6 Grounds for Murder (6 page)

She just hoped she wouldn’t have to come anymore after this time. She couldn’t wait to have the flipping baby and be done with it. In fact, it seemed to have sunk lower in her stomach, as if it was anxious to get out and take a look at the world.

Gertie smiled. She was sort of looking forward to seeing the little bugger, too. This would be her very own baby. And no one would be able to take it away from her, including Ian and that wife of his. This baby belonged to her, and she was going to make bloody sure nobody ever got a hand on it.

As if in answer, the baby stirred inside her and gave her a gentle prod. She laid a hand on her swollen belly, feeling a fierce surge of tenderness. She would protect this child of hers with her very life if need be. Gertie Brown might be a nobody, but she was going to be the best bleeding mother a baby ever saw.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, she hardly noticed the woman next to her getting up, and another taking her place. Then a soft voice said, “Gertie? I hardly recognized you. When is the baby due, then?”

Looking up, Gertie saw the pleasant, rosy-cheeked face of Nora Northcott, the constable’s wife. Gertie had spent a great deal of time with the motherly woman when she’d first arrived in Badgers End.

At fourteen she’d been in constant trouble with the law, and Nora Northcott had taken her under her wing, giving her understanding, sympathy, and advice. It had been the constable’s wife who had found her the job at the Pennyfoot, and had reluctantly handed over her rebellious young charge to Mrs. Chubb, who had then licked the young girl into shape.

It had been almost two years since Gertie had seen Nora, but she had often remembered the kindness the woman had given to her. She smiled at the familiar face now, saying, “If the doctor is right, I’ll be having the baby right about the time the bloody bonfires are lit on Guy Fawkes Night.”

“Oh, my.” Nora clutched her throat. “I do hope the fireworks won’t scare the poor thing.”

“Not half as much as they’ll bleeding scare me.” Gertie patted her stomach. “He’ll have nothing to worry about, though, ’cause I’m going to take care of him.”

“You want a boy?” Nora laughed. “Why do mothers always want a boy and fathers always want a girl?” Her face changed. “I’m sorry, Gertie. I heard about Ian Rossiter. That was an awful way to treat you.”

Gertie shrugged. “Aw, well, it wasn’t bleeding meant to be, was it.”

“Someday you’ll meet a nice man,” Nora said, although the way that she said it, Gertie knew she didn’t hold out much hope. Who would want a woman saddled with someone else’s nipper? No one, that’s who.

Deciding she wanted to change the subject, Gertie said, “What’re you doing here, then? Hope it’s nothing too bad.”

Nora shook her head. “Just me back. Been giving me a lot of trouble lately. Getting old, that’s what.”

More likely having to put up with P. C. Northcott, Gertie thought, but kept her mouth shut.

“As for Stan, he’s the one who should be down here. Got a wicked cold, he has, and won’t take nothing for it. I told him to come down with me, but he says the place is always full of nattering women, and he’s not going to sit there with all those eyes on him.”

Gertie laughed. “The only man these women want to blinking look at is Dr. Prestwick. That’s what half of them come for, I reckon.”

Nora nudged Gertie’s arm with an elbow. “Go on! He is good-looking, though, don’t you think?”

“He’s all right. Mind you, I’m off bleeding men right now, so nobody looks good to me.”

“Well, I just hope Stan takes care of that cold. I don’t want him catching pneumonia.”

Gertie yawned and moved restlessly on the chair. “Must have caught cold walking about in the woods, I suppose, looking at dead bodies.”

Nora sent a quick glance around the room. “You know I can’t talk about them things,” she whispered. “Stan would have me head.”

“It’s all right.” Gertie shifted again to ease her back. “It were a strange murder, though. Fancy going to all that trouble to cut off her head and hide it. The guy must be bonkers, if you ask me.”

“He didn’t want anyone to know who she was, from what I can make out.” Nora looked around again to make sure no one was listening. “In any case, the inspector won’t spend too much time on the case. Stan says it was only a gypsy girl who was killed, and the gypsies take care of their own. And if you ask me, it’s better that way.”

“Miss Brown!”

Gertie looked up to see Dr. Prestwick standing in the doorway, beckoning her, amidst a chorus of twitters and fluttering of fans.

Saying goodbye to Nora Northcott, Gertie crossed the room, conscious of eyes on her bulging body. They all must know about the way Ian dumped her. She reached the door and set a fierce glare around the room, making each woman drop her gaze.

Feeling better, she stepped into the doctor’s surgery, though she couldn’t help wondering whether the inspector would have treated her the same way if it had been her up on the Downs instead of the gypsy girl.

CHAPTER
6

The rain had stopped by the time the kitchen staff began preparing the evening meal. The kitchen was a warm haven from the chill, damp air outside, and the tempting aroma of steak-and-kidney pie made Gertie’s tummy rumble. At least, she hoped it was hunger and not the baby getting ready to be born. She had too much to do to drop everything now.

“Hurry up with that silverware,” she yelled at Doris, who stood by the sideboard examining each piece as if she had all day.

Doris looked up with a start. “Mrs. Chubb said as how I should look them over for spots.”

“Well, they was all bleeding polished this afternoon. I did them meself, so there’s no blinking spots on them. Flipping
heck, you’re not going to buy the bleeding stuff. Get a move on, or we won’t get the tables laid in time.”

Doris picked up the heavy tray and scuttled across the kitchen, reaching the door just as Mrs. Chubb barged through it. The crash that followed stung Gertie’s ears.

Doris’s wail was answered by a string of oaths from Michel, who added to the noise by crashing a few lids about on the stove.

“Quiet!” Mrs. Chubb demanded as Doris’s wail grew louder. Michel swore again, and another saucepan hit the ground.

The housekeeper marched across the floor until she was nose to nose with the chef. “I said quiet!” she yelled.

“I hear what you say,” Michel roared back, his tall white hat bobbing as he brandished his ladle. “
Mon Dieu
everyone in the whole village can hear what you say. What is this I am working in, a loony bin,
non
?”

Mrs. Chubb’s jaw worked silently for a moment, then she swung around. “Doris, stop that sniveling and pick up that silverware. Gertie will have to polish them all over again before they can be used.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chubb,” Doris said tearfully, then dropped to her knees and began scooping up the knives and forks, throwing them onto the tray with a loud clatter.

“Cor blimey,” Gertie muttered, “why is it me what always gets the rotten jobs? Why can’t Doris wipe the silverware? She bleeding dropped it.”

“Because she has to get outside and finish chopping the sticks. We still have eight more fires to lay, and they all have to be done by tomorrow night.”

Grumbling under her breath, Gertie opened the sideboard drawer and took out the silver cloth. She’d be late again tonight, she thought, picking up a fork to attack it. All that twit Doris’s fault.

She sent the girl a glare of resentment as Doris handed her the rest of the silverware. “You’d better get out of here before I put in my tuppence worth,” she said, wishing she could give the silly bugger a piece of her mind.

“Yes, Miss Brown.” Doris gave her a nervous smile then rushed out of the kitchen, letting the door swing to behind her.

Gertie stared after her, taken aback by the girl’s subdued attitude. Whatever had got Doris Hoggins in such a state that morning certainly hadn’t lasted. She was back to being the meek little mouse again.

“Gertie, stop daydreaming and get on with that polishing,” Mrs. Chubb said, beginning to roll up her sleeves. “I still have the pastry to make for the pies, and it’s almost six o’clock. I don’t have time to do your jobs as well as mine, so get on with it.”

“All right, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Gertie began rubbing faster with the cloth.

“Oo la la, our housemaids are getting impotent,” Michel muttered, bending over to open the oven door to peer inside.

“I think you mean impudent,” Mrs. Chubb said, frowning at Gertie. “And you are right. Just watch your tongue, my girl, before I box your ears.”

Gertie opened her mouth to answer, but shut it again when the door flew open, letting in a draft of cool air.

“My, that was quick.” Mrs. Chubb swung around to look at Doris standing in the doorway.

“I ain’t chopped any sticks yet,” Doris said, her hands twisting knots in her white apron. “I can’t find the axe.”

“Whatcha mean you can’t find the axe?” Gertie demanded, transferring her frustration onto the worried-looking girl. “You had it this morning when you chopped the wood, didn’t you?”

Doris looked around the kitchen as if expecting to find the axe lurking in some dark corner.

“Well,” Mrs. Chubb said more kindly, “what did you do with it after you used it this morning, Doris?”

Doris shook her head helplessly, lifting her hands, and dropped them again. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Strewth!” Gertie swept several strands of hair out of her eyes with an impatient hand. “I’ll go and see if I can find it.” She thrust the silver cloth at Doris. “Here. I want every blinking piece polished by the time I get back.”

“Yes, Miss Brown,” Doris said, and immediately began vigorously buffing a fork.

Grumbling to herself, Gertie stepped out into the dark night air. She rubbed her upper arms with her hands as she marched across the yard to the coal shed, clicking her tongue in disgust when she saw the door standing open. The twit couldn’t even close a door behind her properly. At least she wouldn’t have to struggle to open it, she told herself as she peered into the shed.

Doris was right. The axe wasn’t hanging on the nail where it had hung ever since Gertie could remember. Nor was it anywhere in the shed, as far as she could see by the light from the kitchen windows.

She reached for the oil lamp and matches, cursing under her breath when it took several attempts to light the wick. Holding the lamp above her head, she stood for a moment looking around the dark shapes inside the shed. Someone must have taken the bloody axe. And she didn’t want to think where it might be.

“No one seems to know where it could be,” Mrs. Chubb said, standing in the middle of Cecily’s drawing room. “Doris was using it this morning to chop sticks, but when
she went out tonight to finish the rest of them, the axe had completely disappeared.”

Cecily leaned back in her velvet-padded chair and smiled at the housekeeper. “Perhaps Doris simply mislaid it in the dark. Did she light the lamp?”

“No, mum, usually the light from the windows is enough. But Gertie went out there, too, and she couldn’t find it. We think someone must have taken it.”

“But who—” Cecily stopped short, remembering the colonel’s words.
Sharp as the devil, those blades are. One slice and right through the neck as clean as a whistle
. “Oh, my Lord,” she said softly.

Mrs. Chubb looked a trifle pale. “What do you think we should do, mum?”

Cecily collected her thoughts. There was no sense in letting her imagination run away with her. After all, the axe had been there in the shed after the body of the gypsy had been found. It was simply a grisly coincidence, that was all.

“Send Samuel out to purchase another axe, if you will, Mrs. Chubb. It’s too late tonight, of course, but first thing in the morning. Tell him to ask the assistant at Whites’s Hardware to put the charge on our account. I’ll inform Baxter of the purchase.”

“Yes, mum.” Mrs. Chubb bobbed a slight curtsy and backed out of the door.

Left alone, Cecily stared for a long time at the pattern on the carpet. Her gaze traced the intricate design of green vines swirling around huge pink and cream roses. She saw in her mind’s eye a sheet of paper lying on that carpet.
George killed the gypsy girl. He must be stopped
.

But “George” couldn’t have taken the axe. The poor girl had died before the axe had disappeared. Yet a small niggling doubt remained in Cecily’s mind. Coincidence, as she had discovered, very often turned out to be something
quite different. She could only hope that in this case the missing axe was just that. Coincidence.

Samuel had finished his chores for the day and was looking forward to spending an hour down the George and Dragon before turning in for the night. He wanted to practice his darts game. Now that Ian Rossiter had left town, the team was looking for a replacement, and Samuel wanted desperately to step in.

He was about to leave, dressed warmly for the long walk to the pub, when Doris confronted him at the gate. A thick fog had rolled in from the sea, and he could barely see the outline of the kitchen wall as he listened to the housemaid’s soft voice.

“Mrs. Chubb sent me to tell you that the axe is missing from the shed.”

He looked at her in surprise. The gas lamps in front of the hotel cast a strange orange glow across the yard, their posts shrouded by the wreathing mists that swirled across the Esplanade.

“It was there this morning. You were using it, remember?” He also remembered the way she’d treated him, as if he wasn’t good enough to speak to her. The memory hardened his resolve to keep his distance.

“Tell Mrs. Chubb I’ll look for it in the morning,” he said, closing the gate firmly and latching it. “It’s too late to look for it tonight.”

“Gertie looked for it and couldn’t find it. Mrs. Chubb said to tell you that madam wants you to buy a new one.”

Pulling his cap down on his head, Samuel sighed. “Not tonight, I hope?”

Doris shook her head, her eyes downcast, her gaze directed at his boots. “No, Mrs. Chubb said that madam said to go first thing in the morning.”

He studied her for a moment, a strange feeling creeping over him. This didn’t seem like the same person he’d confronted that morning. This was more like the shy young girl he’d first encountered the night before.

She stood shivering in the moist night air, her thin shawl barely covering her shoulders. In the dim light he could see the sad look on her face, as if she’d just lost something that meant a lot to her. The mist left tiny droplets of moisture clinging to the soft curls peeking out from under her cap.

Her clothes looked too big for her slight body. The long black skirt draped over the top of her shoes, threatening to trip her up if she didn’t take care to hold up the hem as she walked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, so quietly he almost lost the words in the echoes of the ocean pounding the beach. A storm coming, his mind registered, while his gaze remained on the forlorn girl standing in front of him.

She looked like a child, lost and a little afraid, and determined not to show it. His heart warmed, and, forgetting his convictions of a moment ago, he touched her lightly on the arm.

“Cheer up,” he said brightly, “it’s only an axe. It’s not your fault if someone takes a fancy to it and walks off with it. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and I don’t suppose it’ll be the last.”

She lifted her chin, though she kept her gaze fixed on his feet. “Mrs. Chubb says to ask them to put it on the hotel account.”

“Right.” He pulled in a breath, conscious of the smell of seaweed and sand that always seemed stronger on a foggy night. The breeze had stiffened, sending clouds of mist billowing across the yard. He could now see the outline of the kitchen wall.

In the corner of the kitchen door he thought he saw a
shadow move. Narrowing his eyes, he took his gaze off Doris and concentrated on the space between the kitchen and the steps that led up to the hotel lobby. If someone was there, he would have to cross the yard in the light of the lamps.

He stared intently at the shifting shadows, but could see nothing but the branches of the sycamore tree bouncing gently in the brisk breeze.

“I had better be going in,” Doris said, taking a step away from him.

“No, wait!”

She paused, looking up at him with a surprised expression on her dainty features.

He hesitated, not certain what he was afraid of. It was just a trick of the light, no more. Yet something had made him uneasy. She looked so fragile, as though a puff of wind could blow her off her feet. Maybe it was the gossip about the gypsy girl found in the woods. He kept imagining how that body must have looked without a head.

A shiver traveled down his body, and, making up his mind, he took a firm hold of her arm. “I’ll walk you back to the door.”

“That’s awfully nice of you, Samuel,” she said softly. He liked the way she gazed up at him with her shy smile. When she said his name, it sounded different somehow.

“No, it’s not really,” he said, pretending to look all around him in horror. “I’m afraid of the dark, I am. I don’t want to cross over there all by myself. I need you to protect me.”

She laughed, a delightful sound that seemed to dance on the wind. It made him feel wonderful to make her laugh. A part of his mind warned him this could be another game she was playing, like last night. Perhaps tomorrow she would give him the drop-dead treatment again.

But right now he liked the feel of her slender arm beneath
his fingers, and the warm feeling it gave him to look down into those big brown eyes and see her pleasure reflected in them. And he felt very glad indeed that Doris Hoggins had come to work at the Pennyfoot Hotel.

“The axe is missing?” Baxter said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Pray don’t tell me that Mrs. Chubb is convinced our axe murderer is prowling the hotel just waiting for the opportunity to pounce on her and chop off her head.”

“It is not a laughing matter, Baxter.” Cecily puffed out a stream of smoke from her cigar a little more forcefully than she’d intended.

Baxter coughed, though the gray cloud had dissipated long before it reached him. He stood at the end of the long table in the library with his back to James’s portrait.

Cecily’s gaze strayed to the image of her late husband. It saddened her at times that the pain she had once felt at his passing no longer troubled her. In the early days she had been certain she would never recover from the loss. The demands of the hotel, however, had kept her mind and her hands busy, so much so that the months and even years had slipped by almost without her noticing.

Then there had been Baxter, of course. Shifting her gaze back to him now, she gazed thoughtfully at his face. He was her trusted friend, her confidant, her loyal and dependable right hand in the myriad business matters that were part of running a busy hotel.

Yet during the past months she had become gradually aware of more personal feelings for the man who had given James his solemn promise to take care of his good friend’s grieving widow.

At first she had thought it to be merely a sense of loss for the companionship and close intimacy she had shared with her dead husband. But now she knew it was more than that.
She had become extremely fond of Baxter, and her greatest regret was that he found it impossible to return her affections.