Forcing her mind back to the problem at hand, she tried to concentrate. Sir Clarence would be no problem, as he spent most evenings in the card rooms. Lady Oakes, on the other hand, was unpredictable. Some evenings she spent in the library, others in her room.
Cecily tapped her fingers on the surface of her desk. Maybe she could spot them leaving the hotel together during the day. But then other people would be wandering around and could possibly notice her entering Sir Clarence’s suite.
No, that would not do. She was instantly recognizable. Better to attempt the search at night, when most of the guests would be occupied.
She curled her fingers into her palm as she remembered something. The pantomime was to be presented tomorrow night. As long as Sir Clarence and his wife attended the performance together, she could be assured of plenty of time to search the rooms.
Baxter would not be happy if she left him alone to suffer through Phoebe’s masterpiece, and would certainly object if he knew why she was deserting him. He would probably insist on accompanying her on the search.
She could not allow that. On her own, she could most likely sneak out of there without being noticed. The two of them leaving together would certainly attract attention. She would have to come up with a really pressing excuse for deserting him and pray that, for once, he remained where he was until she returned.
With any luck at all, she just might find something to connect Sir Clarence to the murders. Then Inspector Cranshaw could take it from there.
Having settled that, she turned her attention to the accounts ledger, and tried not to think about what might happen should her luck run out.
* * *
• • •
Alone in the stable that afternoon, Charlie led Champion out of his stall and backed him between the shafts of the carriage. “Come on, boy,” he said as he lifted the carriage shafts and threaded them through the togs. “It’s time to go to work. Some of the toffs want to go into town to spend their money in the shops, and we want to give them all the help they need.”
Champion nodded his head as if he understood, and Charlie fondled the horse’s ear. “You’re a good boy, Champion. Too bad you’re not a dog.”
“You like dogs?”
The soft voice behind him made Charlie jump. Recognizing Henry’s tantalizing tones, he stiffened his back. “Yeah, I like dogs. Don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I love them.”
Charlie briefly closed his eyes as the tingling started again in his neck. “Well, good.”
“Lilly says you used to have a dog.”
Bracing himself, Charlie turned around. He could see it now, plain as the nose on his face. The gentle smile, the warm eyes, the smooth cheeks—he must have been blind not to realize it before. Henry was all girl, and oh, how he wanted to tell her he knew it.
“Yeah,” he said gruffly, “there used to be a dog around here, but it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Samuel, the stable manager before me.”
Henry nodded. “I know about Samuel. His wife, Pansy, comes into the kitchen sometimes to see Gertie.”
“Yeah, well, they took Tess with them when they got married and Pansy left the Pennyfoot.”
Henry’s soft blue eyes gazed into his, prompting his heart to start thumping like a bass drum. “You must miss her dreadfully.”
Confused, he stared at her. “Pansy?”
Henry laughed—a high, lilting sound that seemed to echo in Charlie’s ears. He must have shown something in his face, as she quickly changed the laugh to a cough. “I meant the dog.” She turned away, muttering, “I have to get back to work.”
Cursing under his breath, Charlie spun around and buckled the breeching around the shaft. From now on, he promised himself, he’d stay out of Henry’s way. No more chitchat, just orders when he had to give them and nothing else.
Finishing up the harnessing, he grabbed the traces and started to lead Champion out of the stables. He’d gone only one step when the horse whinnied and reared up, sending the carriage twisting sideways. One of the shafts struck the door of the stall with a resounding clatter.
Henry’s voice floated down to Charlie as he stared at the quivering horse. “What was that? Are you all right?”
Seeing Henry heading his way, Charlie yelled, “I’m okay. Get back to work.”
He must have sounded a bit harsh, as Henry halted, then without a word, turned around and marched back to the motorcar she’d been working on.
Cursing again, Charlie sped around the carriage to inspect the damage. The shaft was slightly chipped on the end, and the stall door had a dent in it. Otherwise there didn’t seem to be any serious damage.
When he examined the harness, he saw that he had forgotten to buckle one of the traces. The shaft had slipped out of the tog when Champion stepped forward.
The horse was still quivering, and it took him a few moments to calm him. By the time he’d fastened everything securely and made sure Champion was relaxed again, Henry had disappeared.
Charlie stared into the empty space where Henry had been working. He owed the lad . . . girl . . . an apology. That would have to wait now. Turning back to the horse, he whispered, “I’m a mess, Champion. Well and truly buggered. I’ll have to do something about this, or I’ll be causing an accident.”
Champion turned his head and nudged Charlie on the shoulder. It didn’t solve his problem, but it did make Charlie feel a little better. And he’d have to make do with that. For now.
CHAPTER
16
Alone in her office the next morning, Cecily found it difficult to concentrate. Gertie had delivered the orders for supplies and the list lay on the desk, but when Cecily looked at it, all she could see was a blur of her housekeeper’s scrawl on the paper.
Every instinct she had told her that Sir Clarence Oakes had killed Lord Farthingale. Yet, for some reason, a lingering doubt kept intruding on her thoughts. That annoying little voice in the back of her mind kept trying to tell her something, and no matter how hard she concentrated, she just couldn’t quite grasp it.
The shrill jingling of the telephone made her jump. She snatched up the receiver and pressed it to her ear. “Yes, Philip. What is it?”
“I have the telephone operator on the line, m’m,” Philip said, sounding bored. “Shall I put her through?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“Yes, m’m.” There followed a click, then silence.
“Hello?” Cecily shook the receiver, glared at it, then spoke into it again. “Hello? Are you there?” How she hated all these newfangled inventions. The dratted motorcar was bad enough, but now inventors were creating machines to do everything. There were even machines that sewed and ones that could write. Not that she’d ever use one. What was wrong with good old-fashioned handwriting, she’d like to know?
As for the telephone, true, it was a lot more convenient than having to wait for a carriage to visit the constabulary, but it annoyed her considerably when the dratted thing didn’t work the way it was supposed to. She raised her voice. “Hello! Are you there?”
A series of clicks answered her, then Philip’s voice followed, now sounding only slightly less bored. “Sorry, m’m. I pulled the wrong plug. I’ll put you through now.”
Shaking her head, Cecily waited through another two or three clicks, until the sharp voice of the operator spoke in her ear.
“Mrs. Baxter?”
“I am Mrs. Baxter,” Cecily said, trying not to sound testy.
“I have Police Constable Northcott on the line for you.”
Cecily straightened her back. Sam never rang her unless it was something vitally important.
After a moment of silence, Sam’s voice echoed down the line. “Mrs. B? Is that you?”
“Yes, Sam.” Cecily let out her breath. “What’s happened? Is Mazie all right?”
“Yes
, m’m. Your maid is fine. She’s not eating much and she cries a lot, but otherwise she is fine.”
“So, why are you ringing me?”
“I wanted to let you know, m’m . . .” Sam cleared his throat. “The inspector will be returning to Badgers End tomorrow. I expect he will transfer Mazie to the jail while she awaits trial.”
Cecily uttered a cry of protest. The thought of her terrified maid being thrust into a crowded cell with criminals was too much to bear. “He can’t do that! He has no proof.”
“That’ll be up to the courts to decide. All the evidence points to the maid. I’m sorry, m’m. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You can find out who really killed Lord Farthingale instead of sitting on your rear end, doing nothing,” Cecily snapped, and was immediately ashamed of her outburst. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she quickly added, “I am out of sorts this morning. I will speak with you later. Thank you for warning me about Inspector Cranshaw.”
She dropped the receiver back onto the hook and glared at it for several moments, as if it might give her some idea of how to prove Sir Clarence guilty of murder. Her only hope, she decided, was to stick to her plan and search the Oakeses’ suite. She just prayed that Phoebe’s pantomime would be riveting enough to keep the aristocrats in their seats long enough for her to conduct a thorough inspection.
Glancing up at the clock, she hoped the next few hours would pass by quickly. She wanted this crisis over and done with, so that a vicious killer could be punished for his crime and Mazie could be free to enjoy the Christmas festivities.
* * *
• • •
It was almost noon, and the typical midday uproar in the kitchen had reached its peak. Michel’s saucepan lids crashed and clattered as he inspected the contents of his pots and pans, Mrs. Chubb yelled orders to the maids, doors slammed as people raced in and out, and an ache was threatening in Gertie’s head.
She’d had the sniffles all morning, and hoped fervently that she wasn’t coming down with a cold. Not now, when they were so busy and Christmas was right around the corner. She was taking the twins to the pantomime tonight, and looking forward to it. More for what could go wrong than for what went right.
Her hands, buried in ice-cold water as she rinsed soil off the cabbages, felt numb. She pulled them from the sink and dried them on her apron. She would have liked to warm them in front of the stove, but Michel would have a pink fit if she got in his way.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Michel’s raspy voice roared above the din. “Zut alors! Where eez my Brussels sprouts, huh?”
Mrs. Chubb smacked her knife down on the cutting board, which held the remains of a ham. “For goodness’ sake, Michel! Do you have to yell like that? I almost cut my hand off.”
Michel glared at her, his tall chef’s hat bobbing as he shook his fist at her. “I order the Brussels sprouts, non? I say I need them this morning. They are not here.” He waved a hand at the counter next to him. “Gertie! You have them in the sink, oui?”
“Non.” Gertie blew on her icy fingers. “I’m washing cabbages.”
“Cabbages?” Michel threw up his hands. “How can I make the steak and kidney pie without the Brussels sprouts?”
Mrs. Chubb folded her arms. “Use the cabbage instead and stop acting like an imbecile.”
Michel’s cheeks glowed red. “Imbecile? It is you that is the imbecile. You ruin my cooking with your cabbage. I need my Brussels sprouts, and I need them now. Or there will be no lunch for anyone.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Raising her voice, she called out, “Gertie!”
Hearing her name, Gertie twisted her head to look at the housekeeper.
“Go and find Archie,” Mrs. Chubb said, flicking her hand at the door. “Ask him to pick two buckets of sprouts and bring them here to the kitchen as fast as possible.”
Out of the corner of her eye Gertie could see Charlotte glaring at her. Too bleeding bad. Charlotte could wash the cabbages now. Giving her friend a triumphant grin, Gertie hurried over to the door.
“Five minutes!” Michel roared. “Not a second later!”
Rolling her eyes, Gertie dragged the door open and charged into the hallway, almost knocking Lilly flying as they came face-to-face.
“Sorry,” Gertie muttered and fled to the stairs. She had five minutes, and she was going to make the most of them.
It took her four times that long to find Archie. He wasn’t in the ballroom, which was the most obvious place to look, nor was he in the courtyard. After questioning Philip, which was, as usual, a complete waste of time, and a couple of footmen, she learned that Archie had gone back to his cottage to fetch some tools.
Icy pellets of hail spattered down on her head as she rounded the side of the building and headed for the cottage. She wished now that she’d grabbed her shawl on the way out. Just as she reached the gravel path leading up to the front steps, the door opened and Archie stepped outside, carrying a box of tools in one hand and a broom in the other.
He seemed shocked to see her and halted, his face wearing a wary look as if expecting bad news.
Gertie slowed her step as she walked toward him. Without waiting to reach him, she called out, “I have a message from Mrs. Chubb.”
Archie kept his gaze on her face as she drew closer. “What is it?”
Gertie pressed a hand to her throat. “Wait while I get my breath.”
“You’re puffing a bit. Were you running?”
“Sort of.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “Okay. Mrs. Chubb wants you to pick two buckets of Brussels sprouts and bring them to the kitchen right away. Michel’s waiting for them.”
Archie looked relieved. “Is that all? I thought something bad had happened again.”
“What? No! But it might if you don’t get those sprouts back to Michel. He needed them ages ago.”
“Yes, madam. Right away.” Archie thrust the tools and the broom at her. “Take those to the courtyard for me, there’s a love. Just leave them by the coal shed. I’ll pick them up later.”
Gertie grabbed hold of the heavy tool box. “Who do you think I am? Your bloody lackey?”
Archie grinned. “No, sir. You’re nobody’s lackey. I can tell that. Just a good friend doing me a favor. Right? I promise I’ll return it someday soon.”
“I’ll keep you to that.” She took the broom from him. “You know we have brooms in the hallway closets, don’t you?”
“Not like this one.” Archie gave it a pat. “This one’s special. Are you coming to the pantomime tonight?”
Startled by the abrupt change of subject, she stared at him. “I hope so. Dinner is being served early tonight, so if we can get everything cleared away in time, we should be able to see most of it.”
“Good.” He nodded. “See you there, then.” With a saucy wink at her, he sprinted off in the direction of the vegetable gardens.
She stood staring after him for several seconds before she finally pulled herself together and headed back to the kitchen. She had to keep reminding herself that he was soft on Mazie, and if Mazie never came back, there was Charlotte waiting in the wings. Too much competition for her, she told herself, as she stomped across the courtyard. Not that she was interested anyway.
All she wanted to do now was drop the tools by the coal shed and get back into the nice warm kitchen. Even if it meant washing cabbages in ice-cold water.
* * *
• • •
Phoebe stood behind the drawn curtains, listening to the hum of voices from the audience. The rows were filling up, and she was anxious to see if she had a full house. Drawing the edge of one curtain aside just enough to peer through the opening, she quicky scanned the seats.
They were about half-full, but it was early yet. Still twenty minutes or so before the orchestra played the introduction. Actually, the orchest
ra was a quartet, consisting of piano, drums, bass, and clarinet. Not exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d planned her masterpiece, but all she could afford within her budget.
Still, they were adequate, and the dress rehearsal had gone better than she’d expected. If the actual performance went as well, she would be ecstatic. She firmly believed that Madeline had put a curse on her presentations, since not one of them had been performed without some kind of disruption.
Letting go of the curtain, she took a last look around the stage, then trotted off to the wings to look in on her performers. They should all be dressed by now and ready to go. She wanted to make quite sure every one of them was clothed to perfection. This was an ambitious project for her, and the journey had not been without headaches.
She didn’t exactly have the cream of the crop to work with, but she had done her best with what she had, and the result had been satisfactory.
Reaching the dressing room door, she threw it open. The babble of voices ceased the moment she stepped into the room. Several of the young women sat in chairs in various stages of dressing. Adelaide Lewis, the young woman playing Aladdin, stood in front of the full-length mirror, frowning at her image.
Catching sight of Phoebe’s reflection, Adelaide spun around. “Look at these!” She tugged at her baggy white trousers, which were actually ladies’ bloomers with the frills cut off. “They make me look fat. Why can’t I wear tights, like they do on the London stage?”
Phoebe stared at her in shock. “Tights? I would never let my ladies appear onstage in such revealing attire. Besides, Aladdin is an Arab. That’s what they wear. Billowing trousers and a waistcoat over a shirt.” Phoebe examined her star with a keen eye. She was rather proud of the blue satin waistcoat. She’d found it in the secondhand shop in the High Street, and had snapped it up.
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