“Did anyone else see the fight?”
“Not only saw it, they all bloody joined in, didn’t they. Until Dick threw ’em all out. He was going on about the lighthouse project. Said as how he was going to have a protest march against it.”
Cecily shook her head. “I’m amazed how shortsighted some people can be. The lighthouse can bring a lot of benefits to Badgers End. I don’t understand why so many people are against it.”
“Well, it’s all right for the fishermen, I suppose, and the
sailors on the cargo ships, but not everyone likes changes, do they? Some people are afraid of changes, whether they’re good or bad. They’re happy the way things are, ’cause that’s the way it’s always been, and that’s what they’re used to.”
Somewhat surprised by his insight, Cecily got up from the chair. “I’m beginning to find that out,” she said with a sigh. “But I would suggest in future, Ian, that you try to use more control over your temper. It could get you into a great deal of trouble, if it hasn’t already.”
“Yes, mum, I know. Gertie said the same thing. I will try. Honest.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She swept a glance around the room, noting the items she wanted removed. Then, as she reached the door, she turned back to look at Ian. “Tell me, did Mr. Donaldson join in that fight?”
Looking surprised, Ian shrugged. “Could have done, I suppose. He was down there. I was too busy with Bickley to notice, tell the truth.”
“Did the two men spend much time together after work?”
Ian’s expression changed to wariness. “I wouldn’t know, mum. I never kept company with them, so I don’t know what they did, except for when they was drinking down the George. And all the chaps sit together, like, so it would be hard to tell.”
“I see,” Cecily said. “Well, not to worry.” She opened the door and left him alone to finish his painting.
“You’ve got to drink half of this tonight and the other half tomorrow night,” Mrs. Chubb said, handing a bottle of green liquid to Gertie. “Madeline says it should do the trick, all right.”
Standing in the middle of Mrs. Chubb’s sitting room, Gertie held up the bottle and peered at it. “What if it doesn’t?”
“Then it’ll be time to tell Ian Rossiter that he’s going to be a father, and he’d better do something about making an honest woman of you.”
Gertie made a face. “I don’t know as I want to be married to the likes of him.”
“You won’t have much choice if you are pregnant,” Mrs. Chubb said, feeling irritated with the girl. In her opinion, Gertie should have thought about all that before letting a man have his way with her.
There was enough written about the subject lately, how women could protect themselves from getting pregnant. In fact, she was quite sure Gertie must have read about it in those dreadful magazines she had.
Not that Mrs. Chubb approved of such scandalous behavior, of course. Actually she couldn’t imagine why any woman would do it unless she had to. Nasty messy business, it was.
“Well, I ain’t going to be pregnant after I’ve taken this stuff,” Gertie said, tucking the bottle into the pocket of her apron.
“You hope.” Mrs. Chubb looked up at the clock on the mantel. “For heaven’s sake, Gertie, look at the time. Mrs. Parmentier will be waiting for her breakfast tray. You’re never going to get anything done if you don’t get on with it. And tell Ethel to get a move on. I swear that girl gets lazier every day.”
“I don’t know why the Black Widow can’t come down to breakfast like everyone else,” Gertie grumbled. “Every meal taken in her room, and it’s me what has to trudge up and down those stairs with her trays.”
“She’s in mourning,” Mrs. Chubb said, flinging open the door as a hint to Gertie to get moving. “New widows don’t mix with people, and you know it. Now go and tell Michel you’re ready to take up the tray.”
Gertie shuffled along to the kitchen, her mind on the bottle in her apron pocket. It had to work, she told herself as she pushed open the door. It had to. Much as she loved Ian, she wasn’t ready to marry him yet.
She wasn’t ready to marry anyone yet. She certainly wasn’t ready to have a baby. What did she know about babies? Probably powder the wrong end, knowing her.
Michel’s short temper did nothing to soothe her frazzled nerves. The chef had a habit of crashing the pots and pans around when he was in a bad mood, and every sound seemed to split her head open. She was glad when the tray was finally ready and she could escape from the steamy kitchen.
By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was out of breath. The heavy tray dragged on her shoulder muscles, and her arms ached, her back ached, and her legs ached. She just hoped the Black Widow appreciated the extra work she caused.
Balancing the tray on her knee, Gertie rapped on the door of Mrs. Parmentier’s suite. After a long wait, the door opened, slowly and cautiously, and the heavily veiled face slid into view.
“Your breakfast, ma’am,” Gertie said, hoisting the tray in the air. “Sorry it’s late.” Pain sped along her arms and down her back, but she managed to keep a smile fixed firmly on her face.
“That’s all right. Thank you,” Mrs. Parmentier said. She sounded as if she had a bad cold. The door opened wider, and two large hands took the tray from Gertie’s grasp.
Gertie tried valiantly not to think about those hands hauling her naked body out of the bathtub. She hoped the Black Widow wasn’t thinking about it, either.
She was about to turn away when the husky voice said, “I trust you are feeling better?”
“Not much,” Gertie said without thinking. Then it occurred to her that she should at least sound grateful for the woman’s help, even though it embarrassed her that the widow had mentioned the subject. “I appreciate you helping me, ma’am,” she said, hoping the widow wouldn’t make a big song and dance about it.
“Don’t mention it. I was happy to be of assistance.”
For a moment Gertie stared at the veiled face, wishing she could see what the woman looked like. Then a strange, creepy feeling crept over her, and she blurted out a hasty “Thank you, ma’am.”
Scooting down the landing to the stairs, she could feel the invisible eyes boring into her back, then she heard the door close quietly behind her. Her palms felt damp on the banister rail as she started down the stairs. That was one very strange woman.
In the dining room, Cecily finished her light breakfast of kippers and scrambled eggs, and sat sipping fragrant coffee served in a fragile demitasse that was part of the Pennyfoot’s elegant bone china tableware.
It was difficult to sit there in the quiet, elegant surroundings and think about the two men who had died so horribly. Yet the events kept playing over in her mind. The entire situation puzzled her a great deal.
She simply could not accept the possibility of either Madeline or Ian being responsible for the poisoning, though she could well understand the inspector’s suspicion of foul play. On the face of it, the source of the poison would have to come from the George and Dragon, since both men had died shortly after leaving there.
It didn’t seem likely that only two men had died such a swift and violent death, however, when several more had
apparently eaten the same food and drank the same beer. Then there was the discrepancy in the time of death. Taking all that into consideration, it seemed unlikely that the deaths could be coincidental.
On the other hand, if the two men had been murdered, that would mean they had been singled out. Which pointed to a connection between them of some sort. Maybe if she could pinpoint that connection, Cecily thought as she refilled her cup with the silver coffee pot, perhaps it would throw some light upon a possible suspect.
Still pondering the problem, she drained the cup and set it down on the saucer. As she did so, she caught sight of Baxter hovering in the doorway.
The second she saw his face, she knew he had brought bad news. Hurrying across the floor toward him, she could only guess at whatever it was he had to tell her.
“The library?” she asked as she reached him.
“If you wish, madam.” His gray eyes were full of concern, and Cecily grew even more worried. She had a dreadful feeling she knew what he was about to tell her.
She led the way to the library and shut the door behind them. “It’s Madeline, isn’t it,” she said before he could say a word.
Baxter nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so, madam. The police have taken Miss Pengrath into Wellercombe. They want to question her in connection with the deaths of Bickley and Donaldson.”
Phoebe hurried up the steps of the Pennyfoot Hotel, one hand holding on to the wide brim of her dove-gray hat. The stiff breeze had sprung up as she had reached the end of the Esplanade, and unprepared for it, she had neglected to anchor the hat securely enough.
In spite of its weight, it threatened to take flight with each tug of the mischievous wind. Phoebe had visions of it sailing over the railing into the ocean, off to parts unknown.
She was particularly fond of that hat. Dear Sedgely had bought it for her from Marshall and Snelgrove’s shortly
after their marriage. She had worn it to afternoon tea with the Duchess of Morden and received a very nice compliment from the gracious lady.
Although that was more years ago than she wanted to remember, she still felt that it suited her very well, with its tiny white silk roses and several yards of blue tulle. The white parrot was a nice touch, she had always thought, and looked quite lifelike. She almost expected it to talk.
The thought amused her, and she had a half smile on her face as she walked into the lobby of the hotel. She heard her name called almost immediately and, caught unawares, had turned in response to it before she had time to think twice.
She saw Mr. Baxter heading toward her, a look of grim determination on his face. To her intense consternation, that dreadful artist fellow trailed right behind him.
Feeling a distinct fluttering in the region of her heart, Phoebe hoped she would not faint. There seemed no escape now as the two men bore down on her. Taking a tight hold of her parasol just in case she should need it, she waited with bated breath.
“Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” Mr. Baxter announced to anyone within earshot, “I am so glad to see you. Mr. Rawlins has been begging to make your acquaintance, and I promised him an introduction. It was just by chance we happened to be in the lobby when you arrived.”
Really, Phoebe thought, eying the fragile figure of the artist with a mixture of distaste and suspicion. More like the despicable man was lying in wait for her. There was nothing for it but to condescend to an introduction. If she refused now, she would appear lacking in etiquette, a flaw that Phoebe would never allow.
As she had suspected, Sidney Rawlins looked to be in his early forties. Somewhat younger than her, in any case. His light blond hair hung far too low below his shoulders, and his shaggy beard hadn’t seen the blades of scissors since it was conceived.
As for his clothes … quite, quite dreadful. With that
shapeless velvet jacket and ill-fitting trousers, he looked as if he’d been dressed from the rag bag.
“Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” Mr. Baxter said in his pompous voice, “may I present to you Mr. Sidney Rawlins, celebrated artist of some renown and connoisseur of fine art.”
Doing her best to hide her revulsion, Phoebe offered her gloved fingertips. To her surprise, the artist took them and touched them gently with his lips. She was even more surprised when he spoke.
“Madam,” he said in an exquisite voice, “I am so honored to make your acquaintance.”
She was almost disarmed by that mellow tone, until she looked into his eyes. Dark brown, they were, and seemed to burn with a strange, fierce light. As she stared at them, she felt as if she were being drawn down a long, long passageway, faster and faster, helpless to stop as the walls rushed past her.
Her heart began pounding, and to her horror she felt drops of perspiration forming on her upper lip. The indignity of it jerked her out of her momentary trance. She snatched her hand back as if it had touched a steaming caldron.
“Mr. Rawlins,” she murmured breathlessly, flashing a beseeching look at Mr. Baxter, whose face bore no expression whatsoever.
“Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” Sidney Rawlins said in what could only be called bell-like tones, “I have an important matter I wish to discuss with you. I wonder if we could find a secluded corner where we might talk?”
Reluctant to stare into those mesmerizing eyes again, Phoebe stared at his beard in shocked outrage. A secluded corner? What did the man think she was, for heaven’s sake? A common street hussy in need of excitement? Looking directly at Mr. Baxter, and ignoring his companion, she said as haughtily as she could manage, “If you will excuse me, Mr. Rawlins, Mr. Baxter, I have urgent business to discuss with Mrs. Sinclair. I was on my way to her suite when you … waylaid me.”
She liked the sound of that word. It sounded discreet, yet
smacked of her disapproval at being subjected to speaking with such an odd, disreputable character. Hoping that Mr. Baxter understood her message, she swept around and with a rustle of silk headed quickly for the stairs.
Behind her, she heard Mr. Rawlins say urgently, “But, madam, I assure you—”
She wasn’t sure what the horrible man was assuring her of, since his words were cut off, presumably by Mr. Baxter’s warning hand. Thankful that she hadn’t had to deal with the problem by herself, Phoebe climbed the stairs a great deal faster than she was used to doing.
She was quite breathless when she reached the door of Cecily’s suite, though whether from exertion or aggravation she wasn’t quite sure.
Cecily viewed Phoebe’s flushed face with a certain amount of concern. In her opinion, Phoebe always wore her clothes too tight, not so much in the interest of fashion, which was beginning to advocate the looser corset, but in an attempt to preserve her tiny waist.
Under the royal-blue cloak that Phoebe wore, her full breasts rose up and down like a pair of bellows, and her hand fluttered incessantly in front of her face as she tried in vain to fan away the heat.
“My dear,” Cecily said in some alarm, “whatever has provoked you into such a state?”