The Clue is in the Pudding (12 page)

“They had no choice.” Phoebe tossed her head, endangering the doves clinging to the brim of her hat. “I told them if they weren’t at the rehearsal not to bother coming to the performance.”

“Isn’t that taking somewhat of a risk? What if they don’t come to either? You won’t have a pageant to present.”

A shadow of uncertainty crossed Phoebe’s face. “Of course they’ll come. They look forward all year to performing at Christmas in the Pennyfoot. It’s the highlight of their year.”

Cecily tended to doubt that, but she let it go. She was about to ask Phoebe what time to expect them when the colonel strolled up, stroking his mustache.

“I say, old bean. What’s this I hear about an actor being murdered in his bed?”

Cecily glanced over her shoulder in alarm. The colonel’s booming voice seemed to carry clear across the room. Thankfully, no one seemed to hear him. “I don’t know where you heard that, Colonel, but I assure you, there is no need for alarm.”

She glared at Phoebe, who shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, I’m not worried, old girl.” The colonel nudged her so hard she fell against the wall. “I’ve been around enough dead bodies in my time, what? What?”

“There are no dead bodies in this establishment, I promise you,” Cecily said firmly. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

The colonel laid a heavy hand on her arm. “Reminds me of the time I was in India.” He frowned. “I
think
it was India.”

“Oh,” Phoebe said breathlessly, “I simply must have another of those delicious fondants before we go.” She darted off before Cecily could stop her.

Left alone with the colonel, Cecily took a deep breath. “Colonel, I—”

“Did you know,” the colonel said, leaning so close to her she almost choked on the brandy fumes, “that in India millions died from the plague? Blasted bodies all over the streets. The stink was so bad we had to wear bandanas over our noses to keep from suffocating.”

Cecily suppressed a shudder. “That must have been awful, Colonel, but now I—”

“One of our lads got the bright idea to cover his horse’s nose with a bandana. The fool rode like the wind, until the bandana rode up over his horse’s eyes and blinded it.”

Cecily gave him a stern look. “That’s all very interesting, but—”

“Shot the poor blighter head first into a cart of rotting onions. Took him days to get the smell out of his hair. No one would go near him until—”

“Ah, there you are, Cecily.”

Cecily gazed up at her husband in relief. “Baxter. The colonel was just telling me—”

“I hate to interrupt, my dear, but it’s time for us to escort the choirboys out to the carriages.”

Only Cecily saw Baxter’s wink. “Oh, of course. Please excuse me, Colonel. Duty calls.”

The colonel looked disappointed. “Oh, of course, old girl. Don’t worry about intruders. You can count on me. I’ll take my trusty sword to the blighters.” He brandished an imaginary sword and swept a plate of sausage rolls off the sideboard.

Cecily just had time to signal to one of the maids to clean up the mess before Baxter hustled her out of the room.

“I swear,” he muttered, “one of these days that fool will go too far and land himself in an asylum.”

“Oh, I do hope not.” Upset at the thought, she headed down the hallway.

“What was all that about intruders?” Baxter asked, catching up with her.

“I have no idea. You know the colonel. He’s always fighting off imaginary foes.”

“Yes, well, one day, one of them might decide to fight back.”

“You do realize,” Cecily said, as they emerged into the foyer, “that the choirboys left a half hour ago?”

“I know that,” Baxter said, leading her toward the stairs, “and you know that. The colonel, however, doesn’t know that. I got you out of his clutches without hurting his feelings.”

Cecily laughed. “I doubt there’s much that can hurt his feelings. Most of what he hears goes right out of his head.”

“Except the fact that an actor was murdered in his room.”

Cecily stared at him. “You heard him say that?”

“I did. But then I was already on my way over to rescue you and my full attention was on the colonel. I doubt if anyone else heard him.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.” Cecily wearily climbed the stairs, holding onto the banister rail for support. “The last thing we need now is to set off a panic.”

“You’re no closer to finding the culprit?”

“Not yet.”

“Aren’t you running out of time?”

She paused to look back at him. “I am. If I haven’t solved this case by tomorrow, I’ll have no choice but to hand it over to P.C. Watkins. He’s been remarkably patient as it is, though I rather think he is at a loss how to proceed.”

“Which only means one thing.”

She nodded gloomily. “Yes. Inspector Cranshaw. Heaven help us.” A thought struck her, and she turned so sharply she almost lost her balance. “Oh, goodness, I forgot to ask Kevin to look in on Mr. Rickling.”

Baxter frowned. “Well, let’s hope it has nothing to do with whatever killed Armitage.”

Indeed
, Cecily thought, once more climbing the stairs. The last thing they needed was another death on their hands.

*   *   *

“A penny for them.”

Gertie started, aware she had been silent for far too long. “What?”

Clive smiled. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Oh!” The last thing she wanted was for him to know what she’d been thinking. Before she had time to think about it, she blurted out, “Who did you tell the stories to before? Was it your children?”

His face turned so sad she immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. “Yes,” he said softly. “My own children. And my pupils.”

She didn’t know what had surprised her the most—the fact that he had children, or the fact that he’d had pupils. “You were a teacher?” she asked, deciding that was the safer subject.

“Once I was, yes.” He folded his hands between his knees and stared down at them. “I should have told you all this before, Gertie. I wanted to, but you are so undecided about your feelings for me, I suppose I was afraid that what I had to say would turn you completely away from me.”

Her heart started thumping against her ribs. What was he going to tell her? That’d he’d hurt someone? Killed someone? No, that was daft. Her gentle giant would never harm anyone. Of that she was sure. “Tell me what?”

When he didn’t answer, she laid a tentative hand on his arm. “You’re my friend, Clive. Nothing you say can turn me away from you. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

His smile was rueful. “Your friend. Yes, I suppose I am.”

She shifted on the couch, wishing she could say more and so frightened of saying the wrong thing. “So tell me.”

He took so long to start she thought he’d changed his mind about sharing his secrets. While the seconds ticked by, she became even more conscious of him sitting so close to her. She felt a deep urge to get up, away from temptation.

“I was married once,” he said, making her jump. “I have two children, both boys. They live with their mother and stepfather. I don’t see them anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” She sought in her mind for the right thing to say. “It must be hard for you.”

“It is.” He raised his chin and stared at the ceiling. “I miss them.” He looked back at her. “It was my fault, though. You see, I had a . . . problem with drinking. I don’t remember when it started. I used to go down the pub whenever I felt unhappy, or lonely, or afraid.”

She stared at him, unable to believe him capable of being afraid of anything. “What were you afraid of?”

He shrugged. “Of being a failure, I suppose. I had a lot of responsibilities. I married very young. I had just started teaching, and when the first baby came along my wife was ill for a long time. It seemed as if all the troubles in the world had been heaped on my shoulders. Everyone expected so much from me—my pupils, my headmaster, my wife, my children. It became overwhelming.”

She nodded, aching to touch him and afraid to make the move. “I know that feeling.”

He buried his head in his hands. “I’m not like you, Gertie. You are so strong. I was weak. I drowned my sorrows and before I knew it, the drinking had control of me.”

She could tell what it was costing him to speak of it and impulsively touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

It was a moment or two before he answered. “When I realized it was costing not only my marriage but my profession as well, I tried to stop. The harder I tried, the worse the addiction became. Eventually I lost my job, and then my wife told me to move out. I lost everything that was important to me.”

He lifted his head, and she saw the pain in his eyes. Her whole body ached for him. “That must have been so bloody awful.”

Clive looked down at his hands. “I reached a low point when I stood on Tower Bridge one night, intending to jump in the river.”

She gasped, one hand over her mouth. “Someone came along and saved you?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “I realized I had two choices. I could either jump, and everyone would be rid of me, or I could turn myself around, make something of my life and hope everyone would eventually forgive me.”

She swallowed, hard. “I’m so glad you chose to live.”

His smile sent waves of warmth right through her body. “So am I, now. I haven’t touched a drop of drink since that night. There were a lot of times when I didn’t think the struggle would be worth it, but I know now I made the right choice. If I’d jumped, I’d have only been remembered as a drunk and a failure. I hope now when I die, I’ll be remembered for something much better.”

“You will.” She could hardly speak, her throat was so tight. “You’re a good man, Clive, and you’ve been so bloody good to me and the twins. Thank you for telling me all this. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

His gaze raked her face, as if he were searching her mind. “You don’t think any less of me for hearing about my sordid past?”

“Course not.” Her heart was thumping so hard she could feel the vibration in her chest. “I’ve made my mistakes, too, and paid for them. Nobody’s perfect. What counts is what you are now, not what happened to you in the past.”

He reached out, taking her by surprise when his fingers brushed her cheek. “My dear Gertie. Wise beyond her years.”

“I don’t know about that.” On guard again, she drew back and he dropped his hand. “Do you miss teaching?”

He looked sad again. “Very much. I still do a lot of reading, though, to keep my mind active and inquisitive.”

“You like to read?” She’d pounced on his words, realizing this could be the answer to what she could get him for Christmas.

“Very much.”

“What do you like to read?”

“Anything I can get my hands on—history, science, classic fiction, poetry—I’ll read just about anything.”

“Have you read the books in our library?”

He smiled again. “Just about all of them.”

She hadn’t realized they’d been talking in normal tones until James said sleepily, “Has Father Christmas come yet?”

She shot off the couch as if she’d been doing something wrong. “He doesn’t come ’til tomorrow night, and he won’t come at all if you don’t flipping go to sleep again right now.”

James mumbled something and closed his eyes.

“I’d better go,” Clive said, heaving himself off the couch. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

“I should be the one thanking you.” They were whispering again, and she crept across the floor to open the door. “It was nice.”

She looked up at him as he loomed over her. For a long moment he stared down at her, while she wondered if he would try to kiss her and what she’d do if he did. Then he said quietly, “Good night, Gertie.”

She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out the breath she’d been holding for the past few seconds. She had to make up her mind about Clive, one way or another. She couldn’t go on letting him think he had a chance if she wasn’t prepared to take a chance with him herself.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tonight she would sleep on it, and tomorrow she would make up her mind one way or the other and stick to it. She only hoped that the prospect didn’t terrify her enough to keep her awake all night.

CHAPTER

11

Cecily arose early the next morning, anxious to search the guest room while everyone was in the dining room. Baxter had decided to go into Wellercombe to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, thus relieving her of the necessity to tell him of her intentions.

After making sure she was alone in the hallway, she entered the Minsters’ room. After a hurried and somewhat guilty rummaging through drawers and wardrobes, she could find no trace of a whiskey bottle anywhere.

Feeling thoroughly frustrated, she backed out of the room into the hallway. She didn’t notice Gertie until the housemaid spoke from directly behind her, startling her out of her wits.

“Is there something I can help you with, m’m?”

Caught red-handed, Cecily struggled to find an excuse as to why she was lurking around a guest room with no good reason to be there. Gertie, however, wasted no time in reaching a conclusion.

“Beg your pardon, m’m, but were you by any chance looking for something to help you find out who killed Mr. Armitage?”

Cecily glanced over her shoulder in alarm. “Hush, Gertie. We don’t want to frighten our guests. So far nobody knows he was murdered. As far as I know, anyway.”

Gertie nodded. “It’s all right, m’m. Everyone’s in the dining room. I did want to have a word with you, though.”

“Come along to my suite, then.” Cecily led the way to her door and opened it. “Mr. Baxter has gone into town, so we won’t be disturbed.”

“That’s good.” Gertie followed her into the room. “I know Mr. Baxter doesn’t like you chasing after murderers.”

Cecily pulled a face. “No, he doesn’t. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“It’s about Gilbert, the new stable lad?”

“Go on.”

“Well, Charlie Muggins told Pansy that Mr. Armitage had done Gilbert out of a lot of money. Charlie wondered if that’s why Gilbert wanted to work here. So’s he could get his revenge on Mr. Armitage.”

Cecily raised her eyebrows. “When did Pansy hear this?”

“It were two days ago, m’m. Charlie said that Gilbert told him he would like to mess with the brakes of Mr. Armitage’s motorcar so it would end up in the ocean. Charlie thought he was joking, but now he’s not so sure.”

Cecily regarded her chief housemaid with a keen eye. “You think Gilbert might have decided to find another way to exact revenge on Mr. Armitage.”

“It did cross my mind, m’m.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Gertie looked down at her feet and traced the pattern on the carpet with her toe. “Pansy asked me not to tell you. She was scared that Samuel would be cross with her if he knew she’d told me what she’d heard.”

“I see.” Cecily frowned. “Well, I shall have to have a word with Samuel and Gilbert, but I’ll try to keep Pansy’s name out of it.”

“Thank you, m’m. I know she’d appreciate that. So would I.” She paused, then added a little sheepishly, “As long as we’re talking about it, there’s something else I should tell you. I heard as how Mr. Armitage hurt a lot of people, and Mrs. Tucker seems to know an awful lot about it, though she won’t tell me nothing when I ask.”

Cecily frowned. “Are you saying that Mrs. Tucker knew Mr. Armitage personally?”

Gertie shook her head. “I don’t really know, m’m. But if she didn’t, she knows someone who did. She told me that Mr. Armitage had ruined Lady Bottingham’s life, and before that she told me that the Minsters had suffered at the hands of a scoundrel and I think she meant Mr. Armitage.”

Cecily let out her breath. “Well, thank you, Gertie. You’ve been a big help.”

Gertie looked worried. “I don’t want to get no one in trouble, m’m, but I thought you should know what I heard.”

“Don’t worry.” Cecily opened the door and ushered her housemaid outside. “No one will know we talked, and no one will be in trouble who doesn’t deserve to be.”

Gertie smiled. “Thank you, m’m. I feel better now.”

She hurried off, leaving Cecily gazing after her, her mind a whirl of confusing thoughts. Lady Bottingham had been certain no one but her family had known about her indiscretion. She certainly wouldn’t have confided in Beatrice Tucker, of all people. So who was the mysterious person who had told the housekeeper about the socialite’s unfortunate relationship with the actor?

Could it have been Gilbert? He obviously had dealings with Mr. Armitage in the past. Had he inadvertently found out about the actor’s involvement with Lady Bottingham and relayed the encounter to Mrs. Tucker?

She tried to remember what Gilbert looked like. A husky, fine-looking man. He seemed eager to please, if she remembered. No matter if he was the gossip or not, he had applied for the position with an ulterior motive. She didn’t like that. She would have a word with Gilbert Tubbs, and the sooner the better.

*   *   *

“We need clean serviettes,” Beatrice Tucker announced the minute Gertie walked into the kitchen. “Go and fetch the ones hanging on the clotheslines outside.”

It was on the tip of Gertie’s tongue to refuse. As chief housemaid, it wasn’t her job to bloody fetch linens off the clotheslines. She was about to inform Tucker the Terrible of that when it occurred to her that a brief respite from the housekeeper would be most welcome.

Without another word, she grabbed the laundry basket, marched across the kitchen and out into the yard. The skies had cleared for Christmas Eve, but the wind from the ocean stung her ears with the cold. She blew on her fingers to keep them warm as she crossed the yard. Just as she reached the clotheslines, she spotted Samuel on his way to the stables.

She dropped the basket, cupped her mouth with her hands and yelled, “Samuel! I need to talk to you!”

He paused, looking back at her as if deciding whether or not to ignore her, then, with a shrug, he trudged back across the yard toward her. “Watcha want?” he demanded when he reached her.

“I want to talk to you about Pansy.” Gertie reached up and tugged on the wooden clothes-peg that held the serviette to the line. The linen was frozen stiff, and she had to crumble it in her hands to get it to fold.

“What about Pansy?”

Samuel had sounded wary, and she chose her words carefully. “She loves you, you know.”

“She’s got a funny way of showing it. Making eyes at Gilbert and ignoring me. What’s all that about?”

Gertie reached for another serviette. “She’s just trying to make you jealous, that’s all. She doesn’t have no bleeding interest in Gilbert. In fact, I think she’s afraid of him. You should know that.”

“No, I don’t know that.” Samuel dug his hands into his pockets. “She wanted to get married right now. I told her I want to have a business established before we got married. She doesn’t want to wait.”

Gertie pulled the serviette from the line and folded it. “Pansy will wait if she knows you really mean it about marrying her.”

“I told her I would when I have enough money.”

Gertie put her face up close to his. “Telling her ain’t enough, twerp. Words are easy to say and forgotten later. She needs something more solid than bloody words.”

Samuel frowned. “Solid?”

“Think about it.” She tugged more serviettes from the line and dropped them in the basket. “That’s all I got to say.”

She didn’t see him leave, but she heard his footsteps scrunching across the yard. Smiling to herself, she picked up the basket. She was so bleeding good at giving other people advice about their love lives. Why couldn’t she handle her own?

The thought of Clive twisted her stomach in knots as usual, and she impatiently shoved his image out of her mind. She had the morning to get through before she could think about him. Then she was going into town to get him his Christmas present. She knew now what she wanted to buy for him. She just hoped she’d be able to find what she wanted.

Much as she hated to admit it, it felt good to be buying a gift for a man again. It meant she had someone else in her life besides her children. They meant the world to her, of course, but there were times when she needed grown-up company, and it was so lovely to have that again.

She didn’t need to let it get all complicated. It was enough that she and Clive could have a laugh now and then, and to have someone to grumble to when things got her down. He seemed happy enough with that, so why go and spoil it all? What they had was perfect for her right now.

Humming to herself, she marched back into the kitchen and dumped the laundry basket on the counter.

Michel was at the stove, stirring a pot of soup. He looked up when she passed him and muttered, “What do you have to be cheerful about?”

She was feeling so good she did something unheard of for her. She threw her arms around him and hugged him. “Happy Christmas, Michel! I got a feeling it’s going to be the best bleeding Christmas ever!”

Michel coughed, and Beatrice stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Stop horsing around and get those serviettes ironed. They have to be on the table in half an hour.”

For once, Gertie kept her mouth shut. She picked up the basket again and whisked it out of the kitchen and down the hallway. It didn’t matter if Clive never found out how she felt about him. She knew it inside, and that was all that mattered. It was her secret to cherish and hold inside her for as long as she needed. One day she’d tell him how she felt. When the time was right.

*   *   *

Cecily made her way across the yard, holding her thick shawl tight to her throat. The sunlight dazzled her eyes, but she could feel the cold in every bone in her body. Shivering, she hurried across the courtyard to the stable doors.

At first she could see nothing, but then her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside and she could see Samuel crouched down in front of one of the stalls, mixing grains with beet pulp. There didn’t seem to be any sign of Gilbert, and she walked cautiously across the stable, pausing behind Samuel.

He must not have heard her, as he jumped when she spoke his name. Leaping to his feet, he caught the bucket with his foot, overturning it and spilling out the horse feed onto the ground. “Crumbs,” he muttered, squatting down again. “I’d better clean this up.”

He started scooping the feed back into the bucket with his hands, and Cecily looked around for a shovel. Spotting one leaning against the wall, she fetched it and brought it over to him. “Here, this might work better.”

Red-faced, he took the shovel from her. “Sorry, m’m. I’m just not used to seeing you in here.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Samuel.” She waited until he’d scooped up as much of the feed as he could and leaned the shovel against the wall. “I’d like a quick word with you,” she said, looking around the stables. Horses poked their noses over the gates, while farther down a gleaming motorcar stood where a blacksmith had once worked at his lathe. There was no sign of Samuel’s assistant, however. “Is Gilbert in here?”

“No, m’m. He’s taken one of the motorcars out for a test run. The gentleman wanted some work done on it, and Gilbert obliged. He just wants to make sure everything’s working right.”

Cecily raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware that we did motorcar repairs.”

Samuel’s gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “Er . . . we don’t . . . usually, but Gilbert wanted to do the bloke a favor. I hope that’s all right, m’m?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his work here. Which reminds me. I hear that Gilbert applied for work here because he wanted to damage Archibald Armitage’s motorcar.”

Samuel’s face registered shock, fear, and then anger. “Pansy told you that.”

“No, actually she didn’t. I heard it from someone else.” Cecily gave her stable manager a stern look. “Is it true?”

Samuel folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t know how true it is, m’m. But one thing I’m sure of. If Gilbert did say that, he didn’t mean it. He must have been joking. He’s just not the kind of person that goes around hurting people. I’m sure of that.”

“I hope you’re right.” She paused, then added, “I understand you bought a bottle of our special label whiskey from Barry.”

Samuel frowned. “Yes, I did. Was that wrong? Barry didn’t say anything when I bought it.”

“No, no, it wasn’t wrong.” Cecily paused again. How she hated having to question him in such a critical way. She trusted her stable manager above all her staff, but if she was to identify the killer, questions had to be asked.

Samuel was watching her, a mixture of hurt and confusion on his face. She drew in a deep breath. “Samuel, Dr. Prestwick discovered arsenic in a bottle of our whiskey that was in Mr. Armitage’s room. Do you mind telling me what you did with the bottle you bought?”

Samuel’s face was white with shock. “You’re not thinking I killed that actor?”

“No, of course not.”

They exchanged a long look, while realization slowly spread across his face. “I gave the whiskey to Gilbert for a Christmas present.”

Cecily nodded. “I thought so.”

He started to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. “No, I don’t believe it, m’m. Gilbert didn’t kill Armitage. I’d stake my life on it. He was happy the bloke was dead but—” He broke off, apparently realizing the implications behind his words. “I’m just making things worse for him, aren’t I?”

“I’m afraid so. Don’t worry, Samuel, if Gilbert is innocent, the truth will come out. I’m sure of it. I’ll have a word with him later, and we’ll see if we can sort all this out. Please send him to my office as soon as he returns.”

She left, knowing she’d upset her stable manager and praying that she wouldn’t have to hand Gilbert over to the constable. She knew, only too well, how it felt to be betrayed by someone she liked and trusted.

As she entered the foyer she saw Phoebe and the colonel talking earnestly to Philip, who seemed a trifle agitated, which was unusual for him. Hurrying over to them, she was just in time to hear the colonel say, “But I tell you, old chum, I saw the blighter myself, lurking around the bushes in the rose garden.”

“I’m sure you did, sir,” Philip stammered. “But I’m quite sure it’s gone by now.”

“Really, Freddie,” Phoebe began, but the colonel silenced her with a swift jerk of his hand.

“I’ll take care of it for you, old chap. I’ll take my trusty sword to it. Or better yet . . .” He fumbled in his belt. “What a dashed nuisance. I seem to have left my pistol at home.”