Having settled that, he pushed the carriage into its slot in the corner.
* * *
• • •
Arriving at Victoria Station, Cecily parted company with Baxter and hailed a Hansom cab to take her to the address Sam Northcott had given her. Normally she would have dropped off a visiting card and followed up a day later, but this was an emergency, so to speak, and she hoped that Lady Farthingale would receive her upon a moment’s notice.
To her surprise, a stout woman wearing the conventional black frock and white apron of a housekeeper opened the front door. Cecily had expected to see a butler, and it took her a moment to gather her thoughts.
“We do not entertain solicitors,” the woman said stiffly, and began to close the door.
“Oh, I’m not selling anything.” Cecily held up her hand to show she carried nothing but her handbag. “I realize I am intruding, but I have news for Lady Farthingale of an urgent nature. I should like to deliver it immediately.”
The woman’s suspicious stare made Cecily uncomfortable. “Give me the message and I’ll see that Lady Farthingale gets it.” The housekeeper shot out her hand in what Cecily considered a rather rude gesture.
“I prefer to deliver it in person.” Deciding that some authority was needed, she stretched her back. “My name is Mrs. Cecily Baxter, and I am the proprietor of the Pennyfoot Hotel in Badgers End. I have news of Lord Percival Farthingale that his wife needs to hear.”
At the mention of the dead man’s name, the housekeeper’s expression changed. She actually looked fearful as she drew back. “You may enter, but please wait here while I see if Lady Farthingale is available.”
While she waited, Cecily studied her surroundings. The house was rather modest, considering it belonged to an aristocrat. Though, as Cecily had learned in the past, not all aristocrats were swimming in wealth.
It appeared that Lord Percival could be included in that company, judging from the lack of expensive furnishings. The chandelier in the hallway was of poor quality, and the blue-flowered carpeting had seen better days.
The house itself, though in a fairly decent locality, was not in the more select areas such as Belgrave or Grosvenor Square. Which was where Cecily might have expected a lord and lady to live.
When the ungracious housekeeper finally showed her into the drawing room, after announcing her name with a slight hint of distaste, Cecily was surprised to see this room looking closer to her expectations.
Heavy maroon velvet curtains hung at the tall windows, their cream lace edgings matching the cushions on the elegant gray settee. A fire danced and crackled in the marble fireplace, and on the mantlepiece sat a magnificent ornate clock. Its decorative pendulum swung slowly back and forth beneath a silvered dial, set between intricately carved satinwood panels.
Quite expensive, Cecily judged, and no doubt had originated in France. Turning her attention to the settee, she greeted the woman seated on it with a nod. “Please forgive the intrusion, Lady Farthingale. I have news of your husband, and I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”
The woman sighed, and waved a hand indicating that her visitor seat herself. “What has the fool done now?”
Cecily lowered herself carefully onto the embroidered seat of the chair. “If you don’t mind me asking, when was the last time you saw your husband?”
Lady Farthingale narrowed her eyes. “Why, pray, is that any of your business?”
Cecily took a deep breath. “I am under the impression that you have not set eyes on your husband for some time, and must be wondering what has happened to him.”
The woman stared at her for several long moments, then uttered a loud sigh. “I last saw Percy three days ago. We were staying at the Regency Hotel on the Esplanade. Percy was celebrating what he said was a lucrative business deal, though he wouldn’t reveal the details. He actually wanted to stay at your hotel, but when he tried to book a room, he was told there were none available. We stayed at the Regency instead. My husband left our suite, saying he was going to explore the town, but I knew he proposed to attend your card games.” She sniffed. “Which is why he wanted to stay at the Pennyfoot Hotel in the first place.”
“I see.” Cecily paused. This was going to be harder than she had envisioned. She took a moment to search for the right words. “Lady Farthingale,” she said at last, “I’m terribly sorry to have to inform you that your husband was found in the Pennyfoot Hotel yesterday morning. I’m afraid he had passed away.”
The aristocrat flinched, but her eyes remained dry as she looked at Cecily. “He’s dead? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” She fished in her sleeve and drew out a lace-edged handkerchief. After dabbing at her nose, she stuffed the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “When he didn’t return to the hotel after two days, I knew he was on one of his gambling excursions. It was nothing new. He disappeared often, sometimes for a week or more. Rather than wait for him to return, I packed everything up and returned home.”
She looked down at her hands as Cecily murmured, “I’m very sorry.”
“What was it? His heart?” Lady Farthingale shook her head. “I kept warning him that all that drinking and gambling would kill him one day. He never listened to me.” Anger flashed across her face. “I’m sorry he’s dead, of course, but I have to admit, I’m not sorry to see the end to all the anxiety. Percy was an obsessive gambler. He gambled away all our wealth, even borrowed from my father to cover his tracks and lost that, too. We already lost our home in Mayfair and had to move here. We had to get rid of our servants. I never knew if and when we would lose this home, too.”
“That must have been difficult for you.”
“It has been.” The woman appeared to give herself a mental shake. Sounding determined now, she added, “I know this sounds heartless, but it’s a relief, that’s what it is. I shall sell the house, move in with my parents, and be done with this whole disaster of a marriage.”
She actually sounded quite elated at the prospect. Cecily studied her for a moment. The lady wore a violet gown of fine quality, as far as one could tell. She had draped a blue scarf into the low neckline, and fastened it with a gorgeous dragonfly brooch that sparkled with diamonds and sapphires.
Cecily peered harder at the scarf. With its purple blossoms and green leaves, it looked very similar to the one she still carried in her pocket. “Excuse me, Lady Farthingale, and please excuse me if I’m being impertinent, but your scarf looks quite familiar.” She drew the square of silk from her pocket and shook out its folds. “It looks remarkably like this one.”
Lady Farthingale studied it for a second or two. “It does bear a resemblance, yes.”
Cecily sniffed at the soft fabric. “I do believe it also bears traces of the perfume you are wearing.”
With a fierce frown, the woman reached out for the scarf. Holding it to her nose, she murmured, “Mouchoir de Monsieur. It’s French for ‘gentleman’s handkerchief.’ Very expensive, I’m afraid. My bottle is almost empty.” She brightened. “However, now that I will be selling the house, I shall buy more.”
Hardly able to believe her ears, Cecily said quietly, “So the scarf does belong to you.”
“It does.” Lady Farthingale met her gaze. “Where did you find it? How did you know it was mine?”
“I didn’t, until this moment.”
The lady sighed. “I must have left it on the counter of your reception desk. I was so disappointed that we weren’t able to stay at your lovely hotel, so I stopped by to book a room for the summer. I was upset when I realized it was missing, so I purchased another. It’s not pure silk, of course, but the pattern reminded me of this one.” She held up the scarf. “It was a gift from a very good friend of mine. He’s dead now, and I was devastated that I’d lost the only tangible memory I had of him.” She sniffed at the soft fabric. “Thank you for returning it.”
Cecily held out her hand. “
I’m sorry, but I have to take the scarf back with me. It’s evidence in a murder case.”
Lady Farthingale’s face froze in disbelief. “Murder? I don’t understand.”
Cecily softened her voice. “I’m afraid your husband died from a blow to the head. This scarf was tied about his neck.”
With one hand at her throat, the widow seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she murmured, “Percy must have found it where I had left it, and recognized it as mine. Who would want to do such a thing?” She held out the colorful silk for Cecily to take. “Then again, I can’t say I’m surprised. Percy had a lot of enemies. I always knew he would come to a bad end.”
“I’m so sorry.” Somewhat confused by the lack of emotion displayed by the woman, Cecily added, “I can assure you we are doing everything in our power to discover who committed this dreadful deed.”
Lady Farthingale gave her a sharp look. “‘We’?”
“Yes, I’m assisting P.C. Northcott in his investigation. If there’s anything else you can tell me that might help us find the culprit, I’d be most grateful.”
“I’m sorry. I know nothing of my husband’s personal pursuits. He wasn’t in the habit of confiding in me.”
Again there was that note of disgust in her voice. Pocketing the scarf, Cecily rose to her feet. “Very well. I must be on my way. I ordered my Hansom cab to return in half an hour. He is most likely waiting outside for me.”
“Then I shan’t keep you.” The widow got up slowly. “Thank you for bringing me the news. It was easier to hear from you than from an officer of the law.”
“The constable did ask me to convey his condolences. Rest assured, Lady Farthingale, I intend to discover who did this to your husband. The person responsible will be brought to justice. I promise you that.”
Lady Farthingale reached for the bellpull. “You will return the scarf to me when you have no further use for it?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“Thank you.”
The door opened just then to reveal the housekeeper. With a nod at the widow, Cecily followed the servant to the front door.
Stepping outside, she saw the Hansom cab waiting at the curb, the driver impatiently swishing his whip. “Harrods, if you please,” she ordered as he jumped down to open the door for her.
On her way to Knightsbridge, she would normally be gazing out the window, anxious to see the shop windows with their sumptuous displays of life-size reindeer and toy trains circling heavily laden Christmas trees.
She loved to watch the ladies in their elegant clothes bustling along the pavements, while the gentlemen tried to look dignified as they strode alongside carrying an assortment of gaily wrapped packages.
Today, however, her thoughts were squarely on Lady Farthingale and her rather cold acceptance of her husband’s death. She had proclaimed that the scarf held great sentimental value to her, yet she had carelessly left it lying on the counter in the hotel. Surely she would have noticed it missing and returned for it?
Cecily replayed in her mind her conversation with the lady. The widow seemed unaffected by her husband’s sudden death, even relieved to learn of her freedom. She had surmised that her husband had been carrying the scarf when he was killed—something that hadn’t occurred to Cecily.
It was possible, of course. The killer could have noticed it in Lord Farthingale’s pocket and decided to use it, either as a way to divert suspicion or, as Sam Northcott had suggested, to ensure that the victim was truly deceased.
Then again, the widow could have left the scarf on the reception desk, where anyone could have picked it up. It might be prudent to look at the hotel register, just to confirm that Lady Farthingale had, indeed, reserved a room for next summer, as she claimed.
Having decided that, Cecily settled back to enjoy the ride to Harrods department store, where she was looking forward to browsing the aisles. She needed to find something special for her husband’s Christmas present, and she couldn’t think of a more exciting place to shop for it.
CHAPTER
7
Standing at the kitchen sink, Gertie picked up a potato from the pile on the counter and began to chop the skin off it. Behind her, Michel was grumbling about the poor quality of the winter greens, which wasn’t surprising, considering the lack of rain they’d had this year. The chef, as usual, took out his frustration on the stove, uttering explosive phrases in his phony French and smashing the lids down on the pots.
Mrs. Chubb was pounding bread dough on the kitchen table, shaking its legs until they rattled, while two of the housemaids argued about whose turn it was to empty the slops.
Gertie closed her mind to the racket, and concentrated on the aroma of roasting pork from the oven and apples for the sauce bubbling on the stove. The smell made her tummy rumble. She couldn’t wait for supper. That was her favorite time of the day, when Daisy brought the twins to join her at the long dining table and they could all sit down with the rest of the staff and enjoy the end of another workday.
Smiling at the thought, she lopped off a corner of the potato.
“You keep doing that and there’ll be nothing left of it,” Charlotte remarked from behind Gertie’s back. “You know they have gadgets to do that nowadays.”
“I don’t like gadgets.” Gertie held up the knife. “You want to do it? I’ll be glad to hand it over to you.”
“Nah.” Charlotte moved to Gertie’s side. “I hate that job.”
“You hate all the jobs.” Gertie took another swipe at the potato.
“Yeah, I do. I should find meself a rich bloke, then I wouldn’t have to work at all.”
“Fat chance of that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Charlotte giggled. “I s’pose I shall just have to make do with someone like Archie.”
A pang of resentment made Gertie blink. Rather than examine the reason for it, she said loudly, “I’m almost finished here, then I’ll help you lay the tables for dinner.”
“All right. I’m going to get started on them right now.”
As if echoing her words, Mrs. Chubb’s voice rang out across the kitchen. “Charlotte! What the devil are you doing gossiping at the sink when you should be in the dining room laying tables? Get up there this instant and don’t let me see you dawdling again or I’ll dock your pay.”
“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” Charlotte made a face at Gertie, then flew out of the kitchen.
Gertie let out her breath. She didn’t have much to do with most of the housemaids, since her work was mostly in the kitchen. Charlotte, on the other hand, was also a kitchen maid, so they shared a lot of the chores. She liked Charlotte, a lot, but there were times when the girl was a bit overpowering.
At least the maid seemed to have given up on pestering her about going to the protest. Which was a huge relief. Still, she had to admire the girl’s spirit and gumption. As she, herself, had before motherhood and life traumas tamed her.
Against her will, her mind was drawn back to the last conversation she’d had with Clive. She hadn’t been so tame then, when she told him to bugger off. He argued, making demands and laying down the law like he was a magistrate or something. Telling her what she should and shouldn’t do, and what he expected of her as a wife.
She suspected he’d gone back to drinking again. It had almost ruined his life once before, and he’d stopped it when he first came to the Pennyfoot. But, judging from the way he’d acted that day, she could almost swear he was sloshed.
Well, she’d soon told him where to get off. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s bloody slave, at his beck and call day and night. No, sir. She had done all right on her own for a good many years and she would be all right on her own again.
She’d left him still trying to order her about. So maybe she still had a bit of fire left in her. Feeling cheered at the thought, she dropped the last demolished potato into the pot of water,
dried her hands, and headed for the kitchen door.
* * *
• • •
Cecily was pleased to find that she and Baxter had the train compartment to themselves as they rattled along the rails, heading for home. She was anxious to relay to him most of the conversation she’d had with Lady Farthingale and hear his thoughts on the matter.
“It certainly appears that the lady is not terribly heartbroken by the loss of her husband,” Baxter remarked when Cecily’s account came to an end. “I can’t say I blame her. Lord Farthingale sounds like a rotter through and through.”
“It’s obvious they weren’t enjoying a happy marriage.” Cecily sighed. “I feel sorry that she’d had to put up with so much. Then again, I’m compelled to wonder if everything she told me was, in fact, the truth.”
Baxter raised his eyebrows. “What are you saying? Are you suggesting she may have killed her husband?”
“Well, she does have a strong motive to be rid of him.”
“Did she seem capable of cracking him over the head with a flatiron?”
“Physically?” Cecily pondered for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so. Mentally? I’m not so sure. Besides, why would she leave her own scarf at the scene of the crime?”
Baxter shrugged. “She would not expect anyone to find out it belonged to her. Maybe she used it to silence her husband while she finished him off with the iron.”
Cecily shuddered. “That is so coldhearted and cruel.”
Baxter’s face was grave as he looked at her. “Murder is always coldhearted and cruel. And infinitely dangerous, which is why I am in constant fear of your safety.”
“I know.” She leaned forward to touch his hand. “But you know why I do this. I cannot stand to see a vicious criminal go unpunished, or worse, watch an innocent person wrongly imprisoned for a crime. Especially when it’s a young girl for whose well-being I’m responsible.”
“Yes, my dear, I do know that.” He turned his palm upward and clasped her hand. “Which, while it pains me considerably, also makes me infinitely proud of my caring wife.”
A Merry Murder Page 9
