7 Pay the Piper (5 page)

Her face changed, and for a moment it seemed as if she would cry. Then she appeared to compose herself. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage now Tom’s gone. I’ll have to ask his brother to come in and cut the meat, I suppose. Bert used to be a butcher before he took up farming.”

Filled with compassion, Cecily patted the woman’s slender shoulders. “Try not to worry, Elsie. I’ll see what I can do, though I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. The police do not look kindly on me interfering in their business.”

“Oh, I know, Mrs. Sinclair, and I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t desperate. But, please, do try and help my Tom. I know if anyone can get him off, you can. I just feel so awful knowing he’s locked up down there for something he didn’t do. He has a terrible temper on him, my Tom, but he wouldn’t kill no one. I would swear to that on the Bible, I would.”

“Leave it to me,” Cecily said, following the jittery woman to the door. “I’ll do my very best to find out exactly what happened last night. If I have any news, I’ll send Samuel down to the shop to let you know.”

Tears brimmed in Elsie’s eyes as she looked up at Cecily. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Thank you ever so much.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Cecily said grimly. “P.C. Northcott is convinced he has the culprit, and he can be very stubborn at times.”

“Cor, don’t I know it,” Elsie said with feeling. “But even
he’s not as bad as that Inspector Cranshaw. Once he gets his teeth into something he won’t let go.”

Cecily couldn’t agree more. She had the uneasy feeling that she was about to lock horns with the formidable inspector once again. Baxter would not be pleased.

CHAPTER
5

“Come now, ladies!” Phoebe clapped her hands in a vain effort to attract the attention of the group of young girls standing chattering in the corner of the spacious village hall. In spite of the fact that her voice echoed in the rafters of the drafty building, not one of the dancers appeared to notice.

Phoebe turned to the husky man standing next to her. She couldn’t help noticing how the light from the gas lamps turned his thick white hair to silver. She couldn’t be quite sure if the gleam in his dark brown eyes could also be attributed to the flickering light, or if perhaps a spark of interest in her appearance might have brightened his warm gaze.

Deciding that she would accept the gleam for approval, she fluttered her eyelashes and peeked coyly up at him. “I
wonder if you could address the girls for me,” she said, tilting the enormous brim of her hat in order to give him the full benefit of her face. “I don’t seem able to raise my voice above their clatter.”

Alec McPherson inclined his head with a smile. “My pleasure, ma’am. They do seem a wee bit inattentive this evening.”

Basking in the effect of the smile, Phoebe watched as the Scotsman threw back his head. She jumped violently when a mighty roar erupted from his mouth, enough to make the walls tremble.

“Will ye be quiet, ye blithering numbskulls! Can ye no’ hear a lady when she talks to ye?”

Phoebe clutched her hat with both hands as if afraid it would blow off. “Oh, my,” she murmured.

The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the roar. All eight girls stood staring at the piper in openmouthed astonishment.

“That’s better,” Alec said, mercifully dropping his voice. Turning to Phoebe, he gave her a slight bow. “My apologies, ma’am, but sometimes a loud bellow works wonders.”

“It does indeed,” Phoebe gushed, fluttering a hand at her breast. “Most impressive, Mr. McPherson. Most impressive indeed.”

“I thought we had agreed on Christian names,” Alec said, nudging his head in the direction of the girls. “Two heads are better than one, if you remember?”

“Oh, I certainly do … Alec,” Phoebe said, wishing she had more breath to spare. For some silly reason she found it hard to breathe when he looked at her in that roguish way.

“Now,” Alec said, transferring his attention back to the avidly staring group in the corner, “I hope ye all remember the steps I showed ye yesterday.”

“Oh, we certainly do … Alec,” someone piped up from the back, in a fair imitation of Phoebe’s breathless voice.

A chorus of giggles followed, and Phoebe’s cheeks
flamed. Stepping forward, she fixed her stare on a dark-haired girl with barrel hips. “Marion, I will thank you to keep your place. You are the leader of this dance troupe and as such you should be setting an example. I must ask that you show a little more respect, if you please.”

“It weren’t me, Mrs. Carter-Holmes. I never said nuffing, honest.”

“Very well. I sincerely hope that the rest of the girls follow your example. Now, if you will all please get into your positions, I will ask Mr. … Alec if he will kindly play the pipes for the Highland Fling.”

A chorus of groans greeted this remark. “Why do we have to do flipping Scotch dances, just because the blinking Scotch are in town?” one strident voice demanded.

“Will we be wearing kilts?” someone else asked.

“I certainly hope not,” Phoebe said in alarm. “It would be most disgraceful for young ladies to bare their knees in public.”

“Be baring a lot more than that if the likes of us do the Highland Fling,” Marion muttered.

A spindly girl with tangled blond hair elbowed Marion aside. “What’s wrong with our knees?” she demanded. “If those bloody Scotchmen can do it, why can’t we?”

“Shut up, Dora,” Marion said rudely. “If you ask me, the sight of them bony knees flashing up and down makes me sick. Scotchmen should be wearing trousers, same as other men do. It ain’t proper, that’s what I say.”

“
Scotchmen!
” Once more the awesome voice of Alec McPherson rattled the rafters. “We are not Scotchmen,” he roared. “I’ve told ye all this before. Scotch is something you pour down your throat. We are Scotsmen.
Scotsmen!
Do I make myself clear?”

Several voices spoke dutifully in unison. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m very glad to hear that. Now, get in a circle while I prime my pipes.”

Keeping a fixed smile on her face, Phoebe briefly closed her eyes as the dreadful wail drifted agonizingly to the
ceiling. While she was quite fond of the stirring strains of the pipes once the melody became clear, she could not abide the awful whine as the bag filled with air from Alec’s strong lungs.

The hall was quite large, and devoid of any furnishings, except for a few long tables and several chairs stacked against one wall. Remnants of streamers still hung from the rafters where some enterprising souls had risked their necks in order to decorate the hall for Christmas. Apparently they had not deemed the risk worthwhile enough to remove the decorations.

Barren as the premises were, the noise seemed to echo with quite appalling resonance throughout the building. Even so, Dora’s raised voice could be heard quite clearly. “Strewth. Sounds like a hundred bleeding cats on the warpath.”

“I’d rather have the cats,” someone else said loudly.

“Not if they was peeing all over your house, you wouldn’t,” Marion chimed in.

Phoebe shot a nervous glance at Alec, who seemed too engrossed in getting enough air into the bag to listen to the disgraceful comments of the dancers.

“Get into a circle at once,” she called out in a voice shrill enough to be heard above the racket.

There was a general shuffling and bumping among the girls, until finally they formed a ragged circle.

“Into positions everyone!” Phoebe pranced around the circle, doing her best to get fingers of the left hands resting on hips in the proper position, with right hands raised in a graceful pose above the head.

At least, they were supposed to be raised gracefully. Phoebe shook her head when she spied Dora’s hand dangling limply over her head like a bunch of Tom Abbittson’s sausages. “Do please try to look like dancers,” Phoebe implored, as Marion wobbled precariously on one leg, the other bent at the knee.

“It’s blinking hard to stand like this,” Marion complained.

“Not if you balance your weight.” Phoebe stood in the center of the uneven circle and inspected each dancer with a critical eye. “Isabelle, you are supposed to point your toes toward the ground.”

“Can’t.” Isabelle uttered a loud moan. “I get cramps in me foot when I do that.”

“That’s what comes of creeping around in the damp grass with dopey David Hardcastle,” Dora said with malicious glee. “Gives you rheumatiz, it does.”

Outraged, Isabelle gave Dora a shove. “He’s not dopey, so there.”

Already off balance, Dora careened into the girl next to her. Phoebe closed her eyes as each girl crashed into the next, sending the lot of them toppling to the floor with shrieks that easily outclassed the wail of Alec’s pipes.

In the midst of all the chaos, Alec bellowed, “I canna play music with all this commotion going on. Do you want me to play for ye or not?”

Phoebe opened her eyes. The girls sat on the floor, meekly staring up at him, though more than one struggled to keep a straight face.

Drawing herself to her full height, Phoebe took a deep breath. “Get up!” she yelled, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be a lady.

The girls scrambled to their feet.

Spinning around so that each dancer caught the full fury of her glare, Phoebe announced loudly and distinctly, “I will take no more of this ridiculous behavior. Either you act like young ladies, or I will tell Mr. … Alec to take his pipes out of here, and there will be no performance at the Tartan Ball.”

“And for that we shall be eternally grateful,” a low voice muttered.

Ignoring the comment, Phoebe turned to Alec. “I really must apologize, Alec. Please, do play the melody for us. I promise you the girls will do their best to master the Highland Fling.”

“I thought we just did,” Dora said, and someone snickered. Luckily Alec had already begun the opening notes, and only Phoebe heard the words. She sent up a silent prayer that somehow the girls would perform a miracle, and by the night of the ball at the very least manage to present the illusion that they knew what they were doing.

Watching them leap around, looking like wounded frogs, she had serious doubts about that. But then her gaze drifted to Alec, who stood in magnificent splendor in the center of the hall, looking so handsome and virile in his red and black kilt.

It was worth the effort, Phoebe told herself as she gazed admiringly at the impressive figure. Oh, yes, indeed, if nothing else, she will have enjoyed the pleasure of this fascinating man’s company for a little while at least.

She would worry about the ball when the time came, she decided. Right now, it was enough to gaze upon the glorious sight of Alec McPherson and his pipes, and listen to the rousing melody that filled the hall.

Cecily waited until the evening meal had been served in the dining room before approaching Baxter. Her manager always ate his dinner in his quarters before the dinner gong summoned the guests. By the time she reached his office, he would be relaxing after his meal.

To her surprise, he was nowhere to be seen when she arrived at his office a few minutes later. Neither did he appear to be in his quarters. Wondering where he could be, she retraced her steps to the dining room and cornered Daisy, or perhaps it was Doris.

Daisy, as it turned out to be, informed her that Mr. Baxter was in the library. “He asked to have his coffee served in there,” she said, shifting the heavy tray in her hands to get a better grip.

Cecily thanked the girl and watched her stomp off down the hallway. She couldn’t help wondering if Daisy was happy working at the hotel. Doris seemed to have settled in
very well, but Daisy still wore a perpetual look of bored indifference, and Cecily rarely saw her talk to anyone except her sister.

Her mind still dwelling on Daisy, Cecily made her way to the library. All of her staff were important to her, and she looked upon every one of them as family. It worried her a great deal that Daisy seemed despondent, even resentful at times. She made up her mind to have a word with the girl and perhaps find a way to make the child feel more at home.

Reaching the library, Cecily peeked into the room. Baxter sat in the armchair by the fire, a cup of coffee at his elbow, his expression somber as he gazed into the flickering flames.

He appeared not to have heard her open the door, and she watched him for a moment, feeling a pang of anxiety. Baxter was not a man of many words, but she knew most of his moods. He was rarely despondent, but looking at him now, she couldn’t help wondering what it was that had put that look of melancholy on his face.

After a moment or two she had the odd feeling she was intruding on his privacy. She cleared her throat, and immediately he sprang to his feet. “Forgive me, madam, I didn’t hear you come in.”

She walked into the room, gazing intently at his face. He had the look of someone being caught in the act of committing a misdeed. Not quite sure how to respond, she said mildly, “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

He looked shocked and drew a finger around the edge of his stiff white collar. “Not at all, madam. After all, you have every right to be in here.”

She smiled. “So do you, Baxter.”

“Thank you, madam. I meant that you had more right than I.”

“I’m just surprised to find you here.” She looked around
the vast room with its crowded shelves of unread books. “You usually prefer the comfort of your own suite.”

“I was a little … restless tonight.”

She looked back at him, peering up into his face. “You are not well? Can I get you something? Mrs. Chubb can no doubt find a remedy, providing it isn’t something that needs a doctor’s care.”

“I’m afraid nothing can cure what ails me,” Baxter said in a mournful voice that increased Cecily’s concern.

Laying a hand on his arm, she said anxiously, “What is it, Bax? Please tell me. Perhaps I can help. If not, Dr. Prestwick—”

“Please, not Prestwick.” Baxter moved away from her with an abrupt movement. “I hear he has more interest in curing the ladies than he does gentlemen.”

Bristling a little, Cecily said stiffly, “It is not the doctor’s fault if the ladies find him attractive. I’m quite sure he is just as attentive toward his male patients as his female ones.”

“Your defense of him is admirable.” Baxter moved even closer to the fireplace and once more gazed into the flames. “Even so, I can’t help wishing that Dr. McDuff was still with us. He was a man I could trust implicitly.”

Thoroughly alarmed now, Cecily moved swiftly to his side. “Baxter, please, what is it? You are frightening me with such talk. If you are ill, we must do something about it. Remember how James kept insisting he was feeling quite well, and just a few short days later he—”

She broke off and, to her consternation, heard Baxter curse softly, something he rarely did in her presence. And only then in dire circumstances. “Please, madam, do not upset yourself. I am perfectly well, just a little out of sorts, that is all.”

She narrowed her eyes, again staring intently at his face. He still had good color, and his eyes looked clear enough. Except for the fact that he avoided her gaze, concentrating on a spot above her head, he seemed much the same as usual.

“You have a cold?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No, madam. I assure you, this is not a physical illness. Just a slight case of the miseries. I have no idea why. Most likely this infernal weather. I never could tolerate the cold.”

Unconvinced, Cecily continued to study him. “You are worried about something, perhaps? If it is a private matter—”

He unsettled her again by saying abruptly, “There is nothing in my life that is private as far as you are concerned, madam.”

Wisely taking that as a subtle warning, she decided to postpone the questions. At least until he was in a better frame of mind. Under the circumstances, she was even more hesitant to say what she had come to tell him.