7 Pay the Piper (3 page)

Baxter’s face was grave as he looked down at her. “Might I suggest that you try to forget the problems of the world and concentrate on the immediate problem at hand?”

She smiled up at him. “What would I do without you, Baxter? Of course you are right. The problems of the world I can do nothing about. I can only hope that this latest murder does not directly involve the hotel or any of its staff.”

“And that,” Baxter said heavily, “is a trust with which I can heartily agree.”

Shortly after her conversation with Baxter, Cecily was accosted in the hallway by Colonel Fortescue, who for once appeared to be quite sober—a state he no doubt would make haste to rectify before lunch was served in the dining room.

“Ah, Mrs. Sinclair! Topping day, what? What?” The elderly gentleman twirled his luxuriant mustache with a flourish. “Can’t imagine why anyone would want to stay inside on a day like this.”

“It’s a little too cold for most people,” Cecily pointed out, glancing hopefully toward the lobby for an avenue of escape.

“Poppycock!” The colonel’s booming voice echoed down the passageway. “This bracing air is just what the doctor ordered. Give’s one a healthy appetite, by George. In my
opinion, people tend to mollycoddle themselves nowadays. Going about all wrapped up in mufflers and those fur thingummies … one needs to get the air to one’s body. Good for the soul, you know.”

Fortescue slapped his protruding belly with such gusto he coughed, gasping for breath.

“I’m sure it is, Colonel,” Cecily murmured, doing her best to edge past him.

“Mind you, I don’t approve of baring the skin altogether, of course,” the colonel said, recovering his breath. “Not like those damn natives in India. Why, I remember once—”

“If you’ll excuse me, Colonel,” Cecily said desperately. “I really must be going.”

Colonel Fortescue looked disappointed. “Oh, of course, old bean. Wouldn’t want to keep you. Must be busy with all these Scottish chappies running around. Now there’s a barbaric sight if ever I saw one.”

The murder of Peter Stewart still on her mind, Cecily reacted without thinking. “I beg your pardon? What sight would that be, Colonel?”

He tilted forward and dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “All those bare knees, madam. In front of women, mind you. Shocking, if you ask me. Wouldn’t be so bad if the men kept their dashed knees together when they sit down. Downright wicked, I call it. ’Pon my word, those hot-tempered heathens are worse than the natives.”

“It is their uniform, Colonel. Scotsmen have been wearing the kilt for centuries.”

“They can call it what they like, madam. But a skirt is a skirt. And a damn short one at that. They should be horsewhipped. Every last one of them. Not a gentleman among them.” Still muttering and grumbling, the colonel wandered off, his head moving from side to side like a tired walrus looking for something to eat.

Cecily’s relief was short-lived, however, when Doris timidly approached her in the lobby. The skinny girl dropped an awkward curtsey, then said in her breathless
voice, “Mr. Baxter says as how you wanted to speak with P.C. Northcott, mum.”

Cecily gave the nervous girl a smile of encouragement. “Yes, I would like a word with the constable, Doris.” She peered closer. “It is Doris, isn’t it?”

A glimpse of white teeth reassured her. “Yes, mum. It’s Daisy’s morning off.”

Doris had seemed surprised that Cecily had recognized her right away, though in Cecily’s opinion, anyone who knew the girls would never confuse Daisy’s rebellious, belligerent attitude with her sister’s meek and mild manner.

Studying the girl, Cecily noticed with concern her ashen cheeks. “Are you feeling all right, Doris? You look a little pale this morning.”

“Yes, mum, thank you, mum. It was just the shock and all. I was just talking to Peter yesterday, you see.”

Surprised, Cecily said quietly, “I’m sorry, Doris. I know how very upsetting these things can be. Has the constable finished with Samuel?” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby. The morning seemed to be passing much too quickly.

“Yes, mum. He wanted to know where you wanted to receive him, mum.”

Cecily sighed, giving up for now her intention of a few quiet moments alone in the roof garden. The secluded area created between the sloping roofs of the hotel had been James’s idea—a refuge from the hectic turmoil of the guests and their constant demands, and the numerous crises engendered by the unpredictable staff.

Cecily had often escaped there when she needed time to rest, or to ponder on a dilemma, which seemed to happen at frequent intervals at the Pennyfoot.

This latest news of a murder in the town had unsettled her a great deal. The fact that the victim had been a guest at the hotel was enough to implicate the Pennyfoot, something Cecily could ill afford.

The hotel was a favorite hideaway for the aristocrats who
preferred to alleviate their boredom in more imaginative ways than was considered entirely proper. Secluded as it was on the quiet southeast coast, the village of Badgers End afforded a privacy that could not be found in the city, or in any town of some size.

In the bowels of the Pennyfoot the affluent society could pursue card games and other forms of gambling without fear of being observed, and in the lush scented boudoirs one could dally with a lover without risk of tattling tongues.

For it was the policy, and a strict one, that all who worked at the hotel did so with the knowledge that one word of gossip escaping from the realm of belowstairs meant instant dismissal.

It was therefore imperative that any contact with the authorities in town be kept to an absolute minimum. The appearance of a uniformed policeman on the premises would not be likely to instill the trust that brought the majority of the Pennyfoot’s customers flocking from London on a regular basis.

Then again, finding a guest of the hotel hanging in a butcher’s shop with his throat cut wasn’t exactly the kind of publicity Cecily needed either.

“Mum?” Doris said tentatively, jolting Cecily out of her worried thoughts.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Doris. I’m afraid I was wool-gathering. Please ask the constable to meet me in the drawing room. It is unlikely there will be any guests in there at this time of day.”

“Yes, mum.” Again Doris dropped a curtsey, then rushed off to the kitchen stairs, leaving Cecily ruefully wishing it had been warm enough to meet P.C. Northcott outside the hotel. Preferably on the beach, where no one would be likely to notice him.

She needed to know as much about the murder as Northcott was willing to tell her, however. As long as there was the slightest chance of the hotel being involved in an
investigation, Cecily wanted all the information she could get.

She retraced her steps and headed for the drawing room, trying to ignore the little voice of foreboding that usually preceded yet another calamity at the Pennyfoot.

CHAPTER
3

Having dispatched the constable to the drawing room, Doris took the opportunity of a spare moment to look in on Daisy. Upon opening the door to Gertie’s room, she was greeted with a fierce “Hush!”

Daisy sat in the rocking chair with a pile of pale blue fabric on her lap, her needle poised ready to strike. Across the room a large cradle took up most of the corner space between a small wardrobe and the three-legged bedside table.

“They’re asleep,” Daisy whispered, jerking her head at the cradle.

Doris nodded and crept across the floor to take a look. The babies lay on their side facing each other. Each head was barely covered by a fuzz of hair the color of coal, and
one tiny fist seemed to threaten anyone who disturbed them.

“I bet that’s the boy,” Doris whispered, looking at the fist.

“That’s James on the right,” Daisy said softly. “I just changed their nappies so I know.”

Pleased with her guess, Doris trod carefully back to the rocking chair. “I’d hate to change nappies. They must smell awful.”

Daisy shrugged. “No more than mucking out stables or cleaning pigpens, and I don’t mind that.”

“Well, you always did like messing about with animals. Thank goodness Aunt Beatrice never knew it was you taking my turn with the chickens and pigs. She’d have made me do it, and you know how I hated it.”

“Well, you did my share of the needlework.” Daisy swore and stuck a finger in her mouth. After sucking on it for a moment, she withdrew it and examined the tiny spot of blood that appeared on the rounded tip of the finger. “See what I mean? I’m hopeless at this sewing lark.”

“Leave it, then,” Doris said warmly, remembering how many times her sister had come to her rescue. “I’ll do it when I get off this evening.”

Daisy peered up at her twin. “You feeling better now? Mrs. Chubb said you took a nasty turn when you heard about Peter Stewart.”

“I’m all right.” Doris patted her waistline. “I’ve still got a queasy feeling in my stomach, though. Fancy him being done in like that. Who do you think could have done it?”

“I dunno. I didn’t know him like you did.”

Doris felt her cheeks grow warm. “I only spoke to him a couple of times. He heard me singing and was really nice about it. Said as how I could make it on the stage. He even promised to help me.”

Daisy’s green eyes fastened intently on her sister’s face. “You’d better watch what you’re doing, Doris Hoggins. You’re so blinking wrapped up in that dream of yours, it will get you into trouble one day, you mark my words.”

“I only talked to him, I did. What’s wrong with that? He
might have helped me get on the stage. Then you’d be saying as what a nice gentleman he was.”

“He couldn’t have been such a nice gentleman if someone wanted to bump him orf,” Daisy retorted. “You talk too easily to strangers, that you do. You’re not yet fifteen, and you know what happens to young girls what talk to strange men. You heard it often enough from Aunt Beatrice.”

Doris tossed her head, resenting the fact that deep down she knew Daisy was right. “Peter Stewart wasn’t like that. He was a nice man. I’m careful who I talk to, I am.”

“Yeah? Well, Samuel didn’t think you was being too careful. I heard him yelling at you for talking to the pipers.”

“Samuel thinks he can tell me what to do. He doesn’t own me, and nor do you. Just because you hate men doesn’t mean that they’re all bad. I only want to find someone to help me get on the stage, that’s all.”

“Well, you’d better watch your step, or you’ll find yourself hanging in the butcher’s shop like Peter Stewart.”

Doris clutched her stomach. “Just shut up, Daisy. You make me sick, you do.”

A loud yell made both girls jump. The howl was immediately joined by another lusty voice. Daisy leapt to her feet and rushed across to the cradle. “Now look what you’ve gone and done. Woke up the babies, you did. It took me forever to get them to sleep.”

Ashamed of her outburst, Doris hastily left the room, her sister’s warning still ringing in her ears. Daisy just didn’t understand, that was all, she thought as she hurried back to the kitchen.

She wouldn’t take no funny business off any man, and Daisy should know that. And so should Samuel. He had no business telling her off like that, just because he saw her laughing with Peter Stewart in the courtyard.

Her stomach did another strange little dance. Peter Stewart weren’t going to do no more laughing, that was for sure. The thought gave her the cold shivers.

* * *

“Yes ma’am, that h’is what I said.” Police Constable Stan Northcott rocked back and forth on his heels in front of the fireplace in the quiet drawing room. “Tom Abbittson ’as been taken into custody for the murder of Peter Stewart. I took him down to the station meself.”

Cecily regarded the constable, inclined to be skeptical. “I must say, Constable, you seem to have solved this murder with the utmost alacrity. I must commend you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. H’I do appreciate your compliment. I must say, I’m rather pleased with the way things have turned out, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m sure Inspector Cranshaw will be pleased as well,” Cecily said carefully. “It was quite clever of you to get a confession from Mr. Abbittson.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I didn’t get no confession. No, just the opposite, h’in fact.” The constable tucked his helmet more securely under his arm. The buttonholes on his uniform stained across his bulging belly as he puffed out his chest. “The butcher ’ollered all the way down to the station that he didn’t do it. Course, I knew he had. He had guilt written all over his face, that he did.”

“I see,” Cecily murmured. She waved a hand at her best blue velvet padded Queen Anne chair. “Won’t you have a seat, Constable? You must be tired after your busy morning. A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Oh, well, thank you, ma’am. Very kind of you, I’m sure.” The constable stopped preening long enough to seat himself on the chair.

Cecily crossed the room to the doorway and pulled the bell rope. “It should be no more than a few minutes. Pull that chair closer to the fire, if you like. It’s quite chilly in here this morning.”

It was uncommonly cold in the room, she thought, drawing closer to the fire herself. In fact, she’d been decidedly chilled all morning. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.

“Ah, well, don’t mind if I do.” The constable bumped the chair across the carpet, moving it a few inches closer to the fireplace. “It were cold in that butcher’s shop, all right. ’Specially down in that there cellar. I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Sinclair, when I saw that body hanging there, all white and shriveled, like, I thought I would freeze to the spot.”

“It must have been quite a sight.” Cecily seated herself on the ottoman, wondering what Baxter would have said if he’d seen Northcott sit down without waiting for her to take a seat.

“It were, ma’am, that’s the truth of it. What with the poor sod’s feet dangling like that above the ground and that dirty great butcher’s knife lying there …” Northcott wagged a fat finger at her. “Well, it told the h’entire story, didn’t it. Not to mention the bloodstained butcher’s apron all crumpled up, like someone had thrown it off in a hurry.”

“You could tell it was Tom Abbittson right away, then,” Cecily said, watching the constable’s face. His bushy brown hair had begun to thin above his forehead, and had been carefully combed to disguise the fact that he had more growth on his chin than on the top of his head.

It never failed to astonish her that any woman could have preferred this pompous, incompetent oaf to her forceful, efficient manager. Baxter had more intelligence, more charm, more integrity, and certainly more pleasing looks than P.C. Northcott could ever hope to imagine.

“Well, not right away, no, ma’am,” Northcott said in answer to her question. “It were the key, you see.”

Cecily clasped her hands in her lap in an effort to warm them. In spite of the heavy cotton blouse she wore with her long black skirt, her arms felt as if they had been buried in snow. “The key?” she asked politely.

“Yes, ma’am.” The constable’s beady eyes gleamed with pride. “It h’occurred to me that had it been someone else what cut the young man’s throat and hung him up like a side of beef in the butcher’s cellar, that someone else would’ve had a key
to let himself in, like. Otherwise, the door would have been broken in, which it weren’t.”

“It weren’t … ?” Cecily shook her head. “… Wasn’t?”

“No, ma’am, h’it definitely was not. Examined it meself, I did—” Northcott broke off as a light tap sounded on the door.

Impatiently Cecily turned her head to see her housemaid standing in the doorway. “A pot of tea, Gertie, please, and a slice of Mrs. Chubb’s Dundee cake.”

Gertie bobbed her knees. “Yes, mum.”

“And put your cap on straight, Gertie. I can hardly see your eyes.”

“Yes, mum.”

Cecily turned back to look at the constable, who sat rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. “Dundee cake. Oh, yes. My favorite. Much obliged, I’m sure, ma’am.”

“Not at all, Constable. You were saying about the key?”

“Oh, yes, the key. Well, like I said, someone ’ad to have a key to get inside the shop. But when I asked Tom Abbittson h’if there was another key to the shop, he told me there was only one. Had the lock made special, he did, and there weren’t another one like it to his knowledge. He had the only key right there in his pocket. He showed it to me.”

“How strange,” Cecily murmured.

“Very,” the constable said, obviously unaware with what he was agreeing. “That’s what I thought. The butcher reckons he don’t remember coming home from the pub. Drunk, he was, as per usual. He says as how he woke up lying in the road in front of the shop with his wife, Elsie, bending over him.”

“How absolutely fascinating.” Cecily leaned forward, knowing that Northcott would not be able to resist recounting his cleverness in minute detail. “Do go on.”

“Yes, well, Elsie says she helped him up to their flat above the shop. They have to go through the shop to get to the flat, since it don’t have no outside entrance, so to speak.

“So Tom didn’t have to use his key.”

The constable blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Cecily shook her head. “No matter. I’m sorry, Constable. Do go on.”

“Well, Elsie swears they went straight to bed, and neither of them moved out of it until the next morning. Abbittson says he didn’t have time to go down into the cellar, so he didn’t know the body was there until Samuel comes screeching up the stairs, hollering blue murder.”

Making a mental note to talk to Samuel as soon as possible, Cecily said brightly, “But you knew Tom was lying, of course.”

“Well, after he said as how there was only one key, stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, he was the only one what could have got inside the shop, and the Scotsman’s throat was cut, clean as a whistle with a butcher’s knife.”

The constable looked up as a sharp tap on the door heralded the arrival of the tea.

Cecily waited until Northcott had devoured a large portion of the cake before saying, “So what do you think really happened, then, Constable?”

The policeman’s throat worked at the cake as he swallowed it. “Well, ma’am,” he said, his words muffled while he swiped at his mouth with his serviette, “I reckon it happened like this. I found out from Samuel that Abbittson was engaged in fisticuffs with the victim at the pub last night. Course, according to Samuel, just about everyone down there was ’aving a go at each other, but there was no doubt that h’Abbittson and Peter Stewart was mixing it up, like.”

A lump of coal shifted in the grate, sending sparks up the chimney. Cecily watched the greedy flames lick at the shiny black nugget. “Both men were seen leaving the pub?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, yes. Samuel was sure about that, right enough.” Northcott gulped down the rest of his tea and clattered the cup back in the saucer. “He told me that the Scotsman got
the worst of the fight. He left right away apparently. I reckon he waited outside the pub until the butcher left, then followed him back to the shop to have his revenge, like.”

“You think Peter Stewart followed Tom into the shop?”

“That’s right. They got into it again, and this time Abbittson finished him off. Big muscles in his arms, that butcher’s got. One good punch would do it. Then he grabs the knife and slits his throat. Ties an apron around hisself so’s not to make a mess on his clothes, then humps him up onto the rack to hide the body until he can get rid of it later.”

“And leaves the knife and the apron on the floor.”

“Well, no one but him goes down there, do they? All he had to do was wait for the chance to dispose of the h’evidence later.”

“Except that Samuel did go down there.”

“Yes, well, h’as they say, it’s the unexpected what always trips ’em up.” The constable rubbed his hands and held them out to the fire. “Oh, yes, I do believe that h’Inspector Cranshaw will be most ’appy with me this time. Saved him a lot of grief, I did. Put this one away all by meself. Should be good for a spot of promotion, I daresay.”

Cecily rose, intending to put an end to the conversation. “Congratulations, Constable. Well-deserved, I should say.”

Northcott looked up. “Oh, thank you, ma’am. Much appreciated, yes.” Finally remembering his manners, he scrambled to his feet. “Well, I best be getting along. I’ve got to make out my report and send it to Wellercombe right away. The inspector will want to know all the details, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Cecily echoed, leading the way to the door. “You can find your own way out, Constable? I have an errand to take care of.”

“Oh, certainly, madam. Certainly. And thank you for the cake. Good cook, that Mrs. Chubb. Wouldn’t mind having one like her meself. Though as I always says, too many cooks spoil the broth.” Laughing uproariously at his obscure joke, the stout policeman made his way down the hall.

Cecily shook her head, then once more tugged on the bell pull. This time Doris answered her summons. “Find Samuel for me, please, Doris,” Cecily said, noting that the girl had more color now, “and tell him I would like to see him right away.”