Herald of Death (3 page)

Cecily frowned. “Jimmy? The delivery boy from Rick-man’s Dairy? What about him?”

Northcott cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to h’inform you that he was found dead alongside his horse and cart last Sunday.”

“Great heavens!” She gulped a couple of times, a hand at her throat. “I had no idea. That poor lad. He was so young. What happened to him?”

Northcott got a pained expression on his face, rather as if he urgently needed to use the facilities. “He was struck in the ’ead by a sharp object, namely a rock. The doctor didn’t think that was what killed him, however.”

“Then what did cause his death?”

“He fell and hit his head again on the wheel hub. Broke his neck, didn’t he. That’s what killed him.”

Cecily was getting a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Where exactly did this rock come from?”

“Ah well, that’s the thing, isn’t it.” Northcott ran a finger around the edge of his starched collar. “Dr. Prestwick is quite sure someone threw it at the lad, which makes the perpetrator responsible for Jimmy’s death. We just don’t know the identity of that person. Not at present, anyhow.”

“I see.” Actually, to be precise, she didn’t see. It wasn’t like Sam Northcott to come and inform her when a crime had been committed. He usually did his best to keep such things from her, wary of the inspector finding out about her “constant interference in police business,” as he called it.

The fact that her “interference” invariably ended with her solving the case and therefore enhancing Northcott’s reputation with the inspector seemed to escape the constable, though he was always grudgingly grateful for her efforts.

The only reason she could think of as to why Sam Northcott was telling her about Jimmy was that his death somehow affected her, though she couldn’t imagine why.

“I didn’t know Jimmy all that well,” she said, feeling her way. “I barely spoke to him. I’m dreadfully sorry to hear of his death, of course. His family must be devastated.”

“They are, m’m. Devastated.”

She waited through another long pause, wondering where all this was leading.

“Ah . . . that’s not all, m’m.”

Now she was becoming more than a little uneasy. “Then tell me, Sam. Why are you here? Why are you telling me about this dreadful incident?”

“There’s been another murder, m’m. Up there on Putney Downs.”

Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Go on.”

“A passerby found him, lying on the path. Frozen stiff, he was. It were Thomas Willow, the shoemaker.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never met the man. I believe Baxter might have known him, but why—”

“He were whipped to death, Mrs. Baxter.”

Shocked anew, her voice rose. “
Whipped?
Who would do such a thing?”

“There again, we don’t know who did it. We do know,’owever, that he was killed with Jimmy Taylor’s whip.”

A cold chill brushed across the back of Cecily’s neck. “You think they were killed by the same person.”

“Yes, m’m. It certainly looks that way. Especially since both victims had a gold angel stuck to their forehead.”

She stared at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. “A gold angel?”

“Yes, m’m. Those little gold stamps that you lick and then stick ’em on Christmas cards? Well, both Jimmy and Thomas had one stuck to their foreheads.”

“Oh, my.”

“Down at the station they’re calling the murderer the Christmas Angel.”

Cecily winced. “That’s a rather incongruous name for a killer.”

“Yes, m’m. I don’t think they mean anything by it. It’s just a matter of reference, that’s all. But there were something else you should know.”

Given that she was already intrigued by the case, Cecily wasn’t at all certain she wanted to know more.

Northcott, however, was already launching into his next revelation. “The killer left another mark behind.” The constable leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This is something the constabulary isn’t letting on to the public, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep mum about it, m’m, so to speak.”

“Of course.” Now wild horses wouldn’t drag her away. “What is it?”

“Well, it seems that the perpetrator took a lock of hair from his victims before he left.”

“A lock of hair?”

“Yes, m’m. Cut off nice and neat, it was.”

Cecily drew in a sharp breath. How she would have loved to dig her teeth into this one. It took all her willpower to say briskly, “Well, it sounds as if you have quite a case on your hands, Sam. I don’t see, however, how this is any of my business.”

“Well, I was coming to that, m’m.”

The disquiet she’d been harboring ever since she’d walked into the room now intensified. “What exactly does all this have to do with me?”

“Well, that’s the favor, you see.” Once more Northcott dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “It’s like this, Mrs. B. As you know—” Once more he was interrupted by a tap on the door.

This time Gertie barely waited for a summons before opening the door. After bowing her head at Cecily, she carried the tray over to Northcott as if she were bearing a crown for the king.

Aware of the disdain the maids felt toward the inept constable, Cecily pursed her lips and hoped her chief housemaid wouldn’t show him any disrespect in her presence. For then she’d be forced to reprimand Gertie in front of him.

To her relief, Gertie offered the brandy without comment and, apart from an overly enthusiastic curtsey when he took the glass, left the room without offending the man.

Nevertheless, Northcott had to resort to mopping his brow with his handkerchief before continuing. “H’anyway, as I was saying, as you know, Mrs. B., me and the missus always go away for the Christmas season. Well, not always, since we didn’t go last year, what with the in-laws coming here for a change. Blinking disaster that were, too, m’m, if you’ll pardon the h’expression.”

“Yes, yes,” Cecily said, finally succumbing to impatience. “Do get on with it, Sam. Why are you here?”

“I’m coming to that, aren’t I.” Sam fidgeted for a moment or two. “The inspector is tied up with some important job at Scotland Yard and wants me to take care of this case. He says as how I can’t leave Badgers End until the killer is h’apprehended.”

“I see,” Cecily said yet again. Now she was, indeed, beginning to understand, and she didn’t like what she was afraid was coming.

“Well, me and the other constables have been looking into it, and so far we’ve come up with nothing. If I don’t find the killer in the next few days, I’m going to have to tell the missus that I can’t go to London with her. She’s going to raise merry hell if I do that.”

“Yes,” Cecily murmured. “I suppose she might.”

“Not might, Mrs. B. She will. No doubt about it. I’ll never hear the last of it. She’ll be carrying on all year long until next Christmas, that’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sam, but I really don’t know what I can do about it.”

The constable fiddled with his helmet for a moment or two, then said in a rush, “I was rather hoping that you would help me out a bit. You’ve always been so good at finding out things, and people will talk to you, where they won’t talk to me. I thought if you could just ask questions here and there, you know, like you usually do. . . .” He let his voice trail off, leaving Cecily no recourse but to answer.

There it was. The favor she’d been hoping he wasn’t going to ask, fearing all the time that it was exactly what he had in mind.

This was the very first time Sam had ever asked for her help, and she was flattered. Intrigued by the gold angel stamps and missing locks of hair, she was also sorely tempted.

There was only one problem. After a lengthy and sometimes heated argument, Baxter had refused an important position abroad in order to allow her to remain in Badgers End as the Pennyfoot’s manager. In exchange, she had promised never to get involved with another murder case.

It pained her a great deal to refuse Sam, especially since it meant he would most likely have to forgo his Christmas visit to London. More so, because she was already interested enough in the case to do some snooping, and most of all, because the threat of a murderer afoot in Badgers End could once more put a dampener on the Pennyfoot’s Christmas season.

A promise was a promise, however, and she had broken enough of them in the past that it had taken a great deal of persuasion on her part for Baxter to accept the compromise.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Sam.” She squirmed at the dismay on the constable’s face, but nevertheless pressed on. “My duties here in the country club prevent me from taking on any extra activities at present. I’m afraid you will have to hunt down this killer without me.”

Sam shook his head in bewilderment. “But, Mrs. B., you’ve always jumped in before. Sometimes, or most of the time, you’ve done it despite the fact that I’ve asked you not to h’interfere. Now I’m asking you to help me with the sanction of the constabulary, albeit without the knowledge of the inspector. I don’t understand.”

She would have liked to enlighten him, but to admit to Sam Northcott that her hands were tied by a promise to her husband was utterly unthinkable. “I’m so sorry, Sam. If you come across any clues, I might be able to help you untangle them, but as far as questioning people and actively investigating, I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

The constable’s movements were slow and deliberate as he got to his feet, straightened his tunic, and reached for his helmet. “I’m sorry I inconvenienced you, m’m. I’ll be off now.”

Cecily followed him to the door, still murmuring apologies. “Perhaps you’d care to stop by the kitchen?” she offered, as an attempt to make up for disappointing him. “I’m sure Mrs. Chubb will be able to find something delicious for you.”

He wavered, obviously torn between making a dignified exit and savoring some of Mrs. Chubb’s mouthwatering baking. The baking won, and with a nod of thanks, he hurried off to the kitchen.

Cecily sat for some time after he’d left, gazing into the flickering flames from the coals. Once more violence had struck in the village. Fortunately, at least this time it hadn’t happened inside the walls of the Pennyfoot. Yet.

She had to wonder what would happen if someone else died by another’s hand and under her roof. How could she possibly stay out of it then?

Worse, how could she possibly break such a significant promise to her husband? He had given up so much so that she could stay in her beloved Pennyfoot. He would never forgive her if she betrayed him this time. All she could hope was that the killer had achieved his evil purpose and left the village. For if he still lingered there, she could envision all kinds of trouble ahead.

 

 

“I don’t think we’re ever going to be ready for Christmas,” Pansy said, as she carefully fitted a serviette into its silver ring and laid it on the bleached white tablecloth. “Usually Mrs. Prestwick has all the decorations up by now.”

Gertie gave a last critical glance around the dining room to make sure everything was in order. Although there were only a handful of guests in the hotel until the Christmas rush, every table in the dining room had to be laid as if expecting a visitor to be seated there.

Since every meal was laid differently, that meant clearing off the unused cutlery and china and replacing it with still more unused utensils, glasses, and dishes, all of which had to be washed and put away before being brought out again the next day.

Gertie had never seen the purpose of all that. If nobody was going to sit at the table, why go to all the trouble of putting clean dishes and silverware on it every day? Bloody stupid, it was. All that work for nothing. She had enough to do without having to blinking wash clean dishes and knives and forks.

Of course, when she’d told Chubby that, using her usual colorful expressions, all she’d got in answer was a box around the ears. Fat lot of good it did to complain.

“Are you all right?”

Pansy’s anxious voice jerked her out of her thoughts. “Yea, I’m all right. Just thinking how much work we’ve got ahead of us with Christmas and all.”

“Still missing Dan?” Pansy straightened a pair of silver condiment shakers and stood back to gauge her work.

“Nah.” Gertie snorted. “I don’t ever think of him anymore. After he went off to London I put him out of my mind.” That wasn’t exactly the truth. She’d missed the fun-loving, impulsive young man dreadfully the first few months, and the pain only gradually faded away until she could now say she didn’t miss him and really mean it.

“You could have gone with him, you know. He wanted you to go.”

“What? Leave my home and drag my twins all the way up to the city where they don’t know nobody and there’s no beach to play on and nothing but busy streets and all that smoke and noise? I don’t think so. No man is worth all that. Even if he did have money.”

“You could have lived in luxury up there.”

“Yeah, and been unhappy. It would never have lasted.”

Pansy picked up her tray of serviettes and moved over to the next table. “What about Clive? Would you go with him?”

For some strange reason, Gertie felt her stomach clench at the mention of the Pennyfoot’s handyman. She managed a light laugh. “Clive? Whatever makes you think he’d ask?”

Pansy shrugged. “Everyone knows he’s sweet on you.”

“Everyone except me, then.”

“Go on with you.” Pansy looked up, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “You must know he likes you.”

Gertie pulled in a deep breath. “Clive and me are just friends, that’s all. If I ever get cozy with another man, it will be with someone what can provide for me and the twins in a manner much better than what I got now.”

Pansy suddenly looked sad. “Does he know that?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Maybe you should. It’s not nice to lead a man on.”