Herald of Death (23 page)

With a quick wave of her hand she was gone, leaving Gertie staring after her, speechless and dumbfounded.

 

 

“Doris isn’t here yet,” Phoebe said, waving an irritated hand at Pansy. “When you find her, tell her we’re waiting for her.”

Pansy started to speak, but Phoebe shot up her hand again. “I don’t have time for anything else. Go, child! Find my star!”

“I thought I was your star,” Deirdre whined from the stage. “The pantomime is called
Peter Pan
, isn’t it? I’m Peter Pan, aren’t I? I should be the star.”

A chorus of voices echoed her.

“Yeah, she’s Peter Pan!”

“Yeah, she’s the star!”

“Deirdre’s Peter Pan!”

“Yeah, she’s just as good as Doris!”

“Quiet!”
Phoebe clapped her hands. “I will not have this insubordination on my stage.”

“There’s that word again.” Deirdre advanced to the front of the stage. “Why don’t you speak bloody English?” The titters behind her grew louder.

Phoebe’s face turned scarlet.

Pansy held her breath, waiting for the onslaught.

Phoebe marched up to the front of the stage and shook her fist at the grinning Deirdre. “If I have to speak to you again,” she roared, in a surprisingly strong voice for a woman of such petite stature, “it will be to tell you to get off my stage. You’re not the only one who can play Peter Pan. Everyone knows your lines by now. It won’t be that difficult to replace you. If I do that, make no mistake, you will never appear on this stage again. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Deirdre stopped grinning and, mumbling something under her breath, backed away.

“Good.” Phoebe folded her arms. “Now you listen to me, all of you, just in case someone else has delusions of grandeur. Mrs. Lansfield is far and above you pathetic amateurs. She is a star in every sense of the word. She is a professional, and as such she will be treated with the respect she deserves. Anyone of you can be replaced. Doris cannot. Do you understand?”

Mumbles and grumbles drifted down from the stage.

Phoebe raised her voice again. “I repeat,
do you understand
?”

A few voices muttered, “Yes, Mrs. Fortescue.”

“I’m not a professional. Not anymore.”

Pansy swung around as the new voice spoke from behind her. Doris smiled at her. “Hello, Pansy. Thank you for coming.”

Phoebe frowned. “Do you need her to fetch you something?”

“No.” Doris linked her arm in Pansy’s, making the younger girl’s knees go weak. “Pansy has kindly offered to be my dresser for the pantomime.”

Phoebe’s charcoaled eyebrows disappeared under her hat. “Your
dresser
? But . . . but she’s one of the
maids
!”

“So was I, once.” Doris started walking toward the backstage door, pulling Pansy along with her. “And look at me now.” With that, she tugged Pansy through the door and closed it behind them.

 

 

Cecily was enjoying a quiet meal with her husband in their sitting room that evening when Pansy disturbed them with the news that P.C. Northcott was waiting in the library to see her.

Baxter exploded as usual. “Who the devil does that blasted man think he is, invading our privacy at this hour?” He turned on Pansy, who was hovering in the doorway, fingers nervously plucking her apron. “Tell him madam is indisposed, and he will have to wait until she is ready to receive him.”

“Yes, sir.” Pansy hesitated, biting her lip.

“Well, what is it, child? Speak up!”

“Hugh,” Cecily warned, feeling sorry for Pansy.

“It’s the constable, sir,” Pansy said, stumbling over her words in her haste to get them out. “He said as how it was very important he speak with madam. Urgent, he said.”

“Oh, dear.” Her appetite gone, Cecily laid down her dessert spoon. “That can only mean one thing.” She stood. “Thank you, Pansy. Please tell the constable I will join him directly.”

“Yes, m’m.” Pansy ducked a curtsey and fled.

“You don’t have to drop everything at the beck and call of that imbecile,” Baxter said, with a disgruntled sigh. “He probably just wants to know how the investigation is going. He could have waited until tomorrow for that.”

“Exactly.” Cecily crossed the room to the door. “In which case, I’m very much afraid that he is here to tell me about another victim of the Christmas Angel.”

“If that’s so, then I’m coming with you.” Baxter threw down his serviette in disgust. “Much as I hate talking to that fool, if he is going to involve you in yet another dastardly murder, I want to hear about it.”

Worried now, Cecily tried to dissuade him. “You know how he always irritates you so. Why don’t you allow me to talk to him alone, and then I’ll tell you everything when I return.”

“Because, my dear, much as I adore you, I cannot trust you to tell me everything. You have a tendency to omit certain information under the mistaken impression it will ease my concerns about your safety.”

“I always tell you everything eventually, Bax. You know that.”

“True, you do tell me. Usually, however, after you have escaped from the jaws of some frightful danger. Except, of course, for the rare occasion when I have had to rescue you myself.”

Cecily smiled. “Look how noble it makes you feel to have rescued me.”

Baxter’s stern features softened. “I’d vastly prefer it if you avoided danger altogether.”

“Yes, I know.” Resigned to having him listen in on her conversation with Sam Northcott, Cecily opened the door. “We have had that conversation numerous times, darling. There’s no point in rehashing it now. Come along, then. Let’s hear what awful news Sam has brought us this time.”

The constable stood in his usual spot with his back to the fireplace when Cecily entered. Following closely behind her, Baxter closed the door and ushered his wife to a maroon velvet armchair.

Sam Northcott seemed shocked at Baxter’s presence. He hummed and ah’d quite a bit before coming to the point. “I’m sorry to h’inform you, Mrs. B., that there’s been h’another unfortunate incident concerning our . . . mutual acquaintance.” He shot a look at Baxter, obviously hoping that he would not understand the meaning behind his words.

“It’s all right, Sam. Baxter knows all about the Christmas Angel and my participation in the investigation.” Cecily sat down on the armchair, feeling the familiar sense of hopelessness that grew stronger with each new murder. “Who is it this time?” She clasped her hands in her lap, praying it wasn’t someone she knew.

Sam still seemed uncomfortable. He kept sliding his gaze sideways at Baxter, as if expecting him to erupt in a torrent of abuse at any moment. “He’s outdone himself this time, m’m. The Angel, I mean. He didn’t just go after one person; he tried to take out the entire membership of the Fox Hunters Club.”

Baxter swore, something he rarely did in public, while Cecily fought hard to regain her breath. “Dear God. What happened?”

“They were all at their annual Christmas meeting earlier this evening. Fifty-four members in all. The Angel set fire to the place. Burned to the ground, it did, before the fire engines could get there from Wellercombe.”

Cecily felt her throat tighten up and swallowed. “How many, Sam?”

“By good fortune, they managed to get all but one out of there before the roof caved in. The firemen found his body when they went in.”

Her mouth was so dry she had trouble forming the words. “Was the lock of hair missing?”

“Not that I heard. The doctor was still down there when I left, so I don’t know all the details yet.”

“Then how can you be sure it was the work of the Christmas Angel and not simply an accidental fire?”

Northcott puffed out his chest. “They were those little golden angels scattered all around on the ground outside the meeting hall.”

Baxter swore again. “For heaven’s sake, man, when are you going to catch this madman? He’s got to be stopped.”

Northcott scowled. “We are doing the best we can, under the circumstances. We’ve never had a case like this one before.”

Baxter waved his hand in irritation. “Isn’t it time you brought in Scotland Yard?”

The constable winced. “We’re considering it.”

Cecily felt sorry for him. Failing to solve this case would mean much more for him than a missed Christmas visit to London. He had let things get too far along without involving Inspector Cranshaw. If the inspector got word of the murders now, he would be down on Sam Northcott’s head like a herd of raging bulls. It could even cost Sam his job. His only salvation was to solve the case and quickly.

That didn’t seem likely at this point, and Cecily was inclined to agree with her husband. They needed the full force of Scotland Yard if they were to capture the Christmas Angel and put an end to this deadly onslaught of terror.

She was about to say as much when a familiar sensation filled her head. She knew the answer. It kept tantalizing her, only to disappear like a mischievous sprite when she reached out to grasp it.

Often, when the feeling was this strong, it meant she was close to solving the puzzle. She leaned forward, looking earnestly into the constable’s face. “Give me two more days,” she said, aware of Baxter’s disapproving gaze on her face. “If I don’t have the answer by then, we will call in Scotland Yard.”

Sam’s nod was skeptical, and he frowned as he reached for his helmet. “If we have to do that,” he muttered, as he made his way to the door, “it will be a miserable Christmas for everyone.”

“He’s right,” Baxter said gruffly, as the door closed behind him. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but we received another telegram this morning.”

Cecily looked up at him. “Who from? Not . . . ?”

“No. As far as I know, our important guest is still coming. It’s unlikely he’s heard the news, or Badgers End would be swarming with bobbies from the Yard.”

“Then who?”

“It was from the Windermeres. They must be friends of Lord Chattenham.”

“Canceling their reservation?”

“I’m sorry, m’dear. It looks as if news of our infamous murderer is spreading.”

Cecily got up from her chair. “Two days. That’s all I have. Let us pray it’s enough.”

“Amen.” Baxter opened the door for her and followed her outside into the dimly lit hallway.

Cecily slept badly that night, haunted by dreams of golden angels buzzing around her head while she followed a shadowy figure through a dark forest of trees.

She awoke with a start to find her husband gone and daylight streaming through the window. Annoyed at herself for sleeping late, she hurriedly dressed and went in search of Baxter.

She found him in her office, working on the stack of papers he’d brought home from the city. He looked up when she opened the door.

“Ah there you are.” He shuffled the papers and piled them on the side of the desk. “I let you sleep. You had a restless night.”

“Yes, I did. Have you had breakfast?”

“An hour ago.” He got up and walked around the desk to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Would you like something sent up to the suite?”

“No.” She patted him on the arm. “I should look in on the kitchen, so I’ll find something there to eat. I was going shopping this morning but I think I’ll wait until tomorrow. Go back to work.”

He tilted his head to one side and regarded her with a frown. “You look tired, Cecily. This Angel business is getting you down.”

“I’m all right.” She managed a smile. “One way or another, this will all be over in two days. Once Inspector Cranshaw takes over I shall leave him to it.”

Baxter raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t like you to give up.”

“Maybe I’m just getting too old to do this anymore.”

“Now I am worried.” He raised her chin with his finger. “You will never be too old for anything, my love. You have a young heart and soul, and age can’t take that away from you.”

Touched, she went up on her toes to kiss him. “It is you who keeps me young. But thank you. Now go back to work. I’ve distracted you enough.”

Feeling a little less downhearted, she left him and made her way down to the kitchen. The wonderful spicy aroma of steamed puddings greeted her when she pushed open the door.

Michel caught sight of her first and called out a greeting. Mrs. Chubb looked up from the bowl of eggs she was beating and waved the whisk at her.

“Madam! We were wondering what happened to you. You haven’t had any breakfast. What can we get for you?”

“Just two scones and a cup of tea, Althea.” Cecily glanced at the two maids washing dishes at the sink. “How are things coming along?”

“We’re catching up.” The housekeeper nodded at Michel. “The last of the Christmas puddings are boiling on the stove, and the mince pies are in the pantry. I’ll start icing the Christmas cakes this afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” Cecily sat at the table to wait for her tea and scones. “The guests will be arriving the day after tomorrow. We should be ready for them by then.”

“We’ll be ready.” Mrs. Chubb drew closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose there’s any word about this Christmas Angel, m’m?”

Cecily hesitated, wondering how much they all knew. “Not yet, but there’s really no need to worry, Althea. It won’t affect anyone here in the Pennyfoot.”

Mrs. Chubb nodded. “I only asked because of all the rumors floating around. Lizzie was convinced he was running around chopping off people’s heads.”

“I can assure you, that’s not happening.” Cecily smiled as one of the maids brought her a steaming cup with saucer and a plate of scones. “We must stop these ridiculous rumors from making the rounds. We don’t want to frighten the guests when they arrive.”

“Yes, m’m. We’ll do our best. Though, I’ll be surprised if they haven’t heard about it. Such terrible things going on out there.”

“Yes, well, hopefully it will all end soon and we can all stop worrying about it.” Determined to change the subject, she asked the housekeeper about her daughter and managed to enjoy her breakfast while Mrs. Chubb happily gave her the latest news.