3 Service for Two (7 page)

Algie’s eyes lit up with excitement behind the round lenses of his glasses. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, yes, he did. It appears that they found a bundle of … ah … clothing buried near Deep Willow Pond. The police think they must … ah … belong to the dead man.”

“They think? They’re not sure?”

“No … ah … no, there was no identification found on the clothes, but they were covered with blood, so they … assume the young man was wearing them when he was … ah … killed.”

Algie’s face had turned a little pale. “The constable wanted to know if I … ah … recognized the clothes, if I’d seen them before.” He shuddered, rippling the folds of his cassock. “I told them I had not. To be truthful, Mrs. Sinclair, the sight of those ghastly stains made me feel quite ill.”

“Yes, I can well imagine,” Cecily murmured. “It’s really a shame the police couldn’t identify the body, though.”

“Oh, but they did,” Algie said, nodding his head emphatically up and down. “They did that … ah … procedure with the fingers, cover them with ink, you see …”

“Fingerprints,” Cecily said, nodding with him. “And what did they come up with, do you know?”

“Yes, well, Dr. Prestwick told me that. He was there to do the … ah … post-mortem.”

“Oh, he was?” Cecily wished she’d known that earlier. “And so what did he tell you?”

“Not very much, I’m happy to say. I really do not care to dwell on the gory details.”

“Oh, quite,” Cecily said hastily. “I meant the fingerprints. Did the doctor say anything about the young man’s identity?”

“Well, he didn’t tell me his name,” Algie said, looking nervously over his shoulder. “I’m not altogether sure he should have told me … ah … anything. But what he did tell me gave me quite a turn, I can tell you.”

“What did he tell you?” Cecily asked as patiently as she could manage. Really, the man was as difficult as Baxter when it came to getting information out of him.

“He told me that the man was a resident of London. And that he was … ah … a notorious criminal.” Algie’s eyes widened in fear. “Now I ask you, Mrs. Sinclair. It is bad enough that someone should be brutally struck down here in our little village of Badgers End. But … ah … a criminal? What is a man like that doing down here?”

That was, indeed, an interesting question, Cecily thought uneasily. It also led to another disturbing question. What, if
anything, did the Pennyfoot Hotel have to do with the murder of a notorious criminal from London?

“I’m sure the police will have the answers soon,” she told the vicar without much conviction. “In the meantime, it might be as well if we keep this to ourselves. We don’t need to start a panic in the village.”

“Oh, I agree … absolutely, oh my, yes …”

And meanwhile, Cecily thought as she bade Algie goodbye, she would have a word with the good Dr. Prestwick. Apparently he was unaware of the power of the grapevine in the village. As for Algie, she could only hope he didn’t relate what he knew to his mother. One word to Phoebe, and the entire southeast coast would know the details.

She hurried up the aisle, anxious to be out in the fresh air again, even if it was bitterly cold. She’d had enough of gloomy shadows for one day.

Her thoughts returned to the attractive, smiling face of the new temporary doctor. It was as well he was there for only a short time, she reflected as she reached the doors. With that kind of magnetism he’d have half the village imagining themselves in love with him. Even she was not entirely immune to his charm.

The acknowledgment disturbed her. Her heart belonged to James, and always would. There could be no room in it for anyone else. She would do well to remember that, for she would most likely run into the fascinating gentleman again. And since he had performed the post-mortem on the young man, she intended to make that as soon as possible.

She didn’t have to wait for very long, for as she pulled open the doors of the church and stepped out into the portal, she saw that Dr. Prestwick had not left after all. He was standing by the trap, talking to Baxter, who looked very uneasy indeed.

CHAPTER
7

Cecily did her best to look unconcerned as she joined the gentlemen standing by the trap. Both men lifted their hats as she reached them. Ian, sitting on the front seat, whip in hand, appeared to have no interest in anything but the lane ahead of him, but Cecily knew his ears would be straining to catch every word. She would have to choose her words carefully.

She could feel Baxter’s gaze upon her as she smiled at Dr. Prestwick. For some reason it made her feel guilty, though she could think of no reason why that should be.

“Dr. Prestwick,” she said lightly, “I see you have met my manager.”

“Yes, madam, I have indeed. We have had a most interesting conversation.”

The expression in his dark eyes gave her cause again to wonder exactly what the conversation was about. She would
be sure to find out from Baxter when they arrived back at the hotel.

As if reading her mind, a knack he seemed to be perfecting, Baxter said almost pompously, “I have been informing the doctor of the wonderful work Dr. McDuff has done in Badgers End, and how much he was revered by the villagers. It will be most difficult to replace him.”

Cecily looked at her manager in surprise. He had never mentioned this admiration for Dr. McDuff before. She had the impression he’d had little to do with the man. Nevertheless, she had to agree with him.

“You were fortunate indeed to have been blessed with such devotion to duty,” Dr. Prestwick said smoothly.

Cecily wasn’t sure, but she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm. “He was a wonderful man,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “And a very good friend to a great many of the villagers, including myself. I had known him all my life.”

“Then his loss must be particularly sad for you.” Prestwick’s eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his bowler.

“It is indeed,” Cecily murmured, dropping her gaze.

“And most distressing to have this extraordinary situation happen at his funeral. It must have been a dreadful shock to you.”

“To all of us, Dr. Prestwick.”

Baxter cleared his throat a little too loudly. “I do think, madam, that I should be getting back to my duties at the hotel.”

“Yes, of course, Baxter.” She met the doctor’s frank gaze again. “I do hope the remainder of your term with us will be a little less eventful.”

“Thank you, though I must say it has been quite interesting. It’s the first time I’ve been called in to assist on a murder case.”

Cecily hesitated, torn between the intense desire to know more details and the reluctance to discuss the matter within earshot of Ian. Before she could decide, however, the matter was taken out of her hands.

“Of course,” Prestwick went on, “it was quite straightforward. The man had been stabbed through the heart, a knife
with a thin blade I’d say, the blow delivered with some force. Happened right there by the pond, which is why the clothes were buried there.”

Baxter, apparently sharing Cecily’s concern, shot a glance up at Ian, who still sat nonchalantly staring up the lane ahead of him, his whip tapping lightly on his knee.

“Well, we must be getting back to the Pennyfoot,” Cecily said, with some reluctance. She dearly would have loved to discuss the matter further, but recognized the necessity of prudence. “Good day, Dr. Prestwick. I enjoyed talking to you.”

Without thinking, she offered her hand. Once more she felt it enclosed in his firm, warm grasp, then the touch of his lips through the fabric of her glove.

“I enjoyed it, too, dear lady. Very much so.”

Aware of Baxter’s forbidding scowl, Cecily withdrew her hand and her gaze, and stepped toward the trap.

Baxter snapped open the door and put a proprietary hand beneath her elbow. Without a word, Cecily allowed him to assist her into her seat. He climbed in opposite her and slammed the door shut.

The last she saw of Dr. Prestwick, through the tiny window in the canopy, he stood watching them while they moved off.

When she settled back in her seat, she met Baxter’s stormy gaze full on her face. “Is there something amiss with you?” she asked, a trifle irritated.

“I do not care for that man.” His look challenged her, as if daring her to contradict.

“That much is obvious. I should be very interested in learning the reason.”

His bravado vanished, leaving a sheepish expression on his face. His gaze slid away from her. “I’m not certain. Something about him … his manner … he doesn’t seem genuine. …”

Confused by his unaccustomed wavering, Cecily sought for something to say. “Well, I don’t suppose it makes much difference. After all, the man won’t be staying for long. It surely won’t take that long to find a replacement for Dr. McDuff.”

“I wish I could be sure of that,” Baxter said gloomily. “It occurs to me that there might not be too many professional men willing to bury themselves in the country.”

“Oh, come on, Baxter, it isn’t that bad. We are only a few miles from Wellercombe and a few hours’ ride on the train from London. This isn’t darkest Africa, you know. There are some men who would welcome our peaceful life style. Not that it’s been too peaceful lately, I must admit.”

“It does make one wonder what the world is coming to. That is the problem with progress. It brings all these unwelcome changes.”

Cecily smiled, relieved to be on familiar ground. “People die, Baxter, with or without progress. You can hardly blame the advent of a new doctor for that.”

He gave her a hurt look. “I was thinking more of the murder of a young man, madam. I daresay that cannot be linked to progress either, but with all these automobiles tearing around the countryside, fouling the air with their fumes and frightening the cows with their dreadful noise, I wonder what kind of people are beginning to invade our villages.”

“If it were not for the visitors, Baxter, we would not have the business to keep the Pennyfoot going. Let us not bite the hand that feeds us.”

“Yes, madam.” He gave her a resigned look and lapsed into silence.

Cecily couldn’t help thinking that his bad mood had more to do with Dr. Prestwick than the changing life style of the village, but she wasn’t about to pursue the matter. Besides, another thought had captured her attention.

Taking advantage of the loud clopping of the chestnut’s hooves, she leaned forward and said quietly, “I wonder if that’s how they switched bodies.”

Baxter’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Madam?”

“The motor car. It would have been the most convenient way to do it, would it not?”

“But not the most quiet, madam. Surely the vicar or Mrs. Carter-Holmes would have heard the noise of the engine had a car driven up to the church?”

Disappointed, Cecily had to agree. It would have narrowed the field considerably. She might have known it wouldn’t be as easy as that. “You know, it really doesn’t make any sense,” she said, keeping her voice low. “If this poor man was murdered right out there by the pond, I just can’t understand why the murderer went to all the trouble to come all the way into the village to dispose of the body. Then to take poor Dr. McDuff back to the pond.”

“No doubt the police will have all the answers in due time.”

She straightened, having heard his emphasis on the word police. “I would appreciate it if you would speak to Joe Salter this afternoon.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And I will pay a visit to the Briggetts. Hopefully something will come out of our investigation.”

He didn’t answer her, but his expression said clearly that he would rather they forgot about the investigation entirely.

When they pulled up in front of the hotel, Cecily was pleased to see that the sun had warmed the road enough to melt most of the slush. Little rivers ran down the gutters, and steam drifted up from the red roof of the Pennyfoot.

Ian jumped down from his seat and held the chestnut steady while Baxter alighted from the trap. Stepping down onto the pavement, Cecily caught sight of a portly figure walking down the steps of the hotel. He reached the bottom step and doffed his homburg. “Mrs. Sinclair! What a pleasant day it has turned out to be.”

Lord Chickering’s cheeks were stained a permanent red, as was his nose. A broad-shouldered man, his girth was even more impressive, protruding in front of him in a huge mound of flabby flesh. He had a bad habit of sucking his teeth, which gave him a decided lisp, and his jowls hung down in thick flaps of skin, wobbling back and forth as he spoke.

“Most pleasant, your lordship,” Cecily agreed. “You are going to take a stroll in the sunshine?” The exercise would do him good, she thought, watching with distaste while he patted his enormous stomach.

“Just a few steps along the prom, madam. Must make some room for dinner, what?”

“Yes, indeed. Michel has one of his special dishes planned for today. I would hate you to miss such a treat.”

“Oh, I can assure you, Mrs. Sinclair, I wouldn’t dream of it. No indeed, I am looking forward to the meal. You have an excellent chef, madam. An excellent chef. His turtle soup is quite the best I have ever tasted.” He reached for the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and used it to dab at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, your lordship. May I pass on the compliment?”

“Please do, madam, please do. I always believe in giving credit where it is due.” He tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket and patted it with his pudgy fingers.

Just at that moment a light voice rang out farther down the Esplanade. Cecily swiveled her head in time to see Madeline drifting along in the direction of the hotel. Her arms were full of flowers, bright yellow daffodils and white tulips, with ferns cascading in all directions.

There was one person who could use a motor car, Cecily thought as she watched her friend approach.

“Ah, well. I must be off,” Lord Chickering muttered. “Good day to you, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Glancing back at him, Cecily was surprised to see the pallor of his face, broken by the patches of red on his cheeks and nose. He wasn’t looking at her, but in Madeline’s direction. His eyes seemed to be fixed on the woman, as if unable to look away. Then in an abrupt movement he gave Baxter a scant nod and hurried off in the opposite direction to the prom.

“How odd,” Baxter murmured, staring after the rotund figure.

Cecily would have answered, except that Madeline had now reached them. “I was hoping to see you,” she said, raising her soft voice to be heard above the clatter of hooves as Ian led the chestnut to the stables. “I have to deliver these flowers to the community hall, but I wanted to let you know I might be a little late for the meeting tomorrow morning. I
have to visit a customer earlier, and I don’t know how long I shall be.”

“That’s quite all right,” Cecily assured her. “I’m sure we can take care of everything when you get here.”

“I’ll do my best to be on time.” Madeline turned her beautiful eyes on Baxter. “One never knows how long this sort of thing will take.”

To Cecily’s amusement, Baxter’s face reddened, and he ran a finger around the inside of his stiff white collar. “If you will excuse me, Miss Pengrath? Madam?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Baxter,” Madeline said, smiling up at him. “I have to be getting along now.” She transferred her dazzling smile to Cecily, then moved off in her floating walk down the street.

Cecily heard Baxter stomping up the steps behind her, and hid a smile. She waited until they were inside the hotel before giving him a mischievous look. “Why, Baxter, I do believe you are blushing.”

He cleared his throat, glancing around the empty lobby as if afraid of being overheard. “That woman takes far too many liberties. It’s no wonder she has such a dreadful reputation.”

Privately Cecily agreed with him. Madeline ostensibly made a living from selling flowers and her craft work. It was common knowledge, however, that most of her income was derived from the various potions that she concocted for certain ailments and frailties. Not the least of which was a “love potion” guaranteed to achieve the desired result.

Cecily refused to consider the popular belief that Madeline sometimes offered a more tangible cure for the problem. Women who looked like Madeline always bore the brunt of petty gossip.

“Madeline is harmless enough,” she said in defense of her friend.

“Lord Chickering apparently doesn’t share your view. He seemed quite startled at the sight of her.”

Cecily laughed. “Lord Chickering is an overweight, namby-pamby who is startled by his own shadow. He’s afraid of Madeline because he thinks she’s a witch.”

“A conviction shared by more than a few in the community.”

Cecily arched an eyebrow. “Do you consider her a witch, Baxter?”

He looked down at her, an odd expression in his eyes. “I tend to reserve judgment on matters like that, madam.”

She stared at him for a moment, at a loss as to how to take that comment. Then she shrugged. “I think Madeline is simply misunderstood. People always mistrust what they don’t understand.”

“Precisely, madam.” He glanced across the lobby at the grandfather clock in the corner. “If there’s nothing else I can do for you?”

“Thank you, no.” She pulled her mind back to the matters at hand. “You will visit with Joe Salter this afternoon?”

“Yes, madam. As you request. Do you wish me to order the trap for you?”

“No, it’s a nice day. I shall walk. The fresh air will help clear the cobwebs from my mind.”

“Very well.” He looked as if he would say something else, but then, with a slight shake of his head, he turned and headed down the hallway.

That afternoon, while enjoying a light meal in her suite, Cecily glanced through the pages of
The Times
, as she always did. News of the city fascinated her, particularly the stories of the suffragettes. Though she heartily agreed with their cause, she didn’t entirely approve of their methods. Some of them seemed a little extreme.

Chaining oneself to a fence was one thing; setting fire to motor cars was quite another. Not that she’d ever admit that to Baxter, of course. Some of their best arguments involved the Women’s Rights Movement and Baxter’s disapproval of such unfeminine rebellion.