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“He most likely did not want to leave Lady Lavinia standing there, since she was obviously overwrought at the time.”

“That doesn’t excuse him for failing to report the matter.”

“Lady Lavinia requested that he not worry about it. She didn’t want to be disturbed by the noise.”

“I see, madam.”

“I thought you would, Baxter.”

“Was it not his place, however, to report the incident, as well as Lady Lavinia’s concerns for privacy?”

Cecily stared at him in frustration for a full ten seconds. Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, and, in spite of herself, felt her mouth widening into a smile.

“Yes, of course, Baxter. You are right. I shall take care to chastise Arthur for his negligence in this matter.” Warmed by his answering nod, she felt as if the sun had reappeared after a lengthy spell of cloudy skies.

“That will be most gratifying, madam.”

“Don’t get too smug about it,” she said lightly. “It’s not a criminal offense, and he still has a job here.”

“Yes, madam.” He sounded suitably quashed, but she could see a twinkle in his eye, and a smile still lurked at the corners of his mouth.

“The interesting point this matter raises is that there could not have been anyone with Sir Richard at the time of his
death, since the door was locked from the inside,” she said, feeling a great deal happier than she had all day.

“That would indeed appear to rule out the possibility of an intruder.” Baxter stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “And so that leaves us with what?”

Cecily shook her head. “I wish I knew, Baxter. I wish I knew. The more I learn about this case, the more puzzling it becomes. And I’m very much afraid that Inspector Cranshaw will come to the same conclusion, which means he will most likely be skulking around the hotel for days, poking into this and that and unsettling everyone with his questions.”

“It would appear that way, madam.”

“I have to solve this puzzle, Baxter. And as soon as possible.” She looked up at him, her usual confidence deserting her. “The problem is, I just don’t know where to look this time. I seem to have reached a dead end.”

For once he could find nothing to say to console her. This time, Cecily thought dismally, it looked very much as if she had lost the game.

Unless something turned up very quickly, she might well lose some very well paying customers. Customers she couldn’t afford to lose. The Pennyfoot Hotel, it would seem, was on very shaky ground.

“Can you bloody believe that little snot-nosed horror?” Gertie demanded as she and Ethel scrubbed the carpet in the foyer.

Actually Gertie had been surprised by Ethel’s offer to help, seeing as how the girl was supposed to have the afternoon off. When Gertie had asked why she wasn’t taking it, Ethel had made some casual remark about having nothing to do.

Gertie surmised that she’d had a row with Joe and wanted something to do to take her mind off it. Gertie was only too pleased to oblige, her needing someone to unload all her woes upon, so to speak.

She’d related the entire story to Ethel, who had nodded and tutted and made sympathetic noises in general at intervals. Gertie still had the feeling she didn’t have her friend’s full attention, however.

“I can’t imagine what he was bloody doing by that pond,” she said, thinking about the strange scene she’d witnessed. “Talking to himself he was, muttering like he was in some kind of trance.” She paused and sat back on her heels, her scrubbing brush held poised in midair.

“You know, Ethel, there was something about that whole thing that reminded me of something, thought I can’t for the bleeding life of me remember what it was.”

She frowned, grasping for the elusive memory, then shook her head. “I tell you, this flipping pregnant business is making an old woman out of me. Can’t remember me own name sometimes, I can’t.”

She looked at Ethel, who worked her brush back and forth as if she were trying to put a hole in the carpet. “You’re not listening to me again, are you?” Gertie demanded.

Ethel stopped scrubbing and looked up. “What?”

Gertie sighed. “When are you going to tell me what’s the bloody matter with you? Am I your best friend or aren’t I?”

To Gertie’s utter dismay, Ethel’s face crumpled. Uttering a loud sob, she sprang to her feet, dashed across the foyer to the door, and fled through it, leaving Gertie staring open-mouthed after her.

CHAPTER
9

Inspector Cranshaw arrived at the hotel shortly after the dinner hour that evening. As usual, it had taken him an entire day to take care of business in Wellercombe, which he deemed far more important than anything that had happened in Badgers End. Ethel was sent up to summon Cecily, who was resting in her suite, her feet up on the ottoman and the latest copy of
The Tatler,
the society magazine, open on her lap.

Cecily was not happy to be disturbed. She had been engrossed in an article about suffragettes who were on a hunger strike in prison, and to have to leave it to meet with the police irritated her no end.

Inspector Cranshaw waited for her in the library. He was a tall thin man with a permanent disagreeable expression on his sharp features, and the moment he set eyes on her he
stated crisply, “I would like a word with the widow.” His tone of voice clearly indicated he would not listen to objections.

Even so, Cecily felt obliged to mention the fact that Lady Lavinia was resting in her room and did not wish to be disturbed.

“I do not doubt that, Mrs. Sinclair. This is a death with unusual circumstances, however, and as such must be investigated. That is the law.” He looked down at her when he spoke, as if daring her to argue.

Realizing the futility of such foolhardiness, Cecily nodded. “Very well. Perhaps you would like me to accompany you as chaperon? I think Lady Lavinia would prefer my presence rather than one of the housemaids.”

He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, while P.C. Northcott stood behind him, sniffing and shuffling the pages of his notebook in a vain attempt to look officious. Then, with a brief nod of his head, the inspector stalked out through the doorway, followed by the constable.

Baxter, who had stood by the door the entire time and had been totally ignored by both policemen, rolled his eyes in disgust.

Cecily smiled at him, knowing that her manager’s contempt was for the ill manners of the policeman in preceding her. She gave a slight shake of her head as she passed Baxter, warning him to say nothing.

Outside in the hallway the inspector stood waiting, impatiently tapping his foot. P.C. Northcott gave her an anxious look, as if concerned that she would arouse his superior’s ire and put him in a bad mood.

That wouldn’t be too difficult to do, Cecily thought, as she led both men to the stairway. No one spoke as the three of them made their way up the staircase to the second floor.

Below in the foyer a group of guests stood laughing and chatting, having just finished their evening meal. Cecily looked down on them as she turned the bend in the staircase and caught a swift movement in the corner.

Stanley, for some reason, stood wedged behind the grandfather clock, staring intently across the foyer at the front door. Glancing across, Cecily could see no reason for his rapt attention. She continued on up the stairs, hoping fervently that the boy wasn’t planning any more mischief.

Her light tap on the door of suite five went unanswered. After sending an apologetic look at the inspector, Cecily tried again, harder this time. “It’s Mrs. Sinclair, Lady Lavinia,” she called out. “I’m here with Inspector Cranshaw. He wishes to have a word with you about the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

She was rewarded with a faint sound from inside the room, which sounded more like a moan than an invitation. Just to make sure, she tapped again, while the inspector uttered an irritable sigh.

Once more the moan answered her knock. “I think she might be sleeping,” Cecily said hopefully.

“Then I am afraid we must awaken her.” Inspector Cranshaw peered down at her, his eyes looking hard and uncompromising in the flickering light of the gas lamps.

“Of course,” P.C. Northcott echoed, nodding his head.

The inspector silenced his subordinate with one quelling glance.

Cecily hoped that Samuel hadn’t repaired the lock yet, making it necessary for Lady Lavinia to climb out of bed to open the door. Carefully she twisted the doorknob and was relieved when it turned. She quietly opened the door and peered in.

Lavinia appeared to be suitably covered, and after announcing the names, Cecily opened the door wider for the inspector to pass through. Northcott followed him, looking decidedly nervous.

Cecily waited just inside the door as the inspector approached the bed. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, milady,” he said, actually sounding it. “I regret the necessity to disturb you at this time, but there are some important questions I must ask. I hope you will forgive the intrusion?”

Irritated by this change of attitude in the presence of aristocracy, Cecily listened while the policeman questioned the widow. It soon became apparent that he would get nothing intelligent from her.

Lady Lavinia appeared to be rambling, uttering barely discernible, disjointed sentences, revealing nothing more than Cecily already knew.

P.C. Northcott seemed to have some difficulty jotting down notes, and Cecily felt sorry for him. Trying to follow that meandering voice was bad enough, but knowing he would get it in the neck for not getting everything down exactly as it was said was bound to be unsettling him.

Finally the inspector straightened. With a quick nod at the constable he left the room, again followed by Northcott. Cecily sent a worried glance over at the bed, where Lavinia lay restlessly moving her head from side to side and quietly talking to herself.

Her words were unintelligible, and after a moment Cecily left the room to find the policemen waiting for her.

“I should like to question the witnesses,” Inspector Cranshaw said while the constable feverishly looked over his notes.

“You will find Arthur at his post at the front door,” she told him. “I’m afraid you will have to talk with Mrs. Carter-Holmes at the vicarage.” She couldn’t help wondering what Phoebe would say when the police arrived on her doorstep. Phoebe’s concern for her “image” was legendary.

After watching the policemen go in search of Arthur, Cecily made her way to the kitchen. She had one more task to take care of, and then she intended to pay a visit to Baxter’s study. She very badly needed a cigar.

Gertie stacked another plate on the pile of dishes on the draining board, her mind still dwelling on Ethel’s unexpected outburst of tears. It wasn’t like Ethel to keep things to herself, especially from her friend. Something had to be wrong. Something between her and Joe, more than likely.

Gertie felt immeasurably sad. She knew what it was to lose the man you loved. She just hoped her friend and her man could patch things up again. She knew how much Ethel loved Joe. She’d seen them together. They had reminded her of Ian and herself, and how things used to be, before she went and got married and then found out he’d already got a wife.

A tear trickled slowly down Gertie’s cheek and plopped into the water. She dashed at the trail it left with a soapy hand, swearing when she dabbed a lump of soapsuds on her face.

Behind her she could hear Mrs. Chubb rattling around in the pantry, while Stanley sat at the table, drawing on a slate with colored chalks. He was blessedly quiet for a change. Too bloody quiet.

She whipped her head around, just in time to see him creeping back to his chair. “’Ere,” she demanded, “whatcha bleeding up to, then?”

He curled his lip at her. “I’ll tell Mrs. Chubb what you said.”

Gertie stuck a fist on her hip. “You do, you nasty little perisher, and I’ll pull all your hair out.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll cut off all your fingers.”

“I’ll cut your bleeding tongue out, then you’ll have to shut up.”

“You won’t be able to because you won’t have any fingers.”

“I’ll do it with my bleeding feet if I have to.”

He stared at her, as if fascinated by the idea. “You’ve got soap all over your face,” he said at last.

Gertie wiped her face with the back of her hand. “At least it’s flipping clean.”

Stanley screwed his eyelids almost shut. “My father always said that scullery maids aren’t worth the dirt they walk upon.”

“How would he blinking know? I bet he’s never been near a scullery maid in his life.”

“We have scullery maids at home.”

“I expect you do. But you have a housekeeper, too, don’t you? She’s the one what tells the scullery maids what to do.”

Stanley shook his head. “I have seen my father talking to them, lots of times. Mostly in the bedroom, when he showed them how to make the bed.”

Gertie’s eyes widened. “Go on,” she said, intensely interested in this revelation. “How did they make the bed, then?”

“They lay on the bed to smooth out the sheets.”

She burst out laughing. “Cor blimey, that’s a good one, that is. Wherever did you hear that, then?”

Stanley’s face got very red. “My father told me, and he knows everything. So there. He saw me looking one day, and he told me that’s what they do.”

“Fast thinking, that were.” Gertie held her sides, laughing uproariously.

“Stop laughing,” Stanley demanded, banging the table with his fist. “I’ll tell Mrs. Chubb.”

“You’ll tell Mrs. Chubb what?” the housekeeper demanded from right behind Gertie’s ear.

Gertie stopped laughing. “Don’t ask,” she said, turning back to the sink. “It will singe your bloody ears, it will.”

“She was laughing at me,” Stanley said, sounding close to tears. “I was telling her about my father, and she laughed.”

“Gertie, how could you, after what happened to his father? How could you do such a thing?”

Sighing, Gertie turned to face Mrs. Chubb. As she did so, a slight movement over by the stove caught her attention. At first she thought she’d imagined it, but then a faint clink confirmed it.

“’Ere,” she said, pointing with a shaking finger, “that saucepan lid moved all by itself.”

Mrs. Chubb’s mouth tightened. “Don’t think you’re going to put me off like that, my girl. That was a terribly insensitive thing you did—”

Gertie squeaked as the lid popped again, settling with
another clink. “There! Didn’t you bloody hear it? I told you I saw it. Look at it.”

“Don’t be daft,” Mrs. Chubb said, flicking a glance over at the stove. “Lids don’t—” She stopped short as the lid raised a half inch, then settled again with a loud clink.

“Oh, Gawd,” Gertie said in a hushed voice, “we’ve got bleeding ghosts.”

Mrs. Chubb snorted. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“Miss Pengrath says there is.” Gertie stared at the lid and squeaked again when it popped up.

Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue and marched across the kitchen, making Gertie’s insides go cold and clammy.

“Don’t touch it!” she yelled. “If you let it out we’ll all be cursed.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb grasped the lid and raised it, then dropped it on the floor with a crash as something leapt from the saucepan and landed on the floor.

The little green thing sat for a moment, blinking slowly in the light from the oil lamp, then it bounded forward, heading straight for the pantry.

“Great heavens, it’s a frog,” Mrs. Chubb exclaimed, and dashed after it to slam the pantry door. “I’ll have to get Arthur to go in there and catch it.”

Slowly Gertie’s heart relaxed its pounding. She turned and looked at Stanley, who sat quietly at the table, his face a mask of innocence.

“You bleeding little horror,” she said, shaking her head in disgust, “you brought that back from the pond with you, didn’t you?”

Stanley looked at her and opened his eyes wide. “Who, me?”

“Dear God,” Mrs. Chubb said mournfully, “just look at the state of this saucepan. It’s Michel’s best, too. We’d better get it cleaned up before he sees it like this, or there’ll be ructions, that’s for sure.”

She started across the floor toward the sink, then her foot
slipped on something, and she slid sideways. The saucepan flew out of her hand and skidded across the floor, smashing into the opposite wall with a resounding crash.

Gertie caught her breath as Mrs. Chubb clumsily regained her footing. “What on earth is that on the floor?” she said, peering down at her feet. Lifting her skirts, she ran a finger across the tile, then peered at it. “Butter. It looks as if someone dropped a pat of butter on the floor. Look, here’s another one. And another.”

Gertie looked at Stanley and gritted her teeth. “I just wonder who did that.”

“Well, we’d better get this mess cleared up,” Mrs. Chubb said with a sigh. She cast an eye on the clock sitting on the mantelpiece above the stove. “I think it’s time a little boy went to bed.”

“No,” Stanley wailed, “I don’t want to go to bed. It’s not dark yet.”

“It’s going to be bleeding dark when I lock you in the coal cellar,” Gertie muttered as she bent to retrieve the saucepan.

“Oh, give me that.” Mrs. Chubb held out her hand for the pan. “That’s Michel’s favorite saucepan. It’s the only one that doesn’t have a dent in it.”

“It flipping well does now.” Gertie held the pan up to the light, revealing the large dent in the side.

“Oh, Lord, we’ll pay for this.” Mrs. Chubb took the pan and made a vain effort to straighten out the indentation.

Gertie didn’t answer. She was busy on her hands and knees cleaning up the butter.

For once Stanley was quiet, probably afraid he’d be sent to bed if he made any more noise. With a groan Gertie climbed to her feet and moved over to the sink to empty the dirty water. “Gawd,” she mumbled, “you’ve certainly caused me a lot of grief today, I can tell you. I’ll be bloody glad when this day is over, that I will. I’m that tired—”

Yawning, she wiped her hands on her apron and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh of relief. Something beneath
her cracked and rustled. Puzzled, she got to her feet again and looked down at the chair.

A giggle exploded behind her as she stared at the smashed egg, half of which she knew had to be clinging to the back of her skirt.

That was the last straw. Full of fury, she advanced on Stanley, who leapt from his chair and made for the door.

Before Gertie could reach him, he’d tugged it open and hurtled through. She heard his footsteps pounding along the hallway, and then up the stairs. Good riddance, she thought, slamming the door shut on the sound.