6 Grounds for Murder (14 page)

“S’all right.” Gertie helped her carry the bucket across to the pantry. Watching the girl fall on her knees to swab the creamy puddle, she waited a minute, then said, “Whatcha want to go and do that for?”

Doris looked up with a startled expression. “Do what, miss?”

“Sing in Variety. I mean, that’s a bit common, isn’t it? Why don’t you do something posh like opera? There’s an opera singer going to be at the ball on Thursday. Perhaps madam will let you go and listen to her.”

“I don’t want to sing opera,” Doris said, wringing out the heavy cloth. A stream of muddy white water swirled into the bucket, clouding the contents. “I want to sing Variety.”

“But why?” Gertie itched to take the cloth from the housemaid’s feeble fingers, but held herself back. She couldn’t be behind the twit all the time.

“Because it’s more fun.” Doris looked up with a shy smile. “And because I want to meet a toff,” she added, a flush creeping over her cheeks. “They admire the singers on the Variety stage. I heard they line up at the stage door to meet them, and they take them out and buy them fancy gifts and take them to fancy restaurants for dinner. Some of them even get married.”

“You’ve been reading too many of them women’s magazines,” Gertie said scornfully. “Cor blimey, Doris, wake up. Toffs don’t marry the likes of us. They might want to take the singers out for a cheap thrill, but they don’t marry them. Toffs only marry toffs, you mark my words.”

“Yes, miss.” Doris went on mopping up the floor, but Gertie had the distinct feeling that the housemaid wasn’t
listening. The little twerp had made up her mind she was going to meet a toff, and no one was going to tell her otherwise.

She’ll learn, Gertie thought, as she went back to scrubbing carrots. She could almost feel sorry for the poor kid. She had a lot to learn, and none of it was going to be that bloody marvelous.

Cecily wasn’t entirely surprised to discover another note lying on her carpet that evening. In fact, she would have been quite disappointed had it not been there. Eagerly opening the folded sheet, she carried it closer to the lamp for a better look. Maybe this time, she thought hopefully, there would be a clue as to the author.

As always, the writing scrambled across the page in an untidy scrawl.
George hates gypsies. Tell the one who came today not to come back. If she does, George will kill her
.

Cecily stared down at the page, her enthusiasm swiftly fading. The note had to be referring to Madeline. That meant whoever dropped the flowerpot that morning had waited around long enough to see her.

If it had been anyone other than a guest, he would surely have been noticed, since Baxter must have reached the top landing before Madeline had arrived.

Pacing the thick carpet, Cecily concentrated on the events that morning. Three people could have seen Madeline enter or leave the hotel. Lady Belleville would have had a clear view of the lobby from the top landing. Cyril Plunkett had passed by Madeline on his way out of the hotel, as had Ellsworth Galloway.

It would seem, Cecily thought dismally, that one of her guests could very well be a murderer after all.

CHAPTER
14

Gertie could not get the sound of Doris’s voice out of her head. She woke up with the melody running through her mind the next morning, and even found herself humming the tune as she poured cold water into the washbowl from the jug.

Shivering, she stripped off her flannel nightgown. She couldn’t wait until she could go into the kitchen and warm her bum in front of the stove.

Splashing cold water on her face, she thought again about Doris. The girl was bleeding marvelous with that voice. Wouldn’t it be something if she, Gertie Brown, discovered her? Then, when Doris was rich and famous, she’d remember
the poor sod who’d helped her. Perhaps she’d even make her manager or something.

Carried away by her fantasies, Gertie finished her wash, then got into her clothes as fast as her bulky stomach would allow.

The kitchen felt no warmer than her room when she carried the oil lamp in there a few minutes later. Still humming Doris’s tune, she lit the gas lamps, then laid newspaper in the grate and the sticks crisscrossed on top. After picking out small lumps of coal, she carefully balanced them on top of the sticks, then reached up for the matches on the mantelpiece.

A loud sneeze behind her scared her half out of her wits. Dropping the matches, she swung around to face Doris, who stood wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Bloody hell, Doris, why do you always have to creep up on me like that? Scared me half to death, you did.”

“Next time I’ll scream at the top of me lungs,” Doris said in the surly tone that warned Gertie she was in one of her bad moods.

“Awright, Miss Smartmouth, you don’t have to give me any bleeding cheek. Pick them matches up for me, please. I can’t get down there to get them.”

Doris looked for a moment as if she would refuse then, apparently having second thoughts, stooped to pick up the matches. “I’m going out to chop the sticks,” she said, handing the box over. Before Gertie could answer her, she’d marched out of the back door and into the yard.

Gertie stared after her in mute resentment. The girl didn’t deserve her help. Still, she did have a beautiful voice, and something ought to be done about it. Maybe Ellsworth Galloway could do something to help her.

Making up her mind to talk to him about it at the first opportunity, Gertie reached down to light the fire. She was
lifting a tub of water onto the stove when Doris came back from the yard, a sack of firewood in her hands.

“There’s an axe missing again,” she said shortly as she dumped the sack on the floor.

Gertie turned to face her, wincing as a sharp pain caught her low in the belly. “I thought there was two of them out there.”

Doris answered her with a loud sneeze, then wiped her nose on her sleeve again. “There was.” She opened the sack and started emptying the sticks into the wood bin. “But someone must have taken one of them again. ’Cause now there’s only one.”

“The message is obviously referring to Madeline,” Cecily said, having handed the latest note to Baxter in his office. “Which means that the murderer has to be one of three people.”

Quickly she explained her reasoning, while Baxter stood at his desk slowly nodding his head. When she was finished, he looked down at her, his brow creased in concern.

“I do hope, madam, that you will now take my advice and give this information to the police.”

“Not yet, Baxter.” She saw the frown darken his face and added hurriedly, “I have a plan.”

His look of despair made her feel quite sorry for him. “A plan,” he repeated in a voice of doom.

“Yes, Baxter, a plan. Since we have now narrowed the field down to three people, it should be quite a simple matter to search their rooms while they are at breakfast.”

Baxter propped his hands on his desk and closed his eyes. “Search their rooms. I seem to remember having done this before.”

“Yes, Baxter. Several times, in fact. That should make us quite expert at the task by now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Expert criminals, yes, madam.”

Cecily let out a gusty sigh. “Piffle, Baxter. We are simply saving the constabulary a job and protecting our guests at the same time.”

“And what if someone should return to the room while we are in the process of searching it?”

Cecily smiled in triumph. “We have the perfect excuse, of course.”

Baxter raised an eyebrow. “We do?”

“We most certainly do.”

“Perhaps you’d care to share it with me?”

“You are the one who created it.”

His mouth tightened. “I would appreciate it, madam, if you would stop playing games and explain what you mean.”

Taking pity on him, she gave him a broad smile. “Did you or did you not, Baxter, tell Lady Belleville that you would search the guests’ rooms for her canary?”

For a long moment his narrowed gaze rested on her face. Then he said quietly, “Madam, you are quite devious.”

“Thank you, Baxter.”

“And quite clever, I might add.”

“For a woman?”

He wouldn’t be drawn into that familiar argument. Instead he said soberly, “You are aware, I hope, that you could be wrong in your assumption. There could have been a fourth person on the stairs who simply managed to escape my observance.”

“It is possible, I agree, but unlikely. Besides, whoever wrote the notes must be fully aware of the murderer’s movements. That would indicate that it is someone in this hotel, would it not?”

“I’m afraid I must agree. Which brings us back to Colonel Fortescue. Has he left the hotel yet?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Cecily assured him, trying to
ignore the stab of guilt. “I told Michael in the note to keep the colonel there as long as possible, at least until I let him know it’s safe for him to come back.”

“I don’t know why we just didn’t send him back to London,” Baxter muttered. “He would have been a great deal safer.”

“And it would have been far more difficult to persuade him to go. You know how much he’s looking forward to the fireworks display.”

“And what if we haven’t learned the identity of our murderer by then?”

Cecily raised her chin. “We shall just have to hope that we do so before the fifth. We’ll have a house full of guests, all at the mercy of a killer, if indeed he is in the hotel.”

Baxter sighed heavily. “Have you considered the possibility that if we do uncover the murderer during this search, he might attempt to silence us if he discovers us in his suite?”

“Well, naturally, we shall do everything we can to avoid being caught. I am merely saying that should we be interrupted, we do at least have an excuse why we are there.”

“And what if we discover that one of our guests is indeed the murderer?”

“Then I suppose we shall have to do what we usually do. Find a way to incriminate him.”

“I see.” His tone suggested she had just stated the impossible.

Cecily smiled and rose to her feet. “Come now, Baxter. Where is your spirit of adventure? Your trust?”

“It is my spirit of adventure and trust that allows you to lead me into perilous situations, madam. One of which, I fear, will someday be the death of us.”

Cecily quietened the little stab of apprehension his words
produced. “We have always managed admirably in the past, Baxter. No doubt we shall do so again. Now, let us go to the foyer so that we can be sure all three guests are in the dining room for breakfast. The gong should sound anytime now.”

Even as she spoke the metallic boom of the gong echoed throughout the hotel.

“The voice of judgment,” Baxter remarked dryly, as he followed her out of the office. “I sincerely hope this won’t prove to be our undoing.”

Cecily silently echoed that sentiment as she led the way to the foyer.

“Go on, sing for them,” Gertie said as Doris stood in front of the kitchen door with her lips clamped tightly together.

“Maybe she does not care to sing,” Michel said as he threw a handful of herbs into the oxtail soup. “One can only sing with the mouth when the heart sings, also.”

“She loves singing, she told me.” Gertie looked at the rebellious housemaid. “Tell them what you told me.”

“I can’t sing,” Doris said flatly.

“Yes, you can. I heard you yesterday.”

“Never mind, Gertie,” Mrs. Chubb said, lightly patting Doris’s shoulder. “Maybe she’ll sing for us later, when she feels better.”

“I tell you I can’t sing. I never could. It’s—” She broke off, and Gertie uttered a loud sniff.

“She’s bleeding lying. I heard her singing. She told me she wants to go on the stage, she did.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I flipping heard you. Why are you making me out to be a bloody liar?”

Michel banged a lid down on the saucepan. “I do not care to hear her sing. So just let her be.”

“I want her to sing so I can prove I’m not lying.”

“All right,” Doris said, glaring at Gertie. “If you want me
to sing, I’ll sing. But I’ve got a cold in me nose, so I’ll sound terrible.”

Gertie folded her arms in triumph. “Go on, then. Sing that one what you sang yesterday. It was really pretty.”

Doris frowned. “I don’t remember what I was singing yesterday.”

Beginning to lose her patience altogether, Gertie said, “You know, that one what goes …” She hummed a few bars of the melody that had haunted her all night.

“Mercy,” Michel said, throwing up his hands. “I certainly hope she can sing better than that.”

“Put a sock in it, Michel,” Gertie said rudely. “Wait until you hear her.”

“There’s no need to be insolent, my girl,” Mrs. Chubb said as Michel banged another lid down. “Now, Doris, why don’t you let us hear you sing? It sounds like such a nice song.”

Gertie nodded in satisfaction. “Yeah, go on, sing it.” Looking at Mrs. Chubb, she added, “She’s really good, she is.”

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, Doris opened her mouth and bellowed out the first few notes of the song.

“
Sacre bleu!
” Michel cried, covering his ears with his hands. “What is that?”

Doris stopped the awful noise and tossed her head. “It’s me singing,” she said. “I told you I couldn’t sing and I can’t. So there.” With that, she flounced to the door and disappeared.

Gertie stared after her, speechless for once.

“The girl is right,” Michel muttered. “She sounds like a cat with its tail caught in the door.”

“She certainly doesn’t seem to have much chance of
being on the stage, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Chubb said, hurrying over to the sink.

Gertie finally found her voice. “I don’t bloody believe it, I don’t. You should have heard her yesterday. Sounded like a bleeding nightingale, she did. Now she sounds like a sick cow.”

“Maybe she is just having a bad day,” Michel said, tasting the soup on the end of his ladle. “She says she has the cold. No one can sing with the cold. Not even Michel, the greatest chef in the world.”

“Sez who?” Gertie muttered.

“Come now, Gertie,” Mrs. Chubb said in her stern voice, “we have work to do. We can’t stand around chattering all day. Those serviettes have to be ironed and folded. Madam is expecting a large crowd for the ball this weekend.”

“She bleeding did it on purpose,” Gertie announced, reaching into the corner cupboard for the irons. “I know she did. She wanted to make a fool of me, that’s what. I’ll bloody get her for that, I will.”

She stomped across the tiled floor and dropped the iron stands on top of the stove, then stood the irons on them. “Ungrateful little bugger. To think I was going to help her become rich and famous. See if I do anything for her again. I was going to ask Mr. Galloway to listen to her. She can go to—”

Michel snorted in amusement while Mrs. Chubb snapped, “Gertie, that’s enough.”

Gertie dragged the basket containing the laundered serviettes across the floor. She longed to say more but decided she’d better keep her mouth shut. She didn’t know why Mrs. Chubb was standing up for Doris, but she knew better than to argue with that tone of voice.

For several minutes no one spoke as they went about their chores. Gertie managed to relieve some of her frustration by
slamming the iron down extra hard onto the thick linen serviettes.

The housekeeper finished sorting out the silverware, then came over to start counting the neatly ironed serviettes growing in a pile on the table.

Gertie kept her head down, still smarting from the injustice handed to her.

Finally Mrs. Chubb must have realized how upset she was, for she said quietly, “We have to make allowances for the girl, Gertie. She has had a rough upbringing, the poor dear.”

“None of us has exactly been raised in bleeding luxury.” Gertie lifted an iron from the stove and spat on it, producing a loud sizzle. “What makes her so special?”

“She was badly beaten by her aunt, so madam tells me,” Mrs. Chubb said, laying the serviettes on a large silver tray. “Madam says the child has got terrible scars all over her body. She still has a burn on her back where the woman hit her with a smoldering hot poker. Haven’t you ever noticed that she never leans back in a chair? That’s because her back still hurts her.”

Gertie felt a stirring of pity for the young girl. “Gawd, how bloody awful,” she said, attacking the next serviette. “No wonder she’s so flipping moody.”

“Yes, well, I know it can be irritating.” Mrs. Chubb picked up the tray in both hands. “Perhaps if we are all extra nice to her, she’ll come out of those bad moods. Sometimes she can be very sweet, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gertie stood the iron back on its stand. “It’s not like the same person at all, at times. It’s bloody hard to know how to treat someone like that.”

“Treat her with kindness,” Michel said, “and sooner or later she will … how you say … recapitate.”

“What?” Gertie stared at him. “I thought that meant chop someone’s head off.”

“That’s
de
capitate.” Mrs. Chubb carried the tray to the door and paused. “I think Michel meant reciprocate.”

“No matter,” Michel said, turning back to his soup.

“You know,” Gertie said thoughtfully, “wouldn’t it be something if Doris was the one what was chopping people’s heads off? Per’aps she’s trying to get back at her aunt for beating her up.”