A Merry Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  The foyer looked somewhat drab compared to the lush arrangements Madeline had used in the Pennyfoot. A small Christmas tree stood in one corner, with a few baubles and ribbons hanging from its branches, and a single wreath clung to the railings of the staircase. The chandelier looked rather gaudy, Cecily thought, with all that silver tinsel draped over it. Still, there was no accounting for taste.

  “Madam? What is the name of your friend?”

  Catching sight of the gray hat, she quickly turned back to the clerk. “Never mind. I see her.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried over to where Lady Farthingale sat on a blue velvet chaise longue.

  The widow seemed preoccupied, staring into space as if she were following a scene unfolding in her mind.

  Cecily paused in front of her, saying quietly, “Lady Farthingale? I hope you remember me?”

  The widow looked up, her entire body jerking in recognition. “Mrs. Baxter! This is a surprise!”

  And not a particularly pleasant one, Cecily reflected, judging by the look on the dowager’s face. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I happened to see you in the High Street and I thought you might have returned here.” She sent a quick glance around her. “Would you mind if we talked in private?”

  Lady Farthingale’s expression registered a flash of apprehension, then she nodded. “Of course. We can go up to my room.” She got up slowly, as if immensely weary, and started for the stairs.

  Once inside her room, she gestured at one of the two chairs by the window. “Not terribly comfortable, I’m afraid,” she murmured as she took the other seat.

  Thankful to sit down, Cecily cleared her throat. “I must confess, I was surprised to see you back in Badgers End.”

  Lady Farthingale removed her hat pins, then took off her hat and laid it on the table at her side. “P.C. Northcott sent me a telegram yesterday morning. He wanted me to make arrangements for my husband’s body. I arrived yesterday afternoon, too late to talk to the constable. Fortunately, my room here was still vacant, so I was able to stay the night. I spoke with P.C. Northcott this afternoon.”

  Watching Lady Farthingale’s stony expression, Cecily couldn’t be sure if the widow was being stoic about the ordeal with Sam Northcott, or if, perhaps, she was trying to hide the fact that she had been responsible for the attack on the stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was. Most upsetting.”

  But apparently not enough to prevent the dowager from enjoying a spot of shopping on the way back to the hotel.

  Cecily was immediately ashamed of her uncharitable thought. It was quite possible the woman was telling the truth. Buying something frivolous for oneself was a common cure for a lady’s distress. “So,” she said brightly, “I assume you will be returning to London shortly.”

  “Actually, I shall be here for a day or two longer.” The dowager sighed. “There are still some formalities that need to be taken care of, and I want to dispose of everything before I leave.” She sent Cecily a brief glance. “Forgive me for saying so, but I have no desire to return to Badgers End. As you can imagine, this place has nothing but ugly memories for me.”

  “Of course. I quite understand.” Cecily rose, and smoothed down her skirt. “I will leave you now, Lady Farthingale, and I wish you a more pleasing future ahead.”

  “Thank you.” The widow also rose. “I hope you enjoy a very happy Christmas.”

  “And you.” Cecily left her alone, uncomfortably aware that a joyful holiday was probably not in the cards for Lady Farthingale—a thought that would shortly come back to haunt her.

  Climbing once more into the carriage, she made herself comfortable on the cold leather seat, her mind already revisiting her conversation with the dowager. Lady Farthingale’s attitude had changed since their meeting in London.

  Back then, the widow had been uncommonly blasé about the death of her husband. Now, however, she seemed despondent. It was likely that the reality of her situation had not transpired until she had actually viewed her husband’s body. She could also be worried that her hand in it would be revealed and she would spend the rest of her life in prison. Or worse.

  It didn’t seem possible that the graceful dowager could have struck down her husband, even in anger. Then again, Cecily knew quite well that even the unlikeliest person was capable of murder if the motive was strong enough.

  Lady Farthingale had obviously been unhappy in her marriage, and her husband’s death gave her the escape she needed. Had she planned to rid herself of him by sending him the note, knowing that he would not be able to resist a midnight rendezvous with a pretty maid?

  It would have been simple to raise the heavy flatiron and bring it down on his head as he entered the room. It would have been dark, unless he had been carrying an oil lamp. Then again, no lamp was found in the room, though the killer could have taken it away.

  But if Lady Farthingale had killed her husband, why would she have tied her own scarf around his neck? Again, Sam’s theory came to mind. She thought he wasn’t quite dead yet so she finished him off with her scarf.

  Cecily closed her eyes as the memory of the night before came back to haunt her. Had Lady Farthingale somehow slipped into the hotel and waited for her on the stairs? Had she imagined that slight sound behind her and the nudge in the back just before she fell? Was her mind playing tricks on her?

  She gave herself a mental shake. She was clutching at straws. Even if she was right about someone causing her fall last night, she couldn’t imagine Lady Farthingale being that desperate.

  What she needed, she told herself, was to go home, have a nice evening meal with her husband, and rest her aching knee.

  Having settled that, she leaned back and glanced out the window. The carriage jerked as Henry pulled away from the curb, and she was just in time to see a gentleman hastily mounting the steps to the hotel. She recognized him instantly.

  What, she wondered, was Sir Clarence Oakes doing at the Regency? Was he, perhaps, engaging in a liaison with a female companion, unbeknownst to his wife? If so, he was playing a dangerous game. She would not want to be in his shoes if his wife found out about his infidelity.

  Arriving back at the hotel, she crossed the lobby to where Philip was dozing behind his desk. Baxter had been unable to locate Archie the night before, and she needed to know he had been successful today in talking to the maintenance man about replacing the wicks in the staircase lamps.

  Tapping on the counter, she said loudly, “Philip, I need you to summon Archie to the lobby.”

  Philip started, stared at her for a moment, then mumbled, “Yes, m’m. Right away, m’m.” He started to reach for the bellpull behind him, then turned back to her. “I believe he’s in the ballroom, m’m. I shall have to summon one of the maids to fetch him.”

  “Never mind. I’ll go to the ballroom myself.” Wishing she had a cane to lean on, Cecily made her way slowly down the long hallway to the ballroom.

  The sound of hammering reached her as she approached the doors. Pushing them open, she spotted her maintenance man on his knees on the stage in front of a façade of a palace. Archie had created a magnificent piece of scenery. The cream walls rose at least twelve feet high, and were topped with bright turquoise globular towers. The grand entrance was framed in gold, with steps leading up to the door.

  As Cecily drew closer, she saw that the set actually sat on a large, round platform. Impressed, she could only stand and stare, until the hammering stopped and Archie climbed to his feet.

  As he turned, he caught sight of her, and snatched off his cap. “Pardon me, m’m. I didn’t see you there.”

  “It’s all right, Archie. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She waved a hand at the set. “This is spectacular. Phoebe must be ecstatic.”

  Archie grinned. “Mrs. Fortescue is a hard one to please, if I may be so bold
.”

  “But surely she must adore what you have done.” Cecily studied the palace again. “Though I must confess, I don’t understand why it’s sitting on a platform.”

  “It’s a turntable.” Archie beamed with pride. “It’s called the Shakespeare stage because they use it a lot in Shakespeare’s plays that have a lot of different scenes. There are two other sets on it. We just have to move the whole thing around for the scenes. It saves a lot of time and effort.”

  “It revolves?” She moved closer. “How?”

  Archie’s grin grew wider. “With the help of a cartwheel and rope. I’ll be backstage on the night hauling this thing around.”

  Cecily shook her head in awe. “Phoebe must be over the moon. She has never had such a spectacular set.”

  “Thank you, m’m. I’ll tell her you said so. But it wasn’t just me. Wally helped, and I couldn’t have done all this without him.”

  “Then I commend Wally as well. I sincerely hope Mrs. Fortescue expresses her gratitude and gives you both all the praise you deserve. I shall advise her to mention your names at the conclusion of the performance.”

  “Thank you, m’m, but it’s not necessary. We’re just doing our job.”

  Impressed by his modesty, she stepped closer. “Has my husband stopped by today to have a word with you?”

  “Mr. Baxter? Yes, m’m. I spoke to him this afternoon.”

  “Then he told you the lamps on the staircase needed attention?”

  Archie pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Yes, m’m, he did. I looked at them, but the wicks are not burned out. Someone must have turned them down really low. I turned them back up again, so they should be nice and bright now.”

  Cecily stared at him, her mind racing. “I see,” she said at last. “Well, thank you, Archie. Keep up the good work, and tell Mrs. Fortescue I consider her extremely fortunate to have such remarkable help with her pantomime.”

  “Yes, m’m. Thank you, m’m.”

  She was about to leave when she remembered something else. “Oh, by the way, I’m assuming you have heard about the unfortunate incident in the laundry room the other night?” She’d carefully worded her question, just in case the man hadn’t heard the gossip.

  She wasn’t too surprised when he answered, “Yes, m’m. I heard it from one of the maids. Nasty business, that.”

  “Yes, very.” Cecily paused, then added quickly, “Mr. Baxter happened to mention to me that he saw you crossing the bowling green on that night around midnight.”

  Archie’s face seemed to close up. “Yes, m’m. I had to fix the plumbing in the ground floor WC and I had to wait for the guests to leave the library.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be working after hours.” Cecily smiled to reassure him. “I was wondering if you happened to notice anything out of the ordinary as you left?”

  Archie’s gaze met hers. “No, m’m. I did not.”

  “Very well. If you should happen to think of something later, I trust you will tell me?”

  “Yes, m’m. I will, indeed.”

  Leaving the ballroom, Cecily replayed Archie’s comments about the gas lamps in her mind.

  The wicks had been turned down low. By whom? And why? The answers seemed obvious. Someone had darkened the stairway, then waited for her to descend. She hadn’t imagined it after all. Now that she thought about it, she remembered something else. Just before she’d reached the stairs, she’d thought she’d heard footsteps on the landing behind her.

  Now there was no longer any doubt in her mind. Someone had waited for her to start down the stairs, and had given her a little push to make sure she fell.

  Lord Farthingale’s killer was still in the hotel and was either sending her a warning to abandon her investigation, or intended to put a halt to it permanently.

  As she began the climb to her suite, she squared her shoulders. The revelation only strengthened her determination. Mazie was innocent, and the villain had to pay. Somehow, she would see to it, and soon.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Standing just inside the stable doors, Charlie stuck his hands into the bucket of ice-cold water. Scooping up a pool in his palms, he sloshed it over his face, then reached for a grubby towel hanging from a hook on the wall.

  After drying his face, he raked his fingers through his hair, took one last look into the cracked mirror, then headed out the doors. It was almost time for Lilly to put out the churns, and he didn’t want to miss her.

  The yard was empty when he approached the kitchen door, but there were no churns on the doorstep. Relaxing his shoulders, he leaned against the wall to wait.

  After a few minutes his arm felt numb, and he pushed himself away from the wall. The cold was making his bones ache, and he contemplated going into the warm kitchen to confront Lilly. But that wouldn’t work. She’d never tell him a secret with people around them.

  Besides, he hadn’t given up on the idea of courting her, and his chances would be close to nothing if he made a move in front of everybody. Stamping his feet, he rubbed his chilled hands together. He’d give her another few minutes. It was almost time to go in for his supper, and his chances of catching her alone after that would be shot.

  At that moment the door opened and Lilly stepped outside, the milk churns in her hands. She spotted him instantly, and dropped the churns on the ground with a clatter. “Whatcha doing out here in the cold?” She turned back to the door, which stood ajar. “Trying to catch pneumonia?”

  “I was waiting to see you.” Charlie had a hard time stopping his teeth from chattering. “You’re late tonight.”

  “Yeah. I got busy in the kitchen.” She looked back at him. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.” He stepped toward her, then halted as he saw alarm flash in her eyes. “I just want to ask you what you were going to tell me the other night.”

  For a long moment she hesitated, then quietly closed the door. Turning back to him, she lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my secret, and I have no right to tell you. If you want to know what it is, you’ll have to ask Henry.”

  Charlie shrugged. “He’s not going to tell me anything. He’s more tight-lipped than a priest in a brothel.” Emboldened by the flicker of amusement he saw in her eyes, he added casually, “How about coming down the pub with me tomorrow night? It’s your afternoon off, right? I’ll treat you to a gin and orange.”

  “Sorry. I changed my time off to today.”

  “Well, we could go later, then. After you’re finished for the day.”

  He wasn’t really surprised when she turned away from him and opened the door again. “No, thanks. I’ve got letters to write.” She slipped through the door, but before she closed it again, she stuck her face through the gap. “Maybe you should take Henry down the pub.”

  She shut the door before he could answer her. Frowning, he shoved his hands in his pockets. What the heck was she getting at? Surely, she didn’t think he was . . . nah . . . he was much too virile for her to make that mistake.

  That settled it. He needed a lady friend, and he needed one now. He would either have to step up his pursuit of Lilly, or find someone else to keep him company.

  He reached out to open the kitchen door, just as footsteps crunched up behind him. All his senses went on alert. He knew who it was walking toward him, and he didn’t like the way it made him feel. Somehow he had to get Henry Simmons out of his head, once and for all.

  Without turning around, he shoved open the door and charged into the kitchen, startling Michel, who was reaching into a cupboard.

  The chef uttered a fierce “Mon Dieu!” and leapt back, a bag of raisins flying from his hand to land on the floor. The bag split open, spilling the contents across the tiled floor.

  Charlie pulled up short, muttering, “Sorry.”

 
Michel stared down at the mess, straightened his tall chef’s hat, then turned on his assailant. “Sorry? You are sorry? Do you know how much ze raisins cost? These are the only raisins I have for my puddings. Now they are on ze floor.” He jerked his hand at his feet. “How you think I make my puddings now?”

  “They’re not all on the floor.” Charlie squatted down, picked up the half-empty bag, and rose, handing the bag to the chef. “Here. There’s still lots left.”

  Michel sniffed, and snatched the raisins from Charlie’s fingers. “Now you pick up the rest of them, oui? You wash each one of them très carefully, and then you put them back in this bag.”

  He dropped the bag on the kitchen table and folded his arms. “And you do it now.”

  Charlie winced, but before he could say anything, Henry’s soft voice spoke from behind him.

  “I’ll help you.” The lad stooped down and started picking up the dried fruit, one by one.

  As Charlie stared down at him, he felt a warm feeling of gratitude spreading all over him. At least, he hoped it was gratitude and nothing more. Shaking his head, he muttered a terse “Thanks” and bent down beside his assistant to help.

  * * *

  • • •

  Gertie slept badly that night, turning and tossing, drifting off only to dream about being chased by a gang of thugs brandishing swords. She awoke the next morning with a headache and a hearty wish that she had never agreed to go on a protest with Charlotte.

  She only hoped that the girl had learned her lesson and had given up all ideas of being a suffragette. Some people, she told herself as she splashed her face and hands with chilly water, were gluttons for punishment.

  Even herself once. That was before she grew up and got some bloody sense in her noggin. There were those what could take all that violence and suffering for the cause. She’d done her share, and although she was wholeheartedly with them in spirit, she was not going to risk life and limb when she had Lillian and James to worry about.

  Charlotte was still snoring in bed, and Gertie leaned over to shake her awake. “Come on, lazybones, it’s time to get up.”