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Authors: Kate Kingsbury

The Clue is in the Pudding (9 page)

BOOK: The Clue is in the Pudding
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“We will be most happy to have you stay with us again.” Wearing her professional smile, Cecily joined the woman by the fireside. “Sir Reginald is not with you?”

“No.” Lady Henrietta held out her hands closer to the smoldering coals. “He is in a card room, I believe.” She heaved a sigh. “That’s all he does, nowadays. Gamble and drink.” She shuddered, and passed a hand across her brow. “Forgive me. I should not discuss such matters with you.”

Cecily sat down on a brocade chair and motioned Lady Henrietta to do the same. “There is nothing to forgive. Sometimes it is easier to talk to a stranger. Rest assured, nothing you say to me will be repeated.”

Lady Ashley’s dark blue gaze bore into her face. “I must admit, it would be a great relief to talk about it. Ever since the tragedy happened, our friends and relatives have been tiptoeing around us, deliberately avoiding all mention of it.”

Cecily pretended to look puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . .”

Lady Henrietta sat down abruptly on the chair. “Of course you don’t. How foolish of me. I . . . we . . . lost our only daughter a few short months ago. In some ways it feels an eternity since I last looked upon her face, yet the day we found her, lying so still in her bed, is as painfully clear to me as if it happened yesterday.”

Feeling a deep sorrow for the woman, Cecily leaned forward. “I’m sure it is. There is so little one can say at this time, except that time heals all wounds. Though one never quite forgets. I still remember the death of my first husband, but I can do so now without writhing in agony at the memory.”

Her gaze strayed to the spot above the fireplace where the portrait of James Sinclair had once hung. Even now, she felt a spasm of nostalgia, not so much for the man she had lost, but for the woman she once had been. Her life had changed so much since James’s death. Responsibilities and the constant pressure of her work had aged her, and she sometimes missed the carefree, fun-loving young woman of long ago.

“Oh, if only I was allowed to forget.” Lady Henrietta’s voice rose in anguish. “My husband is constantly harping on our loss, and this” she waved her hand at the vast room—“is the last straw. The moment Reginald read in the paper that Archibald Armitage would be spending Christmas here, he insisted that we come here so he could meet him face-to-face.”

She stared at Cecily, her face white with distress. “Armitage was responsible for our daughter’s death, you know. Maybe not in a criminal way, but most assuredly he was the cause behind it. Reginald said he would not be satisfied until he had given the man a piece of his mind and made him realize just how completely he had destroyed our family.”

She started rocking back and forth, her hands clasped together. “As if that would bring dear Miranda back to us. I don’t want to be within ten miles of that man, much less ten feet. There’s no arguing with Reginald, however, once his mind is made up.”

Cecily nodded in sympathy. She chose her next words carefully, unsure as to whether or not the lady knew that Archibald was dead. Although her staff was sworn to secrecy about hotel matters, now and then someone let something slip. A death in the hotel was always difficult to keep secret. “So did Sir Reginald have a word with Mr. Armitage?”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Henrietta leaned closer to the coals. “I’m not sure how much it satisfied him, though. He is still muttering about the dratted man. He must have made an impression on Mr. Armitage, however, since we have not seen any sign of him since. He has not been taking his meals in the dining room, and I have seen nothing of him in the hallways.” She looked hopefully at Cecily. “I don’t suppose he has left the hotel?”

Cecily let out her breath. If Sir Reginald had poisoned the actor, it was obvious his wife knew nothing about it. Unless she herself was an accomplished actress.

Still treading carefully, she said, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Armitage is no longer on the premises. I hope that helps to make you feel a little less distraught.”

“It does, Mrs. Baxter. Thank you for enlightening me. I was in dread of coming across that man. Especially with Reginald by my side. I have no stomach for confrontation of that sort.”

“Not many people do.” Cecily paused. “It is fortunate your husband is not of a violent nature. His argument with Mr. Armitage might have come to blows.”

Lady Henrietta sighed. “I have to confess, I worried about the same thing. My husband can be . . . ah . . . unpredictable when angered, and I must say, I have never seen him quite so wrought up as he was two days ago. I only hope he has flushed it out of his system, so to speak, now that he has had his say. I, for one, will be perfectly happy never to hear that dreadful man’s name again.”

“It is no wonder he consoles himself with whiskey,” Cec-
ily murmured.

“Oh, Reginald doesn’t drink whiskey nowadays. He doesn’t have the stomach for spirits anymore. He prefers a good port or sherry. Though I must say, lately he does consume more than is good for him.”

“Oh, I thought I saw him the other day with a bottle of whiskey. I must have been mistaken.”

Lady Henrietta frowned. “I’m sure you were. Unless he was buying the whiskey for a Christmas gift for someone.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Cecily rose from the chair. “I must return to my duties. I trust that you will have a good day.”

Lady Henrietta looked surprised. “But you haven’t told me why you wanted to see me.”

Cecily thought fast. “I merely wanted to know if you and your husband are comfortable in your room, and if there is anything else we can do for you.”

A wan smile floated across the other woman’s face. “Thank you, Mrs. Baxter. You and your staff are taking excellent care of us.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Please let us know if there is anything else we can do.”

“I will.” Lady Henrietta got to her feet. “But now that I know that horrible man has gone, I’m quite sure the rest of our visit will be as pleasant as it could be under the circumstances.”

Cecily was in serious doubt of that. Thinking over her conversation with the aristocrat as she headed for the foyer, she strongly suspected that the woman’s husband had poisoned the actor in revenge for the loss of his daughter. Who else would have such a strong motive?

Sir Reginald had bought two bottles of whiskey, though he didn’t drink the stuff. Had he bought them for Christmas gifts, or had one of those bottles been laced with arsenic and placed in Archibald Armitage’s room?

Cecily was inclined to think the latter, but proving it was another matter. Short of the gentleman actually confessing, there didn’t seem to be any way to confirm her suspicions. Perhaps she should mention all this to P.C. Watkins. Then again, if he was unable to establish Sir Reginald as the murderer, no doubt the inspector would be called in. And that was something she was determined to avoid at all costs.

CHAPTER

8

Frantically tying her apron strings, Gertie hurried along the hallway toward the dining room. She was supposed to have been there half an hour ago to help Pansy lay tables, but the twins had taken longer than usual to get out of bed and put their clothes on. By the time she’d taken them their breakfast and settled them down with books to wait for Daisy to arrive, it was too late to have her customary cup of tea in the kitchen.

Disgruntled about that, she turned the corner, stopping short when she caught sight of Tucker the Terrible down at the other end. The housekeeper was in deep discussion with another woman. Shocked to recognize the slender figure of Lady Bottingham, Gertie drew back, ready to vanish around the corner if either woman looked her way.

She was intrigued to notice that the conversation between the two women appeared to be quite earnest, with each of them leaning forward and speaking softly as if afraid to be overheard. She had no idea the housekeeper was that well acquainted with the aristocrat.

The housekeeper’s words came back to her.
Someone told me. Someone whose life had been destroyed by that man.
Had Lady Bottingham been one of the actor’s victims? Could that have been the person who had told Beatrice about Archibald Armitage’s foul deeds?

At that moment Beatrice half turned, sending Gertie back around the corner. The last thing she needed was to be accused of spying by Tucker the Terrible. She waited a few seconds, then noisily stomped back around the corner, almost colliding with the housekeeper coming from the opposite direction.

“For heaven’s sake, child, lift up your feet when you walk.” Beatrice’s cheeks were flushed, and she seemed to be out of breath. “You walk like a dustman with a loaded sack on his back. Chin up, shoulders back, and swing your legs from the hip.”

Having delivered her sermon, she stalked off, leaving Gertie fuming behind her.
Child?
She was the mother of twins and had been married twice, for heaven’s sake. Where did the old cow get the nerve to call her a child, or worse, speak to her as if she was one?”

Muttering to herself, she hurried up to the dumbwaiter and grabbed the tray of glasses she’d sent up earlier.

Pansy was in the dining room, polishing the last of the candlesticks. She answered Gertie’s greeting with a grunt and wandered over to help her put out the glasses. The young housemaid looked as if she had her lips sewn together.

“Sorry I’m late.” Gertie dumped the tray of glassware on the dining room table, making them rattle. “The twins were giving me trouble this morning. They’re all excited about Father Christmas coming and won’t listen to nothing I say.”

Pansy mumbled something in response.

Gertie tried again. “I just don’t know what to give Clive for Christmas. I keep trying to find out what he needs, but he doesn’t seem to need anything.”

Pansy took a sherry glass in each hand from the tray and stood them on the table next to the place settings. “You don’t get people things for Christmas that they need. You get them what they want.” Her sigh was loud enough to crack the glasses. “I’ll never get what I want now, so I’ll just be glad when Christmas is over.”

Gertie gave her a sharp look. “You’ve been moping about all morning. What’s wrong with you?”

Pansy shrugged. “I broke up with Samuel.”

Gertie nearly dropped the brandy glass in her hand. “Wot? Whatcha go and do that for?”

Tears glistened on Pansy’s lashes. “He doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Course he does. What’d you do? Have a bloody row with him? He just said that to make you mad.”

Pansy shook her head. “No, he didn’t. He said he wants to save up his money to buy a garage and then he’ll think about getting married.” She burst into tears, gulping out words between sobs. “He . . . thinks more . . . about his . . . bloody cars . . . than . . . he does . . .
me
!”

She wailed the last word so loud Gertie was sure Tucker the Terrible would come running. “Shshh!” She put an arm around Pansy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Of course he doesn’t. He just wants to be able to give you the best of everything and he can’t do that without money. You should be happy he’s willing to work hard to make a good home for you.”

Pansy pulled away, hunting in her apron pocket for her handkerchief. “I don’t want a good home and the best of everything. I just want a place to live where I can have a husband to take care of and babies. Like everyone else. What’s the good of money if I’m too old to have babies?”

Gertie suppressed a grin. “You’re just a baby. You’ve got plenty of time to have babies.”

Pansy found her handkerchief and blew her nose. “I want them
now
, while I’m still young enough to enjoy them.”

Gertie leaned toward her. “Believe me, you need to enjoy your life before you get tied down with babies. Once they come it’s all bleeding work and worry.”

Pansy sniffed. “Do you wish you never had the twins?”

Shocked, Gertie drew back. “No, course not. I love my babies and I’d never change that. I’m just saying, if you’ve got a choice, it’s better to wait.”

“Well, I don’t want to wait.” Pansy grabbed two more glasses and stomped over to the next table.
“And I’m not going to, so there. I’m not wasting any more time on Samuel. Me and him is finished, and I’m going to find someone else who wants to marry me and give me babies. Someone like Charlie Muggins.”

Gertie almost laughed. “
Charlie?
You must be daft. He’s no good for you.”

Pansy folded her arms, her eyes bright with resentment. “Why not? He’s handsome and strong, and he likes me, so there.”

“He’s too handsy with the maids, if you ask me. They call him Octopus ’cos his hands are everywhere they shouldn’t be.”

Pansy’s cheeks warmed. “Well, it would be different if he was married.”

This time Gertie did laugh. “Don’t bloody bet on it. You’d do better with Gilbert Tubbs than Charlie.”

Pansy stiffened. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“There’s something shifty about him. I don’t trust him.”

Gertie gave her a curious look. “Why? What did he do?”

Pansy looked over her shoulder. “Charlie told me that Gilbert got the job with Samuel so’s he could mess up the brakes on Mr. Armitage’s motorcar.”

“Wot?”
Gertie listened while Pansy repeated the conversation she’d had with Charlie. When her friend was finished, Gertie shook her head. “I think we should tell madam about this.”

Pansy looked frightened. “No, no! Samuel would never forgive me if he knew I told anyone what Charlie said. He wants Gilbert to go into business with him mending motorcars.”

“He wants to be partners with a bloke what wanted to kill someone?” Gertie gasped. “He could be the one what poisoned Archibald Armitage.”

“No, he’s not. Samuel swears he’s not. He says he knows Gilbert well and he’d never kill no one.”

“I still think I should tell madam.”

Pansy grabbed Gertie’s arm. “Please don’t. I don’t want Samuel cross with me.”

“I thought you broke up with him.”

“I did.” Pansy started crying again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Gertie put a motherly arm around her. “There, there, don’t carry on. I won’t say anything to madam for now, but if she doesn’t find out who killed Mr. Armitage by Christmas Eve, I’ll have to tell her then. I’ll ask her not to say that you told me.”

Pansy pulled away and went back to the sideboard, where she picked up a brandy glass in each hand. “Samuel will know I did.” Head down, she wandered over to a table and placed the glasses on the white linen tablecloth.

Forgetting about Gilbert, Gertie watched her friend for a moment, saddened by Pansy’s obvious misery. Being in love could be so flipping agonizing at times. Which was why she didn’t want to be in love with Clive. Just thinking about him gave her such a pang she caught her breath. It didn’t seem she had much to say in the matter. The best thing she could do would be to ignore it and hope it would eventually go away.

She’d read somewhere that love was like a flower. If you didn’t nurture it, then it would die. So if she ignored her feelings for Clive, maybe they would die. Only that made her feel sad, too. Cursing under her breath, she put the brandy glasses down on the table and reached for two more.

Why did life have to be so bloody complicated? Why couldn’t she just be happy with her twins and not keep feeling that she was missing something? Why hadn’t she been born a blinking man? They never seemed to have all these bloody ups and downs, not knowing what they wanted from one day to the next.

Why couldn’t she think of something to get Clive for Christmas that wouldn’t give him the wrong idea? That was the real question. And she only had two more days to answer it.

*   *   *

“You look quite ravishing this evening,” Baxter observed, gazing at his wife’s reflection in her dresser mirror. “I swear you look younger every year when Christmas comes around.”

Cecily smiled, though she eyed her husband warily. Her violet silk gown was new, and with its lace trim around the neckline and gleaming silver buttons marching down the bodice, she was satisfied that it achieved the dictates of fashion and suited her matronly figure.

Baxter, however, was not given to complimenting her so lavishly unless he was about to impart unwelcome news. “Thank you, my love. I must say, you look quite dashing yourself.”

Baxter ran a finger around his stiff starched collar. In his black dinner jacket and bow tie he looked quite distinguished, if somewhat uncomfortable. “I know this is your favorite night of the season, and I have no wish to spoil it for you. I must ask you, however, if there are any developments in the investigation of Archibald Armitage’s death.”

Cecily’s smile vanished. She had so hoped to solve the murder before the actual Christmas ceremonies began. In a little more than hour the carol-singing ceremony would begin. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. What with the last minute preparations and Phoebe’s pageant, there was hardly enough time to investigate a murder.

It looked very much as if she would have to hand the whole thing over to P.C. Watkins, and that would inevitably mean the intervention of Inspector Cranshaw.

She turned to face her husband and reached for his hand. “I’m afraid not, darling. It seems that the constables will have to take on the case.”

“Well, I must say I’m rather relieved to hear that, although knowing that a murderer could be in our midst is most unsettling, to say the least.”

“I agree. I do believe, however, that Mr. Armitage was his only target. Since any sudden departure is bound to arouse suspicion, he will simply lay low until it is safe for him to leave the premises.”

“I hope you’re right.” He leaned in to drop a kiss on her nose. “I’ll join you in the library in a little while. I’m going to stop by the bar first and make sure everything is in order. Don’t get into mischief while I’m away.”

She laughed, chasing her concern away. Tonight she would try to enjoy the ceremony and worry about the murder later.

She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when a lanky figure emerged from the shadows.

Cuthbert Rickling trotted toward her, one hand raised in welcome. He was a rather fragile-looking man, with a nervous twitch in his right eye that made him appear to be winking. “Mrs. Baxter! I’m so happy to have caught you. I was on my way to the library to set the stage for my choir and wanted a word with you first.”

“Of course.” She waited for him to reach her, wondering what he needed at this late hour. “Your choir hasn’t arrived yet?”

“Oh, they are here. I left them waiting in the ballroom.” He tugged the starched collar of his shirt as if it threatened to choke him. “I thought it would be more effective if they made a grand entrance, filing in one behind the other holding a flaming candle.”

Cecily shuddered. “No candles, please.”

She’d spoken sharply and he drew back, his eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow candles at the ceremony. The fire danger, you know.”

Cuthbert frowned. “I assure you, Mrs. Baxter, there will be no danger. My choirboys are extremely well behaved and would never do anything—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rickling. I must insist. We once had a Christmas tree catch fire from lit candles, and it almost burned down the hotel.” She still couldn’t think about the time she had been trapped in the library and had come close to losing her life. That was something she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

“Ah.” His frown cleared, and he nodded so hard a wayward lock of hair fell across his forehead. Sweeping it back, he gave her a nod, one eye closing in a wink. “I quite understand, Mrs. Baxter. No candles. I promise.” He turned as if to leave, then swung back to face her. “By the way, I . . . ah . . . understand you had an unfortunate death on the premises. I trust that won’t affect the proceedings tonight?”

Cecily stared at him in dismay. “May I ask where you heard of it?”

Cuthbert looked confused. “Oh, ah . . . I overheard someone talking about it. One of your staff members, actually. I was in a hurry at the time and just caught a word or two. A famous actor, I believe?”

Sighing, Cecily gave up all hope of keeping the death quiet. It was inevitable that word would get around sooner or later. She’d hoped to keep the secret at least until after Christmas, but it seemed that wasn’t to be. Everything seemed to be working against her this time, and there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it.

Reluctantly, she answered Cuthbert’s question with a quiet, “Yes, he was a famous actor. Mr. Archibald Armitage.” There was no need to tell the choirmaster that Armitage had been murdered. That, at least, she hoped to keep quiet a while longer.

“Hmmm.” Cuthbert shook his head. “I’m not familiar with the name. Then again, I don’t have much to do with the stage these days. I’m much too busy managing the choir and attending to my duties at the library. I find that—” He broke off with a startled gasp. “Goodness, look at the time. I really must fly and get things organized.”

He practically leapt toward the hallway and disappeared, leaving Cecily staring after him openmouthed. She had no time to dwell on his abrupt departure, however, as she heard a voice speak her name.

BOOK: The Clue is in the Pudding
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