Herald Of Death

by Kate Kingsbury

  “I hope so.” He leaned over to drop a kiss on her cheek. “I haven’t entirely given up the idea of taking that position abroad, you know. If that should transpire, it will be much easier to make the transition from here than from the city.”

  He was gone before she could respond. Worried now, she went back to the fireplace. She had assumed that he’d entirely dismissed the opportunity to open hotels in foreign lands. It seemed, however, that he was still harboring thoughts of such an enterprise.

  She had weakened her situation considerably by asking him to release her from her promise. If he took that post now, she would have only herself to blame.

  Miserably she stared into the flames. All she could hope was that finding this killer would be worth what it might cost her.

  Gertie was in a fever of impatience for the midday meal to be over with, so she could get her twins ready for the great sleigh ride that afternoon.

  There were only two guests still in the dining room-an elderly couple who seemed to take forever to eat their steak and kidney pie. Twice Gertie had been to their table to clear their plates away only to find them still piled high with pastry, meat, potatoes, and carrots.

  “Are you going to finish all that?” she asked the woman, whose wrinkled face was so heavily powdered she looked like one of Lillian’s dolls. “You won’t have room for afters if you stuff all that in your blinking mouth.”

  The gentleman peered at Gertie over his spectacles. “You are an impertinent young woman, and I shall complain to the head of the household about your rude behavior.”

  Silently cursing her runaway tongue, Gertie tried to make amends. “Please forgive me, sir, but Mrs. Chubb has made some delicious pear tarts, and she put a dollop of brandy in them. I was concerned your lovely wife might not have enough room to enjoy them.”

  “Oh, Wilfred, they do sound divine.” The woman pushed her plate toward Gertie. “Take this away and bring me some of those tarts.”

  Her husband grunted and reluctantly surrendered his own half-finished plate. Gertie snatched them up and whisked them over to the dumbwaiter outside in the hallway.

  “Two pear tarts,” she called down, as the plates descended. Impatiently tapping her foot, she waited for the sweets to come up.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  The deep voice behind her made her jump and she twisted around, breaking into a grin when she saw Clive. “What’re you doing here? Looking for something to eat?”

  Clive chuckled, a deep sound in his throat that always made her smile. “I came to see you.”

  “What about?” She looked at him anxiously. “Is something wrong?”

  “No…” He hesitated, then added, “Well, yes. We’ll have to postpone our sleigh ride.”

  “Oh.” Her crushing sense of disappointment left her weak. “The twins will be upset. They were looking forward to it.”

  “I know.” His frown deepened. “So was I. Mrs. Fortescue wants me to put up the sets and wiring for her pantomime. She’s starting rehearsals in a day or so.”

  Gertie pouted. “That old bat always wants something. Can’t the footmen do it?”

  “They can and they will, but I have to supervise. Mrs. Fortescue doesn’t trust them to make the wiring safe.” He bent his head to look closer into her eyes. “She told me the twins are going to be in the event.”

  Gertie shrugged. “Per’aps. I haven’t asked them yet. I was going to do that on the ride this afternoon.”

  “Well, if they are going to perform, wouldn’t you want to be sure that everything on that stage is really safe and secure?”

  “I suppose so.” She forced a smile. “You’re right. Go and do what that fussy old Phoebe Fortescue wants. We’ll go on the ride another time.”

  His big hand descended on her shoulder in a friendly pat. “I knew you’d understand.”

  She nodded. “Just hope the bloody snow doesn’t melt.”

  He laughed, and she watched him walk all the way to the end of the hallway, the memory of his hand still warm on her shoulder.

  Cecily hurried down the stairs, fastening her warm scarf under her chin. To her relief, Samuel was waiting for her in the foyer. Catching sight of her, he opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly silenced him with a finger at her lips.

  Mindful of Philip watching them, she raised her hand, calling out, “If Mr. Baxter asks for me, Philip, please tell him I have gone into town and shall be returning shortly.”

  “Yes, m’m.” Philip pulled a tablet toward himself, took a pencil from behind his ear, and scribbled something down.

  Ignoring Samuel’s curious stare, Cecily headed for the door, forcing him to dart around her to open it for her.

  Once outside, she waited until he had handed her into the carriage before asking him, “Do you happen to know a man by the name of Sid Tippens?”

  Samuel’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of him, m’m. Never met the bloke, though.”

  “I believe he is a bookmaker?”

  “Yes, m,’m, but-”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, m’m, but I do believe he has an office on one of the backstreets off the High Street.”

  “Then I need you to take me there, Samuel.”

  Her stable manager’s face grew red. “I don’t think Mr. Baxter would approve, m’m. I don’t-”

  “Never mind what Mr. Baxter will or will not approve.” She leaned forward, fixing him with a hard stare. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “Yes, m’m, but-”

  “No buts, Samuel. Let’s get on our way. I’d like to be back before Mr. Baxter finishes his work.”

  “Can’t you ring the bookmaker on the telephone?”

  “No, I can’t. The operators at the exchange have a nasty habit of listening in to my business, and this isn’t something I want to broadcast to everyone in the village.”

  Samuel looked as if he were about to suffer a heart attack. “From what I hear, m’m, this Tippens chap is not a good person. I don’t think-”

  “That’s the trouble with you, Samuel. Sometimes you tend to think too much. Now, please do what I say and get going this minute.”

  Samuel’s mouth clamped shut on whatever he was about to say next. Muttering something she didn’t catch, he climbed up onto the driver’s seat and shook the reins.

  The carriage jerked forward, and Cecily leaned back with a sigh. She didn’t like putting so much onto the back of her stable manager. Samuel had been a good and loyal worker all the years she had known him, and there was no question about his loyalty toward her. He had often faced Baxter’s wrath while aiding her in her investigations, and had more than once risked his own life to protect her.

  Well aware of the awkward position she put him in at times, she had to admit to strong feelings of guilt whenever one of her well-laid plans went wrong. She could only hope this visit to Sid Tippens would not turn out badly, for either of them.

  Once they reached the High Street, Samuel left her alone in the carriage while he went to find out where the bookmaker had his office. While she waited, Cecily watched the people hurrying in and out of the shops on either side of the road.

  Christmas was in full swing in the High Street. Geese and ducks hung in the windows of Abbitson’s, the butcher‘s shop, naked of their feathers and necks hanging loosely as they swung from the hooks.

  The haberdashery next door had a life-sized Father Christmas in the window, surrounded by elves bearing armfuls of socks, ties, handkerchiefs, and cravats.

  She was admiring the colorful display of a snow scene in the clothier’s when Samuel returned, out of breath and looking decidedly disapproving.

  “I have to say this, m’m. If you’re planning to place a bet on the horses, or something, you really need to know what you’re doing. You could lose a lot of money gambling, and I know Mr. Baxter wouldn’t like that at all. He’d blame me for taking you to a bookie and-”

  “For heaven’s sake, Samuel, I’m not going
to gamble away my hard-earned money.” Cecily climbed down from the carriage and shook out the folds of her blue serge skirt. “I happened to spot a betting slip from Mr. Tippens’s office marking a book in Lester Salt’s parlor. I simply want to have a word with the bookmaker, that’s all.”

  For a moment Samuel looked vastly relieved, then his frown returned. “I’d be really careful what you ask him, if I were you, m’m. This bloke is a nasty bit of business, and I wouldn’t want to upset him.”

  Cecily smiled. “I’ll be the soul of discretion, don’t worry. Besides, you’ll be by my side, and I have every confidence that we shall be quite safe.”

  “I wish I did,” Samuel muttered, as he reluctantly led the way around the corner and down a narrow street. He kept looking left and right, as if expecting trouble to leap out at them from every quarter, and Cecily was quite relieved when he paused in front of a door with a small leaded glass window in it.

  “This is it, m’m. You’re sure-”

  “I’m quite sure, Samuel.” Cecily turned the handle and pushed open the door, leaving her worried stable manager to follow her into the musty office.

  At first it appeared to be empty, but the jingling of the doorbell had apparently alerted someone, as a swarthy-looking man with beady eyes, dark bushy eyebrows, and a scruffy beard stepped through a tattered curtain behind the counter.

  His eyebrows shot up when he saw her, and he sent a questioning look at Samuel, who hovered right behind her. “What can I do for you?”

  He’d phrased it so that it sounded as if he doubted he could do anything for them. Cecily stepped forward, putting as much authority into her voice as she could manage. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Tippens.”

  The man shifted his feet and glanced at the door. “Who’s asking?”

  Cecily took another step closer. “My name is Cecily Baxter, and I’m the manager of the Pennyfoot Country Club.”

  “All right.” Again Tippens glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to walk through it at any moment. “I’m Tippens. So what do you want?”

  Samuel made a guttural sound in his throat, and Cecily shot up a hand to silence him. “I would like to speak to you about Mr. Lester Salt. I believe you are acquainted with him?”

  The bookmaker’s heavy brows met across his nose. “How is that any of your business?”

  “Here!”

  Samuel stepped forward and again Cecily halted him. “I’m thinking of doing some business with Mr. Salt and I’d like to know if he is trustworthy, that’s all. Does he pay promptly what he owes?”

  Tippens stared at her for a moment, then laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Take my advice, lady, stay away from that rotten sod. He’s bad news. Pay his debts? That’s a laugh. He owes me a bundle, and if he doesn’t pay up soon, he’s gonna be rotting away in a coffin. Like anyone else who upsets me.” He gave Samuel a look obviously meant to intimidate him.

  Throwing all protocol to the wind, Samuel grabbed her arm and started tugging her backward toward the door.

  “I don’t suppose you knew Thomas Willow or Jimmy Taylor?” Cecily asked, her feet skittering on the wooden boards.

  Tippens’s face grew dark. “Never heard of ’em. Any more questions?”

  “Thank you!” Cecily’s last words were answered by the slam of the door in her face. She turned to Samuel, who looked as if he were about to be sick. “Really, Samuel, I’m quite capable of leaving the shop on my own two feet.”

  “Yes, m’m. Now, if you don’t mind, we should get back to the carriage as fast as we can.”

  He rushed off, and she struggled to keep up with him, feeling rather sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy for him, having to protect her from people like the seedy Sid Tippens.

  On the way home, she mused on the short conversation she’d had with the desultory Mr. Tippens. So Lester Salt was in debt to the bookmaker. How fortunate for him to have inherited the shoemaker’s shop. Now he should be able to pay back the money he owed. The inheritance couldn’t have come at a more convenient time.

  Could that have been a motive for murder? Lester needed money to pay the bookie. He knew Thomas was going to leave him the shop. He might have heard about Jimmy’s death and decided to kill Thomas and make it look like the same person had killed both men.

  Except that the constables had kept the missing locks of hair a secret. So how would he have known to take a lock of hair from Thomas? Unless he had actually seen what happened to Jimmy. Then again, he was in the shop when Thomas was killed. Or at least, that was what he’d said.

  Sighing, she stared out the window at the white-capped ocean. She was no closer to finding the killer, and time was running out.

  There were two messages waiting for her when she walked into the Pennyfoot’s foyer. Philip waved her over as soon as she stepped through the door.

  “Police Constable Northcott rang, m’m,” Philip said, sliding his tablet over to her. “He said to ring him as soon as possible. He said it was urgent.”

  Cecily felt a pang of apprehension. Sam Northcott never rang her unless it was of the utmost importance. He didn’t trust the telephone operators any more than she did. Especially with police business. That worried her. Could it be something else-something personal, perhaps-that he needed to discuss with her? If so, she couldn’t imagine what it could be. One thing she was certain of-it was unlikely to be good news.

  Glancing down at the tablet, she murmured, “I’ll ring him from my office.” She scanned Philip’s scribbled lines. “Oh, I see my dressmaker also rang.”

  “Yes, m’m. She said you needed to pay her another visit. She didn’t say why.”

  “Thank you, Philip.” Cecily tore off the sheet of paper and handed him the tablet. “Has Mr. Baxter finished his work in my office?”

  “Yes, m’m. I saw him go upstairs about ten minutes ago.”

  Cecily pulled off her scarf and folded it over her arm. “I’ll be in my office, then, if anyone needs me.”

  Heading down the hallway to her office, she unbuttoned her cape, her mind searching for a possible reason the constable would need to talk to her so urgently.

  Once inside her office she snatched the receiver off its hook. The operator’s nasal tone spoke in her ear.

  “Number, please?”

  “Put me through to the constabulary, please.” She waited, tapping her fingers on her desk, while a series of buzzes followed.

  After a moment or two, a harsh voice announced, “Badgers End Constabulary.”

  “P.C. Northcott, please.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Cecily Baxter, from the Pennyfoot Country Club.”

  “Just a moment.”

  The buzzing sounded again. Cecily frowned. “Operator? Are you still on the line?”

  A loud click answered her, and, shaking her head, she waited for Sam.

  It seemed ages until she heard his voice, stumbling over his words as usual. “Mrs. Baxter? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Sam. You asked me to ring you.”

  “Yes, m’m. I need to see you at the station. Right away, if you can. I crashed my bicycle and bent the front wheel so I have to wait now until it’s mended before I can come out there. The inspector took the carriage and it’s too far to walk in this snow.”

  Cecily uttered a cry of dismay. “Are you all right, Sam?”

  “Yes, m’m. Thank you. Banged up me elbow a bit, but I’ll be right as rain as soon as I get me bicycle back.”

  Mindful of the operator, Cecily asked cautiously, “Is this anything to do with the situation we discussed earlier?”

  “Yes, m’m, it is.”

  She longed to ask him if he’d discovered anything new about the case, but it would have to wait until she was alone with him in his office. “I’ll be there just as soon as possible.” She hung the receiver back on its hook and pulled the bell rope to summon the carriage again.

  All she could hope was that Sam had news for her that would lead them to the
Christmas Angel. Or better yet, that the fiend who had done these terrible things had been caught.

  Something told her that wasn’t likely.

  CHAPTER 8

  Fortunately Samuel had not yet unharnessed the bay, and by the time Cecily had left instructions with Philip on what to tell Baxter, the carriage was waiting for her at the door.

  Samuel seemed upset when she told him to take her to the police station. “We’ll never be back in time for supper,” he said, as once more she scrambled into the carriage. “Mr. Baxter will have my hide for this.”

  “Piffle.” Cecily tied her scarf more securely under her chin. “We’ll be there and back before he even knows I’m gone.”

  “I wouldn’t take a wager on it,” Samuel muttered. He closed the door and the carriage swayed as he climbed up on his seat.

  Staring out the window, Cecily was relieved to see that the snow had stopped falling at last. With any luck, Baxter’s prediction would be realized, and the snow would have gone by the time the guests were due to arrive.

  Except for Doris. She and Nigel would be arriving tomorrow, bringing little Essie with them. Cecily could hardly wait. She had yet to see Doris’s daughter. It hardly seemed any time at all had passed since the young woman was just a child herself.

  Cecily smiled to herself as she remembered the frail little girl who had first arrived at the Pennyfoot.

  Everyone had thought Doris was a little strange, since one day she would be struggling to lift things and jumping at every word spoken to her and the next day she would be belligerent and hauling heavy pans of water off the stove without any effort at all.

  It was weeks before anyone realized there were actually two little girls sharing the same job-Doris and her twin sister, Daisy. Now Doris was married and living in London, and Daisy was still living at the Pennyfoot, taking care of Gertie’s twins. It would be good to see them together again.

  Perhaps by then this nasty business would be over with, and Cecily would be free to enjoy her beloved guest.