“It vanished the moment I heard Northcott’s name.” He heaved such a sigh it lifted a strand of Cecily’s hair. “I only hope he is not here on police business. For some odd reason, this time of year seems to attract bad news.”
“He’s probably here, as you say, on the off chance there’s a stray mince pie or sausage roll lying about in the kitchen.”
Baxter’s frown intensified. “You will remember your promise, I trust?”
She drew back. “How could I possibly forget? You gave up a tremendously exciting career in exchange for it.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then, seemingly satisfied, raised his newspaper once more. “Well, I’m relieved that it is you who must deal with him and not me.”
“So is he, no doubt,” Cecily murmured, as she crossed the room to the door. “I’ll have Mrs. Chubb send up our midday meal, or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?”
“Too drafty,” Baxter muttered. “I vastly prefer eating here by the fire.” She was almost out of the door before he added, “With you.”
Smiling, she made her way to the staircase and hurried downstairs.
Her smile faded by the time she reached the library. A visit from the constabulary was always unsettling, and she couldn’t imagine what was so important as to bring P.C. Northcott to the Pennyfoot before his customary Christmas excursion to the country club’s kitchen.
She could only hope, to echo Baxter’s ominous words, that it wasn’t bad news.
Mrs. Chubb stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded across her ample bosom and eyebrows drawn together. Glaring at the three cowering maids in front of her, she demanded, “Whose brilliant idea was it to put clean sheets on the beds without ironing them?”
Two of the maids glanced at the third standing between them, a gangly young woman with earnest eyes and rabbit teeth. She ignored their nudges and stared, speechless and trembling, at the irate housekeeper.
Mrs. Chubb, fast losing patience, raised her voice. “All right, Lizzie. Perhaps you’d care to explain why you put wrinkled sheets on the beds in three of our guest bedrooms?”
Lizzie ran her tongue over her lips, stammered a few indistinct words, and then lapsed once more into silence.
Mrs. Chubb raised her chin. “What did you say?”
“She said she thought it would save time,” one of the other maids offered.
“Ho, indeed.” Mrs. Chubb uncrossed her arms and dug her fists into her hips. “Well, listen to me, young lady. Your time-saving efforts means that the beds will have to be stripped, the sheets ironed, and the beds made up again. Now, tell me, is that saving time?”
Lizzie stared down at her shoe and traced a pattern with her toe on the tiled floor.
“So guess who’s going to give up her afternoon off to get those sheets ironed and back where they belong.”
Lizzie made a soft sound in the back of her throat.
“We have less than a week to get this place ready for our Christmas guests. So far we’re running behind by almost that much. I expect extra effort from all of you, and that does not mean cutting corners. The Pennyfoot has a reputation to uphold, and if it means we all give up our time off to be ready for Christmas, then that’s what we’ll do. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Mrs. Chubb,” answered her, and the housekeeper nodded. “Then be off with you.” Just before the door closed behind the last maid’s back, she called out, “Lizzie, I want to see those sheets perfectly ironed without a single crease.”
“Bloody good luck with that.”
The housekeeper swung around to face the voice that had spoken from the pantry. Leaning against the doorjamb, the sturdy young woman grinned. “Them flipping twits don’t know how to warm a bleeding iron, let alone use one.”
“Gertie Brown McBride!” Mrs. Chubb wagged a finger at her chief housemaid. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d stop swearing for Christmas. You promised me.”
Gertie shoved herself away from the doorway and tucked a thick strand of her black hair back under her cap. “It ain’t Christmas yet, is it, and besides, I said I’d try to stop swearing. Doesn’t mean I’ll be able to bloody do it, does it.”
The housekeeper thinned her lips. “I trust you’ll try a lot harder than this. Madam’s expecting some really important guests this year for Christmas.”
Gertie raised her eyebrows. “Like who?”
“Never you mind who. You’ll find out soon enough. Just watch your p’s and q’s, and for goodness’ sake, Gertie, mind your mouth. If Mr. Baxter catches you swearing he’ll throw a pink fit.”
Gertie pouted. “It’s not swearing. It’s just the way I talk.”
“Well, it sounds like swearing to me, and to everyone else who’s within earshot. So watch it.”
“I’ve been talking like this since I was a tot, and it’s blinking hard to change it now.”
Mrs. Chubb shook her head. She’d been having the same argument with Gertie for years, and she was no closer to winning it than she had been at the beginning, when a scruffy, big-boned, foul-mouthed child had shown up at the back door of the Pennyfoot begging for a job.
True, Gertie had made an effort since then, and had somewhat tempered the curses that sprinkled her conversation. There were still times, however, when she offended some of the more fastidious guests, and when word of it got back to Mr. Baxter, he not only scolded Gertie, he called Mrs. Chubb to task for not controlling her rebellious housemaid.
Mrs. Chubb did not like being chastised. Especially when it was none of her fault. Gertie had to hold her tongue or Mrs. Chubb was fully prepared to wash the young woman’s mouth out with soap.
The fact that the housemaid towered over her and outweighed her by at least a stone did nothing to deter the housekeeper. Propriety had to be served at all costs. Even if it was an uphill battle with Gertie McBride.
P.C. Northcott stood with his back to the fire when Cecily entered the library. Hands behind his back, he was as close to the leaping flames as he could get without scorching his uniform. His domed helmet lay on the armchair next to him, together with a pair of worn leather gloves.
He greeted Cecily with a gruff, “Good morning, Mrs. Baxter. I trust you are well?”
Cecily eyed him with a touch of sympathy. His red nose and cheeks bore testimony to the bitter wind off the ocean. “Quite well. Thank you, Sam. And you?”
“A bit chilly, m’m. Can’t feel me toes.”
“It does look dreadfully wintry out there.” Cecily looked at the tall windows that overlooked the rose garden. “I haven’t seen this much snow in quite some time.”
“Makes it a bit ’ard to ride me bike. That it does.” The constable sniffed and drew a crumpled white handkerchief from his pocket. Burying his nose in it, he blew, producing a sound rather like that of a bad-tempered elephant.
Cecily winced. “I’ll have Mrs. Chubb send up a drop of brandy. That might help warm you.”
Northcott beamed and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Awfully good of you, m’m, I’m sure.”
“My pleasure, Sam.” Cecily walked over to the bellpull and gave it a tug, then seated herself on a vacant armchair. “What else can I do for you today?”
Northcott sat down heavily and jumped up again just as swiftly. Tossing the helmet to one side, he muttered, “Forgot that was there.” He sat down again, much more gingerly this time. “I’m here to ask for an h’enormous favor, m’m. I wouldn’t be ’ere if I weren’t desperate, and I have to ask you to be completely discreet about all this, if you know what I mean. No one can know I asked you, especially the h’inspector.”
At the mention of Inspector Cranshaw, Cecily cringed. It was no secret to anyone that the dour police inspector would dearly love to shut down the country club.
The Pennyfoot had started out as a hotel, owned and run by Cecily, and much of its success had been due to the secret card rooms situated beneath the wine cellar.