PH02 - Do Not Disturb (8 page)
“I know what I look like. I look like a blinking ghost, that’s what. And if I bring up me guts one more time, that’s exactly what I’m going to be. A blinking ghost.”
“Now, now, the worst is over. You’ll be feeling better in no time,” Mrs. Chubb assured her, praying she was right. Gertie hadn’t even begun her duties yet, and the morning was half over. Madam would be down wanting to know why the grates hadn’t been cleaned and black-leaded.
“I ain’t never going to feel right again,” Gertie declared, crossing her arms across her stomach and rocking back and forth. “Blimey, Mrs. Chubb, you didn’t half get me sozzled. And all for bleeding nothing.”
“Well, we had to try, didn’t we? Perhaps we should ask Madeline for a potion after all.”
“I don’t want no one else to know about this,” Gertie said, lifting her head with difficulty. “You promised me.”
Mrs. Chubb felt even more guilty. Deciding she had better say something, just in case Mrs. Parmentier happened to mention it, she said carefully, “I’m afraid someone else does know about it, dear. I didn’t have much choice, you see. There you were, drowning in the bathtub, so to speak, and I couldn’t haul you out on my own, so I had to get some help.”
Gertie’s expression changed to horror. “You didn’t,” she said hoarsely. “Did you tell Ethel? I’ll have to nail her blinking lips shut if you did. You know what a tattletale she is.”
“It wasn’t Ethel,” Mrs. Chubb admitted, feeling more awkward by the minute. “I did go down to her room, but she wasn’t there.”
“Thank Gawd for that.” Gertie’s relief was short-lived. “Wait a minute. Who was it, then? Not madam!” She said it as if Mrs. Chubb had told the King himself.
“No, no, of course I wouldn’t tell madam.” She didn’t tell Gertie that she had been on her way up to do that very thing.
There was going to be enough pandemonium when she told Gertie the rest of it.
“So who, then? Come on, the suspense is bloody killing me.”
Mrs. Chubb squared her solid shoulders. She was the boss here. She was responsible for the housekeeping staff, and as such she had done her duty as she saw fit. She had nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. If anything, it was Gertie’s fault for getting herself into this predicament in the first place.
Taking a deep breath, she said firmly, “Mrs. Parmentier.”
Gertie’s shriek almost split the housekeeper’s ears. “What? Whatcha go and tell her for? Blimey, I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it. Christ, the Black Widow herself.”
At least the tirade had brought color back to the girl’s cheeks, Mrs. Chubb observed with satisfaction. “Here, here,” she said in an effort to reestablish her authority. “Don’t you talk to me like that. I’ll box your ears. You would have drowned, my girl, if Mrs. Parmentier hadn’t dragged you out of the tub.”
Gertie’s jaw dropped open and the flush on her cheeks deepened. “She … what?”
Mrs. Chubb nodded with more enthusiasm than she was feeling. “Oh, yes, indeed. She was wonderful. Lifted you out bodily, with no effort at all. Just like that. Whoosh! And you were out.” She demonstrated by lifting her palms straight up in the air.
“Good Gawd Almighty.” Gertie sat up, her eyes growing huge in her flushed face. “Here, I wasn’t naked, was I?”
“Starkers.” Mrs. Chubb said unhappily. “What else could I do? I could hardly put your clothes on you while you were sopping wet and unconscious. You were slippery as an eel. I couldn’t grab ahold of you.”
Gertie slumped in her chair, her hands over her face, and moaned quietly. “I ain’t never going to live this down. I’ll be the laughingstock of the bloody village, that’s what. What am I going to do? What the bleeding hell am I going
to do? How am I going to show me face after this bloody lot?”
“Mrs. Parmentier would never breathe a word of this, I’m sure of it.”
Gertie lowered her hands and gave Mrs. Chubb a look that indicated her disbelief in the widow’s integrity on that point.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Chubb went on, “it wasn’t as bad as you think. She wrapped a towel around you as she dragged you out, though heaven knows how she managed to do that. She must be as strong as an ox, that woman.”
Gertie groaned again. “Well, just don’t ask me to take any more trays up to her. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.”
“You can’t see her face anyhow behind that veil,” Mrs. Chubb pointed out, a fact that apparently failed to comfort Gertie.
“I think I’m going to be sick again,” she said, and rushed to the sink where, much to Mrs. Chubb’s dismay, she fulfilled her prophecy.
As soon as Cecily returned to the hotel, she sent word to Baxter’s office that she wanted to see him in the library. He arrived shortly after, looking somewhat agitated.
She settled into her seat at the end of the table, and watched him pass the palm of his hand over his thick, dark hair. It was a habit she knew well. He always did that when he was disturbed about something.
His sideburns seemed to have turned gray overnight. She wondered when that had happened and why she hadn’t noticed it before.
“I thought you’d like to know,” she said, coming straight to the point, “Madeline did not sell a potion to Colin Bickley, and since he definitely consumed something after he left her cottage, even if it was only ale, I feel a little easier in my mind. Obviously he couldn’t have been poisoned by the meal she served him, since she ate it herself.”
“We have only her word for that.” He stood just inside the door, as usual, looking as if he wanted to run out any second.
Cecily looked at him in surprise. “I hope you’re not suggesting that Madeline lied to me.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, madam.” He shifted his gaze above her head. “I’m merely pointing out the questions the police will most likely raise.”
Cecily felt a twinge of apprehension. “You believe they’ll be brought in on this?”
“I think it’s inevitable, given the circumstances.”
She sighed heavily and gazed up at James’s portrait. “What are we coming to, Baxter? First that terrible episode this summer with the deaths of two women right here in this hotel, and now this.”
“The price of progress, madam. Even Badgers End can’t stay excluded from the ways of the modern world forever, I’m sad to say.”
Usually she would enter into a spirited argument with him on that subject, but her concern over this latest incident subdued her.
“I don’t think you should worry too much, madam, until the results of the postmortem are known,” Baxter added. “I understand Dr. McDuff is conducting the examination right now. No doubt he will ascertain the cause of the poisoning, which might very well clear Miss Pengrath of any suspicion.”
Cecily nodded slowly. “I hope you’re right, Baxter. I do hope you are right. But Madeline isn’t my only cause of worry. This fight between Ian and Mr. Bickley could put Ian in a very uncomfortable position.”
“True. But I still maintain that we must wait for the result of the postmortem before jumping to any conclusions.”
She looked back at him and found him watching her. The concern on his face touched her, and she smiled. “You are right, of course, Baxter. I am most likely worrying about nothing.”
When he failed to return her smile, she again felt a
moment’s anxiety. “I see that the plumber has taken care of the problems in the bathrooms,” she said in an effort to change the subject. “I’m sure our guests are delighted about that. Not to mention the maids. Emptying chamber pots is a task they’ve become unaccustomed to in this modern age.”
She hadn’t been able to resist the dig, but Baxter refused to rise to the bait. Worried now, she stared at him, and again he shifted his gaze to a point above her head.
“If that is all, madam, I have some duties I’d like to get back to.”
“Of course.” She hesitated, then, as he turned to leave, she added quietly, “Baxter, if there is something you’re not telling me that I should know, I would be most annoyed if I discovered it later.”
He paused, his back toward her, and she saw him stretch his neck. “I do not wish to worry you unduly, madam.”
“You worry me far more, Baxter, by not telling me what is on your mind. You should know that by now.”
She waited while he turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “There has been more news from the lighthouse project this morning,” he said, rocking back and forth on his feet.
“More news?” She felt a flash of irritation with him. He had a very annoying habit of making her drag every piece of information from him piece by piece, as if by not volunteering it all he wouldn’t have to tell her all of it.
“Yes, madam. Apparently there has been a spot of bother up there.” Again he paused.
Cecily gritted her teeth. “What kind of bother? Not another fight, I hope?” A thought struck her, and she gasped. “Oh, Baxter, not Ian again, is it? Did he get into more trouble?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then, what, Baxter? Would you please put me out of my misery and tell me what happened?”
“Yes, madam. Apparently someone has sabotaged the project. From what I understand, the work that had been done on the lighthouse itself has been destroyed. Most of the
equipment has been either smashed to smithereens or has been pushed over the cliffs into the ocean.”
Horrified, Cecily stared at him. “Oh, my God, Baxter, who would do such a thing? Why? What is the point?”
“I imagine the point was to delay the project for some reason. Apparently whoever was responsible achieved his goal. I understand it will be several days before they can replace the equipment, and weeks before they can repair the damage.”
“I don’t understand it,” Cecily said, shaking her head. “The lighthouse is vital to the villagers. Most of them are either fishermen or make their living from working on the docks in Wellercombe. Who would want to destroy something that can only be a benefit to the village?”
“I have no answer to that, madam.”
She narrowed her eyes as she stared at him. “Baxter, you don’t think this has any connection with Colin Bickley’s death, do you? After all, he was the foreman up there.”
Baxter’s intense gaze met hers. “I sincerely hope not, madam. If so, then it would raise a great many more questions.”
“Yes,” Cecily murmured, feeling a tremor of uneasiness. “It would certainly seem that the lighthouse project has brought bad luck to Badgers End. I wonder what Madeline has to say about that?”
One of Phoebe’s greatest pleasures was a brisk walk along the Esplanade, providing the weather wasn’t too inclement, of course. It gave her the opportunity to dress up in the manner befitting her background, and as the mother of the vicar, she enjoyed a certain amount of deference from the local inhabitants of Badgers End.
This particular afternoon the climate was most pleasant, not too cold, yet cool enough to wear the mink-trimmed coat that had been the mainstay of her winter wardrobe during her marriage to dear Sedgely.
The light breeze was a blessing, since it meant she didn’t have to worry about her hat. The extremely wide brim with its frothy cloud of yellow tulle and ribbon roses was inclined to slip loose from its moorings when buffeted by the wind.
Phoebe arrived at the entrance to the Pennyfoot Hotel in
fine spirits, and stepped daintily up the marble staircase to the huge double doors. She paused long enough to fold down her parasol, then pushed the doors open and swept into the lobby.
As she crossed the ornamental carpet to the huge, winding staircase, she thought about the many times she had visited the Pennyfoot when it had been the country home of the Earl of Saltchester.
Life had been very different then. So much had changed. Gambling debts had forced the earl to sell the mansion, and James Sinclair had renovated it, turning it into a very exclusive and elegant seaside hotel.
Phoebe hid a smile as she reached the foot of the stairs. Little did James imagine that his clientele would consist largely of bored aristocrats who were delighted to find a secluded hideaway not too far from the city, where they could engage in all manner of forbidden delights without fear of being discovered.
The Pennyfoot enjoyed a spotless reputation, thanks to the discreet staff bound by the policies set down by James Sinclair. Only the privileged few knew what went on belowstairs in the card rooms, or in the lavish boudoirs above them.
If Phoebe had not enjoyed a special friendship with Mrs. Chubb, she would never have dreamed that such goings-on happened in the Pennyfoot.
Not that she would breathe a word of it, of course. She was much too loyal to her dear friend Cecily.
Phoebe grasped the mahogany handrail and prepared to mount the stairs to the second floor, where Cecily occupied a suite. As she did so, she heard a discreet cough behind her. Turning her head, she saw Mr. Baxter standing there, looking most uncomfortable.
“I apologize for the intrusion, Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” he said, “but I have received a request from a gentleman who is a guest here. He wishes to be introduced to you. He is waiting in the lounge, if you would care to accompany me there?”
Phoebe almost dropped her parasol. “I most certainly will not. I have no wish to make the gentleman’s acquaintance, and I would be most gratified if you would convey that message to him immediately.”
Mr. Baxter fixed her with a stare colder than a winter’s sky. “Mr. Rawlins is a celebrated artist and a most honorable gentleman. I am quite sure you have nothing to fear from him.”
Phoebe raised her chin. The hotel manager had a most intimidating effect on her, but she was determined not to let him know it. “Mr. Baxter, I have heard many stories concerning men who attempt to make their living by dabbling in the arts. I can assure you, none of them were considered honorable. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing business with Mrs. Sinclair.”
She turned her back on him and proceeded up the stairs as fast as her dignity would allow. As she reached the bend of the staircase, she looked down, and to her dismay saw the slender figure of the artist looking back up at her.
Her entire body became overheated, and she hastily averted her gaze. Her legs felt quite unstable as she climbed the second flight. The man was at least ten years her junior. She would feel flattered if it were not for the conviction that he was interested in her money. What else could he be interested in? And all that hair. Whatever would dear Sedgely say if he knew she was being pursued by a long-haired Bohemian with a paintbrush? Whatever next?