in wonder. Gracious heavens, could the man be serious? What was it Mr. Baxter had called him? Renowned, that was it. Why, this could very well make her famous. This could change her life. This could—
“That’s if you have no objection to being painted in the nude,” Sidney Rawlins added.
Phoebe’s mouth slowly opened and hung there. Her headlong rush down the inviting corridor ceased abruptly as icy cold anger swept over her. Her hand itched to slap his face, but she was loath to make contact with that scraggly beard. Heaven knew what might dwell in it. If only she hadn’t left her parasol behind that morning.
She closed her mouth and drew herself up to her full height. She was pleased to see that she almost looked him straight in the eye. “Mr. Rawlins,” she said in a cold,
deliberate voice, “am I to understand that you expect me to take off my clothes in your presence?”
The artist looked a little apprehensive. “I paint nudes, Mrs. Carter-Holmes. I prefer my models to have buxom figures such as yours. I can assure you it is all perfectly respectable. My paintings hang in some of the best galleries in Bond Street.”
Phoebe shuddered. The very thought of strange men ogling her naked body on public display was enough to make dear Sedgely rise from the dead and bring down his wrath upon her head.
“Rest assured, Mr. Rawlins,” she said icily, “no one will ever set eyes on my body except the Good Lord above when he chooses to take me.”
Raising her hands, she settled her hat more firmly on her head. “If you prefer not to precede me, and wish to remain in good health until that momentous event occurs, I suggest you cast out all notions of luring me into your iniquitous studio, or whatever it is you call the place where you do your evil work. Good day to you, sir.”
She spun herself around and marched to the door. To her dismay, the dreadful creature followed her, begging her to reconsider. The unmitigated gall of the man appalled her.
As she approached the door she saw Ian Rossiter out of the corner of her eye, rushing ahead of her. Anxious now for help from any quarter, Phoebe bounced forward and took the startled young man by the arm.
“Oh, there you are, Ian. I have been waiting for you. Let us please hurry, or we shall be late.”
She practically dragged him out of the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it closed behind her. “Thank you, Ian,” she said breathlessly, enjoying the feel of the cool fresh sea air on her face. “I was being pursued by that horrid creature. I just couldn’t get rid of him.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” Ian said, pulling his cap onto his head. “I’m glad I could oblige.”