“So what happened? Why did madam want to see you? Are you in trouble over something?” Pansy’s eyes gleamed with speculation as she peered up at Gertie. “Go on, you might as well tell me, ’cos if you don’t I’ll ask Samuel. He knows everything what goes on here and he’ll tell me.”
Piling up the dirty dishes on the dumbwaiter, Gertie sniffed. “Don’t be too bloody sure of that. How’s that new maid, Mabel, working out, anyway?”
“Don’t change the subject.” Pansy balanced a tray of milk jugs on top of the dishes and tugged the rope. The waiter jerked, rattling the dishes, then descended out of sight to the kitchen below. “I want to know why madam sent for you.”
“It’s none of your bleeding business.”
“I thought we was friends.”
“We are, it’s just…” Gertie paused to take a deep breath, then turned to the other girl. “If I tell you, will you promise to keep your flipping mouth shut and not tell a soul? Madam will have my hide if she thinks I blurted out the news all over the club.”
Pansy’s face lit up with excitement. “What news? Is it something good?”
Gertie shook her head, wiping the smile from Pansy’s face. “What then? Tell me!”
Gertie leaned forward and whispered, “There’s been an accident.”
Now there was nothing but fear in Pansy’s eyes. “An accident? Not Samuel, is it? Please…” She tugged at Gertie’s sleeve. “Please tell me it’s not Samuel.”
Gertie puffed out her breath. “I don’t know why you waste your feelings on that man. He treats you like dirt.”
“He does not!” Pansy drew herself up, which wasn’t very far. “He’s a good man, our Samuel. He’s just not… well, he’s not…”
“Reliable?”
“Romantic!” Pansy glared at her. “What do you know, anyway? You’ve been going out with that Dan Perkins for more than a year and you still don’t know if he’s going to ask you to marry him.”
Gertie tossed her head. “Who says I want to marry him, anyway?”
“Well, don’t you?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“So did Samuel have an accident or not?”
“No. You can keep your bloody hair on. It wasn’t Samuel.”
“Well, who was it then?”
Gertie was about to tell her when Mabel staggered toward them, her tray loaded down with china tureens and bowls that looked as if they would all cascade to the floor and smash into smithereens at any minute.
“Bloody heck.” Gertie rushed over and took the tray. Mabel had plenty of flesh on her but it was flabby, while Gertie’s stocky build was toned by years of hard, physical work.
Carrying the tray over to the dumbwaiter, Gertie wondered, not for the first time, what kind of work Mabel had been doing before she got the job at the Pennyfoot. It couldn’t have been housemaid work. She was much too soft and sluggish, and it puzzled Gertie why madam had hired someone like that at their busiest time of the year.
The shelf had been raised up again and Gertie dumped the tray on it. Pansy had already disappeared, having gone back to the dining room to finish clearing the tables. Mabel, however, stood staring down the hallway as if she was in a daydream.
Irritated, Gertie spoke sharply. “Have all the tables been cleared, then?”
Mabel started, her fearful eyes focusing on Gertie’s face. Then she shook her head, reminding Gertie of a rabbit she once saw staring into the jaws of a cultivator.
The new maid’s agitation only deepened Gertie’s annoyance. “Well, get a bloody move on then! It’ll be time to lay the tables again before we’ve got the blinking dishes washed up and put away!”
Mabel uttered a little whimper then scuttled away just as Pansy hurried back with another loaded tray. “Don’t yell at her.” She glared at Gertie. “She’s not used to doing all this work. She told me she looked after her grandmother until she died, and then her nephew took all her money, leaving Mabel out in the cold. She’s used to the finer things of life, not working her fingers to the bone like we do.”
Gertie shrugged. “We all have our hard luck stories to tell. She’ll have to get used to it if she wants to keep her bleeding job.”
“Well, you don’t have to be so nasty to her.”
“You’re just cross because I wouldn’t tell you who had the accident.”
Pansy dumped her tray on the waiter. “I don’t care now, anyhow.”
“All right, then I won’t tell you.”
Pansy shrugged, then as Gertie knew she would, turned to her. “Go on. You know you’re dying to tell me.”
Gertie leaned toward her. “It was Ian.”
Pansy’s eyes widened. “Your Ian?”
“Yeah. They found him in the duck pond. Drowned.”
“How can he drown in the duck pond? It’s not deep enough.”
“I dunno. He just did. Hit his head or something.”
Pansy stared at her. “You don’t seem very upset.”
“I’m not.” Gertie turned her back on her and tugged the rope of the waiter to send a signal below. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” She watched the dishes sink out of sight, trying not to envision Ian lying dead in the duck pond. She was done with him, once and for all. That was enough.
Cecily regarded the two men in front of her with a grave face. “I want to thank you both for your efforts this morning. I must ask you not to mention anything about this accident to anyone. The fewer people who know about this awful tragedy the better.”
Clive rolled his hat around in his big hands. “What about Gertie, m’m? Who’s going to tell her?”
“I’ve already told her, Clive. She took it…” Cecily paused, then added quietly, “… rather well, under the circumstances.”
“Yes, m’m. I should imagine she would.”
Samuel gave him a sharp look but said nothing.
“Very well, you can both return to your duties. Samuel, when Dr. Prestwick arrives, please show him where you… ah… laid the body. I’ll try to keep the constable occupied until the doctor has finished his examination.”
“Yes, m’m.” Samuel touched his forehead with his fingers and turned to leave.
“And please see that no one else goes near it.”
Samuel nodded and glanced once more at Clive with an odd expression Cecily couldn’t interpret. Then, without another word, he left.
Clive turned to leave as well, and Cecily spoke quickly. “Clive, I trust you won’t bother Gertie with this. She’s had a nasty shock and won’t want to discuss it anytime soon.”
“Don’t worry, m’m.” Clive paused at the door and looked back at her. “I wouldn’t want to upset her any more than she is already.”
Cecily smiled. “Thank you, Clive. I knew I could count on you.”
Looking sheepish, Clive dragged the door open and charged out into the hallway. Seconds later a loud bump followed by a muttered curse brought Baxter’s brows together.
“What the-?” He strode to the door and flung it open.
“You blithering idiot! Why don’t you look where you’re going!”
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you.” Clive’s voice echoed down the corridor outside, fading into the distance as he added, “I’ll watch out for you next time.”
“Blasted clumsy clod,” Northcott muttered, as he appeared in the doorway. “Knocked me ’elmet clean off, he did.”
Considering he should have removed his helmet the minute he entered the club, Cecily could find little reason to sympathize. “Do come in, Sam.” She nodded at Baxter, hoping he would interpret her meaningful look. “The doctor should have arrived by now, Baxter. Do be a dear and see if you can find him for me.”
Baxter glanced from her to the constable, who was busily brushing imaginary dust from his helmet. “Right you are,” he said, and gave her a slight nod that assured her he understood. Northcott had to be kept from interfering with the doctor until he had completed his examination.
He left the room, and Cecily waved a hand, indicating that the constable should sit.
He did so, still rubbing the narrow brim of his helmet. “Good job he didn’t put a dent in it,” he muttered. “Or he’d have to cough up for a new one.”
“Yes, quite.” Cecily leaned back in her chair and linked her fingers in her lap. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Sam. This is all very distressing.”
“Yes, it certainly is that.” The constable pulled a tattered notebook from one chest pocket, then a stubby pencil from the other. Opening the notebook, he put on his officious tone. “Now then, Mrs. Baxter. Let h’us start at the beginning. When was the deceased found and by whom?”
“Earlier this morning, by Mr. Russell.”
“Ah yes, the big baboon that barged into me just now.” He licked the point of his pencil, then started scribbling. “Never did like that man. Too secretive if you ask me.”
Cecily looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t know you had many dealings with Clive.”
The constable’s expression took on a mysterious air. “I’ve ’ad reason to discuss a certain matter with ’im in the past. Before he came to work for you, that is.”
Cecily’s natural curiosity begged to know what sort of matter, but good manners kept her from asking. “I see. Well, in any case, Clive is of the opinion that Ian had been drinking and wandered into the duck pond.”
“Where he decided to take a swim,” Northcott said, chuckling at his own humor.
Cecily raised her chin. “I fail to see any amusement in the situation, Constable. A man is dead. A man, I might add, who once worked for me and for whom I still hold fond memories.”
Northcott gave her a sly glance. “Quite right, Mrs. Baxter. My apologies. Though I have reason to believe he wasn’t quite so welcome the last time he came around here.”
Cecily sat up straight. As far as she knew, no one had mentioned to the police the incident that had taken place a year earlier, when Ian had insisted that since he was the twins’ father, Gertie should relinquish one of them to him.
When Gertie had adamantly refused, Ian had tried to take Lillian by force, and only Clive’s intervention had stopped him. Afer much discussion, and despite the urging of both Cecily and Mrs. Chubb, Gertie had decided not to involve the constabulary. She was afraid that Ian would wriggle out of it somehow, and become even more hostile toward her, making him even more dangerous. Or worse, that he might somehow prove that he had a right to be involved in the children’s lives-something she would not tolerate.
Staring at Sam Northcott, Cecily wondered how he’d found out about the situation. Avoiding answering the comment, she said instead, “I have no idea why he was here this time. We didn’t even know he was in Badgers End. The last we’d heard he had gone back to London, where, I believe, he still lives.”
“I would imagine he came to see his babies.” Northcott licked the point of his pencil and scribbled some more words in his notebook. “Been drinking, you say?”
“Clive smelled spirits on the body. We assume he had been heavily imbibing.”
The constable nodded. “Well, h’I suppose I’d better go and see for meself. Where is the body then? Still in the pond, I hope?”
Cecily felt a stab of guilt. “Actually no, it’s not. I didn’t want any of the guests wandering by and seeing such a distressing sight. I had Samuel and Clive move the body. Since it was an accident-”
“Yes, well, we don’t know that for certain, do we.” Northcott heaved himself out of the chair and tucked his notebook back in his pocket. “I wish you hadn’t moved the body, Mrs. Baxter. Deaths around here do ’ave a habit of turning out to be a matter for police investigation. I shall have to h’ascertain for myself that the death is accidental. For the record, you understand.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Cecily rose from her chair. “Dr. Prestwick will fill out a report. Besides, aren’t you planning to leave for London shortly, for your annual Christmas visit to relatives there?”
Northcott beamed and nodded. “I am that, Mrs. Baxter. Nice that you remembered. I shall be leaving on the noon train tomorrow with my wife, so I shall have to close up this case right away.”
Cecily smiled. “Well, then, why don’t we let Dr. Prestwick take care of the details and you can attend to your records when you return in the New Year. I’m quite sure Mrs. Chubb will have some lovely mince pies and sausage rolls waiting for you in the kitchen.”
She waited while the constable pitted his lust for Mrs. Chubb’s baking against the need to follow proper procedure. After a moment or two he tucked his helmet under his arm and sighed. “You are quite right, Mrs. Baxter. It is Christmas, after all. I see no reason to h’attend immediately to the details. Wouldn’t do to go rushing to the wrong conclusions, now would it.”
His laughter sounded a little forced, but Cecily happily joined in. The last thing she needed was the constable poking around, asking questions, upsetting the guests, and generally disrupting everyone and everything, as he was wont to do in such circumstances.
“I’ll be off to the kitchen, then,” he announced, as he headed for the door. “Happy Christmas to you and yours, Mrs. Baxter.”
“I’ll certainly try to make it so,” she answered, and let out her breath as the door closed behind him. Now, all she needed was for Kevin Prestwick to give her his report, and perhaps they could all put this tragic business behind them.
By the time Gertie could finally get back to the kitchen, the shock of Ian’s death had begun to wear off. So much so that she felt guilty. She knew she ought to be feeling sorry for him. After all, he was still a young bloke and nobody should have to die when they’re young.
Still, after everything he’d done to her and the twins, all she could feel was relief that she didn’t have to worry about him ever again.
The thought put the smile back on her face, and she was still smiling when she shoved the kitchen door open and barged through it in her usual exuberant manner.
Coming face-to-face with Constable Northcott, however, wiped the smile from her face. It was the way he stared at her, those little pig eyes of his boring into her as if trying to guess what she was thinking.
“Well,” he said, in the sarcastic voice she hated, “you don’t seem to be that h’upset for a brand new widow.”
“I ain’t a widow.” She walked over to the dumbwaiter and removed a tray of dishes, then carried them back to the sink. Dumping them down hard enough on the counter for the saucers to rattle, she added, “Me and Ian was never married legally. That means I’m not his bleeding widow. His real wife is the lucky woman, that’s if he was still married to her, which I bloody doubt.”
She heard Mrs. Chubb cough and glanced at her over her shoulder. Reading the warning in the housekeeper’s eyes, she shrugged. She didn’t care what the stupid policeman thought. She’d hated Ian Rossiter and she wasn’t going to pretend to mourn his death.
“H’interesting,” Northcott murmured.
Mrs. Chubb picked up a plate of mince pies and thrust it at him. “Here, Sam, take some of these with you. I know you must be in a hurry to be off, having to get ready for your visit to London and all.”
Gertie turned back to the sink, but not before she caught the constable’s thoughtful gaze on her. Her heart started beating a little too fast for comfort. Surely the stupid fool didn’t think she’d shoved Ian in the pond.
“Thank you, Altheda. I’ll be off then.” The door creaked as the constable opened it. “Happy Christmas, all.”
“Happy Christmas to you, Sam.”
A strained silence followed, and Gertie knew Northcott was waiting for her to return the greeting. “Happy Christmas,” she mumbled, without turning around.
She relaxed her shoulders when she heard the creak again and knew the door had swung closed. Bracing herself, she turned to face Mrs. Chubb.
The housekeeper stood by the table, her arms crossed, her plump face creased in a frown. There was no sign of Michel and the maids hadn’t yet returned from the dining room, where they were still cleaning up.
Gertie drew a deep breath then blurted out, “If you’re waiting for me to cry over Ian, then you’re going to wait a bloody long time.”
“I’m not expecting you to cry.” Mrs. Chubb unfolded her arms and picked up a rolling pin. Slowly she began rolling it across the mound of pastry on the board in front of her. “I know it must have been a shock, though.”
“A bloody pleasant one.”
“Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb looked up. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Yeah, well, Ian Rossiter did a terrible thing to me, trying to steal my daughter away.”
“With that attitude you’d better not mention you saw Ian last night, then.”
Gertie frowned. “Why not?”
“You was fighting with him, weren’t you? That’s probably why he got drunk. They could blame you for him falling into that pond.”
Turning back to the sink, Gertie muttered, “It’s not my fault if he can’t bleeding look where he’s going. Besides, I weren’t the only one fighting with him. Like I told you last night, Clive ran him off the premises. He was a lot rougher on him than I was, and serve him bloody well right, that’s what I say. What’s more-” She broke off, thinking better of it.
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “What’s more what?”
Marching over to the stove, Gertie grabbed the handles of a steaming cauldron. There was no need to tell Chubby everything. The less said the better, under the circumstances. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said instead, “Ian Rossiter got what he bleeding deserved. Someone up there must have been watching over me and the kids.”
She hauled the hot water over to the sink and tipped it. Blinking against the cloud of steam, she added, “Maybe it was my dead-and-gone husband, Ross, shoving Ian in the pond with an angel’s hand.”
“Angels don’t kill people,” Mrs. Chubb said, her rolling pin slapping back and forth across the pastry. “They save them.”
“Yeah, well Ross was a real husband, and he loved my twins as if they were his own. He would protect them any way he could, even if it was all the way from heaven.”
“Gertie McBride, you are talking nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb sounded cross. “Sam Northcott told me Ian got drunk, wandered into the pond, and hit his head when he fell and drowned. Nobody pushed him. All I’m saying is there’s no need to complicate matters by saying you had a row with him last night.”
“Yeah, well, you can believe what you want and I’ll believe what I want.” Gertie grabbed a pile of the dishes and sank them into the hot soapy water. “Either way, Rossiter is out of my life for good, and I couldn’t be happier. So, Happy Christmas to me and my babies.”
Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue in annoyance, but refrained from answering her.
Gertie swished the cloth over a large platter, wondering what Chubby would say if she knew that she’d seen Ian not once, but twice. In fact, there was a lot that the housekeeper didn’t know, and Gertie saw no reason to enlighten her.