Authors: Kate Kingsbury
Cecily shook her head. “I have to disagree with you, Baxter. Arthur is not just a common doorman, which is the precise reason I hired him. His voice is cultured, and his manner, which I admit is perhaps a little more free than we are used to, is never disrespectful.
“The guests seem to enjoy it, and personally I think his jovial attitude is just what we need. Our guests are staying here for pleasure, after all, and such good humor is a wonderful introduction to the Pennyfoot Hotel’s hospitality.”
“There are means of issuing a welcome without being impertinent,” Baxter muttered, but Cecily paid no attention, for at that moment a light tap sounded on the library door.
Baxter opened the door to a robust young woman whose dark eyes glittered with suppressed excitement in her flushed face. The manager tutted at the sight of the housemaid’s pleated round cap, which hung at a rakish angle on her unruly black hair.
One strap of her spotless white pinafore had slipped from her broad shoulder, and her long skirt gathered slightly in the front to accommodate the gentle swelling of her belly.
Although Gertie was six months pregnant, her ample girth and height helped to diminish the physical evidence of her condition. At times Cecily had trouble remembering that her housemaid carried a baby inside her. Gertie’s strength and energy was as formidable as ever.
“Do tidy yourself up,” Baxter muttered irritably. “Your condition does not excuse such slovenliness.”
Gertie’s hand flew automatically to her head. “Strewth, I’m sorry, sir. I never can keep the bloody thing straight on my head at the best of times, and I was in such a blooming hurry to get here—”
“Is something wrong?” Cecily asked, sensing a certain urgency behind Gertie’s rapidly paced words.
“Wrong? It’s a bleeding catastrophe.” Gertie advanced into the room, ignoring Baxter’s muffled protest. “There’s been a death, that’s what.”
Cecily’s cry of dismay mingled with Baxter’s soft and quickly smothered oath as she braced herself for the worst. “Who has died? What happened?” Her only hope was that the volatile housemaid was overreacting as usual and had muddled the message.
“Well, mum, all I know is he fell from his balcony. Mrs. Chubb says as how you should come at once.”
Getting to her feet, Cecily exchanged a glance with Baxter. His expression mirrored her own thoughts. Not another death. That’s all they needed right now, in the middle of the busiest season the Pennyfoot had seen in years.
“I’ll come at once,” Cecily said, and the housemaid bobbed a curtsey, flashed Baxter a cheeky grin, and disappeared.
“I will come with you, if I may,” Baxter murmured, looking sympathetic.
“I wish you would.” Cecily glanced up at the portrait once more. “I’m afraid poor James would turn in his grave if he knew how many tragedies we have witnessed here.”
“I shudder to think what he would say if he knew.” Baxter opened the door for her and stood back. “He would be devastated to know his beloved wife was involved in such dastardly goings-on.”
Cecily gave him a tired smile. “Oh, I think he would be comforted by the knowledge his good friend is taking such great care of me. That was indeed a gallant promise you made to him on his deathbed, Baxter. I wonder, had you but
known what was in store, if you would have been so prompt in your granting of his request.”
“I would indeed, madam. And I only hope I can continue to keep my word to protect you.” He stood back to let her pass, and she stepped out into the hallway.
“I have no doubt, Baxter.” She glanced up at him, troubled by his serious expression. “Another death at the Pennyfoot,” she murmured. “Let us pray that this time it is an unfortunate accident. Though even that is unlikely to bode well for the hotel.”
For once his answer failed to comfort her. “I’m afraid you may be right, madam, especially since the victim apparently fell from one of the balconies.”
“I can’t imagine how, unless he climbed over the railing. I had them all inspected at the beginning of the season.” She led the way down the hallway, wondering just what kind of new trouble was brewing for the Pennyfoot.
The sight that met Cecily’s eyes when she entered the lobby filled her with dread. Arthur stood just inside the main door, and she couldn’t mistake the still figure of the woman he carried.
Phoebe’s elegant pale violet gown trailed on the floor, while the bright pink feathers in her large hat drooped dismally over his shoulder. In front of him, Mrs. Chubb stood with her arms crossed, demanding he set his burden back on her feet this instant.
“Sure, and I would now,” Arthur said, his voice carrying clear across the lobby, “if the lady had her eyes open. If I put her down, unconscious as she is, she’ll topple over like a crumpled rose.”
Mrs. Chubb snorted loudly. “I’m sure she’ll manage quite nicely. Phoebe is not nearly as weak-kneed as she would
have you believe. And I’m sure the weight of her must be breaking your back.”
“Ah, but she’s as light as a feather,” Arthur said, giving the housekeeper a broad smile. “Am I not strong enough to hold her, do you think?”
Having reached Mrs. Chubb’s side, Cecily looked at Phoebe’s white face with concern. In spite of her doorman’s levity, she had the frightening impression for a moment that Phoebe could be the dead person Gertie had been talking about. Then she remembered the housemaid had said the victim was a man.
“What happened?” she demanded, shaken by the lifeless appearance of Phoebe’s delicate features.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Carter-Holmes has had a nasty shock,” Arthur said just as Phoebe let out a quiet moan and stirred in his arms. “The lady had the misfortune to watch Sir Richard Malton plunge to his death from his balcony.”
Relieved that at least it hadn’t been Phoebe’s demise, Cecily let out her breath. “How did it happen? Was the railing defective?”
“No, ma’am.” Arthur uttered a soft grunt as Phoebe opened her eyes and dug her elbow into his midriff. Slowly he lowered her feet to the ground and steadied her, while Mrs. Chubb looked on with a disdainful sniff.
“It appeared to me,” the doorman went on, “that Sir Richard overbalanced while attempting to walk across the rim of the railing.”
Behind her Cecily heard Baxter’s muffled oath. She ignored it, her attention fully on the doorman. “Sir Richard Malton was trying to balance on top of the railing?”
A loud wail from Phoebe interrupted her. “Oh, Cecily, it was dreadful. One minute the poor man was balanced up there on that narrow strip of metal, the next he was falling at Arthur’s feet.”
She gave a little moan and sagged against the doorman, who put a protective arm around her. Phoebe seemed not to
notice, but Mrs. Chubb, having apparently reached the end of her patience, took a firm hold of Phoebe’s arm.
“I’ll take care of her,” she said firmly. “It’s nothing that a good strong cup of tea won’t cure in an instant.”
“One moment,” Cecily said sharply. “I need to ask some more questions.”
Baxter murmured something she couldn’t catch, but she could guess what it was. Before he could voice his objections more loudly, she glanced up at him and said quietly, “Just to find out what happened, Baxter.”
Without waiting for his approval, she turned back to Phoebe, who stood swaying in Mrs. Chubb’s grasp. “Did you see him climb up onto the railing?”
“No.” Phoebe clutched her throat and gave a pitiable moan. “He was already attempting to walk along it when I saw him.”
“Did you see anyone else there?”
Phoebe shook her head. “If someone was in the room, he wasn’t out on the balcony. As far as I could see, Sir Richard Malton was quite alone.”
She paused, shaking her head so that the feathers and ribbons on her hat shimmied in the light from the gas lamps. “Oh, my, I shall never forget the sight. He did this strange little dance, though I can’t imagine why. He had enough trouble keeping his balance as it was. Anyway, the dance put him right off balance. He swayed back and forth for a moment or two, then down he plunged, with not so much as a whisper from him.”
“He must have wanted to die, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Chubb said, sounding upset. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. He must have wanted to kill himself.”
A muffled gasp sounded from the stairs, and the housekeeper called out sharply, “Gertie? Is that you? You’d better get back to the kitchen, my girl, before I catch you. What have I told you about nosing in on something that doesn’t concern you? Whatever next!”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Chubb,” Cecily said, laying a hand on
the housekeeper’s plump arm. “Perhaps Gertie could fetch us a blanket.”
She looked back at Arthur. “I presume the body is still lying out there?”
Arthur nodded, his face now grave. “I didn’t want to move it, madam. Not until the constable has seen it.”
Cecily groaned. “The constable. Of course. Yes, you are quite right, Arthur. Just cover it up for now, until we can get hold of Police Constable Northcott. I’ll send Samuel right away. I only hope the man can get here as soon as possible. No matter how it happened, the sight of a dead body lying in front of the building is not too reassuring to our guests.”
“I would suggest that Sir Richard might have been inebriated,” Baxter said as Mrs. Chubb hurried over to the stairs to give Gertie her orders. “I can’t imagine why else he should attempt such a strange act. He did not strike me as the kind of person who would engage in such foolhardiness.”
“Precisely,” Cecily murmured uneasily, having reached the same conclusion.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Arthur said, “but I don’t think the gentleman had been drinking. I couldn’t detect a smell of booze on him, and as sure as the grass is green in Ireland I would have done so had he had a drop to drink.”
“I don’t doubt that at all,” Baxter muttered.
Ignoring them both, Cecily studied Phoebe’s face, relieved to see that some color had returned to the delicate features. “You didn’t hear him say anything?” she asked.
“Not a word,” Phoebe said, shuddering visibly. “That was the odd thing. Not even when he fell. You would expect him to scream or something, wouldn’t you?” She laid a fluttery hand on her breast. “Oh, my, I do believe I am going to faint again. The shock of it all …”
“No, you are not,” Mrs. Chubb said firmly, arriving back to grab Phoebe’s arm. “You are coming with me for that hot cup of tea.” The housekeeper glanced at Cecily. “That’s if you are finished with the questions, mum?”
Cecily nodded absently, her mind still questioning the odd behavior of a sedate aristocrat like Sir Richard Malton.
Gertie appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a blanket. At the same moment, the main door opened to allow in a whoosh of hot air.
Arthur hurried forward, prepared to deliver his usual hearty greeting, but as the woman and boy came forward, he pulled up, apparently at a loss for words.
Cecily’s heart sank when she recognized the woman. With all the commotion going on, she had forgotten about Lady Lavinia. The dead man’s wife, apparently sensing something in the doorman’s face, paused and laid one hand protectively on the head of the eight-year-old boy at her side. Stanley Malton jerked his head away in sulky defiance.
Unless they had already seen the body, Cecily thought with despair—and they looked far too calm to have done so—someone would have to break the news to them. And she was very much afraid that the task would be up to her.
“Cor blimey, I tell you,” Gertie said with relish as she stood at the kitchen sink later, “you could have heard a farthing drop when Lady Lavinia and Master Stanley came through the door. I could see no one wanted to tell them. Not as I blame them. It must be dreadful to have to tell a woman her husband just died.”
Ethel, the second housemaid and Gertie’s best friend, seemed preoccupied. She stood drying the wineglasses with a slow motion that drove Gertie crazy. Gertie liked to get things done as quickly as possible, so that at the end of the day she could relax a bit and take it easy. Ethel took so long to do every task that Gertie knew they’d still be there come midnight.
“What’s the bloody matter with you, then?” Gertie said with more irritation than was warranted. Since her pregnancy her back had been killing her, and she resented the extra time she spent making up for Ethel’s lack of enthusiasm.
Ethel looked up with a start. “Nothing,” she muttered in a tone that said everything was the matter but she didn’t want to talk about it.
Gertie decided to ignore her friend’s despondency. “Course,” she said, plunging her arms into the hot, soapy suds, “Stanley didn’t look too upset by the news of his father’s death. He looked at his mother as if she was blinking daffy when she started to cry.”
“Mmmm,” Ethel murmured, intensifying Gertie’s impatience.
Grimly she gritted her teeth. “Not that you’d expect Stanley to think of anyone but himself. I never saw such a bloody horrible kid as that one. If he gets any fatter, his belly is going to explode. Gets too much of his own way, that’s the trouble. And if he doesn’t stop playing all those bleeding nasty tricks on everyone, he’s going to be the next one to cop his lot, I can tell you.”
She had finally succeeded in getting Ethel’s attention. The housemaid gasped and said in shocked tones, “Gertie Rossiter, what a dreadful thing to say.”
Gertie spun around, her skirt twirling around her ankles. “’Ere, I’m Gertie Brown, remember? Me and Ian was never married, so I can’t be Mrs. Rossiter.”
Ethel dropped her gaze back to the wineglass in her hand. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I keep forgetting. But it seems to me you might as well have kept the name until after the baby is born. Makes it seem more proper like, doesn’t it?”
Gertie made a rude noise. “I never had the name in the first place, seeing as how he was already married to someone else. Bleeding farce that were, going through a wedding ceremony and him with a wife already. Good job me old man didn’t find out while he was here. He’d have bleeding murdered him, he would.”
“Seems such a shame, your poor baby growing up without a father.” Ethel sighed loudly. “You’ll have to find someone else to marry, to take care of it.”
“Not so bloody likely,” Gertie said with gusto. “I ain’t
never going to get near another flipping man as long as I live. Just me and the baby, that’s all I need. I just hope it don’t grow up to be a fat monster like Master Stanley Malton. I can’t stand that bleeding kid. I tell you, if he plays one more trick on me, I’ll shove him headfirst down the bleeding lavatory, I swear I will.”
She looked over her shoulder at Ethel, who sat staring at the glass as if she could see her future in it. Apparently she hadn’t heard what Gertie had said.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you or not?” Gertie demanded. She wasn’t about to admit to her hurt feelings, but she and Ethel had always exchanged confidences before. They’d never had secrets between them, and Gertie couldn’t imagine what it was that Ethel was keeping from her now. “’Ere,” she said suddenly as a thought occurred to her, “you ain’t bleeding pregnant, are you?”
Ethel looked up, and Gertie was shocked to see tears shining in her friend’s eyes. “No. I’m not bleeding pregnant. Trust you to jump to the wrong conclusions. I have a big decision to make, that’s all. And I don’t want to talk about it. I need time to think about it, to decide what to do.”
Shrugging, Gertie turned back to the sink. “Suit yourself,” she muttered. “I was only trying to help.” She didn’t even turn her head when she heard Ethel leave the room. She knew when she wasn’t wanted. And she’d be blowed if she was going to ask Ethel again what was wrong. Though she couldn’t help worrying about it just a little.
Cecily had accepted Arthur’s offer to escort the bereaved woman and her son to their suite, giving her time to take a quick look at the body before Baxter covered it up with a blanket. Leaving Arthur posted at the spot until the constable arrived, Cecily then hurried back to speak with Lady Lavinia.
“Please accept my sincere condolences,” Cecily said, her heart going out to the weeping widow. “If there is anything I can do at this time, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Lady Lavinia fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. “Most kind of you. I’m sorry, this has all been such a shock.”
“Yes, I’m sure it has.”
It would be only a matter of time before the news spread all over the hotel, Cecily thought gloomily. She could only hope that P.C. Northcott arrived as quickly as possible. A dead body lying in that heat outside for any length of time was going to attract a good deal of attention. Arthur had been posted to watch over it until the police arrived. Not an enviable task for the new doorman.
“Would you like me to stay with you for a little while?” Cecily said quietly. “I have sent word to Dr. Prestwick. He could no doubt give you something to calm your nerves when he gets here.”
“That would be most kind,” Lady Lavinia managed to say between sobs. “I would like to know what happened.”
Seated on a padded velvet chair, she uttered a low moan. “Whatever am I going to do without him? How am I going to manage Stanley on my own? Your kitchen staff have kindly offered to take care of him for now, but sooner or later I must decide what to do about him.” The last word was smothered by a fresh bout of weeping.
Cecily patted her shoulder. “Perhaps I should fetch my smelling salts,” she suggested, but Lavinia shook her head.
“I need to know exactly what happened.” She delicately blew her nose and made a visible effort to pull herself together.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much,” Cecily said, thinking back to what Phoebe had told her. “Apparently, for some reason, your husband attempted to walk the balcony railing. Like a tightrope, Mrs. Carter-Holmes tells me. He then tried to dance on it and lost his balance. It seems he died at the moment he hit the pavement.”
Lavinia emitted a loud moan. “Poor Richard. I can’t imagine what got into him. Such a foolish thing to do. Not like him at all.”
Remembering Baxter’s comment, Cecily said carefully, “Was Sir Richard in the habit of enjoying a glass of spirits, by any chance?”
Lavinia lowered her handkerchief, her eyes blazing with resentment. “I can assure you, Mrs. Sinclair, my husband had not been drinking. He never took a drink. He suffered greatly from ulcers, and any kind of alcohol burned his stomach. He couldn’t even manage one mouthful.”