PH02 - Do Not Disturb (2 page)
Cecily raised her eyebrows. “All three bathrooms?”
“All three.” Baxter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry, madam.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s not your fault. Thank you, Baxter.”
Instead of leaving, Baxter remained where he was, an odd expression on his face.
Cecily frowned. “Was there something else?”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d heard, madam. About the foreman of the lighthouse project?”
Madeline sat up straight as Cecily continued to gaze at her manager. “What about the foreman, Baxter?”
“He’s dead, madam. They found him lying outside his
cottage this morning. Apparently he died of a heart attack.”
Since Cecily didn’t know the man in question personally, Baxter’s news wasn’t all that startling. What was startling was Madeline’s reaction to it. With a strangled cry she leapt to her feet, one hand clutching her throat. Then, without a word she fled from the room, leaving the rest of the occupants staring after her in surprise.
“Well!” Phoebe exclaimed, fluttering her handkerchief in front of her face. “Whatever is the matter with her, I do wonder?”
Cecily privately wondered the same thing, though all she said was, “You know how sensitive Madeline is. She is devastated if she finds a dead bird.”
“A dead bird, yes.” Phoebe sniffed. “However, I have yet to see Madeline display such lavish emotion over a human being. Until now, that is.” Luckily the more macabre details of Baxter’s announcement held more interest for her, and she added, “Will he be buried here, do you think? It has been a while since Algie had a funeral. I do so enjoy funerals.”
Baxter raised his eyebrows. Catching Cecily’s gaze, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling in an expression of disbelief.
Phoebe, who had her back to him, gushed on. “Not that I like to see people die, of course, but once they are dead, I mean, there’s not much you can do about it, can you? You might as well enjoy the send-off, as I’m sure they would also, if—”
“Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” Baxter interrupted, in a rare display of impropriety, “I do believe Mrs. Chubb was looking for you. I told her I would inform you at the earliest opportunity.”
For a moment Phoebe looked affronted at this rude intrusion into her conversation, but then curiosity got the better of her. “Did she say what she wanted?” she asked, getting up from her chair with a rustle of silk.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah, well, then, I had better go and find out for myself. Thank you, Mr. Baxter.” She reached the door and looked back. “Oh, Cecily, I very nearly forgot. I would like to
discuss the church bazaar with you, if you have time this afternoon? Perhaps you could meet me in Dolly’s Tea Shop? About three o’clock?”
Cecily smiled. “Of course, Phoebe. I’d be happy to meet you.”
“Fine. Then I will see you later.”
The door closed behind her, barely preceding Baxter’s exasperated grunt. “That woman,” he muttered darkly, “has the sensitivity of a wild boar.”
In spite of herself, Cecily had to laugh. “She means well. She doesn’t always think before she speaks, but her heart is in the right place.”
He made a sound of disgust. “I do not understand how she could prattle on like that. Surely she hasn’t forgotten whose funeral was the last one to be held at St. Bartholomew’s?”
Touched by his concern, she said gently, “It’s all right, Baxter. It has been almost ten months, after all.”
“If I might be permitted to point out, madam, that is not a long time for the pain to fade. To be reminded so irreverently of your loss must be most distressing.”
“James would not want me to be miserable on his behalf for too long.” She glanced down at her hands to hide the sudden surge of emotion that could still catch her unawares. “I’m quite sure Phoebe would be horrified if she thought she had caused me any anguish.”
“Perhaps. However, I do wish the woman would watch her tongue.”
“Oh, come now, Baxter. Life would be very dull without friends like Phoebe. She can be most entertaining at times.”
Baxter looked down his nose. “So I assume. Mr. Rawlins seems quite taken with her, though I can’t imagine why.”
Cecily looked at him in astonishment. “Mr. Rawlins? I wasn’t aware that he’d met Phoebe.” A mental picture formed in her mind of the short, frail figure of the artist who had booked into the hotel the day before. With his flowing locks, huge dark eyes, and pallid complexion, he reminded her of the statue of Jesus hanging above the altar in St. Bartholomew’s.
“Mr. Rawlins caught sight of Mrs. Carter-Holmes this morning and inquired as to her name. When I informed him, he seemed quite disappointed, until I mentioned the fact that she was a widow. At that he brightened considerably. He asked me to introduce him at the first opportunity.”
“Really,” Cecily murmured. “How intriguing. They are around the same age, of course. But I wouldn’t have thought …” She let the sentence trail off. She knew only too well what it was like to be lonely.
“Madam?”
She looked up to see a hint of concern in Baxter’s light gray eyes. She smiled. “No matter. I hope you will engineer an introduction as soon as possible. It will do Phoebe a world of good.”
Baxter’s expression portrayed his extreme doubts, but he refrained from answering.
Cecily decided it was time to change the subject. “Now, tell me more about this poor man who died,” she demanded.
“I’m afraid I know very little about it. The postman told me the news. He was up at Hawthorne Cottages when they took the poor devil away. Only a young chap, so the postman said. Couldn’t have been thirty.”
“Oh, how awful. His poor family.” Cecily glanced up at James’s portrait. She knew how it was to lose a beloved one before his time. She’d expected him to go on living forever. Certainly into old age, in any case.
“I wonder if Madeline knew the foreman,” she added, remembering the woman’s sudden dash from the room. “She seemed very upset at the news.”
“I assume that she had some acquaintance with him,” Baxter said delicately.
Cecily sighed. They both knew quite well Madeline’s reputation for befriending strangers. Most of the rumors, Cecily felt sure, were misconstrued. Of course, Madeline’s private life was her own concern and nobody else’s, but Cecily couldn’t help wishing her friend were a little more prudent in her choice of companionship. Something told her that this time Madeline could have made a serious mistake.
“You will let me know when the plumber has solved the problem with the bathrooms?” Cecily said as Baxter made a move to leave.
“Of course, madam. I trust it won’t be too long before he gets here.”
“I certainly hope not. We’ll have some very disgruntled guests as it is.”
“There is the outdoor privy if anyone is desperate.”
Cecily pulled a face. “Well, I suppose that will have to do. Just the thought of people having to go outdoors makes me ill. How quickly one gets used to modern conveniences. I had no such concern when I was growing up, however.”
“We are spoiled indeed, madam.”
He avoided her gaze, staring over her head when she answered, “Oh, come now, Baxter. I’m well aware of your distrust of change, but even you have to admit that modern
plumbing is a vast improvement over the outdoor privy. Why, the smell alone is enough to kill a person. Can you imagine the diseases that must lurk in that dreadful hut?”
“It served very well for centuries,” Baxter said stubbornly.
Cecily shook her head in mock despair. She rarely won that particular argument with her manager. Changing the subject again, she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Baxter, do you by any chance have one of those little cigars with you?”
His eyelids flickered, but his expression remained inscrutable. “Yes, madam.”
“May I please have one?”
He dropped his disapproving gaze to her face. “As I have mentioned on several occasions, I do not wish to encourage you in such a despicable habit, madam.”
She smiled sweetly. “Despicable for whom, Baxter?”
Apparently realizing the pit she led him toward, he struggled with his answer for a moment, then said a little desperately, “I have made my opinion clear on that subject many times.”
“You have indeed, Baxter,” Cecily said, beginning to enjoy herself. “What is acceptable and pleasurable for men is a despicable habit for women. Isn’t that what you are trying to tell me?”
He gave up the contest far too quickly. Digging into the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew the familiar slim packet and handed it to her.
“Thank you, Baxter.” She extracted a thin cigar from the pack and handed him back the remaining one. “Now if you’d be so kind as to light it for me?”
He lifted his chin and stretched his neck against the stiff white collar he wore. Aggravating her with his slow movements, he patted the pocket of his black morning coat before drawing out the box of matches.
Cecily waited impatiently while he struck the match, then
finally leaned forward to light the cigar. “Thank you,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Baxter’s mouth tightened. He dropped the matches into his pocket. “If you will excuse me, madam, I must return to my duties.”
“Of course.” Cecily waved the cigar at him. “Would you please arrange for a trap to take me into town at half past two this afternoon?”
“Yes, madam.” He glanced up at James’s portrait with an expression of resignation, then disappeared through the door.
Cecily smiled. James had extracted one promise from Baxter as he lay dying. He had asked his manager and good friend to take care of his wife after he had departed from this good earth. Baxter was inclined to take that request far too seriously at times.
She blew smoke at the portrait and murmured out loud, “I’m sorry, James. I know you wouldn’t approve, and had you not left me, I might never have started this habit. But the world is changing, my love, and I must change with it.”
Sighing, she stubbed out the cigar in the silver ashtray and pushed back her chair.
Altheda Chubb took an enormous amount of pride in her job. As head housekeeper of the Pennyfoot, she could enjoy what she did best—creating order out of chaos. Give her a dirty, untidy house, and she could have it spanking neat and clean in a matter of hours.
The Pennyfoot presented a challenge, and Altheda rose magnificently to the occasion. A chubby, good-natured woman, she nevertheless ruled her little domain with an iron hand. She was the general and the maids her troops, and between them they kept the reputation of the hotel untarnished and as spotless as the polished floors and sparkling windows.
Therefore, when she whisked through the dining room on her morning tour of inspection and found the white tablecloths
bare of any utensils, let alone the china place settings, she tackled the problem with her usual gusto.
Mrs. Chubb billowed into the spacious kitchen with her arms folded across her bountiful breasts and glared at the housemaid standing by the window. “Gertie, for heaven’s sake look sharp, will you? I don’t know what’s the matter with you, I’m sure I don’t.”
Gertie turned dark, soulful eyes in the housekeeper’s direction. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m bloody tired.” She stomped over to the dresser, the hem of her long black skirt stirring up a small cloud of flour that had been spilled on the stone floor.
Heading for the broom cupboard, Mrs. Chubb declared, “I’ll make you tired, my girl, if you don’t get out there this minute. Breakfast will be served in the dining room in less than an hour, and all the tables still have to be laid. This is Ethel’s day off, and you know it will take you twice as long on your own.”
“I’m going,” Gertie muttered, tucking back a stray black curl where it belonged under her cap. “Anyway, I don’t know what all the bleeding fuss is about. The hotel’s half-empty, ain’t it? It’s the end of season now. We ain’t going to see a full crowd again till Christmas.”
“We still have to lay all the tables, as well you know, and madam will be down to breakfast now that the hotel’s quiet. Besides, we had two new guests book in yesterday. We want to make a good impression on them, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I saw one of them. Looked like a bleeding witch, she did, what with that thick black veil hiding her face.” Gertie looked thoughtful. “Maybe she is a witch, come to think of it. She’s blinking strange, if you ask me.”
In spite of herself, Mrs. Chubb surrendered to her curiosity. “What do you mean, ‘strange’?”
Gertie settled her back against the dresser. “Well, she’s such a big bugger for a woman. Not fat, mind, but … big. And have you seen the size of her clodhoppers? They’re bloody huge.” She spread out her hands, palms facing each other.
Mrs. Chubb shrugged. “Lots of women have big feet.”
Gertie gave her a broad wink. “Yeah, but do lots of ’em clomp around like a bleeding navvy? I can just see her humping a sack of coal on them shoulders.”
Deciding that she’d given Gertie enough leeway for one day, Mrs. Chubb said crisply, “I understand that Mrs. Parmentier has recently lost her husband. You’d clomp around, too, if you’d just become a widow. Anyway, that’s enough of that talk. You know madam doesn’t like gossip, and I do wish you’d watch that tongue of yours. That kind of language is most unbecoming for a young lady.”
“I never saw madam clomp around when she was widowed,” Gertie said stubbornly. “I tell you that woman is bloody strange.”
Giving up on her frequently useless attempts to clean up Gertie’s speech, Mrs. Chubb clapped her hands together. “All right, my girl. Get to it if you want to keep your job.”
Considering the housemaid towered over her by several inches, she had difficulty asserting her authority effectively.
Gertie muttered something about not caring, and Mrs. Chubb peered more closely at the housemaid’s face. Now that she thought about it, the girl did look poorly. And Gertie didn’t usually complain about her job. She had always loved working at the Pennyfoot Hotel.
“Is something worrying you?” Mrs. Chubb asked, quite anxious now. What with all the eligible girls leaving for London to go into service with the upper crust, housemaids were hard to come by. And Gertie had been at the Pennyfoot for five years now, since she was twelve years old.