Mulled Murder (Pennyfoot Holiday Mysteries) (8 page)

Hurrying into the post office, Cecily saw one other customer ahead of her—an elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and a monocle. He nodded at her as he left, and she smiled in return, then turned her attention to the postmaster.

He was a robust man with red-stained cheeks and a nose that could be attributed to a fondness for the excellent ale served at the Fox and Hounds. He seemed astonished to see her, as well he might. She could count on one hand the number of times she had visited the post office in the last few years. In fact, she was rather surprised he recognized her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Baxter. This is a pleasant surprise. How are things at the Pennyfoot Hotel? Business booming, I hope?”

“Very much so, thank you, Mr. Thompson.” She opened the black-beaded pouch she carried and withdrew the note. “I have a favor to ask of you,” she said, laying the note in front of him. “I have reason to believe that one of our guests sent this as a telegram. I was wondering if you could possibly tell me to whom it was sent, and if there were any others sent to the same person?”

Thompson puffed out his chest. “Well, now, Mrs. Baxter, I don’t think I can do that without the gentleman’s permission. I don’t suppose you have a signed statement from him giving you permission?”

Cecily leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The gentleman in question is dead, Mr. Thompson. Otherwise I would have asked him myself about the telegram.”

Thompson coughed, cleared his throat, and stretched his neck. “Ah, I see. I’m assuming we are referring to the dead man found on the beach yesterday?”

Cecily sighed. It was naïve of her to think that the news wouldn’t have spread throughout the village. “Oh, so you’ve heard about that,” she murmured.

“Yes, m’m.” He leaned toward her. “I heard that Northcott was on the case.”

“Well, yes, he is, but—”

“Say no more, m’m. We all know who really solves these cases.” He reached for the note and read it. “My telegraph operator isn’t in today, but I should be able to find it in the files.” He turned to take down a large box file from a shelf and laid it on the counter. After sorting through its contents for a moment or two, he pounced on a sheet of paper and held it up. “Ah, here it is.” He handed her the paper. “Is this what you were looking for?”

Cecily took the page and studied it. It was addressed to Mr. Harold Clements, at an address in Finsbury Park, London. It read exactly as the note she’d found. “Yes, it is. Did he send any others to this address?”

“Let me look.” Thompson riffled through the papers again. “That’s strange. I seem to remember . . . Ah! Here it is.” He studied it for a second or two. “Sent on the day he died, by the look of it.”

Pulse quickening, Cecily took the form from him. The words seemed to jump out at her.

STAYING AT THE PENNYFOOT STOP
CERTAIN OUR SEARCH ENDS THERE STOP JOIN ME AT FOX AND HOUNDS IMMEDIATELY STOP

Cecily stared at the words for several seconds, her mind racing. All the suspicions she’d done her best to ignore rushed to the forefront of her mind. Whatever crime Gerald Evans had been investigating had something to do with the Pennyfoot. That’s why he’d booked a room there. And that was most likely why he was killed. So it would seem that once more the Pennyfoot was playing host to a killer.

She had one more stop to make before she could go home.

“I need to pay a visit to the Fox and Hounds,” she told Henry, when she returned to the carriage.

His eyes opened wide. He started to speak, swallowed, then managed a hoarse, “Yes, m’m.”

Rolling her eyes, Cecily climbed up into the carriage. Even Samuel, who had been by her side through so many hair-raising adventures, had always acted shocked at the thought of her visiting a public house. This in spite of the fact that she had done so many times, and so far had suffered no consequences.

The ride out of town was quite pleasant, in spite of the cold. The quiet country lanes, lined with bushy green hedges and leafless trees, seemed tranquil after the bustling streets of the town, and by the time they reached the Fox and Hounds she was feeling a little more relaxed.

Barry Collins, the jovial publican, greeted her with a hearty welcome. “You’re alone?” Barry looked past her to where Henry stood dutifully by the horse’s head. “Where’s Samuel?”

Again the twinge. Cecily took a deep breath. “Samuel is no longer with us. He has his own business now. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

Barry grinned. “I did. It just seems strange not to see him hovering behind you.” He nodded at Henry. “He’s not coming in?”

“Not this time. I shan’t be long.” She stepped inside, out of the wind, but refused Barry’s offer to be seated in the private lounge. “I have no more than a moment,” she said. “I was wondering if you knew the gentleman who was found dead on the beach yesterday.”

As she’d expected, Barry nodded his head. “Mr. Evans. I was surprised to read about it in the newspaper. He was staying here, you know, right up until four days ago. He’d booked for two weeks, right through Christmas, but he was only halfway through the first week when he said he had to return home.”

“Did he say why?”

“Family emergency.”

“I see.” Gerald Evans had said he was dissatisfied with his hotel. He hadn’t mentioned the public house. Obviously his decision to move to the Pennyfoot had been a sudden one. She wondered what he’d discovered to send him posthaste to the country club. “Did he talk to anyone in particular while he was here?”

Barry shrugged. “Not that I know of. He seemed a bit of a loner. Went off quite a bit on his own. He wasn’t one to enjoy a chat, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, thank you, Barry. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

“Sure you don’t want to stay for a nice drop of your favorite sherry? It’s been a long time.”

It was tempting, but again she refused. Bidding him a happy Christmas, she left the warmth of the Fox and Hounds and braved the cold, damp seat of the carriage once more.

On the ride back she went over in her mind what she had learned. Gerald Evans had done some extensive research at the library. Had there been something he’d found in those old newspapers that had led him to the Pennyfoot?

Whoever had killed him must have discovered his whereabouts and what he was up to, despite all the care he had taken. He had sent that final telegram the morning he’d died—the telegram that stated his belief that his search ended at the Pennyfoot. It was up to her now to find out exactly what he meant by those cryptic words.

CHAPTER
8

“I cannot believe you would hire someone so utterly incompetent and downright offensive.” Phoebe’s frail frame shook with anger as she waved a hand at the ballroom door. “That . . . that
ruffian
had the nerve to tell me he had more important things to do than mess around with my stage set.” She glared at Cecily. “Where on earth did you find him? Does he have
any
idea who I am and what I do? Does he even know how to make a stage set?”

Cecily tried to ignore the throbbing pain in the back of her head. It had been a very long day and all she wanted was to go up to her suite, put her feet up on a hassock, and close her eyes. She had waited until the entire dance troupe had left before seeking out Phoebe in the ballroom, and she wasn’t in any mood to deal with her friend’s histrionics. “Jacob assured me he would have your set ready by tomorrow morning,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Well, I should hope so.” Phoebe straightened her hat, which had tilted forward in her indignation. “Did he give you references when you hired him? His manner is most uncouth. He most likely got sacked from his last employment.”

“Actually Jacob was in the merchant navy before coming here. He seemed to know a great deal about making repairs and general custodial work.” Not that it was any of Phoebe’s business, she told herself, with just a hint of resentment.

Phoebe opened her eyes wide. “In the navy? No wonder the man is so coarse. Why did he leave?”

“I didn’t ask. Janitors are hard to come by in these parts.”

She must have spoken more sharply than she intended. Phoebe had the kind of look on her face she always got when her dance troupe misbehaved—which was practically all the time. “Well, I certainly hope he keeps his word. Though, if you ask me, a man with that kind of attitude rarely keeps his word about anything. I just hope we don’t have to do the entire pantomime without a set or props.” Her expression suggested that the consequences would be entirely on Cecily’s shoulders.

Too tired to argue further, Cecily walked to the door. “I’m quite sure we can come up with a solution that will work for you, Phoebe. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to take care of something.”

“Does anybody know who killed that man on the beach yet?”

Cecily paused, one hand on the door. “I imagine P.C. Northcott will let us know when he has some news about that.”

“Oh, I thought you might be looking into it.” Phoebe joined her at the door. “After all, everyone knows you do most of the investigating when something like this happens.”

Cecily looked her squarely in the eye. “I’m much too busy with everything going on here to chase after murderers.”

Phoebe actually looked disappointed. “Ah, well, that’s one murder that will probably never be solved, then. Good night, Cecily. I do hope you are in a more congenial frame of mind by tomorrow.” She swept out the door, leaving Cecily feeling guilty for apparently upsetting her friend.

On her way up the stairs, she passed Lord Bentley and Lady Elizabeth, together with their daughter, Essie. Both women nodded and murmured a greeting, but Lord Bentley passed by her without acknowledging her presence.

It would seem that Jacob Pinstone wasn’t the only gentleman without manners, she thought wryly as she mounted the rest of the stairs. They made her husband seem positively merry by comparison. Smiling, she quickened her pace. Baxter would be waiting for her, and right now she could ask for nothing more than that.

• • •

“I want everyone upstairs,” Mrs. Chubb announced the following morning, when the last of the breakfast dishes had been put away. “Although we’ve got water in the kitchen, Bernie is still working on the plumbing in the upstairs lavatories. The downstairs lavatory is working, but until they’re all working again, we’ll have our hands full emptying chamber pots.”

A chorus of groans answered her and she folded her arms across her bosom. “I don’t want any cheek from any of you. You’re all lucky to be working in a hotel that has indoor lavatories. When I started out the lavatory was a shed outside with a toilet bowl under the seat and nothing to flush it all away. It had to be emptied and cleaned out every day.”

“Was that when you worked on Noah’s Ark?” Lilly asked, prompting shouts of laughter from the other maids.

“None of your cheek, Lilly Green.” Mrs. Chubb wagged a finger at her. “For that you can start on the top floor. You’ll have to bring down the chamber pots one at a time and empty them in the maid’s lavatory.”

Lilly opened her mouth to answer, then at the sight of Mrs. Chubb’s fierce scowl, apparently thought better of it. Without another word, she stomped out of the kitchen.

Standing at the sink, Gertie nudged Pansy in the ribs. “Serves her bloody well right,” she murmured, just loud enough for her friend to hear. “Who does she think she is, anyway? She acts like a bleeding duchess instead of a maid.”

Pansy smiled. “I don’t think she’s used to working in a hotel. Maybe she was a lady’s maid before this. They don’t have to work as hard as we do.”

Gertie sniffed. “Pampered, that’s what they are. They don’t know what hard work is, that’s for blinking sure.”

“Well, Lilly will learn. She’s still getting used to everything.”

Gertie wiped her hands on a tea towel. “I’m going to miss you,” she said, suddenly realizing how much. “It won’t be the same around here without you.”

Pansy’s bottom lip quivered just a bit. “I’m going to miss you, too. I’ll try to come and visit as often as I can. You can come and visit me in my new home.”

“I’d like that.” Gertie hung the tea towel over the sink. “Can I bring the twins?”

“’Course you can! You know I always love to see them. They can play with Tess.”

“They’d love it.” She opened a drawer and started taking out a handful of silverware. “I wonder if P.C. Northcott has found out who killed Mr. Evans yet.”

Pansy’s smile vanished. “What made you think of that?”

“Dunno. Thinking about the twins, I suppose.” Gertie pulled a tray toward her and laid out the knives, forks, and spoons. “I think Lord Bentley had something to do with it. I heard him shouting at Mr. Evans for messing about with his daughter.”

“Well, if you ask me, the bloke deserved it.”

Gertie stared at her in surprise. “Whatcha mean?”

Pansy’s cheeks turned red, and she kept her gaze firmly on the warming plate she was cleaning. “I mean that Mr. Evans couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I had to squeeze by him once in the dining room ’cos his big, fat belly was in the way. As I went by him he put his hands where he shouldn’t.”

Gertie gasped. “Did you tell Mrs. Chubb?”

Pansy shook her head. “I was too upset to say anything to anyone. I just made sure I kept out of his way after that.”

Gertie gritted her teeth. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was a man who took advantage of a woman. She was feeling a lot less sorry for Gerald Evans now.

“I wasn’t the only one,” Pansy added, just as Gertie was about to head for the dumbwaiter.

Gertie paused, the heavy tray in her hands. “Who else, then?”

“Lilly.” Pansy glanced over her shoulder. “I saw Mr. Evans and her in the hallway. He had her backed up against the wall. She looked scared to death. I called out to her and he walked away from her in a hurry.” Pansy laid the warming plate down on the counter. “She didn’t even thank me for rescuing her. She just ran off down the hallway.”

“Bloody sod. Good job he didn’t try anything with me.”

Pansy managed a wobbly smile. “He was probably afraid you’d box his ears.”

“I’d have done a lot more than that.” Seething with anger against the dead man, she stared down at the tray. No wonder someone had stuck a knife in him. If that filthy bugger had tried anything with her she might have done it herself.

“He was always talking smarmy,” Pansy said, shuddering. “Not like Charlie, or that new plumber. They’re just being cheeky, and they never put their hands where they shouldn’t.”

Gertie raised her eyebrows. “The new plumber? He was cheeky to you?”

Pansy shrugged. “Yeah, but he didn’t make me cringe the way Mr. Evans did.”

“Why are you two standing around blabbering when there’s work to be done?”

Mrs. Chubb’s irritated voice made Gertie jump. “We’re just getting ready to go up to the dining room.” She hurried over to the dumbwaiter, laid the tray on the platform, and started pulling on the rope.

“Well, get a move on. We haven’t got all day.” The housekeeper spun around and headed for the pantry.

Gertie made a face. “What’s got her bleeding knickers in a twist today?”

Pansy shrugged. “I dunno. But we’d better do as she says or she’ll be—”

She broke off as the door flew open so hard it banged against the wall. Lilly appeared in the doorway, her cap half off her head and her eyes wide in her white face. “There’s been an accident,” she said, her voice high with anxiety.

Mrs. Chubb burst out of the pantry holding a milk jug and a plate of butter. “Accident? Where? Who’s hurt?”

Lilly’s voice broke on a sob and Gertie got a sick feeling in her stomach.
Please,
not another murder.
She stared at Lilly, waiting with thumping heart for the bad news.

Pansy edged close to Gertie, one hand over her mouth. “Oh, Gawd, what now?” she mumbled.

“One of the maids . . . Charlotte . . . she’s hurt!” Lilly got out, then promptly burst into tears.

“Here. Sit down.” Mrs. Chubb dragged out a chair and unceremoniously shoved Lilly down on it. “Now, take a deep breath and tell us what happened.”

Lilly gulped, swallowed, and managed to take in a lungful of air. “She tripped coming down the stairs and fell all the way to the bottom.”

“Bloody hell,” Gertie muttered. “Was she carrying a full chamber pot? I bet that made a bloody mess.”

Mrs. Chubb gave her a withering look. “How bad is she hurt? Is someone with her?”

“Philip sent for Mrs. Baxter. He said to come and tell you.”

“I’d better get up there and see what’s going on.” Mrs. Chubb untied her apron and threw it at the hook on the wall. It missed and fell to the ground, but the housekeeper ignored it. “Get that silverware up to the dining room,” she said, as the door closed behind her.

Gertie stared at the door for several seconds, then Lilly moaned, grabbing her attention. “I hope she’s not dead. Two dead bodies in one week is more than enough for me. This place is cursed, just like I was told.”

Gertie crossed her arms. “Who bloody told you that?”

“Lots of people. They all said that the Pennyfoot is cursed around Christmastime.”

“Well, they’re flipping wrong.” Gertie nudged Pansy again. “Tell her they’re wrong.”

“They’re wrong,” Pansy said obediently.

Lilly sniffed. “Then why is one of the guests dead and probably a maid, as well?”

“It could happen anywhere.” Gertie walked over to her and bent down so she could look her in the face. “We don’t talk about no curses here. Not to anyone. We never mention the word. Understand?”

Lilly nodded and fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief.

“Good. Now, did all the chamber pots get emptied?”

“I dunno.” She gasped. “Oh, crumbs. I left one sitting by the stairs. I had to jump out of the way when Charlotte came tumbling down and I put it down on the floor. In all the commotion I forgot it.”

Gertie rolled her eyes. “Well, you’d better get back up there and fetch it. If Mrs. Baxter sees that she’ll have a pink fit.”

Without another word Lilly shot off her chair and rushed from the kitchen.

Pansy stood by the sink, hugging herself as if she were cold. “Do you think Mr. Evans’s killer pushed Charlotte downstairs?”

“No, I don’t.” Gertie’s voice was sharp with apprehension and she made an effort to soften it. She didn’t want to believe there was another killer on the loose in the Pennyfoot, yet Lilly’s mention of the curse had filled her with dread. “I think it was an accident, and poor Charlotte tripped on the stairs. She’s always been a bit clumsy. I just hope she’s all right.”

Pansy looked ready to cry. “So do I. Why is all this happening now? I should be happy and excited, looking forward to my wedding, not shaking inside with fear.”