A Merry Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  Cecily took a moment to remind herself that Sam Northcott was an officer of the law and she must treat him as such. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” she said. “It seems that Mazie has left the hotel.”

  Northcott attempted to hook his leg over his knee, winced, and lowered it again. “I see. So, when’s she coming back?”

  “It appears that she has no intention of returning. Charlotte informed me that Mazie’s belongings have left with her.”

  The constable tutted and shook his head. “Blast it. Now I’ll have to go and hunt her down.”

  “I’ll send a footman to her family home if you like. She may have gone back there.”

  “Nah. Just give me the address and I’ll go there myself.” He gave Cecily a hard look. “If she comes back here, I want to know right away.”

  “Yes, of course.” Cecily stood up and waited for Northcott to climb to his feet. “By the way, Sam, I was wondering about the scarf that was around the victim’s neck. I doubt very much that it belonged to Mazie. She could never afford such an extravagance. If you could perhaps indulge me, I would like to keep the scarf for a short while in the hopes of finding out to whom it belongs. I will return it to you as soon as possible, of course.”

  The constable rocked back on his heels—something he always did when he wanted to appear official. “Well, now, the scarf is evidence, and I shouldn’t let it out of my sight by rights.”

  “I understand that, Sam, but it seems to me that the scarf might belong to someone in this hotel, and if I could hunt down its owner, it could possibly lead us to Mazie’s whereabouts and save you a great deal of trouble.”

  The idea of lessening his labor apparently appealed to Northcott. After another moment’s hesitation, he drew the colorful scarf from his pocket and handed it to her. “There you go, Mrs. B. Take good care of it. It’s evidence, you know.”

  “I will guard it with my life,” Cecily promised. “Thank you, Sam.”

  With a nod, the constable moved to the door. “Well, I’ll be off, then. Be sure to give me a ring if that Mazie comes back here.”

  “I will, and Sam?”

  He was already halfway out the door, but he turned back to look at her. “Yes, m’m?”

  “I’d truly appreciate it if you would advise me of any developments in this case.”

  Northcott puffed out his chest. “I’ll tell you what I can, Mrs. B. That’s all I can promise.”

  “Then I shall have to be satisfied with that.”

  As the door closed behind him, Cecily sank onto her chair and held the scarf to her nose. Sam was right. The exquisite fragrance clung to the material as only really expensive perfume could do.

  Running the silky material through her fingers, she tried to get her thoughts in order. No matter how it looked, she couldn’t imagine Mazie ever having the gumption or the strength to pick up a flatiron and viciously strike another human being hard enough to kill him.

  Despite what she had said to Baxter, neither could she understand how Mazie could get herself intimately involved with a man so much older than herself. That whole scenario seemed preposterous. Staring at the filmy material, she shook her head. No, there was a lot more to this murder than what it seemed. She needed to talk to Mazie, and she needed to find the owner of the scarf in the hopes that it would lead to a more reasonable resolution. She was not about to allow Northcott to blast his way into a false arrest and conviction.

  She would summon a carriage and pay a visit to Mazie’s home. Knowing P.C. Northcott as well as she did, she was fairly confident he would take his time in continuing his investigation. The constable never hurried himself over anything, unless it was a visit to the Pennyfoot kitchen. If she could talk to the maid before Sam reached the girl, she might be able to find out exactly what had happened. Reaching back behind her, she tugged on the bell rope, then leaned back in her chair.

  She had to admit, she was feeling a surge of anticipation. It had been a while since she had been on the trail of a killer. Despite the anxiety of upsetting the guests and ruining the Christmas festivities, it felt good to be tackling another intriguing mystery.

  Cecily Sinclair Baxter was back in the hunt, and she could only hope that the outcome would be as fruitful in bringing a villain to justice as her past endeavors.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Charlie Muggins leaned his shoulder against the railings of the stall and stared into the dark brown eyes of the horse on the other side. “There’s still another hour or two to go before you get your feed, Champion, so you’ll just have to wait.”

  As if the horse understood him, the sleek animal turned his head and slowly twisted around to face the wall.

  Heaving a sigh, Charlie overturned a bucket and sat down on it. He missed Tess. Dogs were a lot more fun than horses. Dogs chased after balls, went on walks, and gave big sloppy kisses to show their love.

  Charlie glanced up at the horse. He’d had a lick on the face from Champion once. The horse’s tongue was so strong when it lashed him, he’d almost fallen on his arse. He’d steered clear of Champion’s jaws after that.

  Tess, now, well, that was a whole different ball of wax. He missed playing with the dog, burying his face in her soft fur, seeing her race toward him when he whistled, her tail thrashing back and forth like a fern caught in the wind.

  Tess was gone now. Her owners, Pansy and Samuel, no longer worked at the Pennyfoot. They’d moved out into their own little flat, taking Tess with them. Charlie stared gloomily at his feet. He never thought he could miss something as badly as he missed that dog.

  A slight movement in the shadows at the doorway to the stables caught his attention. Someone stepped out of the daylight and moved toward him—someone small and dainty and not in the least what a mechanic should look like.

  Charlie shoved himself to his feet. Henry Simmons was something else that confused him. The boy was a good mechanic, knew his stuff, and was quick about it, too. There was just something about him that made Charlie uncomfortable, and try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  It wasn’t as if the lad was disrespectful or antagonistic. Quite the opposite, in fact. Henry always listened to what Charlie had to say, and was so polite about it, he sometimes made Charlie grind his teeth.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe Henry was too persnickety and fussy. The lad needed to toughen up, to show some backbone, act more like a man.

  Charlie stared at the slender boy as he drew closer. Maybe what Henry needed was some guidance—some good old-fashioned lessons in what it takes to be a man in a cruel world. He’d seen it all in his twenty-five years on earth, and he was just the chap to teach him. After all, as stable manager, he was Henry’s boss and it was up to him to see that the lad received all the benefits of working with someone as worldly as Charlie Muggins.

  Henry halted in front of him and ran a nervous hand over his thick, blond hair. His voice was high-pitched and held a quiver of anxiety when he spoke. “Madam sent me to tell you that she needs a carriage right away.”

  Staring into the lad’s eyes, Charlie felt a familiar flutter under his ribs. Henry had the most expressive blue eyes. It was like looking into deep pools of warm, inviting water. In the next instant Charlie gave himself a violent mental shake. What the devil was he thinking? Why was it every time he looked into Henry’s eyes, he got this strange shiver in his gut? What were his senses trying to tell him?

  Realizing that Henry was waiting somewhat warily for him to answer, he cleared his throat. “Right you are, then. I’ll see to it.” He gestured toward the doorway with his thumb. “Meanwhile, you need to take a look at Lord Melton’s motorcar. His lordship says it’s making wacky noises.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlie studied the young face for a moment. “You don’t have to call me sir. I’ve told you before, everyone around here calls me Charlie.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.” Henry’s cheeks turned pink. “I mean, Charlie.”

  “Good.” Somehow the way Henry said his name made Charlie uncomfortable again. Once more he cleared his throat. “And where’s your cap? Didn’t I tell you you’re supposed to wear it when you’re working?”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry pulled a crumpled cap from his pocket and crammed it on his head.

  Sighing, Charlie gestured again with his thumb. “Get along with you, then. His lordship will be wanting that motorcar this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry scurried back to where three motorcars sat parked near the entrance to the stables.

  Charlie felt compelled to watch as Henry threw up the bonnet of the black Austin. Yes, he definitely needed to give the boy some lessons in becoming more manly. Heading over to the closest carriage, he began mentally creating the first lesson.

  Walking. That was the first step. Henry walked and ran like a girl. That one would be easy to remedy. He’d start that very evening, right after he’d finished work.

  Surprised at how much he was looking forward to the experience, he grabbed the shafts of the carriage and dragged it over to Champion’s stall. He was anxious now to get the day over with and start turning Henry Simmons into a real man.

  * * *

  • • •

  Having been informed that her carriage awaited her at the front steps of the hotel, Cecily made her way to the lobby, where she found her husband in a somewhat irritable exchange with the reception manager.

  Philip Lamont had been hired against Baxter’s unsolicited advice. “He’s too old and senile,” he’d told Cecily when she’d announced the hiring of the new employee. “He’ll get confused and make a mess of the reservations, and we’ll have too many guests to accommodate or not enough guests to fill the rooms.”

  “Philip managed a bank in London for forty years,” Cecily had informed him. “That should count for something. He intended to retire in Badgers End, where he grew up, but since he’s never married, he got desperately lonely. He badly needs interaction with people, and he’s a personable and intelligent man. I believe he will perform with excellence behind the reception desk.”

  She’d been a little too optimistic about Philip’s competence, but so far he’d avoided any real catastrophes. He tended to nap at inopportune moments, and he was somewhat vague when questioned about the hotel’s amenities, but he was polite and accommodating with the guests and kept an efficient set of books, and that was enough to satisfy Cecily.

  Right now, the manager seemed a bit put out as he stared up at Baxter. One hand kept straying to his head, where he stroked the few white hairs he had left, while the other constantly shifted spectacles farther up his thin nose.

  “All I asked you was how many more guests are due to arrive for Christmas.” Baxter folded his arms and puffed out his chest. “It’s a simple question, old man. You don’t have to make a big performance out of it.”

  Philip tapped on the open hotel register. “It’s all in there, sir. You can see for yourself.”

  “I don’t want to see for myself. I want you to tell me.”

  Suspecting that her husband was testing the manager, Cecily smiled as she reached his side. “There you are, darling. Would you be a lamb and take a look at the ballroom? Madeline said she would be finished decorating it for the welcome ball tonight, and I want to make sure it’s ready.”

  Madeline had already left the hotel, but it was the only excuse Cecily could think of to rescue Philip from her husband’s scrutiny. To her relief, Baxter looked only too happy to oblige. He was halfway across the lobby before she realized she hadn’t told him of her plan to visit Mazie’s home.

  Shrugging off her concern, she smiled at Philip, who was still looking disgruntled. She pulled the scarf from her pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Someone must have left this behind,” she told him. “Most likely one of your guests. Do you happen to recognize it?”

  Frowning, Philip peered through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Well, now, m’m. It does seem to me that I’ve seen that scarf somewhere before.”

  Cecily’s pulse quickened. “You saw it on a guest?”

  “I think so, m’m.” Philip stretched out a hand. “May I have it for a moment?”

  Cecily handed the scarf to him and watched him run it through his fingers. Then he lifted it to his nose. “Mmm. It smells divine.”

  “Yes, I had noticed that. Do you remember to whom it belongs?”

  Philip seemed engrossed in the material’s fragrance and didn’t answer right away.

  Cecily raised her voice. “Philip?”

  He lowered the scarf and gave her a look of reproach. “I’m thinking, m’m. I’m thinking.”

  “Well, try to think a little faster. I have a carriage waiting for me outside.”

  Philip sniffed at the fabric once more and handed it back to her. “I think I remember someone leaving it on my desk the other day. I was going to give it to you, but then some guests arrived and I don’t remember seeing it after that.”

  “Do you remember who left it? Can you describe this person?”

  Philip rubbed a sparse eyebrow with trembling fingers. After several aggravating seconds he murmured, “I’m sorry, m’m. I can’t remember.” He brightened a little. “It was a woman! I do remember that.”

  Cecily tucked the scarf back into the pocket of her skirt. “Thank you, Philip. I shall bear that in mind when I’m searching for its owner.” Resisting the urge to shake her head, she walked briskly across the lobby and out the doors.

  The cold breeze from the ocean hit her in the face as she descended the steps to the street. Charlie stood at the curb, engulfed in a red and white striped scarf that covered the lower half of his face. He removed his cap as she approached and sprung forward to open the carriage door for her.

  “Bit brisk this morning, m’m,” he said, his voice muffled by the scarf. “Looks like it’s trying to snow.”

  She smiled at him as she stepped up into the carriage. “Well, I hope it waits until we have returned.”

  “Yes, m’m. So do I.” He shut the door and climbed up onto his seat. Picking up the reins, he clicked his tongue at Champion and the horse started forward, jerking the carriage behind him.

  Cecily always enjoyed the ride along the Esplanade, in spite of the snowflakes dancing in the wind. Fortunately, it was not quite cold enough for the snow to settle, and Champion trotted briskly along the seafront, while the carriage rolled smoothly along with just the slightest rattle of its wheels.

  In the summer the beach would be crammed with deck chairs, where ladies lounged with parasols and some gentlemen draped knotted handkerchiefs over their heads to protect themselves from the sun. Children would be racing in and out of the crowds, chasing balls or flying kites, or squatting in front of the Punch and Judy show.

  Cecily smiled at the memories. How she loved the seaside in summertime. Everyone seemed to be so carefree and relaxed, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. Once the cold weather arrived, the beach stretched out toward the towering cliffs, bleak and lonely, with only the seagulls and oystercatchers to give it life.

  Today the heaving ocean reflected the gray skies, and a lonely seagull circled above the deserted sands, hoping to spot a morsel of food. Cecily watched as the frothy waves raced across the sand, depositing seashells and seaweed before retreating back into the ocean.

  The wind jolted the carriage, and she drew her navy blue cloak closer around her throat. Thank goodness she had securely fastened her hat with pins; otherwise the wind would catch the wide brim and toss it from her head.

  Mazie’s family farm lay on the other side of town, and Cecily had instructed Charlie to take the route through the High Street. Normally he would have taken the longer road over the cliffs to avoid the traffic, but this was Christmastime, and Cecily loved to see the shops all decked o
ut in their holiday finery.

  Gazing out the window as they trotted down the busy street, she admired the boughs of holly and cedar hanging on the doors, some decorated with red ribbons, others with brightly colored balls and stars. Ducks and geese hung by their feet in the butcher’s windows, and an elderly man stood on one corner, offering hot chestnuts from his can of burning coals.

  Every shop window celebrated the Christmas season, with decorations and toys, snow made of cotton wool, and small trees covered in baubles and glitter. Housewives trudged along the pavements, carrying baskets loaded with packages tied with red or green ribbon, bags of food, and bottles of spirits.

  Leaning back, Cecily let out a sigh. There could be no brighter time of the year than the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Now, if she could just solve this murder, and get all that nonsense out of the way, she could relax and enjoy the coming festivities.

  A short time later the carriage drew up outside a rather dilapidated fence. Charlie jumped down from his perch, walked around in front of Champion’s head, and opened the gate. They drove through and halted again on the other side while Charlie closed the gate behind them, then proceeded up the rutted pathway to the farmhouse.

  The house itself was rather small, compared to most farms Cecily had visited. There were three outlying barns, and a couple of bedraggled fields beyond, while a noisy henhouse sat a few yards away. Faded curtains hung at the windows of the farmhouse, and the door needed a coat of paint.

  By the time Cecily had stepped down from the carriage, a worried-looking woman wearing a checkered apron over her gray frock stood in the open doorway.

  Charlie’s face also reflected concern as Cecily stepped forward and called out, “Mrs. Clarke? I’m Cecily Baxter, owner of the Pennyfoot Hotel. I’d like a word with you concerning your daughter, Mazie.”