6 Grounds for Murder (3 page)

She had received all that she had asked for and so much more. Baxter had become so important in her life she
couldn’t imagine existing without him. And right now she needed him rather badly.

She found him bent over his desk, studying a sheet of figures with a frown that boded unpleasant news.

The minute she entered the office, Baxter straightened. Scrambling to his feet, he reached for his jacket and thrust his arms into the sleeves. “I do wish you would forewarn me of your visits,” he said, scowling at her, “and allow me to prepare.”

Knowing that his discomfort was due to the fact that she had caught him without his jacket, Cecily merely smiled. Baxter insisted on the proper rules of propriety. He chose to ignore the relaxed rules of etiquette that had been in evidence since Edward had inherited the throne from Queen Victoria seven years earlier.

His attitude could not be changed, no matter how much Cecily tried. He abhorred the work of the suffragettes, viewed the rapid changes taking place in society with suspicion and even alarm, and was horrified when Cecily showed signs of subscribing to the New Women’s Movement.

Which was why Cecily took the greatest delight in baiting him. She leaned over the desk and peered up into his face. “Baxter, I am in dire need of one of those delightful little cigars you always carry with you. Would you please be so kind as to offer me one?”

“You know perfectly well, madam, how I feel about you indulging in such a disgraceful habit.”

“Yes, I do, Baxter. And you know perfectly well that I shall insist on smoking, no matter how much you disapprove. Now, will you please light one up for me, or do I have to ask Samuel to purchase a package for me from the George and Dragon?”

Sighing, Baxter withdrew the slim package from his pocket and offered it to her.

She remained leaning forward until he had struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar, while she drew hard enough to start a glow.

“Thank you.” Seating herself in a chair at the side of his desk, she let out a long sigh and watched the smoke curl up in front of her. “You have nice hands, Baxter.”

“Madam?” He sounded shocked, looking down at her with both eyebrows arched.

She met his gaze steadily. “Do sit down, Baxter, please. I get a crick in my neck looking up at you like this.”

“I prefer to stand, madam.”

Grimacing, she repeated, “I said, you have nice hands.”

“That’s what I thought you said, madam.”

“Not like that insufferable oaf, Ellsworth Galloway.”

There was a slight pause, then Baxter said cautiously, “The gentleman upset you, madam?”

“That idiot is no gentleman.” Cecily drew hard on the cigar, then puffed out the smoke. “Do you know that the back of his hands sprout almost as much hair as his chin?”

Baxter coughed. “I can’t say that I’ve noticed, madam.”

“Then you’ll have to accept my word for it.” She leaned over and tapped the ash from the end of her cigar into the ashtray on Baxter’s desk. “We have been discussing the murder, Baxter.”

“Yes, madam.”

“It would seem that no one is at all upset by the death of a young girl. All that matters to them is that the girl was a gypsy, therefore of no account.”

Baxter cleared his throat. “I trust, madam, that since this unfortunate act has nothing to do with the hotel, that madam will refrain from involving herself in the situation?”

Cecily raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Why,
Baxter, you know very well I do not concern myself with something that is none of my business.”

He chose not to answer, but looked at her with such skepticism she felt like laughing. Instead she sat back in her chair, contemplated the smoldering end of her cigar, and said softly, “I would very much like to know, however, why the murderer felt it necessary to bury the head and not the body.”

Baxter’s groan seemed to echo around the room. “I do wonder why that simple remark strikes such a note of doom in my mind.”

Cecily merely smiled. “You worry too much, Baxter,” she said, and puffed once more on the cigar. “I assure you, this time I shall leave well enough alone. I have no wish to involve myself in murder again.”

The words sounded confident enough, she thought. Now if only her mind would obey, perhaps this time she could, indeed, stay out of trouble.

CHAPTER
3

“Ah … choo!”

The sneeze was followed by the splintering shatter of glass on the tiled floor of the kitchen. Gertie spun around from the sink, a half-peeled potato in her hand.

Doris stood in the doorway of the scullery, one small hand covering her mouth. Scattered around the kitchen maid’s feet lay the remains of a crystal fruit bowl.

“Bloody hell, Doris,” Gertie yelled, glaring at the cowering girl. “What’s the bleeding matter with you? That’s the third thing you’ve dropped this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Brown, it was the cat what did it.” Doris’s words ended in a wail, and Gertie threw the potato
back in the sink. Drying her hands on her apron, she marched across the floor toward the sniveling child.

“What cat where?” she demanded, her fists digging into her wide hips.

Doris jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “In there. Every time I see one I sneeze. They make me eyes water and me nose run, and I sneeze. I can’t help it. They just make me sneeze.”

“All right, all right,” Gertie muttered. “Wait a minute while I chase it out. Bleeding strays ought to be shot, thieving from the pantry every blooming chance they get.”

She grabbed a broom from the side of the stove and advanced into the scullery. There was no sign of a cat anywhere, but the pantry door had been left open. Probably by Doris, Gertie thought, her hands itching to wring the unfortunate girl’s neck.

Peering into the tiny cupboard space, she saw a flash of black fur disappear under one of the low shelves. “Get out of there, you bloody little perisher,” she yelled, stabbing at the space with her broom. Her belly prevented her from stooping low enough to be effective, and she kicked the shelf with her foot as hard as she could.

Her howl of pain blended with the frightened squawk from the cat as it dashed in between her legs, throwing her off balance. The broom fell from her hand, and her elbow sent the large crock of butter spinning off the shelf. The crash that followed seemed to Gertie like the voice of doom.

“Oo, ’eck,” Doris said behind her in a voice filled with awe.

“I’ll bleeding oo ’eck you,” Gertie yelled, spinning around to face the startled girl. “Now look what you gone and made me done.”

Doris started bawling, digging her fists into her eyes. From across the kitchen came the sound of a saucepan
crashing to the floor. “Mercy
moi
,” said an irate voice, “what in the ’ell ees ’appening? Someone get murdered,
oui
?”

At the sound of the dreaded word, Doris howled louder.

“It’s not my bleeding fault,” Gertie yelled back, stooping as low as she could to pick up the pieces of brick red pottery generously lathered with butter. “But I tell you, I’d bloody well like to murder someone around here, that I would.”

“That’s e-
nough
!”

Gertie closed her eyes as Mrs. Chubb’s shrill voice joined in. At least the command shut off Doris’s wailing.

The plump housekeeper appeared in the doorway, her face glowing a bright red. “Doris, get to the sink and finish peeling those potatoes. Gertie, I want a word with you in the passage.”

Gertie opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again when Mrs. Chubb’s eyes spit sparks. “This very minute, Gertie.”

Doris flew across to the sink, just as Michel threw up his hands in disgust and sent another saucepan crashing to the ground. “ ’Ow in the world am I supposed to concentrate on my
grande soufflé
with all this racket going on? Isn’t it enough I ’ave to make another apple crumble because this imbecile opens the window and it fall out?
Sacre bleu
, it is enough to give a man zee cobblewollies.”

“Collywobbles,” Gertie muttered as she passed him. Heaving a heavy sigh, she followed Mrs. Chubb to the door. The place was getting to be a madhouse with that twit around, she thought, scowling at the maid’s skinny back. How she was going to teach the little twerp to do the work properly she had no idea. The worst thing madam ever did was hire that one, that was for sure.

Stepping out into the hallway, she braced herself for yet another lecture from the seething housekeeper.

* * *

“I do think we should hire some extra help for the ball next week,” Cecily murmured as she stood with Baxter in the Pennyfoot’s grand ballroom. “We usually get quite a large crowd down from London for the event, as you know.”

Baxter looked down at her with an impressive expression on his square-cut face. Cecily had often envied him that inscrutable look. It covered a lot of territory.

“It is my belief, madam, that many of our clientele will be otherwise engaged on the night of the ball. I do believe a card game tournament has been arranged for that night.”

Cecily raised her eyebrows. “Really! Now how did you manage to learn that, Baxter? You are not thinking of participating, are you?”

His expression remained detached, but Cecily saw him pinch his mouth. “Madam knows very well that I do not play card games.”

Remembering the one and only time she had seen him play, Cecily smiled. “That’s very wise, Baxter. If I recall, your efforts proved to be disastrous in the past.”

“If I may remind you, madam, I was coerced into playing.”

It was time to change the subject, Cecily decided, glancing at his set jaw. “What do you think of Phoebe’s idea of hiring an opera singer for the night?” she asked. “Certainly a change of pace from her usual presentations, don’t you agree?”

“It would seem the lady has acquired some taste at last,” Baxter said dryly. “It is indeed a more palatable prospect than a disappearing python or a dancing monkey.”

“You have to admit Phoebe’s spectaculars are always a topic of much speculation. One never knows what to expect from her.”

Baxter made a noise in the back of his throat which could have meant anything.

“I just hope she doesn’t invite Ellsworth Galloway to join in a duet with Miss Fried … whatever-her-name-is,” Cecily said, lifting her gaze to a gilt cherub smiling down at her from the vaulted ceiling. “I really do detest that man.”

“I understand he has an excellent voice.”

She dropped her gaze again and found him studying her with a slightly perplexed look in his eyes. “It isn’t like you to take such an instant dislike to someone,” he added. “Not without good reason.”

Shrugging, Cecily moved toward the stage, where the huge flowerpots waited to be filled with Madeline’s beautiful arrangements. “I loathe his attitude. He might well be a celebrity, but his narrow-minded bigotry appalls me. In fact, I was dismayed by everyone’s attitude this afternoon. I heard no compassion, no horror or regret that a human life had been taken so violently. All I heard was relief that it was merely a gypsy who had met such an unfortunate end, rather than a ‘real’ human being.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t the general consensus,” Baxter murmured, following close on her heels.

“Oh, yes, it was.” She swung around to face him, almost colliding with him.

Clearing his throat, he stepped back a pace. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

She looked at him for a long moment. She had rarely seen her manager dressed in anything except his uniform of black morning coat, striped gray trousers, and crisp white shirt with the stiff-winged collar.

With the silver in his hair becoming more prominent, and his gray eyes that had lost none of their shrewdness over the years, he looked distinguished and quite masterful. Yet, just once she would have liked to see him in something a little
more relaxing. Such as a smoking jacket, or even a dressing gown.

“Madam?”

She blinked and collected her thoughts. “Yes, Baxter?”

“You were smiling, madam. I was merely wondering if you would care to share the source of your amusement.”

For a moment she was almost tempted to tell him. Then, with a sigh of regret, she abandoned the idea. “I was thinking about Lady Belleville. One shouldn’t make fun of another’s foibles, but I do find her imaginary canaries laughable.”

“Perhaps she should keep company with Colonel Fortescue. They would complement one another very nicely.”

Cecily tilted her head to one side. “Why, Baxter,” she murmured, “I do believe you are harboring romantic thoughts again. There is hope for you yet.”

She regretted her provocative teasing when she saw the flush darken his cheeks. In an effort to change the subject, she added, “I must say, I wasn’t too pleased with her attitude, however. She also seemed to condone the murder, and seemed not in the least put out by the gruesome details. In fact, poor Mr. Plunkett seemed the most disturbed by the news.”

“If I might be permitted to say so, madam, you would do well to take care when dealing with Lady Belleville. She is most definitely troubled in the mind, and people like that can be extremely unpredictable. She may appear harmless, but one can never take that for granted.”

Surprised by this unusually long speech from her manager, Cecily shook her head. “Don’t worry, Baxter, I have no wish to be on personal terms with the woman. I have quite enough problems dealing with the colonel. As for Ellsworth Galloway, the less I have to do with him the better. I must say, though, that Mr. Plunkett came quite admirably to my
defense when that despicable man began throwing his weight around.”

“You surprise me. I would not have considered Plunkett capable of standing up to any man.”

Cecily narrowed her eyes, wondering if she had detected a note of jealousy. “You seem quite put out by that, Baxter.”

“Not at all, madam. Merely surprised.”

Disappointed that she had misinterpreted him, Cecily murmured, “Well, Lady Belleville seemed quite taken with him, though he seemed scared to death of her. But then, he’s never been married, so he tells me. That could be the cause of his shyness.”

“The gentleman seems to have discussed his personal life at some length.”

This time she distinctly heard the scathing tone. Feeling ridiculously pleased with herself, she looked up at him. “I think he’s a nice little man.”

Baxter gave her a stony stare. “In my opinion, madam, anyone as finicky as Cyril Plunkett would quite possibly drive a woman crazy.”

“Finicky?”

“Finicky,” he repeated firmly.

Cecily prepared to enjoy herself. “In what way do you mean that, Baxter?”

“He polishes his silverware at the table.”

Taken aback, she stared at him. “He what?”

“Polishes every utensil. As you can imagine, the maids are quite put out after working so hard to make everything spotless. It is obvious the man doesn’t trust our cleaning methods.”

“Oh, my,” Cecily murmured. “I wonder if he’s found a soiled piece of silverware. I shall have to ask Mrs. Chubb to check everything very carefully. Since Doris started working
here, things have not been quite the same in the kitchen.”

“Well, that’s not all,” Baxter declared, apparently determined not to let the matter rest. “He arrived with more luggage than Lady Belleville. He actually goes to the trouble of carrying a spare set of clothes to his business meetings, in case he should get muddied on the way.”

Cecily refrained from asking how Baxter knew that. “That is quite understandable,” she said mildly. “After all, he drives the company motorcar. One is much more prone to being splashed with mud in a motorcar than in a trap.”

Baxter gave her such a look of frustration she felt sorry for him. “Well, in any case,” she added, “I prefer that quiet little man to Ellsworth Galloway and his disgusting prejudices. Unless one is born south of London and comes from a privileged family, one is considered inferior in his eyes. And as for foreigners, according to that man they are the scum of the earth and should be sent back from whence they came.”

Shaking her head in disgust, she headed for the door. The sprung parquet floor beneath her feet made her feel like dancing. She had danced so much with James. She really missed it.

A fleeting vision of dancing in Baxter’s arms to the lush chords of the orchestra filled her with a strange sense of longing. It was pointless to dream of such things. Baxter would never unbend as long as she was his employer. And she could hardly deprive him of his job without good reason. Even if she were to do so, she would surely lose him.

Sadly she acknowledged that it was better to accept the stilted relationship he was willing to offer than none at all. But the ache would always be with her. It was almost as bad
as the ache she had felt for James. Maybe this, too, would pass. In time.

Still smarting from the dressing-down that Mrs. Chubb had given her, Gertie was not in a good mood that evening. Although there were no more than a dozen guests in the hotel, having to do everything single-handedly kept her on the trot throughout the entire dinner hour.

Ellsworth Galloway had been particularly demanding, having had her running back and forward to the kitchen because he’d changed his mind about which kind of wine to drink with his meal.

And that batty old Lady Belleville had insisted on Gertie bringing lemonade for her canaries to drink. Said it kept their feathers a nice shade of yellow.

Seated on the coal bin at the side of the huge fireplace in the kitchen, Gertie stared gloomily into the leaping flames. She missed Ethel. Not only because of the extra work and worry, but because she missed having someone to talk to and share a giggle or two.

She and Ethel used to get up to all kinds of tricks. And now she was gone, swallowed up in the muck and filth of the Smoke, while she was still stuck in the bleeding back of beyond, with not much hope of getting out. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Gertie sighed and stretched her stockinged feet out to the warmth. Still, she had a lot to be thankful for. After Ian left, madam was kind enough to give her the job as well as her old room. At least she would have plenty of help taking care of the baby when it came.

And she had her health and strength. That counted for a lot. Not like that poor bleeder found up in the woods. Gertie leaned forward and grasped the poker. Giving the coals a
good poke, she watched the shower of red-hot sparks shoot up the chimney.

Fancy coming across a bloody murderer with an axe in his hand. Must have been a dreadful thing. In spite of the warmth, Gertie shivered. She couldn’t get the sight of that flipping axe out of her mind. It was enough to turn her off ever touching an axe again.