She reached the stairs and paused, her inner voice telling her that if she went back to the kitchen empty-handed, the housekeeper would simply shout at her and send her right back upstairs again.
Sighing, she retraced her steps back to number nine and pounded on the door. Taking her by surprise, it swung open, banged against something, and swung back to rap her raised knuckles.
“Ouch!” She jammed her knuckles in her mouth and glared at the offending door. Expecting any minute to see the disagreeable old man scowling at her in the doorway, she braced herself for the confrontation.
Seconds ticked by while she nursed her bruised knuckles, her stomach tying itself up in knots. When she heard no movement from inside the room, she took a tentative step forward. “Mr. Mortimer?”
No answer. Taking a deep breath, she spoke louder. “Are you in there, Mr. Mortimer?”
Still no answer.
She waited a moment or two longer, wondering if she should go and fetch Mrs. Chubb. What if he’d died in his sleep? What if he wasn’t the Mayfair Murderer after all, but had been killed by him? Thinking about Samuel’s face that afternoon, she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she did not want to go in there and find a dead body.
Once more she plodded back down the hallway, only to halt again at the top of the stairs. She didn’t have to look at him. All she had to do was creep in there and pick up the tray. Someone else could go and see if he was all right, but at least she wouldn’t be yelled at for not bringing down the tray. Maybe if she took the tray down, she’d be forgiven for not making sure the old man was all right.
Turning back, she clenched her fingers into tight balls and crept back to the open door. If only someone else would come along right about now. She looked hopefully down the corridor, but all she could see were the dancing shadows of light from the gas lamps.
There was nothing for it but to go in there and get the flipping tray. Steeling herself, she pushed the door open wider and stepped into the darkened room.
Blinking, she peered at the bed. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but it didn’t look as if anyone was lying down. She caught her breath. What if he was on the floor? She couldn’t see properly. She could step on him and fall over him.
The thought of being tangled up on the floor with a dead man was just too horrible to contemplate. She backed away, then paused. The tray had to be somewhere. Could it possibly be on the floor?
She stretched out a foot and tapped the toe of her shoe in front of her. Seconds later she was rewarded with the chink of china. Relief made her giddy, and she stooped to reach for the tray, blindly feeling around in the dark.
Her fingers touched a cup and sent it crashing onto its side. She froze, expecting to hear a grunt of annoyance from somewhere. The silence stretched on, and she let out her breath. Praying the cup wasn’t cracked or broken, she felt for the edges of the tray, picked it up, and backed to the door, the cup rolling noisily around in its saucer.
Backing out into the hallway, she was never so thankful to see gaslight in all her life. Stooping again, she laid the tray on the floor, closed the door, then reached for the tray again. That’s when she saw the crumpled ball of paper.
It sat in the middle of the dinner plate, nestled against a lump of mashed potatoes. The old man had cleared everything else off his plate. He must have thrown the paper on the floor, forgetting the tray was there.
Pansy tried to ignore the paper, but she could see writing on it, and being the curious type, she was finding it terribly difficult to pretend it wasn’t there.
If she took the tray to the kitchen, she would be expected to scrape the food off the plate and into the stove, paper and all. Then she’d never know what was written on it.
Down the stairs she went, holding the tray in front of her, eyes firmly on the steps so she wouldn’t trip up. She reached the bottom and crossed the lobby. All was quiet, and no one was around. Maybe if she took a quick peep.
Pausing by the hall stand, she rested the tray on the shelf and held it there with her stomach while she picked up the rumpled ball of paper. Unfolding it, she smoothed it out against the hall stand mirror.
At first she couldn’t make out the scrawled words, but then gradually one by one, they became clear. Stunned, she read them a second time, then shrieked and dropped the note. It fluttered to the floor, and she stooped to pick it up, forgetting the tray. Bone china plates, cup, and saucer slid off and fell to the floor with a crash and a thud.
She didn’t even stop to pick up the pieces. She left it all there, lying on the floor of the lobby, and fled down the stairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Chubb swung around, her mouth dropping open as Pansy burst through the door, while Michel smacked a saucepan down with a muttered, “Sacre bleu!”
“It’s him,” Pansy said, panting. “Here, look!” She held out the note in shaking fingers. “Look at this. I told you that horrible man in room nine is the Mayfair Murderer! Look! I was right!”
“I think I should have Mr. Docker and his men come back to inspect the rest of the roof,” Cecily announced.
Baxter, seated on his favorite chair in their suite, looked up from his newspaper. “I thought they had finished the repairs.”
“On that section, yes.” Cecily took a dainty sip from her glass of sherry and put down the glass. “But I thought I saw a stain on the ceiling above the attic stairs, and I would like the roofers to look at it before it gets to be a bigger problem. Then it would cost twice as much for repairs.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
“I’ll ring for them first thing in the morning.” She picked up the book lying next to her and opened it at her bookmark.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after Christmas?”
She looked up again to find Baxter staring at her over the top of his newspaper. “I beg your pardon, dear?”
“I said, it might be better to wait until after the guests go home. We have so much going on, what with the pantomime tomorrow, and the carol singing in the library Christmas Eve, not to mention Christmas Day and the hunt on Boxing Day.”
“Yes, we do.” She smiled at him. “But a leaky roof can cause all sorts of problems, and I’d like to be sure that we won’t have to worry about rain-soaked beds while our guests are sleeping in them.”
“And this wouldn’t have anything to do with the unfortunate deaths of our servants, I suppose?”
Cecily opened her eyes wide. “Goodness! Whatever gave you that idea?”
Baxter grunted, but just then a light tap on the door turned his head. “Good Lord, what now?”
“Probably someone come to collect our trays.” She raised her voice to call out, “Come in!”
The door opened, and much to Cecily’s surprise, Mrs. Chubb poked her head around the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, m’m. May I have a quick word with you?”
“Oh, do come in,” Baxter said, rattling his newspaper. “There’s a dreadful draft coming through the door.”
The housekeeper hastily stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Moving forward, she fished a stained and creased sheet of paper out of her apron pocket. “I thought you might want to see this, m’m.”
Cecily took it from her and peered at it. Holding it farther away from her eyes, she read the words out loud. “Hide dagger in drawer by bed and wait until victim is asleep. Stab in neck, then leave by window.”
“Good Lord!” Baxter put down his newspaper and stared at the housekeeper. Leaning forward, he took the note from his wife’s fingers. “Where did you get this?”
“Pansy found it, sir. In the mashed potatoes. That’s why it’s a bit messy.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows, while Baxter frowned. “In the mashed potatoes? What the devil does that mean?”
“It was on Mr. Mortimer’s dinner plate, sir.”
Cecily caught her breath. “In room nine?”
“Yes, m’m.” Mrs. Chubb wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. “Pansy
went up to fetch his tray and this was on it. I thought you should see it right away.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Chubb. We will take care of this. Try not to worry and please don’t alarm the staff. It could mean nothing at all.”
“Yes, m’m.” The housekeeper moved to the door, then paused. “Pansy thinks he’s the Mayfair Murderer, m’m.”
Cecily tried to ignore the little thump of fear under her ribs. “I doubt that very much, Mrs. Chubb. Please tell Pansy not to mention this to another soul.”
“I will, m’m, though Gertie overheard her, as did two of the maids. And Michel.”
“Oh, dear. Well, do try to keep it among yourselves.” Cecily waited until the door closed behind her housekeeper before turning to Baxter. “What do you think?”
Baxter stared at the note, turning it this way and that as if hoping to see something different in the menacing words. “I don’t know what to think. Mortimer is a strange old chap, but he doesn’t strike me as particularly dangerous.”
“Me, neither.” Cecily gazed uneasily at the note in her husband’s hands. “Then again, I have been acquainted with enough murderers to know that appearances can be deceiving.”
“Indubitably.” Baxter shook his head. “I suppose we should pass this along to the inspector.”
“Not yet.” Cecily pulled the note from his hands and folded it up. “It could all be quite innocent, and if so, Mr. Mortimer could be embarrassed by some unwarranted attention from the constabulary. I should hate to put one of our esteemed guests through that, only to find out he is perfectly innocent. It would not look well for our reputation.”
Baxter sighed. “How did I know you were going to say that? Now, I suppose, you are going to place yourself in dire peril in order to find out if Mortimer is indeed a serial killer. After all, who goes around scribbling reminders of how to do away with someone without being caught?”
“I admit, it does look rather troubling.” Cecily leaned forward and patted her husband’s hand. “I shall take great care not to confront Mr. Mortimer unless I’m certain he can do me no harm.”
“I don’t know how you can be certain of that,” Baxter muttered, as he picked up his newspaper again. “I can only hope that you know what you are doing and that Mortimer is harmless.”
Cecily couldn’t agree more.
CHAPTER 12
Cecily awoke early the next morning from a restless sleep, and climbed out of bed leaving Baxter snoring under the covers.
The coals in the fireplace were down to their last embers, and she used the tongs to transfer several small lumps from the coal scuttle to the fire, then gently stoked them until flames began to lick around them.
Drawing her dressing gown closer around her, she walked over to the window. Tiny flakes of snow were blowing about in the wind, but the ground was wet and the lawns still green, relieving her mind. The last thing she needed right now was a snowfall to hamper her efforts.
She dressed quickly, and Baxter had just begun to stir by the time she was ready to go down to her office. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in the dining room,” she told him, and hurried from the room before he could enquire about her haste.
Reaching her office she rang the operator and asked to be put through to Mick Docker. He seemed surprised to be hearing from her so early in the morning. When she told him she needed his services again, however, he seemed only too happy to oblige her.
She had barely finished entering invoices in her ledger when she heard the breakfast bell. Baxter was waiting for her when she entered the dining room. Seated at their customary corner table, he hid behind the daily newspaper as usual.
He lowered it when she greeted him, and rose to pull out her chair for her. Having seated her, he sat down again, his face a mask of apprehension.
Cecily removed her serviette from its silver ring and spread it on her lap. “Bad news?”
He didn’t answer her right away, and she felt a shiver of uneasiness. “Bax? What’s wrong?”
He tried to smile, but she could see his features were tight with tension. “I was just reading about that dratted Mayfair Murderer.”
“Oh? Have they caught him?” She felt a wave of reassurance. Until that moment she hadn’t realized she had actually considered the idea that Mr. Mortimer might be the villain for whom all of Scotland Yard was hunting.
Her relief was short-lived, however, when Baxter shook his head. “As a matter of fact, there have been no more murders committed by him in some time. They think it’s entirely possible that he has left the city.”
Cecily’s craving for the bacon, sausage, and fried tomatoes she’d been looking forward to suddenly disappeared. “Oh?” she said again, only far more faintly this time. “Have they had no murders at all in London, then?”
“None, apparently, with the trademark of the infamous serial killer.”
“Perhaps he has changed his trademark,” Cecily said, clinging to a faint ray of hope.
“Unlikely. He has used the same method and left the same memento with over a dozen other murders. According to the chief inspector, serial killers almost always stick to the same routine.”
“Then it can’t possibly be our killer. He has left no memento of any kind.”
Baxter looked worried. “I hadn’t even considered that possibility. I suppose there’s always the exception to the rule.”
“Oh, my.” Cecily grasped her throat, the macabre words on the stained sheet of paper racing through her mind.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Baxter leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I think we must talk to Inspector Cranshaw and tell him what we have found.”
“Not yet. Not until I’ve talked to Mr. Mortimer.” Seeing his stubborn frown, she laid her hand on his. “We can hardly accuse one of our guests of being a mass murderer without evidence of the fact.”
“I should think mere suspicion would be enough to warrant a report to the constabulary. You are playing a dangerous game, my dear, and I fear not only for your safety but for that of everyone here in the Pennyfoot as well.”
“I promise you, Bax, I will be careful. I shall not rest, however, until I have discovered who is responsible for the deaths of Charlie and Ellie. I owe it to them to bring their killer to justice.”
Baxter was prevented from answering as Pansy arrived at the table with a tray. She looked pale and sleepy as she unloaded bowls of steaming porridge and a covered platter, which she laid in the center of the table.
Guessing her maid hadn’t slept well, Cecily gave her a sympathetic smile. “I hope you are feeling a little better this morning, Pansy?”
“Yes, m’m, thank you.” Pansy hesitated, then added, “I had bad dreams last night. I kept imagining Ellie lying in the leaves, her eyes all wide and staring.”
“Shsh!” Baxter glanced over at the next table, where Sir Walter sat in earnest conversation with his wife. “We are trying to keep all that quiet.”
“Sorry, sir. It slipped out.” She bent her knees in a swift curtsey and hurried off, holding the empty tray at her side.
“Poor Pansy.” Cecily gazed after her. “It must have been such a dreadful shock.”
“Well, I just hope she keeps her mouth closed about it all. The last thing we need is for the guests to find out.”
Cecily nodded in agreement, though she didn’t have much hope of keeping the news a secret. People let things slip, just as Pansy had done, and sooner or later the word would spread. Her only hope was to find out who was responsible as quickly as possible, before the killer could strike again.
Pansy shivered as she crossed the yard to the coal shed. The dark gray skies overhead threatened rain, or even snow. Clutching her shawl to her neck she leaned into the wind, the coal bucket swinging in her hand.
She had almost reached the door of the shed when a heavy hand descended on her shoulder, squeezing so hard she cried out in pain.
Lenny’s face loomed in front of her, his mouth twisted in an ugly smile. “So the
re you are. I wondered when you’d turn up again.”
Pansy drew back, trying to break the cruel grip on her shoulder. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I’m working here, aren’t I.” His chuckle sent shivers of fear down her back. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. I’ll be here for the whole day, maybe two.”
Again she tried to shrug him off, but he only gripped her tighter. She looked about, hoping to catch sight of Clive, or better yet, Samuel, but the yard and the lawns beyond were deserted. Glaring up into Lenny’s grinning face, she said loudly, “Let me go, or I’ll scream and someone will come running.”
“I don’t think so.” He brought his nose down to hers. “You owe me, you little bitch. You were supposed to meet me yesterday afternoon. I waited nearly an hour for you.”
“I was busy, wasn’t I.” She met his gaze squarely. “It wasn’t my fault. It’s Christmastime and all of us have extra work.”
“Yeah, extra work running off into the woods with your boyfriend?”
Startled, she tried to back away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” He pulled her closer to him and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I saw you, in the woods with your boyfriend when you were supposed to be with me.”
She stared up at him. “How could you have seen me in the woods if you waited an hour for me?”
“I saw you on me way home, didn’t I. Though I have to say, you didn’t look too happy. If you ask me, you were crying. See? That’s what you get for going off with some country lout instead of coming out with me.”
Once more she struggled to be free, her fear gradually turning to anger. “It’s none of your business what I do, so there. Now let me go before I scream for help.”
“You won’t scream, ducky. I know what you want, and I’m the one to give it to you.”
He bent his face closer, and desperate now, Pansy swung the bucket as hard as she could against his head. It made a dreadful clanging noise as it hit, and Lenny pulled back with a look of surprise and let her go.
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