Mistletoe and Mayhem (14 page)

Taking the tray from the frightened girl, Cecily said gently, “Come inside for a moment, Pansy, and sit down.”

“Yes, m’m.”

Her voice had been hardly more than a faint whisper, and she scurried past as if the devil himself was after her. She waited for Cecily to lay the tray down and take a seat before perching on the very edge of her chair.

“You were friendly with Ellie, weren’t you?” Cecily gave the girl an encouraging smile. “Did she ever talk about someone she was seeing?”

Pansy’s bottom lip quivered. “She didn’t talk much to me, m’m. We didn’t get along that well.”

Surprised, Cecily nodded. “I see. When was the last time you saw her?”

Pansy blinked, her brows drawn together. “It must have been two days ago. I went out to fill the coal scuttles and I saw her out in the yard talking to Stan, the coal man.” Her frown deepened. “Or I should say more like arguing.”

Cecily leaned back in her chair. Ellie hadn’t worked for her that long, and apart from the first interview, she hadn’t had much occasion to talk to the girl. Her impression, however, was that the new maid was a shy little thing, hard-working and unassuming, polite and eager to please.

Yet what she had heard about her lately had been quite different. Ellie, it seemed, had been involved in arguments with more than one person, and was at odds with Pansy, who got along with everyone. It would seem she had indeed misjudged the girl. The point was, what had all the arguments been about?

It seemed unlikely she’d ever find out. Neither Mr. Docker nor Mr. Whittle were likely to tell her. Especially if one of them was guilty of murder.

Cecily sighed. “Thank you, Pansy. You may go. I’ll bring the tray down to the kitchen myself later. You will be busy getting the dining room ready for the evening meal.”

Pansy curtsied, then fled through the door.

Cecily contemplated her roast pork sandwich, torn with indecision. How she hated to simply give up at such an early stage, yet there was so little evidence to help her. One thing seemed clear. According to Madeline’s vision, Charlie’s death was not an accident. Ellie’s certainly wasn’t. Someone had wanted them both dead, and until the reason for that became clear, there didn’t seem to be any path to follow.

Ellie seemed to have had some kind of disagreement with both Mick Docker and Stan Whittle. Mr. Docker had apparently lied about his argument with her, if Samuel was right about what he’d heard.

As for Mr. Whittle, he’d also been heard arguing with her. Not only that, he was a coal man and Ellie’s shoe had been found in the coal shed. Also, Samuel was saying he thought Ellie’s body was covered in coal dust.

On the other hand, just because Ellie had possibly been killed in the coal shed, that didn’t necessarily condemn Stan Whittle. Anyone could have killed her and left her in there.

Nevertheless, Mr. Whittle could be considered a suspect, and she should start there. Christmas, however, was just a few short days away. She had little time to go chasing after everyone asking them questions, not to mention the obvious peril in doing so.

Then there was Baxter’s disapproval to take into account. Perhaps she should simply hand this one over to Sam Northcott, and hope that he would make a real effort to find whoever had done these dreadful deeds.

It was all extremely upsetting, to say the least. She would feel better, she decided, once she had talked to Madeline. Until then, she would just have to take one step at a time.

That first step came an hour later, when P.C. Northcott arrived on the scene. “The doctor h’examined the body,” he told Cecily, when she took him into her office to discuss the matter. “The girl was strangled. No doubt about that. Her neck was black and blue. I could actually see the thumb prints on her throat.”

Cecily shuddered. “Has her mother been informed?”

“The doctor is with her now. I thought it best he be the one to break the bad news. Just in case she went into shock or something.” The constable rocked back on his heels, hands behind his back.

He always did that when he was embarrassed, and Cecily guessed he had asked Kevin Prestwick to tell Mrs. Tidwell her daughter had been murdered because he was too spineless to do it himself.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” She was still reluctant to share her suspicions just yet. Perhaps, with Madeline’s help, she wouldn’t have to leave it up to him to solve the murders, after all.

Northcott puffed out his chest and stuck his thumbs in the breast pockets of his uniform. “Yes, m’m, I do. I have all that worked out.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what she had just heard. “You do? Who-?” She broke off as someone rapped on the door.

A second later Baxter stuck his head in the gap and glared at P.C. Northcott. “I thought I told you to alert me when you arrived.”

“Didn’t see you around, did I.” The constable turned his back on him, infuriating Baxter even more.

Cecily winced. There had always been bad blood between her husband and the constable, due to Northcott having stolen away Baxter’s sweetheart when they were quite young. The feud had simmered for years, and although neither man ever spoke of it, the air bristled with hostility anytime the two of them were together.

“The constable was just about to tell me who killed our maid,” Cecily said, as Baxter charged across the room like a wounded elephant.

“How terribly decent of him,” Baxter muttered.

Northcott sniffed. “I wasn’t going to tell you anything, Mrs. B. After all, this is police business. Seeing as how you asked, however, I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to inform you of the events of two nights ago, h’as I see it.”

“Spit it out, then.” Baxter folded his arms and looked menacing. “We’re both waiting with bated breath.”

He got a dark glare from Northcott, who then turned to Cecily. “It were like this. It came to my notice that the deceased were fond of each other. Or, at least, the young footman was sweet on the maid, but she had eyes for another. Namely, your stable manager, Samuel.”

Cecily exchanged a startled look with Baxter. “Samuel? Are you certain?” She was remembering Samuel’s distress when he told her about finding the body. At the time she’d thought he was simply in shock at seeing such a grisly scene, but now she wondered if he had a deeper reason to be so upset.

“Oh, yes, m’m. One of your other maids saw them together. She told me all about it. It was quite plain, she says, that the deceased female-”

“Her name, sir, was Ellie Tidwell,” Baxter said, rudely butting in. “Please have the decency to use her proper name. She may be dead, but she still deserves some respect.”

The constable didn’t even glance in his direction as he continued, “-was sweet on the young man. Any’ow, this is what I think happened. Your footman saw them together, and in a fit of jealous rage, strangled the maid. You’d be surprised how many young men decide that if they can’t have the object of their affection, then no one else will have ’em, either.”

“Really. How terribly selfish of them.” Cecily sent Baxter a shake of her head as he opened his mouth to interrupt again. “Do go on, Sam.”

“Yes, well, then once he realized what he’d done, he was full of remorse, weren’t he. So he rushed up to the roof and threw himself orf.”

“Threw himself off,” Cecily repeated solemnly.

“Yes, m’m. That’s what I said. He threw himself orf. Head first. Like he was diving into the sea.” He stroked his chin. “Of course, if he had dived into the sea, instead of the cement path of the rose garden, he might well have survived. Not that he wanted to survive, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown himself orf the-”

“For God’s sake, man, get to the blasted point!”

Northcott drew himself up as tall as he could manage and glared at Baxter. “I thought I had.”

“In that case, there’s just one thing I’d like to know.”

Baxter’s expression made Cecily nervous. She tried to catch his eye but he avoided looking at her. “Did he happen to throw the gargoyle down first and then deliberately fall on top of it, by any chance?”

Northcott lifted a finger in the air. “Ah, I was coming to that.”

“Oh, jolly good. I was afraid we’d be left to puzzle that one out for ourselves.”

Cecily loudly cleared her throat. “Please, Sam, go on.”

“Yes, well, it’s quite obvious to someone what is an expert at deductions, isn’t it. He changed his mind at the last minute, didn’t he. That’s what happened.” He nodded at Cecily, his bottom lip jutting out. “Not the first time I’ve seen that happen, neither.”

“He changed his mind,” Baxter said. “How utterly inconvenient.”

“Yes, well, he must have grabbed ahold of the gargoyle to stop himself from falling. Of course, it wasn’t tied down enough to hold his weight, was it, so down it came with him. Poof! He’s dead, isn’t he. Cracked his head open, poor blighter. Though I suppose some would say it’s poetic justice. Having taken the life of that young girl and all.”

Cecily sent a wary glance at her husband. His face had turned scarlet and she could see he was gathering breath to explode. “That’s extremely astute of you, Sam,” she said hurriedly. “I suppose this means you will be closing the case in your report?”

“Quite, Mrs. B. After all, we don’t want to have any unpleasantness over the Christmas season, now do we? I shall give a full report to the inspector right after the New Year, and I’m quite sure he will agree with my deductions.”

Baxter rolled his eyes but mercifully kept quiet. Cecily let out her breath. She was certain now that she did not want Sam Northcott bothering her guests with his endless questions and ridiculous assumptions. Far better that he believe the scenario he had given them and leave them in peace.

Meanwhile she had a week or so to find the killer before the inspector became involved. That was something she would try to avoid at all costs.

Inspector Cranshaw had long ago formed the opinion that the Pennyfoot was a den of iniquity and should be shut down forever. Anytime he had reason to investigate a crime on or near the premises, it raised the possibility of him getting his wish.

So far Cecily had managed to stay one step ahead of him at all times. She would be the first to admit, however, that sooner or later, he would find the excuse he was looking for to be rid of the Pennyfoot and everyone connected with it. She was equally determined to prevent that happening anytime soon.

“Well, if that be all, I’ll be orf.” P.C. Northcott reached for his helmet and shoved it on his head. “I’m sorry this here unfortunate incident has put a dampener on your festivities, Mrs. B., but in spite of everything, I do wish you a very happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, Sam. And I wish the same to you and your family.”

Northcott touched his helmet with his fingers and inclined his head. “I… ah… don’t suppose Mrs. Chubb has a mince pie or two to spare?”

“I’m sure she will be able to find something for you.” Cecily ignored her husband’s grunt of disgust. “Just stop by the kitchen and tell her I sent you.”

“Much obliged, Mrs. B., I’m sure.” Without looking at Baxter he passed him by, muttering, “Good day, sir.”

“It will be,” Baxter said, as the door closed behind the constable, “now that he’s gone.”

“Hush,” Cecily warned, raising her finger to her lips. “We can’t afford to annoy him. We don’t want him bringing Cranshaw down on our heads.”

Baxter frowned. “I should say that Inspector Cranshaw is exactly what we need. That confounded fool, Northcott, would say anything to avoid having to do his duty and investigate a murder during his Christmas holidays. He must be really irked that he had to stay in Badgers End this year. Usually when something like this happens, he’s away visiting relatives. Dashed convenient for him if you ask me.”

“Yes, dear. We don’t, however, need the inspector breathing down our necks, either. Not while we are attempting to entertain our guests.”

Baxter tilted his chin down and frowned at her. “May I remind you that two of our servants have died by someone’s hand in quick succession. Obviously some madman. There could be more deaths. We must notify the inspector as soon as possible. If he can’t come himself he can at least send someone more capable than that clown, Northcott.”

Cecily drew a deep breath. “Can we at least wait until the New Year? By then Sam will have given his report to Cranshaw and he can make his own decisions.”

“Don’t you mean that by then you might just have solved the murders and apprehended the killer?”

She gave him a small smile. “There’s always that possibility, I suppose.”

Baxter drew himself up and shook his head. “Absolutely not!”

Cecily tightened her mouth. “You are not, by any chance, forbidding me to look into this, are you?”

Some of the fire went out of his eyes. “I know how futile that is, my dear. I would, however, ask you to reconsider, knowing my feelings on the subject.”

“As you do mine. I am every bit as aware as you are that we could have a killer in our midst who just might strike again. All the more important for me to get busy and find out who is behind these murders.”

“Isn’t that why we have policemen?”

“You know very well that our only constable in Badgers End is Northcott. If we go to the constabulary in Wellercombe, Inspector Cranshaw will be only too happy to make our lives miserable. You also know how devastating that could be for our guests, not to mention the very real possibility that the inspector will finally lose patience and use the opportunity to shut us down.”

Baxter sighed. “I wonder why I inevitably end up losing this argument.”

Cecily smiled to soften her words. “I often wonder why you even give me an argument, knowing the outcome.”

“One always lives in hope that good sense will prevail.” He moved to the door. “I trust that we have the same arrangement as always? That you do not put yourself in harm’s way without telling me where you are going and with whom? Preferably me.”