3 Service for Two (10 page)

“Very well, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Thank you, madam.”

He replaced the key, touched the brim of his homburg, and hurried down the steps to where the chestnut stamped restless feet.

Without waiting to see him leave, Cecily closed the heavy doors and locked them with the inside key. Then, with a strange little ache under her ribs, she climbed the stairs to her suite.

* * *

There was just about time for a quick pint at the George and Dragon, Baxter decided, if his calculations were right. The pub should be closing in less than an hour. He needed a drink after what he’d been through.

He might not have felt so bad if he had found something incriminating. But all Michel seemed to be guilty of was a healthy interest in the anatomy of a shameless young woman. And looking at the woman in question, he could hardly blame the man.

Baxter reached the pub and secured the chestnut. He was ready for that beer, enough to taste it in his mouth. Although he would be the last to admit it, his agitation wasn’t entirely due to the discomfort of his unlawful and uncalled-for investigation.

Part of it, at least, had to do with the provocative photograph he’d held in his hand, and the thoughts that had been inspired by it.

Inside the pub, the noisy warmth soothed his fractured nerves. A group of men stood at one end, almost obscured by clouds of cigar smoke, tossing darts. The smell of beer and tobacco blended with the pungent aroma of pickled onions.

So inherently masculine, the atmosphere chased away his disturbing notions, and he made his way to the bar, exchanging greetings with a few of the regulars as he passed.

Reaching the counter, he recognized Ian, who stood with hunched shoulders, staring into his beer as if it contained something unpleasant. Baxter’s “Good evening” brought up Ian’s head sharply.

“Oh, watcha, Mr. Baxter. Didn’t see you standing there, did I. Whatcha going to have, then? It’s on me.”

Baxter began to protest, but Ian stopped him with a raised hand. “Might as well make the most of it. I won’t be able to afford to treat you after this weekend.” His expression took on one of deep gloom. “’Course, if I get married, that is.”

Baxter looked at him in surprise. “Not get married? But you must get married. It’s all arranged. The church, the reception, the Valentine’s Ball …” Aghast at the thought of all that being canceled, Baxter was at a loss for words.

“Yeah. Well, tell that to Gertie.” Ian caught the eye of the bartender and ordered a pint. “She’s the one what’s giving me trouble.”

Baxter took a gulp of the foaming brew and listened while Ian related his problems.

“I can’t understand her,” Ian said after downing the last of his beer. “You’d think she’d be blinking happy to give up work.” He shook his head and snorted disdainfully. “Women!”

Baxter was inclined to agree. He had a great deal of trouble trying to understand them himself. Especially one in particular. He couldn’t forget the way she’d preened in front of that ridiculous fellow, Dr. Wescott … Prescott … whatever his name was. He couldn’t abide the chap himself. There was something about him …

He started when he realized Ian was waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry? I didn’t quite catch …”

“I said,” Ian repeated, as if he were talking to someone hard of hearing, “what would you do if you were in my boots?”

Baxter hastily took another gulp of his beer. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to ask,” he said, setting the glass on the counter. “I haven’t had that much experience with women, not as far as marrying them goes, anyway.”

He could almost see the question forming in Ian’s mind. Hurrying to forestall him, Baxter added, “Where is Mr. Scroggins tonight? I haven’t seen him around.”

Dick Scroggins was the owner of the George and Dragon, and a permanent fixture behind the bar. It was the first time in Baxter’s recollection that he hadn’t seen him there, laughing and joking with the customers, and sometimes furiously arguing with them when he’d had a little too much to drink.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Ian looked around, as if wary of who might be in earshot. “It will probably be all over the village by tomorrow, but I was told to keep it hushed for now.”

Sensing something dramatic, Baxter leaned forward. “What is it? He’s not ill, is he?”

Ian shook his head, obviously enjoying the moment. “No, he ain’t ill. He got clobbered, didn’t he. Arrested. He’s in the clink.”

Shocked, Baxter forgot to lower his voice. “What on earth for?”

“Shh!” Ian put his finger to his lips. “He got picked up for running illegal booze. Knew he’d get caught one day, silly bugger.”

“But how? If anyone knows the ropes, it’s Dick Scroggins. He’s been doing it for years.”

“I know.” Ian chuckled. “Bloody bad luck, that’s what it was. He was running without lights, like he always does, when he hits a boat coming the other way. Didn’t have no lights neither.”

Ian leaned forward, to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll never guess in a month of Sundays what was on that other boat.”

CHAPTER
10

“Apparently Scroggins rammed the other boat during the early hours of Monday morning, less than a mile from the shore,” Baxter explained to Cecily the next morning. “The two men aboard went over the side. Fortunately a cargo ship was passing by on its way into Wellercombe. The captain saw something in the water and turned about to investigate.”

“How awful. I trust Mr. Scroggins is all right?” Cecily tapped the ash off the end of her cigar. She was seated at the library table, with Baxter, as usual, standing a few feet away.

“Yes, madam. As far as I know.”

He looked even more tense today, she thought, noticing the set of his clean-shaven jaw above the stiff white collar. His body, dressed in the usual black morning coat and gray pin-striped trousers, looked as if it had been carved out of a block of wood.

She stared up at him, not quite succeeding in capturing his gaze. “Why do I have the impression that you are not telling me everything, Baxter?”

He cleared his throat and rocked backward on his heels. “The boats were damaged, madam, but did not sink. The captain of the cargo ship boarded them both.”

“And?”

“The crew found illicit rum and brandy on Scroggins’ boat.”

Cecily stubbed out her cigar in a gesture of frustration. She never had been able to abide the way Baxter took forever to tell her anything. “I trust you are about to tell me something of importance?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then would you please get on with it? The suspense is playing havoc with my nerves.”

“The two men aboard the other boat did not survive. They both drowned.”

Cecily narrowed her eyes. “Someone we know?”

“I do not believe we are acquainted with either of the men, madam.”

“Well, that’s something. Though of course I am sorry to hear of the deaths.”

“Yes, madam.”

The feeling of uneasiness returned, and she sharpened her voice. “Baxter, if there is something you wish me to know, would you please be so kind as to spit it out.”

“The captain found an interesting cargo aboard the second boat. A rather large cache of jewels.”

Now she knew why she’d felt uneasy. “Stolen jewels?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, madam.”

“Part of the haul stolen from the Smythe-Bedfords, I presume.”

“I’m afraid so, madam. Apparently the crew of the cargo ship recovered the dead bodies of the seamen and took them back to port, along with Scroggins, who was arrested for smuggling.”

Cecily tapped the polished surface of the table with her
fingernails. “I believe that more or less confirms my worst fears,” she said quietly. “It is surely too much of a coincidence that jewels stolen in London while the owners were staying at this hotel should be discovered aboard a boat not a mile from this coast. All of this happening the same night as a young man is murdered right here in Badgers End.”

“It would appear that there might be some connection.”

“Not might be, Baxter.” Cecily pushed back her chair and stood. “I think we can safely assume that not only are the incidents connected, but so is this hotel. And the first name that comes to mind is Michel.”

“But I found nothing in his room to implicate him.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Cecily said darkly. “Somehow, Baxter, we have to find out more about this entire affair.”

“I sincerely believe we should contact the police, madam—”

“Not while someone in this hotel is under suspicion.” She marched toward the door as Baxter sprang for it. He tugged it open just as she reached it. “I will not have that disagreeable Inspector Cranshaw hovering around my premises questioning everybody within sight. If it turns out that Michel is involved, I will personally inform the inspector myself. But until I am certain of the facts, this remains solely between us, Baxter. I trust I make myself clear.”

“Indubitably, madam.”

She saw the frosty glint in his eyes and ignored it. It wasn’t often she laid down the law to him, but when her hotel or her staff was threatened, she was prepared to take a stand against anyone. Satisfied that Baxter would heed her wishes, she left him and made her way to the kitchen. She needed a strong cup of tea.

Ethel puffed and panted as she carried the loaded tray along the narrow hallway. Weekdays in the middle of winter were always quiet in the dining room. It meant fewer trips up and down the kitchen stairs.

It was the stairs that nearly killed her in the summer. She’d counted once. Seventeen times in one day she had to climb
those stairs in the height of the season. Boiling hot in the steaming kitchen, then up and down the stairs, and she still had to look fresh as a daisy and smile when she went into the dining room.

It was enough to make a saint swear sometimes. Especially when the nobs treated her like dirt, the way some of them did. How she’d love to dump the dinners in their fancy silk laps. See how toffed up they’d look with their arms up to the elbows in hot greasy water, or on their hands and knees cleaning the lavatories.

Incensed at the injustice of being born poor, Ethel charged around the corner and ran smack into something solid. The tray tipped, sending dishes sliding to the floor in a horrifying din of clattering silverware and smashing china.

For a moment she stared in stunned silence at the mess at her feet; then with a loud wail she threw her apron over her head. “Oh, ’strewth … this is going to cost me a month’s wages. Now what am I going to do?”

The mountain of flesh she’d run into had a deep, gruff voice. “T’was my fault, lass. I’ll pay for t’ damages.”

Pleasantly surprised, Ethel hesitated, then slowly lowered her apron. He was a brawny man, with the kind of face that made people feel comfortable when they talked to him. Not handsome, like the picture in Gertie’s magazines, but he had twinkly eyes, and the way he smiled at her made her insides go squishy.

She’d seen Joe Salter plenty of times before, of course. But she’d never seen him this close, alone and private with him in a dark hallway. And now that he was a hero, he seemed, well, special somehow. It made her go all hot and cold, the way he was looking at her.

“I had better pick this mess up,” she said, her voice sounding all breathy as if she’d been running or something.

“Here, I’ll help.” He squatted down in front of her and started picking up the dishes, or what was left of them, piling the pieces carefully on the tray. “What’s your name, then, lass?”

“Ethel Stimpson.” She looked down at him, and noticed his dark brown hair wasn’t quite as thick on top of his head. She
could see skin through it. Somehow it made her feel warm inside. It made him seem more human.

“I’m Joe. Joe Salter.”

“I know.” She dropped on her knees beside him, her skin tingling where his arm brushed against hers. She reached for a plate that had miraculously remained in one piece.

“Be careful,” Joe warned. “Let me get the broken bits. Don’t want you cutting those fingers now, do we.”

She liked that. He wanted to protect her. The warm feeling grew. “It … I think that was very brave of you … what you did …” she said shyly.

He flashed her a quick glance, his cheeks reddening. “’Tweren’t nothing. I had nought time to think. The lad was in the water, and I had to get him out.”

He looked ruefully at the cup he held, which had lost its handle. “To be truthful, if I’d had time to think about it, I might not have done it.”

“Yes, you would,” Ethel said softly, almost bursting with admiration. “You’re that kind of man.”

He sat back on his heels and grinned at her. “Now, how do you know what kind of man I am?”

Embarrassed, she hastily grabbed up another salvaged plate. “Oh, just from what people are saying about you.”

“You shouldn’t take other people’s word for it. I always believe in proving things for myself.”

She was so shaken she let the plate slip. It promptly broke in half. “Oh, ’strewth,” she muttered. “I’ll have to pay for that one.”

He laughed, and the sound of it made her forget that she was just a housemaid on her knees cleaning up a horrible mess that would probably get her into more trouble than she’d seen in the last year. She’d made him laugh, and for a wonderful moment he made her feel as good as one of those toffs upstairs.

“Tell you what, Ethel,” he said, his broad grin doing strange things to her stomach. “I’ll pay for this lot and take full blame if you’ll slip me one of those pork pies that Michel is so famous for. I haven’t had a good pork pie since I left home.”

She stared at him, wondering how this man could have lasted so long without taking a wife. Every woman for miles around had to be chasing after him. “I suppose I could manage that.”

She smiled, wondering what Gertie would say when she found out that Ethel Stimpson had been alone with a man in the hallway, chattering and laughing with him. Especially when she found out it was Joe Salter, who everyone was calling a hero.

“Fine. Then how about tonight? I could be around the back door about eight o’clock.”

She hesitated just a fraction too long.

His expression changed. “I reckon I was being a bit too forward at that. I’m sorry, lass. Forget I said anything.”

“Oh, no, no …” She touched his arm, then snatched her hand away. “It’s not that … it’s just that I—”

He shook his head and gave her another of his devastating smiles. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to anything.” He scooped up the rest of the broken china and dropped it onto the tray, then stood up with it in his hands. “Here, that’s about all of it, I think.”

Slowly Ethel got to her feet. She could see her wonderful moment being snatched away. If she kept quiet now, he’d walk right out of her life and she’d never again see that smile meant just for her. Desperation gave her the courage to blurt out, “I won’t be here tonight, that’s all. P’raps tomorrow night?”

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “Night off?”

She nodded, then looked down at her apron, plucking it between fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. “I always go to the church hall on Wednesday nights for the social. I help them with the refreshments. Gives me something to do on my nights off.”

There was a slight pause, and she dared not look up. Then he said softly, “Aye, I heard about the socials. Thought about going once or twice, but since I don’t know anyone to go with …”

His voice trailed off, and she thought her heart was going
to stop beating. Oh please, please, just this once let it happen to her….

“I might take a look in there tonight, as long as you’re going to be there. Do you like to dance?”

Her heart started up again so hard she could hear it knocking. She had to force the words out. “I … love to dance.”

The strident voice behind her scattered her wits. “Ethel! Where the blue blazes have you been? Gertie’s been waiting this past twenty minutes … oh, good Lord, what have you gone and done now?”

Whirling around, Ethel met Mrs. Chubb’s icy glare. “I bumped into Mr. Salter and—”

To her intense relief, Joe’s voice said soothingly, “I’m afraid ’twere my fault, Mrs. Chubb. Mrs. Sinclair sent a message she wanted to speak to me, and I was in a bit of a hurry, like. Wasn’t looking where I was going. Miss Stimpson here was coming around the corner, and I smashed right into her. I’ll be happy to pay for the broken dishes.”

Ethel stared in fascination at the pink blush creeping across Mrs. Chubb’s fat cheeks. The housekeeper’s eyelashes actually fluttered as she said quickly, “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Salter, I’m sure. I know Mrs. Sinclair wouldn’t want me to charge a brave man like yourself for a few broken plates.”

It was more than Ethel dared do to look around at him, but she knew by his voice that he was embarrassed.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Chubb, but I insist. Please send me the bill. I don’t want any favors because of what I did. I just happened to be there, that’s all.”

It was at that moment that Ethel Stimpson finally fell in love. Starry-eyed, she vaguely heard Mrs. Chubb tell him the way to the library. Mrs. Sinclair would be there shortly, the housekeeper added, taking the tray from his outstretched hands.

Ethel thought she would swoon when he brushed past her, giving her arm a quick squeeze as he went. She wasn’t going to wash that arm ever again. For as long as she lived.

She came back to earth with a crash when Mrs. Chubb
shoved the tray at her. “Here, my girl, get this lot into the dustbin as quick as you can. And tell madam that she has a visitor waiting for her in the library. She’s in the kitchen, having a cup of tea.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” Ethel took the tray, trying valiantly to get her mind working straight again.

“And then get back into the dining room and collect the rest of the dishes. And get a move on. Gertie’s in there having a pink fit.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” Ethel started down the hallway to the kitchen.

“And do try not to drop anything else, Ethel.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” Reaching the door, Ethel shoved it open with her foot and went in.

Cecily was seated at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea beside her, engrossed in the weekly local paper. The front page carried the full story of the murdered man found in Dr. McDuff’s coffin, and Cecily eagerly scanned the lines in the hopes of discovering something new.

The staff had become accustomed to her popping in on them at odd times, and no longer acted startled, even though it wasn’t considered proper for someone of her standing to be socializing below stairs.

Even Baxter, who heartily disapproved of just about everything she did, had accepted the inevitable, though not before voicing his objections a few times.

Cecily steadfastly maintained that the reason her staff were so loyal to her and the Pennyfoot was because she treated them like people instead of servants. She paid them well and respected them as individuals with their own personal lives outside of the hotel.

In return she earned their unswerving dedication to the Pennyfoot. All she asked from them was to do a good job, and to keep a closed mouth about anything they might see or hear concerning the hotel. And she made it quite clear that their jobs depended upon their discretion.