6 Grounds for Murder (4 page)

Not that she’d have to, now that Doris was here. Now someone else could chop sticks, though Gawd knows how that skinny liz was going to lift the bleeding axe. The twit had trouble lifting a bucket of potatoes an inch off the floor. Somehow the thought of Doris Hoggins swinging that heavy axe over her head just didn’t seem possible.

Gertie sighed. She’d had to do it at that age, and now that her belly was so big, she found it hard to bring the axe down in the right place. Thinking about it prompted her to lift the lid of the kindling box. Just as well she did, because it was almost empty. It looked as if Doris would have her first go at the sticks tonight.

As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open, and Doris trudged in, looking as if she’d tramped all the way across Putney Downs and back. Gertie almost felt sorry for her. Then she hardened her heart. The kid had to learn, and eventually she’d get used to the hard work. Everyone did.

“The kindling box needs filling up,” she said as the girl looked at her with dark smudged eyes. “You’ll have to go out and chop some sticks tonight, so as I can start the fires first thing in the morning.”

Doris passed a frail hand across her forehead. “Can’t it wait till the morning?” she whispered.

Gertie shook her head. “You bring the sticks in that early they’ll be damp, and I won’t be able to get the fires going. You’ll have to do it tonight. The axe is in the shed, and you’ll find the logs piled up behind it.”

Doris sent one longing look at the smoldering coals in the fireplace, then slowly turned and left the kitchen. Gertie watched her go, trying not to remember that bone-crushing weariness that could numb the very soul.

Samuel heard the faint sound of chopping as he crossed the courtyard in front of the stables. The young footman had just finished settling the horses for the night after cleaning the two traps.

The sky was clear, freshened by a stiff breeze from the North Sea, and the sound carried clearly on the cold air. At first he didn’t think the noise had come from the kitchen yard. For one thing, it was too faint, and for another, the sound was uneven, ragged, not the steady chop of someone who knew what he was doing with an axe.

After closing the gates to the stables, Samuel crossed the grass to the corner of the kitchen wall and peered around it. What he saw made him softly curse, the words riding on a breath of steam.

Bathed in the light from the kitchen windows, Doris stood in front of the coal shed, a sturdy log standing on end at her feet. Using both hands, she was struggling to swing the axe, without much success.

As Samuel watched, the slender girl heaved the axe in the air. Either because of her lack of height or the fact that she simply didn’t have the strength to lift it, the axe fell again before it had reached the arc. Instead of slicing cleanly through the log, it bounced off it, barely missing the legs of the exhausted maid.

With another curse, Samuel strode across the yard and snatched the axe from the startled girl’s hand. “Here,” he said gruffly, “stand yourself back. This shouldn’t take long.”

Doris started to protest, but he shut her up by saying,
“Move further back or you’ll be getting a splinter in your eye.”

Without another word she obeyed him.

He gave her a nod of approval, then whipped off his cap and tucked it in his pocket. Flexing his shoulders, he grasped the axe and started the swing. He could tell she was watching him, and the knowledge gave him added strength.

Again and again he swung the axe, watching the sticks fly in all directions as the axe cut through the wood.

Slowly the pile of kindling grew, until he was satisfied. “This should do it for now,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Doris came forward, her long skirt flapping around her ankles in the chill night breeze. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “I am most grateful, to be sure. I thought I would surely be here all night.”

In the shadowy light he saw her smile. She had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, shy and sort of sad, as if she wasn’t sure what she was smiling about.

“Think no more about it. I am glad to be of help.” He peered at her, trying to see her eyes more clearly. Beautiful eyes they were, huge dark eyes, like a puppy dog begging to play.

“I don’t know as how I’m ever going to chop those sticks,” she said in a voice so soft and low he had to strain to hear.

“You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll show you, if you like.”

She nodded eagerly, sending warmth right through his heart.

“Tomorrow?” Already he was looking forward to seeing this fragile girl again.

To his dismay, she hesitated. “I’m not sure I’ll be chopping sticks tomorrow.”

Trying to hide his disappointment, he shrugged. “Very well. Another time, perhaps.”

“The next day?”

He lifted his head sharply and looked at her in surprise. She laughed, a gentle, tinkling sound like water in a fountain. Confused by his poetic thoughts, he fumbled for his cap and pulled it on his head. “Ay,” he said, letting his grin spread all over his face. “The next day it is.”

“Fine. Then I’ll look forward to it.”

With a wave of her hand she hurried across the yard to the kitchen door, turning to send him another wave before disappearing inside.

“Ay,” he said softly as he turned to leave. “I’ll be looking forward to it, too.”

CHAPTER
4

“I think banked chrysanthemums in red and gold, with perhaps sprays of mimosa and dried bulrushes,” Madeline said the next morning at the committee meeting. She struck a dramatic pose and swept the air with her slender hand. “It should be quite dramatic, don’t you think? A perfect setting for a prima donna.”

She leaned back against the marble fireplace in the library and fixed her dark eyes on Phoebe’s face, which was half hidden by the drooping veil of her enormous hat. “Now let us just hope that the songstress in question has a voice.”

Phoebe, who sat at the long, polished table, tilted her head back to give Madeline an icy glare. “Of course Wilhelmina
Freidrich can sing. Admirably so, I might add. She is, after all, one of the more famous singers at Covent Garden.”

“She sings in the vegetable market?” Madeline asked serenely.

Phoebe uttered a most unladylike snort. “You know very well, Madeline, that I meant the Royal Opera House.”

She turned to Cecily, who sat at the end of the table watching the exchange between the two women with weary resignation. Sometimes it was easier to let them squabble until they had resolved their differences.

“Really, Cecily,” Phoebe exclaimed, removing the pinked edge of a purple ribbon that dangled in front of her eyes, “it amazes me that we accomplish anything at these meetings. Yesterday’s meeting was a complete waste of time, and it appears that this one is destined to suffer the same fate.”

Cecily agreed, but refrained from saying so. “Perhaps we should get on with the discussion,” she said, sending a look of appeal at Madeline.

“Yes, please do,” Phoebe snapped. “I have to be back at the vicarage in half an hour. Lydia Willoughby is leading the choir rehearsal for the Christmas pageant.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Madeline said, drifting forward to take her place at the table. “Lydia’s renditions on the organ are horrendous enough to banish every evil spirit from Badgers End forever.”

“Lydia’s musical talent may be somewhat tarnished,” Phoebe said with a haughty toss of her head that almost dislodged her hat, “but at least the woman is willing to make an effort. Not like some people who sit around wasting others’ valuable time.”

“I think the chrysanthemums will be lovely, Madeline,” Cecily said loudly. “And the bulrushes will be a nice touch. I’m not sure about the mimosa, though. Isn’t that expensive this time of year?”

“It’s expensive any time of the year.” Madeline shook her long black locks back from her face. “Fortunately I know someone who can supply me with enough for what I need at a very modest price.”

“Most likely confiscated from the back of a cart,” Phoebe muttered.

Madeline straightened her back. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of stealing?”

Phoebe smiled. “Of course not, my dear. But you have to admit that some of the company you keep does lead one to doubt their integrity.”

“My acquaintances may not be above reproach,” Madeline said quietly, “but they are infinitely preferable to the insufferable snobs who think they own the earth and everyone on it.”

Cecily cleared her throat. “Ladies—”

“It’s too bad the privileged class doesn’t own the earth,” Phoebe said, glaring across the table at Madeline. “Then, perhaps, we could be rid of the thieves, vagabonds, and murderers who make this world such a dangerous place to live nowadays.”

Madeline leaned across the table, her fingers curled, her eyes flashing fire. “Well, Phoebe dear, let me warn you. There is much more to fear from the unearthly beings than the human ones. May I remind you it is almost All Hallows’ Eve, when the witches are free to roam the earth and wreak their havoc on those who dare to confront them. Be careful of the words you speak, or you might well regret opening your mouth so wide.”

Phoebe’s face turned white beneath the wide brim of her hat. Her mouth opened, then shut again, and she began rapidly fanning her face with her lace-edged handkerchief, while the other hand patted her heaving bosom.

Apparently satisfied, Madeline rose gracefully to her feet.
“If there is no more to discuss on the flower arrangements, Cecily, I shall leave. Unlike some people, I have important things to see to this afternoon.”

Cecily nodded her head. Her attention was on Phoebe, who appeared to be struggling for breath. “Please let me know the estimated cost of the flowers,” she said, “and we will discuss how many we can afford.”

“I’ll inform you just as soon as I get a firm price.” Madeline floated to the door, paused long enough to give a casual flip of her hand, then disappeared, closing the door with a heavy thud behind her.

“Are you not feeling well?” Cecily asked, leaning forward to pat her friend’s arm.

Phoebe made a gasping noise in her throat, but her color seemed to be returning, bringing a spot of bright red to her cheeks. “That … woman is insufferable,” she spluttered. “And quite demented, if you want my opinion. All that drivel about spirits and witches—really! I do believe the ridiculous woman actually believes all that nonsense.” Having recovered her senses, Phoebe sat up straighter in her chair and settled her hat more firmly on her head. “Of course, what can one expect from someone who is thought to be descended from the gypsies?”

“That is merely rumor, as you well know,” Cecily said, feeling compelled to come to the defense of her friend.

“Rumors often have some truth in them. The woman doesn’t even wear a corset in public, for heaven’s sake. Utterly scandalous, if you want my opinion. Of course people are going to think the worst.”

Phoebe rose from her chair and gathered up her black satin purse. Slipping the silk cord over the long sleeve of her glove she added a trifle pompously, “In any case, rumor or not, if I were Madeline, I would take great care to whom I spoke in that heathen manner. She might well be mistaken
for a gypsy, and considering what happened to that poor thing up there on Putney Downs, it could prove hazardous to be regarded as one of their tribe.”

“I’m sure Madeline knows how to take care of herself,” Cecily said, beginning to lose her hold on her patience.

Grasping her parasol, Phoebe marched to the door. “I certainly hope so. Much as Madeline enjoys taunting me, I would not want anything that dreadful to happen to her.” She looked back at Cecily over her shoulder. “Have you given any more thought to the prospect of inviting Ellsworth Galloway to participate in the evening’s entertainment?”

Cecily suppressed a shudder. “I do think perhaps that Miss Freidrich might be put out by the competition. Mr. Galloway has a habit of taking over the proceedings, and might well upstage her.”

“Oh, goodness. We can’t have that.” Phoebe opened the door and swept out into the corridor. “In that case, perhaps I shall find someone else to open the evening. I did hear of a very fine juggler. Perhaps I shall look into it.”

“Not the one with the chamber pots, I trust,” Cecily said, trying not to visualize an outraged opera singer faced with the prospect of following such a tawdry act.

“Oh, heavens no.” Phoebe pulled the sleeve of her glove higher up her elbow. “Actually I do believe he juggles food. You know, oranges and eggs, that sort of thing.”

Cecily grimaced. She needed a cigar quite badly. “Well, let us trust that he’s not a butterfingers,” she murmured.

Phoebe’s laugh echoed down the corridor. “You worry far too much, Cecily, my dear. I shall return for the final meeting before the ball, after having confirmed the appearance of Wilhelmina Freidrich. In the meantime, leave everything to me. I shall take care of it all, as always.”

And that, Cecily thought, as the door closed behind her friend, was exactly the reason she was so concerned.

She sat for several minutes, her eyes on James’s portrait, her mind going over the recent conversation. Phoebe’s remarks had unsettled her, leaving a little knot of anxiety for some reason.

It was true that many people believed that Madeline carried gypsy blood. Cecily could hardly blame them. Madeline had some strange hobbies and beliefs, and although Cecily was reluctant to admit it even to herself, her friend displayed quite remarkable powers at times.

More than once Cecily had been confounded by the odd incidents involving Madeline. So much so, she had been unwilling to question the event and preferred to let things be.

Sighing, Cecily let her gaze wander around the paneled walls of the library. Rows of dusty tomes lined the shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, untouched by human hand for more than a decade. Cecily hadn’t wasted more than a glance at the dreary titles. Shakespeare or the
Canterbury Tales
did not interest her. She much preferred the stories of the indomitable Sherlock Holmes and his faithful Dr. Watson.

Thinking of Sherlock Holmes and his pipe reminded her of her need of a cigar. Baxter should be in the office still, since it was another hour or two before he conducted his rounds of the dining room. She would have plenty of time to retire to her room and freshen up before seeking him out.

Her spirits racing, Cecily left the library and headed for the staircase, considering the possibility of inviting Baxter to join her for a light meal in the dining room.

Her suite was on the second floor, and she climbed the stairs, trying to remember which items were listed on the menu that day. Whatever it was, she could trust Michel to create a meal fit for a king.

She reached the door of her room and took out her keys
from the pocket of her long, gray skirt. She was thinking about Phoebe and her comment about Madeline not wearing a corset. What would Phoebe say, Cecily wondered as she entered her room, if that good lady knew that Cecily often slipped out of her corset the minute the door of her suite was safely closed?

Trousers, Cecily thought, as she shut the door. That’s what women should be wearing. There’d be no more twisted ankles after catching a heel in the hem of a skirt. And no more mud-caked cloth to flap around one’s ankles on a wet, windy morning.

Her eye caught something lying on the rich blue carpet at her feet. Frowning, she stooped to pick it up. It appeared to be a note, though it was addressed to no one in particular. The scrawled words covered a sheet of hotel stationery, and were difficult to read.

Carrying the page over to the window to catch the light, Cecily stared at the spidery letters. Whoever owned the hand that had scribbled the message must have been shaking very badly.

The note was short and to the point:
George killed the gypsy girl. He must be stopped. He would kill me also if he knew I had told you
.

Cecily watched the notepaper flutter from her fingers to the floor. Baxter would be most displeased to see this, she thought. It would seem that she would be involved in the murder of the gypsy after all.

“I know you bloody chopped sticks last night,” Gertie said, glaring at the belligerent girl standing in front of her. “It’s not my bleeding fault madam wants the fires laid in all the rooms.”

“Well, I ain’t got time to chop another two loads this morning, so there.” Doris dashed a wayward lock out of her
eyes. In the shadows of the kitchen her hair looked darker, and strands of it kept escaping from the untidy knot on her head. She looked as if she’d dressed in a hurry. Slipping already, Gertie thought in disgust.

“I’ve got the dishes to do yet, and the glasses to be polished, and the serviettes washed—”

“I know everything what you have to do,” Gertie interrupted. “Blimey, I did it long enough meself, I should know. All right, chop one load this morning and the other tonight, after you’ve done the rest of the work.”

“Like throwing your orders around, don’t you?” Doris said, tossing her head. “I’ll do as much as I can. I’m only human, I can only do so much.”

Gertie’s jaw dropped as she watched the girl flounce across the kitchen floor and out of the door, her skirts swishing around her skinny ankles. Must have got out the bleeding wrong side of the bed, she thought as the door slammed shut, hurting her ears.

Who would have thought that meek little mouse who’d bawled her eyes out yesterday had such a temper? Just went to show, one never knew what people were really like inside.

Shaking her head, Gertie turned back to the silverware drawer and began counting out the forks. She had far too much to worry about, never mind Doris’s changing moods. Like Michel’s mood for one, if he came in and found her still messing about in the kitchen instead of laying tables in the dining room. He’d have her guts for garters, that he would.

Making a determined effort to put Doris Hoggins out of her mind, she started counting.

Doris Hoggins was very much on someone else’s mind that morning. Samuel hadn’t thought about much else since his
encounter with the new housemaid the night before. He was whistling as he crossed the yard, already imagining what he would say to the shy young girl when he saw her next.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, he had taken the longer way around to the stables in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her shapely ankle and trim waist.

He had reached the corner of the kitchen wall when he heard the rhythmic thud of an axe slicing through wood. Frowning, he remembered Doris saying she wouldn’t be chopping wood until the next day. Someone else must have taken over the task.

Rounding the corner, he stopped short, his mouth dropping open in amazement. Doris was there all right. And she was wielding the axe as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. Up and over, then crashing down on the log, sending sticks flying in all directions.

It didn’t seem possible that she could swing that heavy axe so easily. The longer he watched her, the stranger he felt. It had taken all his strength to keep up the steady rhythm last night. His shoulders had ached for an hour afterward.

Slowly Samuel advanced on the unsuspecting girl. She had her back to him and was far too engrossed in her task to notice him. Maybe she was just tired last night, he told himself. A good night’s sleep could work wonders for building stamina. He knew that well.

He waited until she paused to take a breath before saying brightly, “Top of the morning to you, Doris. I can see you have found a whole new wealth of strength today. Mind sharing your secret? I could do with some extra stamina myself, that I could.”