3 Service for Two (8 page)

Cecily’s smile faded as she turned the page and caught sight of a familiar name. Lord and Lady Smythe-Bedford were regular guests at the Pennyfoot. In fact, they had spent the past weekend there, departing for London on Sunday morning and thus missing the snowfall.

Cecily skimmed the lines of newsprint, then went back to read them again. According to the news report, the wealthy couple had returned home to find that their house had been burglarized during their absence. The burglary had apparently taken place at night, while the servants slept, and the theft wasn’t discovered until Lady Smythe-Bedford had opened the safe to return the jewelry she’d taken with her on her trip.

The reporter mentioned the fact that the couple had been staying at a seaside hotel, but didn’t name the Pennyfoot. Reading on, Cecily discovered that the entire collection of jewelry and other valuables had been stolen, amounting to a considerable fortune.

Cecily clicked her tongue in sympathy. How absolutely dreadful. What a distressing ending to a pleasant weekend. As she read further, a nasty sensation started growing in the pit of her stomach.

The reporter stated that over the past several months, the homes of many other wealthy couples had been burglarized while they were away. The police were concerned that it was the work of an organized ring of thieves. A very well-informed ring, according to the reports, since they appeared to have access to the travel plans of their victims.

There followed a partial list of the couples whose houses had been broken into. And as Cecily read down the list, the feeling of uneasiness increased. Every one of those named had stayed at the Pennyfoot during the past few months.

She read the list twice, then slowly folded the paper and laid it on the table. There was no mistake. The houses had been burglarized while the owners had been staying right there at the Pennyfoot Hotel.

All at once the discovery of the menu on the floor of the vestry took on a whole new dimension. First the menu, now apparently the guest list. It would seem as though something very odd was going on. And Cecily didn’t like the ramifications one little bit.

CHAPTER
8

Gertie drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stepped outside the kitchen door later that afternoon. The sun had lost its strength to the approaching night, and the cold north wind swept across the yard, biting into her bones.

A path had been trodden through the snow to the coal cellar, and Gertie made sure she kept to it. Wet feet in this cold would give her chilblains for sure. She’d only just got rid of the last lot—nasty itchy things, they were.

Hauling on the door to the cellar, she swore lustily when it stuck, stinging her frostbitten fingers. The other hand was wrapped around the handle of the coal scuttle. She couldn’t even feel those fingers, they were so numb from the cold.

The wind wrapped the chilly wet hem of her skirt around her ankles, and she stamped her feet in order to free it. Once more she tugged on the door, but it refused to budge. Spitting
oaths at it, she dumped the scuttle on the ground, then rubbed her hands together and breathed hard on them in a vain effort to warm them.

The voice behind her startled her half out of her wits.

“’Allo, me old ducks, whatcha doing out here then, in the blinking cold?”

Two hands crept around her waist, and she was pulled against a blessedly warm body. “Ian, you blooming idiot, you made me jump. Whatcha creep up on me like that for?”

She turned to face him, her laughter freezing in the frigid air. Her mouth felt stiff until he leaned forward and deposited a warm kiss on it. “Mmmm,” she murmured, and licked her lips. “Tastes bloody good.”

“Just had a cup of cocoa, haven’t I.” He grinned at her. “Looks as if you could do with some. You look blinking frozen.”

“I am.” She aimed a kick at the door. “Here, you have a go at this. I can’t get the bloody thing open.”

“What you need is a man, me old darling. Hang on.” He grabbed the handle and tugged. To Gertie’s disgust, it flew open. “See what I mean? All it takes is a little muscle, that’s all.”

“I’m just as bleeding strong as you are, Ian Rossiter, and don’t you forget it.”

“Yeah?” He gave her a playful punch on the arm. “Want to have a go at proving it?”

She grinned at him. “Not now, silly. I have to get the bleeding coal, don’t I. Get out of me way before me backside freezes with the cold. This wind can cut you in bleeding half.”

“Here, let me.” He picked up the scuttle and stepped inside the cellar. “At least you won’t have to do this no more once you and me are married.”

“Ho? Who says?” Gertie wrapped her arms around her body as she watched him shovel shiny black lumps of coal into the scuttle. Now her feet had gone numb, and she could feel her wet skirt flapping against her calves.

“I says, that’s what.” He emerged from the cellar, carrying the scuttle.

She went to take it from him, but he pulled it back out of her reach. “I’ll carry it,” he said, his face set in the stubborn look she knew so well.

“It’s my job.” She stood barring his way down the narrow, slippery path of cleared snow.

Shaking his head, he stepped around her and trudged back to the kitchen door. “No wife of mine is going to be heaving coal buckets around in this wind.” He threw the words back at her over his shoulder. “So you can bloody forget it. If you don’t tell Mrs. Sinclair you’re finished after this week, then I will.”

“No, you won’t, you blinking great twit, you,” she shouted after him. “Who the hell do you think you are? No bleeding man is going to tell me what to do, so go stuff that in your kite.”

He paused at the door and turned to look at her, his jaw set like an angry bulldog. “Now you just listen to me, Gertie Brown. I’m going to be your husband, and you have to do what I say. And if I say you don’t work, you don’t work, and that’s all there is to it. So you go in there now and you tell Mrs. Sinclair you’re not working after this week.”

Gertie stomped up the path toward him, her breath huffing out in puffs of steam. Reaching him, she jammed her hands into her hips. “I ain’t going to do no such thing. And if you don’t like it, you rotten bastard, you can bleeding well lump it. So there.”

Before he could answer, she snatched the coal scuttle from his hand and flung herself through the door into the fragrant warmth of the kitchen.

Michel stood by the stove, stirring the soup in one of the big cauldrons, while Mrs. Chubb sat at the table, examining the silver before laying it out on the trays to be carried into the dining room. Both of them looked up as Gertie burst into the dining room.

“It’s bleeding cold out there,” she declared, and trudged across the floor, leaving a trail of wet footprints and a frozen lump of snow behind her. Dumping the scuttle by the stove, she grunted. “Me hands are just about froze off, they are.”

“You look a bit frazzled,” Mrs. Chubb said, pausing with a fork in her hand to look at her.

“Indeed, you do.” Michel gave Gertie a look as if she were one of the stray cats who had crept in. “Your hair … eet ees standing on end, yes? Like you have been … ’ow you say? … dragged through a hedge backwards.”

“Go boil yer head,” she muttered under her breath, not loud enough for him to hear, though Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue loudly. Gertie flicked a sulky glance at her, but kept her mouth shut.

“That’s enough of that,” Mrs. Chubb said in a sharp voice. “Put some more coal on that stove. It’s getting far too low.”

“Ah, yes,” Michel said mournfully. “My consommé, it is going off the boil.”

Catching sight of Mrs. Chubb’s warning glare, Gertie reached for the tongs. The warmth from the stove was seeping into her body, though her feet still felt like lumps of ice. When she flicked open the door to the grate, the heat roared back at her, cooking her nose. Hurriedly she dropped lumps of coal into the red-hot furnace, then closed the door.

“That’s better.” Mrs. Chubb peered across the room at Gertie. “Better wash your face, duck. You got coal dust on your forehead.”

“You look like a chimney sweep,” Michel said, looking down his nose at her.

That was nothing to what he looked like, Gertie thought, wishing she could tell him. She satisfied the urge by edging around him, then sticking out her tongue at his back.

“Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb stood, wagging a finger in front of her. “Any more sauce from you, young lady—”

Gertie felt a huge lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to bleeding cry.

“Whatever is it, my girl?” Mrs. Chubb said, changing her tone to one of alarm. “Are you ill?”

Gertie sniffed and shook her head. “I had a blinking row with Ian, didn’t I.”

“Oh, is that all?” Mrs. Chubb clutched her breast in relief. “Don’t want you getting laid up right before the wedding, do
we? Don’t worry about it, luv, it’s only wedding nerves, that’s all it is.”

“I’m not so bleeding sure about that.” Gertie moved over to the sink and turned on the tap. Cupping her hand beneath the icy water, she collected some in her palm, then swished it over her face. She shuddered as the shock of it made her teeth shiver.

Dabbing at her face with her apron to dry it, she muttered, “I don’t know as I want to marry him, anyway. Bleeding bully, he is. I don’t want no man ordering me around like some skivvy. I get enough of that here.”

“You’ll feel different once you get the wedding over with,” Mrs. Chubb said kindly.

“No, I won’t. That’s the problem.” Gertie lowered her apron and looked desperately at the housekeeper. “I don’t want to marry him, Mrs. Chubb. I don’t want no bleeding wedding.”

Mrs. Chubb’s eyes widened, and Michel swore softly. He put down his wooden spoon and folded his arms across his chest. With his droopy mustache and big floppy hat he looked a little like a puppet in the Punch and Judy show. Gertie wanted to smile, but she didn’t really feel like smiling.

“Now, young lady, you listen to Michel,” he said, fixing his dark eyes on her. “It is not easy to find someone to love, and in a place like this it is next to impossible. You are ze lucky girl to ’ave found a young man. You love him,
n’est ce pas?
That is all that matters. You turn away from him now and you will be so-o-o sorry.”

He unfolded his arms and swooped his hands up in front of him. “
Mon Dieu, ma petite
, count your blessings. As long as there is love, you will work it out, no?”

Gertie, who had been staring at him open-mouthed, snapped her lips shut. Michel had never talked to her like that before. Never. He’d never had more than two words to say to her ever since he’d worked there. He wasn’t such a bad bloke after all, she decided.

She managed a smile. “I hope so, Michel. I really do.”

“Well,” Mrs. Chubb said, sounding as surprised as Gertie felt, “that’s all right then. Now, come on, Gertie my girl, look
sharp. The tables have to be laid in the dining room, and that lettuce has to be washed.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” Gertie flashed another look at Michel and was astonished to see him give her a broad wink before turning back to his soup. Just goes to show, she thought as she picked up a heavy tray of silver, some people were dark horses all right. Never would have thought Michel could be so nice.

Still pondering on the transformation, she headed up the stairs to the dining room.

Cecily waited for Baxter in the library, seated in her favorite chair at the table facing James’s portrait. Her visit to his grave that morning had brought back the bittersweet nostalgia, and she looked up at the painting with a wistful smile.

“I still miss you, James,” she said softly. Though, she had to confess, not as much as she had the first few months after he’d died. Her days were full now. The hotel kept her busy enough, and soon the summer season would be upon them, when most likely she wouldn’t have time to breathe.

Thinking of the summer brought back so many memories. Picnics on the beach when the boys were young, the donkey rides on the sands, the excitement of looking forward to James coming home on leave, and the sadness and fear she always felt when he had to go away again.

She’d had very mixed feeling when both her boys had joined the army. James had been immensely proud of them, of course, and she shared in that pride. But she couldn’t help wishing they had chosen careers that would keep them closer to home. Especially now that she was widowed.

For some strange reason a vision of Dr. Kevin Prestwick popped into her mind, startling her. Luckily Baxter chose that moment to tap on the door, banishing the thoughts before she could dwell on them.

“Come in,” she called out, smiling when he appeared in the doorway.

“Good evening, madam. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.” She let her gaze wander around the room,
skimming over the shelves of dusty books, the old oak-paneled walls, the marble fireplace, and finally to rest on James’s portrait once more. “I quite enjoy a quiet moment on my own in here, Baxter. It’s very peaceful.”

“Yes, madam. I know.” He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him.

“Sit down, Baxter.” She waved a hand at the chairs by the table, but, as always, he stayed where he was, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Thank you, madam. I prefer to stand.”

She had long given up arguing about it with him. If he felt uncomfortable being alone with her in a closed room, that was his misfortune. “Did you have a word with Joe Salter this afternoon?”

“No, madam. Mr. Salter was at the market in Wellercombe for the day. I left word with his housekeeper, asking him if he would pay a visit to you here at the hotel. At his convenience, of course.”

“Thank you, Baxter. Yes, that would be best. Though I doubt if he’ll be able to shed any light on this puzzle.”

“And you, madam? You spoke to young Master Briggett?”

“I did.” She frowned. “Not a bright boy, I’m afraid, Baxter. He remembers very little of the incident. Certainly not enough to help us in any way.”

“No doubt he has put the ordeal out of his mind.”

“Yes, I suppose he has. I can hardly blame him.” She turned her attention to the matter uppermost on her mind. A folded newspaper lay in front of her, and she reached for it. Holding it out to Baxter, she said, “I’d like you to read this report of the jewel thefts and tell me if you find anything significant.”

He looked more than a little mystified as he came forward to take the paper from her, then began to read.

She watched his face but could tell nothing from his expression. He gave very little of his thoughts away when he had a mind to keep them to himself. After a while he lifted his head and handed the paper back to her.

“Well?” She sat back, waiting for his reaction.

“I recognize the names, madam.”

“Yes, so do I.” She leaned forward. “What does that tell you, Baxter?”

He met her gaze steadily. “It tells me that we are privileged to entertain some of the most celebrated of the aristocracy.”

“Quite.” Well used to this game, she contained her impatience. “Does it not also suggest that someone has access to our guest list? Not only had access to it, but has used it to some advantage?”

His look of shock seemed almost genuine. “Surely, madam, you are not suggesting that someone in this hotel is supplying a band of thieves with information about our guests?”

“That is exactly what I am suggesting. What is more, I believe the menu found on the vestry floor also has something to do with this puzzle. I believe that these incidents are all connected somehow.”

“If I may say so, it is quite possible that you are jumping to conclusions.”

“No, you may not say so. And you know very well that I have good reason for my suspicions.” She tapped the paper with a fingernail, to emphasize her words. “Let us take the points one by one. A wealthy couple returns to their home to find it has been burglarized, apparently by a gang of thieves who knew they would be out of town that night. The very night they were staying here at this hotel.”

“We do not know that it’s a gang of thieves,” Baxter protested. “That is simply a theory the police have put forward.”

Ignoring him, Cecily continued. “The very next night a murdered young man is placed in a coffin designated for someone else. He is almost buried in someone else’s grave. And that same night, a menu from this hotel is discovered on the floor of the vestry, where the exchange presumably took place.”