“In a moment,” Phoebe puffed, staggering toward a chair. She plopped down on it far too hard to be genteel, and Cecily raised her eyebrows. This wasn’t like Phoebe at all.
She sat herself down on a dark red velvet chair and waited for her friend to catch her breath. After a while, when Phoebe continued to pant and wheeze, Cecily said tentatively, “Perhaps if you loosened your corset?”
Phoebe’s breath refueled in a rush. “This has nothing to do with my attire,” she said tersely. “In any case, I never loosen my corset until I retire to my bed. A woman can lose her figure so quickly once she starts to let herself go.”
Cecily didn’t say so, of course, but she knew what the remark implied. Phoebe had never approved of Cecily’s
habit of doing without a corset. In Phoebe’s eyes, that was sacrilege to the attributes the Good Lord had seen fit to bestow on women in general and Phoebe Carter-Holmes in particular.
Refusing to let the words rankle, Cecily said mildly, “As you wish. But I would like to know what has upset you to the point of seizure.”
“That dreadful creature, that’s what … who,” Phoebe said, clutching her still-heaving breast. “Can you imagine, the brute actually wanted to get me into a dark corner somewhere. With Mr. Baxter standing right there, if you please. Thank heavens he was there. If not, I dread to think what would have become of me. I can’t imagine what he was thinking of, introducing a lady of my background to that despicable degenerate.”
A glimmer of understanding penetrated the fog. Cecily smiled. “Baxter introduced you to Sidney Rawlins?”
“He most certainly did. I can’t imagine why. All the man wanted was to get me off somewhere so he can have his way with me.”
Cecily had a great deal of trouble keeping her face straight. “Are you quite sure of his intentions? I really don’t think—”
“Ah, that’s the trouble, you see. It would seem that neither you nor Mr. Baxter have given this much thought. You both seem to have been taken in by this creature. You only have to look at the man to see what he is. Those terrible eyes, all that hair, those dreadful clothes …” Phoebe shook her head as if words failed her.
Cecily was about to reply when Phoebe leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, “He doesn’t even trim his beard. Can you imagine? He probably hasn’t bathed in months.”
“I think I would know if that were true,” Cecily said, promising herself she would have a stern word with Baxter for ignoring her advice.
“Well, I must say, this entire episode has left my nerves
in a most delicate state. What with this and the news about Madeline—”
“News? Have you heard anything new?”
Phoebe looked taken aback by Cecily’s concern. “Only that Inspector Cranshaw has asked her to go to Wellercombe to answer some questions. ‘Helping them with their inquiries,’ was the phrase I heard. Most likely advising them on poisonous plants, I should think.”
News traveled fast, Cecily thought, deciding not to worry Phoebe with her own fears. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”
“I don’t know about you,” Phoebe said, reaching into her handbag for a handkerchief, “but I could do with a strong cup of tea and one of Dolly’s pastries. Would you care to accompany me? I do believe it’s my turn to treat.”
They could just as easily have afternoon tea in the hotel, Cecily thought. But she felt depressed over the plight of her friend and her own inability to help her. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would do her good.
“I’ll be happy to join you,” she said, getting to her feet. “Give me a moment to freshen my face.” Leaving Phoebe alone, she crossed the room to her boudoir and closed the door behind her.
Dolly’s Tea Shop had few customers when Cecily and Phoebe arrived there later. Louise graciously seated them, then left them alone to chat while she went to prepare their tray.
For once, Phoebe had nothing to say about the quiet-spoken assistant. After mulling aloud over her choice of pastries, she sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief.
“This is so pleasant just sitting here and relaxing,” she said, smoothing each glove up her arm. “Such a nice refined atmosphere. I really don’t know what we would do without the tea shop. It’s a haven away from all the turmoil going on outside. So safe and cozy.”
Watching the flames in the huge fireplace leap for the chimney, Cecily felt inclined to agree with her friend. In the first few months after James had died, she had been most
reluctant to leave the hotel. Finally she had allowed Phoebe to persuade her to return to the tea shop, and after her long absence, Cecily had felt as though she had returned to the home of dear friends.
It was almost as familiar to her as her own home had been, before she’d been forced to sell it and move into the Pennyfoot. The china jugs and vases on the wide mantelpiece, the decorative plates balanced on the picture rail, the large copper coal scuttle standing in the hearth, and the polished brass fender with the dent in the right-hand corner were all implanted in her memory since she had been a small child kneeling on a chair to reach the table.
She started as a strident voice declared, “I’m happy to see some people are not scared off by the goings-on in the village.”
Looking up into Dolly’s florid face, Cecily said quietly, “I do hope these incidents haven’t had an effect on your business.”
Dolly’s fleshy shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Aye, there’s always some as frighten easily. I’ll be glad when they catch whoever done it, that’s for sure. All this talk of poisoning, people’ll be afraid to eat anything. It could close me down, that’s what.”
“Well, it seems as if you might lose quite a few of your customers, anyway,” Phoebe said as Louise arrived with the loaded tray and set it on the table. “There’s talk of the workmen returning to London now that work has stopped on the lighthouse. They say it could be some time before the equipment can be replaced.”
Louise made a tutting noise. “We won’t miss them nearly as much as the George and Dragon will. That’s where they spend all their money. If you ask me, the owner should be grateful for all that extra business, instead of complaining all the time. He’s done nothing but stir up trouble ever since I’ve been there. I’ll be glad when I can move into the cottage. All that brawling and carrying on is most disconcerting.”
Dolly nodded. “It can get on your nerves, duck, when
you’re not used to that sort of behavior. You’ll be a lot better off when you’re in that cottage.” She slapped her hands on her ample hips, sending a cloud of flour into the air. “Well, I can’t stand here gossiping all day. If I don’t make some more pastries, I’ll be losing what customers I’ve got left.”
With a cheery wave of her hand she stomped back to the kitchen, leaving Louise to serve the tea.
“When will you be moving into the cottage?” Cecily asked, watching the steady stream of brown liquid pour into her cup.
“At the end of the month, I’m told,” Louise answered. She set the teapot back on its stand. “It can’t be soon enough for me.”
“Have you looked at the cottage?” Cecily asked, reaching for her cup.
Louise nodded. “I went over it very thoroughly, I can tell you. I’m fussy about where I live.”
“I take it there wasn’t a need for repairs, then?”
The assistant looked at her, clearly puzzled. “Repairs? Not at all.”
Cecily sipped the tea, then set her cup down. “I merely wondered, that’s all. I seem to have heard somewhere that there was a possibility of someone breaking into the cottage the night that Mr. Bickley died.”
Louise looked shocked. “Oh, my, no. I’m quite sure of that. All the windows and doors have heavy locks and bolts, and nothing was broken, or I would surely have seen it.”
“Does it concern you,” Phoebe said, “inhabiting a cottage where a man has so recently died?”
“Not at all.” Louise plopped two lumps of sugar into Phoebe’s cup. “The man has no doubt paid for his sins. I have to atone only for mine. As we all do.”
For a moment Phoebe looked taken aback by this statement. “I’m sure that’s a comforting thought,” she murmured.
“I can assure you I shall enjoy the peace and quiet of Hawthorne Lane, after the ruckus I’ve had to put up with.”
“It must be dreadful,” Phoebe said, narrowing her eyes.
“So distressing to have to put up with such ribald revelry. I’m quite sure you’re used to more refined surroundings.”
She waited hopefully, smiling up at Louise’s face in encouragement. Her disappointment was evident in her expression when Louise merely nodded. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Thank you, but I believe we have sufficient for now,” Cecily said, placing her serviette on her lap.
Louise backed away and returned to the counter, where a large burly man stood waiting to be served.
Phoebe shook her head. “I really do feel so sorry for the woman,” she said in a low voice. “Must be absolutely dreadful for her.”
Cecily agreed, then deliberately changed the subject. She had far more urgent problems on her mind than the plight of Louise Atkins.
Cecily’s anxiety increased considerably when she returned to the hotel. Shortly after she’d arrived in her suite, Gertie tapped on her door with a message from Baxter, requesting a meeting with her in the library.
He was waiting for her when she walked in there several minutes later. She knew at once he had bad news.
“I’m sorry, madam,” he said as he sat down at the end of the table, “but I have just received a message from Wellercombe. It seems that Inspector Cranshaw has seen fit to detain Miss Pengrath overnight. There is no word as to when or if she will be released.”
“I see.” She had feared as much. Cecily stared up at the portrait of James, hoping to gain strength from his beloved image. “We will have to get in touch with my solicitor in the morning. Will you please have a message sent to him first thing?”
“Of course, madam. I have already taken the liberty of informing Messrs. Thompson, Thompson and Croft of the circumstances, and the possibility that you might wish to obtain their services in this matter.”
“Thank you, Baxter.” She smiled. “What would I do without you?”
Baxter cleared his throat and stretched his neck. “I would hope, madam, that at least in the near future you will not be in the position of doing without me.”
“So would I, Bax,” Cecily said softly, “so would I.”
Taking pity on his discomfort, she changed the subject. “I find this entire situation a puzzle. Two men dead, with the same symptoms, apparently from the same cause. Except for one interesting fact. The time it took them to die. I’m afraid that is the one factor that makes things look so black for Madeline.”
Baxter rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “I wonder if perhaps Bickley took something home with him from the pub to eat later?”
Cecily shook her head. “According to Ian, there were several witnesses who swore that Colin Bickley ate nothing at the George and Dragon. After he ate at Madeline’s, he wasn’t hungry. And if he took something home from Madeline’s, then we are back to suspicion being pointed at her.”
“It could have been an accident,” Baxter said gently.
“Twice? I doubt it. And the police certainly would question such a coincidence. No, I have to believe the poison was in the beer. But if so, why was only one man affected by it, and the next night, one more?”
“It would certainly appear that someone deliberately poisoned the beer.”
“Undoubtedly.” Cecily sighed. “But then, according to Dr. McDuff, death is instant in this type of poisoning. So how is it that Colin Bickley was able to walk for half an hour, with no visible signs of distress, and then die several minutes later after he’d arrived home?”
“He must have ingested the poison inside his own home.”
“Perhaps. But that would mean someone would have to break into the cottage and place the poison there.”
Baxter’s eyebrows lifted. “I wonder if the police have considered this theory.”
“Most likely not, if it was left to Northcott. Not that it matters. Louise Atkins has assured me there was no sign of a break-in at the cottage when she inspected it.” She rose, signaling the end of the discussion. “It’s unfortunate that Dr. McDuff can be so specific about the cause of poisoning. Had it not been for the diagnosis of larkspur as the culprit, the police might not have been so ready to accuse Madeline.”
“The doctor is certain of his conclusion?”
Cecily nodded. “Apparently the blue tinge to the skin of the victims confirmed it.” She frowned as a picture popped into her mind—a vision of Colonel Fortescue, waxed mustache quivering with excitement as he related one of his bizarre tales.
Something he said … ah, she had it now. She remembered quite clearly.
Reminds me of the time I saw a chap turn blue. Went down like a felled elephant. Died right where he stood, they said. One minute he was chipper, the next he was writhing on the ground
.
“Excuse me, Baxter,” she said, heading for the door, “but I need to find Colonel Fortescue. For once I want to listen to one of his stories.”
An unusual silence prevailed in the public bar of the George and Dragon as Ian stood poised, a dart balanced expertly between his thumb and first two fingers. He needed a double top to finish. Double twenty to win the game.
Surrounded by several workmen, all with a foaming pint mug clutched in their fists, Ian narrowed his eyes. The tiny strip on the outside edge of the circle looked very thin. But he knew he could do it. It was all in the wrist.
He was a bit nervous now. His first throw had gone wide. He’d aimed a little high, afraid of landing the dart on an odd number and messing up the score. Now he was down to two
chances. Just two darts. He lowered his hand a fraction, aimed carefully, and with a flick of his wrist let fly.
The dart thudded into the cork, right on the wire. Dick Scroggins stepped up to the board. “It’s out,” he announced, provoking groans from Ian’s teammates and a cheer from his opponent.
Ian felt a twinge of apprehension. All this talk of murder had unsettled his nerves. He needed to concentrate. His fingers smoothed the feathered flights, and he stood for a moment, focusing on the task at hand. Then he drew the familiar aroma of pipe smoke and beer into his nostrils, twitched his nose, blinked his eyes, and took aim again.