5 Check-Out Time (15 page)

He shrugged but didn’t answer her.

“Do you like the Punch-and-Judy show?”

Again a shrug.

“Donkey rides?”

The pudgy shoulders rose and fell.

“Boat trips?”

This suggestion produced the same response.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Cecily decided to try another tack. All the boy really needed was love and understanding. By all accounts he got little of either from his parents.

Now he was left to deal with his father’s death while his mother languished in bed. It was no wonder Stanley was always in hot water. He was starved of affection and did everything he could to attract the attention he craved.

Determined to let the child know that at least one adult understood him, Cecily said quietly, “Stanley, I know how you must be hurting inside because of what happened to your father. You will find as time passes that the pain will gradually lessen—”

“He was stupid.”

She looked down at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“My father was very stupid. I hate him. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Hardly able to believe her ears, she said gently, “Stanley, you don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do. Oh, yes, I do.” Stanley started skipping ahead of her, chanting in a singsong voice, “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after.”

Cecily felt a cold chill as she watched the boy. There was something about the words of that rhyme that unsettled her. She couldn’t help wondering if perhaps they were prophetic.

CHAPTER
15

Stanley arrived at the kitchen ahead of Cecily and had disappeared inside by the time she reached the door. She heard Gertie’s voice the minute she pushed the door open.

“You get away from me, you nasty little monster. I don’t want you bloody near me again.”

Sighing, Cecily walked into the kitchen in time to see Gertie making threatening motions at Stanley’s throat with her curled fingers.

She sprang back when she saw Cecily. “Afternoon, mum,” she said, bobbing a slight curtsey. “Can I get you something?”

“I’d like a bowl of blancmange for Master Stanley.” Cecily patted the boy on the head. “He has promised me to behave, haven’t you, dear?”

Stanley nodded his head up and down, his eyes intent on Gertie’s face.

The housemaid shot a look of pure hatred at the boy. “I’ll get it, mum,” she said, through gritted teeth.

Stanley grinned. “Thank you so much, Miss Gertie,” he said politely.

Gertie made a growling noise and went off to the pantry to get the pudding.

Cecily looked down at Stanley. “I need to have a word with Gertie outside. I trust you will sit quietly at the table and eat your blancmange while we are gone? We shan’t be long.”

“Yes, Mrs. Sinclair. I will be most happy to do that.”

She gave him a suspicious look. The angelic pose did not suit the boy at all, and she had the uneasy feeling that the moment their backs were turned, Stanley would be up to mischief again.

Gertie returned with a bowl of yellow blancmange and slapped it on the table. “There you go, Master Stanley.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Gertie.” Stanley struggled onto a chair and grabbed up the spoon. He started shoveling mouthfuls of the slippery pudding into his mouth, and Gertie tutted in disgust.

“Hope it bleeding chokes you,” she muttered under her breath, but not quite soft enough to escape Cecily’s keen ear.

“Gertie, I’d like a word with you out in the hallway,” she said. Then, turning to look at Stanley, she added, “Now, remember what you promised me. We shall be only a moment or two.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stanley mumbled, dribbling yellow blancmange down his chin.

“Oh, strewth,” Gertie said, lifting her face to the ceiling. “Give me bleeding strength.”

She followed Cecily out of the door and closed it with more force than was necessary. “That kid will be the death of me,” she said in a voice of impending doom.

“I do wish you would have more patience with the boy,”
Cecily said quietly. “It might not be too apparent at this point, but Master Stanley is suffering from very real grief and rejection. His father has died a tragic death, and his mother has more or less forsaken him in her own suffering. Stanley’s mischief is a cry for help. He is simply looking for someone to notice him.”

“Can’t bleeding help noticing him,” Gertie mumbled, digging her toe into the carpet. “He’s upset everyone in sight. He’s caused more flipping trouble in three days than a dozen bloody monkeys could do in three months.”

Cecily sighed. “I know he’s been a handful, Gertie, and I do sympathize. Children like that can be extremely trying. But I do wish you would attempt to use a little more understanding in this situation. Try to be his friend, and you might be surprised how well Master Stanley will respond.”

“I’d be bloody well shocked out of me drawers if that little bugger responded to anything,” Gertie said, with some heat. “He’s bleeding dangerous, he is. He bloody well scares me, if you want to know.”

Surprised by the vehemence in Gertie’s voice, Cecily frowned. “I hardly think an eight-year-old boy could be much of a threat.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gertie stuck out her chin. “Well, he tried to bloody hypnotize me this afternoon. Gawd only knows what he would have made me do, if I hadn’t been on to him and stopped it before he blinking put me under.”

“Hypnotize?” Cecily suppressed a smile. “I doubt very much if Master Stanley is capable of hypnotizing anyone.”

“Well, begging your pardon, mum, but that’s where you are wrong. ’Cause Master Stanley started swinging a watch in front of me eyes, and he was talking real slow and quiet, telling me how I was getting sleepy and that me head was heavy and me eyelids were closing. Almost nodded off, I did, until I remembered.”

Cecily’s smile faded. “Remembered what?”

“About hypnotism. How you can send someone to sleep by making them watch something swinging back and forth,
and then you can tell them things, and the subcon … sub something-or-other mind stores it and makes you think you was the one what thought of it.”

It was a garbled but fairly accurate description of hypnotic suggestion. Impressed, Cecily asked, “How did you learn all this about hypnotism?”

Gertie puffed out her cheeks, obviously pleased with her aired knowledge. “Well, it was when that woman doctor stayed at the hotel. Thought I was bleeding pregnant, I did, and I was worried about it, and she found out and hypnotized me into thinking I wasn’t pregnant, and lo and behold”—Gertie held up her hands—“I wasn’t.” Her cheeks turned a faint pink. “If you know what I mean, mum.”

Cecily smiled. “Yes, I know very well what you mean.”

“Well, anyway,” Gertie went on, “I got interested in it, like, since it happened to me, so I read up on it. Saw something in a magazine about it. And that’s what Master Stanley was doing, trying to hypnotize me.”

She looked at Cecily with a thoughtful frown. “Though how the hell he learnt it I can’t imagine. The magazine said that usually one only sees a hypnotist in the Music Hall, and Master Stanley’s much too young to have been there.”

Cecily stared at her without speaking for several seconds.
Never have been the same since he waved that dashed watch in my face
. “Thank you, Gertie,” she said at last. “Perhaps you should go back to the kitchen and keep an eye on Stanley.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, all right,” Gertie said, turning back to the door. “I’ll watch that little twit like a mouse watches a cat.”

“I told him someone would take him down to the beach,” Cecily said, remembering her promise to the child. “If Mrs. Chubb can spare you for a little while, perhaps you could take him on the sands?”

Gertie looked as if she’d been asked to stoke coal for the
devil himself. But she tightened her mouth and said, “I’ll ask permission from Mrs. Chubb, mum.”

Cecily nodded. “Thank you, Gertie.” She left quickly, anxious to find Baxter. There was something she wanted him to do, and it could take her a while to persuade him.

She found him in the conservatory, examining the leg of the chaise lounge. “This needs tightening,” he announced when he saw her. “It has a definite wobble. I’ll get Samuel to see to it.”

“As soon as possible,” Cecily said. “We don’t want the thing to collapse with one of our guests seated on it.”

“Precisely, madam. That was my concern, too.”

Cecily moved over to a huge fern and began fingering the leaves. “I should get Madeline to take a look at these plants out here. They are beginning to look a little droopy.”

“Probably the unusually warm weather, madam. Plants like lots of fresh air, and it has been unbearably stuffy in the conservatory of late.”

“Yes, I know. It’s all this glass. It holds the heat.” Keeping her gaze on the fern, she said casually, “Speaking of fresh air, do you have any special plans for tonight?”

She could hear the wariness in his voice when he answered. “Not any special plans, no.”

“Good. I should like to go out tonight, and I will need an escort. I should appreciate it very much if you would accompany me.”

There was a long pause, while she pretended to scrutinize a feathery leaf.

“May I enquire as to where we would be going, madam?”

“You may, Baxter.” She drew in a breath. “I would like to visit the Hippodrome in Wellercombe.”

After what seemed an eternity, Baxter made a small choking sound. “Is madam aware that the Hippodrome is a … Variety theater?”

He’d said
Variety
in almost a whisper, as if afraid to be caught uttering such profanity.

Cecily braced herself and looked at him. “Yes,” she said
calmly. “Madam is fully aware of that fact. Which is the reason I wish to visit it.”

He drew himself up to his full height. “Am I given to understand that this has something to do with the fact that Arthur Barrett was once an entertainer?”

“It might,” Cecily said cautiously.

“Madam.” Baxter coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I simply cannot allow it, madam. Mr. Sinclair would most certainly not approve.”

“Mr. Sinclair is not here, Baxter,” she pointed out gently.

“Nevertheless, I gave him my promise—”

“To see that no harm shall befall me,” Cecily cut in. “Yes, I can hardly forget that, since I’m being constantly reminded of it. I fail to see, however, what possible harm could befall me in a perfectly legitimate, well-lit theater.”

“Madam, the kind of people who patronize that sort of disgusting entertainment are not the sort with whom you should be seen associating.”

“I have it on very good authority that members of all classes visit the Music Halls, including the aristocracy.” Cecily met his affronted gaze with calm assurance. “Why, only the other day I read that Lord Winterfield and his new bride were in the stalls.”

“That was probably in a West End theater. The Hippodrome in Wellercombe is much more likely to be filled with the lower-class element of the population.”

“Really.” Cecily raised a delicate eyebrow. “And, as such, they are little more than animals to be avoided at all costs. Is that it?”

Baxter ran a finger around his stiff collar. “That is not what I was inferring, madam. I feel compelled to point out, however, that because of the nature of the audience, the content of the entertainment is likely to be …”

He paused, apparently searching for the right word.

Cecily waited patiently, interested to hear what he would say next.

Finally he said a little desperately, “They are likely to be … vulgar, madam.”

“So I understand.” She fought the urge to smile. “But I am not exactly a naive young girl anymore. I venture to think the entertainment might not be too risqué for my tender ears.”

“You are making fun of me,” Baxter said stiffly.

Cecily burst out laughing. “Only when you become deplorably stuffy, Bax. Come on, admit it. Don’t you think it might be fun?”

“Fun, madam, is not a term I would use for the kind of behavior that goes on at such places. Not only can the performers be offensive, the hecklers sometimes drown them out with their obscene remarks.”

Cecily shook her head. “You worry too much. The hecklers are usually up in the balconies. We shall be in the stalls, all perfectly proper and correct.”

“I don’t know how proper and correct it will appear, madam, if you are seen at such a place escorted by an employee of your establishment.”

“Piffle. Since when, pray, have I ever worried about what other people think?”

“Which is precisely why I gave my promise to Mr. Sinclair to take care of you.”

“Very well, then. Since I have every intention of going to the theater, it would seem that the best way for you to keep that promise would be to accompany me.”

He sent her the kind of direct look that had made more than one housemaid shake in her shoes. Even Cecily felt intimidated by it at times.

“Baxter,” she said firmly, “I have a very good reason to visit the theater tonight. Please believe me when I say I would not go if I didn’t feel it was desperately important. Please humor me in this, and I will explain everything afterward.”

Confusion crept into his face. “I don’t understand.”

She patted his arm. “I know you don’t, Baxter. As I said,
I’ll explain it all later. I’ll leave you to order the trap, shall I? I do believe the show begins at eight o’clock. We shall have to leave here by half past six in order to get a good seat. I shall meet you in the foyer at twenty-five past.”

Baxter still wore a slightly dazed expression, but to Cecily’s relief he slowly nodded. “Very well, madam.”

“Thank you, Baxter.” She gave him a brilliant smile, then left him. She still had to decide what to wear. Although she would never have admitted it to Baxter, she was really looking forward to seeing the show.

She’d read in one of her magazines that the female singers used their songs to show support for the suffragettes. In Cecily’s book, any woman who was willing to stand in front of an audience and use her talent to foster the Women’s Movement was well worth patronizing, vulgar or not.

Feeling a small rush of excitement at the prospect, she hurried up the stairs to begin preparing for the event.

Gertie was not happy at all. It was late afternoon, and she’d been sitting in the boiling sun for almost an hour. Stanley was still in the sea, slopping up and down and every now and again sloshing water over some poor kid.

She had hoped a big bully would come along and smack Stanley on the nose, but no one seemed inclined to take him on. Not that Gertie was particularly surprised about that. Fatty Stanley must weigh a ton. It would take three kids to even push him out of the way.

Gertie scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. She still hadn’t forgiven him for the mess he’d made in the kitchen when she’d gone in after talking to madam. Stanley had drawn pictures all over the kitchen table and the floor … in blancmange. It had taken her ages to clean it all up.

If madam had seen that mess, Gertie thought bitterly, she might have had more sympathy and locked up the flipping kid.

Groaning, she climbed to her feet. It was time to get back
to the hotel, and for once she was bloody glad. She wasn’t feeling at all well.

She straightened her back, and a tiny movement in her belly made her catch her breath. She stood perfectly still, her eyes glued to her body. Another movement, then another.

Her eyes widening, she put her hand on her belly. Something thumped against her palm, and she snatched her hand away with a small yelp. It must be the baby. Gawd Almighty, it wasn’t getting ready to be born, was it?

She’d read about how it was born. The details had made her feel sick, but at least now she knew where it came out. She’d been afraid they would have to cut her open to get it out. But no one told her she’d be able to feel it move.