“Oh, of course, m’m. Not a word.” Mrs. Chubb got up and hurried over to the door. Reaching it, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. “She’s going to be all right, m’m, isn’t she? Gertie, I mean. She’s not going to be arrested?”
“I will certainly do everything I can to prevent it.”
Mrs. Chubb nodded, though she looked far from convinced. “So will I, m’m. Just let me know what I can do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Altheda. Thank you.”
“It’s turning out to be a rotten week all round.” Mrs. Chubb pulled the door open. “I lost my ring down the sink yesterday. My mother gave that ring to me. I’ve had it since I was a little girl.”
“Oh, Altheda, I’m so sorry. Perhaps Clive can get it back for you.”
The housekeeper’s face lit up with hope. “You think so? I didn’t think to ask him.”
“Well, I think he can take the drainpipe apart or something. I don’t know if he will find your ring, but it’s certainly worth a try. Why don’t you ask him.”
“I will, m’m. Thanks ever so!”
Cecily watched the door close behind her housekeeper and let out her breath on a sigh. Gertie, Clive, and Dan. All of them had a reason to be angry enough at Ian to strike out at him. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to think that any one of them might have been responsible for his death.
Then there was that nasty little man, Archie Parker. How did he know so much about Ian’s personal life? Could he have known the dead man? If so, was it more than a coincidence that he was staying at the Pennyfoot at the same time Ian was in Badgers End?
One thing seemed certain. Whether or not the blow to Ian’s head was meant to kill or just to punish, a man had died, and someone would have to pay for it. Cecily could only hope and pray that an innocent person would not have to suffer the consequences.
CHAPTER 11
Later that morning Dr. Kevin Prestwick rang Cecily with the distressing news that the autopsy had shown no water in Ian’s lungs. “It would appear,” Kevin said, “that the blow to the head was the cause of death. I’m afraid Northcott was right. It appears that Ian Rossiter was murdered.”
“Oh, dear.” Cecily tightened her grip on the receiver. “I’m afraid Gertie is in a lot of trouble unless we can find out who did this.”
“And you’re quite convinced your housemaid isn’t responsible?”
Cecily wished she could answer that, but at this point, she wasn’t sure of anything. “All I can say is that I find it hard to believe Gertie could do such a thing.”
“Who knows what we are capable of when acting out of anger and fear.”
“Well, I certainly think that Sam Northcott needs a lot more evidence before he can accuse Gertie of murder. She wasn’t the only one angry with Ian.”
“Seems to me you have a large pot of trouble coming to the boil.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. I’ll just have to do my best to find out what really happened that night.”
“You will be careful?”
She smiled at the concern in his voice. “I’m always careful, Kevin. Just ask my husband.” She thanked him, then replaced the receiver on its hook.
Leaning her elbows on the desk, she rested her chin on her folded hands. Something Northcott had said had come back to her. She was the last one to see the victim alive last night. But according to both Gertie and Mrs. Chubb, Ian had left before Dan got there around seven o’clock. There could have been many people who had seen Ian after that.
She shook her head. None of it made sense. Her best move was to try and find out who told Sam Northcott about Gertie threatening Ian with a knife.
It took her fifteen minutes to track down Michel. She found him in the saloon bar, sipping a cup of coffee that no doubt had a measure of brandy in it.
She motioned him away from the counter, where he was exchanging jokes with the barman, and led him out into the hallway, where they were unlikely to be overheard.
“I understand that Gertie had an argument with Ian in the kitchen the night he died,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I was wondering if you happened to overhear them.”
Michel’s face looked pale in the dim light from the window at the end of the corridor. It was a gray day outside, and since the rain had washed the snow away, there was no bright reflection to light the dark hallways.
Cecily made a mental note to have the gas lamps lit while she waited for Michel’s answer.
“No, madame, I did not see or hear them at all.” Michel shook his head for emphasis. “I leave immediately after cooking the supper. I had the plum puddings in the oven and they would not be cooked until nine o’clock that night, oui? I do not want to wait around all that time, so I go home early and come back later.” He pinched his fingers together, touched them to his lips then spread them open. “Ze puddings, ah! They smell divine, oui?”
“They do, indeed, Michel. Thank you.”
She was about to turn away when he added, “I did see Clive Russell, however. I did not expect anyone out in the yard so late. He made me jump in my skin. He came up behind me as I went in the back door. Sacre bleu! That man is a giant.”
Cecily frowned. “What time was that?”
Michel shrugged. “Nine o’clock, perhaps. Maybe a little later. I had come back to take out the puddings.”
“Well, thank you, Michel. You can go back to finish your coffee now.”
“Yes, madame.” Michel gave her a little bow, then disappeared back into the bar.
Walking back to her office, Cecily wrinkled her brow. Clive always left about six o’clock, unless she specifically asked him to stay longer to work on something. She hadn’t had to ask him to stay for at least a month. So what was he doing in the kitchen yard at nine o’clock that night?
Deep in thought, she didn’t see the woman standing by her door until a shrill voice shattered her concentration.
“Cecily, dear! I was just coming to see you! I peeked in the ballroom and I noticed the backdrop isn’t in place on the stage.” The petite woman flapped a hand in front of her flushed face. “I do hope and pray it will be ready for the performance tonight.”
“Hello, Phoebe.” Cecily smiled at the newcomer, more to put her at ease than because she felt like smiling. Phoebe could be exhausting at the best of times, and if she’d brought the colonel along, things could get even more difficult.
Colonel Frederick Fortescue had fought in the Boer War, and as a result of his experiences had returned home with an addled brain that fluctuated between endless memories of his war days and, at times, a belief that he was still on the front line.
Dealing with the colonel kept one on one’s toes, in more ways than one. Phoebe’s way of dealing with him was to ignore his problem and convince herself he was completely normal.
Right now, however, the lady seemed extremely upset by the lack of a perfect setting for her pantomime. “Really, Cecily, I should have thought everything would have been ready. I have quite enough to worry about getting my girls organized and in place. I really can’t be fretting about the stage scenery as well.”
“Don’t worry, Phoebe.” Cecily opened the door of her office and ushered her visitor inside. “The backdrop is getting a little touch-up of paint, that’s all. It was looking a bit drab, and I knew you wouldn’t be happy to see it in that state so I had Clive freshen it up for you.”
“Oh.” Phoebe’s wide-brimmed hat, loaded with pink ostrich feathers, blue ribbons, and purple grapes, wobbled precariously on her head as she plopped down on a chair. “Well, I certainly hope he has it done before curtain this evening.”
“He has promised to have everything set up by this afternoon.”
“Well, good.” Phoebe fanned her face again. “I don’t know why I’m so warm. It’s quite chilly outside, though I’m happy to say the snow has all gone. All that slush does dreadful things to the hems of my skirts.”