7 Pay the Piper (4 page)

“Yes, mum.” A shy smile flickered across the girl’s face, then she turned and scurried down the passageway.

In no time at all, it seemed, Samuel stood in the doorway of the drawing room, twisting his cap around in his hands. “You wanted to see me, mum?”

“Yes, come in, Samuel, and close that door. I can’t seem to get warm today.”

“Yes, mum.”

Samuel shot a nervous glance down the hallway as if afraid he was doing something bad. What was wrong with these men, Cecily thought irritably, that they were afraid to be in a closed room with a woman? When were they ever going to be rid of Victorian thinking and come to terms with the new age?

Samuel stood just inside the door, looking as if he was ready to bolt at the merest excuse.

“I want you to tell me everything that happened at the pub last night,” Cecily said, taking care to keep her place at the fireside. “I would also like to know exactly how you found Peter Stewart’s body this morning.”

Samuel looked ready to lose his breakfast. “It weren’t a pretty sight, mum. I don’t know as I should be telling you all the gory details.”

Cecily suppressed a shudder. “You don’t have to be explicit about how the body looked, Samuel. Just tell me how you found it.”

“Yes, mum.”

She listened carefully as the stable manager stumbled through his version of the previous night at the pub and his grisly discovery in the butcher’s cellar.

“What I don’t understand, mum,” Samuel said, coming to the end of his story, “is why Tom Abbittson would send me
down to the cellar, knowing full well that the dead body was hanging right next to the beef I was supposed to fetch up for him. It was like he wanted to be caught out, weren’t it?”

It was a good question. And one that made Cecily very curious about the answer.

CHAPTER
4

Gertie picked up the tray from the small round table in the drawing room. She loved the pale blue velvets and blue-and-silver brocades of her favorite room in the hotel. Long ago she’d made up her mind that when she had a house of her own, she would use those very same colors in her own drawing room.

With a last longing look at the warm fireplace, Gertie carried the tray out into the hallway and headed for the kitchen. She was halfway across the lobby when a deep masculine voice called out from the staircase.

“Excuse me, miss. Can ye no’ tell me where I can find the housekeeper?”

Swiveling her head around, Gertie saw a burly Scotsman leaning over the banisters, a cheeky grin spread all over his
rugged face. He had thick dark hair beginning to go gray at the temples and hazel eyes that twinkled at her as if he was laughing at her.

“She’s probably in the kitchen, sir. Can I give her a message?”

The grin widened as the piper descended the rest of the stairs. “Oh, and it’s sir, is it? Such a pleasure to be called sir, especially by a bonny lass such as yeself.”

Gertie’s jaw dropped. The saucy bugger was actually flirting with her. It had been a while since anyone had done that. Not since she’d got married to Ian, in fact. Or thought she was married to him. Until he’d told her about the wife he’d left behind in London.

Of course, she’d been pregnant after Ian had left, and as big as a blinking house. It had been quite a relief not to have to worry about a playful hotel guest giving her a slap on the bottom, or a painful pinch on the tits.

Eyeing the Scotsman, she sized him up. He was a big chap. She was tall for a woman, but he towered over her. Had the bloody shoulders of an ox. He was one of the few pipers she’d seen who managed to look masculine in a kilt. She’d have bleeding trouble with that one, she decided, if he tried to lay his hands on her.

To her immense surprise, the prospect didn’t seem all that unpleasant. Rattled by her unexpected response, she said tartly, “I’ll tell Mrs. Chubb you are looking for her, sir.” She made a smart turn, swishing her skirt around her ankles. She waited for the heavy cloth to settle before stepping out once more across the lobby.

“Wait a minute!” The piper caught up with her, though he didn’t touch her. Keeping pace with her brisk stride, he said cheerfully, “What’s your hurry, lass? I’ll just come along with you to the kitchen, if that’s all right with you?”

Gertie shrugged. “Suit your bleeding self.” She saw his bushy eyebrows rise and added quickly, “Sir.”

“Aha! A feisty lass if I ever saw one. Must have some Scottish blood in your veins, I’ll be bound.”

“Nope.” Gertie kept her chin in the air as she swept toward the stairs.

“Can I carry your tray for you, then?” the Scotsman persisted. “I don’t like to see a wee lass carry such a heavy load when I have two big brawny arms doing nothing.”

“It’s me job,” Gertie said, trying to still the odd flutter in the region of her stomach. “I’ll catch bloody merry hell from Mrs. Chubb if I let you carry this into the kitchen, that I will.”

“Not if I tell Mrs. Chubb that I insisted.”

Gertie gasped as the tray was whisked out of her hands. Before she could recover her breath, the Scotsman clicked his heels and inclined his head.

“Pardon me, madam, but we havena been properly introduced. “My name is Ross McBride, and I have the very great pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

Fascinated by the way the piper rolled his
r
’s, Gertie forgot to be indignant. Besides, the man had called her madam. Nobody in the entire nineteen years of Gertie’s life had ever called her madam.

“Gertie Brown,” she murmured, and bobbed her knees. Too late she remembered she should have offered him her fingers. But then, she wasn’t wearing gloves. That wouldn’t have been proper, either. Besides, he could hardly kiss her hand if he had his own bloody hands full with the tray.

The very thought of his lips touching her fingers made her feel faint. She hadn’t felt like this since … she didn’t know when.

A strident voice bellowed up the stairs, shattering her delicious bubble. “Gertie! What are you doing up there, girl? You’re supposed to be down here sorting out the silverware for lunch. Doris is waiting to lay the tables.”

Mortified by the harsh summons in front of this fascinating stranger, Gertie yelled back without thinking. “Keep yer bloody hair on, I’m bleeding coming.”

Ross McBride grinned. “That’s my lassie.”

“I’ll get bleeding lassie when I get down there,” Gertie
muttered, seizing hold of the tray again. “You wait there. I’ll send her majesty up to you.” Before he could utter a protest, she scrambled down the stairs and into the kitchen.

A cloud of steam rose from the stove, almost obscuring the gaunt figure of the chef in his tall bobbing hat. The clash of saucepan lids on the iron surface warned Gertie that Michel was throwing one of his tantrums again.

Doris looked at her nervously from the sink, her arms covered in soap bubbles, while Mrs. Chubb stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded across her abundant breasts.

“How many times do I have to tell you, my girl,” the housekeeper demanded, “that time wasted is time lost? You have been here long enough to know that once we get behind we can never catch up. The midday meal will be served in less than an hour, and the tables are not yet laid.”

Gertie dumped the tray on the table in a gesture of defiance. Before she could say anything, a deep voice spoke from the doorway. “Dinna get onto the lass. I kept her gabbing, and she was just being polite to a guest, that’s all.”

Mrs. Chubb’s hand fluttered at her breast. “Oh, good morning, sir. I didn’t see you standing there. Is there something we can do for you?”

Ross McBride thoroughly flustered Gertie by giving her a broad wink. “Aye, there is, if ye’ll be so kind. I was wondering if I might have an extra blanket for my bed.”

“Oh, certainly, sir. I’ll have one sent up to your room as soon as possible, if you’ll give me the number?”

“It’s room number nine. I’ll be much obliged … Mrs. Chubb, is it?”

“It is indeed,” the housekeeper said, beaming at the piper’s smiling face.

“Ross McBride.” Again the Scotsman clicked his heels and bowed his head.

Gertie felt a small spasm of resentment as Mrs. Chubb clutched her throat with a lilting laugh. “I could have a
bigger fire made up in the fireplace if you’re feeling the cold,” she said in a voice that made Gertie feel sick.

“Oh, no, I dinna need the fire. The blanket will do just fine. But thank you for the kind thought.”

“Oh, not at all,” Mrs. Chubb murmured, apparently forgetting all about the rush to get the silverware sorted. “Anything we can do for a guest here at the Pennyfoot … you only have to ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ross McBride sent a bold look at Gertie that made her knees tremble. “I’ll get out of your way now. I can see you’re all busy.”

The kitchen seemed suddenly empty after the sturdy Scotsman left. Gertie noisily clattered at the silverware, hoping to drown out the singing in her ears. She was being bloody stupid, she told herself, slamming a knife down on the pile already sorted.

She’d made up her mind once and for all that she was never going to get mixed up with a bleeding man again. Not that any man would have her. Even if Ross McBride was interested, which was a laugh for a start, once he found out she was lumbered with two tiny babies, he’d run so fast in the other direction she wouldn’t see his arse for dust.

Still, she thought wistfully, it had been awfully nice to be treated like a lady for once, instead of a bleeding slave. For one very brief moment, Gertie wished that things could’ve been different. Then she thought of James and Lillian sleeping in her room down the hall, and knew she wouldn’t be without her babies no matter what might have been.

When Gertie announced that Elsie Abbittson had asked to see Mrs. Sinclair early that afternoon, Cecily had a strong inkling of the reason for the unexpected visit. She asked Gertie to show the butcher’s wife into the library, and a few minutes later she joined her there.

Elsie Abbittson wore a perpetual frown and constantly chewed on her nails. Although in her early thirties, she had managed to retain a somewhat faded country-fresh beauty,
assisted by a luxurious mane of strawberry-blond curls caught in a knot on top of her head.

Her clothes were less than fashionable, but her figure was still firm enough to turn a man’s eye. She seemed self-conscious of her appearance in front of Cecily, however, and persisted in smoothing out a fold in her blue serge skirt, or fingering a pleat in her cotton blouse, accompanied by an occasional pat to her hair.

Doing her best to put the woman at ease, Cecily invited her to sit on the comfortable green velvet armchair by the fireplace, while she herself perched on the end of the chaise lounge.

“Can I offer you some tea?” she asked as Elsie’s gaze darted about the room.

The butcher’s wife shook her head, snatching her gloved finger away from her mouth. In an apparent attempt to prevent her hand from straying back, seemingly of its own accord, she clasped it firmly and buried her fingers in her lap.

“I suppose you’ve heard that the police have taken Tom in for the murder of that poor man,” she said with a trace of belligerence.

“Yes,” Cecily said carefully. “P.C. Northcott was here this morning to question Samuel.”

Elsie nodded. “I thought as much, seeing as how it was Samuel who found the body. Must have been a shock for the lad.”

“Indeed it was.” Cecily paused for a moment. “And for you, no doubt.”

“Could have knocked me down with a feather.” Elsie raised her hand, then shoved it back into her lap. “He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. I know my Tom, and he wouldn’t do something like that.”

“I understand he was fighting with the victim at the pub last night,” Cecily said, feeling sorry for the butcher’s wife. Elsie was obviously distraught. Nevertheless, Cecily had to admire the woman’s loyalty.

“Well, I’m not saying my Tom’s a saint, mind you. He has his faults like everyone else. And he’s been known to use his fists now and again when he’s drunk. Which is most of the time lately, I’m afraid to say.”

“Your husband told the constable that he woke up lying in front of the shop and saw you bending over him.”

“Yes, that’s right. He did.” Leaning forward in her chair, Elsie looked earnestly into Cecily’s eyes. “He didn’t do it, Mrs. Sinclair. It were the knife, you see. He would never have left it lying on the ground like that. My Tom would have cleaned it up and put it back where it belonged. Real particular about his tools of the trade, he is. Won’t let no one touch them but himself.”

“I see,” Cecily said, wondering when Elsie was going to get to the point.

“Anyhow, I came here because I knew if anyone could help me, you could.” Elsie nibbled on a nail for a moment, then once more dragged her hand away from her mouth. “When you have a shop in the High Street, everyone talks, you see. I know as how you’ve helped other people, like that Madeline Pengrath, when the police thought she’d murdered someone.”

“Madeline is a good friend of mine,” Cecily said quietly.

“Yes, I know. But you see, Mrs. Sinclair, Tom doesn’t have anyone else who can help him. Not clever like, the way you are. The police have already decided he’s guilty, and unless someone helps him, he could end up in prison, or worse—”

Elsie gulped and searched in her pocket for a handkerchief.

Cecily waited a minute while the woman loudly blew her nose. When Elsie seemed composed again, she said gently, “I can recommend a very good lawyer in Wellercombe—”

She broke off as Elsie violently shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t afford a lawyer, Mrs. Sinclair. I really couldn’t. Besides, I don’t trust those buggers, excusing my language.
I’ve had dealings with the likes of them before, I have. No, thank you.”

Cecily sighed. “Why don’t you tell me your version of what happened.”

Sniffing, Elsie tucked the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “Well, Tom was down the pub as usual. I knew he would be home late. He always is lately. And I was tired of sitting around, doing nothing, so I went to bed early. I fell asleep, and then something woke me up. I looked out of the window and saw Tom staggering up the road.”

“He was alone?”

“Oh, yes. I never saw no one with him, anyhow. I watched him, I did, cursing at him under me breath. I mean, there he was, out in the street, stumbling all over the road, looking like a proper fool.”

“So you went down to bring him inside.”

“No, I didn’t. Not right then, any rate. I saw him fall down, right outside the shop, and I thought, let him stay there, silly bugger. I was getting right fed up with him, I was, always getting drunk night after night. So I decided to let him sleep it off right there in the road.”

“What time was that?” Cecily asked, as Elsie paused to nibble once more on a nail.

“I dunno, I never looked at the clock. I just went back to bed. But it must have been late. Tom never came home until they turned him out of the pub at eleven, and then he had to walk home.”

“So you left Tom out there in the street.”

“Not for long.” Elsie sighed. “Proper soft, I am. I knew it was cold out there, and I couldn’t go back to sleep knowing my husband was lying out there on the hard ground. So after a while I went down to get him. He was coming around when I got to him. Opened his eyes, he did.”

Elsie paused, shaking her head at the memory. “He said, ‘Hello, luv,’ just like it was normal to wake up lying in the road. I helped him to bed, and the two of us never moved
again until this morning. The next thing I knew, Samuel was hollering up the stairs that there’d been a murder.”

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked unevenly as Cecily watched Elsie gnawing on her gloves. “P.C. Northcott mentioned that your husband had the only key to the shop, and that it was still in his possession this morning.”

“That’s right.” Elsie glanced up at the clock. “Oh, my, look at the time.” She rose awkwardly to her feet. “I had best be going, Mrs. Sinclair. They’ll be looking for me in the shop. And I expect you’re busy with all these pipers in town.”