PH02 - Do Not Disturb (6 page)

Dashing back to her sitting room, Mrs. Chubb assured herself that Gertie’s head remained above water. If she didn’t get her out of that water soon, she thought, the girl was going to catch her death of cold. She would have to ask for help from the one person who would not gossip. Madam.

On her way up the stairs to the lobby, Mrs. Chubb prayed she was doing the right thing. What if madam gave Gertie the sack over this? It would kill the girl to lose her job. Where would she go? What would she do?

Her face creased in worry, Mrs. Chubb rounded the top of the stairs. She now faced the main doors across the lobby, and as she paused for breath, they opened. A gust of wind swept across the carpeted floor as a tall, robust figure dressed in widow’s weeds entered from the black night outside.

Mrs. Chubb believed in accepting a clear sign of Providence. Mrs. Parmentier had made it clear that she wished to be left alone. She had left instructions that she did not want her room cleaned, and when Gertie had taken up afternoon tea, the widow had taken the tray from her at the door, preventing her from entering the room.

She was obviously the type of person who kept herself to herself, and her nose out of other people’s business. Perhaps she could trust her to be discreet, Mrs. Chubb thought hopefully. And since it was unlikely that Gertie would ever see the widow again after she left the hotel, the maid’s embarrassment would be short-lived.

Mrs. Chubb started forward. She had no time to dither, since the widow was already striding across the lobby toward the stairs.

“Mrs. Parmentier?” Mrs. Chubb called out, grateful that the lobby was empty of guests.

The widow paused, hesitating for several seconds before turning slowly to face her.

Mrs. Chubb explained the situation rapidly before she could lose her nerve. She left out the reason for Gertie’s dilemma, hoping that the widow wouldn’t ask questions.

To her relief, the widow said nothing at all. Her face was hidden by the heavy veil, so Mrs. Chubb could only guess at her expression.

“We have to hurry, ma’am,” she said urgently. “I left her unconscious in the tub and—”

Before she could finish the sentence, Mrs. Parmentier gave a sharp nod and swept toward the basement stairs. Sending up a small prayer of thanks, Mrs. Chubb hurried after her.

Gertie had slipped sideways, Mrs. Chubb noted when she opened the door of the sitting room. One arm hung outside the tub, the fingers lying in a damp patch on the rug. The housemaid’s chin rested on her arm, and her loud snores filled the room.

Without a word, Mrs. Parmentier picked up the towel from the armchair, hooked it under Gertie’s armpits, and bodily lifted the girl from the tub, wrapping the towel around her at the same time.

Gertie muttered an explicit oath of protest, then slumped against the widow’s solid body.

“How did you do that?” Mrs. Chubb gasped, amazed at this display of remarkable strength and dexterity. Gertie was no lightweight, and unconscious she had to weigh a ton.

“I used to be in the medical profession,” the widow said, her voice husky behind the veil. “Better get some clothes on her.” Gently she lowered her burden into the armchair.

Gertie’s head lolled to one side, but her eyes remained closed.

“I will, ma’am, and thank you so much,” Mrs. Chubb said, hurrying to open the door. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, for sure I don’t.”

“I’m happy I could be of assistance,” Mrs. Parmentier
murmured. “I hope the young lady feels better in the morning.”

Mrs. Chubb nodded, privately thinking that Gertie was likely to have a massive headache in the morning. “So do I, ma’am. And if I might ask, I know she would be grateful if you didn’t speak of this to anyone. It would be most embarrassing for her.”

“No one shall hear of it from me,” the widow promised as she stepped into the hallway.

Mrs. Chubb watched her stalk quickly toward the stairs. Now that she really thought about it, Mrs. Parmentier did have unusually large feet. Rather odd woman, that.

Shrugging, she closed the door and surveyed the room. She had a huge mess to clean up before she could go to bed. As for Sleeping Beauty, once she got her dressed, Gertie would have to sleep in the chair. The housemaid would probably have a fit in the morning when she found out what had happened. How Mrs. Chubb hated dealing with bad-tempered staff.

Sighing, she fetched the large bucket and began bailing out the tub.

CHAPTER
5

When Baxter had still not returned from the George and Dragon by ten o’clock, Cecily decided to go down to the kitchen to make a nice pot of tea. She’d become bored sitting in the quiet living room of her suite, and was much too restless to read.

She had plenty of sewing to do—she was in the process of making new covers for the cushions on her chaise longue—but even that failed to relax her this evening. Her concern for Madeline had her nerves on edge, and the tea sounded like a good idea.

Perhaps Baxter would return in time to join her, she thought as she crossed the lobby. With any luck, he would have reassuring news for her.

She had just reached the head of the basement stairs when she heard her name called. Actually it was closer to a loud bellow. Reluctantly she turned to face the stout, ruddy-faced
man charging unsteadily across the Axminster carpet toward her.

Colonel Fortescue was a frequent visitor to the Pennyfoot. He considered it his second home, which was nice for business but hard on Cecily’s patience. The colonel had suffered trauma in the Boer War and had a habit of indulging in quite startling behavior when one least expected it.

Other times he appeared perfectly sound of mind, and as Cecily waited for him to reach her, she fervently hoped this was one of those times.

She could smell the gin on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth. “I say, old bean, bit of a filthy night out there, what?” His bloodshot eyes blinked rapidly at her, another affliction purportedly brought on by his narrow brush with death.

Cecily agreed, though the last she’d looked, the evening had seemed quite pleasant considering the time of year.

“Have to be careful of these dark nights, you know,” the colonel muttered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Never know when the little beggars are going to creep up on you.”

“Quite,” Cecily said, not sure to what she was agreeing.

“It’s Guy Fawkes, of course,” Colonel Fortescue continued, his pure white mustache twitching like a squirrel’s whiskers. “Puts the devil in them, by George. Never know where the damn ruffians are going to strike next. Dashed unnerving, I must say.”

Cecily began to glimpse some sense behind the remarks. “Are you referring to the village boys, by any chance?” She wondered if the colonel had heard about Colin Bickley’s unfortunate demise and had somehow connected the harmless games with the tragedy.

“What, what?” The colonel fished in the top pocket of his Norfolk jacket and pulled out a monocle.

Cecily watched in fascination as he fitted it into his right eye. It actually stopped the blinking on that side, though the
left eyelid continued to flap up and down like an SOS signal light from a distressed ship.

Disconcerted by this odd one-eyed stare, she shifted her gaze to the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby.

“Are you going to put on a show for Guy Fawkes?” the colonel demanded. “I remember last year well. Screaming fun. Could see the fireworks all the way across Putney Downs, so they say.”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Cecily admitted. “It’s always seemed such a macabre celebration to me, burning an effigy of a poor, unfortunate man on a bonfire. Even if he did plan on blowing up the Houses of Parliament.”

“Haven’t thought about it? But it’s the fifth of November next week. Can’t ignore it, old girl. That would amount to sacrilege, by George.” Colonel Fortescue was so dismayed his monocle popped out of his eye and fell to the floor. Muttering fiercely, he fell to his knees and began patting the carpet in front of him.

Cecily knelt down to help look for the small, round glass. The flickering gaslights cast shadows across the floor, making it difficult to see. “James always set up the fireworks display and set them off,” she said as she stroked the surface of the carpet. “I don’t think I could manage it on my own.”

Her fingers closed over the narrow ribbon attached to the monocle. “Ah, here it is. Perhaps you should keep it attached to your pocket. Just in case you lose it again.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, thank you. Pesky thing’s a dashed nuisance. Can’t see a thing with it stuck in the old peeper.” He took the glass from her, then his expression changed as he directed his gaze to a spot behind Cecily’s back.

“Ah … good evening there, madam! Awfully nice night out there, what?”

Cecily turned her head to see Mrs. Parmentier crossing to the stairs from the direction of the basement. The widow gave a brief nod in their direction, apparently unperturbed by the sight of the owner of the hotel on her knees with the colonel, who was grinning foolishly.

Wondering what the widow had been doing in the basement at that hour, Cecily scrambled to her feet and called out a hasty “Good night!”

Mrs. Parmentier lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then climbed the stairs at a fast clip.

“Fine figure of a woman, that,” the colonel said, puffing as he regained his feet. “Too bad she’s off her rocker.”

Startled, Cecily looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, yes,” the colonel assured her, his head nodding slowly up and down. “Quite doo lally, old bean. Tried talking to her. Would have none of it. Acted most strange. Most strange.”

He shook his head sadly, his watery gaze on the widow as she turned the corner to the next flight. “Ghastly waste, that’s what I say. Would have made some gentleman a spiffing wife. With those hips she could have turned out enough brood to fill a cricket team.”

Cecily swallowed hard. She had to make allowances. And the colonel was a guest. She had to remember that. But at times it was extremely difficult to keep quiet. “Mrs. Parmentier is a bereaved widow. We have to respect her suffering.”

“Oh, quite, quite. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful, old girl. No, that would never do.” Obviously flustered, the colonel dragged his pocket watch from his vest pocket. “Ah, I see it’s time for a spot of cheer. Have to have the old nightcap, you know.”

If he had much more, Cecily thought, someone would have to pour him into his bed. “I’ll say good night, then,” she said, starting to move off.

The colonel stopped her with a soft tap on the arm. Dropping his voice, he whispered, “Ahem … I don’t suppose there’s, ah, a card game going on belowstairs, by any chance?”

Knowing quite well that there were at least three card rooms occupied, Cecily looked him in the eye. “I’m afraid not. We don’t get much call for that out of season.”

He looked disappointed for a moment, then visibly
cheered up. “Ah, well, I’ll toddle along to the drawing room, then. Might find someone to share a nightcap with me.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea. Good night, Colonel.” Cecily smiled to herself as she went down the basement stairs. If he did but know it, she’d saved the colonel a considerable amount of money. He wouldn’t have stood a chance against the kind of gamblers who enjoyed the amenities of the Pennyfoot Hotel.

She found the kitchen deserted, as was usual that time of night during the off-season. Filling the kettle, she reflected, as she always did, how much simpler it made things to have running water. When she was growing up, the water was drawn every day from the well, though she had no doubt it tasted better for not having been run through iron pipes.

She carried the kettle over to the stove and set it on top. The coals still glowed, and it took a matter of seconds to poke some life into them and then add a lump or two to bring up the heat. She had often thought how much more convenient it would be to have hot running water. But then, one couldn’t have everything.

The kettle had just begun to sing when the kitchen door opened and Baxter poked his head around it. “Ah, there you are, madam,” he said, coming into the room. “I thought you might be here.”

“You are just in time,” Cecily said, measuring tea into the large brown kitchen teapot. “Cup of tea?”

“That would be very nice. But please allow me to make it.”

She sent him a reproving glance. “You know perfectly well that this is one chore I prefer to do myself.”

He said nothing, standing by the door as if not certain what to do next.

“Baxter,” Cecily said gently, “I do wish you would sit down. There is no one here to see, and I assure you it will not offend me in the least. On the contrary, it would be a good deal more relaxing for me.”

“But not for me, madam.”

She frowned at him, irritated by his stubbornness. “Very well, have it your way.” She reached for the kettle and poured the boiling water on the leaves. “Would you care for a biscuit? I know Mrs. Chubb keeps some in that blue tin over there.”

“Thank you, madam, but I ate a large Cornish pastie and two Scotch eggs. I think that is sufficient for one night.”

“Yes, indeed.” She crossed to the larder and found the jug of milk. Carrying it back to the table, she asked, “So tell me, what did you find out at the George? Had Colin Bickley visited there last night?”

“Yes, madam. According to Mr. Scroggins, the proprietor, Mr. Bickley arrived there shortly after eight o’clock and left there at half past ten.”

“And did he have anything to eat there?”

“Mr. Scroggins didn’t say. He was offended that I asked, and stated quite emphatically that many people had eaten at his establishment last night, and all were healthy today.”

“That’s as may be,” Cecily said, pouring milk into two bone china cups, “but then the same can be said of Madeline’s dinner, since she is also healthy.”

She looked up when Baxter didn’t answer, and found him watching her with an anxious expression on his face. “What is it?” she said sharply.

“Have you asked Miss Pengrath if she sold a potion to Mr. Bickley?”

Cecily thumped the jug on the table. “No, I haven’t. But I’m seeing her in the morning and I’ll ask her then. I must admit, the possibility of it worries me.”