A Merry Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  Yeah, that was it. Henry should be back in the stables by now, waiting for the last motorcar to be returned. Henry would tell him what all this secret stuff was about.

  Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Charlie headed back to the stables.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I’m going down to the ballroom,” Cecily announced to Baxter as Charlotte disappeared out the door of their suite with what remained of their evening meal. “I know Archie is working late on Phoebe’s set and I want to have a word with him.”

  “That man must like working. I saw him the other night walking across the bowling green to his cottage. It must have been past midnight.”

  Cecily raised her eyebrows. “What were you doing on the bowling green after midnight?”

  Baxter smiled. “I wasn’t outside. I saw him from the window. I couldn’t sleep that night, so I went into my office to check on a report.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, that was the same night as Farthingale’s murder. Archie might have seen something useful. You should ask him.”

  “I will. Do you feel like accompanying me?”

  Baxter got up from his chair and stretched his arms above his head. “I would, my dear, but I have a report I need to finish up that has to be sent up to London tomorrow. Unless this is something that requires my attention?”

  “Oh, no, I can handle it.” Cecily smiled up at him. “I just want Archie to look at the gas lamps above the staircase. He’s supposed to be taking care of them, but I noticed on my way up here earlier that two of them were not functioning properly. The wicks must be low or something. I need him to replace them before he goes to bed. We don’t want someone tripping in the darkness and falling down the stairs.”

  “No, indeed.” Baxter hid a yawn behind his hand. “We have enough problems as it is. Some of the guests are apparently anxious about the murder. I understand they have been asking the maids about it. Mostly if it’s true that the perpetrator has actually been apprehended.”

  “Well, the police have made an arrest, so that should calm their fears.”

  Baxter slid his arms out of his coat and reached for his smoking jacket. “As long as they are not aware we believe in Mazie’s innocence.”

  “I know.” Cecily sighed. “I’m afraid I made a mistake this afternoon. I did mention to Sir Clarence that I wasn’t convinced Mazie was guilty. I probably shouldn’t have said that. From what I hear, Sir Clarence can be quite free with information he overhears.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but I wouldn’t fret too much over it. We’ve weathered these problems before and come through it unscathed. I’m sure we will do it again.” He leaned forward and deposited a kiss on her cheek. “Now I must take care of that report.”

  She watched him cross the room to enter the boudoir, wishing she could share his optimism. If word got around that Mazie could be innocent of the crime, the guests would be peering in the corners for fear of confronting a murderer. Or worse, they could simply decide to cut short their visit. It had happened before.

  Cursing herself for her slip of the tongue, Cecily left the suite and made her way to the staircase. All was quiet in the hotel now. The guests were most likely either enjoying a card game in the cellars, or perhaps gathered in the library for some conversation before retiring for the night. Some of them were apparently already returning to their rooms, as she thought she heard footsteps behind her.

  When she glanced back over her shoulder, however, she could see nothing in the dim light from the gas lamps.

  Reaching the top of the stairway, she looked over the banister to peer at the curving steps below her. The pool of darkness stretched halfway down the top flight of stairs. She would have to chastise Archie for neglecting his duty.

  Which was a shame, since otherwise she was most satisfied with his work. The maintenance man he had replaced had been a disaster, and it had been a tremendous relief to find someone reliable. Until now.

  Shaking her head, she started down the stairs.

  She had just reached the shadowed part when she heard a soft sound behind her. She started to turn her head, but at that moment something nudged her back. Making a grab at the handrail, she uttered a cry of despair as her fingers slipped on the polished surface and she pitched forward.

  She was falling, tumbling headfirst down the stairs.

  A burst of pain exploded through her head as she smacked into the sharp curve of the railings, and then everything slowly turned black.

  * * *

  • • •

  Charlie could see the yellow reflection of a lamp swinging back and forth as he approached the open door of the stable. Henry must be moving around, probably checking out the motorcars for mud splatters before he closed up for the night.

  Now that he was about to confront the lad, Charlie felt decidedly uncomfortable. He could feel his heart beginning to thump, and in spite of the cold, his forehead felt damp with sweat.

  He was coming down with something, he told himself, as he reached the doorway. A hot toddy when he got back to his room should take care of that.

  An odd buzzing sound caught his attention. He stepped inside the musty-smelling barn, and abruptly halted. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw Henry halfway down the stalls, actually dancing—waltzing around and around with the lamp swinging to and fro in his hand. The buzzing sound he’d heard was Henry humming, his squeaky voice slightly out of tune.

  Charlie felt mesmerized, part of him repelled by the sight, and a bigger part of him relishing the grace and elegance in the twirling vision in front of him. He stood there staring for far too long before he managed to pull himself together.

  “What in the world are you doing?” he roared, angrier at himself than at the boy.

  Henry let out a high-pitched shriek and dropped the lamp. It fluttered when it hit the ground, but thankfully the glass didn’t shatter.

  Charlie leapt forward and snatched it up. “Dammit, Henry, you could have set this whole place ablaze.” He scrubbed the floor with his foot, making sure that no oil had spilled out. “Don’t you know how bloody dangerous it is to drop an oil lamp on straw?”

  Henry didn’t answer, but just stood there, his chin resting on his chest.

  His cap hid his face, and Charlie could swear he heard a sniff. Staring at the lad, he said harshly, “You’re not crying, are you?”

  Henry shook his head and sniffed again.

  Now Charlie felt like a heel. The boy had obviously been enjoying cavorting around like that, and he had to barge in on him and spoil it. In the next instance he reminded himself of his mission to toughen up the lad. Dancing around like a girl was not what he had in mind.

  “Here,” he said gruffly, and thrust the lamp at Henry. “Finish up here and make sure you close up properly afterwards. We don’t want the wolves wandering in here attacking the horses.”

  “Wolves?” Henry’s face shot up in alarm and Charlie could see a tear glistening in the corner of his eye.

  With a loud sigh, Charlie shook his head. “It’s just an expression. There ain’t no wolves in this country. They got wiped out donkey’s years ago. Just close up everything and get to bed, all right?”

  Henry nodded, and Charlie left, feeling only slightly better. As it was, the memory of Henry’s woeful face stayed with him long after he’d snuggled under the eiderdown on his narrow cot that night. He was nodding off when he remembered he’d never asked Henry what the big secret was all about.

  Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow either he’d ask Henry, or better still, he’d waylay Lilly when he could get her alone and find out what was going on. With that, he closed his eyes and let sleep take over.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cecily groaned as she tried to open her eyes. A hammer inside her head pounded against her skull, and there was something wrong with her right
knee. It pained her greatly to bend it.

  “She’s coming around,” a familiar voice said, somewhere out there in the misty darkness.

  Another voice, even more familiar, uttered a heartfelt “Thank God.”

  “Cecily,” the first voice said with a soft urgency that warned her that something was awry.

  She forced her eyelids to open, wincing as the light increased the hammering in her head. “Yes. I’m here.” She was lying down, she realized. In her suite. On the couch. What was she doing lying on the couch, and why in the world was Kevin Prestwick bending over her with a stethoscope dangling around his neck?

  This was most inappropriate. She started to raise her head, but the hammer in her skull turned into a knife and she groaned again, falling back on the pillow that cushioned her head.

  “Lie still,” the doctor ordered. “You’ve had a bad fall.”

  “Thank God,” the second voice said again. “I thought you were dead.”

  She frowned as a white face swam in front of her. It had sounded familiar, yet there was a note in it she couldn’t quite understand. Anxiety? Fear?

  “Cecily, my love. How are you feeling? Tell me you are all right.”

  She blinked, finally recognizing the beloved face of her husband. Now she was beginning to remember. She was on the stairs. It was dark. She’d heard a sound behind her and . . .

  “You tripped down the stairs,” Kevin said. “You received a nasty crack on the head, and there’s quite a swelling, which is going to be sore for a while.”

  “Those blasted lamps were out,” Baxter said, sounding furious. “Our maintenance man is responsible for this. You were concerned that someone might trip in the dark, and that’s exactly what happened. He deserves to be sacked for this.”

  “No!” She’d intended to sound forceful, but it came out more as a croak. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “It was hard enough to find a decent maintenance man, I really don’t want to go through that again. I’ll speak with him. He’s been terribly busy building Phoebe’s set, and hasn’t had the time to attend to everything.”

  Baxter swore under his breath. “That blasted pantomime. When are we going to put a stop to that nonsense? Look at all the time and effort our staff goes through for a two-hour performance that more often than not ends up with a total disaster.”

  Realizing that her husband’s wrath stemmed more from his concern over her condition than Phoebe’s feeble attempts at producing a masterpiece, Cecily managed a smile. “It’s tradition, darling. The guests expect it. They look forward to it.”

  “I will never in a million years understand why.”

  “It’s the anticipation of not knowing when the disaster will occur,” Kevin said dryly. He peered down at his patient. “I imagine you have a massive headache.”

  “I do,” Cecily assured him, resisting the inclination to nod.

  “I will give you something for that.” He held up his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

  She blinked. “Three, but why—”

  “How many now?”

  “One.”

  “Good. Now follow my finger.”

  He moved it slowly from side to side and she followed it with her eyes.

  Seemingly satisfied, he straightened. “I don’t think there’s any serious concussion, but if the headache gets worse, or doesn’t go away in a day or two, give me a ring. All right?”

  Again she prevented a nod from increasing the pain. “All right.”

  “Do you hurt anywhere else? I did check you out pretty thoroughly. You don’t seem to have any broken bones, which is good news.”

  She flexed her right knee. The pain had decreased somewhat, and since there didn’t appear to be any serious damage to it, she murmured, “I have no doubt I’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Well, you’re bound to be sore for a day or two after a fall like that. If things don’t improve considerably in a few days, then please let me know.” With that, he tugged the stethoscope from his neck and tucked it in his black bag, then took out a small bottle of liquid.

  Turning to Baxter, he added, “See that she rests up for at least a day or so. I’ll leave this with you, and if you need more, send a footman to my office. The directions are on the bottle.”

  Baxter took the bottle from him and peered at it. “Thank you, Kevin. I appreciate you getting here so fast.”

  “Not at all. I’m just happy things turned out not to be as serious as we first thought.” He looked back at Cecily. “Do not do anything strenuous for at least a week. You need to take care of that crack on the head.”

  “I will.” She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry, Kevin. I’m stronger than I look.”

  “And just as stubborn.” He picked up his bag, muttering something to Baxter as he left the room.

  “What did he say to you?” Cecily demanded when her husband returned to her side.

  “He said he didn’t envy me trying to keep you in check.”

  She eyed him with suspicion, not sure if he was telling the truth, or if he was reluctant to repeat whatever it was Kevin had said. “How amusing.”

  Baxter gave her one of his rare smiles. “Indubitably. Now, tell me what happened out there. You are usually so sure-footed and you’ve been up and down those stairs a million times.”

  She shrugged, flinching as the movement sent pain through her head again. “Accidents happen. It was dark, I was thinking about other things and wasn’t paying attention. I was in too much of a hurry, I suppose. I will be sure to pay attention in the future.”

  He stared at her for so long, she was sure he was going to accuse her of keeping something from him, but then he twisted the cap off the bottle, poured a measure of the brown liquid into the cap, and leaned over to cradle her shoulders in his arm.

  “Drink this,” he said, “and then I’ll go down and have a word with Archie. I’ll have him take care of those lamps before he goes to bed. We certainly don’t need anyone else taking a tumble down there.”

  Obediently, she sipped the bitter liquid, shuddering as it drained down her throat. “Thank you, darling, but please, be careful how you handle Archie. He’s normally an excellent worker and I would really hate to lose him.”

  “Very well, my love.” Baxter replaced the cap on the bottle and stood it on the sideboard. “I shall hold my temper as best I can. It won’t be easy, however.” He bent over. “For a dreadful moment or two, when Charlotte summoned me to the stairs and I saw you lying there, I thought I’d lost you. I felt such a terrible devastation. It was quite unbearable.”

  Cecily reached up and touched his cheek. “You will never lose me, my darling. I’m certain we will be together throughout eternity.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth then stood up. “I will be back shortly. Please, don’t try to get up. You may not be steady on your feet and the last thing I want is for you to fall again.”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry. I’m quite drowsy. I’ll probably doze until you return.”

  “Good. Then I will help you into bed.” With a worried nod at her, he left the room.

  Left alone, Cecily stared at the ceiling and struggled to replay those moments on the stairs. Everything was hazy at best. She thought she remembered hearing a sound behind her just before she tripped. Had she imagined it, or had someone behind her jolted her so that she missed her footing? Had someone wanted her to fall? Someone who was afraid she was getting close to the truth and was determined to put an end to her investigation?

  Part of her had been tempted to tell Baxter about her suspicions. Had she done that, however, he would have panicked, and out of worry, he would no doubt have forbidden her to continue the investigation.

  In which case, there would have been subterfuge and evasions between them, something she had always hat
ed in the past. No, it was better that he not be made aware of her misgivings.

  So far, none of the guests had departed from the hotel. So, if the killer was, indeed, one of her guests, he was still in the hotel. On the other hand, since, at least to her knowledge, none of her staff had left, if one of them were guilty of murder, he also remained in the hotel.

  The missing link at the moment was motive. Just about anyone had opportunity and means. What she needed was to know who had a strong reason to kill Lord Farthingale.

  Her thoughts immediately switched to Edwin Coombs. He had obviously held a deep dislike for Lord Farthingale, though she had to admit, the motive was somewhat thin. The victim had accused Coombs of cheating, but was that enough reason to kill a man? Was Coombs, perhaps, afraid that his reputation would be ruined if someone was allowed to broadcast far and wide that he was a cheat?

  Then again, there remained the mysterious business matter to which Lady Farthingale referred. For a moment Cecily had forgotten about that. If only she could find out with what sort of transaction Lord Farthingale was involved, it might shed some light on the puzzle.

  Her mind flashed back to her conversation with Lady Farthingale. It must have been frustrating for the widow to be celebrating something without knowing what it was. Why had her husband refused to tell her the details? Had there been something unsavory about the deal? Was that why Coombs had felt compelled to silence the man?

  One thing seemed certain—if Lord Farthingale’s killer had been responsible for her falling down the stairs, it couldn’t have been Mazie, since she was locked up in jail.

  Cecily sat up. Maybe she should inform Sam Northcott of her suspicions. Although she had no proof that it was more than a simple accident—it was merely a feeling of something not quite right about it all. She seriously doubted that Sam would accept that as a reason to release Mazie.

  Her head ached with the effort to work it all out. She acknowledged that she could be simply overreacting—to nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. On the other hand, it could mean that the killer was aware she was on his trail and had issued a warning. If that was so, she would have to be very much on her guard until the culprit was identified and arrested.