“It’s the Mayfair Murderer, I just know it.” Gertie stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, feet spread apart. “I told you it was him that killed Charlie and now Ellie. Who’s blinking next, I wonder?”
“You, I hope,” Michel snapped, dropping a saucepan lid on the floor with a loud crash. “How can I make my soufflés rise with all this racket going on? All that screeching is making them flat. I do not cook soufflés until you shut up, comprenez-vous?”
“Oh, put a bloody sock in it, Michel.” Gertie turned back to Mrs. Chubb, who was beating eggs in a basin so rapidly, froth was flying over the edge of the bowl. “We’re not safe in our beds, that’s what. I was worrying about my twins being in London with that maniac on the loose and now I have to worry about them coming home to him.”
“It is not the serial killer!” Michel shouted. “You are a stupid woman to frighten everyone. He kills only the young girls, oui? Why would a serial killer come here to kill a footman and a maid? It makes no sense.” He glared at the housekeeper. “Stop beating my eggs to their death, s’il vous plaît! There will be nothing left of them to put in my soufflés.”
Mrs. Chubb put down the bowl. “Some of the maids think the man in room nine is the Mayfair Murderer.”
Michel snorted, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Pansy is ze idiot as well.”
Gertie glared at him. “She’s not an idiot. She could very well be right about that man. He’s really strange.”
“There are many strange people who come to the Pennyfoot. They are not serial killers.”
“People don’t usually come here alone, stay in their rooms all day, and cover their faces with a hat.”
“He is rather unsociable,” Mrs. Chubb put in. “I passed him in the corridor and wished him good morning. He just grunted at me.”
“Was he wearing that big hat?” Gertie demanded.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he was.”
Gertie swung around to give Michel a triumphant wave of her hand. “See? I told you!”
“Wearing a big hat does not make him a serial killer.” Michel bent over to pick up the saucepan lid. “Now give me the eggs and be quiet, both of you. I need complete silence for my soufflés.”
“You’d better go and help Pansy with the tables,” Mrs. Chubb said, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost time to ring the dinner bell.”
Gertie needed no second bidding. There were times when she’d like to sock Michel in the jaw. Him and his fake French accent. Give him a bottle of brandy and that accent disappeared fast enough. Telling her to keep quiet, the saucy blighter. He made more noise than anyone when he was in a bad mood. Which was pretty much all the time.
She stomped up the stairs and across the lobby, her mind churning over the news that Ellie’s dead body had been found. Pansy had cried when she’d told her. Poor Pansy. She’d been so excited about going for that walk with Samuel. What a horrible way for it to end.
She turned the corner of the hallway and halted with a gasp as she collided with someone tall and stout. To her dismay Sir Walter Hayesbury stood looking down at her, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the oil lamps. She could smell a faint aroma of whiskey, and guessed he was on his way back from the bar.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she stammered, as she leapt backward. “I was thinking so hard I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“That’s quite all right.” He smiled at her, and a dimple flashed in his cheek.
Fascinated, she stared up at him. He might be getting on in years, but he was still a good-looking chap. She and Pansy had both said what a handsome couple he and his wife were. In fact, they’d fought over who should serve them in the dining room. So far Gertie had won, and although she would never admit it, she’d been flustered more than once by a smile and a wink from the charming aristocrat.
“So,” Sir Walter murmured, “what was it that occupied your mind so intensely? A young suitor, no doubt.”
Gertie shook her head, her face growing warm. “Oh, no, sir. I was thinking about the Mayfair Murderer.” Horrified, she slapped a hand over her mouth. She’d committed the cardinal sin. Her mind had been boggled by the handsome gentleman’s seductive voice, and she’d forgotten she wasn’t supposed to mention the murders to anyone outside the staff.
She saw the aristocrat’s face change, and her heart sank. Now the word would be all over the Pennyfoot and she was to blame. Madam would be really cross with her when she found out. Trust her to go and blabber it all out. She looked up at Sir Walter. “You won’t tell no one, will you? It’s supposed to be kept a secret.”
He stared back at her. “What is supposed to be kept a secret?”
Inwardly cursing her stupidity, Gertie shook her head. “Nothing, sir. It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”
He glanced over his shoulder, down the empty hallway. “Are you talking about the footman who was killed?”
She felt a small ray of hope and clutched at it. “You already knew about that?”
“Mrs. Baxter mentioned it, yes. I understood it was an accident.”
“Oh, yes, sir, it was.” Relieved now, she started to back away. “I must be getting down to the dining room, sir. It’s almost dinnertime.”
“So what was all this about the Mayfair Murderer?”
Gertie’s nerves jumped. “Oh, nothing sir. Er… my twins are in London and I worry about them with that serial killer running around, that’s all.”
“Ah, I see.” He nodded, his expression amused. “Well, run along then. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She dropped a curtsey and rushed down the hallway without looking back. What a fool he must think her, blabbering like an idiot out there. Pansy would have a good laugh when she told her. Nearly spilt the milk, she did. You’d think she’d learn to keep her bloody mouth shut. Thank goodness he didn’t know what she was talking about. She’d have been in hot water, all right, if madam had found out she’d let it slip about the murders.
Still, she couldn’t help being nervous about Ellie being dead as well. She never really liked the girl, but it was sad to think she was dead. Gertie shivered as she entered the dining room. She only hoped it wasn’t the Mayfair Murderer, or none of them would be safe in their beds.
By the time all the guests had left the dining room and the tables had been cleared, Pansy was ready to crawl into bed and forget the horrible day. She kept picturing Samuel’s face when he told her he’d found Ellie lying dead among the leaves in the woods.
She didn’t think she would ever go into those woods again. Certainly not by herself. She kept imagining a sinister figure dragging poor Ellie by her feet, her head bumping along the ground. It made her sick to think about it.
Stacking the last of the dishes on the cupboard shelf in the kitchen, she breathed a sigh of relief. The day was over at last. Not that she was looking forward to falling asleep. She was sure she’d have terrible nightmares about Ellie.
“Pansy!”
She jumped and spun around to find Mrs. Chubb glaring at her.
“Did you, by any chance, forget to bring down Mr. Mortimer’s tray again?”
Pansy grabbed her stomach, feeling it start to churn. The last thing she wanted to do was climb those stairs to that room.
“I could get it first thing in the morning,” she offered, without much hope.
“Oh, no, you won’t.” Mrs. Chubb folded her arms across her ample bosom. “This is the third time you’ve forgotten. I’m beginning to think you forget on purpose.”
Pansy pinched her lips. “I’ve been busy. Why can’t someone else get it?”
“Because I told you to take care of it.” The housekeeper pointed at the door. “Now you get upstairs this minute and fetch that tray. We don’t want any of the guests falling over it, now do we?”
“No, Mrs. Chubb.” Dragging her feet, Pansy headed toward the door.
Gertie stood by the kitchen cabinet and gave her an encouraging smile as she went by, which did nothing to make her feel better.
She hated going up to that room. That old man frightened her, and she was sure he was the killer everyone kept talking about, come down from London to do his horrible deeds.
What if he came out when she was picking up the tray and pulled her into his room? She’d end up like poor Ellie, dragged by the feet into the woods.
She felt reasonably sure Ellie had been dragged by her feet because of the missing shoe. It must have come off when the killer grabbed her feet. Pansy shivered. She wished she’d brought a knife with her. Then again, there’d be a knife on Mr. Mortimer’s tray. Feeling only slightly reassured, she climbed the stairs.
No one passed her on the way up. Most of the men would be in the gambling rooms or the bar, while the women were either in the library or in their rooms. As she turned the corner of the landing, she shivered again. The gas lamps were turned down low this time of night, and shadows leapt along the walls as she crept down the hallway.
She was almost at the door of room nine when she noticed the tray wasn’t sitting on the floor outside. Mr. Mortimer must still have it in his room. That old man’d had plenty of time to finish his meal. He must have fallen asleep in there and forgotten about the tray.
Now she really did feel sick. Mrs. Chubb wouldn’t like it if she went back down without it, and she’d just have to come all the way back up again for it.
It took several long moments of indecision before she gathered the courage to tap on the door. She wasn’t terribly surprised when she received no response. Holding her breath, she rapped louder. Still no answer.
Pansy turned away and started walking slowly back down the hallway. She’d just tell Mrs. Chubb that the old man had the tray in his room and wouldn’t answer her knocking.
She reached the stairs and paused, her inner voice telling her that if she went back to the kitchen empty-handed, the housekeeper would simply shout at her and send her right back upstairs again.
Sighing, she retraced her steps back to number nine and pounded on the door. Taking her by surprise, it swung open, banged against something, and swung back to rap her raised knuckles.
“Ouch!” She jammed her knuckles in her mouth and glared at the offending door. Expecting any minute to see the disagreeable old man scowling at her in the doorway, she braced herself for the confrontation.
Seconds ticked by while she nursed her bruised knuckles, her stomach tying itself up in knots. When she heard no movement from inside the room, she took a tentative step forward. “Mr. Mortimer?”
No answer. Taking a deep breath, she spoke louder. “Are you in there, Mr. Mortimer?”
Still no answer.
She waited a moment or two longer, wondering if she should go and fetch Mrs. Chubb. What if he’d died in his sleep? What if he wasn’t the Mayfair Murderer after all, but had been killed by him? Thinking about Samuel’s face that afternoon, she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she did not want to go in there and find a dead body.
Once more she plodded back down the hallway, only to halt again at the top of the stairs. She didn’t have to look at him. All she had to do was creep in there and pick up the tray. Someone else could go and see if he was all right, but at least she wouldn’t be yelled at for not bringing down the tray. Maybe if she took the tray down, she’d be forgiven for not making sure the old man was all right.
Turning back, she clenched her fingers into tight balls and crept back to the open door. If only someone else would come along right about now. She looked hopefully down the corridor, but all she could see were the dancing shadows of light from the gas lamps.
There was nothing for it but to go in there and get the flipping tray. Steeling herself, she pushed the door open wider and stepped into the darkened room.
Blinking, she peered at the bed. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but it didn’t look as if anyone was lying down. She caught her breath. What if he was on the floor? She couldn’t see properly. She could step on him and fall over him.
The thought of being tangled up on the floor with a dead man was just too horrible to contemplate. She backed away, then paused. The tray had to be somewhere. Could it possibly be on the floor?
She stretched out a foot and tapped the toe of her shoe in front of her. Seconds later she was rewarded with the chink of china. Relief made her giddy, and she stooped to reach for the tray, blindly feeling around in the dark.
Her fingers touched a cup and sent it crashing onto its side. She froze, expecting to hear a grunt of annoyance from somewhere. The silence stretched on, and she let out her breath. Praying the cup wasn’t cracked or broken, she felt for the edges of the tray, picked it up, and backed to the door, the cup rolling noisily around in its saucer.
Backing out into the hallway, she was never so thankful to see gaslight in all her life. Stooping again, she laid the tray on the floor, closed the door, then reached for the tray again. That’s when she saw the crumpled ball of paper.
It sat in the middle of the dinner plate, nestled against a lump of mashed potatoes. The old man had cleared everything else off his plate. He must have thrown the paper on the floor, forgetting the tray was there.
Pansy tried to ignore the paper, but she could see writing on it, and being the curious type, she was finding it terribly difficult to pretend it wasn’t there.
If she took the tray to the kitchen, she would be expected to scrape the food off the plate and into the stove, paper and all. Then she’d never know what was written on it.
Down the stairs she went, holding the tray in front of her, eyes firmly on the steps so she wouldn’t trip up. She reached the bottom and crossed the lobby. All was quiet, and no one was around. Maybe if she took a quick peep.
Pausing by the hall stand, she rested the tray on the shelf and held it there with her stomach while she picked up the rumpled ball of paper. Unfolding it, she smoothed it out against the hall stand mirror.
At first she couldn’t make out the scrawled words, but then gradually one by one, they became clear. Stunned, she read them a second time, then shrieked and dropped the note. It fluttered to the floor, and she stooped to pick it up, forgetting the tray. Bone china plates, cup, and saucer slid off and fell to the floor with a crash and a thud.
She didn’t even stop to pick up the pieces. She left it all there, lying on the floor of the lobby, and fled down the stairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Chubb swung around, her mouth dropping open as Pansy burst through the door, while Michel smacked a saucepan down with a muttered, “Sacre bleu!”
“It’s him,” Pansy said, panting. “Here, look!” She held out the note in shaking fingers. “Look at this. I told you that horrible man in room nine is the Mayfair Murderer! Look! I was right!”
“I think I should have Mr. Docker and his men come back to inspect the rest of the roof,” Cecily announced.
Baxter, seated on his favorite chair in their suite, looked up from his newspaper. “I thought they had finished the repairs.”
“On that section, yes.” Cecily took a dainty sip from her glass of sherry and put down the glass. “But I thought I saw a stain on the ceiling above the attic stairs, and I would like the roofers to look at it before it gets to be a bigger problem. Then it would cost twice as much for repairs.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
“I’ll ring for them first thing in the morning.” She picked up the book lying next to her and opened it at her bookmark.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after Christmas?”
She looked up again to find Baxter staring at her over the top of his newspaper. “I beg your pardon, dear?”
“I said, it might be better to wait until after the guests go home. We have so much going on, what with the pantomime tomorrow, and the carol singing in the library Christmas Eve, not to mention Christmas Day and the hunt on Boxing Day.”
“Yes, we do.” She smiled at him. “But a leaky roof can cause all sorts of problems, and I’d like to be sure that we won’t have to worry about rain-soaked beds while our guests are sleeping in them.”
“And this wouldn’t have anything to do with the unfortunate deaths of our servants, I suppose?”
Cecily opened her eyes wide. “Goodness! Whatever gave you that idea?”
Baxter grunted, but just then a light tap on the door turned his head. “Good Lord, what now?”
“Probably someone come to collect our trays.” She raised her voice to call out, “Come in!”
The door opened, and much to Cecily’s surprise, Mrs. Chubb poked her head around the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, m’m. May I have a quick word with you?”
“Oh, do come in,” Baxter said, rattling his newspaper. “There’s a dreadful draft coming through the door.”
The housekeeper hastily stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Moving forward, she fished a stained and creased sheet of paper out of her apron pocket. “I thought you might want to see this, m’m.”
Cecily took it from her and peered at it. Holding it farther away from her eyes, she read the words out loud. “Hide dagger in drawer by bed and wait until victim is asleep. Stab in neck, then leave by window.”
“Good Lord!” Baxter put down his newspaper and stared at the housekeeper. Leaning forward, he took the note from his wife’s fingers. “Where did you get this?”
“Pansy found it, sir. In the mashed potatoes. That’s why it’s a bit messy.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows, while Baxter frowned. “In the mashed potatoes? What the devil does that mean?”
“It was on Mr. Mortimer’s dinner plate, sir.”
Cecily caught her breath. “In room nine?”
“Yes, m’m.” Mrs. Chubb wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. “Pansy went up to fetch his tray and this was on it. I thought you should see it right away.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Chubb. We will take care of this. Try not to worry and please don’t alarm the staff. It could mean nothing at all.”
“Yes, m’m.” The housekeeper moved to the door, then paused. “Pansy thinks he’s the Mayfair Murderer, m’m.”
Cecily tried to ignore the little thump of fear under her ribs. “I doubt that very much, Mrs. Chubb. Please tell Pansy not to mention this to another soul.”
“I will, m’m, though Gertie overheard her, as did two of the maids. And Michel.”
“Oh, dear. Well, do try to keep it among yourselves.” Cecily waited until the door closed behind her housekeeper before turning to Baxter. “What do you think?”
Baxter stared at the note, turning it this way and that as if hoping to see something different in the menacing words. “I don’t know what to think. Mortimer is a strange old chap, but he doesn’t strike me as particularly dangerous.”
“Me, neither.” Cecily gazed uneasily at the note in her husband’s hands. “Then again, I have been acquainted with enough murderers to know that appearances can be deceiving.”
“Indubitably.” Baxter shook his head. “I suppose we should pass this along to the inspector.”
“Not yet.” Cecily pulled the note from his hands and folded it up. “It could all be quite innocent, and if so, Mr. Mortimer could be embarrassed by some unwarranted attention from the constabulary. I should hate to put one of our esteemed guests through that, only to find out he is perfectly innocent. It would not look well for our reputation.”
Baxter sighed. “How did I know you were going to say that? Now, I suppose, you are going to place yourself in dire peril in order to find out if Mortimer is indeed a serial killer. After all, who goes around scribbling reminders of how to do away with someone without being caught?”
“I admit, it does look rather troubling.” Cecily leaned forward and patted her husband’s hand. “I shall take great care not to confront Mr. Mortimer unless I’m certain he can do me no harm.”
“I don’t know how you can be certain of that,” Baxter muttered, as he picked up his newspaper again. “I can only hope that you know what you are doing and that Mortimer is harmless.”
Cecily couldn’t agree more.