Mulled Murder (Pennyfoot Holiday Mysteries) (3 page)

The constable was the first to speak, though he remained close to the fire, warming his backside. “Ah, Mrs. Baxter. Sorry to ’ave to meet again under these h’unfortunate circumstances.”

“Yes, indeed, Sam.” Cecily turned to Dr. Prestwick. “Kevin, it’s good to see you.”

“Cecily.” Kevin nodded at Phoebe. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fortescue.”

Phoebe became flustered, as she usually did when addressed by Kevin. He was a handsome man, whose surgery was always full of women, most of whom faked ailments just for the opportunity to spend some time with the charming doctor.

There had been a time when Kevin Prestwick had pursued Cecily quite ardently, even though she’d given him not one speck of encouragement. Baxter had never forgotten that, and for a long while treated the doctor with disdain. When it became apparent, however, that Kevin had transferred his affections to Madeline, the tension had eased between them, and now she liked to think that the two men had become firm friends.

Right now Kevin’s chiseled features wore a grave frown, intensifying Cecily’s anxiety. He looked about to speak, but Sam Northcott was too quick for him.

“We ’ave identified the deceased discovered on the beach,” the constable announced in his pompous voice of authority.

“At least we think we have,” Kevin said, earning a scowl of annoyance from Northcott. “The chap was obviously killed by some vagrant who robbed him of everything of value. We found a name on a label inside his coat.” Kevin’s eyes were full of concern when he looked at Cecily. “The name is G. Evans.”

Cecily’s neck began to tingle. “We have a guest of that name. I saw him just this morning leaving the dining room after breakfast.”

Kevin took a step forward. “Can you describe him?”

“Yes, I think so. Light brown hair, rather tall and thin. Oh, and he had a scar on his chin in the shape of a V. I remember wondering if he was hurt as a child.”

Kevin exchanged a glance with the constable. “I’m sorry, Cecily. It appears the dead man was your guest.”

“We surmised as much,” Northcott said, “when we found a receipt for a bottle of scotch from your bar.”

He might well have said that in the beginning, Cecily thought, struggling to remain calm. “I see. I’m so sorry. Was there any indication of how he died?”

“He was stabbed, m’m,” Northcott announced with relish, putting any hope of an accident out of Cecily’s mind. “Right in the heart. Whoever did it knew what he was doing.”

Phoebe uttered a soft moan and clutched her throat.

Afraid the woman was about to faint again, Cecily forgot her own anxiety and helped her friend onto a chair.

Oblivious to Phoebe’s distress, the constable blithely continued. “The killer must have shoved the poor blighter in the ocean hoping he’d go out to sea. Must not have realized the tide was coming in, not going out.” Northcott shook his head. “They always slip up somehow, sooner or later.”

Kevin shot the policeman a dark look. “Mr. Evans hadn’t been in the water all that long. He was probably killed somewhere close by. I’d say the killer used a hunting knife. The victim was stabbed three times, once through the heart. We’re going to need any paperwork you have concerning this man, Cecily, so that we may find out where he lives and inform his next of kin.”

Cecily decided she needed to sit down as well. “There isn’t any paperwork to speak of, I’m afraid. According to my reception manager, Mr. Gerald Evans walked into the Pennyfoot and asked for a room. He said he wasn’t satisfied with the hotel he was staying at and was looking for somewhere else to stay. Luckily we’d had a cancellation so we were able to accommodate him. He signed the guest book, but I don’t know if he wrote down his full address. You are welcome to take a look, of course.”

Northcott cleared his throat and dragged a crumpled notebook out of his uniform pocket. From the other pocket he produced a well-worn pencil. After giving the end of it a quick lick, he started to scribble down words on the pad.

“Nah then, Mrs. B.,” he said, peering down at Cecily, “just to set matters straight, I have to ask the following questions. Did the deceased have any communication with anyone else here in the hotel?”

“Country club,” Cecily murmured. Baxter was always correcting her when she called the Pennyfoot a hotel, a habit that she found totally unnecessary and somewhat annoying. It was even more irritating to find herself doing the same thing.

Before she could say anything else, Northcott said a little testily, “This h’establishment, then.”

“Quite.” She sighed. “No, Sam. As far as I know, the gentleman was here alone. He was alone when he arrived two days ago and he dined alone. I didn’t see him speak to anyone else. Then again, I have no way of knowing what he did when he was out of sight. Except . . .” She paused, wondering if what she was about to say next would be significant.

The constable cleared his throat. “Except what?”

“I do know Mr. Evans was fond of walking on the beach. I noticed more than once that he left a trail of sand when he walked across the lobby. I was going to have a word with him about it, but I never got around to it.”

“So the killer probably followed him on the beach and waited for a chance to attack him.” Northcott scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Did he say which hotel he was staying in before he came here?”

“I don’t think so, but Philip, my reception manager, might know.”

He turned to Phoebe, who sat rocking back and forth, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Now, Mrs. Fortescue, per’aps you can tell me what you saw on the beach.”

Phoebe answered in a quivering voice that was barely audible. “I saw what appeared to be a bundle of clothing. When I got closer, I saw it was a man.” She visibly shuddered. “A dead man.”

“Did you touch ’im?”

Phoebe sat up straight. “Are you completely insane? Why on earth would I touch that . . .
thing
. I took one look and fainted dead away. I don’t remember anything else until I came to here in the lobby.”

“What about the colonel, m’m? Did he touch anything?”

Phoebe’s voice was getting stronger by the minute. “My good man.” She struggled to her feet. “The
second
I fell, my husband scooped me up in his arms and carried me all the way to the Pennyfoot. I can assure you of that. No, he did not touch anything.”

Northcott had backed up a step. He cleared his throat one more time. “Just had to make sure, m’m.” He snapped his notebook shut and shoved it in his pocket. “That’s all for now, then. I’d like to take a look at that guest book, and then I’ll go down to the kitchen.” He gave Cecily a meaningful look that she interpreted at once.

“While you’re there, Sam, tell Mrs. Chubb that I offered you a taste of her mince pies.”

The constable beamed as he reached for his helmet. “Thank you kindly, m’m. Much obliged, I’m sure.”

“Not at all, Sam.”

He hesitated, and she waited, wary of what he’d say next.

“There’s just one more thing. If it’s all right with you, m’m, I’d like to take a look at Mr. Evans’s room. The h’inspector likes us to be thorough in our investigations.”

It was the last thing Cecily wanted, but she could see no way to refuse. “Of course.” She turned to Kevin. “Would you find Colonel Fortescue and ask him to come to the library, please? I think Phoebe should go home and rest. She’s had quite a traumatic experience.”

Phoebe raised a hand in protest. “But Cecily, dear, we haven’t fully discussed the pantomime. I wanted to go over the entire production with you and hear your comments and suggestions before I make my preparations.”

Knowing that all Phoebe really wanted was approval, Cecily clasped her friend’s hand. “My dear Phoebe, I have complete faith in you. Your presentations are always impeccable in taste and highly entertaining. I’m quite sure that this year’s pantomime will be no exception. Now, I’m sorry, but I must accompany P.C. Northcott to Mr. Evans’s room. Go home and get some rest, and by tomorrow you will have all the energy and spirit you need.

Looking somewhat mollified, Phoebe nodded. “Oh, very well.” She glanced at Kevin. “Please do not trouble yourself on my account, Dr. Prestwick. I know exactly where to find my husband and he will leave far more promptly if I’m there to drag him away from the bar.”

Kevin’s mouth twitched, but he looked perfectly serious when he answered. “Are you quite sure, Mrs. Fortescue? It’s no trouble, I assure you.”

“Quite sure, thank you.” Phoebe reached for her umbrella. “Besides, I believe your wife is around somewhere, hoping you will take her home. She was decorating the tree in the lobby the last time I saw her.”

“Then I shall go there to see if she is waiting for me. Thank you, Mrs. Fortescue.”

Obviously dazzled by his smile, Phoebe dipped her head and scurried off to the door, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye for now, Cecily. I hope you find out where that poor man lives. There must be someone waiting for him to come home.”

“We’ll do our best,” Cecily promised. She looked at Northcott as the door closed behind her friend. “If you’d care to come with me, Sam, I’ll take you to Mr. Evans’s room. I just have to stop at the desk for the key. You can look at the guest book while we’re there.”

The constable nodded, picked up his helmet, nodded again at Kevin, and followed Cecily out the door.

Cecily didn’t see the doctor leave. She noticed as she crossed the lobby that Madeline had finished decorating the tree. It looked magnificent as always, and she couldn’t wait to examine it closely when she had more time.

Right now she had to search the room of a dead man—a man who had been a guest at the Pennyfoot when he was brutally murdered. As sad and unsettling as that was, at least this time she wouldn’t have to be hot on the trail of a cold-blooded killer.

CHAPTER
3

If there was one thing Cecily couldn’t abide it was watching P.C. Northcott rummaging around in one of her guest rooms. Even if that guest was no longer alive. Even more so in that case. Sam Northcott tended to rifle through drawers full of personal belongings with an avid curiosity that was far beyond his official duty.

She watched him lift a pile of shirts from the drawer. “Cheap material,” he muttered, fingering the top garment. “Must do his own laundry. These look like they’ve been dragged around in the Thames.”

To hasten the procedure, Cecily decided to take matters into her own hands. “We really should inspect beneath the bed,” she told the constable, as he prepared to open yet another drawer.

Northcott stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Under the bed, m’m?”

“Yes, Sam.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “In the past when I’ve had occasion to search a room, I’ve found all sorts of interesting things hidden under the bed.”

Northcott’s eyes lit up. “Is that so? Well, then, I shall h’endeavor to get down on my knees and take a good look.”

“Good.” Cecily crossed the room to the chest of drawers. “Meanwhile, I’ll finish searching the drawers for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mrs. B. After all, it’s my job to do the investigating.”

Cecily pulled open a drawer. “Now, Sam, you know me well enough to know that I’m quite capable of conducting a thorough search. After all, I’ve done so many times before and, may I add, I’ve contributed to the capture of many a criminal in the process.”

“You have that, m’m, but—”

“You know, if we don’t finish up here shortly, it might be too late for you to have a taste of Mrs. Chubb’s mince pies. Once she’s caught up in the suppertime rush, she won’t have time to cater to you.”

Northcott opened his mouth, then shut it again and dropped to his knees without a word.

Pleased with herself, Cecily carefully sorted through the socks, handkerchiefs, and starched collars. She was about to close the drawer when she spotted something in the corner. It seemed to be a torn piece of cardboard, with a corrugated padding.

She was turning it over in her hand when she heard the constable grunt as he climbed to his feet.

“Not as young as I used to be,” he muttered, brushing dust from his tunic.

Cecily was about to slip the cardboard into the pocket of her skirt when Northcott asked abruptly, “Whatcha got there, then?”

Sighing, she held it up. “Just a piece of cardboard, that’s all.”

Northcott grunted again. “Too blinking lazy to throw it in the waste paper basket.”

Pushing the cardboard into her pocket, she murmured, “Speaking of the waste paper basket, I should take a look in there. The maids won’t have had time to clean the room yet.” Before the constable could forestall her, she hurried over to the basket and tipped the contents onto the bed. Out fell an assortment of mint wrappers, a torn train ticket, and a crumpled, out-of-date notice of a Christmas bazaar that was held at St. Bartholomew’s church three days earlier.

Northcott joined her at the bedside and poked a wary finger at the wrappers. “Nothing much there but rubbish.”

Cecily was inclined to agree. She started to replace the contents of the basket, but then another piece of crumpled paper caught her eye. She closed her fingers over it, but the constable had sharp eyes.

“What’s that?”

Cecily sighed, and unraveled the paper. Smoothing it out with her fingers, she held it up to the fading light from the window. “It looks like a note of some sort.” She read the words out loud. “‘Spotsman seen nearby. Already made run. No sign batman. Still looking. Stop.’”

Northcott frowned. “Makes no sense to me. Let me take a look.”

Reluctantly, Cecily handed the note over.

Northcott stared at it for several long seconds, then uttered an exclamation. “Got it! It’s got something to do with cricket. Look!” He pointed out the words to her. “He must have been in a bloomin’ hurry when he wrote this. He spelled sportsman wrong.”

“So he did,” Cecily murmured.

“Well, when you look at it now, it makes sense.” Proud of his achievement, Northcott puffed out his chest. “Look, ‘sportsman seen nearby. Already made run.’ Cricket’s a sport and you have to make runs, right?”

Cecily nodded in agreement.

“Well, then, it says ‘no sign of batman.’ That’s the next chap up to bat. See? Cricket! He must have been involved with a cricket match.”

Cecily frowned. “In the middle of winter?”

Northcott blinked. “Well . . . er . . . I s’pose some people play cricket in the winter.” He looked back at the paper. “Yes, that’s what it is, all right. A cricket match. Now, if I can just find out where it’s being played, I might at least find someone who knows where this chap lives.”

Cecily plucked the paper from Northcott’s hand. “Good idea, Sam. Why don’t you get to work on that.” She looked around the room. “I really don’t see anything else of interest here.”

Northcott headed for the door. “All right, Mrs. B. I’ll just pop by the kitchen and see if anyone down there knows anything, then I’ll be off.” He paused, looking back at her. “You know I’ll have to report this to the inspector. We’re dealing with a murder, here. He’ll want to know about it.”

Cecily felt her stomach muscles clench. She considered Inspector Cranshaw a bitter enemy. Having long suspected that illegal card games were being held in secret rooms under the floorboards of the Pennyfoot, he’d sought long and hard to shut down the hotel.

Now that the hotel was a country club, the card games were no longer illegal. The secret rooms had been closed off, and gentlemen played their games in the new card rooms upstairs. That hadn’t stopped the inspector from seeking a way to put an end to the Pennyfoot once and for all. Every time they met, the inspector and Cecily conducted a cat and mouse game that invariably played havoc with her nerves. She was mortally afraid that one day the inspector would win, and the Pennyfoot would be lost to everyone.

Staring hard at Sam, she said quietly, “Will you and your wife be taking your usual Christmas holiday in London?”

The constable nodded. “All being well, yes. We’ll be off day after tomorrow.”

“It might well take a long time to solve this murder.”

Northcott looked worried. “I suppose it might.”

“If the inspector is here, he will insist on you staying here until it is solved.”

Northcott’s face took on a look of desperation. “He will, that.”

“Perhaps you should wait awhile before informing him. Until you have more evidence to give him. After all, you don’t even know where the victim lived.”

Relief banished the pained look from the constable’s face. “You’re quite right, Mrs. B. We need to find out first where our victim came from.” He pulled back his shoulders. “Which I shall h’endeavor to do first thing in the morning. I’m going to find that cricket match and we’ll see what we shall see. Thank you, m’m. I bid you good night.” With that, he opened the door, stepped out into the dark, and gently closed it behind him.

Cecily let out her breath. Sam Northcott’s eyes might be sharp, but his brain had trouble keeping up. At least she had bought some time. The last thing she needed was Inspector Cranshaw badgering her guests over the Christmas holidays.

So far there was nothing to indicate that Gerald Evans’s death had any connection to anyone else in the club. She couldn’t dismiss Madeline’s cryptic words, however, and it was with an uneasy heart that she made her way back to her suite. A good night’s sleep would go a long way toward reviving her, she told herself. In the morning all this would seem like nothing more than a bad dream.

• • •

Gertie wasn’t normally the first one to go out in the courtyard in the morning. Usually one of the maids was sent out to fill the coal scuttles, drag the laundry off the clotheslines, or fetch in the milk urns left on the doorstep by the milkman.

This morning, however, Gertie had been woken up early by her exuberant twins. She’d promised to take them to see Clive’s toy shop that afternoon, and they were both too excited to sleep. Gertie had washed and dressed them both, and left them to wait for Daisy, their nanny, to give them breakfast.

Arriving in the kitchen before anyone else, Gertie headed for the stove. The cold tiles beneath her feet chilled the vast room, and she couldn’t wait to get the coals glowing. To her dismay the scuttles were empty and she had no choice but to fill them herself. It was a job she hated, and she wasn’t feeling too cheerful as she stepped outside.

White clouds scudded across a pale blue sky, and sparkling diamonds of frost coated the line of sheets swaying in the sea breeze. Some poor bugger would have to pry the clothes-pegs off the line and haul solid frozen sheets into the kitchen to thaw before she could fold them.

Gertie was just glad it wasn’t her. Carrying the scuttles, she started across the courtyard, dreading the moment when she’d have to walk into the dark, dusty, smelly bowels of the coal shed.

She had barely taken a dozen steps when she spotted the bundle lying at the very edge of the yard.

Thinking that some of the laundry had blown off the line, she muttered a curse, dropped the scuttles, and hurried forward to pick it up. It would all have to be washed again, she was thinking as she drew closer. Then her heart stopped, and began beating again twice as fast as before.

It wasn’t a bundle of clothes at all. It was a young woman lying curled into a ball, her eyes closed in her chalk white face.

Once, not too long ago, Gertie had found a maid murdered in the coal shed. It was the reason she hated going in there. It had taken her weeks to stop seeing in her dreams that awful look on the dead woman’s face.

Now, it seemed, she was destined to go through all that again. Quickly she shut her eyes and turned her back on the woman. Last time she’d fainted. This time she had to get help. She took a step toward the kitchen, then halted when she heard a faint moan behind her.

Heart pounding, she turned back. She hadn’t imagined it. The woman’s eyes were flickering open. She was alive!

Bursting with gratitude, Gertie dropped to her knees beside the still form. “Are you hurt? Can you get up?”

The pale blue eyes stared back at her, full of confusion. “I don’t know.”

The words were the softest of whispers, and Gertie had to lean down to hear her. “Here, I’ll help you.” She put her hand under the frail arm and gave it a little tug.

Shivering and teeth chattering, the woman got to her knees, then unsteadily to her feet.

She swayed so much Gertie was afraid the woman would fall. She grabbed both her arms. “Steady on there, luv. What’s your name?”

The woman opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed her mouth again, her eyes widening. “I don’t know,” she whispered again.

It was Gertie’s turn to stare. “You don’t know your own name?”

The woman gave a quick shake of her head, followed by a moan.

It was no wonder the poor thing was shivering, Gertie thought. All she had on was a thin woolen frock. “Where’s your coat? Where did you come from? How did you get here?”

Tears formed in the woman’s eyes and dribbled down her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but Gertie said it for her.

“Don’t tell me. You don’t bloody know.” She started for the kitchen, dragging the other woman by her arm. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up before you bleeding freeze to death. You’ll be lucky you don’t get pneumonia, lying out there in the cold. How long have you been out there, anyway? All right, I know. You don’t know.”

She shoved open the door and pushed the stranger inside. “Wait there for me. Go and stand by the stove until I get back with the coal.”

Hoping no one would come into the kitchen until she got back, Gertie sprinted across the yard, snatching up the scuttles as she tore by.

It took her several minutes to fill the heavy cast iron containers, and she had to watch her feet as she carried them back to the kitchen, for fear she’d slip on the icy ground. Backing into the kitchen with a scuttle in each hand, she called out, “I’m back, so we’ll soon get you warm.”

“What’s going on here, then?”

At the sound of Mrs. Chubb’s voice, Gertie spun around.