3 Service for Two (11 page)

Cecily looked up as Ethel came flying into the kitchen, a tray of what looked like broken china in her hands. The
flustered housemaid paused at the table, her flushed face and crystal-bright eyes suggesting a recent catastrophe.

“What on earth has happened?” Cecily asked, viewing the girl with some concern. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Ethel shook her head, her chest heaving as if she’d been running. Across the room, Gertie stood at the sink, a soapy scrub brush in her hand, glaring at her fellow housemaid with a scathing frown.

Cecily could tell she was longing to say something, and it didn’t bode well for Ethel. But Gertie knew better than to say too much in front of madam.

“I bumped into someone, mum, and the tray fell. But Mr. Salter says as how he’ll pay for the broken dishes. He asked Mrs. Chubb to send him the bill.”

The words had tumbled out in a breathless rush, but Cecily caught them all. “Mr. Salter is here?”

“Yes, mum. Mrs. Chubb told him to wait in the library for you.”

“Then I’d better get up there right away.” Cecily pushed her chair back, and rose. “Oh, and tell Mrs. Chubb that it won’t be necessary to send Joe Salter a bill. I think the Pennyfoot can survive a few broken dishes.”

Ethel’s beam seemed to light up the kitchen. “Yes, mum!”

Eyeing her thoughtfully, Cecily left the room.

The minute the door was closed behind her, Gertie threw down her brush with a loud splash. “Bleeding all right, ain’t it. Here I am, up to me eyeballs in suds waiting for the blinking dishes while you go gallivanting around with Joe Salter.”

To Gertie’s astonishment, Ethel turned a radiant face toward her. For a moment she didn’t look like plain old Ethel at all. She looked … pretty.

The absurd notion vanished when Ethel said in a silly voice that Gertie would never have recognized, “I wasn’t gallivanting with him … yet.”

Gertie dried her hands on her apron. “Whatcha mean … yet? And what’s wrong with you? Going daft in the head, are yer?”

Ethel giggled and waltzed across the room with the tray
held high in the air. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Gertie Brown. Wouldn’t you just like to know.”

Her curiosity thoroughly aroused, Gertie jammed her knuckles into her ample hips. “So go on, then, tell me. Whatcha acting so stupid for?”

For a minute it looked as if Ethel was going to keep the secret to herself. She paused by the back door and looked back at Gertie. “I’ve got to put this stuff in the dustbin.”

Gertie advanced on her, her chin thrust out in a threatening manner. “Not until you tell me what’s up, you don’t.”

Excitement fairly burned in Ethel’s face. “Oh, all right. Take those plates off the tray for me, the ones that didn’t get broken, and I’ll tell you.”

Gertie snatched up the pile of dishes. “Now tell me what’s got you all of a dither.”

“Joe Salter helped me pick up the dishes. He was laughing and joking with me.”

Gertie snorted in disgust. “Is that all? Christ, I thought he’d at least touched you up, the bleeding way you was carrying on.”

“Do you always have to talk filthy like that?” Ethel demanded, her face turning scarlet. “If you must know, Joe Salter is a proper gentleman. Not like some people I could mention.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who, might I ask?”

“Never mind.” Ethel turned toward the door. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Aware that she’d hurt her friend’s feelings somehow, Gertie fumbled to make amends. “All right, so tell me. What did he talk about?”

She watched with interest while Ethel seemed to struggle with indecision. Apparently her news was too good to keep to herself, as she turned back and with a triumphant air announced, “He’s going to meet me tonight at the church hall, and we’re going to dance together. I’m going to dance with a hero, so there. What do you think of that?”

Gertie, in spite of herself, was impressed. The whole town was talking about Joe Salter, according to Ian. If it wasn’t for the fact she was getting married that weekend, she might even
have felt a bit envious. “I think you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to wear,” she said, ever practical.

Ethel’s face changed. “Oo, heck, I hadn’t even thought of that.” She turned back to the door and unlatched it with an expert finger. “I’ll get rid of this lot, and then we can talk about it.”

She disappeared through the door, and Gertie grinned. Ethel didn’t have near the experience she did, if any. She hoped Miss Prim and Proper wasn’t about to come a cropper. Amused by the joke, she hummed as she crossed the table to fetch madam’s cup and saucer.

Catching sight of the photograph on the front page of the newspaper, she bent down to get a closer look. She was still staring at it when the door opened and Cecily came hurrying through.

“Oh, there it is,” she said, as Gertie hurriedly straightened. “I want to keep that newspaper, so I’ll take it with me. I was almost up to the library before I remembered it.”

Gertie watched her pick up the paper; then something prompted her to say, “That picture on the front, mum. Is that the bloke what they found in the coffin?”

Cecily gave a sharp look. “Yes, it is, Gertie. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve seen him before, mum. Right here in this hotel. He was here Sunday evening. The same night he got murdered.”

CHAPTER
11

Cecily took a moment to regain her composure. “Just where did you see this man?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as possible.

“I seen him come out of one of the bedrooms. He had his arm around … some tart … and they was giggling together. He tried to push her behind him when he saw me. Guilty as hell, if you’ll pardon my French. Didn’t want me to see who it was.”

“Which room was that?”

“Room seventeen, mum. That’s how I knows they was up to no good, ’cos that room was supposed to be empty.”

It was indeed, Cecily thought grimly. “I don’t suppose you recognized the woman with him?”

Gertie flushed a deep red. “I didn’t see her properly, mum. I couldn’t tell, honest. She was hid behind him, like.”

Cecily fought the urge to insist. It was unlikely that Gertie would tell her, even if she had recognized the woman. In any case, Cecily did not want Gertie to know how important it was to her.

“I seen him again, later,” Gertie offered, as if to make up for her reluctance to divulge the name of the woman. “It was right afterwards. I had to fetch some wine from the cellar, and as I was going past the card rooms, this bloke comes out one of them. He looked right chuffed with himself, he did. Grinning all over his face.”

“You’re sure it was the same man? That it was the man in this picture?”

“I ain’t likely to forget,” Gertie said, glowering at the newspaper. “He pinched me blinking bottom, didn’t he. Cheeky bugger.”

“And can you remember which card room he was in?”

Gertie stuck a finger under her chin and stared up at the ceiling. After a moment’s thought, she looked back at Cecily. “No, mum, I can’t. Really I can’t. Could have been any one of them. He came up behind me, like, and I was so pissed at him, I didn’t think about which door he’d come out of.”

“And you are quite sure it was Sunday night?”

“Yes, mum. Positive. It was the same night that Mr. Jeremy Kent was here, I seen him talking to Michel in the hallway. I thought it was strange like, till I remembered Mr. Kent’s mother is Michel’s landlady.”

She shuddered. “I don’t like that Mr. Kent, mum. I really don’t. Nasty piece of work, he is. Gives me the creeps the way he looks at me.”

The back door opened so suddenly, for a fleeting moment Cecily wondered if Ethel had been listening behind it. But the girl’s face looked innocuous enough as she carried her tray over to the sink.

“Well, I would really appreciate it, Gertie,” Cecily said quietly, “if you would not discuss this with anyone.” Her faint emphasis on the last word was a warning. She could see by Gertie’s expression that she understood.

“Yes, mum. Me lips are sealed. On me life.”

Cecily seriously doubted that, but she hoped at least that
Gertie would not spread the gossip all over the hotel. Tucking the paper under her arm, she left the kitchen and headed once more for the library.

Had it not been for Joe Salter waiting for her in the library, she would have hunted down Baxter with this latest news. A notorious criminal had been right there in the card rooms, and was later murdered. Most likely by one of his cohorts.

The question, as far as Cecily was concerned, wasn’t so much who had murdered him, though that undoubtedly had a bearing on the case. Right then, the question that bothered her the most was why criminals were in her hotel in the first place.

Criminals who apparently were part of a gang of jewel thieves. Had they used the Pennyfoot to hide the stolen loot until they could load it aboard the boat? It was certainly a possibility.

Cecily turned the corner of the stairs and crossed the colorful Axminster carpet in the lobby. The chimes in the grandfather clock struck the half hour past ten as she reached the hallway. She had thirty minutes before the committee meeting in the library. She would have to rush her conversation with Joe Salter.

Frowning, she hurried along the passage, her mind still tussling with the problem. How had they gained access to the card room? She only rented the rooms to trusted clients.

True, she rarely saw who used the rooms. Whoever rented a room did so with the understanding that he observe the rules and maintain order. In return, he had the use of the room and facilities for the night, and could invite whom he desired.

Cecily never kept a record of who used which room. That way, without an official record, the many noted aristocrats who would not otherwise be able to participate in the gambling for various reasons, could do so freely, assured of privacy.

Most of the time, the gamblers would travel down from London during the evening, stay the night in the card rooms, and return to the city first thing in the morning, with few people ever aware of their presence.

No one had a key to the rooms, however, except the person
who had booked the room for the night. Cecily couldn’t imagine how anyone had managed to get into a room unobserved, unless they were invited. And she refused to believe that any of her trusted clients would invite a known criminal. Especially one capable of murder.

That left only one alternative. There were three sets of keys, besides the ones given to the guest booking a room. One set hung on Mrs. Chubb’s belt. Baxter also had a set, while a spare set of keys was kept in his office. Again her mind settled uneasily on Michel. Who else could it be? Still unwilling to believe her chef could be involved, she grasped at the only straw left to her. There was a slight chance the door could have been forced.

Deciding she would have to leave the matter until later, Cecily reached the door of the library. First, her meeting with Joe Salter. Then the committee meeting. After that, she would find Baxter and ask him to help her search the card rooms. Heaven knows what they would find, but she couldn’t dwell on it now. Bracing herself, she opened the library door.

Her conversation with Joe Salter was brief and to the point. He could tell her nothing that she didn’t already know, and in fact, seemed surprised that she was so interested.

She covered her apparent curiosity by saying that she was concerned about the safety of the pond, and wanted to know the details in case she decided to suggest to Lord Withersgill, who owned the land, that a fence be erected around it.

Joe assured her that everyone usually steered clear of the pond because of its treacherous depths, and it was only the ice covering it that had proven such a temptation. He seriously doubted that any of the village children would take such a risk again, after what happened to Bernie Briggett.

Satisfied that he couldn’t help her further, Cecily bade him good morning, and settled herself at the table to await Phoebe and Madeline.

Phoebe arrived first, as usual, weighted down by the profusion of ribbons and flowers adorning her hat. Her still tiny waist had been squeezed into an impossibly tight corset, and Cecily felt quite uncomfortable when she looked at the woman.

“I hope Algie has recovered from his nasty shock earlier this week?” she said, as Phoebe settled herself with a rustle of silk at the table.

“Yes, well, the poor dear has had nightmares ever since. But I daresay he’ll get over it, eventually.” The ribbons on Phoebe’s hat trembled. “I worry over that boy sometimes. He takes so much to heart.”

“Well, I hope he is recovered by Saturday. At least a wedding is a much more cheerful prospect than a funeral.”

“That’s if there isn’t a disaster,” said a low, cool voice from across the room.

Looking up, Cecily saw Madeline framed in the doorway. She was dressed in her usual filmy gauze and linen, in pale green and lavender. Her long black hair flowed down her face and over her shoulders, almost hiding the scowl on her perfect features.

“For heaven’s sake, Madeline,” Phoebe said irritably, “do you always have to bring a note of gloom and doom in the proceedings?”

“Come in and sit down,” Cecily said hastily. “We have a lot to discuss this morning.”

Madeline floated over to the table and sank into a chair opposite Phoebe. “I’ve just run into that dreadful Lord Chickering. How you can possibly invite him to entertain the guests at the ball, I cannot imagine.”

This last was directed at Phoebe, who immediately bristled. “Lord Chickering is a highly respected member of the aristocracy, and as such will bring a semblance of dignity to the entertainment.”

Madeline sniffed. “Semblance of dignity? I would say the performing monkey has more gentility than that imbecile. Why, only the other night I heard him use the most vulgar language—”

“Which reminds me, Phoebe,” Cecily said loudly, with a reproachful look at Madeline, “how are the arrangements for the entertainment coming along?”

With a toss of her head, Phoebe snubbed Madeline and turned to Cecily. “Everything has been arranged. Mr. Albernetti
has assured me his monkeys are well trained and will give an excellent performance.”

“Monkeys?” Cecily echoed. “How many are there?”

Phoebe looked a little uncomfortable. “Four, I think. Or five.”

“Oh, delightful.” Madeline’s silvery laugh seemed to ripple throughout the room. “I hope he keeps them on leashes. Come to think of it, we should consider keeping Lord Chickering on a leash. The man is positively dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Cecily studied her face. She always had trouble determining whether or not her friend was making a joke. Humor was not one of Madeline’s stronger points.

“Absolutely,” Madeline said solemnly. “I came across him standing in the middle of the lobby, waiting impatiently for someone to pick up the glove he had dropped.”

Cecily continued to look at her bleakly, and Madeline shrugged. “It’s supposed to be unlucky to pick up your own glove. It means a disappointment. So there he was, waiting for someone to come by and pick it up for him. Naturally, I walked over to oblige.”

She paused, and Phoebe leaned forward. “What did you say to him?” Her tone implied that Madeline had been her customary caustic self and had more than likely insulted the lord.

“I said nothing, Phoebe dear, to put that offended look on your face. I merely offered to pick up the glove.”

She turned to look at Cecily, and flicked her hair back from her face with a toss of her head. “The silly man acted as if I’d offered to burn him in oil. He backed away from me with his fat fingers crossed in front of him again, muttering about evil spirits.”

“Yes, well, you do have that effect on some people,” Phoebe murmured.

Madeline’s dark eyes narrowed. “If you ask me, the man is a blithering twit.”

Understanding that Madeline’s feelings had been hurt by the man, Cecily hastened to forestall Phoebe’s furious reply. “Well, no real harm was done, and I’m sure we have better things to think about right now.”

Phoebe spluttered for a moment or two, then lapsed into silence. Madeline yawned loudly behind a languid hand, but made no further comment.

Relieved at having averted another spat between the two women, Cecily guided the conversation back to the most pressing matters, details of the preparations for the upcoming weekend. By the time everything was fairly well settled, it was past noon.

Madeline rose gracefully from her chair as Cecily brought the meeting to a close. “I must run,” she said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I have two potions to deliver. One of them for that poor boy who almost drowned in the pond. It seems he is still suffering from shock and is wetting his bed at night. I have just the thing to cure him.”

“Probably finish him off altogether,” Phoebe muttered darkly.

Ignoring her, Madeline turned to Cecily. “I don’t like the way the storm clouds are gathering,” she said, dropping her voice to a low monotone. “So many deaths in a few short days. All things are connected, each one to the other, like ivy creeping over a grapevine, strangling as it goes.”

Phoebe drew a sharp breath, and in spite of herself, Cecily felt goose pimples rising along her arms. “I don’t know what you mean, Madeline,” she said, managing to sound unconcerned.

“I mean,” Madeline said, almost in a whisper, “that the deaths are linked, and there is yet another to come. Beware, Cecily. Disaster comes in innocent guises.”

The strange look on her face melted into a smile, and in her normal voice she added, “Well, I must go and deliver this potion to poor Bernie.”

“I can’t imagine what his mother is thinking of, letting the child swallow some obnoxious mixture of boiled weeds.” Phoebe tugged on her glove a little viciously. “Now that we have a brand new doctor in the village, I would have thought the most sensible thing would be to send for him to tend to the boy.”

Madeline smiled. “Ah, yes, the new doctor. Interesting man. I really must arrange a meeting with him soon.” With a
final wave of her hand, she swept across the floor to the door. “Who knows,” she murmured as she pulled it open, “I might be able to enlighten him on a subject or two.”

Her laugh seemed to echo in the room long after she’d closed the door behind her.

Phoebe tutted loudly as she dragged on her other glove. “I really do think that Madeline goes too far at times,” she said, emphasizing her disapproval with a loud sniff. “Really! The things she said about Lord Chickering were most uncalled for.”

“Oh, come now, Phoebe,” Cecily said mildly. “You know as well as I do that most of what Madeline says is for effect. She likes to get a reaction from people, that’s all. And the more success she has, the more she plays on it. Ignore her, and she’ll leave you alone.”

“Madeline is more than a trifle difficult to ignore.” Having finished buttoning her gloves, Phoebe settled her hat more firmly on her head. “As for poor Dr. Prestwick, he doesn’t know her as we do. He is likely to be quite horrified by some of her outrageous remarks. I just hope for her sake he doesn’t take her seriously.”

Remembering the smooth manner of the attractive doctor, Cecily murmured, “I have the distinct impression that the good doctor can very well take care of himself.”

“I certainly hope so.” Phoebe reached for her handbag and opened it. “Such a nice man, the doctor. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong impression of the kind of people with whom we associate.” She withdrew a lace handkerchief and delicately blew her nose.