Mulled Murder (Pennyfoot Holiday Mysteries) (14 page)

• • •

“We need three bottles of burgundy and two of port,” Mrs. Chubb said. “Bring up three bottles of champagne as well.” She handed the basket to Pansy. “The list is in there. And take Alice with you.”

Pansy made a face. “Do I have to? She’s so scared of everything, she’ll probably wet her knickers down there.”

Mrs. Chubb raised her chin. “Pansy Watson! What a way to talk. And you soon to be a respectable married lady. Don’t you let Samuel hear you talk like that. He might change his mind about marrying you.”

Pansy grinned. “Who do you think taught me to talk like that?”

Mrs. Chubb gasped and clutched her throat. “Well, I never did.”

Sobering, Pansy thrust her arm through the handle of the basket. “So where’s the key?”

“Jacob’s got it. He’s working on the wall down there. The door should be unlocked. If not, just bang on it. He’ll come up and open it for you.”

“Why don’t I just go on my own? I’ve gone down there plenty of times before without anyone holding my hand.”

“I want Alice to go down there with you. Madam might decide to keep her on, and she needs to know where everything is in the wine cellar, in case I have to send her down there on her own.”

“All right. But don’t blame me if she comes back with wet drawers.” Pansy escaped from the kitchen before the housekeeper could chastise her again.

She found Alice in the laundry room, sorting out the linens. On the other side of the room, three other maids huddled over an ironing board, apparently ignoring Alice. She didn’t seem bothered by it, just stood there with her head down, concentrating on her job.

“Mrs. Chubb wants you to come down to the wine cellar with me,” Pansy said, holding up the basket. “We’ve got some bottles to bring up.”

Alice’s chin shot up. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Pansy shifted the basket to the other arm.

“But I’m doing this.” Alice nodded at the pillowcases she held in her hands.

“Well, leave that for now. You can come back to it later.”

“But—”

“I haven’t got all day,” Pansy said, trying to curb her impatience. “It’ll be time to serve supper before long. We have to get the wine now.”

Alice looked as if she would argue, but just then the other maids giggled, and throwing them a dark look, she dropped the pillowcases and joined Pansy at the door.

Aware of her companion’s sulky silence, Pansy said nothing as they crossed the courtyard and arrived at the door to the cellar.

Once there, she nudged the door open with her foot. “Jacob must have taken the oil lamp down there,” she said. “It’s usually hanging on this nail on the wall.” Turning her head, she realized she was talking to thin air. Alice was already walking gingerly down the steps.

A dim light glowed from the far end of the cellar, but left most of the front end in shadow. Pansy hung on to the railing as she felt her way to the bottom.

Alice waited for her, staring nervously at the dark aisles.

“Here,” Pansy said, handing her the list. “We’ll have to go to the other end to read this. Everything is in alphabetical order, so we’ll just work backward. I should have brought another lamp with me. Come on.”

She started down the aisle, hearing Alice’s footsteps trailing behind her. As soon as she was close enough to the glow from the lamp, she put the basket down to read the list. Alice still hung back, and Pansy called out to her. “Here, come and read this. You need to recognize some of these names.”

Alice shuffled closer. “It smells down here.”

“You’d smell, too, if you never saw the light of day.” Pansy held up the list. “Vallée Verte Winery, two bottles of Pinot Noir. They should be on the shelf over there.” She pointed without looking, and studied the list again.

Alice plodded off, and Pansy started looking for the port wine. It was awfully quiet down there. She paused. If Jacob was fixing the wall, he wasn’t making much noise. Tilting her head to one side, she listened. Nothing. She couldn’t even hear Alice. What
was
Jacob doing if he wasn’t fixing the wall?

Spotting the winery label, she reached for the port. As her fingers touched the bottle, the silence was suddenly ripped apart by a shrill, bone-chilling scream.

Unnerved, Pansy froze, her fingers still resting on the bottle. The scream shattered the air again, this time followed by pounding feet. Alice raced into view, head down, her sobs echoing along the rafters.

She reached Pansy, who was struggling to get her breath. “It’s Jacob!” Alice’s fingers bit into Pansy’s arm. “He’s covered in blood, and I think he’s dead!”

• • •

Cecily had almost finished dressing for the evening when she heard the sharp rapping on the front door of her suite. Something about the urgency of the sound made her uneasy. She decided to remain in her boudoir and let Baxter open the door. Her nerves seemed to be unsettled. Probably by Madeline’s gloomy predictions.

She waited, her back tense, as the sound of Baxter’s voice drifted back to her. She couldn’t hear what he said, and a moment later she heard the door close. When he didn’t come in to her right away, she laid down her comb and hurried out into the front room.

One look at her husband’s face told her it was bad news. She lifted a hand to her throat and sat down by the fire. “What is it now?”

Baxter’s face was drawn, his mouth a thin line. He gave her a long look, then stepped toward her, holding out his hand. “There’s been another . . . death.”

For a moment, she felt nothing but relief. Madeline’s words rang in her head.
I feel death in the air. Very close.
At least it wasn’t Baxter who had died. In the next instant, she felt ashamed. “Who is it?” she asked sharply. “Please don’t tell me it’s one of our people.”

“I’m afraid so.” Baxter took her hand. “It’s Jacob Pinstone.”

She looked at him, her mind blank with shock. For some reason Jacob was the last person she would have expected to die. He always seemed so invincible, so capable of taking care of himself. “How?” she asked, when she could find her voice.

“Cecily . . . apparently he was stabbed. Pansy and that new girl found him in the wine cellar. Mrs. Chubb sent a footman down there to take a look after the girls got back to the kitchen. He told me what he saw. There appeared to be a large knife wound in Jacob’s chest.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “He was murdered?”

Hearing the wobble in her voice, Baxter pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. “We’ll have to call in the constabulary. I’m so sorry, my dear. There couldn’t be a worse time for this to happen.”

She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder. “Dear heavens, what am I going to do? The pantomime, the wedding, Christmas . . . I can’t have constables swarming all over the place, questioning the guests, maybe bringing in Scotland Yard, Inspector Cranshaw. . . .” She fought against the tears. “This can’t be happening.”

“Calm down.” Baxter gently pushed her back onto her chair. “It’s a shame Northcott isn’t here. We could have bought his silence for a few days.”

“We’ve done that already with Gerald Evans’s death. We can’t possibly get away with hiding two bodies. As it is I’ll probably get both Sam Northcott and Kevin Prestwick into trouble by asking them to delay their investigation this long.” Cecily shook her head. “No, we have to tell the authorities.”

“All right. With any luck, Cranshaw will be away on holiday and won’t be back until after Christmas.”

“Poor Jacob.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t like him much but I would never have wished him dead. I don’t think there’s any doubt that his death is linked to Gerald Evans. I was going to discuss this with you after supper but I might as well tell you now.” She paused, weighing her words. “I think I know what Mr. Evans was investigating.”

Baxter’s eyes widened. “You do? Well, what is it?”

“Just a moment.” She got up and rushed into the boudoir. The cardboard and note were still lying in her drawer where she’d left them. Carrying them back to Baxter, she said, “Remember this?” She held up the cardboard.

“Yes, of course. You found it in Gerald Evans’s room.”

“That’s right. I also found this piece of paper with the words to a telegram on it.”

“I remember. You said Northcott was going around looking for a cricket match, or something.”

“He thought the words referred to a cricket match, yes. But they don’t.” She glanced down at the paper. “Sam thought that Mr. Evans had spelled the word
sportsman
wrong.” She held out the note. “What does that say?”

Baxter took it and studied it. “‘Spotsman seen nearby. Already made run. No sign batman. Still looking. Stop.’”

“Yes, ‘spotsman.’ Not ‘sportsman.’ It’s the name given to a member of a smuggling crew. He’s the one responsible for choosing a safe place to land a boat when bringing smuggled goods onshore.”

Baxter’s eyebrows shot up. “Smugglers?”

“Yes.” She pointed at the note. “‘Already made run.’ That refers to a smuggling expedition. Actually Sam came pretty close to cricket with ‘batman.’ It actually refers to someone who uses a cricket bat to defend his contraband.”

“Good Lord!”

“So the telegram was talking about a smuggling ring.” She held up the cardboard. “This is the kind of packing shippers use to transport paintings. Didn’t you tell me that some art was stolen in London last week?”

Baxter sat down hard on his chair. “Are you telling me that you think those art thieves killed Gerald Evans?”

“I believe so, yes. I think Mr. Evans was hot on their trail and got too close.” She paused, then added quietly, “I also think the thieves might be using the underground tunnel to store the stolen goods.”

Baxter’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. “Good Lord!”

“I think Jacob stumbled upon something incriminating and was killed by the thieves. Just like Gerald Evans.”

Baxter took some time to digest what he’d just heard. “But what does that have to do with the bricks missing from the wall?”

“Well, I don’t know, of course, but if I were to guess, I’d say that Jacob, after finding the loose bricks, was taking down more of the wall, possibly curious to find out what was behind there. I think the thieves might have heard him working on the wall and attacked him.”

“Then why didn’t they get rid of the body? As they did with Evans? And what about Granson? Where does he fit into all this?”

Cecily shook her head. “I don’t have all the answers. I’m merely guessing, trying to come up with a viable scenario.”

“Well, that’s the duty of the constables. I think we should inform them and let them work out what happened. If there is stolen artwork down there, they can find it and apprehend the criminals.”

“I hope so. Sam is probably on his way to London. Maybe by the time he gets back the constables will have solved the case.” Cecily rose to her feet. “Will you ring the constabulary and Kevin Prestwick? I need to talk to Pansy.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, dear.” Cecily followed him out the door. Now all she could do was wait until the constable arrived and hope that his investigation wouldn’t cause too much disruption to what was turning out to be a very stressful Christmas season.

CHAPTER
14

Sitting on the hard wooden chair in the kitchen, Pansy did her best to control her tears. Nothing seemed to help. Not Mrs. Chubb’s kindly patting on the shoulder. Not Michel’s gruff voice as he thrust a glass of brandy into her hand. Not Gertie’s loud assurances that nothing was going to spoil her wedding. Not even the fact that her wedding dress had been delivered and was actually hanging in her wardrobe.

There’d been another murder. This time in the Pennyfoot itself. Soon there’d be bobbies all over the place and everything would be in an uproar. How could she walk down the aisle with a smile on her face, while all the time the vision of that bloody body was fresh in her mind?

She couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Mrs. Chubb stood over her, her wrinkles deepened by her concern.

“Drink the brandy, lass. It’ll help.”

Pansy took a sip of the fiery liquid and shuddered. “It burns.”

“It is supposed to burn,” Michel called out from his usual station at the stove. “That is how it does good,
oui
? It calms the brain so you feel better.”

“I won’t feel better if my stomach is burned out.”

Mrs. Chubb rolled her eyes and took the glass out of Pansy’s hand. “All right, now. Take a deep, deep breath and let it out as slowly as you can.”

Pansy did as she was told, though her mind still reeled with shock and despair. What good was all this if she couldn’t walk down the aisle a happy, smiling bride? There were supposed to be pictures and all. Madam had hired a photographer. Pansy had never in her life had her picture taken. The first picture she’d ever have, and she’d be looking miserable in it. A tear spilled out of her eye and trickled forlornly down her cheek.

The door swung open, and Mrs. Chubb swung around as Madam walked in.

“Ah, there you are, Pansy. Do you feel up to talking to me about what you saw?”

Pansy was all ready to give Madam a violent shake of her head. She caught sight of Mrs. Chubb’s eye, however, and it was clear that the housekeeper was silently ordering her to do what Madam asked.

“Yes, m’m,” she said meekly, then closed her eyes at the thought of revisiting that horrible sight.

Madam drew a chair over to sit next to her. “Now then, tell me exactly what you saw.”

Pansy swallowed. So far all she’d told anyone was that Jacob Pinstone was lying dead on the floor of the wine cellar. Alice hadn’t even managed that much. She’d screamed and cried all the way back to the kitchen, and was making so much noise that Mrs. Chubb had led her to her room to stay with Lilly until she calmed down.

Now, Pansy thought, she would have to tell Madam all the details. She just hoped she wasn’t sick all over her in the telling. “It was Alice what saw him first,” she muttered, in a last, desperate hope to escape the inevitable. “She could tell you what we saw.”

“Alice is in no shape to tell us anything,” Mrs. Chubb said quickly. “So be a good girl and tell Madam what you saw.”

Pansy looked at the glass in Mrs. Chubb’s hand. “P’raps if I had another sip of that stuff?”

The housekeeper glanced at Madam, who nodded. “Let her drink it. It will help soothe her nerves.”

Pansy certainly hoped so. She took the glass, gulped it all down, and promptly choked.

“
Sacre bleu
,” Michel muttered. “What a bloody waste.”

Mrs. Chubb silenced him with a lethal look.

“Now,” Madam said, when Pansy had stopped coughing and spluttering. “Just tell me quickly what you remember. Then you can forget it.”

Never
, Pansy thought, fighting nausea. She was never going to forget that ugly sight. “Jake was lying on his back, near the wall. There was . . .”—she swallowed hard—“. . . blood oozing down his side and all over the f-f-floor . . .” She burst into tears.

“Did you see anything else?” Madam covered Pansy’s hand with her own. “A knife? Footprints? Anything out of place?”

Pansy shook her head, struggling to control her sobs. “Alice was screaming. I j-just took one look and we ran all the way back to the kitchen.” She caught her breath. “I left the basket down there. I didn’t get the wine.”

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Chubb said, patting her shoulder. “Give me back the key and I’ll send one of the footmen down for it.”

Pansy swallowed. “I haven’t got it. Jacob had it, remember?” She shot a worried glance at Madam, who seemed to be thinking about something else and wasn’t even looking at her.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without the wine until after the police have been,” Madam said, getting to her feet. “It’s a crime scene now and they’ll want to take a look at it.” She looked down at Pansy. “The door was open when you and Alice got to the wine cellar, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, m’m.” She shuddered. “That could have been me and Alice lying there.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” Mrs. Chubb said briskly, “so just put that idea right out of your head.”

Pansy nodded. She was beginning to feel sleepy, and the kitchen seemed to be swaying like she was on a ship. “I don’t feel very well.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” Michel said, “knocking back my best brandy like that. Brandy is supposed to be sipped and savored, not guzzled down like a thirsty cow.”

“Perhaps she should go and lie down,” Madam said, as she walked over to the door. “She can’t serve supper like that.”

Mrs. Chubb muttered something under her breath. “We’re going to be shorthanded in the dining room now.”

“It can’t be helped.” Madam paused at the door. “I’m sure you’ll manage beautifully, Altheda, as you always do. I hope you soon feel better, Pansy. I’m sorry you and Alice had such an unpleasant experience.”

“She’s worried that all this will ruin the wedding, m’m,” Gertie said. “I keep telling her it will be all right.”

“I’ll make sure everything goes well for your wedding, Pansy.” Madam held up her hand. “And that’s a promise.” The door swung to behind her, and that was the last thing Pansy saw as she slipped off the chair into darkness.

• • •

“Stabbed right through the heart,” Kevin Prestwick said with relish. “Just like Gerald Evans.”

Standing in front of the library fireplace, Cecily let out her breath. “Would you say it was the same weapon used?”

“Hard to say for certain.” Kevin held his hands out to the warmth from the coals. “It’s certainly possible. Same size wound in the same place. I’d say it’s very likely the same person killed them both.”

Cecily glanced at the clock on the marble mantelpiece. “The constables are taking a long time with their investigation.”

“There’s only one. Most of them are on holiday.” Kevin rubbed his hands together. “Poor devil will be working alone over Christmas by the looks of it.”

Cecily relaxed her shoulders. A single constable would be far easier to handle. She looked up as the library door opened after a brief knock.

The young man who entered didn’t look old enough to be out of school, much less qualified for the police uniform he wore. He seemed ill at ease, fidgeting with his helmet as he paused just inside the door. “Mrs. Baxter? May I have a word with you?”

“Of course.” She beckoned to him. “Come over to the fire. You look cold.”

“It was a bit chilly down there in that wine cellar,” the constable admitted, as he sheepishly crept forward. “P.C. Potter, m’m. At your service.”

“Constable Potter. I assume you’ve already met Dr. Prestwick?”

“Yes, m’m. Down in the cellar.” The constable visibly shuddered. “Nasty business that.”

“Yes, I imagine it wasn’t a pretty sight.” Taking pity on the young man, she beckoned him to come closer. “Am I right in thinking this is your first murder?”

“Yes, m’m.” The constable shuffled a little closer to the fire. “I only joined the constabulary a few months ago. Nothing much happens in Wellercombe. Mostly shoplifting, runaway horse, or a motorcar accident. Now there’s been two murders here.”

“I’m sorry.” She exchanged a look with Kevin. “I suppose your superiors are on holiday, then?”

“Yes, m’m. I’m the low man on the totem pole, so to speak. I had to take the Christmas shift. I won’t be off duty until the New Year.” He stared into the flames. “Of course, I can always ring Scotland Yard. They’ll send someone down to help me if I need it.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “P.C. Northcott is working on the first murder. He reported that the victim was possibly robbed and killed by a vagrant.”

“So I believe,” Cecily said evenly. She could feel Kevin’s questioning gaze on her face, but she ignored him. Mercifully he kept quiet as the constable scribbled in his notebook.

Finally the young man lifted his head. “It appears to me to be the same kind of weapon used in this case. Is that also your opinion, Dr. Prestwick?”

Cecily held her breath.

After a short pause, Kevin said quietly, “That is certainly a possibility, yes.”

P.C. Potter stared at his notes, then closed the notebook. “Seeing as how there was no evidence, so to speak, I’ll release the body to you, Doctor. There isn’t much I can do right now, except keep an eye out for a suspicious individual in the area. I don’t think it’s necessary to call in Scotland Yard at present though it worries me that we have a possible Jack the Ripper in Badgers End. I’ll issue a warning for everyone to be on guard, and then P.C. Northcott can take it from there when he returns. He may very well want to contact headquarters at that point.”

Cecily’s forehead felt warm with relief. “Thank you so much, P.C. Potter. May I wish you and your loved ones a very happy Christmas.”

“And the same to you, Mrs. Baxter.” He nodded at Kevin. “Doctor.”

Kevin raised a hand. “Happy Christmas, Constable.”

“Just one thing,” Cecily said, as the constable opened the door. “I assume you searched the victim’s pockets?”

“Yes, m’m. Standard procedure, that is.”

“Quite. Did you happen to find a key in his pocket?”

P.C. Potter frowned. “Not that I recollect. If there is one I’ll see that it’s returned to you eventually.”

“Thank you, Constable.”

The door closed behind the young man and Cecily sank onto a chair. “Thank goodness. I was so afraid he was going to launch a full-fledged investigation.”

Kevin sat down opposite her, his face a mask of curiosity. “What are you hiding?”

She looked up, trying her best to keep a blank expression on her face. “Hiding? Whatever do you mean?”

“Come on, Cecily.” Kevin leaned forward. “I know you well enough to see that you’re keeping something to yourself. Something you didn’t want the constable to know. Don’t worry. I’m not going to chase after him to tell on you.”

She had to smile. “You’re far too perceptive for comfort, Kevin.”

“It comes with the territory. Doctors have to be able to read between the lines.”

“Very well, but what I have to say is all conjecture, and I have nothing to support it other than my own speculation.”

“I’m listening.”

She told him what she suspected about the use of the tunnel below and the motives behind the two murders. “I believe both men died to keep them quiet,” she finished. “If I’m right and this is a gang of thieves, they are dangerous and unpredictable.”

“In which case you should have told the constable what you suspect.”

She might have known he’d say that, and part of her agreed with him. If it hadn’t been for the chaos an investigation would have caused, she might have shared her suspicions with P.C. Potter. Though if she had done so, he would undoubtedly have called in Scotland Yard. The chance that she would have to deal with Inspector Cranshaw, her mortal enemy, was just too much to risk at any time, much less with Christmas and a wedding right around the corner.

“I have no proof whatsoever,” she said, squarely meeting his gaze. “I could disrupt Christmas for a good many people, for absolutely no reason. I can’t take that chance. I’m by no means certain of my suspicions, and until I am, I prefer to wait until P.C. Northcott returns.”

“When Christmas and Pansy’s wedding are over with,” Kevin said dryly.

She dropped her gaze. “You do know me well,” she murmured.

Kevin stood, bringing her to her feet also. “How do you propose to find out if your suppositions are correct?”

“I’m not sure.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll sleep on it, then decide.”