A Merry Murder Page 18

  Charlotte groaned, and half opened her eyes. “I only just fell asleep a while ago.”

  “Then you must snore when you’re awake. You’d better get moving or Chubby will be on the warpath.”

  “Chubby is always on the warpath.”

  Gertie walked over to the wardrobe and opened the door. “Yeah, well, she has to be to take charge of us lot. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

  Charlotte struggled out of bed and yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “I wouldn’t mind. I bet she gets paid three times what we do.”

  “She bloody earns it and all.” Struggling into her corset, Gertie held her breath as she fastened the buttons. Another day closer to Christmas and she still hadn’t done anything about shopping for the twins. Normally she would have bought their presents at the toy shop, but the last thing she wanted to do was run into Clive. She would have to go into Wellercombe on her next afternoon off to buy them.

  Working out in her mind how she would get there and back, she pulled on her cap, frowned at her reflection, then said to Charlotte’s back, “I’m going downstairs. Don’t take too long getting down there. We’ve got to get breakfast served.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Charlotte sounded grumpy, and Gertie left her alone. The girl was probably still deciding whether or not to give up her membership in the WSPU. Not an easy decision, considering she’d been so excited about the whole thing.

  Reaching the kitchen, she found the usual chaos that ensued every morning around that time. Michel crashing and banging pots and pans, Chubby yelling at the maids, and everyone dashing around the room bumping into one another. It was a bleeding miracle they managed to get everything done every morning in the proper way at the proper time.

  The next three hours passed swiftly as Gertie laid tables, sliced bread, whisked eggs, washed and cut up fruit, peeled mushrooms, served the tables, cleaned them off again after the guests left, washed and dried dishes and silverware, put them all away in the cupboards and drawers, then got ready to begin on the next meal.

  She was just stacking the last plates into a cupboard when Mrs. Chubb called out to her. “Gertie! Archie needs two white sheets for the pantomime set. Get two clean ones from the laundry room and take them to him in the ballroom.”

  Before Gertie could open her mouth, Charlotte swung around from the sink and called out, “I can take them, Mrs. Chubb! I’m finished here now.” Giving Gertie a sly glance, she lowered her wet hands and dried them on her apron.

  Mrs. Chubb folded her arms. “Did you hear me ask you to go, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte’s smile faded. “No, but—”

  “No buts.” The housekeeper held up her hand. “I asked Gertie to go, and Gertie will go.” She turned and glared at her chief housemaid. “Now.”

  Gertie caught Charlotte’s resentful glare as she quickly dried her hands. She gave the girl a slight shrug before heading for the door. After all, it wasn’t her fault if Chubby wanted her to go instead of Charlotte. Maybe Chubby knew Charlotte had a crush on Archie, and was trying to keep things on safe ground.

  Seconds later Gertie stood in front of the laundry room, one hand frozen on the door handle. This was the first time she’d had to go in there since she’d found the dead body, and she wasn’t looking forward to revisiting the memory.

  She could still see him lying there, eyes open and staring into space, that ridiculous scarf wrapped around his neck. She turned the handle, then paused. She’d seen that scarf somewhere before, or at least, one exactly like it. She just couldn’t remember where.

  For a moment or two she struggled to recall the image, then dismissed it. It couldn’t be all that important now. After all, Mazie was in jail for the murder, though it was hard to believe that little twerp was capable of losing her temper, much less killing someone. She’d heard that Mazie had bashed the bloke over the head with a flatiron. He was a big bugger. Like Charlotte had said, Mazie would have had to leap into the air to reach his head.

  Still trying to picture the skinny maid dealing the death blow, she turned the handle and stepped inside the room. Making her way over to the linen closets, she avoided looking at the corner of the room where the dead man had lain.

  It took her only a moment to pull two sheets from the pile, tuck them under her arm, and hurry back to the door. Goose bumps chased up her arms as she escaped into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind her. She would never be able to go into that room again without getting in all of a dither.

  She was still feeling jittery when she entered the ballroom, though she couldn’t entirely blame it on her visit to the laundry room. Suppressing the idea that it had something to do with talking to Archie, she headed for the stage door.

  Archie was up on the stage, as were Phoebe Fortescue and a dozen bored-looking members of her dance group. The women were dressed in gaudy costumes in eye-popping colors that made Gertie blink.

  Phoebe stood stage center, apparently arguing with Archie, who just stood there shaking his head at whatever she was saying.

  Curious to know what the argument was about, Gertie drew closer to the stage as she walked by.

  “But you have to do it!” Phoebe exclaimed in her shrill voice. “There isn’t anyone else I can ask!”

  Again Archie shook his head. “I’m not dressing up as a woman, no matter what you say. I’m just not going to do it. Sorry.”

  Gertie hid a grin as Phoebe answered with obvious irritation. “You’re making an enormous fuss about nothing. You just have to put on a frock and apron, and a wig, some rouge on your cheeks, and we’ll stuff your clothes with—”

  Archie raised his voice—something Gertie had never heard him do before. “You are not going to stuff anything into my clothes, or put any of that junk on my cheeks. I’m sorry, Mrs. Fortescue, but you will have to find someone else to play your nutty Widow Trankey.”

  “It’s Widow Twankey, and she’s perfectly sane.” Phoebe was now screeching, and her voice echoed throughout the ballroom. “For heaven’s sake, Archie, this is a pantomime. It’s tradition. Widow Twankey is Aladdin’s mother, and she’s always played by a man. There’s nothing peculiar about it. People expect it.”

  “Yeah, well, people expect the king of England to come to tea, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. Find someone else to play your widow. Besides, I’m here to build a set, not act in your play.”

  “Pantomime.” Phoebe straightened her hat, a sure sign she wasn’t about to give up. “You have a duty, young man, to help out where you can. I must insist—”

  She got no further as at that moment Archie caught sight of Gertie. Leaping forward, he called out, “You’ve got my sheets. I’ll be right down.”

  “I can bring them up,” Gertie offered, but Archie shook his head.

  “No, wait there. I’ll be down in a sec.”

  Guessing that he wanted to get away from Phoebe’s outrageous demands, Gertie walked away from the stage and laid the sheets on a table, then sat down on a chair to wait. She didn’t have much time to sit during her busy day, and she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to do so now.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Her heart started doing a weird dance as Archie burst through the door and came striding toward her. Hastily reminding herself that he was off limits, she stood up.

  As he reached her, she thrust the sheets at him. “Here. Mrs. Chubb said you needed these.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He smiled at her, revealing a row of perfect teeth. Tucking the linens under his arm, he added, “Thanks so much for bringing them for me.”

  “My pleasure. Though it wasn’t much fun going back into that laundry room. I don’t think I’ll ever feel right about that room again.”

  His smile faded. “That must have been a shock for you, finding a dead man on the floor.”

  “It was.” Gertie shuddered. “It w
asn’t a good way to start the day, I can tell you. That poor bloke—someone must have really hated him.”

  Archie sounded odd when he answered. “Yeah, well, from what I hear, he wasn’t a very nice bloke. Someone like that makes a lot of enemies.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You knew him?”

  “I knew some things about him.”

  His voice had hardened even more, and the dark look on his face startled Gertie. “What things?”

  Archie gave her a blank look, then seemed to shake off whatever was troubling him. “Never mind. Enough to say that Mazie got herself into a lot of trouble over that bugger.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Do you think she did it?”

  She’d expected him to leap to Mazie’s defense, but instead, he simply shrugged. “Who knows? The bobbies think she did it, and they must have good reason to suspect her.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose so.” Uncomfortable now with the direction the conversation had turned, she made a move to pass by him, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “What’s your hurry? You’ve got a minute to chat, haven’t you?”

  Her own voice sounded funny now when she answered. “Well, they’re really busy in the kitchen, so I should get back there.”

  He looked disappointed when he dropped his hand. “Okay, then. Don’t let me keep you.”

  Now she felt a pang of guilt. He was just trying to be nice. She made an effort to sound normal. “I heard Fussy Fortescue up there.” She jerked a thumb at the stage, where Phoebe was now shrieking at her dance group. “She wants you to play a woman in her pantomime?”

  Archie uttered a loud sigh. “Yeah. That nut head will drive me crazy.”

  “She drives everyone crazy.” Gertie’s laugh didn’t sound natural and she cleared her throat. “Don’t take no notice of her. Just be firm with her. She respects that.”

  Archie looked unconvinced. “I don’t think she respects anyone. She’s an ogre.”

  Some force she couldn’t resist made her reach out and pat his arm. “She likes you. That’s why she’s paying you all this attention. Just keep on her right side and you’ll be fine.”

  He looked down at her hand, which somehow seemed reluctant to lift itself off his arm. She flinched when he laid his own warm palm over it, saying softly, “Thanks. Gertie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Snatching her hand away, she said gruffly, “I have to go now.” She didn’t wait for him to answer but, instead, dove past him and fled to the doors. She didn’t breathe again until she was out in the hallway.

  No, no, no, no, no! she scolded herself, stamping her feet as she marched down to the lobby. She’d learned her lesson with men. No matter how charming and gentle they seemed to be, once they had you in their grasp, they were monsters, treating women like slaves. Just like Clive. He’d been the sweetest, most caring man she’d ever met, but when it had come down to marrying him, he had become demanding and obstinate, issuing bloody orders and expecting her to obey.

  She wasn’t going to get caught in that web again. Not in a million years. Never. Ever. Having fully convinced herself, she hurried on her way to the kitchen.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cecily was in her office, balancing the accounts, when the knock came on her door. Raising her head, she called out, “Come in!” and laid down her pen.

  The door opened and Lilly edged into the room, coming to a halt just inside the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, m’m, but the constable is here. He wants to talk to you.”

  Cecily’s spirits lifted. Perhaps Sam had decided to release Mazie after all. “Show him in, Lilly. Thank you.” As the girl turned to go, Cecily felt compelled to ask, “How are you doing, Lilly? Is everything all right?”

  Lilly turned back, her cheeks growing pink. “Yes, m’m, thank you. I’m very happy here.”

  “Mrs. Chubb seems to think the work may be too much for you.”

  Now alarm spread over Lilly’s thin face. “Oh, no, m’m. I try very hard to get it all done, and sometimes I have to ask about things, but I like it here, I really do, and I—”

  She sounded close to tears, and Cecily hurried to reassure her. “It’s quite all right, Lilly. I’m not criticizing you. I just want to be sure we’re not working you too hard.”

  Lilly shook her head so briskly, a strand of hair escaped from its pin and whipped her face. Tucking it back in place with a nervous hand, she said quietly, “I don’t care how hard the work is, m’m. I’m grateful to be here, safe and sound, and not have to worry about someone coming after me.”

  Cecily straightened her back. “Rest assured, Lilly, we will never let that happen.” Remembering something she needed to do, she added quietly, “By the way, I wonder if you could answer a rather delicate question for me.”

  Lilly’s eyes opened wide in her startled face. “Yes, m’m?”

  “You must know Mazie quite well, since you shared a room. Can you tell me if she had an admirer? Perhaps someone on the Pennyfoot staff?”

  Lilly’s cheeks glowed red. “Er . . . I’m not sure, m’m. I know she talked to Archie a lot, but I don’t know if they were . . . you know . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at the floor.

  “It’s all right, Lilly. Thank you. Now go and tell P.C. Northcott he may come in.”

  “Yes, m’m. Thank you, m’m.” Lilly slipped through the door and disappeared, leaving Cecily to stare thoughtfully at the ledger in front of her. Could Archie possibly be the killer? It was the last thing she wanted to believe. Phoebe was right. She certainly didn’t have much luck with maintenance men.

  Remembering Lilly’s words of gratitude, she wondered how much she should worry about the girl’s husband tracking her down to the Pennyfoot. She sincerely hoped that wouldn’t happen. It could be most unpleasant for everyone concerned, not to mention a disruption to the guests.

  Sighing, she closed the ledger with a snap. Yet another Christmas season filled with trials and tribulations. Hopefully this one would end as peacefully and enjoyably as the earlier ones.

  Another brisk rap on the door disturbed her thoughts, and she raised her head again. “Come in!”

  Sam Northcott marched into the room, his helmet tucked under his arm and wearing an air of importance as if he were about to be presented with the Victoria Cross. “Mrs. Baxter,” he announced in the voice he always used when imparting vital information, “I hope your day is starting well?”

  “Very well, thank you, Sam. And yours?”

  “Well, it was, until something ’appened.” He nudged a hand toward a chair facing the desk. “May I?”

  “Of course.” She waited while he seated himself, which entailed a lot of shifting and grunting until he was settled. “You have news for me?”

  “I’m afraid I do, m’m. Not good news, I’m sad to say.”

  Cecily’s thoughts immediately flew to Mazie. Her heart seemed to freeze as she envisioned that fragile face and terrified eyes. “Oh, no, please don’t tell me that something’s happened to Mazie?”

  “Mazie?” The constable frowned, staring at her in confusion.

  Feeling more than slightly exasperated, Cecily answered curtly, “My maid, who is in your custody at the moment.”

  “Oh!” Enlightenment dawned in his eyes, and to her immense relief, he shook his head. “No, it’s not about Mazie. She’s all right, though I do wish she’d eat a bit more. She doesn’t seem to like the food we give her and—”

  “Sam? If it’s not Mazie we’re talking about, then who, pray, is the subject of this news?”

  “Ah, yes.” The constable coughed behind his hand. “Well, I thought you should know, seeing as how this is connected to what happened here. Strange coincidence, that. I’m not happy about it at all. We’ve never had trouble with street crimes in Badgers End. They usually don�
��t bother with us here, seeing as how we’re such a small town. They usually hang around Wellercombe, where the pickings are a lot bigger.”

  Cecily fought to keep her irritation at bay. “Would you please tell me what has happened to bring you to my office on a busy day?”

  Northcott opened his mouth, closed it again, then said in a rush, “It’s about Lady Farthingale. She’s the widow of the bloke we found dead in your laundry room the other morning.”

  Cecily curled her fingers into her palms. “Yes, Sam, I’m familiar with Lady Farthingale. So, what is this all about?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Cecily blinked. The sparse statement seemed to ring in her ears, repeating itself over and over. “Dead? But she can’t be. I just spoke with her yesterday and she seemed perfectly well.”

  P.C. Northcott cleared his throat. “Yes, well, she was attacked and robbed this morning in the High Street. She must have been taking a shortcut through an alley, as that’s where her body was found. We ’ave deduced that it were a mugger what stabbed her, though they usually don’t kill. The widow must have put up a fight.” He shook his head. “You should never do that. Hand over everything you have, then run like hell.” He coughed. “Begging your pardon, m’m.”

  Cecily barely heard his last words. She was still trying to make sense of the news. Lady Farthingale dead. Just a few days after her husband had died a violent death. Too much of a coincidence? She had no doubt of that. The deaths were connected. Someone was being very thorough.

  The constable spoke again, but she didn’t hear what he said. She was too busy playing a memory back in her mind. The vision of Sir Clarence Oakes rapidly climbing the steps to Lady Farthingale’s hotel.

  Another coincidence? She didn’t think so. For a brief moment she considered sharing her suspicions with the constable, then immediately decided against it. Sam would probably charge up to the aristocrat with his usual blunt accusations without considering the evidence, or lack thereof, thus destroying any chance of catching the man off-guard.