A Merry Murder Page 2

  Baxter had survived, thank the good Lord, but the illness had left him weak and depressed for months. So much so that he had officially declined the position offered to him as a director of overseas acquisitions—work that would have taken them to all four corners of the world.

  Baxter had declared one evening over dinner that he had come to the conclusion he was too old to be taking on such a monumental task. “I am much more suited to managing one hotel in one place, rather than chasing all over the world taking on one headache after another,” he’d told her.

  She’d pretended to be dismayed, but had fallen to her knees later that night and given thanks for this reprieve. The only reason she’d agreed to the opportunity in the first place was because Baxter had come close to being seriously hurt while aiding her in a murder investigation. She had decided they would both be on safer ground away from the Pennyfoot and her penchant for tangling with villains. The possibility of seeing her sons again, both of whom lived abroad, was also an incentive.

  Even so, she’d hated the very thought of leaving her home and the staff, who had become as close as family to her. She had become even more overjoyed when Baxter had surprised her later with a suggestion.

  “I think we should purchase the Pennyfoot from your cousin,” he’d said, and for a long moment Cecily had stared at him, afraid to believe what she was hearing in case she was mistaken.

  When she didn’t answer him, Baxter had added, “We could turn it from a country club back into a hotel. The memberships have been dwindling in the last year or so, and with a hotel we would attract a more diverse and hopefully a more abundant clientele.”

  She had leapt at the idea with so much enthusiasm, Baxter had told her he wished he’d thought of the idea sooner.

  So now that they were once again the owners of the Pennyfoot Hotel, Baxter seemed happy and content and, more important, healthy again. He had maintained his business in London, though he had cut back a good deal of it and now did most of the work at home.

  Christmas was less than a week away, and the aroma of seasonings and spice from the kitchen, blending with the fragrance of fresh greenery from the woods, filled the halls.

  It was her favorite time of the year, and Cecily was so overjoyed, she felt a strong urge to hug her husband. She had actually stretched out her arms to do just that when a sharp rap on the door halted her.

  Baxter sighed and rattled his newspaper as she turned toward the door.

  “Come in!” Cecily seated herself on her gold Queen Anne armchair as the door opened and Gertie edged into the room.

  “I’m sorry, m’m,” she said, dropping a slight curtsey. “I got some bad news.”

  Baxter groaned, and lowered his newspaper. “What now?”

  Gertie’s gaze seemed to fix on Cecily’s face. “I was in the laundry room and I thought it were a bundle of clothes lying on the floor, but it weren’t.” She appeared to have something to add, but apparently had trouble getting it out.

  Cecily was already getting a nasty feeling in her stomach. Every year at this time they seemed to have some kind of disaster. She called it the Christmas Curse, and for years the name had been whispered among the downstairs staff with the same dread that she felt right now.

  She tried to sound calm as she gave Gertie an encouraging smile. “So, what is it, Gertie?”

  Baxter, who had none of his wife’s patience and restraint, growled, “Come on, girl. Spit it out.”

  Gertie swallowed, heaved air into her lungs, and announced in a voice hoarse with anxiety, “It were a dead body, m’m. Mr. Baxter. Mrs. Chubb has already sent for the police constable.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Baxter muttered, folding his newspaper.

  Cecily could feel her heart pumping. Not again. Not now. Just when they were beginning to see a large increase in bookings. They were already taking reservations for next year. They didn’t need another calamity to frighten off prospective guests, or the ones still due to arrive for the holidays, for that matter. “Who is it, Gertie? Is it one of the staff? A footman? Could you tell how he’d died?”

  Gertie shook her head. “I didn’t look at him that much, m’m. I didn’t recognize his face, though. It weren’t one of ours.”

  Baxter groaned again. “So, it’s one of the guests. Wonderful.”

  “Perhaps he had a heart attack or something,” Cecily said, grasping at the fragile hope the death was caused by a medical event.

  Gertie cleared her throat. “Dr. Prestwick is on his way, too, m’m. Mrs. Chubb rang him as well.”

  “Good.” Cecily got up from the chair. “Well, I suppose I should go down and take a look.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Baxter stood, slipped off his smoking jacket, and reached for his dress coat. “What I want to know is what in blazes was one of our guests doing in the laundry room?”

  “He must have been looking for something,” Cecily said as she hurried to the door.

  “Or someone,” Baxter added darkly as he followed her out into the hallway.

  “I’ll go ahead and tell Mrs. Chubb you’re on your way down.” Gertie stepped past them and fled down the stairs.

  Cecily followed her, conscious of her husband at her heels, willing her to go faster. Her thoughts, however, were firmly fixed on the body waiting for her below. Her hope that the cause of death was for medical reasons seemed doomed, considering the victim had been found lying in the laundry room. That was odd, and in Cecily’s experience, odd meant a foul deed had taken place.

  An elderly couple approached them on the stairs, and Cecily paused on the landing to let the guests pass. The woman was dressed in a fine purple satin gown beneath a navy blue coat. Blue and white ribbon roses decorated the wide brim of her hat, which almost hid her eyes. She swept up past them without a word, but the gentleman doffed his top hat at her and smiled as he turned the corner.

  Cecily barely noticed. She was anxious to get down to the laundry room and find out what had caused the death of one of her guests. Picking up a fold of her black serge skirt to raise it above her ankles, she quickened her step down the rest of the stairs, with Baxter breathing down her neck behind her.

  Mrs. Chubb was waiting for them at the foot of the staircase, her normally flushed face looking pale and drawn. The housekeeper had to be quite agitated, as she had forgotten to remove her white apron before entering the lobby. “I’m sorry, m’m,” she murmured, nodding at Baxter. “This is a nasty surprise, to be sure. Rest assured, Dr. Prestwick and P.C. Northcott are on their way.”

  A small group of visitors stood by the front doors, apparently deciding on their activities for the day. A couple stood by the Christmas tree, holding the hands of two young boys to prevent them from reaching for the inviting decorations.

  Cecily gave them no more than a passing glance as she stared at her housekeeper. “P.C. Northcott? He didn’t go to London for his annual Christmas visit to his wife’s relatives?”

  “No, m’m. He didn’t. From what I heard, his wife has been ill and they decided not to go this year.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” While her sympathy lay mostly with the constable’s wife, Cecily was none too happy that she would have to deal with the bumbling policeman again. That meant the brunt of the investigation would fall on her shoulders once more—something she’d hoped to avoid.

  Then again, the alternative would be an encounter with Scotland Yard inspector William Cranshaw. Cecily shuddered at the thought. She’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals.

  “Did you want to wait for the constable before you take a look in the laundry room?”

  Mrs. Chubb had sounded anxious, and Cecily gave her an encouraging smile. “No, I think we’d like to inspect the scene before he gets here. Come, Baxter.” She started for the backstairs with Baxter behind her and the housekeeper scurrying at his heels.

  Moments later she pushed open
the door of the laundry room and peeked inside. The room was empty, and she made straight for the corner where the dead man lay. Baxter followed her, while Mrs. Chubb still hovered outside in the hallway, obviously reluctant to view a corpse.

  Staring down at the still figure at her feet, Cecily’s heart sank. A blue silk scarf, delicately embellished with purple blossoms and pale green leaves, had been tied around the man’s neck. A very feminine scarf. Obviously, it belonged to a woman. The incongruous article of clothing confirmed her suspicions. “I do believe,” she murmured to no one in particular, “that we have another murder on our hands.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Baxter muttered. “Will this never end?”

  Mrs. Chubb cleared her throat from the doorway. “The constable is here, m’m.”

  “Oh, send him in, please.” Cecily turned to greet the portly policeman as he pushed the door open wider to make an entrance. “Good morning, Sam. How is your wife feeling? Better, I hope?”

  “Not too bad, m’m, thank you.” Northcott pulled his helmet from his head and tucked it under his arm, then raised his hand to smooth imaginary hair back on his balding head. “I see we ’ave another stiff’un.”

  Cecily winced, and frowned at Baxter, who was rolling his eyes. “I’m afraid so.”

  “One of your guests again?” The constable approached the body and stared down at the dead man’s face. “Looks like he’s been choked with that scarf there. Happens a lot, don’t it. You ’ave his name?”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t recognize him at all.” Cecily peered at the stone-white face. “Then again, I don’t meet every guest who stays here.”

  Northcott nodded. “Well, someone from your staff must recognize him. We’ll have to get ’em all in here to look at him.”

  “Oh, marvelous,” Baxter muttered.

  The constable gave him a sharp look. “You have a problem?”

  Cecily instantly read her husband’s expression. The two men had been enemies ever since their young days, when the constable had apparently stolen the girl Baxter had hoped to marry. Cecily had never really learned the whole story, since her husband was not one to elaborate on anything, but the situation had angered Baxter deeply enough for him to carry a grudge to this day. Right then he was glaring at the constable as if he would like to throw him through a window.

  Hastily she intervened. “I could have one or two of the maids take a look, if you like. They are the ones most likely to recognize the man. My chief housemaid doesn’t know him, but the others might.” A sharp tap on the door turned her head.

  The man who entered smiled at her. His fair hair gleamed in the glow of the gas lamps, and as always, he looked immaculate in a dove gray coat and trousers, and a dashing red cravat at his throat.

  “It’s Dr. Prestwick, m’m,” Mrs. Chubb announced somewhat belatedly.

  Cecily gave him a warm smile. “Kevin. How nice to see you again, though I wish it were in better circumstances. How is Madeline and little Angelina?”

  “Both are in excellent health, thank you, Cecily.” The doctor nodded at Baxter, then turned his attention to the dead man. “So, what do we have here?” He squatted down by the body, fingered the scarf, then turned the victim’s head to the side. “Ah, here we go.” He pointed to a large dark patch on the man’s head. “He was struck with a heavy object. I imagine it’s what killed him. I’ll know more after autopsy.” Gently he closed each of the man’s eyelids.

  “What about the choking?” Northcott demanded as Dr. Prestwick rose to his feet.

  “He wasn’t strangled, if that’s what you mean.” The doctor looked down at the victim. “The scarf isn’t tight enough around his throat to do any damage. There are no visible marks on his neck, and no hemorrhaging of the eyes.”

  Baxter shook his head. “Then what the blazes was he doing wearing a woman’s scarf?”

  Dr. Prestwick shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I know.” Northcott beamed with pride. “He was smacked on the old noggin by a woman. She thought he wasn’t quite dead yet so she finished him off with her scarf.”

  Dr. Prestwick pursed his lips. “It’s possible. Then again, it could have been put there by a man, to make it appear that the perpetrator was a woman.”

  “Or to cast the blame for the crime on the owner of the scarf,” Cecily put in.

  Dr. Prestwick smiled. “Of course. Trust the inimitable Mrs. Cecily Baxter to provide a logical explanation.”

  Baxter scowled, while Northcott grunted. “Well then, I ’ave to search the poor blighter before you take him away.” The constable looked as if it were the very last thing he wanted to do.

  “Of course.” Prestwick turned to Cecily. “I shall need the assistance of a couple of your footmen to carry out the body.”

  “And you shall have them.” Cecily turned to the door. “Mrs. Chubb? Are you still there?”

  A faint, slightly embarrassed voice answered her from the other side of the door. “Yes, m’m.” The housekeeper cleared her throat. “I was waiting to see if you needed me to fetch anything.”

  Cecily smiled. It was as good an excuse as any. “Very well. You can send two of the footmen in here to assist Dr. Prestwick. You can also tell Charlotte and Lilly to come here right away. I want them to identify this poor man. We need to notify his family.”

  “Yes, m’m.”

  “And Mrs. Chubb?”

  “Yes, m’m?”

  “Please see that this news doesn’t reach our guests.”

  “Yes, m’m. Of course.” Shuffling footsteps sounded in the hallway as the housekeeper hurried off to obey her orders.

  Northcott laid his helmet down on a shelf and lowered himself to his haunches beside the victim. “I’ll need to take the scarf for evidence.”

  He looked up at the doctor, who nodded his approval. Northcott gingerly pulled the scarf from around the man’s neck. “Nice bit of silk, this,” he murmured as he let the colorful fabric slide through his fingers. “My missus would like this.”

  “Not if she knew where it came from,” Baxter said, looking a little appalled at the thought.

  Northcott sniffed at the silky fabric. “Smells good, too. Expensive smellies, that.” He tucked the scarf in his pocket, then started going through the victim’s pockets, pulling out from the man’s coat a folded white handkerchief, a small tin of snuff, a pack of playing cards, and a pipe.

  Cecily kept close watch on him as he turned his attention to the trousers. Finding nothing in one pocket, he tucked his fingers into the other. “Aha! What’s this, then?” He withdrew his fingers, which now held a small piece of paper folded in half. With a loud groan, he struggled upright, and unfolded the note.

  He stared at it so long, Cecily felt like screaming at him. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “Well? For heaven’s sake, Sam, tell us what it says!”

  Obviously enjoying the tension he was creating, the constable looked at her. “Well, m’m, I’d say we have the crime solved already.” He handed her the note. “There’s your killer. Right there.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Cecily took the note from the constable’s pudgy hand and quickly scanned the scrawled lines. Shocked, she read it again, then jumped when Baxter barked, “Are you going to tell us what the dratted thing says or do we have to guess?”

  “Oh, pardon me.” She let out her breath on a sigh. “It’s from Mazie. Apparently, the man’s name is Percy. She asked him”—she paused, still unable to believe what she was reading—“she asked him to meet her here in the laundry room at midnight.”

  Baxter stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Mazie?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Mazie? That meek little maid we hired two months ago? She doesn’t look capable of killing a chicken, much less a man.”

  “I know.” Cecily stared at the note, trying to equate her latest servant with the
dreadful fate that had befallen the man at her feet. Mazie was little more than a child, not yet fifteen. Her parents were impoverished farmers who had sent her to work and live at the Pennyfoot.

  It wasn’t the first time Cecily had hired a servant out of pity and a sense of responsibility for the welfare of her new employee. Nor was it likely to be the last. Most of the time she had been vastly rewarded, surrounded by a happy and loyal staff that gave their best every day.

  Only once in a while had one of them let her down. Never in a million years would she have placed Mazie in that category.

  “There has to be a murder weapon somewhere around ’ere,” Northcott mumbled as he wandered over to the shelves crammed with stacks of clean linens.

  Cecily glanced across the room. Next to the ironing stove stood a small bureau, holding a box of starch, three kettles, three water bowls, and six heavy flatirons. One of the irons stood slightly askew, and she hurried over to it.

  One glance confirmed what she had suspected. A dark stain covered the tip of the iron. “I think this might be the murder weapon,” she announced.

  Northcott muttered something she couldn’t hear as he plodded over to her. “I have to ask you not to touch nothing, m’m. It’s evidence, and I have to take it with me.”

  “Of course.” Cecily stepped back.

  “And I have to arrest your maid what done this.”

  She had been expecting as much, but she wasn’t about to give up without a fight. “You don’t really have enough evidence to arrest anyone yet, do you?” She smiled at the constable, who stood scowling at her with such intensity she knew she was already losing the battle. “I mean, all you have is a note. You don’t really know for certain if Mazie met . . . er . . . Percy here. We don’t even know for certain if this man is Percy. He could be someone else entirely.”

  “Well, m’m, I’m sure your maids can clear that one up for us.”

  Even as he spoke, a tap on the door announced the arrival of her staff. She turned to face them as they trooped into the room.

  Lilly looked sick, her face white and drawn and seemingly unaware of the wisps of light brown hair escaping from her cap and floating in front of her eyes.