The Clue is in the Pudding (4 page)

Ignoring her husband’s growl of disgust, Cecily nodded at Gertie. “If it’s something you can’t handle, then you’d better tell me.”

“Yes, m’m.” Gertie sent Baxter a swift glance, then moved closer to Cecily. “It’s about Mr. Armitage.”

Cecily could tell from Baxter’s expression that now he was all ears. Anxiety made her voice sharp when she said, “Go on, Gertie.”

“Well, m’m, it’s like this. Pansy happened to hear you mention food poisoning, and at first I thought it must have been something from the kitchen, but nobody else seemed to be ill so then I thought perhaps Mr. Armitage ate something that nobody else did.”

“What in blazes does that have to do with Mrs. Tucker?” Baxter demanded.

“I’m coming to that, sir.” Gertie cleared her throat. “It seems that Mrs. Tucker really liked Mr. Armitage. She went all the way to London just to see his plays. But when she met him here at the Pennyfoot, he was sort of nasty to her and it upset her.”

Baxter started to say something but Cecily gave him a warning look and he shut his mouth.

“Anyway,” Gertie went on, “right after that Mrs. Tucker sent up a slice of Christmas pudding to Mr. Armitage. Michel was really put out about it, and he said no one was to have any until Christmas Day, but Mrs. Tucker said it was her kitchen and she could do what she liked and that Mr. Armitage was famous and deserved special treatment and—”

Cecily hastily interrupted. “So you’re saying that Mr. Armitage was the only person to eat some of the Christmas pudding?”

Gertie looked relieved. “Yes, m’m. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It just seems strange to me that Mrs. Tucker could be cross with Mr. Armitage one minute and be sending him up special treats the next.”

Baxter muttered something and turned to stare into the fire.

Ignoring him, Cecily smiled at the maid. “Very astute of you, Gertie. Thank you.”

“Yes, m’m. Can I go back to the dining room now?”

“Yes, of course, and Gertie?”

The housemaid paused at the door. “Yes, m’m?”

“Not a word of this to anyone. Understand?”

“Yes, m’m. Of course.” Again she dipped her knees, then shut the door quietly behind her.

“Not again,” Baxter muttered. “Is she trying to tell us that woman deliberately poisoned Armitage? If so, then it’s murder.”

“Now let’s not jump to conclusions.” Cecily got up from her chair and joined him at the fire. “Mrs. Tucker didn’t make the Christmas puddings. Michel made them. Though I hardly think he’s capable of putting poison in them. Unless something got into the mixture accidentally. Maybe rat poison. I know Mrs. Chubb keeps a supply in the pantry. If so, then it’s not murder at all, but simply a very unfortunate accident.”

“Then we’d better get rid of the rest of the pudding, before someone does eat some of it. In fact, it would be a jolly good idea to get rid of all the puddings.”

Cecily sighed. “I’ll have Kevin test it first. Michel won’t have time to make more and Christmas Day would be unthinkable without the puddings. We’d lose that whole tradition of carrying flaming puddings into the dining room. It’s the grand finale to the entire meal.”

Baxter grunted again. “What would you rather have? Flaming puddings or dead guests?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“As I thought. Get rid of the puddings. I’ll tell Mrs. Tucker myself.” He started for the door.

“There’s just one thing.”

Pausing, he looked back at her. “What’s that?”

“Well, let’s suppose, just for instance, that Mrs. Tucker did put something in Mr. Armitage’s pudding. How would we know unless Kevin tests it?”

“Good point.”

“Then again, she could have simply put something in the slice she sent up to him.”

He frowned. “I know she’s a bit of a tyrant, but do you really think she’s capable of murder?”

“Everyone is capable of murder.” Cecily sat down on her armchair. “I’ve told you that before.”

Baxter walked back toward her. “Yes, you have. I sincerely hope that this time you’re wrong.”

“About everyone being capable of murder?”

“About Mrs. Tucker. I was really looking forward to a nice peaceful Christmas for a change.”

Cecily stared into the glowing coals in the fireplace. “I’m afraid, my love, that seems rather unlikely. The Christmas curse prevails.”

Baxter raised his chin to stare at the ornate ceiling. “Damn the Christmas curse. One of these days it will be the end of the Pennyfoot Country Club.”

Cecily held back a cry of dismay. “I hope and pray that you are wrong.”

Baxter didn’t answer but turned away with an expression on his face that worried her. It wasn’t the first time her husband had indicated that the demise of the Pennyfoot would be a blessing in disguise. She was hanging on to her profession by a thin thread, and it wouldn’t take much for Baxter to put his foot down once and for all and put an end to her association with the country club.

And that would be the biggest tragedy of all.

*   *   *

Gertie had barely put a foot inside the kitchen before Beatrice pounced on her. “What’s this I hear about you spilling sherry all over Lady Henrietta’s gown?”

Gertie slammed her tray of dirty dishes down on the counter so hard the knives leapt off the plates and bounced onto the floor. “Who told you that?” she demanded, ready to split open the head of whoever had told on her.

Beatrice folded her arms. “Never mind who told me. Just rest assured that the cost of a new gown will be deducted from your salary.”

Scowling, Gertie scooped up the knives from the floor. “Well, you don’t pay me. Madam does.”

“So you think I should speak to madam about this?”

Gertie scowled. “Do what you want. It weren’t my fault, anyway. I got pushed into the table by someone else. Besides, Sir Reginald was very nice about it. He said as how it were an accident and not to worry about it.”

Beatrice turned away and started wiping down the kitchen table with a wet tea towel. “Well, it’s more than you deserve. It’s my opinion that you should pay for a new gown and I’m sure madam will agree with me. Lady Henrietta has had enough tragedy in her life. She doesn’t need an upset like this.”

“What does that bloody mean?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business. But if you must know, the Minsters have suffered a dreadful tragedy at the hands of an unscrupulous scoundrel, and they have not yet recovered from it.”

Gertie stared at her. “How do
you
know that?”

“Someone who knows them told me.”

“Who?”

“Never you mind.” As if realizing she’d said too much, Beatrice snapped, “Get busy with those dishes, young lady, or you’ll be here all night.”

Still smarting, Gertie fetched a cauldron from the stove and set it in the sink. Turning on the tap, she watched the water pouring into the huge container. Intrigued by the snippet of news she’d heard about the Minsters, she wondered who had told Beatrice about the aristocrats. She wouldn’t have thought the housekeeper moved in those kinds of circles.

Then again, as housekeeper, she probably served in an aristocrat’s house, where everyone downstairs gossiped about the upstairs crowd. Too bad the old crow was such a miserable old bugger. She probably had all sorts of juicy stories to tell.

Sighing, Gertie hauled the cauldron out of the sink and heaved it over to the stove. All she could hope was that Beatrice Tucker forgot about her paying for the gown. That would surely put an end to her Christmas shopping.

CHAPTER

4

The following morning Gertie was the first one to arrive in the kitchen. She’d been woken up earlier by her twins. Their excitement over the long-anticipated visit from Father Christmas had kept them from sleeping, and since they were all in the same room, Gertie had little choice but to wake up with them.

After getting them settled with Daisy, their nanny, Gertie decided to get a head start. She was anxious to find out what was going to happen to the old bat now that she’d told madam about the Christmas puddings.

In spite of the numerous pots and pans hanging on the walls, the kitchen looked bare when she walked into it, in stark contrast to the rest of the country club. Madeline Prestwick had been lavish with the decorations, as always, but the downstairs part of the Pennyfoot was left to the staff to decorate.

The maids had hung paper chains along the hallway and dangled mistletoe at either end, no doubt hoping for a quick smooch from one of the footmen. Gertie was way past such hanky-panky, though she wouldn’t mind meeting Clive under a bunch of mistletoe.

Quickly curbing the treacherous thought, she looked around the kitchen. Someone had put some sprigs of holly tied with red ribbon on the shelf above the ovens. On either side of the holly, a red candle nestled in a silver candlestick, while a paper angel graced each end of the shelf.

Gertie smiled, wondering who had taken the time to do all that. It couldn’t have been Tucker the Terrible, she wouldn’t have wasted her time that way. It must have been one of the maids.

Walking over to the sink, she saw a tray of cups and saucers waiting to be washed and dried. She reached under the sink for the heavy cauldron and set it under the tap. After filling it with water, she hauled it over to the stove. The ashes in the boiler still glowed red, and she added coals a few at a time until they began to smolder and burn.

By the time she’d brought the butter out of the pantry to soften it, folded all the serviettes and polished all the silverware, the water was hot enough to wash the dishes.

Gertie filled the sink, added soap, and then plunged the china into the hot water. The old bat would be surprised to see everything done, she thought, smiling to herself at the vision of Beatrice Tucker thanking her profusely for getting off to such a good start in the morning.

Fat bloody chance of that. The miserable cow would probably look for something she’d done wrong, like not polishing a fork properly, or leaving a corner sticking out from a serviette.

Her grin fading, she swished a teacup around in the soapy water and ran a dishcloth around the rim. If there was one thing she found hard to do, it was keep a secret. Especially one as juicy as the one she was bursting to tell Pansy. What if Tucker the Terrible had murdered Mr. Armitage? They’d take her away, of course. Then they’d have peace and quiet in the kitchen again.

If she could be sure Pansy would keep her mouth shut, she’d tell her. But chances were Pansy would go blabbing to Samuel, and before you knew it, the secret would be all over the Pennyfoot. No, better keep quiet about it, rather than risk upsetting madam.

Annoyed with herself for dwelling on it, she concentrated on thinking about something else. What to get Clive for Christmas. He’d already told her he was making something for the twins this year. Every year he made them something different, each better than the last. One year it was a tree house. Last year a rocking horse. She couldn’t wait to see what he had in store for them this year.

How the twins loved Clive. He was so good to them, too. Gertie sighed as she stood the dripping teacup on the draining board and reached for another one. If only she could sort out her feelings for him. One way or another. It was this going back and forth that bothered her so much. When she was with him all she could think about was how happy she was in his company. Then, when she wasn’t with him, all the doubts came flooding back.

The sound of the kitchen door opening cut off her thoughts. Michel sailed across the kitchen with a jaunty wave of his hand. “Bonjour,
mon ami!”

Gertie gave him a wary look. One never knew what kind of mood Michel would be in from one minute to the next. Most of the time, he took a delight in insulting everyone, though he kept insisting he was merely joking.

Once in a while he’d disappear into the pantry and everyone knew he was at the brandy bottle again. You could always tell when Michel was drunk. He’d lose his French accent and start talking Cockney, which was the accent he’d grown up with in the first place.

The guests all thought he was French, and madam preferred to keep it that way, though she would never actually lie about it. If anyone asked her, she’d be deliberately vague about how he came to be working for her at the Pennyfoot.

Only Gertie and Mrs. Chubb knew that she gave Michel the job after he came out of prison. He’d spent eight years in there for burning down a gentleman’s club after he’d been thrown out because he didn’t talk and dress proper. Lucky for him he didn’t kill anyone, or he’d still be there.

Right now, Michel seemed to be in a good mood for once. He was humming to himself as he whisked pots and bowls out of the cupboard. The humming soon stopped when Beatrice Tucker shoved the door open.

Gertie could feel all the muscles in her back go tight when the housekeeper snapped, “Where’s Pansy? She should be in here by now.”

“I’m right here, Mrs. Tucker.” Pansy appeared in the doorway, a nervous smile plastered on her face.

“Get to work. You’re late.” Beatrice headed for the pantry. “And Gertie, the boiler needs more coals.” She disappeared inside the tiny room and shut the door firmly behind her.

Michel scowled at the pantry door and slammed a lid down on a saucepan. “Bonjour
to you, too,” he muttered.

“I already put the bleeding coals in the flipping boiler.” Gertie thumbed her nose at the pantry door.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Looks like another fun-filled day in the kitchen to look forward to.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not for much longer.” Gertie clenched her teeth as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

“What do you mean?” Pansy walked over to join her at the sink, a dish towel in her hand. Reaching for one of the cups, she added, “Is something bad going to happen?”

Cursing herself for the slip of her tongue, Gertie shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She might have known Pansy wouldn’t let it go. She was still trying to think of an answer when Michel unexpectedly came to her rescue.

“She means that as long as that
cochon
is in charge, we have no fun at all,
non
?”

Gertie sent him a grateful smile.
“Oui
.
”

Pansy raised her eyebrows. “Hark at you, talking French now.”

Gertie was about to answer when Beatrice stormed out of the pantry. “What happened to the butter? I distinctly remember putting it on the back shelf in the pantry and now it’s gone.”

“I brought it out to soften it for you,” Gertie said, wishing now she hadn’t bothered.

“Well, you might have said. I wasted all those minutes looking for it.” Beatrice marched across the kitchen to the table and picked up the butter dish.

“If you’d used your bloody eyes you would have seen it,” Gertie muttered under her breath.

Standing close by her side, Pansy giggled.

“What did you say?” Beatrice’s voice cut across the kitchen like a blast of hail.

“She said she brought the butter out to help you,” Pansy said, earning a look of gratitude from her friend.

Beatrice grunted. “Well, next time, tell me. Oh, and Michel, you’ll have to make more Christmas puddings.”

Gertie’s hands stilled in the water. Behind her, she could almost feel Michel’s temper rising.

“I do
what
?” The chef sounded dangerously quiet.

“You’ll have to make more Christmas puddings. I burned the other ones in the stove.”

“You burn
my
puddings in ze stove?”

Gertie nudged Pansy and turned around to enjoy the show.

“Yes, I did. It occurred to me that Mr. Armitage might have been poisoned by something in the pudding I sent up to him. I thought it prudent to destroy all of them and make new ones.”

Michel brought the saucepan he was holding down hard on the stove, sending a splintering crash across the room. His voice gradually rose, getting louder and louder until he was practically screaming. “
I
make the puddings! Me, Michel the chef! There is no poison in my puddings. You burned fifteen
perfect
Christmas puddings.” He paused for breath, then added in a dangerously quiet tone, “I hope you took out ze silver thrupenny bits before you destroyed my puddings.”

Beatrice tossed her head. “Of course I did. I’m not stupid. Though if you ask me, it could have been the thrupenny bits that poisoned Mr. Armitage. I never did think that tradition was very hygienic.”

“My thrupenny bits,” Michel said, emphasizing each word, “are as clean as your boiled tea towels. Cleaner. I do not make more puddings! If you want more puddings, then you bloody well make them yourself!”

This last was delivered with a strong Cockney accent that obviously took Beatrice by surprise. Her jaw dropped as she watched Michel stalk across the kitchen, flinging his hat to the floor before he disappeared through the door.

“Now you’ve bloody gone and done it,” Gertie observed.

Pansy stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes bright with subdued excitement.

Beatrice sent them both a look of pure contempt. “Mind your own business and get back to work,” she snarled, then dashed out the door in hot pursuit of the angry chef.

“Where do you think Michel is going?” Pansy picked up another cup and started drying it with the dishcloth.

Gertie shrugged. “Probably going to complain to madam. I hope for his sake Mr. Baxter’s not there. He’s a bit liverish when it comes to complaints.”

Pansy shook her head. “Why would Mrs. Tucker burn all those puddings? Do you really think they were poisonous?”

“I don’t know. I—”

She broke off as the door opened and Dr. Prestwick walked in. He stood just inside the door, looking around as if he expected to see more people in there.

Gertie pulled her hands out of the water and dried them on her apron. She really liked Dr. Prestwick. Not only was he easy on the eyes, with his fair curly hair and roguish smile, but he was a real gentleman. Always treated her as if she were just as good as any of the posh ladies that crowded his surgery every week. And everyone knew that most of those ladies were there with pretend ailments, just so’s they could be in the doctor’s company once in a while.

The whole village had been shocked when the good doctor had married Madeline Pengrath. There wasn’t anyone in Badgers End who didn’t know that Madeline had special powers. She used her herbs and flowers to cure everything from the sniffles to the gout, and Gertie knew at least a dozen gentlemen had gone to Madeline to help them with their marriage problems.

It had just seemed strange to people that Dr. Prestwick, a man of science and medicine, would marry a witch, even if she was the most beautiful and kindest person you’d ever want to meet.

Gertie smiled at the doctor as she hurried toward him. “Is there something I can help you with, Doctor?”

Kevin Prestwick looked a bit anxious when he turned to her. “Actually, I was looking for Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Baxter sent me down here to take a look at the Christmas puddings.” His expression changed, as if he was aware he’d said too much.

Gertie knew why he was there, but aware of Pansy hovering at the sink, couldn’t tell him what she knew. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor.” She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid the puddings have gorn.”

Kevin stared at her, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Gone?”

“Gorn, sir. Bloody burned in the boiler, they were. Mrs. Tucker got rid of them.” She stared hard at him, willing him to read her mind. It was her strong opinion that the housekeeper had burned the puddings to get rid of the evidence. There was no doubt in her mind that the old bat had poisoned one of them and had disposed of the others to make it look like there was something wrong with all the puddings.

Kevin stared back at her for a moment longer, then murmured, “Why would she do that?”

“Why, indeed, sir,” Gertie agreed with relish.

Pansy piped up from the sink. “She thought there might be something in them what poisoned Mr. Armitage.”

“Did she now.” Kevin seemed to think about that for a moment, then with a nod, he twisted around and headed out the door.

Pansy stood staring at the door, her face creased in a frown. “What was all that about?”

Gertie wandered back to the sink and dipped her hands once more into the gray water. “How should I blooming know?”

“Why would Dr. Prestwick want to look at the puddings . . . oh!” Pansy dropped the saucer she was drying, and it clattered noisily on the counter, though luckily it didn’t break. Her voice was hushed when she added fearfully, “They think Mrs. Tucker poisoned Mr. Armitage on
purpose
?”

“Shshh!!!” Gertie threw a glance at the door. “We’re not supposed to say anything about it.”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “Crumbs, we’d better be really, really careful what we say to her. If we upset her she could poison us, too.”

“Will you be bleeding quiet!” Gertie gave her a stern look. “If this gets out madam will think I blinking told everyone and then I’ll be in trouble.”

“All right, I won’t say nothing.” Pansy picked up the saucer she’d dropped and examined it for cracks.

“Not even Samuel.”

Pansy swung around, her eyes wide. “But we should warn him about Mrs. Tucker. She might poison him, too.”

Gertie stared at her. “Why would she want to poison Samuel?”

“I dunno, but when I went into the stables to see Samuel the other day, Mrs. Tucker was in there talking to Gilbert Tubbs, and when she saw me she asked me where Samuel was and she sounded really angry.”

Gertie rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t mean she wants to bleeding kill him, twerp. She sounds angry all the time.”