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“Get out of here, you filthy swine! Down boy, down! Stay under cover. By gad, I’ll have them!”

Barely recognizing the colonel’s voice, Cecily quickened her step.

“There they are, Colonel! Look, over there,” the young voice exclaimed.

“Where? Where? Let me at ’em. By George, I’ll massacre the rotten blighters.”

Again the shrill voice. “Over there, over there, look, look!”

“Where? Great Scott, they are fast little buggers.”

“Over there, Colonel. Look out! One of them has a gun!” The shrill words were followed by an agonizing scream.

Cecily broke into a trot and burst through the bushes just as the colonel howled, “Now see what you’ve done, you despicable degenerates. You’ve killed him. By God, I’ll see you hung, drawn and quartered for this, you damn butchers.”

Cecily took in the scene with one swift glance. Stanley lay flat on his back, looking like a bleached whale. Rolls of fat bulged above the waist of his knickerbockers, while a horrible grimace distorted his features and one hand clutched his chest. His eyes were closed tight, and not a muscle in his body moved when the colonel bent over him and patted his cheek.

“Oh, dear God, they’ve killed him,” the colonel moaned, sounding close to tears. “Whatever shall I tell his poor, dear mother?”

Cecily compressed her lips and marched forward. “Stanley,” she ordered in her fiercest voice, “get up this instant. I want a word with you, young man.”

Stanley opened one eye and hastily closed it again when he saw Cecily glaring at him.

The colonel apparently had not noticed the slight movement. “My dear lady,” he yelled, waving his arms about in wild gestures at the woods behind him, “get down, get down! The ugly brutes are in there, getting ready to attack. They’ve already felled the boy, poor little chap!”

“Colonel—” Cecily began, but the man spun around and, with his back to her, started advancing on the trees.

“Have no fear, old bean, I’ll protect you!” Leaping and dancing, he charged forward, emitting a bloodcurdling scream.

A loud snort captured Cecily’s attention. Stanley had both hands pressed over his mouth, while his rotund body shook with silent laughter.

Cecily leaned over the sputtering boy and firmly took hold of his arm.

“Ow!” Stanley yelled, much more loudly than was warranted.

“Get up,” Cecily said, managing to put a great deal of authority into her quiet tone.

“I am, I am. Let go.” He glared at her, his eyes looking too small in his chubby face.

Cecily released her hold, and the boy scrambled to his feet. Anticipating his intentions, she took hold of his arm before he could run. “If you go back to the kitchen now,” she said, fixing him with a stern look, “you can ask Mrs. Chubb to give you some blancmange. Tell her I said you could have it.”

Stanley’s surprised look turned to one of delight. Without another word he lumbered off, his mind apparently on his favorite subject—food.

With a sigh, Cecily went in search of the colonel. She could hardly leave him rushing around the gardens in that state. Heaven only knew what he would do if he encountered one of the guests. She would have to deal with Stanley
later, she decided, trying not to feel too murderous toward the boy.

The colonel wasn’t terribly difficult to find. Cecily just followed the crashing noises reminiscent of a rhino on the rampage. When she caught up with him, he was bent almost double, brandishing a long stake at a thicket of brambles.

“I can see you, you nasty little devils. Come out and fight, I say. Ghastly cowards, that’s what you are, the bloody lot of you.”

“Colonel—”

The colonel yelped and jumped back several feet. “Good Lord, madam, whatever are you doing here? Don’t you know you are in deadly danger? These little fellows can drop you at fifty feet. They’ve already got that poor Malton boy. First his father, now the child. That poor, poor woman. Whatever shall I tell her?”

“Colonel, Stanley is perfectly all right. I’m afraid he was playing a trick on you. There’s no one here, look.”

She began walking toward the brambles, but he thrust an arm ahead of her. “Madam, I implore you.”

It took Cecily the best part of an hour to convince him that Stanley had been having a game with him, and that there were no enemies hiding in the woods to kill him or anyone else.

When she finally felt it was safe to leave him, he was pacing up and down muttering that he was going to buy a spell from Madeline Pengrath and turn Stanley Malton into a toad.

Cecily was tempted to help him cast the spell.

CHAPTER
7

Stanley was seated at the huge scrubbed wood table when Cecily arrived back at the kitchen. His red face perspiring with the heat from the stove, the boy had both hands around a hunk of bread and cheese, while his jaws worked on the massive bite he’d taken out of the thick sandwich.

In front of him sat a bowl of pink blancmange, and Stanley’s eyes remained fixed on the tempting sight while he struggled to finish the mouthful.

At least he was quiet for now, Cecily thought, as she turned her back on him and confronted Mrs. Chubb.

The plump housekeeper seemed more cheerful than usual. Her round face beamed, and her eyes positively sparkled above her flushed cheeks. Even her voice had a lilt in it as she greeted Cecily.

Wondering what had caused this transformation, Cecily
said brightly, “It’s nice to see you in such good spirits, Mrs. Chubb.”

“Thank you, mum. I am feeling very well at present.”

Michel, who was standing at the stove a few feet away, sniffed in a derisive manner. Mrs. Chubb sent him a look that would have stopped an elephant in full charge.

“I have a big favor to ask of you,” Cecily said hastily. “Lady Lavinia has taken to her bed, and it might be a day or two before she recovers sufficiently to take care of Stanley.”

Mrs. Chubb’s smile faltered a little, and a look of wariness crept into her eyes. “Yes, mum?”

“I was wondering if you and your very efficient staff could keep an eye on the boy, just until his mother is feeling a little more capable of handling the task.”

“That’ll be bleeding never,” Gertie muttered, splashing dishcloths into the soapy water in the sink.

From the stove came a loud crash. “
Sacre bleu,”
Michel muttered and promptly dropped the saucepan lid to join the pot on the floor.

Mrs. Chubb sent an icy glare over to Gertie, then another at Michel. “We’ll be happy to take care of Master Stanley, mum,” she assured Cecily, albeit through clenched teeth.

Feeling guilty for saddling the busy staff with such a chore, Cecily left the kitchen to the tune of Michel’s crashing and banging. The noise didn’t quite drown out the high-pitched giggle from the boy at the table.

“Strewth,” Gertie said, as the door closed behind Cecily. “I hope you ain’t bleeding expecting me to take care of the little horror. Gawd, in my state of health it would be enough to kill me, that it would.”

Stanley turned his head and stuck out a tongue coated with half-chewed bread.

Gertie moaned and put a hand over her belly. “Oh, blimey, I think I’m going to be sick.” She gave Mrs. Chubb a pathetic look, but she might have known the housekeeper would take no poppycock from anyone.

“Not on my clean floors, you’re not,” Mrs. Chubb said
crisply. “So you’d better hold it in until you go outside to get the coal.”

At the table Stanley snorted, while Gertie felt a growing urge to pour the dirty dishwater over the bloody kid’s head. “Ah, come on, Mrs. Chubb,” she said, patting her belly. “Look at me. I ain’t got the health and strength to run after the bleeding little twit, honest I haven’t.”

She winced as Mrs. Chubb folded her hands across her ample breast and in her sergeant major’s voice barked, “I’ll thank you, Gertie Brown, to watch your tongue in the presence of a child. That kind of gutter language is more suited to the back streets of the slums, and innocent ears should be treated with respect. Especially when they belong to a child of Master Stanley’s background.”

Stanley swiveled his head around and licked his lips. “So there, wobble belly. Shut your mouth.”

Gertie lifted a hand. “Why, you—”

“Gertie!” The housekeeper’s warning was drowned out by Michel as he slammed a frying pan down hard on the edge of the stove.

“How am I supposed to create a superb soufflé with all this caterwauling going on?” he demanded, nodding his head so fiercely his tall chef’s hat slipped sideways. Straightening the cap, his dark eyes flashed fire at Mrs. Chubb.

Gertie took the opportunity to stick out her own tongue at Stanley, who reciprocated by putting both thumbs in his mouth and pulling down the corners. He then crossed his eyes and waggled is tongue up and down until Gertie quite seriously thought she would chuck her innards up all over the floor.

She snatched her gaze away as Mrs. Chubb said heavily, “I’m sorry, Gertie, but you are the only one I can spare right now to watch Master Stanley. Ethel is busy with the dining room, and in any case she is so scatterbrained lately I wouldn’t trust her with the boy.”

“I’ll do her job,” Gertie offered hopefully, but she wasn’t too surprised when Mrs. Chubb shook her head.

“No, I want Ethel where I can keep an eye on her.” For a moment she looked almost apologetic. “Look at it this way, Gertie. It will be good practice for you.”

Michel uttered a short laugh. “
Mon Dieu,
the shock of it will probably be enough to make her give ze baby away to ze very first gypsy that passes by,
non
?”

“Wee,” Gertie said with heavy emphasis.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb reached up to the shelf above her head and took down a jar of pickled eggs. “I really don’t know what you’re both making so much fuss about, so help me I don’t. Master Stanley is only a child, after all, and just needs a firm hand.”

She gave Gertie a look that was supposed to be inspiring. “Now, I know you are quite capable of doing that, my girl. So don’t go giving me any of that drivel that you can’t take care of an eight-year-old boy.”

Gertie puffed out her cheeks. “Eight-year-old, be blowed. This little monster has enough bloody mischief in him to be eight hundred years old.” She turned back to look at Stanley, and instead saw an empty chair. A hasty glance around the kitchen assured her that the boy had left the room.

“Bloody hell,” she said. “He’s bleeding gorn.”

Michel threw his hands up in the air. “Hallelujah.”

Gone?” Mrs. Chubb looked wildly around as if she thought the child was hiding somewhere. “Where could he have gone?”

“He must have snuck out when we weren’t looking,” Gertie said helpfully.

“Then go and find him. I promised madam we’d keep an eye on him. For heaven’s sake, find him before he gets us all into trouble.”

“Cor bleeding blimey,” Gertie muttered as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Why is it always me that ’as to go and do the dirty jobs?”

Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue. “Just mind you watch that tongue of yours, my girl.”

Gertie gave the housekeeper a dirty look as she passed, but Mrs. Chubb had already turned her attention to the pickled eggs. Heaving a sigh, Gertie went off in search of Master Stanley Malton.

“It really is very strange, Baxter,” Cecily said, watching the smoke curl up from the end of her cigar. “If Sir Richard Malton did not commit suicide, as his wife is so sure he didn’t, and if he wasn’t attempting to win a wager, nor was he drinking, what on earth possessed him to balance on that railing?”

Baxter gazed at her across the gleaming library table. Despite the smell of cigar smoke, the faint scent of polish still lingered, mingling with the fragrance of the white roses that stood in a crystal vase in the center of the table.

“There is the possibility that any one of those three reasons could be true,” he said, wrinkling his brow as Cecily took a long drag on the cigar. “Lady Lavinia could be lying or could simply not be aware of anything troubling her husband. It would not be the first time a man had kept something from his wife.”

“Indeed it wouldn’t.” Cecily held the cigar over the large silver ashtray at her elbow and tapped it. A thick roll of white ash fell into the receptacle and disintegrated into dust. “In fact, I would venture to say that it is more the rule than the exception. For some strange reason, men are still ignoring the fact that women are human beings, with feelings and sensitivities, not chattels to be used and taken for granted.”

Apparently unwilling to enter into an argument with her, Baxter said quickly, “Is it not possible that Sir Richard could have ended his life rather than allow his wife to discover a dreadful secret about him?”

Cecily stared at the roses, noting the way the petals curled so evenly, lovingly overlapping each other. “It’s possible,
Baxter. But if Sir Richard did intend to take his own life, I would imagine he would not be feeling too cheerful about the prospect, am I right?”

“I would tend to agree with that, yes, madam.”

“Then perhaps you could explain to me why, instead of simply throwing himself over, the usually staid and proper gentleman climbed up onto the railing and not only attempted to walk the length of it, but actually performed a strange little dance. Had it not been for that little jig, Sir Richard might well have survived the experience, so Arthur tells me.”

Baxter stretched his neck against his stiff collar. “Arthur Barrett seems to know a great deal about everything.”

Cecily sighed. “I really wish I knew why you have such an aversion to our doorman. He is such a pleasant man, always so cheerful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a smile on his face.”

“Exactly. What does he have to smile so much about, that’s what I want to know. As for the infernal humming and whistling—at times the foyer resembles an aviary.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Has Arthur said or done something to upset you, Baxter? If so, I do think you should tell me about it.”

Baxter cleared his throat. “I object to the way he speaks to our guests. Entirely too familiar, in my opinion.”

“Well, as long as the guests don’t object, I don’t see any need to be concerned.” She leaned forward. “You’re not jealous by any chance, are you, Baxter?”

She watched the flush tinge his cheeks. She had always been of the opinion that her manager looked more distinguished than most in his black morning coat and pin-striped trousers. The color suited him.

Sunlight fell across his face as he stood by the French windows, turning his gray eyes to silver. Eyes that could be so cold, yet they had looked at her on more than one occasion with a warmth that had so comforted and reassured her.

“Jealous?” Baxter said stiffly. “Pray, why in the world would I be jealous of a man like Arthur Barrett?”

“Because he is so popular. Everyone likes him and enjoys chatting with him.”

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Perhaps I don’t share the public assessment of him. Everyone is entitled to an opinion.”

Frustrated, Cecily ground the end of her cigar into the ashtray. “You are right, or course. But until I feel there is good reason to complain, I have no quarrel with Arthur. Now, back to Sir Richard. I do have to question why someone intending to end his own life would be so frivolous about it.”

“If he had been drinking …”

“But Arthur insisted he could smell no alcohol on the man’s breath.” She saw Baxter roll his eyes up to the ceiling, and chose to ignore the gesture. “Besides, Lady Lavinia swore her husband couldn’t consume alcohol because of his condition. And Michael told me that Sir Richard ordered milk in the bar, earning a great deal of ridicule in the process. Why would someone do that in a bar unless he didn’t drink?”

“Why would someone go to a public house in the first place if he didn’t drink?”

Cecily looked up at him. “He simply could have been looking for company. A game of darts, maybe?”

“That’s possible.”

Pleased that they seemed to be on amicable terms again, she smiled at him. “I’ll have another word with Lady Lavinia just as soon as she recovers.”

“I presume there would be no point in asking you to refrain until after the inspector has conducted his investigation?”

Her smile widened. “None at all, Baxter. We’ve already been over that.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“In any case, I want to speak with Lady Lavinia as soon
as possible.” Cecily propped her chin on her hands and gazed at the roses. “I know she will have to stay here until after the investigation, but she will really have to do something about Stanley. I’ve asked Mrs. Chubb if she can have someone keep an eye on the boy, but I’m not happy about imposing on the staff when they have so much else to do.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Chubb will handle matters for you. She is most efficient. Though I have been a little concerned about her lately.”

“Concerned? In what way?”

“I can’t be sure, but I have a suspicion it has something to do with our new doorman.”

Cecily’s sigh was pure exasperation. “Baxter, unless you have a legitimate complaint, I really do not care to hear one more word about Arthur Barrett.”

Baxter’s gaze had turned quite frosty when he looked at her. “Yes, madam. I shall endeavor to remember.”

Why, thought Cecily miserably, did they always seem to argue over a member of the staff who had apparently done nothing to deserve Baxter’s displeasure?

Her gaze drifted to her late husband’s portrait. She stared at James’s smiling face, realizing for the first time that she no longer felt the dreadful pain of loss when she thought about him.

She still missed him, of course. But she no longer thought about him a hundred times a day, asking herself what James would have thought about this or that. When had she stopped aching for him? It was hard to remember now.

“If you will excuse me, madam, there are chores that need my attention.”

She nodded absently, still caught up in the revelation of her apparent recovery from James’s death. She was vaguely aware of Baxter hesitating by the door, but she paid scant attention. Her gaze was on the portrait, and she barely heard the door close gently behind her manager.

*      *      *

Gertie looked up at the white clouds scudding overhead, driven by the fresh breeze from the ocean. It looked as if they might have a bit of rain before long, she thought, as she hurried across the grass toward the woods at the back of the gardens.

She didn’t know a lot about eight-year-old children, but something told her that the trees would be a perfect place for a boy to hide while he planned some new mischief. And she was willing to wager her last bloody ha’penny that Master Stanley Malton was up to no good.