PH02 - Do Not Disturb (5 page)
“Cecily,” Madeline said in a low, urgent voice, “Colin Bickley was at my house last night. I cooked him a meal, which he ate. A few hours later he was dead.”
Although Cecily had suspected as much, the words still shocked her. She grasped her friend’s hands and held on tight. “Calm yourself, Madeline. There has to be some explanation for this.”
“If there is, I would certainly like to know it. I swear to you, Cecily, I gave Colin nothing that I didn’t also eat myself, and as you can see, I am perfectly well. But if he did die of poisoning, and Dr. McDuff seemed convinced of that, then I shall be blamed for it as sure as the moon shines above. Everyone knows I grow herbs and flowers for my potions.”
Cecily gave the hands a little shake. “Come now, Madeline, let’s not panic. What time did Mr. Bickley leave your house?”
Madeline seemed to have a little trouble concentrating.
She turned her head from side to side before answering. “It was a little before eight o’clock, I think.”
“And he was wearing his coat, I presume?”
“He most certainly was,” Madeline said, looking affronted at the question.
“Well, then, perhaps he visited somewhere else after leaving you. Since all the workers appear to congregate down at the George and Dragon every night, it’s entirely possible that he joined them there before going home.”
“He didn’t say anything about going there.” She pulled her hands free and raised them to her head. “Oh, great goblins, what am I going to do? How are the spirits going to protect me if they are angry with me? I knew when I heard that cuckoo that it was a bad omen. I should have paid heed.”
“Madeline,” Cecily said firmly, “I want you to go home now and try not to worry. I will make some inquiries and try to get to the bottom of this matter. Perhaps you can meet me in Dolly’s Tea Shop tomorrow morning. I hope to have some news for you by then.”
Madeline nodded, though her mind was obviously on something else. “I’ll have to burn hemp and bindweed at midnight,” she murmured. “Perhaps I should sprinkle a few horehound petals and redshank pollen for good measure.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Cecily agreed, hoping that the strange ritual would bring her friend some comfort. “Now I’ll go down to the lobby with you. I have to find Baxter and send him on an errand.”
Baxter was walking up the entrance steps as Cecily led Madeline through the doors and out into a brisk, salty sea breeze. She greeted him, then asked him to wait for her in the library. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, sent a curious glance toward Madeline, then disappeared into the lobby.
Cecily bade her friend good-bye with another word of comfort, and watched her until she had passed from view around the curve of the Esplanade.
She couldn’t help worrying about her and with good
cause. Madeline had long been the brunt of superstitious tongues. This would not be the first time she had received blame for something that was not her fault. The death of a man was a serious matter, however, and as Cecily hurried down the hallway to the library, she prayed that she would be able to help her friend.
Baxter stood by the library windows when she entered, his back toward her. He appeared to be gazing out across the rose gardens, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his highly polished shoes.
When Cecily closed the door behind her, he turned, his face expressionless above his stiff white collar. He was an impressive figure in his black morning suit, and always held himself with an air of assurance that Cecily found most comforting. Particularly when she was disturbed about something.
“Sit down, Baxter,” she murmured as she crossed the floor to the heavy table.
“Thank you, madam, but I prefer to stand.”
It was the answer she’d expected. Ever since James had died, and she’d begun the habit of holding discussions with Baxter alone in the library, they had repeated that exchange. She invited him to sit down, he refused.
Baxter had never been able to hide his discomfort of being alone in the room with a woman, even if she was his employer. It simply wasn’t proper, and no matter how hard Cecily argued that the world was changing and that certain proprieties could be eliminated, Baxter clung to the old traditions with the tenacity of a burr in a sheepdog’s coat.
She dropped onto the chair with a small sigh. “I’m afraid that Madeline’s indiscretions might have caught up with her.” She pressed her fingers to her brow, willing away the headache that threatened.
Baxter waited, then when she didn’t elaborate said quietly, “Madam?”
Cecily leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know if you’ve learned of this yet, but apparently Colin Bickley’s death was
not due to a heart attack after all. Dr. McDuff believes he was poisoned.”
Baxter raised his eyebrows. “Poisoned? By what cause?”
“That’s just it. He’s not sure. But he thinks it’s some kind of plant.”
A look of understanding crossed Baxter’s face. “Aha. One of Madeline’s potions?”
Cecily sat up straighten. “Oh, Lord, I hadn’t thought of that. Madeline was concerned because she’d cooked the man a meal last night. Though she assured me he had eaten nothing that she hadn’t eaten herself.” She shook her head. “Surely she would have mentioned if she’d given him a potion.”
“Not necessarily. It rather depends on the purpose for which the potion was to be used.”
She looked up at him, but he’d centered his gaze above her head, as he always did when discussing a delicate matter. Cecily knew quite well what he meant. Madeline’s business in potions did not consist entirely of medicinal cures.
Much of her transactions were for more personal purposes, such as the ability to attract the opposite sex and acquiring the necessary potency to follow through once one succeeded in the pursuit. Madeline guaranteed the success of her aphrodisiacs.
If she hadn’t been so worried, Cecily would have smiled at Baxter’s stony expression. “Well, we don’t know that she sold him a potion. And there’s always the chance that he called in at the George and Dragon on his way home, in which case it’s possible he ingested the poison there.”
Baxter cleared his throat. “It is possible, yes.” But not very probable, his tone implied.
“We need to know if Mr. Bickley was there last night,” Cecily prompted gently.
Baxter’s light gray gaze rested briefly on her face. “You wish me to make inquiries, madam?”
“If you would, Baxter, please. Preferably as soon as possible.”
He nodded briefly. “I’ll leave at once.”
“Have you had dinner, Baxter?”
“No, madam. I will take care of that at the George and Dragon.”
“Ah, good idea.” She waited until he was at the door, before saying, “Baxter?”
He paused for a moment, then turned to face her. She could see by his expression that he knew full well the request she was about to make. One of his eyebrows tilted slightly. “Madam?”
“I would very much like a cigar, if you would be so kind.”
His eyes looked as if they could cut glass. “I do not think—”
“Baxter, if you would replenish my supply as I have asked, I wouldn’t have to keep pestering you like this. Of course, I could purchase the things myself—”
“That won’t be necessary, madam. I am quite happy to oblige now and again.”
“Good. Then be so kind as to bring me some back tonight from the George and Dragon. I will see that you are reimbursed.”
His voice sounded strangled when he answered. “Very well, madam.”
“In the meantime, I would be most grateful if you would light one up for me now.”
Cecily watched him go through the painfully slow process of extracting a cigar from the package and handing it to her, which was his way of establishing his extreme disapproval. All of which failed to faze her one tiny bit.
She leaned forward to accept the light from his match and allowed a puff of smoke to escape from her lips. “Thank you, Baxter.”
“Yes, madam. I hope you suffer no ill health.”
“Don’t worry about my health,” Cecily said, leaning back with a sigh of pleasure. “It’s as robust as yours.”
A faint tinge of pink colored his face as he turned away. “Do you wish me to report back tonight, or can it wait until the morning?”
“Tonight, if you are not too late. I shall worry until I know. If Mr. Bickley was there last night, it will certainly help to alleviate the suspicion on Madeline.”
“One would most sincerely hope so.” He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. “I shall not be late, madam.”
“Thank you, Baxter. I’ll wait up for you.”
As he closed the door he gave her an odd look that stayed with her throughout the evening.
“Gawd Almighty,” Gertie said, screwing up her face with disgust, “don’t tell me anybody drinks this for bleeding pleasure.”
Mrs. Chubb stood looking down at her, arms folded across her heavy bosom. “Drink it down, my girl. You’ve got a few more to go yet if you want it to do the trick.”
Gertie sat in the steaming tin bath, her knees bent and sticking out of the water like pale twin hills. In her hand she held a tumbler full of gold-tinged liquid, the other gripped the edge of the bathtub in grim determination.
“If I knew I was going to go through all this, I would’ve told that Ian to keep his bloody hands off me,” she said, scowling at the glass. “I’m going to be blinking sick, that’s what.”
“Nonsense. You haven’t eaten anything today to bring up, so I don’t know what you’re worried about.” That had been quite a battle, Mrs. Chubb thought, remembering the struggle she’d had to keep food out of Gertie’s hands for the entire day.
“Yeah, and don’t I know it. My stomach feels like a coal cellar. I hope I can eat when I’ve got this blinking lot down me.” She took another sip of the mixture and shuddered. “No wonder they call it ‘mother’s ruin.’ ”
Mrs. Chubb edged around the tub and reached for the poker by the fireplace. She jabbed at the coals, encouraging the flames to dance higher. “You’re not going to tell me that’s the first time you’ve tasted gin,” she said, opening the lid of the coal bin.
“Not with bleeding ginger in it, I haven’t. Tastes like shit, it does.”
“Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb straightened, a large lump of gleaming coal grasped in the tongs she held. “How many times do I have to tell you not to use that disgusting language? I’ve a good mind to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Probably taste better than this muck.” Gertie took another sip. “Bloody ’orrible, it is.”
“Well, you’re not going to get it down you sipping at it like that. Take a good swallow. It will go down faster.” Mrs. Chubb bent forward and dropped the coal onto the fire. She wasn’t enjoying this any more than Gertie was.
Her tiny sitting room barely gave her space to move around as it was. With the bathtub in there she had nowhere to put her feet down. Even with her armchair shoved back against the wall, they could only just fit the tub in front of the fireplace.
Still, she could hardly let Gertie use one of the guest bathrooms, and the maids would be pounding on the door of the servants’ one if Gertie was in there all night.
This had seemed like a good idea when she’d first formulated her plan, but now Mrs. Chubb wasn’t so sure. She’d heard that the remedy had mixed results; maybe she should have asked Madeline for one of her potions instead.
But Gertie had been adamant about not telling anyone unless they were really forced into it. Mrs. Chubb watched as Gertie finished the mixture and loudly smacked her lips. “Does grow on you,” the housemaid said, holding up the glass. “I think I can manage another one.”
She actually managed three, by which time her cheeks were fiery red, her eyes were beginning to match her cheeks, and her speech had become thick and somewhat confused.
“Think I’ll shleep here,” she announced, waving the empty glass at Mrs. Chubb. “Can’t feel me bloody legs, or me bot come to that. Pleash blow the fire out … no … need the bloody fire … water’s cold.” Her loud giggle ended in a
hiccup. “Jush put the whole bloody thing on the fire … warm me up.”
Mrs. Chubb viewed the housemaid’s swaying naked body in alarm. Maybe she had overdone things. Gertie was built like a cart horse—it was going to be difficult to get her out of the tub.
She took the glass from Gertie’s hand. “Come on now, my girl, you’ve had quite enough. If that doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.”
“I think jush one more,” Gertie said, trying to hold her head up long enough to look at Mrs. Chubb.
“Not one more drop.” The housekeeper grabbed the towel she had ready and held it up. “Can you stand by yourself?”
“Of coursh I can.” Gertie struggled for a minute, but only managed to slide farther into the water. “Think I’ll shleep here,” she muttered, and closed her eyes.
“Oh, Lord Almighty.” Mrs. Chubb dropped the towel and squeezed around the end of the tub. Grasping Gertie by the armpits, she heaved with all her might. The slippery wet body slid out of her hands, and Gertie shrieked with wild laughter.
“Oops-a-daisy, mind you don’t bloody drown me, then.” She hiccuped twice and closed her eyes again.
Mrs. Chubb tried in vain to awaken her, but no amount of shoving or slapping of wet skin seemed to have any effect. She couldn’t just leave her there, the housekeeper thought worriedly. For one thing she’d catch her death of cold once the water cooled off. For another, it was entirely possible that she could slip under the water.
She wasted several more minutes trying to heave the limp body out of the tub, but Gertie’s dead weight was too much for her. There was nothing for it, Mrs. Chubb decided. She’d have to get help. She would have to risk leaving Gertie alone and pray she didn’t drown while she went and woke up Ethel.
With a last worried look at the now unconscious body in the bathtub, she rushed out into the hallway and down to the maid’s quarters. Flinging open the door, she started to call
out Ethel’s name, then closed her mouth in despair when she saw the empty bed.
Who else could she trust? Gertie would be horrified if anyone found out about her predicament. Ethel was her close friend, but if anyone else on the Pennyfoot staff knew about this, the story would be all over the hotel by morning.