6 Grounds for Murder (16 page)

“Not all men consider women as such,” Baxter said stiffly. “Much as this might surprise you, madam, there are many men who treasure their wives and appreciate the companionship and care a good woman can give to her husband. Did not James value your contribution to your marriage?”

“I hope he did.” Cecily thought about it for a moment. “Even so, there were certain things he expected of me, certain rigid rules that he expected me to adhere to, which were not necessarily to my liking. He treated me well, and I adored him, but since his death I have come to value my freedom from the tight reins he held on my life.”

The troubled look on Baxter’s face deepened. “My apologies, madam. I had no right to pry into your personal affairs.”

She smiled up at him, aware that she had distressed him. “Not at all, Baxter. In whom can I confide, if not to you, my most trusted friend?”

“Thank you, madam.”

“James and I had a very good marriage,” she went on, “and I was devastated to lose him. But I must admit it is refreshing indeed to be treated as a responsible, intelligent person of authority, instead of merely someone’s wife.”

To her utmost dismay, a shutter seemed to close over his face. “I will do my very best to bear that in mind,” he said quietly.

She wished desperately that she could take back those words. Although she wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to do
so, except perhaps, to change that look of rejection in his eyes.

“I am no different from thousands of women, in England and elsewhere,” she said a trifle defensively. “All we really want is to be considered intelligent human beings, with a right to live our lives the way we choose. The same rights afforded men. Women are not allowed to vote for their choice of who shall govern them. Why not? Are we so stupid, or uninformed, that we cannot make a rational decision?”

Baxter lifted his hands, then dropped them again. “Not at all. But the vast majority of men do not care to be married to a woman who is intent on pursuing her own life.”

“In that case, women will just have to accept that fact if they are determined to be independent.”

“How do you suppose women would support themselves if left to their own devices? They can’t all inherit hotels.”

Stung by his tone, Cecily retorted, “They are quite capable of earning a living. Many women are employed as typists, nurses, shop assistants, factory workers, seamstresses, or even hotel managers.”

“But are they receiving a livable wage for that work?” He shook his head, staring off into space as if trying to escape from the hole he’d dug. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Which is exactly why we must have equal pay. That is all women want, Baxter. We don’t want to eradicate all men from the earth, we just want to live side by side with our counterparts in harmony and independence, sharing their lives, as partners.”

Baxter shifted his gaze back to her face. “While I admire and respect your views, madam, I would venture to say that you are an exception among women. I have yet to come across a woman with your courage and resolve in the face of adversity.”

Consoled immeasurably by his words, she smiled at him. “Thank you, Baxter, I greatly appreciate your comments. I must tell you, however, there are many, many women far more courageous than I, and the prisons are full of them.”

“Which does not exactly give me peace of mind,” Baxter said dryly.

Her smile widened. “Have no fear. I have no intention of chaining myself to fences or setting fire to men’s club rooms. I have far more to worry about right here. Which reminds me, may I please enjoy a cigar while I explain to you my theory about the notes?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then pulled the package from his pocket. “I have the distinct impression, madam, that you have already made great strides in your personal quest for independence. No matter how much I protest, I invariably comply with your requests, whether or not they are within the realm of duty. Your every wish is my command, it would seem.”

Cecily took the cigar and waited for him to light it. “No, Baxter,” she said quietly. “Not always.”

He gave her a curious glance, but refrained from questioning her remark. She was rather glad, for she had no idea what she would tell him. She could not tell him what she felt in her heart, even if it were her place to do so.

He would never accept any kind of personal bond between them. Even if he cared for her, she was quite sure he would never allow his feelings to surface. The very strength and resolve she so admired in him was, at the same time, her enemy.

And that, she thought with deep regret, was the saddest thing of all.

CHAPTER
16

“Madam?”

Cecily looked up to find Baxter eyeing her quizzically. “I’m sorry, Baxter, I was deep in thought.”

“I assumed that, madam. This business of murder is troubling you a great deal, I know. At the risk of sounding tiresome, I implore you to seek the help of the police, before the situation escalates beyond our control.”

“I will, Baxter, just as soon as I have pinned down the identity of the murderer and can be sure he will be arrested.”

Baxter sighed, then apparently discarded the attempt. Instead, in a voice of resignation, he asked, “You say you have a theory about the notes?”

“Yes, I do.” Cecily puffed on the cigar, without finding
her usual solace in the aromatic smoke. “I believe the notes were written by the murderer himself. I believe it’s his way of drawing attention to himself.”

“Why would he do that? Surely the purpose of a man who kills is to divert attention from himself, in order not to be apprehended.”

“One would think so. But I read somewhere—I think it might have been in one of my Sherlock Holmes books—that sometimes a man who kills, particularly one who kills more than once, needs the recognition for the murders in order to be fulfilled. I think the murderer is calling himself George in order to escape detection, but is nevertheless informing us of the deed in order to get that recognition.”

Baxter looked a trifle pale as he stared down at her. “There are some very sick people in this world,” he said slowly. “It worries me a great deal to think it could be someone we know, right inside these walls.”

“It worries me, too,” Cecily said with feeling. “All our weekend guests will be arriving tomorrow. I’m afraid that many more people will be exposed to the danger.”

“Then surely it is now time to discuss the situation with Inspector Cranshaw.”

She tapped his desk with her fingernails for a moment, then slowly nodded her head. “Much as I hate to admit defeat, Baxter, this time I’m afraid I might have to do so. If I haven’t learned the identity of the murderer by tomorrow night, I will inform the police and allow them to conduct their investigation.”

“While I sympathize with your concerns, I would feel a great deal easier if the situation were in their hands,” Baxter said.

Cecily shrugged. “I wish I could share your conviction. I still have doubts that the constabulary will take anything I tell them too seriously. The inspector considers me a
meddling fool with a wild imagination, who can’t keep her nose out of trouble.”

Baxter didn’t say he agreed with the inspector, but his expression implied it.

Ignoring him, Cecily added, “The inspector is convinced the murders remain the business of the gypsies and should be left to them to deal with, and you know how stubborn and obtuse the inspector can be in such matters.”

“Not to mention P.C. Northcott,” Baxter added darkly. “Though I have to sympathize with the police in this case. Too often the gypsies have gone to great lengths in order to prevent the constabulary from interfering in their affairs.”

“Nevertheless, I must try to find this man. He is a deranged killer and a dangerous menace to society. He must be tracked down and stopped.”

“For once,” Baxter answered reluctantly, “I must admit I agree with you.”

Cecily awoke with a start the next morning, disturbed from her sleep by a persistent tapping on the door. With a feeling of dread she donned her dressing gown and hurried through the drawing room to open the door. She could only hope that her visitor wasn’t the bearer of bad news.

To her relief, when she opened the door she saw Doris standing in the hallway holding a steaming jug of hot water in her hands.

“Good morning, mum,” the housemaid said shyly. “Gertie’s not feeling well, so I brought you your wash water.”

Concerned again, Cecily opened the door wider. “It’s nice to see you, Doris. There’s nothing seriously wrong with Gertie, I hope?”

Doris shook her head and carefully carried the jug to the washbasin. “No, mum, she’s just tired, that’s all. Mrs.
Chubb thought she shouldn’t be climbing the stairs today, so I came instead.”

“Well, please tell Gertie that I hope she feels better soon. I’m afraid, though, she will be tired now until the baby is born.”

“Yes, mum.” Doris poured the water into the basin and stood the jug on its stand.

Cecily watched her for a moment, then said quietly, “Doris, you don’t have to stand at the door when you bring water in the morning. Gertie usually brings it in and stands it on the dresser. That way I can have a few moments to wake up, instead of falling out of bed as I am wont to do when woken abruptly.”

Doris nodded and bobbed a shaky curtsy. “Yes, mum.”

Cecily frowned and tried again to put the girl at ease. “Do you like working here at the Pennyfoot, Doris? Are you happy here with us?”

The thin face broke out in a smile, making her look almost pretty. “Oh, yes, mum. I love it here, I really do. Everyone is so nice to me, and no one hits me, and I have a nice room to sleep in. I just wish—”

She broke off, closing her mouth tight.

Cecily peered closer at the girl. She seemed much too thin, and her color wasn’t good. She had a sickly kind of pallor that indicated poor health. The black dress hung on her shoulders and only served to emphasize her ashen complexion.

“Are you not feeling well?” Cecily asked, wishing she had been a little more observant toward her newest servant. “I hope you would tell Mrs. Chubb if you are ill. No one in this hotel has to work if she is not well.”

Doris looked a little startled. “No, mum, I am feeling quite well, thank you. I think I might be catching …” She hesitated, looking more frightened than ever for a reason
Cecily couldn’t fathom. “… a cold,” she finally finished.

Immediately contrite, Cecily said kindly, “Oh, dear. I’m afraid this damp cold weather causes a lot of ills. Perhaps you would feel better if you had a good rest? Tell Mrs. Chubb I told you to lie down for a while and that she can bring you a nice hot toddy. That will soon perk you up.”

Doris looked even more frightened at that. “Oh, no, mum, I couldn’t really. I’ll be all right, I promise. I had best be getting back to the kitchen now, mum. Thank you.”

She bobbed another quick curtsy, then scurried out of the room as if she had a herd of elephants stampeding behind her.

Cecily sat on the edge of the bed, staring thoughtfully at the water jug. Perhaps the work was too hard for the frail child. She had not yet recovered from her dreadful ordeal at the hands of her aunt. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she wasn’t at all like Gertie, who was as strong as a horse.

One did tend to take the servants for granted, she thought a little guiltily. She must make more time to assure herself that all was well belowstairs. Perhaps some lighter tasks could be arranged for Doris, until she had time to fill out and grow stronger.

Sighing, she got up from the bed, remembering her promise to Baxter. She had this one day to discover who was committing these ghastly murders, and it didn’t seem at all likely that she would be successful. Apart from the notes, she had no real evidence to go on.

Some unknown person had dropped a flowerpot on Colonel Fortescue. Some unknown person who might have seen Madeline in the lobby that morning. Baxter was right, it could have been anyone. And the lack of evidence in any of the suspects’ rooms would suggest that they were all innocent of the crimes.

Cecily dropped her face flannel into the water, then wrung it out. This would be the first time she’d had to admit defeat. She didn’t like it one bit.

To make matters worse, she had a niggling feeling—an odd, yet familiar instinct that she had experienced more than once before. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she already knew the answer to the puzzle. If only she could put a finger on it. That was the most frustrating element of the entire predicament.

“Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?” Mrs. Chubb said, watching Gertie anxiously as she sat folding serviettes at the table. “I don’t want anything to happen to you now that you’re so close to having that little one. Perhaps you should put your feet up and have a rest.”

“I’m all right,” Gertie said, a stubborn look on her face. “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s bleeding hard trying to sleep with a flipping lump on your belly. Keeps kicking me, it does.”

“It’s just anxious to get out in the world now.” Mrs. Chubb went back to the stove and lifted the lid off a large pot of porridge. Giving the gluey mixture a brisk stir with the wooden spoon, she added, “The sound of them fireworks going off tomorrow night will probably set you off. It would be something if it was born on the Fifth of November, wouldn’t it?”

“At least I wouldn’t forget his bleeding birthday,” Gertie muttered. “Knowing what a bloody awful memory I have, it would be a blessing, it would. I’d have to call him Guy Fawkes, then, wouldn’t I?”

“Mercy me, I hope you do no such thing.” Mrs. Chubb peered into the tea caddy to make sure there was enough tea. Finding it almost empty, she opened the cupboard door and reached in for a bag of Indian assam.

“How do you know it’s going to be a boy, anyway?” she said as she poured a stream of dusty black tea leaves into the caddy.

“I know it’s a boy. No bloody girl has a kick like that.” Gertie pushed her chair back and got slowly to her feet. “Where is that flipping Doris? I hope she hasn’t dropped the bloody water or something. I’ve never seen anyone what blinking drops things the way she does.”

“It has a lot to do with her nerves.” Mrs. Chubb took down the silver teapots from the shelf and began lining them up alongside the stove. “She jumps at anything, that girl.”

Gertie groaned, stretching her back. “I never saw anyone as blinking moody as her, either. One day she’s all sweet and smiling, the next she’s snarling like a bloody hungry lion.”

“Not really.” The housekeeper measured the tea into the pots with an expert hand. “Have you noticed that she’s always grumpy in the mornings, but by the afternoon she’s back to her shy pleasant self again? I reckon she has nightmares or something about the way she was beaten, and it takes her all morning to get over it.”

Gertie stared at her. “I never thought about that. Now you come to mention it, she is bleeding grumpy in the mornings. Per’aps she’s pregnant?”

Mrs. Chubb gave her a reproving glance. “Bite your tongue, young lady.”

Gertie shrugged. “Well, roll on the afternoons, then, that’s all I can say. At least her bleeding back must be getting better. I saw her yesterday leaning her back against her chair.”

“Well, let’s hope that’ll improve her temper somewhat. Must have been terrible for the poor lamb, having to work with a back like that.”

The door opened at that moment, revealing the very person they’d been talking about. Mrs. Chubb felt guilty as
she looked at the girl. She had no right to be gossiping about the staff behind their backs. Poor kid had enough troubles on her plate, that she did.

“Was madam awake when you took her water up?” she asked Doris, who seemed startled by the question.

“Yes, she was.” Doris hesitated for a moment, then added, “She was so nice to me. She asked if I was feeling all right and everything.” She shot a glance at Gertie, who sat watching her with suspicious eyes. “Oh, and Gertie, madam told me to tell you she hopes you will feel better soon.”

“Thank you, I’m sure,” Gertie said, feeling a mite sheepish.

Doris glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I had better get on with the tables, Mrs. Chubb. I know Michel doesn’t like it if they’re not done by the time he gets here.”

“Here,” Gertie said, pushing the tray of serviettes across the table. “These are all done. You won’t need all of ’em, but there’ll be a lot more for lunch with the weekend lot coming in.”

Doris nodded and picked up the tray. “Will we be able to watch the fireworks? I do love fireworks, and I’ve never seen any up close.”

“We all watch them,” Mrs. Chubb said. “Now get along and get those tables done, or none of us will have the time to watch anything.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” With her shy smile, Doris headed across the kitchen, watched in silence by the other two women. She had almost reached the door when it flew open.

Samuel stopped short when he saw Doris standing right in front of him. He and the housemaid stared at each other in silence for a moment, then Samuel gave her a brief nod.

He made to brush past her, but paused when she said in a demure voice, “Good morning, Samuel. It’s a fine morning out there, isn’t it?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “It might be, once the sun comes up.”

She gave him a sweet smile. “As long as it doesn’t rain for the fireworks tomorrow. I’m looking forward to watching the display.”

Samuel shifted on his feet and glanced at Mrs. Chubb, who stood unashamedly watching him. “If you like, Doris,” he said casually, “I’ll show you the best place to see them tomorrow night.”

Doris’s face lit up with excitement. “You will? Oh, Samuel, that would be so wonderful. Thank you.” Still smiling happily, she brushed past him and went out the door.

After a short silence, Gertie said gruffly, “Well, that clobbers that idea, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Chubb murmured, staring at the door as if she expected it to open again. “I imagine it does.”

“What idea?” Samuel said, crossing the floor to the stove.

“Oh, we was just talking about Doris and her moods,” Gertie said, smothering a yawn. “Mrs. Chubb says she’s always grumpy in the mornings, but she seems flipping happy enough this morning, doesn’t she?”

Samuel nodded, a puzzled expression on his face. “Don’t understand it meself, I don’t. One day she wants to talk to me, the next she acts as if I was dirt.”

“That’s just what I was bleeding saying, wasn’t I, Mrs. Chubb?”

“Well,” the housekeeper said briskly, “we don’t have time to stand around and talk about Doris all day. We have work to do.”

She looked pointedly at Samuel, who stood warming his back at the stove.

“Oh, right,” he said, “I almost forgot what I came to tell you. Guess what? There’s been another murder.”