3 Service for Two (4 page)

“Oh, dear,” Cecily said, her suspicions realized. Figgy
pudding was her cook Michel’s specialty. He was making it especially for the Valentine’s Day dinner on Thursday night. Unless she was mistaken, the list that Algie had thrown into the fire appeared to be that week’s menu from the Pennyfoot Hotel.

That really didn’t make sense. No one outside of the hotel would have a copy of the weekly menu. So whoever had dropped the list must have a connection with the hotel in some way. And whoever it was, he or she would have had to be in the vestry in order to lose it there.

Which raised the ugly possibility that the person responsible for exchanging Dr. McDuff’s body with that of a stranger could somehow be connected to the Pennyfoot.

She was jumping to conclusions, she told herself, forcing a smile for Algie’s benefit. He was staring at her with a puzzled look on his chubby face. “Well,” she said heartily, “I had better be on my way. I’m quite sure Baxter is getting tired of waiting for me.”

“You don’t think I should perhaps mention the list to the constable?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t give it another thought.” That was the last thing she wanted. Until she’d had a chance to do a little more investigating, she didn’t want anyone else knowing about the menu. Especially P.C. Northcott. If someone from the hotel was connected to this macabre matter in some way, she wanted to be the first one to know it.

To her relief, Algie seemed quite content to put it out of his mind. “Yes, of course you are quite right. What could a list of food possibly have to do with this strange business? It really is … ah … most odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“Extremely.” Cecily headed for the door, anxious now to return to the hotel and begin asking a few questions. “But I daresay we can leave it all in the capable hands of P.C. Northcott.”

Algie pumped his head up and down, losing his glasses again in the process. “Quite so, quite so. Though I must admit to feeling a qualm or two. The person who did this must be most callous and evil. Not many people would violate a dead man that way.”

“Two dead men,” Cecily reminded him. She had to suppress a shiver or two herself. What was it Madeline had said just that morning?
Violent death. And it’s not over yet
.

If Madeline was right, and she very often was, it was possible there could be more evil yet to visit the tiny village of Badgers End.

CHAPTER
4

Outside in the cold, damp air, Baxter stood talking to Samuel, the driver of the trap. Cecily smiled as she hurried down the gravel path toward him. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she reached him. “I didn’t mean to stay quite that long.”

“Quite all right, madam.” Baxter opened the door of the vehicle with a flourish that barely concealed his impatience. As Cecily lifted her skirts to climb in, the chestnut shifted from side to side, as if he, too, was tired of waiting. Samuel adjusted his grip on the bridle to steady the restless horse.

It had begun to snow again, floating down in large wet flakes that melted on Baxter’s homburg and shoulders.

“You must change your jacket as soon as we get back to the hotel,” Cecily told him as he settled on the seat opposite her.

“Yes, madam.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice so that the driver couldn’t overhear. “If I might ask, what was
Northcott doing at the funeral? I can’t imagine what could be so important that the service had to be postponed. Quite a disgrace, if I might say so. You can’t imagine the ugly rumors floating around.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Ridiculous, I must say. There’s talk that the doctor is missing, that he wasn’t in the coffin at all.” He made a small sound of disgust. “All this must be so distressing for his bereaved family.”

“I’m sure it is,” Cecily murmured. “But I do think we should wait to discuss this until we are back at the hotel.”

Baxter straightened. “Of course.” He said no more, but his keen glance every now and again betrayed his curiosity as they rode briskly back along the Esplanade.

Cecily wondered what his reaction would be when he knew that not only had someone exchanged the doctor’s body for that of a stranger, but apparently that same someone could also have a connection to the Pennyfoot.

Whichever way she looked at it, she thought, watching a small boy attempting unsuccessfully to bowl his hoop along the snow-covered pavement in front of the shuttered shops, it seemed as if trouble could once more be looming for her beloved hotel.

She couldn’t help thinking about James, and how he would have dealt with this. In his usual confident and efficient manner, no doubt. It was times like these when she missed him the most.

Baxter cleared his throat, and she looked at him, smiling at his concerned expression. Apparently reassured, he looked away, pretending to gaze out at the stormy sea. Dear Baxter, she thought with a rush of warmth. What would she do without him now? She could only hope she would never be faced with that dreary prospect.

Settling back in her seat, she gave her mind up to the puzzle at hand. An intriguing puzzle at that. Who was the unfortunate young man in the doctor’s coffin, and why was he put there?

In spite of her concern that someone at the hotel could be involved, she had to admit to a certain feeling of excitement.
There was nothing Cecily enjoyed more than a challenge. And this was one puzzle that promised to be all of that, and more.

“I don’t know as how I want a train on me dress,” Gertie declared, standing at the kitchen sink with a half-peeled potato in one hand and a small but wicked-looking knife in the other. “What if I blinking trip over it, then? I wouldn’t ’alf look a bloody fool, now wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, go on with you. You’ve got to have a train, doesn’t she, Mrs. Chubb?” Ethel lifted the iron from its stand on the stove and spat on it. A faint hiss rewarded her effort, and she carried it over to the table where a pile of white linen serviettes waited to be pressed.

The housekeeper grunted and heaved a large tub of boiled tablecloths from the stove. The darn things seemed to get heavier every day, she thought, as the muscles in her back twitched with pain.

“If she wants to be in the height of fashion, she does indeed have to wear a train. Besides, I’ve already got the material all cut out for it. I’ll be starting on the hemming tonight.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re making the wedding gown, and not me,” Gertie said, holding the potato under the trickle of water from the tap. “I’d make a right bloody mess of it, I can tell you. That was a lovely wedding present, Mrs. Chubb, to make my gown for me. Ian said that was very generous of you.”

“Yes, well, someone had to do it. Otherwise you’d have been tripping down the aisle in that dreadful Sunday frock of yours.” Mrs. Chubb staggered over to the sink next to Gertie’s and poured the contents of the tub into it.

Temporarily blinded by the cloud of steam, she added breathlessly, “I tell you, I’ll be happy when the season starts and we can open the laundry again. I’m getting too old to hump all this weight around.”

“That’s what keeps you young,” Gertie said, grinning at the housekeeper. “You’d soon go to pot without all that exercise.”

“Watch your tongue, young lady,” Mrs. Chubb said sharply. “And while we’re on the subject, I do hope you will
take care with your language during the ceremony on Saturday. Wouldn’t do for the congregation to hear the bride swearing like a drunken sailor, now would it?”

“Don’t you bleeding worry. I’ll be too blinking nervous to utter a word.” Gertie dug the point of her knife under a black eye in the white flesh of the potato.

Mrs. Chubb winced as a large lump flew off and disappeared somewhere on the tiled floor.

“Well, you’ll have to say something,” Ethel said, thumping the iron down hard on the stiff white fabric. “You got to say your vows, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Love, honor, and obey.” Gertie stared gloomily at the hole in the potato. “I dunno about the obey part. I’m already having trouble over that one with Ian.”

Mrs. Chubb wisely decided to change the subject. Once Gertie got started on her problems with Ian, she never knew when to shut up. “How are you getting on with your bridesmaid’s frock, Ethel?” she asked, turning the tap full on to send cold water streaming over the hot linens.

“I got most of the embroidery done, but I still got all the lace to sew on. It’s fiddly, trying to get it on right.”

“You’re going to look blooming beautiful,” Gertie said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “All that pink satin and lace. I’ll have to watch out you don’t outdo the bride.”

Ethel laughed. “Not much chance of that.”

Mrs. Chubb privately agreed. Gertie was built like a barn, a little too tall and a little too broad in the shoulder and beam, but with her dark flashing eyes and thick black hair she would make an impressive figure gliding down the aisle in the ivory silk gown.

At least, Mrs. Chubb hoped that Gertie would glide. She was very fond of the girl. Ever since Gertie had first come to the Pennyfoot as a tough, rebellious twelve-year-old, the housekeeper had taken the child under her wing.

In many ways, Gertie had taken the place of the daughter she’d never had. But sometimes she couldn’t help wishing that the housemaid had a little more finesse about her.

Mrs. Chubb had sat many hours working lovingly on the
wedding gown, determined to produce the most beautiful dress the village of Badgers End had ever seen. It would spoil the effect if Gertie tromped down the aisle on her flat feet the way she did around the hotel.

“Maybe we should practice gliding,” she murmured, hoping it wasn’t too late. She had only a few days left to work on it.

Gertie wasn’t listening. “Well, I just hope Ian appreciates all the work that’s going into this blinking wedding. I sometimes wonder if I’m doing the right thing by marrying him. All we do lately is bloody argue.”

“Bit late to worry about it now,” Ethel said. She spat on the iron again, producing nothing more than a faint splat. Sighing, she carried the iron back to the stove and exchanged it for the hot one on the stand.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t find out till last week how bleeding stubborn he can be. Wants me to give up work, he does, and stay home to take care of him and the cottage. Now that he’s taken on the job of managing the stables, he’s earning more than he used to as a footman. He reckons we don’t need the money, says I won’t have time to do things properly if I’m working.”

“Ooh, you lucky bugger,” Ethel said, thumping the iron down again on the linen. “What I wouldn’t give to give up working.”

“What makes you think you give up working?” Mrs. Chubb muttered. “Taking care of a man and a home is more work then what you do here in the hotel.”

Ethel sighed and gazed up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. “Yeah, but it’s different, isn’t it? I mean, if you had a man to take care of, you’d feel different about it.”

Mrs. Chubb bit her tongue. Let the poor girl have her fancy notions. It wasn’t as if she had any bright prospects of having a man of her own anyway. Not as long as she lived in Badgers End. All the young people were moving out of the countryside, looking for excitement in the big cities and towns.

“Well, I don’t want to stay home on me own,” Gertie said defiantly. “Stuck out there on Putney Downs in one of them tiny little cottages? I’d go flipping mad, I would. I don’t want
to lose me job here. I like it. And what’s more, I don’t think Ian has any right to make me give it up.”

“If you had a baby you’d have to give it up,” Ethel pointed out.

Gertie’s face grew pink. “Well, that’s different, ain’t it?”

“Isn’t it,” Mrs. Chubb corrected automatically.

“Isn’t it. But right now I ain’t … haven’t got a baby, and if Mr. High-and-Mighty thinks he’s going to order me around, he’s got another blinking thought coming.”

“Wedding nerves, duck, that’s all it is. You’ll feel better once you get it over with,” Mrs. Chubb said briskly. “Now, have you done with those potatoes yet? Michel will be in any minute screaming his head off because we’re not ready for him.”

“Oh, crikey,” Ethel said, banging the iron down faster. “Don’t let him get started, whatever you do.”

To Mrs. Chubb’s relief, the mention of the quick-tempered chef produced the desired results, and both girls set about finishing the chores.

In the library, Cecily sat in her favorite chair at the heavy table, smoke curling over her head from the cigar she’d wheedled out of a very disapproving Baxter. He stood now with his back to the door, his face set in the formidable expression he always wore when he was upset with her.

There were many subjects upon which Cecily and her manager failed to agree, but her fondness for the thin cigars he fancied irritated him the most. Cecily was never quite sure if he abhorred her lack of femininity, or resented her cadging from him. Either way, she had to suffer his black looks when she smoked in his company. Which was why she enjoyed it all the more.

At the moment, however, she was too concerned about the mix-up at the funeral to take satisfaction in taunting Baxter. “I’m afraid the rumors you heard were true,” she said, tapping the ash from the cigar into the silver ashtray. “At least, partly true. The body in the coffin this afternoon was not that of Dr. McDuff.”

A look of astonishment replaced Baxter’s frown. “Then who was it?”

“We don’t know at present. We might never have known if one of the village boys hadn’t fallen through the ice on Deep Willow Pond and discovered the body of Dr. McDuff in the water.”

“In the water?” He stared at her for a moment, as if trying to absorb the startling news. “What was he doing there? How did he get there?”

“All good questions. Unfortunately we have no answers. P.C. Northcott will be collecting the stranger’s body this evening. Perhaps we shall know more by tomorrow.”

Baxter uttered a derisive laugh. “If it’s left up to that fool, you might never learn the truth.”

Cecily studied his face. “Baxter, why is it you have such a low opinion of Stan Northcott? He’s not a brilliant man, I grant you, but he does make an effort to get the job done. And he usually succeeds sooner or later. He seems efficient enough for what we can expect in a small village such as ours.” She watched with interest as Baxter’s face turned pink.

“I … it is a personal matter, madam. And one I would rather not delve into, if you’ll pardon me.”

Hiding her frustration, she merely nodded. She had long speculated on the reason for Baxter’s animosity toward the constable, but since he refused to discuss it, she would have to curb her curiosity.

She drew once more upon the cigar, enjoying the sharp taste in her mouth. If only Baxter would unbend a little in his strict observance of etiquette. She had the distinct impression that if he would sit and relax with her, instead of standing at attention whenever they were alone in the library, she could learn a good deal more about her enigmatic manager.

Thrusting the thought from her mind, she returned to the matter at hand. “It would appear, from the little we do know, that someone went to a great deal of trouble to exchange Dr. McDuff’s body for that of a young man.”

“In God’s name, for whatever purpose?”

“If we knew that,” Cecily said, watching the smoke drift from her mouth, “we would perhaps know more about the
unfortunate young man in the coffin. What concerns me the most, at present, is the possibility that someone from the hotel could be involved.”

She explained about the list that Algie had found, her convictions confirmed when Baxter obviously recognized the menu. “There are only four people who normally would know the entire week’s menu,” she said as he digested this latest piece of news. “You and I, Michel, and Mrs. Chubb. Anyone else would have to obtain a copy from one of us.”

Baxter rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands tightly clasped behind him. “So you are saying that if it wasn’t Michel or Mrs. Chubb who performed this ghastly conjuring trick, they must know who did?”

“They must at least know to whom they gave a copy of the menu,” Cecily agreed.

“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine why someone would go to all that trouble. It can’t be some unfortunate macabre prank, can it?”

“If it was, the perpetrator has a strange sense of humor.” Cecily stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray, producing an acrid smell. “No, I’m very much afraid that there was a far more sinister purpose behind the incident. The dead man has been stabbed through the heart. Murdered, I assume.”