The Clue is in the Pudding (2 page)

Taking his answering grunt for acquiescence, she left the suite and made her way down the stairs to her office.

As usual, there was a stack of papers on her desk awaiting her perusal, and she reached for the first one, hoping she could make a dent in them before Phoebe arrived. Now that Baxter had agreed to confront the temporary housekeeper, there was one less problem for her to worry about. She could only hope her husband would have better luck than she had had so far.

Beatrice Tucker was a formidable opponent. Secure in the knowledge that Cecily needed her far more than she needed employment, she had made it clear that she would run things in the kitchen her way or not at all. Unwilling to risk having to host the Christmas season without a housekeeper, Cecily had withdrawn from the contest.

Perhaps she should have warned Baxter not to antagonize the woman. She’d asked him to step in on impulse, one that she was now regretting. Baxter would not mince words. Cecily picked up her pen and dipped it in the inkwell. She could only hope that the woman had more respect for men than she apparently did for women. If not, it could turn out to be a very interesting Christmas for everyone.

*   *   *

Gertie McBride stood in the pantry doing her best to curb her temper. The moment she’d heard that Mrs. Chubb was going to spend Christmas with her daughter’s family, Gertie knew they were in for trouble. She was right.

The miserable cow who’d taken Chubby’s place was rude and spiteful, and Gertie had a good mind to tell madam that she couldn’t work for someone who talked to her like she was some guttersnipe off the street.

She was the chief housemaid for blinking sake. She deserved some respect. Except for the short time she was married to Ross McBride, she’d worked at the Pennyfoot for madam since she was a little kid. How dare that bloody upstart walk in there and start ordering her around like she was nothing?

She heard the sound of shuffling feet and turned around to see Pansy standing behind her, eyes red rimmed as if she’d been crying. “What’s the bleeding matter with you?” she demanded, her voice sharp with irritation.

“Shshh!” Pansy jammed a finger over her mouth. “She’ll hear you. You know how she goes on at you for swearing.”

“So what? I’ve been bleeding swearing since I knew how to talk, and I’m not going to stop now. Especially for the likes of
her
.” She jerked her head at the door.

Pansy’s lower lip trembled. “She just told me off again. I
hate
her. I wish Mrs. Chubb didn’t have to go to Manchester.”

“So do I, but there’s nothing we can bloody do about it now.” Gertie’s gaze fell on a half-f bottle of brandy on the shelf. “Maybe we should lace her tea with that brandy. She’s a different person when she’s been drinking. We—” She broke off as voices rose beyond the door.

“What did you do with ze plum pudding, eh?” Michel, the Pennyfoot’s chef, sounded furious.

Gertie winced and lowered her voice. “His accent always gets worse when he’s riled up. He’s going to start banging his pots and pans around any minute now.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before a horrendous crashing of metal against stone rang out. “
Sacre bleu!
” Michel roared. “You ’ave taken a slice right out of ze pudding!”

The sharp, nasal tones of the temporary housekeeper answered him. “I took a slice up to Mr. Archibald Armitage’s room. I heard it’s his favorite Christmas treat. He’s famous and he deserves special treatment.”

“I don’t care if he is ze king of England, he does not have ze pudding until Christmas
Day
!” Another loud crash accompanied Michel’s screaming. This time it was followed by the ringing sound of a saucepan lid rolling across the floor until it gradually spun to a stop.

“I’m in charge of this kitchen,” Beatrice Tucker shrieked, “and if I want to take a slice of pudding up to one of our guests then I will, and you have nothing to say about it.”

“I make ze puddings,
non
? They are
my
puddings,
non
? I make them for Christmas Day, and no one,
no-o-bod-ee
, gets a piece until I say so.
Oui?
”

Pansy giggled.

Gertie frowned and shook her head at her. If the old bat heard her she’d have her guts for garters. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Who did she say was famous?”

“Archibald Armitage. He’s in room three and he’s a famous actor.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither had I, but I met him this afternoon. He rescued Tess.”

Gertie raised her eyebrows. “Samuel’s dog? How did he do that?”

Pansy flinched as another crash from the kitchen followed Michel’s rampage. “He waded into the duck pond. Tess fell through the ice and couldn’t get out. Mr. Armitage carried her out. He was soaked. He must have been freezing, but all he worried about was Tess.” She smiled. “He’s such a nice man.”

“How’d you know he’s an actor? Did he tell you?”

“Nah, but I overheard Mrs. Tucker talking to him yesterday. She told him he was her favorite actor and she’d seen nearly all of his plays.”

“Blimey, he must be good for her to go all the way up to London to see him.”

“Well, she wasn’t very happy when she met him.”

“Why not?”

Pansy glanced at the door, where angry voices still yelled on the other side. “Mr. Armitage was really rude to her. He told her not to blab to anyone that he was here. He’d come away for some peace and quiet, and he didn’t want no stagestruck ninny getting in his way.”

Gertie snorted. “Good for him. About time someone told bossy old Tucker off. What did she say?”

Pansy shrugged. “She didn’t say nothing to him. But after he walked away I heard her muttering something about getting even. She couldn’t have been too upset, though, if she took him up a slice of plum pudding.”

“She probably spit in it.” Gertie shook her head as another round of crashing and banging hurt her ears. “Come on, let’s get out of here before them two kill each other.”

She charged out of the pantry, just in time to see Michel throw down his tall chef’s hat and march out of the kitchen.

Beatrice Tucker stood by the table, her cheeks burning and her eyes bright with temper. “Where have you two been?” she snapped, snatching up a pile of freshly laundered serviettes. “These all have to be folded before you can start laying the tables.”

She thrust them at Gertie, who managed to clutch all but two of them. They floated to the floor, and she bent to retrieve them, losing a couple more in the process.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Beatrice snatched the fallen serviettes away from Gertie. “These will all have to be laundered and ironed again. Go and find four more clean ones in the linen closet, while you”—she jammed the four serviettes into Pansy’s hands—“go and put these in the laundry room.”

Pansy took the white cloths and fled, while Gertie jutted out her chin. “It weren’t my fault they went on the floor.”

Beatrice crossed her arms, her thin face sucked in at the cheeks. “I’ll have none of your impertinence, young lady. Get upstairs and get those tables laid this second, or I’ll report your insubordination and carelessness to madam.”

Gertie was about to respond with a few choice words, then with an effort, curbed her tongue. She’d be wasting her breath on the old bat, she decided. Instead, she’d take her concerns to madam. Something had to be done about Tucker the Terrible, or there’d be another Christmas tragedy in the Pennyfoot. If someone didn’t kill the bleeding old hag, she’d be tempted to do away with her herself.

Carrying the serviettes, she marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. By the time she reached the dining room, she’d calmed down a little. She took her time folding the serviettes and placing them into their silver rings. It wouldn’t do to go to madam all blustery and hot under the collar. Madam listened to her a lot better if she kept her voice low and didn’t use too many swear words. Especially if Mr. Baxter was there. He didn’t have no patience at all with people complaining.

Pansy wandered into the dining room just as Gertie was about to leave. “I’ll be back to finish the tables,” she said, as she untied her apron strings. “I’m just going to pop up to have a word with madam.”

Pansy looked anxious. “Is something wrong?”

“A lot,” Gertie said grimly. “But I hope to do something about that.” She left before Pansy could say anymore.

Reaching the end of the hallway, she was about to enter the foyer when she heard the dreaded voice of the housekeeper. Still smarting from her recent spat, Gertie decided to wait until the coast was clear before venturing any farther.

Apparently Mrs. Tucker was talking to a gentleman, as Gertie heard his soft tone, though it was too quiet to understand what he was saying.

Whatever it was, it made the housekeeper laugh, which surprised Gertie. The old bat must have been at the brandy, after all.

Gertie heard the gentleman speak again, then Mrs. Tucker raised her voice in what seemed to be a farewell. “I’m looking forward to hearing the choir, Mr. Rickling,” she called out. The gentleman answered, then came the sound of the front door closing.

Gertie waited a moment longer, then peeked around the corner. The foyer was empty, except for Philip dozing at the desk. Breathing a sigh of relief, Gertie sped across the carpet to the stairs.

Climbing fast, she rehearsed everything she wanted to say. There was no telling how Madam would react to her complaints. After all, it was Christmas, and it would be hard to make do without a housekeeper. At a pinch, Gertie knew she could fill in well enough. She’d worked at the Pennyfoot long enough to know how to manage everything.

Mrs. Chubb had finished all the baking before she’d left, and Michel didn’t need no supervising. As for the maids, she could handle that all right, and madam always took care of the footmen. Feeling a little more hopeful, Gertie trotted up the stairs to the top floor.

She was passing by room three when she heard the moaning. At first she thought it was the wind in the chimneys. When it was really windy the chimneys groaned like they were in pain. Only this didn’t sound like no chimneys. Gertie paused outside the door of room three.

It was the actor’s room. The bloke what rescued Samuel’s dog. Perhaps he’d caught a cold after wading into the icy duck pond. Gertie hesitated, then gently knocked on the door. A loud moan answered her.

“Are you all right, sir? Is there anything I can get for you?”

She heard another moan, fainter now. She tried the handle and found the door unlocked. Opening it just a little, she put her mouth close to the gap. “Sir? Can I get you anything?”

This time, there was nothing but silence from inside the room.

The last thing in the world Gertie wanted was to go inside. Yet something told her she had to take a look. Very slowly, she pushed the door open.

The room was lit by an oil lamp, set really low. The awful stench coming from the bed nearly sent her outside again, but she couldn’t leave without making sure the guest was all right. He was lying on his side with his back to her, his knees brought up to his chin. “Sir?” She moved a little closer to the bed. “Mr. Armitage? Are you ill?”

There was no movement, and she moved even closer, until her outstretched hand could reach the man’s shoulder. Heart pounding, she shook him. He rolled over onto his back, his eyes, fixed and sightless, telling her what she’d already feared.

Archibald Armitage was quite dead.

CHAPTER

2

“Really, Cecily, I’m shocked that you would allow a stranger to conduct the carol singing. I know quite well that the ceremony is your very favorite part of the entire season, and to trust it to someone you hardly know is taking a serious risk, don’t you think?”

Cecily looked at the woman seated across from her. Phoebe Carter-Holmes was, as usual, dressed to perfection. Her hat, the same deep blue as her velvet coat, swept across her shoulders, its brim laden with white doves and silver ribbons. A huge white feather curled across the crown of the hat, and diamond hat pins twinkled in the glow from the fireplace.

Phoebe sat with her white gloved fingers pressed against her cheek, while her dainty feet, encased in white boots, rested on the fender. Her expression was one of extreme distaste, and Cecily knew why. Phoebe was put out because she had been replaced as director of the carol singers.

“I have been assured that Cuthbert Rickling is a fine musician,” Cecily said, with just a tinge of reproof. “He is quite the gentleman, most accommodating, and has offered his services for our carol-singing ceremony free of charge, and I find that most generous of him.”

“You don’t say.” Phoebe’s voice was thick with disdain.

Cecily tried again. “It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to have the church choir. As you well know, Mr. Templeton, the former choirmaster, was always much too busy this time of year to attend our little ceremony. Much as we enjoy them, this will make a nice change from the usual village carol singers. While I truly appreciate you taking on the task of organizing everything, Phoebe, I thought that having Mr. Rickling here would give you more time to take care of your Christmas presentation. You have always been so rushed before.”

Phoebe tossed her head, causing her hat to tilt over her eyes. Straightening it, she muttered, “I’ve always managed quite well.”

“Yes, you have, but having a choirmaster conducting the church choir will make such a difference and now you will be able to relax and enjoy the ceremony.”

Phoebe sniffed. “Freddie said he saw Mr. Rickling buying bottles of scotch in the bar. In my opinion, people affiliated with the church shouldn’t be indulging in spirits.”

Cecily frowned. “He may well have bought them for Christmas gifts. In any case, were Mr. Rickling not of exemplary character, I doubt that your son would tolerate him, much less employ him to lead the choir in his church.”

Phoebe uttered a scornful laugh. “My son has no perception of character. I have been appalled at times at his choice of acquaintances. One simply cannot judge a man based on Algie’s recommendation.”

Given that the Reverend Algernon Carter-Holmes had a questionable relationship with men in general, Cecily could hardly blame Phoebe for mistrusting his opinion. “Nevertheless,” she said firmly, “I am quite satisfied that Cuthbert Rickling’s choir will give us an excellent performance at the ceremony. As for his personal life, that’s his business and should remain so.”

“Well, all I can say is that I hope your optimism is justified.” Phoebe wiggled her boots.” I think—”

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by an urgent rapping on the door. Before Cecily could summon the visitor, the door flew open and Gertie charged into the suite as if being chased by a herd of angry bulls.

Cecily took one look at her chief housemaid’s face and rose to her feet. “What has happened?”

Gertie gulped, glanced at Phoebe, then blurted out, “The gentleman in room three, m’m. He has a bit of a problem.” She signaled with her eyes at the door. “I think you need to see to him, m’m, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The sinking feeling in Cecily’s stomach was all too familiar. She could tell by Gertie’s face that the problem was serious. She managed to sound reasonably unperturbed when she answered her housemaid. “Thank you, Gertie. I will be along in a minute. Perhaps you’d wait for me at the gentleman’s door?”

Gertie nodded, dropped a curtsey, and fled.

Phoebe said something, but Cecily’s mind was racing. The gentleman in room three was Archibald Armitage, the famous actor. She’d encountered him earlier that day when he’d barged through the front door and almost knocked her over in his haste to reach the stairs.

She’d noticed at the time that his trousers were soaked to his knees and had wondered where he’d been to get into such an awful mess. Most likely he had caught a cold and needed the services of a doctor.

Phoebe got up from her chair and headed for the door. “Well, I can see you are busy, Cecily. I shall go in search of Freddie. No doubt he is in the bar, as usual. I shall return tomorrow with my entourage. We’re having our dress rehearsal for the Christmas pageant in the ballroom.” She clasped her gloved hands together. “I am so thrilled to be presenting our pageant on Christmas Eve this year. It will give a special meaning to the performance.”

Remembering some of Phoebe’s past catastrophes, Cecily could only hope that the only thing special was a disaster-free presentation. Accompanying her friend to the door, she enquired, “You will still be coming to the carol-singing ceremony, I trust?”

Phoebe smiled, her rancor apparently forgotten. “Of course, Cecily, dear. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I suppose Madeline will be there?”

“I believe she and Kevin will attend, yes.”

“I was afraid of that.” Phoebe tossed her head, making the feather on her hat waft around in a lazy circle. “Ah well, we can’t have everything, I suppose.”

Cecily sighed. Phoebe and Madeline had been at war with each other for as long as she’d known them, exchanging barbs and insults with all the gusto of battling warriors. Yet Cecily knew quite well that should anything happen to one of them, the other would be devastated. Though they’d never admit it, of course.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, holding the door open for her friend to pass through. She was anxious to find out what the problem was with Mr. Armitage and couldn’t wait for Phoebe to start descending the stairs. Once the other woman was out of sight around the curve, Cecily hurried down the hallway to where Gertie lingered outside room three.

“Now then,” she said when she reached her housemaid, “what is the matter with Mr. Armitage?”

Gertie’s face looked drawn, and her eyes were wide with shock. “I think he’s dead,” she whispered.

“I’m sure he’s not,” Cecily assured her, praying she was right. “He’s probably consumed something to help him sleep.” She glanced quickly to her left and right, making sure they were alone in the hallway. “I’ll take a look. Meanwhile, go down to the foyer and quietly ask Philip to ring for Dr. Prestwick.”

“Yes, m’m.” Gertie picked up her skirts and ran for the stairs.

Cecily paused for a moment, drew a deep breath and quietly tapped on the door. Receiving no answer, she turned the handle and walked into the room. The first thing she noticed was the ghastly odor. Obviously the poor man had been very sick.

On the bedside table an oil lamp flickered, and an empty glass stood next to it. The bed was in shadow, and the man on the bed lay on his back. Cecily watched for a moment or two, hoping to see his chest rise and fall. When she could detect no movement, she drew closer. The man’s face looked green in the oil lamp’s glow, and his eyes saw nothing as they stared at the ceiling.

Stomach churning, Cecily quickly left the room and locked the door behind her.

*   *   *

Gertie ran all the way down the stairs, stopping just long enough to tell Philip, the reception clerk, to ring for Dr. Prestwick before dashing on down to the kitchen. In her distress she’d quite forgotten that Mrs. Chubb wouldn’t be there. Instead of the plump, reassuring figure of the Pennyfoot’s housekeeper, the scraggy form of Beatrice Tucker loomed over the kitchen table.

Her tinny voice rapped out at Gertie, splintering the housemaid’s already shattered nerves. “Would you
kindly
remember to enter the room in the proper manner. This is a kitchen, not a school playground. Barging in here like that can cause a serious accident.”

“There’s already been a serious accident,” Gertie snapped, “and there’ll be one more if you keep talking to me in that tone of voice.”

The housekeeper threw down her carving knife and flung a hand out at Gertie. “That’s
enough
! I will not take this kind of abuse from a common housemaid. I will go this minute and report your abominable behavior to madam.”

Trembling with a mixture of anger and shock, Gertie stood her ground. “Madam’s a little busy right now. She’s got a death on her hands.”

Already marching halfway across the kitchen, Beatrice halted, her beady eyes raking Gertie’s face. “What did you say?”

Gertie took a step toward Beatrice and jutted out her chin. “I said, madam’s got a death on her hands. Archibald Armitage is lying dead in his bed.”

It seemed for a moment that Beatrice couldn’t believe what she’d heard, then her face crumpled. “Mercy me. He was only thirty-three. What happened to him?”

“How the flipping heck should I know?” Gertie looked over at Michel, who stood at the stove, one hand holding his chest. “Looks like the Christmas curse turned up again.”

Michel muttered something and drew a quick cross on his chest.

Beatrice made an odd sound in her throat. “What do you mean, the Christmas curse? What sort of curse?”

Beginning to feel a little calmer now that she had the upper hand, Gertie shrugged. “It happens every Christmas. Someone dies.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a menacing tone. “Sometimes more than one.”

Fear raced across Beatrice’s face, then she drew herself up to her full height. “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Armitage, but we have work to do, and standing around here gossiping is not going to get it done. You’re supposed to be upstairs laying the tables, Gertie. Get back up there this minute and get it done. When you’re finished you can fill the coal scuttles for the stove.”

Gertie resisted the urge to stick out her tongue. Instead, she rolled her eyes at Michel, who still seemed in a trance, then turned her back on Beatrice and marched out of the kitchen.

Pansy was in the dining room when she reached it moments later. She was polishing the silver salt and pepper shakers and looked up when Gertie hurried over to her. “Where have you been?” she demanded, as Gertie tied on her apron. “It’s getting late and we’ve still got half the tables not laid yet.”

“Sorry.” Gertie picked up a handful of silverware from the tray and started setting out the knives and forks. “I’ve got some bad news.”

“What is it?”

“Well, you know that nice man what saved Samuel’s dog?”

“The actor?” Pansy looked worried. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

With a muffled cry, Pansy dropped the shaker she was holding, spilling salt across the tablecloth. “He’s what?”

“Dead.” Gertie picked up the shaker and put it back in its cradle. “I just came from his room. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, only he wasn’t seeing nothing. Madam’s with him now.”

“Oh, no!” Pansy scooped up salt in her fingers and tossed it over her shoulder. “What happened to him?”

“Dunno. Philip’s ringing the doctor right now. I suppose we’ll find out sooner or later.”

Pansy grabbed Gertie’s sleeve. “You don’t think he got pneumonia or something from wading into that pond after Tess, do you?”

“I don’t think so. I think it would take longer than that.”

“He could have had a heart attack from the cold.”

“Yeah, I s’pose he could’ve.”

Pansy’s eyes filled with tears. “Samuel will never forgive himself. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

“How can it be his fault? He didn’t tell the stupid bloke to go in the pond.”

“No, but if it hadn’t been for Tess . . .”

“Then it’s the dog’s fault. Besides, we don’t know that’s what killed him, do we.”

“No, but—”

Gertie dragged a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Pansy. “Here, dry your bleeding eyes. Don’t let the old battle-axe see you like that. She’ll be screaming at you to stop acting like a baby.”

“That poor man.” Pansy picked up another shaker and started polishing it. “I felt sorry for him being here all alone for Christmas. I even thought it would be nice if he and Lady Bottingham would get together over Christmas. She’s here all alone, too.”

Gertie uttered a short laugh. “Lady Bottingham? She’s much too posh to keep company with a common actor. Even if he was famous.”

Pansy scowled. “Well, I think she’s lonely. She’s got to be at least thirty years old or so, but she doesn’t have a husband. I wonder why.”

“Probably couldn’t find one good enough for her.”

“That’s sad. Anyway, it would have been nice for her to have a gentleman companion to spend Christmas with and maybe she wouldn’t have minded that he was only an actor. He was a very nice gentleman. Not many men would wade into icy water to rescue a dog.”

“Well, it’s too late now. Archibald Armitage is gone, and let’s hope he didn’t die from some horrible mysterious disease that we could all catch.”

Pansy uttered a shrill shriek. “What? What sort of disease?”

Gertie shrugged. “I dunno. It could be anything. Consumption, scarlet fever, measles, diphtheria, the plague . . .”

Pansy looked ready to cry. “I got really close to him today. I might have caught a disease from him.”

Gertie patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Dr. Prestwick will find out what he died of, and if it’s catching he’ll know what to do.”

Pansy looked unconvinced, and Gertie felt uneasy about it, too. What if the whole country club was quarantined? That would spoil Christmas really good. Deciding that worrying about it wasn’t going to help much, she shook off her anxiety. “Come on, let’s get these bloody tables done. I’ve got to fill the coal scuttles yet, and I don’t want to do it after it gets dark. That coal shed is blinking creepy in the dark.”

Pansy started shoving the salt and pepper shakers onto each table so fast they rattled in their holders. “I’ll have to go and tell Samuel what’s happened when we’re finished here. It’s better that he hears it from me.”

“Good idea.” Gertie laid a serviette beside a row of silverware. “In the meantime, help me think about what I can get for Clive for Christmas.”