“I can assure you, I will enlighten you if I should feel the need for any of your medical remedies.” She regained her smile, albeit with some difficulty. “In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to wait in the library for breakfast to be served?”
Archie glanced down the hallway. “Perhaps I will. Er… will your chief housemaid be serving breakfast this morning, by any chance?”
Taken aback, Cecily took a moment to answer. “You’re referring to Mrs. McBride, perhaps?”
Archie nodded. “McBride. Gertie. Yes, that’s her. I like her temperament. Spirited young woman, that.” He attempted a wink, but his nose twitched at the same time, pulling his entire face into a grotesque grimace.
“I’m sure she would be most flattered by your comments,” Cecily said, trying not to grit her teeth.
To her surprise, a look of alarm crossed Archie’s flushed face. “Oh, please don’t mention that I spoke of her.” He shot a worried glance across the lobby. “Wouldn’t want the young lady to get the wrong impression.”
It was Cecily’s considered opinion that her robust housemaid would waste no time in putting the objectionable man in his place. With considerable fervor if necessary. “Of course. You can rely on my discretion.”
“Good, good.” He thrust a hand in his pocket and came up with a large white handkerchief. Mopping his brow, he muttered, “Don’t want to go putting ideas in young heads, now do we. Wouldn’t do at all.”
Cecily was about to answer when the front door flew open and a bulky man wearing overalls charged through it. Clive Russell was the club’s maintenance man, and right now he appeared to be most disturbed.
His dark hair, usually neatly combed, looked as if he’d been fighting a strong wind, and he seemed to have trouble finding words, since his mouth opened and shut without a sound coming out of it.
Watching him stumble toward her, his hat crushed in his hands, Cecily felt a familiar sinking feeling in her stomach. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Parker,” she murmured, and without waiting for his answer, hurried to meet the other man.
Clive halted as she reached him, his eyes wide with shock. “Dead body,” he said hoarsely. “In the duck pond.”
Cecily clutched her throat. For the past week she had fought the worry that something dreadful might occur, as it had so often during this time of year. Now it appeared her worst fears had been realized. It seemed they would never be rid of the dreaded Christmas curse.
“Oh, no, no.” She drew a deep breath. “Tell me what happened.”
Clive made an obvious effort to lower his voice as the sound of chatter warned of people descending the stairs. “Don’t know exactly, m’m, though the bloke stinks of booze. I reckon he must have been drunk and fallen headfirst into the water. Looks like his head hit a rock or something.”
“One of our guests?”
Clive shook his head, and Cecily swung around as someone spoke from behind her.
“Mrs. B.? Is anything wrong?” Archie peered up at her, his sharp gaze darting from her to Clive and back again. “Can I be of any assistance?”
“No, no, thank you.” Cecily glanced at the grandfather clock. “Breakfast should be served any minute, Mr. Parker. I strongly suggest you make your way to the dining room. You don’t want to be late for your meal.”
The sight of guests filing down the stairs must have convinced the man. He gave Clive one hard stare, reluctantly nodded, and then ambled off after a small group of visitors heading for the dining room.
“Where is the body now?” Cecily demanded, drawing Clive out of earshot of the chattering guests.
“Still in the pond.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know what to do so I came straight here.”
“All right. Find Samuel and ask him to help you get the body into the stable. Do it now while everyone is at breakfast and let’s hope that no one sees you. Don’t talk to anyone and don’t answer any questions, is that clear?”
“Yes, m’m.” Clive touched his forehead. “Right away, m’m.” Instead of leaving, however, he hovered there, refusing to meet her gaze.
Her feeling of dread intensified. “What is it, Clive? What are you not telling me?”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he shoved his hat in his pocket and took a deep breath. “The dead man, m’m. I’m afraid it’s someone with whom you’re well acquainted.”
She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she was sure she would faint. “I thought you said it wasn’t one of the guests.”
“No, m’m. It’s not.”
The foyer appeared to tilt a little and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the hallstand nearby. “Not… not one of the staff?”
“No, m’m.”
Drowning in relief, she grasped his sleeve and shook it. “Then for heaven’s sake tell me. Who is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Ian Rossiter, m’m. Gertie McBride’s ex-husband.”
Stunned, she could only stand and stare at him. “
“No, m’m.” Clive shuffled his feet and looked away at the door. “I didn’t tell anybody but you.”
“Then I shall have to… oh, my Lord.” She shook her head to clear the fog of disbelief. “Run along, Clive. Get Ian… get the body out of that pond and out of sight before someone else sees him. Then I want both you and Samuel to report back to me in my office.”
“Yes, m’m.” This time Clive shuffled off to the door, letting in a gust of cold wind as he opened it, then closed it behind him.
Cecily took a moment to collect herself. Ian dead. It didn’t seem possible. She hadn’t seen him in quite a while, but at one time he had been a trusted member of her staff. Until that dreadful affair when he’d married Gertie, neglecting to tell her he already had a wife in London.
He’d gone back to London after Gertie had found out the truth. Then a year ago he’d come back, demanding to see his twins. He’d even gone so far as attempting to kidnap Gertie’s daughter, until Clive had caught up with him and saved the little girl.
Something had happened to Ian in those years after he’d left-something that had changed him into a hard, bitter man. Cecily uttered a deep sigh. Now he was lying dead outside, and once more her Christmas would be interrupted while she dealt with another death at the Pennyfoot.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Chubb wiped her brow as she leaned into the massive oven to retrieve a sizzling pan of sausages. With a tea towel wrapped around each hand, she grasped the pan and hauled it out to drop it on top of the stove. The tempting aroma of bacon and sausage reminded her she hadn’t eaten her own breakfast yet. Nor, it seemed, would she have that luxury for at least another half hour.
Behind her, the clatter of dishes assured her the maids were loading up the dumbwaiter with covered silver platters of bacon, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried roes, and fried bread.
The fried herrings and poached haddock had already been sent up, and by now Gertie, Pansy, and the new maid, Mabel, hired for the Christmas rush, would be collecting dirty dishes to send down once the waiter had been unloaded.
It was all timed down to the second, and Mrs. Chubb, the Pennyfoot’s competent housekeeper, took pride in seeing that everything was in the proper place at the proper time.
Even if it meant doing Michel’s job, like getting sausages out of a hot oven. Glaring at the pantry door, she yelled, “Michel? What are you doing in there? I hope you’re not sipping on that blinking brandy again!”
Mrs. Chubb rarely used questionable language unless she was really agitated. Apparently Michel must have noted her resentment, as he appeared in the doorway, his tall white hat bobbing back and forth as he wagged a finger at the housekeeper. “That ees no way to talk to a chef of such renown. I have not touched one single drop of ze brandy.
“Then what are you doing in there?” Mrs. Chubb slapped a cover on the sausages and carried the pan over to the dumbwaiter. One of the maids grabbed it from her and shoved it onto the pile of platters.
Waiting just long enough for the maid to haul on the rope and send the load up to the dining room, Mrs. Chubb spun around and came face-to-face with the chef.
“If you really must know,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “I search for the jug of cream. I make the
