7 Pay the Piper (2 page)

“Really! He must, indeed, be confident if he can afford to miss a practice.”

“He can afford to be confident,” Phoebe retorted. “I have heard him play, and his expertise on the bagpipes is most impressive. He fully expects to win the contest.”

“Ladies!” Her patience finally giving out, Cecily tapped the polished surface of the table with her fingernails. “I must ask you to continue this conversation elsewhere. I need to know what arrangements you have in mind for the ballroom, Madeline.”

“Red and gold,” Madeline said promptly, apparently recognizing her friend’s authoritative tone. “Chrysanthemums for the most part, I think. They do so well this time of year. And lots of greenery. Perhaps your gardener can help me there?”

Cecily nodded. “I’m sure John will be happy to provide you with whatever you need.”

“I thought I would use some wide Scottish-plaid ribbon in various tartans, since the pipers belong to different clans, and their kilts will be varied.”

“That sounds wonderful, Madeline.” Cecily put down her pen. “This has been a most productive meeting. Thank you, ladies. We will—” She broke off as a sharp tap sounded on the door. “Come in!”

The door opened, and Baxter’s face appeared in the opening. Cecily could tell at once by her manager’s expression
that he had disturbing news for her. As always, her first thoughts flew to her son Michael. He owned the local village inn, the George and Dragon, and one never knew when someone might cause trouble under the influence of too much ale.

“If you will excuse me, madam,” Baxter murmured, “I would like a word with you when you are finished with your business here.”

“We are finished, Baxter.” Cecily rose to her feet. “The ladies were just leaving.”

“Oh, my, yes,” Phoebe exclaimed, clutching the brim of her hat as she rose. “I had no idea it was so late. My girls will be expecting me very shortly.”

Hurrying across the thick carpet, she threw her farewells over her shoulder, managing a simpering smile for Baxter at the same time as he stood holding the door open for her.

Baxter inclined his head, then waited for Madeline, who remained at the table staring at him with an odd, still expression on her face.

Cecily looked from her friend to Baxter, her uneasiness growing. Very slowly, Madeline got to her feet. She crossed the room, her skirt swishing gently about her ankles. Baxter’s face looked wary as she paused in front of him.

“Whoever he was,” she said softly, “may God rest his soul.” With that, she passed through the doorway and disappeared.

CHAPTER
2

“Bloody ’ell, Doris, look where you’re bleeding going, will you?” Gertie’s piercing voice carried above the crashing of Michel’s saucepans as he expertly tossed the soft roes in the sizzling hot fat, stirred the oatmeal, and lifted a lid to peer at the scrambled eggs seemingly all at the same time.

Doris, a scrawny young girl wearing a white pinafore apron that seemed to swamp her thin body, almost tripped over the hem of her long gray skirt as she scurried across the stone floor. The sack of potatoes she carried looked bigger than she was. “I’m sorry, Miss Brown,” she said, her voice barely raised above a whisper.

“You’re always bleeding sorry. That’s the third time you’ve stepped on my blinking foot today. I’ll be a bloody cripple by the time you’ve finished.” Gertie stood in the
center of the floor, her fists dug into her wide hips, and glared at the hapless girl.

“I’ll watch it, Miss Brown, honest I will.” Doris heaved the sack onto the edge of the sink and opened the neck. Potatoes tumbled out into the sink, making a thunderous noise that prompted Michel to throw back his head.

“
Sacre bleu!
What with ze crying babies, housemaids who scream, and a housekeeper who does not stop jabbering all day, it is no wonder I ’ave the coddlewillies.”

“Collywobbles,” Gertie murmured. She didn’t know why she bothered to keep correcting the irritable chef. He bloody knew as well as she did what the word was. Him and that stupid French accent. He soon forgot it when he tipped the brandy bottle once too often, that was for bleeding sure.

“And just who is it who makes all the noise in here, then?” demanded yet another strident voice.

Gertie shoved a stray lump of her dark hair under her cap, hoping it was on straight. When Mrs. Chubb was on the bleeding warpath, no one escaped her wrath. Although Gertie towered over the Pennyfoot’s matronly housekeeper, she still jumped when the woman started yelling.

Michel glared at Mrs. Chubb and crashed a saucepan lid onto the stove, causing Doris to utter a startled yelp. “Does not anyone here have ze respect for my talent?” he yelled. “I cannot concentrate with all this racket going on.”

“Then I suggest you refrain from creating so much noise yourself,” Mrs. Chubb said tartly. “You’ll wake up the babies if you keep this up. Then you’ll really have something to complain about.”

“Cor blimey, Michel, you’d better not do that,” Gertie said with feeling. “I’ve never seen so much blinking noise come out of such little bodies. If I’d known I was going to have bleeding twins I’d have drowned meself.”

“Hush, child, don’t say such a thing.” Mrs. Chubb looked at the kitchen door as if she expected the babies to come walking in at any minute. “Talk like that can do untold damage to tiny ears.”

Gertie rattled the silverware she was sorting on a tray. She knew the housekeeper meant well, but she wished Mrs. Chubb would give up telling her how to take care of her babies. That’s all she heard all day long,
don’t do this, don’t do that
. It was enough to make her blinking scream at times.

“Well, I just hope they behave theirselves at the christening next week,” she muttered. “I don’t need the both of them screeching in the vicar’s ear. He might bleeding drop them, knowing him.”

“The Reverend Algie Carter-Holmes might look awkward at times,” Mrs. Chubb said, frowning as one more of Michel’s pans hit the edge of the stove, “but he is well used to handling babies. I’m quite sure that James and Lillian will be safe in his hands.”

Gertie watched the housekeeper reach up to the high ledge above the enormous fireplace. Mrs. Chubb lifted up one of the china spaniels and took down the slip of paper that served as Michel’s menu for the week. After quickly scanning it, she put it back again.

“Did Samuel get the order from Abbittson’s this morning?” she asked the sullen chef as he threw bacon into the sizzling pan. The gorgeous smell of frying bacon made Gertie’s tummy rumble loud enough for everyone to hear it.

Michel gave an expansive shrug, lifting his hands in the air. “I sent him, but I have not seen hide nor hair of him. I will need ze beef for the midday meal, so I ’ope and pray he get here soon.”

“Where’s Doris?” Mrs. Chubb demanded.

“You’re bleeding staring at her.” Gertie held up a fork and shook her head. “Look at this. Still got bloody egg on it.”

The housekeeper stared at Doris’s back. “That’s Doris? Then where’s Daisy?”

“Looking after the babies. It’s her morning off, remember?”

Mrs. Chubb huffed in irritation, glaring at Doris as if it was her fault she hadn’t recognized her. “I’ll never be able to tell you two apart. What with twin housemaids and now
your twins, Gertie, I’m beginning to think I’m seeing double everywhere I look. Thank goodness you had a girl and a boy. At least we’ll be able to tell the difference between them when they get older.”

“If they get bloody older,” Gertie muttered darkly. “They blinking keep me up at night much longer, I might be tempted to drop the little buggers in the sea.”

“Gertie Brown! For heaven’s sake, child, how can you say such a terrible thing? They’re not yet three months old, poor little mites. You must not be giving them enough milk, that’s all I can say. Anyway, there’s not a peep out of them now.”

“That’s because Daisy’s looking after them. They seem to have taken to her.” Gertie stared thoughtfully at the fork in her hand. “She’s a strange one, that Daisy. She might look exactly like you, Doris, but she bloody ain’t like you in manner.”

Doris sent a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Daisy always was the strong one. She took care of me when we lived with our aunt. She was always the one what took the hidings, ’cause she said I was too weak and our aunt would kill me.”

“Strewth,” Gertie muttered, her respect for Daisy deepening. “It’s no bloody wonder she never smiles.”

“Our Daisy doesn’t care much for people,” Doris said, turning back to her task of peeling the potatoes. “She likes animals better, because she says they can’t stick up for themselves and need protecting.”

“Like babies,” Gertie said softly. At first she couldn’t think why the belligerent scullery maid would be so obliging about watching over her twins. Now she was beginning to understand.

“Well, I’m looking forward to the christening,” Mrs. Chubb said, crossing over to the pantry. “And I think it was very nice indeed of madam to give you a reception afterward in the ballroom.”

“It was really nice of her.” The silverware finally sorted,
Gertie picked up the heavy tray. “I just hope everyone can come. I invited everyone.”

“You did not invite me,” Michel declared, waving his wooden spoon at her.

“I bloody did, too. You—” Gertie never finished the sentence for at that moment the door burst open, and Samuel charged into the kitchen, his cap clutched in both his hands and his eyes wide and staring, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Blimey,” Gertie said as Samuel stared wildly around the room. “What’s the bleeding matter with you, then?”

“It was horrible,” Samuel said, his teeth chattering. “It was bloody awful.”

“Samuel!” Mrs. Chubb shook her finger at him. “You’re beginning to sound like Gertie. I’ve given up trying to make her wash out her mouth, but you should know better.” Sending a scathing glance at Gertie, she added, “Though I hope to heaven you don’t say those filthy words in front of your babies, Gertie Brown. Little ones pick up so fast, they’ll both be talking like guttersnipes before they’re old enough to think for themselves.”

For once Gertie let the criticism pass over her head. Samuel looked as if he was about to chuck up his breakfast. “What was bloody awful?” she demanded, not sure she wanted to know.

“He was hanging on a hook in Tom’s cellar,” Samuel said, staggering to a chair at the large scrubbed table. “He was white as a sheet of paper, he was. Not a drop of blood left in him.”

Gertie promptly lost her appetite.

Mrs. Chubb stood staring at Samuel, while Doris leaned weakly against the sink, her eyes fixed on Samuel’s face. Even Michel had paused, one hand still holding the lid of a frying pan.

“Who was?” Gertie whispered.

“One of the Scots pipers, that’s who.” Samuel buried his face in his hands, as if trying to shut out the grisly sight. “His throat was cut with a butcher knife, as clean as a
whistle. Whoever did it hung him up next to the beef carcasses on the rack and left him to bleed all over the floor.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Chubb clutched her throat. “Was it one of the pipers who was staying here at the hotel?”

Samuel nodded, then lowered his hands. He looked straight at Doris and said quietly, “It was Peter Stewart.”

Gertie carefully lowered the tray to the table, just as Doris gave a little moan and slid to the floor.

Cecily watched Baxter cross the floor toward her, his face set in an expression she knew well. “What is it?” she said as he paused a few feet away. “What’s happened now?”

“I’m afraid there’s been a death, madam.”

She waited for a few seconds, knowing that, as always, she would have to prompt him for further information. She had difficulty forming the question. “Family?”

He shook his head, looking distressed. “Oh, no, madam. A guest at the hotel.”

Concern followed her relief almost immediately. “Was it an accidental death?”

That was too much to hope for, of course. She wasn’t too surprised when Baxter said quietly, “I’m sorry, madam. I’m afraid it was murder.”

“Oh, dear, no. Who is it?”

“One of the pipers. Peter Stewart.”

Cecily closed her eyes. “Such a nice young man.”

“Yes, madam. Samuel discovered the body.”

Cecily sat down rather heavily in her chair. “Samuel? Found him here in the hotel? Where?”

“Oh, no, not here in the hotel.”

“Then where, Baxter?”

“At Tom Abbittson’s shop, madam.”

Baxter’s maddening habit of giving only one piece of information at a time could drive her insane. “Baxter, would you kindly tell me everything you know?”

“I don’t have too much to tell.” Baxter lifted his chin,
looking affronted. “Samuel arrived back from the shop a short time ago and informed me that he had found Peter Stewart hanging on the rack with the beef in Tom Abbittson’s cellar.”

“Good Lord.” She stared into the fireplace for a second or two to gather her thoughts. “Has the constable been informed?”

“I believe the butcher sent for him.”

“The poor man was hanged, you said?”

“Not exactly, madam.”

Cecily gave him a meaningful look.

Baxter clasped his hands behind his back and added stiffly, “His throat was cut. I wasn’t sure you would care to hear the details.”

“No doubt I shall hear them all in due course,” Cecily said dryly.

“I do believe Police Constable Northcott intends to question Samuel more thoroughly here at the hotel after he has finished his investigation at the shop.” Baxter’s tone suggested that the procedure would be a complete waste of time.

Cecily knew that her manager’s adverse opinion of the constable was due largely to the fact that many years ago Stan Northcott had stolen away Baxter’s only true love. Even so, she was inclined to agree with his low estimation of the policeman’s capabilities.

P.C. Northcott was, at best, a pretentious boor who lived in awe of his superior, Inspector Cranshaw. The vast majority of the constable’s actions and decisions were aimed at pleasing the inspector, rather than performing his job with any degree of proficiency.

“I would like a word with the constable after he has talked to Samuel.” Cecily leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “When is this ever going to end, Baxter? It seems we get over one crisis, only to be faced with another. I don’t suppose you know who might have committed the murder, or why?”

Baxter’s gray eyes softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, madam. Can I get you anything? A pot of tea, perhaps?”

She smiled at him, feeling a sudden warmth. “Thank you, Baxter, but I’ll wait awhile. I haven’t long had breakfast.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “As a matter of fact, though, I would adore one of your little cigars.”

“I would prefer to bring you the pot of tea.” Nevertheless, he reached in his top coat pocket and pulled out the slim package of cigars.

Cecily allowed him to light the end for her, and drew in the welcome fragrance. She enjoyed watching the smoke curl in front of her and found it most relaxing. “I suppose all we can hope for in this instance is that the constable solves this murder as quickly as possible. With all the festivities planned for this weekend, we do not need to be disrupted by a murder investigation.”

“It is really not all that surprising,” Baxter said, retreating to his position at the end of the table. “I have heard tales of some nasty brawls taking place at the George and Dragon. Apparently the Scots do not care too much for our British government. They still resent being ruled by an English king. Their attitude tends to incite the local farmers.”

“Yes, I’m sure it does.” Cecily gazed moodily at the glowing end of her cigar. “Why can’t people get along, Baxter? The world is in such turmoil. Even the New Women’s Movement is becoming more violent in their protests, though I can’t say I blame them. I would have thought Churchill might have been willing to help their cause, now that he has a new wife.”

“Mr. Churchill has stated that he will not lift a finger to help as long as the protesters physically attack the politicians.”

“So I have heard.” Cecily glanced up at the portrait of her late husband, which hung above the fireplace. James had been dead three years now. There were times when she found it difficult to remember his face. The fact no longer unsettled her the way it used to.

Had it not been for James’s untimely death, she would not have inherited the Pennyfoot Hotel. Even with all the trials and tribulations of struggling to maintain quality service, and despite the enormous debts James had left, Cecily adored her life and would not have it any other way. Except, perhaps, for one or two exceptions.

“Then there’s all this talk of potential war between England and Germany,” she added, tapping the ash from her cigar into the silver ashtray. “I wish I could think it was merely pessimism on the part of the prime minister, but I have to admit, Baxter, the rumors worry me.”