The Clue is in the Pudding (8 page)

“You may well be right. I’ll be able to give you a day or two, but that’s all. I’m sure P.C. Watkins will want a report from me in short order.”

“Then let’s hope we can track down the killer by then.” Cecily walked with him to the door. “I have a suspect in mind, and I’ll be asking questions as soon as I can find the opportunity.”

She said good-bye to Kevin and walked slowly back to the fire, her mind working feverishly. Sir Reginald had good reason to want Armitage dead, but that didn’t mean he killed the man. Perhaps his wife could shed some light on the nature of her husband. It was imperative that she talk to her as soon as possible. In the meantime, there was one person she could talk to right away.

*   *   *

Leaving the library, Cecily hurried down the hallway to the bar. To her immense relief, the room was empty, the hour too early for the pre-dinner cocktails. Barry, the bartender, was busy polishing glasses and looked up with a smile as she entered.

“Afternoon, m’m. Come in for a nice drop of sherry, have you?”

Cecily sat down on one of the bar stools. “No, Barry, thank you. It’s a little early for me to indulge.”

Barry held up the glass and twisted it around to inspect it for spots. “Never too early for the good stuff, m’m.”

“Speaking of which,” she tried to look unconcerned, “how many bottles of our special whiskey do you have left? I wonder if we need to order more before New Year’s Eve.”

“Well, let’s see.” Barry put down the glass and turned around to study the shelves. “As a matter of fact, I’ve sold a few bottles in the last few days. People like to give them as Christmas presents, seeing as how they have the Pennyfoot name on them. It might be a good idea to order a few more. Just in case we run out.” He turned back to look at her. “I’ll take care of it, m’m, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Barry. I thought I saw Sir Reginald with a bottle the other day.”

“Actually he bought a couple of bottles. Lady Bottingham was in here, too, asking for one. Bit bold of her, if I may say so. Oh, and a couple of the staff bought them, too.”

In the act of getting up, Cecily paused. “Our staff?”

“Yes, m’m. The new housekeeper bought two bottles, and Samuel bought one.”

Cecily blinked. “Samuel?”

“Yes, m’m.” Barry frowned. “Is something wrong? There’s nothing wrong with the whiskey, is there? I can have it all replaced if there’s a problem.”

“No, no, Barry.” Cecily stood up and replaced the bar stool against the counter. “I was just making sure we had enough whiskey for Christmas, that’s all.”

His face cleared. “Very good, m’m. I’ll be sure to order more, then.”

She thanked him and left, an uneasy feeling growing in her stomach. What if the poison originated at the distillery? No, it couldn’t be. People had been drinking the whiskey in the bar without ill effect. The poison had to have been added to one particular bottle that found its way to Archibald Armitage’s room.

Samuel? In all her visits to the public house with her stable manager, she had never seen him drink anything except beer. . He must have bought the whiskey for a Christmas gift. Or . . . no! Samuel could not have poisoned the actor. She’d stake her life on it.

Beatrice Tucker? A possibility. After all, what did she really know about the temporary housekeeper, other than that she was thoroughly disagreeable and had little respect for anyone? True, Beatrice had brought good references, but they could be faked. Cecily had been too anxious to hire someone to waste time verifying them.

Beatrice had bought two bottles of the whiskey. Had she poisoned one of them, to pay the actor back for being rude to her, not realizing that it would kill him? Then again, Sir Reginald, who had argued so vehemently with the victim that Phoebe had been forced to hide, had also bought two bottles of the whiskey. That gentleman seemed a far more likely suspect, and she would have a conversation with his wife as soon as she could find her.

She made her way to the foyer, where Philip, the reception clerk, was dozing behind the counter. He jerked to attention when she spoke his name.

“Do you have any idea where I might find Lady Henrietta?” Cecily asked, with just a touch of irritation.

Philip was not a young man, though his balding head and pale eyes behind the glasses he wore made him look older than his actual age. He was, however, supposed to be at attention at all times, and more often than not, she caught him napping at his desk.

On more than one occasion Baxter had strongly suggested she replace the clerk with someone more attentive and efficient. Aware that the idea had merit, she also knew that Philip was widowed and had no living relatives. He would be absolutely lost without his position behind the reception desk. She simply couldn’t bring herself to deprive him of his only interaction with the outside world.

He stared at her now, as if she’d asked for directions to the moon. “I beg your pardon, m’m?”

Cecily curbed her temper. “Lady Henrietta, Philip. The wife of Sir Reginald Minster. Do you know where I can find her?”

Philip frowned, apparently struggling to place the woman, then his brow cleared. “I’ve got it!” he announced, with a note of pride. “She’s the lady with the frizzy hair and big nose. Never seen such a big conk. You can see it coming round the corner before you see her.”

Cecily briefly closed her eyes. “Please, Philip. Do not talk about our guests in that manner. It is not only rude, someone could overhear you and repeat your unfortunate remarks to the recipient of your insults. We have a reputation to uphold, and I won’t have it jeopardized by thoughtless comments.”

Philip looked contrite. “Yes, m’m. Sorry, m’m.”

“Do you know where Lady Henrietta might be?”

“Sorry, m’m. I haven’t seen her since early this morn-
ing.”

Sighing, Cecily made her way up the stairs. She should have known better than to rely on Philip’s help. She would just have to find the lady herself and hope to get some answers. For right now, she was in a familiar place—racing against time to solve a murder, without a clue where to begin.

*   *   *

Gertie picked up a knobby potato and slashed at the peel with a knife. Her afternoon off was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, but Tucker the Terrible had insisted she finish peeling the potatoes before she could leave. Her twins were probably jumping up and down, waiting for her to fetch them for their afternoon walk along the Esplanade. Daisy must be biting her nails, too. The nanny was waiting for Gertie to take the twins so she could go Christmas shopping for them.

Gertie smiled, thinking about the presents she’d bought for her children. She’d been saving all year, a few pennies at a time, so she could buy them what they wanted. She even had a little left over, but now Tucker the Terrible was threatening to take money out of her wages to pay for that bloody gown.

Gertie chopped at the potato, taking off a large chunk. It went flying across the sink and bounced out, dropping to the floor. Ignoring it, she scowled. To blazes with the toff’s gown. Christmas only came once a year and she was going to make it the best Christmas she could for her twins. She’d worry about paying for the blinking gown later.

Gertie sighed. How she missed Mrs. Chubb. She couldn’t wait until Christmas was over and the housekeeper went back to where she belonged. Tucker was a nasty, bad-tempered witch, and for all she knew, a murderer as well.

Pinching her lips together, Gertie took another swipe at the potato. She knew where she’d like to put the knife. And it wasn’t in another potato.

Behind her, she heard the housekeeper muttering something under her breath. The old goat was talking to herself again. Gertie knew what that meant. Beatrice had been at the brandy bottle again.

Just wait until Michel found out. He’d be tearing his hair out. If there was one thing the chef wouldn’t tolerate, it was someone knocking back his brandy. Gertie smiled at the image. She enjoyed hearing Michel screaming at Beatrice Tucker.

The thought was hardly out of her head before Michel came storming out of the pantry. “Who steals my brandy?” he demanded, waving a half-empty bottle in the air. “Who dares to touch my bottle?”

Beatrice seemed to be having trouble with her tongue when she answered. “It’s not really your bottle, Michel. It belongs to the kitchen. It’s supposed to be for cooking.”

“Then why are you drinking it?”

“I’m not drinking it.”

“Your breath stinks of ze booze.” Michel’s voice rose. “I tell madam that you steal ze brandy.”

Gertie turned so she could watch them out of the corner of her eye, while still slicing peel off the potato.

Michel was hovering over the housekeeper, eyes blazing. She seemed unfazed by the onslaught. In fact, Gertie observed, the housekeeper looked as if she was actually enjoying the exchange.

Beatrice peered up at the chef. “You are quite welcome to do that, Michel. I’m sure madam would also be surprised to know that her renowned French chef spends his free time in Wellercombe visiting a house of ill repute.”

Michel looked as if he were about to be sick. He stared at the housekeeper in horror for several seconds, then let out a howl of anguish, dropped the bottle onto the table and dashed out of the kitchen so fast his tall chef’s hat fell off and floated to the floor. Beatrice stared at it for a moment, then walked unsteadily across the room. Bending over to retrieve the hat, she hung onto the side of the table to steady herself. “Michel needs to calm down before he gives himself a heart attack.” She stared at Gertie with glazed eyes. “He can be such a nasty fellow when he’s in a bad temper.”

Taking advantage of the housekeeper’s brandy-mellowed mood, Gertie asked, “Was that true? What you said about the brothel?”

Beatrice winced. “I never like to use that word.”

“How did you know about Michel being in one?”

The housekeeper wagged a sluggish finger. “Never you mind. I make it my business to know such things. You never know when they will come in useful. Such as just now. It shut Michel up in a hurry, didn’t it.”

“He’s upset about the puddings,” Gertie said. “He was up all bloody night making more of them. He’s worn out.”

Beatrice straightened her back, wandered over to the stove and laid the hat on the counter. “Michel should be more concerned about Archibald Armitage’s death than his precious puddings.” She hiccupped, and put a hand over her mouth. “Though if you ask me, the world is well rid of that man. After what he did to Lady Bottingham—he got off easy if you ask me.”

Thoroughly intrigued, Gertie dropped the potato and knife on the counter and gave the housekeeper her full attention. “What did he do that was so bad, then?”

Beatrice swayed forward, caught herself and straightened. “He ruined lives, that’s what he did. Now he’s gone, and he won’t be hurting any more people.”

Gertie raised her eyebrows, still somewhat surprised to find herself actually having a conversation with Beatrice Tucker. “How d’you know all that?”

“Someone told me. Someone whose life has been destroyed by that man. Archibald Armitage was a desh-picable person, and I, for one, will shed no tears over his death.”

“I thought you flipping liked him. Wasn’t that why you sent him up that slice of pudding?”

Beatrice drew herself up, looking for a moment like her old self for a few seconds before her shoulders collapsed again. “I always wanted to be on the stage. I just like being around actors, and talking to them. I thought if I was extra nice to Mr. Armitage he’d be nice to me.”

She shook her head, as if to clear it. “What the blazes are you doing standing around here for? Aren’t you supposed to be off this afternoon?”

Gertie didn’t wait to argue with her. She dropped the knife and was out the door before the housekeeper could draw another breath. As she hurried down the hallway, the question buzzed in her mind. What was it the housekeeper had said?
He ruined lives, that’s what he did..
Had one of those lives belonged to Beatrice Tucker?

She’d probably never know the answer to that one. In any case, she had more important things to think about. Like taking her twins for a walk. Forgetting her worries, she smiled in anticipation of the treat and headed for her room.

CHAPTER

7

Twenty minutes later, Gertie was out on the Esplanade, a small hand clutching each of hers as they battled against the stiff breeze blowing off the ocean. Across the street, lights from the numerous shops flowed across the pavement. All along the seafront, red ribbons adorned the railings that divided the road from the sands, and wreaths of holly hung from the streetlamps. The lamp lighter had already finished his work, and the lamps glowed like miniature moons against the dark sky.

Gertie paused to enjoy the view, then shivered as the wind flapped her skirts around her ankles, stinging them with icy fingers.

“Is it going to snow for Christmas?” James asked, looking up at her with his free hand holding down the cap on his head.

Gertie looked up at the sky. “It might. It’s bloody cold enough.”

“I’m cold.” He tucked his chin into his collar and stuck his hand into his pocket.

“I don’t want it to snow,” Lillian said, pulling on her mother’s hand. “Father Christmas might not come if it snows.”

“Course he’ll come,” James said on a note of scorn. “He comes in a sleigh, doesn’t he. He doesn’t care if it snows.”

A small frown creased Lillian’s forehead. “How does he drive the sleigh when it doesn’t snow?”

Deciding it was time to change the subject, Gertie said hurriedly, “Remember our sleigh ride in the snow with Mr. Clive?”

“Yeah,” James muttered. “I broke my arm.”

“That’s because you didn’t do what you were told.”

“I want to ride in the sleigh again.” Lillian tugged on Gertie’s hand. “Why can’t we go on the sleigh again with Mr. Clive?”

“Because it’s not snowing.” Gertie nodded at the brightly lit stores across the street. “Look at all the Christmas stuff in the windows. Let’s go and look.” She started across the street, dragging the twins with her. She didn’t want to think about Clive. She’d done her best to keep him out of her mind ever since she’d made the astonishing discovery of her true feelings for him.

She would not allow herself to indulge in those feelings again. Too many times she had listened to her heart instead of her head and got nothing but pain and misery in return. There wasn’t a man on earth who could change her mind about that. Not even the kindest, sweetest, most gentle man she’d ever met.

“Look, Mama! There’s Mr. Clive!”

Lillian’s voice jerked Gertie out of her thoughts. She stopped dead, staring at the big man waiting on the other side of the street. For a moment she wondered if she’d conjured him up in her mind, but then a loud shout and a clattering of hooves turned her head.

Coming right at them was a carriage, the driver straining on the reins to halt the snorting horse. Acting instinctively, Gertie shoved the kids as hard as she could toward the pavement, then closed her eyes as the flying hooves plunged toward her.

The next thing she knew, she was swept up in two strong arms and flung aside. From some distance away a shrill scream rent the air, and she felt the blast of wind as the pounding hooves and rattling carriage wheels thundered past her.

Then she was on the pavement, her twins clutching her arms and Clive smiling down at her, fear still hovering in his eyes. “That was a close one,” he said, patting both children on the shoulder. “I thought you were all going under those wheels.”

Shaking uncontrollably, Gertie managed a weak grin. “We might have done if it hadn’t been for you. You always seem to be there to rescue us.”

“I hope I’m always there.”

The look in his eyes made her heart beat faster, and she quickly turned her attention to the twins. “Was it you that screamed?” she asked Lillian, who seemed about to burst into tears.

The little girl nodded. “I thought you were going to get runned over.”

“I knew she wasn’t,” James declared. “When I saw Mr. Clive, I knew he wouldn’t let nothing happen to her.”

“You can bet your boots on that,” Clive said, with a hint of laughter.

Gertie cleared her throat. “We were just going to look in the shop windows,” she said. “Thank you ever so much, Clive. You saved my life. I always seem to be thanking you for something.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I consider it an honor and a privilege to be your friend.” He winked at the twins. “Would you mind if I walk along with you?”

Yes, she minded. Being around him was unsettling, like she was off balance. She’d always been the one in charge—the one everyone relied on to get things done. With Clive, though, it was different somehow. With him she wasn’t trying to be everything and do everything, because he was always so willing and ready to do things for her.

For a long time she had been a staunch supporter of the women’s movement, holding on to her independence as if her life depended upon it. Women’s rights were important, she’d always said. Men had had their own way for far too long. Now it was time women took over.

Yet, when she was with Clive, he made her feel something she’d never felt before. Like she was someone fragile to take care of and protect. With anyone else she would have scoffed at the thought. Big blinking clumsy Gertie—fragile? Hah! Yet with Clive it felt right. Strange, but right. What’s more, she liked it. That’s what was so bloody dangerous about it.

“He can come, Mama, can’t he?” Lillian tugged her hand again. “I want Mr. Clive to come with us.”

There didn’t seem much Gertie could say at that, so she nodded, flashing Clive a quick smile. “Course he can come. It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

“Goodie!” Lillian skipped over to Clive’s side and took hold of his hand. “Come on, Mr. Clive. I want to show you the dolly’s house in the window down here.”

“I want to show you some stuff, too!” James grabbed the big man’s other hand and started dragging him down the crowded street.

Gertie shrugged and followed behind, watching her children skipping along on either side of Clive. There was nothing she could do about it now, she thought, so she might as well bloody enjoy it. She’d worry about her feelings later.

*   *   *

Cecily had barely entered her suite before Baxter demanded, “Have you heard from Prestwick yet?” He was seated in his usual spot in front of the fire, and peered at her over the top of his newspaper. “If not, he’s taking a blasted long time to get around to ringing us.”

Cecily hoped her husband didn’t notice her guilty start. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, darling. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. Kevin finished his testing.”

Baxter looked put out. “He was here?”

“This afternoon, yes.” Seeing the dark look on her husband’s face, she hurried on. “He brought his testing kit with him and got the results right away. You’ll be relieved to know that the poison wasn’t in the pudding after all.”

Baxter shook the paper and carefully folded it. “If it wasn’t the pudding that poisoned the chap, then what was it?”

She might have known she couldn’t stall for long. “I . . . ah . . . I’m afraid there was arsenic in one of our special whiskey bottles.”

Baxter stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes and raised his chin. “Dear God, what did we do to deserve this?”

“Kevin summoned the constable. He was here this afternoon.”

Baxter abruptly lowered his chin. “Northcott was here, too?”

“Not Sam, darling. He’s away on holiday in London. This was his replacement. A very nice young man. Rather green behind the ears, I’d say, but—”

Baxter’s voice rose to a roar. “Just when were you going to tell me all this?”

“Well, actually, I was going to tell you after we’d eaten our meal. I didn’t want to spoil your appetite. You ate so little last night, and I’m quite sure you didn’t have much to eat today.”

“Of course I didn’t eat much today. I prefer to eat with my wife, and since I haven’t seen you all day because you’re too blasted busy talking to doctors and constables to even talk to me about something as important as murder, it’s no wonder I haven’t eaten much all day.”

Cecily sighed. He had a point. She’d skipped lunch in order to finish the paperwork before the final Christmas rush and now all she wanted to do was eat a nice meal in front of the blazing fire. “I’ve ordered supper in our suite, darling. It should be here any minute. Why don’t we wait until we’ve eaten to discuss this dreadful business? We will both feel more able to deal with it on a full stomach.”

Baxter leaned forward. “I will not eat one morsel until you tell me everything that is going on. To begin with, I have to assume that you are taking on the task of finding out who murdered our guest, since you consider this constable such an inexperienced clot?”

“Well, not exactly. I just thought I might ask a few questions, that’s all.”

Baxter groaned, leaning back in his chair as if he was suddenly exhausted. “When,
when
, are you going to stop all this nonsense?”

Cecily looked down at her hands. In a small voice, she answered, “When people stop committing murder in our hotel.”

“Country club.” He said it wearily, as if he were tired of reminding her. “It’s no longer a hotel.”

“The Pennyfoot will always be a hotel to me. That’s where it all started, remember?”

His expression softened at once. “Of course I remember. How could I forget?”

“Then you remember why I must do everything in my power to protect my people. We cannot allow a murderer to remain under this roof undetected.”

“I was under the assumption that the constabulary is supposed to take care of criminals.”

Cecily managed a smile. “We all know how well that goes. More often than not, Inspector Cranshaw has to step in—something I’ve managed to avoid for quite some time.”

Baxter uttered a monstrous sigh. “I suppose you’re right. But I don’t have to like it. I must ask you once more to promise me you will not put yourself in danger as you have done so often in the past.”

She hesitated. “I promise not to deliberately walk into danger.”

He was about to answer when, to her relief, a tapping on the door stopped him.

Gertie answered Cecily’s command, shoving open the door with her hip before carrying the heavy tray over to the low table in front of the fire. “Mrs. Tucker sent up some bread pudding for afters,” she said, straightening her back. “She said Mr. Baxter didn’t eat nothing midday and would be hungry.”

Baxter eyed the tray with a jaundiced eye. “I trust there’s no arsenic in it.”

Gertie stifled a laugh while Cecily frowned at him. “That was uncalled for, Baxter.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.” He nodded at Gertie. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Yes, sir.” Gertie curtsied and left the room, still smiling.

Baxter continued to stare at the tray as if it would jump up and bite him.

“The poison wasn’t in the pudding,” Cecily reminded him.

“We still don’t know who killed the poor chap. That Tucker woman could have just as easily poisoned a bottle of whiskey as she could a pudding. What do we know about her, anyway?”

Excellent question
, Cecily thought. Deciding that this wasn’t the time to share her doubts about the temporary housekeeper, she murmured, “She came with very good references, darling.” She got up and lifted a plate of roast pork and vegetables from the tray. Handing it to her husband, she added, “Besides, who in the world would want to kill you?”

Still frowning, Baxter took the plate from her. “One never knows these days. It seems to me it’s easier to make enemies than it is friends. All this talk in Parliament about an impending war, an infamous serial killer lurking around London, not to mention a man murdered right here under our roof, is it any surprise that I wonder from where the next threat might be coming?”

Cecily felt a pang of anxiety. She lived with that thought most of her days, though always striving to ignore it. After all, although one must be ready to deal with whatever presented itself, whether good or bad, life should be lived one day or even one moment at a time. To dwell on what might be was almost as bad as dwelling on what might have been. One was in the future, the other in the past, and the only sure thing in anyone’s life was the here and now.

Right now she was relaxing in front of a warm fire, her dear husband at her side and a plate of delicious food in front of her. For that moment in time, what more could she ask?

*   *   *

Instead of the anticipated snowstorm, the morning of the carol-singing ceremony dawned sunny and bright, though a thick frost had laid a carpet of glistening jewels across the bowling greens. As usual, Cecily spent these precious moments of respite in front of her suite’s large window, gazing out at the peaceful scene of sloping lawns and the dense wooded land beyond.

It was a time to gather her thoughts and brace herself for whatever trials and tribulations lay ahead. Today she must do her best to find the person who had placed a poisoned bottle of whiskey in the hands of Archibald Armitage. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. How long would P.C. Watkins wait before calling on Inspector Cranshaw to investigate the murder? Would he wait until after Christmas Day, mindful of disturbing the dour inspector’s holiday?

She had so little time and so little notion where to begin. Lady Henrietta. She must begin there. Her husband was one of the last people to have words with the actor, and they were harsh words at that, according to Phoebe.

What better reason for revenge than the loss of a daughter? It was as good as any place to start. Without further ado, she left the suite and made her way down the stairs to the foyer.

Philip jumped to attention when he saw her approaching the reception desk. “I was just about to send a message up to you, m’m,” he said, when she reached him. “I told Lady Henrietta you were looking for her, and she said she’d wait for you in the library.”

“Thank you, Philip.” Cecily turned to leave, then looked back at him. “Was Sir Reginald with her?”

“No, m’m. I think the gentleman is in one of the card rooms. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” She left him, making her way to the library while she thought about the questions she needed to ask.

Lady Henrietta stood by the window, gazing out at the rose gardens when Cecily entered the library. At the sound of the door closing, the aristocrat turned to face her. “These gardens must look lovely in the summertime,” she said, gliding gracefully toward the fireplace. “I will tell Reginald that we must come down here next year.”