PH02 - Do Not Disturb (12 page)
Cecily winced, but said nothing. She would have a quiet word with Mrs. Chubb later, she promised herself. It was the housekeeper’s job to chastise the housemaids, and Cecily wasn’t about to interfere.
“Well, everyone knows he’s a friend of Dick Scroggins, and Dick hates the lighthouse project. They think that Ian only went to work there so he could do the damage and put them off building it.” Gertie rubbed furiously on the fork. “Bloody daft, they are,” she muttered.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll find out sooner or later who sabotaged the project,” Cecily said as Mrs. Chubb came bustling back into the kitchen carrying the tablecloths. “That should stop the tongues wagging.”
“Well, that ain’t the half of it,” Gertie said, starting on another fork. “They say Ian could be the one what poisoned those two men, as well. It’s all to stop the project, they said.” She chewed on her lower lip while she studied the fork. “I know he wouldn’t do nothing like that. He’s not bloody perfect by any means, but he’s no blinking murderer, that I do know.”
“Now that’s enough, Gertie,” Mrs. Chubb put in hurriedly. “You don’t need to be bothering madam with all your problems.” She handed the tablecloths to Cecily with a smile of apology. “Gets carried away, she does, if I’m not here to stop her.”
“Madam asked me,” Gertie said in an injured tone. “I was just telling her what she asked, that’s all.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Chubb,” Cecily said, tucking the tablecloths under her arm. “I still consider Ian an employee of mine, and naturally I’m concerned about him.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t bloody help him to be fighting with Colin Bickley the night he died, did it?” Gertie said gloomily.
Cecily looked at her with a start. She’d quite forgotten about Ian’s fight with Bickley. “Do you know what the fight was about?”
Gertie’s face turned a deep shade of red, but she shook her head. “No, I don’t,” she mumbled, leaving Cecily quite certain the girl was keeping something back.
Making up her mind to have a word with Ian at the earliest opportunity, Cecily left the kitchen. It appeared that there were now two suspects in the case, neither of whom were capable of such a crime, in Cecily’s opinion. It would seem that she would have her work cut out for her, unless the police unearthed some new evidence on the case.
What really worried her was the fact that two men had already died, by the same means. Something told her that unless the puzzle could be solved quickly, and whoever was responsible apprehended, it was entirely possible that there could be more deaths in Badgers End.
And heaven alone knew who would be next.
Early the next morning Mrs. Chubb huffed and puffed as she climbed the steep slope to Madeline’s cottage. The things she did for that girl, she thought, when she finally reached the wooden gate, and leaned on it to get her breath. Must be mad, that’s what.
Although she’d never admit it, Mrs. Chubb was very fond of Gertie. She tried to tell herself that it was because she was a good worker, and good workers were hard to find, never mind all the training it took to get them to the point where she didn’t have to follow them around all the time.
The truth was, ever since she’d first set eyes on Gertie, twelve years old and eyes big as saucers, her straight black hair falling all over her face, she’d taken the child right to her heart.
Mrs. Chubb had never had children of her own. She lost three of them trying to give birth, and after that the doctors
told her she’d never have any more. Gertie was the daughter Mrs. Chubb had always envisioned in her imagination.
The housekeeper straightened her back and pushed open the gate. She hoped from the bottom of her heart that Gertie wasn’t pregnant, especially if that loud-mouthed Ian Rossiter was the father. Oh, he had plenty of charm, all right, but he was no good for Gertie. She deserved a lot better than the likes of him.
Mrs. Chubb trudged up the gravel path, between thick rows of gold and crimson chrysanthemums. All she hoped was that something else had made the girl late. And if one of Madeline’s potions could bring her on, then both she and Mrs. Chubb could stop worrying about it.
God knows she had enough to worry about without that. And it was upsetting to see Gertie mooching around looking as if she had the troubles of the world on her shoulders. Took her twice as long to get anything done these days.
Mrs. Chubb lifted the brass door knocker with the tip of a gloved finger. The knocker was in the shape of a gargoyle’s head. The ugliest thing Mrs. Chubb ever did see. She didn’t even like touching it.
The door opened, and Madeline’s pretty face appeared in the gap, her hair floating around her head like spray from a waterfall. It had always amazed Mrs. Chubb how hair could float like that. Hers had always lain flat and heavy on her head, which is why she’d always wound it into a bun. She could keep it tidy, if she stuck enough pins in it to hold it.
“Altheda! How nice to see you.” Madeline waved a languid hand at her. “I was just making some tea. You’re just in time to join me.”
“What kind of tea is it?” Mrs. Chubb asked suspicously as she stepped down into the cluttered front room. Madeline made a living from selling a variety of hand-crafted items, and her entire cottage was her workshop.
At first glance, the room looked like something out of A
Thousand and One Nights
. Folds of material were draped around the walls, soft, smooth, richly hued velvets and pale,
filmy gauze. Strings of brightly colored beads hung between the doorways, interlaced with silver and gold ribbons.
An old-fashioned oil lamp dangled from the ceiling. Mrs. Chubb half expected to see smoke pouring from the spout in the shape of a genie. Not that she’d mind having three wishes granted, mind you.
On the sideboard and scattered over the floor lay huge flowers made out of paper in every color of the rainbow, while little furry stuffed animals of every description grinned at her from the corners of the room.
But it was the smell of the place that always disturbed Mrs. Chubb—pungent and spicy, not altogether unpleasant, but strange. Different. Exotic. Foreign. Like those pictures she saw in the lurid magazines that Gertie hid in her bedroom.
“It’s chamomile,” Madeline said, rattling cups in the kitchen. “Find a place to sit down, and I’ll bring you some biscuits.”
Mrs. Chubb moved a sewing basket off the seat of an overstuffed armchair and plunked down onto it. It was the most comfortable seat in Madeline’s home. Actually it was the only comfortable seat in Madeline’s home.
She eyed the steaming cup that Madeline handed her with a wary eye. She had drunk many a cup of strange-tasting tea in that cottage and survived them all, but one never knew what one was drinking.
“I’m surprised to see you,” Madeline said as she settled herself on a large velvet cushion in the middle of the floor. “Did you change your day off?”
“No, I didn’t.” Mrs. Chubb took a cautious sip of the tea. It had a slightly bitter flavor, but was drinkable—though she would have much preferred some strong black Assam. “I came up here to buy a potion,” she said, trying to look as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be asking.
Madeline looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Altheda, you gave me to understand you would never touch one of my remedies. That’s what doctors are for, I believe you said.”
Mrs. Chubb nodded, hoping her face wasn’t turning as red as it felt. “Yes, well, it isn’t for me, you see. It’s for … a friend of mine.”
Madeline’s dark eyes glistened with amusement. “You have a lover, Altheda? Is that it? You want a love potion to make him look at you as he would a young nubile wood nymph?”
A spray of tea spewed from Mrs. Chubb’s shocked lips, drenching her skirt. Choking, she tried frantically to hunt in her sleeve for her handkerchief, while balancing the cup and saucer in the other hand.
Madeline casually reached for a beautiful piece of embroidered linen. “Here,” she said, offering it to Mrs. Chubb, “use this.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she croaked.
“Yes, you can.” Climbing onto her knees, Madeline dropped the cloth into Mrs. Chubb’s lap and then settled back on her cushion. “Now, tell me why you need a potion.”
Dabbing at her skirt with the exquisite piece of fabric, Mrs. Chubb tried to find the right words. This was proving to be considerably more difficult than she’d realized.
“I … er … that is … I need a potion to … er … you know … make someone come on.”
Madeline looked puzzled. “Come on where?”
Mrs. Chubb tried again. “You know. It. The curse. She’s late, you see, and she’s scared to death she’s in the family way.”
Madeline’s perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted. “Altheda Chubb! Whatever have you been up to?”
“Not me!” Mrs. Chubb yelped, then succumbed to a fit of coughing.
Madeline scrambled to her feet, took the cup from the housekeeper’s jerking hand, and thumped her broad back. “There,” she said when the housekeeper gasped in protest, “feeling better?”
Mrs. Chubb nodded frantically, before she could receive another one of those dreadful blows. Almost jerked her off
the chair, it did. Madeline sank back onto her cushion and waited for her to get her breath.
“Now,” Madeline said, when the sound of rasping breathing had ceased, “start at the beginning and tell me who it is who needs this remedy.”
“I promised I wouldn’t,” Mrs. Chubb said hoarsely. She took the cup Madeline thrust at her and took a hefty gulp of the tea, almost choking again in her attempt to swallow it.
“I can’t give it to you unless I know who it’s for.” Madeline said. “It makes a difference in the mixture, you must realize that.”
Mrs. Chubb wasn’t at all sure that Madeline wasn’t merely being curious, but she’d had enough. Her skirt was damp, her throat felt as if it were on fire, and the embarrassment of the whole situation was just too much to bear. If she’d known getting a potion would be this much trouble, she’d have tried the gin again.
“It’s for Gertie,” she whispered, though there was no one there except Madeline to hear her. “She’s terrified she might be …” She practically mouthed the word “pregnant.”
Madeline smiled. “Just sit there, and I’ll soon mix something up for her.”
Mrs. Chubb looked at her anxiously. “It won’t … hurt it … if it is there … I don’t want that—”
“Don’t worry,” Madeline said, “all it will do is bring her on. If she is pregnant, then Mother Nature will take care of it, and Gertie will have to prepare to be a mother herself.”
Mrs. Chubb fanned her face with the linen cloth. Heaven help the poor child if she was. Then again, having a baby around wouldn’t be all that bad. Maybe they could work something out with madam … Feeling a little better, Mrs. Chubb waited for the potion.
Cecily had cornered Ian first thing that morning. She’d gone into one of the suites to decide which furnishings should be
removed before the chimney sweeps arrived, and found Ian painting the windows.
“Hope this is the right shade, mum,” Ian said, standing back to view his work. “They told me at the ironmonger’s that it was, but it looks darker to me.”
“Don’t worry, Ian. The sun will soon bleach it out. That’s the problem with blue, it fades so quickly, but it does look nice with the white walls.”
Ian looked relieved. “I didn’t want to have to do it all again. I just hope the rain keeps off, so I can get this one finished.”
Unable to think of a tactful way to broach the subject, Cecily decided to come straight to the point. “Ian, I understand you had a fight with Colin Bickley the night he died.”
He sent her a startled look, his paintbrush poised in midair. “Yes, mum, I did. He was asking for it, right enough.”
“Something quite drastic must have happened for you to resort to hitting the man. By the looks of your eye, you didn’t have it all your way.”
He looked at her steadily for several seconds, and she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. Then he said softly, “I didn’t poison him, Mrs. Sinclair. I wouldn’t do that. I know I got a bit of a hot temper, but no matter how bad he upset me, I would never have killed him. I swear on me mother’s grave, I didn’t do it.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you did.” She sat down on a green velvet armchair and sank against its tufted back. “I was merely wondering what he had done to provoke that temper of yours.”
Ian dropped his gaze to the paintbrush in his hand. “He was pestering Gertie, that’s what. We was all in the George the night before. I was practicing me darts, and it was Gertie’s night off so she came down to watch me.”
Stooping down, he laid the brush on top of the paint pot. “Anyway, while I was at the dart board, Bickley was trying to touch up Gertie, if you’ll excuse the expression, mum.”
Cecily’s lips twitched, but she said nothing.
“Well, Gertie didn’t tell me till after we were on the way home. She was afraid I’d lose me temper, like. I might have let it go at that, but Gertie said Bickley told her he wasn’t giving up, and he’d have her sooner or later.” He straightened, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Well, that made me bloody furious. I couldn’t say anything to him at work because he was my boss, and I didn’t want to get the sack. So when I went down to the George for my darts practice the next night, I told him to keep his bloody hands off my girl.”
“I see. And he didn’t like that, I suppose.”
“Too right, he didn’t. Blew his blinking top. Told me he could have any woman he wanted, and Gertie wasn’t my property. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t known what Bickley was like.”
Ian made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, Mrs. Sinclair, but he was the worst kind. Always after the women, he was. Thought he was the blooming answer to their prayers. He got what he could out of them, then dumped ’em. I know, ’cause I heard him bragging about it at work. Bloody proud of it, he was, like he’d done something wonderful.”
“So you hit him.”
Ian shrugged. “I wanted to let him know what would happen to him if he didn’t leave Gertie alone. I told him I’d round up the boys and give him more bother than he could handle. It took a while to put him down, but I did it.”