Herald Of Death

by Kate Kingsbury

  Glistening snowflakes and stars hung from silver strings, while sparkling colored balls slowly twisted on invisible threads. Toy soldiers in bright red coats marched across one window, jostling for space among stuffed bears and dolls in pretty lace gowns. Another one harbored a dozen snowmen holding lengths of silks and satins, while behind them wide-brimmed hats covered in baubles and ribbons hung from the branches of a leafless tree.

  Soon, however, too much bumping and rattling over the frozen streets took its toll, and by the time they reached Caroline Blanchard’s cottage Cecily felt as if her neck were trapped in a vise.

  She winced as Samuel helped her down from the carriage, and tried to stretch her back while they waited for Miss Blanchard to answer the door.

  The seamstress greeted them with a rather stiff smile, as if she wasn’t used to stretching her lips. She ushered them into the sitting room, which seemed to have been overtaken by numerous dogs and cats. She had to push two of the cats off armchairs before offering them to her guests.

  Cecily’s hesitance must have been noted, since Caroline was quick to apologize. Shooing the rest of the animals from the room, she murmured, “Please excuse the disorder. I occasionally pick up stray animals and try to find them a good home.” She looked hopefully at Cecily. “I don’t suppose…?”

  “Thank you, no,” Cecily said hurriedly. “Animals are not allowed in the country club.”

  “The cats are good mousers.” Caroline picked up a ginger striped cat and cradled it in her arms. “This one is very good at catching mice and killing them.”

  Cecily shuddered. “I’m sure it is, but no, thank you all the same.”

  “I think that’s very commendable, what you’re doing with the strays,” Samuel assured the seamstress, much to Cecily’s surprise. Her stable manager wasn’t usually so forthcoming with strangers.

  Caroline seemed unaffected by the compliment, however, and barely acknowledged him. In fact, she seemed discomforted by his presence and kept her distance.

  With her auburn hair and creamy skin, she would have been a comely young woman were it not for her constant squinting, which Cecily attributed to a problem with the young woman’s eyesight.

  Even so, Samuel seemed quite taken with her, and put himself out to be at his most charming.

  Since her stable manager rarely showed interest in female acquaintances, at least when in her company, Cecily found his behavior rather intriguing.

  When Miss Blanchard grudgingly offered to bring a tray of tea and scones, Samuel leapt to his feet and insisted on carrying the tray for her. Although she thanked him, she seemed none too pleased by the gesture, though Samuel appeared not to notice.

  Well aware of Pansy’s passion for the young man, Cecily began to feel somewhat concerned. It seemed as though her stable manager wasn’t quite as committed as Pansy would like.

  She felt relieved when Miss Blanchard invited her to retire to another room where she could be measured for the alterations. Leaving Samuel huddled by the fire, Cecily picked up her gown and followed the slender Caroline down the hallway.

  The seamstress led her into a room where several ball gowns hung from the picture rail. One in particular caught her eye-a marvelous creation of shot silk, in shades of maroon and black. Gleaming silver beads traced an intricate pattern down the bodice, and the neckline was trimmed in black lace. It was quite the most spectacular gown Cecily had ever seen.

  “That gown is breathtaking,” she said, as Caroline prepared to leave.

  The seamstress nodded. “It’s an original from Paris. Unfortunately it had a torn hem and was quite difficult to repair.”

  “I imagine it was, though I have no doubt you managed it.” Cecily laid her gown on a chair. “Pauline tells me your needlework is quite extraordinary.”

  “Ms. Richards is very kind.” Caroline opened the door. “I’ll leave you to change into your gown,” she said, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Left alone, Cecily took a moment to look around. The small parlor, with its poky little fireplace, tiny windows, and low ceiling, felt oppressive. An unpleasant odor reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the kitchen, late at night, when Mrs. Chubb burned chicken bones in the stove. The ashes did wonders for the rose garden in the spring, but the smell was atrocious. This smell, however, was more likely the dogs’ wet fur, no doubt heated after running around in the snow.

  A rather unusual sculpture graced the wall over the fireplace. It looked like a wooden wagon wheel, with brightly colored jewels in the shape of cats studding the rim where the spokes met. Captivated by the whimsical design, Cecily smiled as she moved over to another wall.

  Several portraits hung there, and she moved closer to study them. Almost all of them were of cats or dogs, though one of them showed a fine-looking horse standing proudly in a field, head held high. A lover of horses herself, Cecily admired the picture for a moment or two before hurriedly donning the ball gown.

  Caroline entered just as Cecily finished buttoning the bodice. Gazing at the ivory silk folds trimmed with coffee-colored lace, the seamstress murmured, “It’s a lovely gown.”

  “Thank you. It does need a tuck or two taken out, though, as you can see.”

  Caroline frowned. “Maybe a smidgen at the waist, and the bodice does appear to be a little tight. I can let out the side seams to correct that.”

  “Thank goodness.” Cecily patted the skirt. “I love the gown and I really don’t have time to order another. I seem to have grown in all the wrong places this last year.”

  “Unfortunately age has a way of doing that to us.”

  Cecily raised an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting. Someone as young as Caroline Blanchard had no idea what it was to battle the changes the years wrought on a woman.

  After the young woman had taken the measurements she needed, Cecily was once more left alone to change clothes. Fully dressed again, she made her way back to the living room, where Samuel was engaged in a somewhat one-sided conversation with the seamstress.

  Seated across from him, the young woman’s cheeks were flushed, though her expression when Cecily entered was more of relief than interest in Samuel’s opinions.

  Samuel, on the other hand, looked disappointed as he rose to his feet.

  Cecily smiled at Caroline. “We must be on our way. I have another call to make before returning to the Pennyfoot.”

  “Oh, of course.” She got up and led them to the door. “I will have your gown ready in a few days.”

  Samuel glanced at Cecily. “I can come by and pick up the gown for you, m’m.”

  Cecily hesitated, reluctant to foster what appeared to be a budding attraction for her stable manager. Then, deciding it was none of her business, and Pansy would simply have to fend for herself, she said lightly, “We shall see. Thank you, Miss Blanchard. Good day to you.”

  Samuel failed to comment as he handed her back into the carriage, and Cecily wisely held her tongue as well. If the young man was smitten with the seamstress, so be it. Though judging from what she had seen, Caroline Blanchard did not seem eager to reciprocate. If that were so, Samuel was doomed for disillusionment.

  She soon forgot about the problem, however, as they neared the house where Jimmy Taylor’s family lived.

  The cottage was in darkness, the windows shrouded with green velvet curtains. The woman who answered the door looked as if she hadn’t slept in quite a while. Her white face was drawn, with deep lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She wore a plain black frock, with a black lace cap over her graying curls.

  Cecily felt a surge of sympathy for the woman, and quickly apologized for intruding. “I didn’t know your son very well,” she said, after Samuel had introduced them, “but he delivered almost daily to the Pennyfoot Country Club. I wanted to pay my respects and say how dreadfully sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Taylor murmured. “Won’t you come in?”

 
Following the woman into the sitting room, Cecily saw a large portrait of the young lad on the mantelpiece, bordered by a fluttering candle on either side. He looked happy in the picture, smiling broadly to show a row of uneven teeth.

  She paused in front of it, shaking her head. “Such a dreadful thing to happen to one so young.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die that way,” Mrs. Taylor said, her voice breaking.

  “No, indeed.” Cecily seated herself on a worn sofa, while Samuel chose to hover near the door, one anxious eye on the clock. “Who do you think could have done such an awful thing?”

  Mrs. Taylor sank onto the edge of an armchair. “I can’t imagine. Jimmy wasn’t always easy to get along with, but he had some good friends, and his customers always treated him well.” She stared at the leaping flames in the fireplace. “Of course, there was Basil.”

  Her interest caught, Cecily leaned forward. “Basil?”

  Mrs. Taylor nodded. “Basil Baker. Both he and Jimmy were sweet on the same girl. Gracie Peterson. Jimmy won her, though. They were talking about getting married and all.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “That won’t happen now.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Cecily paused to give the other woman time to compose herself, then added, “I imagine Basil was quite upset when Jimmy and Gracie made marriage plans.”

  Mrs. Taylor gave her a sharp look. “You’re not suggesting that Basil killed my Jimmy? They might have been rivals, Mrs. Baxter, but Basil is not a murderer.”

  Cecily frowned. “It was my understanding that Jimmy’s death was an accident. True, someone threw a rock at him, but it was the fall and blow to his head on a wheel shaft that killed him, was it not? Isn’t it possible that Basil, in his disappointment, lost his temper and threw the rock without meaning to cause Jimmy’s death?”

  Jimmy’s mother briefly closed her eyes. “Possible, but not likely, to my way of thinking. Whoever threw that rock did so with enough force to knock our Jimmy right off his feet. I think that monster meant to kill my boy, and I shan’t rest until I know who did this evil deed. I just can’t bring myself to believe it was Basil. Those two were such good friends before that girl came along.”

  She showed signs of breaking down again, and Cecily rose to her feet. “I don’t want to upset you further, Mrs. Taylor. I think I would like a word with Basil, however. He might be able to shed some light on this tragedy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?“

  Mrs. Taylor looked up, her eyes wary. “You won’t be getting him in any trouble, will you?”

  “Let’s just say I’d like to know why this happened.”

  The other woman gave her an address, and Samuel nodded. “I know where that is, m’m.”

  “Very well, then.” Cecily walked to the door. “Rest assured, Mrs. Taylor, should I get at the truth, you will be the first to know.”

  Stepping outside, she took a good long breath of the chilly sea air. It was good to be on the trail of a killer again. When she’d given her promise to Baxter, she’d given up all thought of chasing down another murderer.

  Her husband simply failed to understand that it wasn’t so much catching a criminal that gave her so much satisfaction, it was bringing closure to the people left behind-the mourners, who needed answers in order to regain some sense of peace.

  “Come, Samuel,” she said, walking briskly toward the waiting carriage. “We have more questions to ask before we can go home.”

  “Mr. Baxter will be waiting for you to join him for the midday meal,” Samuel reminded her. “He won’t be pleased if you keep him waiting.”

  Cecily sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t do to upset him this early on in the investigation. Very well, then, Samuel. Home it is, and we will continue this quest this afternoon.”

  She settled back in the carriage, her thoughts replaying her conversation with Mrs. Taylor. It would be most interesting to find out exactly how Basil felt about losing his sweetheart to Jimmy. Even more interesting was how Gracie Peterson fit into the picture.

  Cecily felt a small tug of excitement. She was really looking forward to talking to Basil Baker.

  When she arrived back at the Pennyfoot, Gertie met her with the news that Phoebe Carter-Holmes Fortescue and her husband were in the library awaiting her return. Cecily had no recourse but to invite them to join her and Baxter for the midday meal.

  This did little to improve her husband’s sour mood, and throughout the meal Cecily struggled to keep Colonel Fortescue’s attention away from him.

  The colonel had an unfortunate habit of launching into one of his tedious war memoirs, thus sending his audience into a near stupor before his long-suffering wife managed to halt the saga. Given that the colonel, thanks to his war experiences, was also somewhat touched in the head, Baxter’s tolerance of the gentleman was limited, at best.

  Phoebe, as usual, was full of her plans for the annual Christmas pageant-a pantomime of Peter Pan. So enthusiastic was she, the crystal glassware was in imminent danger of being swept off the table by her effusive gestures.

  Her face almost hidden by the enormous brim of her hat, which harbored a couple of robins among the ferns and ribbons, Phoebe spilled out a torrent of words. “We will have children flying across the stage”-she flung out an arm, nearly costing Baxter his sherry-“and pirates and a ship and-”

  “How in blazes,” Baxter asked, rudely interrupting, “are you going to get a ship on the stage?”

  Phoebe’s cheeks were red with excitement. “Your maintenance fellow, Clive, is building us one.”

  That was news to Cecily, but she managed to meet Baxter’s glare with a serene nod. “Clive is so talented, and I’m sure it will be a marvelous addition to our Christmas celebrations.”

  Baxter grunted. “How do you propose to get rid of the thing when the show is over?”

  Phoebe looked somewhat deflated. “I suppose we will have to break it up and let the dustmen take it away.”

  Seeing her husband’s scowl darken, Cecily hurried to intervene. “We’ll worry about that later. Think of it, Baxter, a real ship on our stage. We will be the talk of the town.”

  At her words, Colonel Fortescue, whose nose had been buried in a brandy glass, suddenly came alive. “A ship, you say? Jolly good fun, what? What? I remember when-”

  “Not that kind of ship, dear,” Phoebe said loudly, tapping her husband’s arm to get his attention. “We were talking about my pageant and-”

  Ignoring her, he stabbed at his chest with his thumb. “Got one of these for helping to take over the palace during the Zanzibar skirmish. Blighters were firing on our Royal Navy in the harbor and-”

  “You’re not wearing your medals, dear,” Phoebe observed.

  The colonel looked down at his chest. “I’m not? Well, I’ll be blowed! Where the blazes are they, then?”

  Phoebe squirmed in obvious discomfort. “We… You… ah… donated them, my precious.”

  The colonel’s cheeks turned as red as his nose. “Donated… my… medals?”

  Phoebe turned to Cecily. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

  “Who’s the blighter who stole them?” the colonel bellowed, turning the heads of the two other couples in the dining room.

  “The Salvation Army, dear.” Phoebe turned back to Cecily. “I was thinking-”

  “Well, by George, we’ll get them back!” The colonel leapt to his feet, waving his fist in the air. “I’ll take my sword to them, the scoundrels. How dare they take my medals.”

  Baxter’s face lit up. “Jolly good show, old man. Go get them. Right now, before they give them away to someone else.”

  Phoebe gasped in dismay. “Baxter, how could you? You know he’ll stop at nothing when he gets like this.” She grasped her husband’s sleeve and tugged on it. “Sit down, Frederick, dearest. You agreed to… ah… get rid of the medals early this year. Remember?”

  “Never!” the colonel roared. “I’m going after the blighters. Out of my way, you peasant, I’m off to battle
.” This last was directed at Pansy, who had come to clear off the dishes.

  Well used to Fortescue’s antics, Pansy skipped aside to let him pass.

  Brandishing an imaginary sword, the colonel charged across the dining room and out of the door.

  Phoebe’s hat bobbed up and down in her agitation. “Now look what you’ve done.” She glared at Baxter. “He’s probably going to attack the first person he sees in uniform.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not a constable,” Baxter said, looking unusually serene. “Though I think it more likely your husband has taken refuge in the bar.” He got up, stretched, and smiled at his wife. “I think I’ll retire to our suite. I’ll leave you both to discuss whatever it is you plan to subject our guests to this Christmas.”

  Cecily winced at the subtle reference to Phoebe’s infamous disasters with her Christmas events. The woman put all she had into the presentations, but invariable something would go wrong, due largely to the inept group of performers under her wing. Fortunately, Phoebe was an eternal optimist and never doubted that the next performance would be a masterful triumph.

  She seemed unperturbed by Baxter’s comment and, indeed, watched him go with something close to admiration in her eyes. “He’s right, of course. Frederick always ends up in the bar when he’s upset.”

  She sighed and leaned back on her chair. “Quite the gentleman, your husband. You are fortunate, Cecily, to have such an intelligent and thoughtful companion.”

  Cecily pursed her lips. It was true that one never knew the true nature of a person unless one lived with them. Compared to Colonel Fortescue, however, she was forced to admit, Baxter was an angel. “I am, indeed. But what about the colonel? Should you not be hastening after him to see that he doesn’t meet with some mishap?”

  Phoebe shrugged. “Frederick is quite capable of looking after himself. In any case, if I were to wager on his whereabouts, I would say that he is at this moment downing a glass of your best brandy.”