Later that morning Dr. Kevin Prestwick rang Cecily with the distressing news that the autopsy had shown no water in Ian’s lungs. “It would appear,” Kevin said, “that the blow to the head was the cause of death. I’m afraid Northcott was right. It appears that Ian Rossiter was murdered.”
“Oh, dear.” Cecily tightened her grip on the receiver. “I’m afraid Gertie is in a lot of trouble unless we can find out who did this.”
“And you’re quite convinced your housemaid isn’t responsible?”
Cecily wished she could answer that, but at this point, she wasn’t sure of anything. “All I can say is that I find it hard to believe Gertie could do such a thing.”
“Who knows what we are capable of when acting out of anger and fear.”
“Well, I certainly think that Sam Northcott needs a lot more evidence before he can accuse Gertie of murder. She wasn’t the only one angry with Ian.”
“Seems to me you have a large pot of trouble coming to the boil.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. I’ll just have to do my best to find out what really happened that night.”
“You will be careful?”
She smiled at the concern in his voice. “I’m always careful, Kevin. Just ask my husband.” She thanked him, then replaced the receiver on its hook.
Leaning her elbows on the desk, she rested her chin on her folded hands. Something Northcott had said had come back to her. She was the last one to see the victim alive last night. But according to both Gertie and Mrs. Chubb, Ian had left before Dan got there around seven o’clock. There could have been many people who had seen Ian after that.
She shook her head. None of it made sense. Her best move was to try and find out who told Sam Northcott about Gertie threatening Ian with a knife.
It took her fifteen minutes to track down Michel. She found him in the saloon bar, sipping a cup of coffee that no doubt had a measure of brandy in it.
She motioned him away from the counter, where he was exchanging jokes with the barman, and led him out into the hallway, where they were unlikely to be overheard.
“I understand that Gertie had an argument with Ian in the kitchen the night he died,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I was wondering if you happened to overhear them.”
Michel’s face looked pale in the dim light from the window at the end of the corridor. It was a gray day outside, and since the rain had washed the snow away, there was no bright reflection to light the dark hallways.
Cecily made a mental note to have the gas lamps lit while she waited for Michel’s answer.
“No, madame, I did not see or hear them at all.” Michel shook his head for emphasis. “I leave immediately after cooking the supper. I had the plum puddings in the oven and they would not be cooked until nine o’clock that night, oui? I do not want to wait around all that time, so I go home early and come back later.” He pinched his fingers together, touched them to his lips then spread them open. “Ze puddings, ah! They smell divine, oui?”
“They do, indeed, Michel. Thank you.”
She was about to turn away when he added, “I did see Clive Russell, however. I did not expect anyone out in the yard so late. He made me jump in my skin. He came up behind me as I went in the back door. Sacre bleu! That man is a giant.”
Cecily frowned. “What time was that?”
Michel shrugged. “Nine o’clock, perhaps. Maybe a little later. I had come back to take out the puddings.”
“Well, thank you, Michel. You can go back to finish your coffee now.”
“Yes, madame.” Michel gave her a little bow, then disappeared back into the bar.
Walking back to her office, Cecily wrinkled her brow. Clive always left about six o’clock, unless she specifically asked him to stay longer to work on something. She hadn’t had to ask him to stay for at least a month. So what was he doing in the kitchen yard at nine o’clock that night?
Deep in thought, she didn’t see the woman standing by her door until a shrill voice shattered her concentration.
“Cecily, dear! I was just coming to see you! I peeked in the ballroom and I noticed the backdrop isn’t in place on the stage.” The petite woman flapped a hand in front of her flushed face. “I do hope and pray it will be ready for the performance tonight.”
“Hello, Phoebe.” Cecily smiled at the newcomer, more to put her at ease than because she felt like smiling. Phoebe could be exhausting at the best of times, and if she’d brought the colonel along, things could get even more difficult.
Colonel Frederick Fortescue had fought in the Boer War, and as a result of his experiences had returned home with an addled brain that fluctuated between endless memories of his war days and, at times, a belief that he was still on the front line.
Dealing with the colonel kept one on one’s toes, in more ways than one. Phoebe’s way of dealing with him was to ignore his problem and convince herself he was completely normal.
Right now, however, the lady seemed extremely upset by the lack of a perfect setting for her pantomime. “Really, Cecily, I should have thought everything would have been ready. I have quite enough to worry about getting my girls organized and in place. I really can’t be fretting about the stage scenery as well.”
“Don’t worry, Phoebe.” Cecily opened the door of her office and ushered her visitor inside. “The backdrop is getting a little touch-up of paint, that’s all. It was looking a bit drab, and I knew you wouldn’t be happy to see it in that state so I had Clive freshen it up for you.”
“Oh.” Phoebe’s wide-brimmed hat, loaded with pink ostrich feathers, blue ribbons, and purple grapes, wobbled precariously on her head as she plopped down on a chair. “Well, I certainly hope he has it done before curtain this evening.”
“He has promised to have everything set up by this afternoon.”
“Well, good.” Phoebe fanned her face again. “I don’t know why I’m so warm. It’s quite chilly outside, though I’m happy to say the snow has all gone. All that slush does dreadful things to the hems of my skirts.”
Cecily sat down at her desk. “Is there anything we can do for the pantomime, apart from getting the scenery in place, I mean?”
Phoebe’s frown relaxed. “Thank you, dear, but I have everything under control.” She leaned forward. “What is this rumor going around about a man being found dead in your duck pond? I do hope that isn’t true.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Cecily had spoken more sharply than she’d intended. Phoebe’s eyebrows raised. “Cecily! Are you saying it is true? My dear! Who is he? One of your guests?”
Struggling to find an answer that would satisfy her, Cecily shook her head. Just as the pause had become uncomfortably long, a sharp rap on the door snatched Phoebe’s attention away.
“Oh, that’s probably Frederick. I left him to see to the carriage. I made him promise he would pop in to see you before going down to the bar. Come in, darling!”
The door opened and the colonel’s bewhiskered face peered in. “Oh, there you are, old bean. I was wondering where you’d gone.”
Phoebe clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I told you I’d be in Cecily’s office. Do come in, Frederick. It’s drafty with that door open.”
The colonel shuffled into the room and leaned on the door to close it. “What ho, there, Mrs. Baxter. All ready for Christmas, I see! What? What?”
“Yes, indeed, Colonel.” Cecily waved her hand at the vacant chair. “Have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do, old girl. The old legs are not what they used to be.”
“Frederick!” Phoebe looked scandalized. “Gentlemen do not refer to their… er… personal body parts in the presence of a lady.”
The colonel seemed confused, as well he might. “Personal body parts?”
Cecily hastened to intervene. “It’s quite all right, Colonel. Do sit down.”
“Oh, right.” Parting the tails of his coat, Colonel Fortescue sat down heavily on the chair.
“Anyway,” Phoebe said, “as we were saying, Cecily. We have been rehearsing for two weeks in the church hall and I think you are going to be pleased with the pantomime this year. We are doing Cinderella. I think I told you about that.”
Thankful that Phoebe had lost the thread of their earlier conversation, Cecily smiled. “Cinderella. How nice. One of my favorites.”
“Is that the one about the young lady who couldn’t wake up?” the colonel asked.
Phoebe gave him a scathing look. “Of course not. That was Sleeping Beauty.”
“Ah, I knew it had a beauty in there somewhere.”
Phoebe bristled. “Really Frederick, if you intend to go on being such a bore, why don’t you just toddle off down to the bar. I’m sure you’ll find someone to listen to your nonsense.”
“Good idea, old bean.” The colonel heaved himself out of the chair again. “Just hope there’s a bit more peace and quiet in there than in the George the other night. All that blasted racket gave me a headache.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes at Cecily. “He came home and complained for over an hour about some kind of brawl in the courtyard. Serves him right, I told him, for rubbing elbows with the riffraff.”
“They were going at it hammer and tongs, old girl. Yelling and hitting and kicking…” The colonel shook his head. “Reminds me of the time I was in India watching a cricket match. The bowler hit the batter on the hip with the ball and the batter swore he did it on purpose. Went tearing up to the bowler waving his bat-”
“Frederick,” Phoebe said sternly. “Please, just go to the bar. I’m sure you’ll find someone there who’ll listen to your stories.”
“-and swung it at the poor chap,” the colonel blithely continued. “Missed the bugger, tripped over the bat and fell on it. Took out his two front teeth, just like that.”
Cecily winced, while Phoebe’s cheeks grew red. “Frederick! The bar!”
“All right, all right, I’m going.” The colonel shuffled to the door. “Never could talk right after that, but he had a hell of a whistle.”
Phoebe looked as if she was about to have a stroke.
“Enjoy your sherry, Colonel,” Cecily said, hoping the man would get out of her office before Phoebe actually came to blows herself.
“Will do, old girl.” He pulled the door open then looked back at her. “Oh, by the way, I recognized one of the blighters in the courtyard. It was that young chap who used to own the butcher’s shop in the High Street. Never thought he was the type to resort to fisticuffs. Then again, he only kept the shop for a few months. Just goes to show, he’s not exactly reliable, what? What?”
He was almost out the door before Cecily stopped him. “Colonel, are you quite sure it was the previous owner of Abbitson’s, the butcher’s shop?”
“Oh, quite, quite.” He paused, his head poked in the doorway. “Big strapping lad. Got the best of the other chap, I can tell you.” He frowned. “Funny thing, but I thought I recognized the other chap, too. Can’t place him, though. Ah well. Toodleloo, then, Mrs. Baxter.” He waved his hand at her and closed the door.
Cecily looked at Phoebe, who was mopping her forehead with a lace handkerchief. “When did the colonel say he saw those two men fighting?”
“The night before last.” Phoebe lowered the handkerchief. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cecily forced a smile. “Idle curiosity, that’s all. You were telling me about your rehearsals?”
“Ah, yes. Well…”
Cecily let her prattle on without really listening to her. Her mind was on the colonel’s words as he’d gone out the door. It seemed as though Dan had been fighting the night Ian died. Somehow she had no doubt that the man with whom he’d exchanged blows was none other than Ian himself.
That must have been after Gertie had told Dan about Ian confronting her in the kitchen. Something else that Gertie had neglected to tell her. If that were so, that meant that Dan, along with whoever else was in the George that night, had contact with Ian after he’d left Gertie. So how could Sam Northcott possibly think that Gertie had been the last person to see Ian alive?
Cecily glanced at the clock. Gertie would be busy now, getting things ready for the midday meal, but as soon as that was over, she intended to have another talk with that young lady, and find out what else she was keeping to herself.
“Anyway,” Phoebe was saying, “I do think the acrobats will provide an admirable conclusion to the pantomime, don’t you think?”
Cecily made an effort to concentrate. “Acrobats?”
“Yes, dear.” Phoebe leaned forward, her gaze probing Cecily’s face. “You seem somewhat detached this morning. Is anything wrong?”
Before Cecily could answer, the door burst open without so much as a warning tap. Startled, she stared at the colonel as he marched into the room and thumped a triumphant fist on her desk. “That Rossiter chap! I knew I recognized him from somewhere. He used to work for you, what? What?”
Phoebe looked intrigued. “Ian Rossiter? I wondered what had happened to him. Has he come back to work here?”
“He’d have a hard time doing that, old bean.” The colonel turned to her, his whiskers quivering with relish. “The poor blighter bought it, didn’t he. Someone bashed him over the noggin and killed him stone dead.”
Phoebe uttered a little shriek and slapped her gloved hand over her mouth. Above it her eyes were wide with shock.
Cursing herself for not telling her friend the truth earlier, Cecily got up from her chair and hurried around to her. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to know. I know you always had a soft spot for Ian.”
“Who killed him?” Phoebe whispered behind her hand.
“We don’t know.” Cecily looked at the colonel. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread the news around the hotel. I would like to know who told you.”
The colonel looked sheepish. “Sorry, old girl. Shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I just now overheard a chap talking about it. Short little bald-headed chappie with a rather twitchy mustache.”
Cecily knew immediately to whom he referred. Archie Parker. “Did you happen to notice to whom he was speaking?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, old girl. Young woman, she was, red hair, green eyes, and a face full of freckles. Spoke in a soft voice, as if she were running out of breath.”
He’d described Gloria Johnson perfectly. Cecily frowned. Had Archie Parker somehow discovered that Gloria was Ian’s widow? If so, then no doubt he was eagerly satisfying his curiosity with all the gory details. Not that Gloria could tell him much.
Still, it unsettled her to know that Ian’s death was now a topic of conversation among the guests. Especially since she had made Archie Parker promise not to mention it. Obviously the man was not to be trusted.
In fact, right at that moment, she had difficulty knowing just whom she could trust. It was not a comfortable feeling.
“So did you have a good time last night down the pub?” Pansy picked up a fork from one of the dining room tables, examined it with a critical eye, then took a corner of her apron and briskly rubbed at the prongs.
Gertie finished dusting the back of a chair and looked up at her. “It was smashing. We had hot cider and rum, and sausage rolls and cheese and pickled onions, and trifle in brandy glasses.” She grinned. “We sang lots of songs and Christmas carols and Dan even taught me to dance. A little bit, anyway. It was a lovely evening.”
Pansy clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Dancing. Oh, that sounds lovely. I’ve never been dancing.”
“Do you know how?”
“Well, no, but I bet Samuel does. He could teach me how to do it.”
“Well, I can teach you a step or two.” Gertie dropped her duster on the table. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”
Pansy hurried over to her. “Is it hard?”
“Nah, not if you concentrate. Look, I’ll show you how to do the two-step.” She started humming, sliding her foot to one side and then bringing the other one back to meet it. After gliding between the tables for a few steps, she nudged her chin at Pansy. “Now you do it.”
Pansy hummed and sidestepped around the floor. “I like it! It’s easy!”
“See? I told you.”
Together the two of them hummed and glided around, until Pansy burst out laughing. “I bet we look silly dancing without a partner.”
Gertie opened her mouth to answer her but just then a loud clapping of hands interrupted her. Both she and Pansy swung around just as Sid Barrett sauntered into the room.
“Very nice,” he said, in his smarmy voice. “I wouldn’t mind being your partner.” He held out his hands to Gertie. “How about it?”
Gertie sniffed and tossed her head. “I wouldn’t dance with you if my blinking life depended on it.”
Sid dropped his hands. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be polite for a change, now would it.”
“I’m polite to them what are respectful.”
For an instant he looked annoyed, then his face relaxed in a smile again. “Well, me darlin’, I have the greatest respect for you. How about joining me in the bar for a drink tonight? Not seeing the boyfriend, are you?”
“What if I am?”
He shook his head. “I’m surprised you feel like going out, seeing as how your husband was murdered.”
“I told you he wasn’t my husband. And how’d you know he was murdered, anyhow?”
Sid smiled. “You’d be surprised what I know.”
Gertie was getting a nasty feeling in her stomach. “Well, I don’t have time to talk to you no more. I’ve got work to do.” She made to move forward, but Sid blocked her way, placing a hand on either side of the door.
“Well, then, you and I will have to have a cozy little chat when you do have more time.”
For several long moments Gertie stared into Sid’s eyes. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. Neither did she like the feeling of being trapped, even though she knew a knee in the right place would move him fast enough. “Get the bloody hell out of our way,” she muttered, “or you’ll be walking funny for a week.”
For a second or two mischief gleamed in his eyes. Then he laughed, dropped his hands, and stood back. “All right. Until later then, luv.”
She itched to slap his face, but there were some things madam would never allow. Shoving her way past him, Gertie stomped toward the door with Pansy scrambling along close behind her.
She was still frowning when she reached the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken one word all the way downstairs, but the minute they entered the kitchen words burst out of her mouth.
“That bloody Sid Barrett.” Gertie dug her fists into her hips. “He blocked the door of the dining room and wouldn’t let me pass.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Chubb wiped her hands on her apron. “I shall have to have a word with that young man. I can’t have him aggravating the staff like that. I’m sure he means no harm, though. He just likes to play pranks. No doubt he thinks it’s funny.”
Gertie snorted. “I don’t think it’s very funny when he keeps asking me to go out with him and won’t take no for an answer.” She shuddered. “I’d rather eat worms than go out with the likes of him.”
Standing at the stove, Michel rapped a wooden spoon against a steaming pot of stew. “Worms are all ze guests will have to eat if someone does not start preparing the vegetables, oui?”
“All right. Keep your bleeding hair on.” Gertie started for the sink. “I just hope that bugger stays out of my way or I might be tempted to sock him one. He gives me the creeps, he does.”
“If he’s really being a nuisance,” Mrs. Chubb said, “perhaps you should have a word with madam about it.”
“I will.” Gertie grabbed a carrot from the bowl on the counter and picked up the peeling knife. “Just as soon as dinner is over with.” And she wasn’t going to mince words, neither. No one treated Gertie McBride like that and got away with it. Nobody.