wont to do in such circumstances.
“I’ll be off to the kitchen, then,” he announced, as he headed for the door. “Happy Christmas to you and yours, Mrs. Baxter.”
“I’ll certainly try to make it so,” she answered, and let out her breath as the door closed behind him. Now, all she needed was for Kevin Prestwick to give her his report, and perhaps they could all put this tragic business behind them.
By the time Gertie could finally get back to the kitchen, the shock of Ian’s death had begun to wear off. So much so that she felt guilty. She knew she ought to be feeling sorry for him. After all, he was still a young bloke and nobody should have to die when they’re young.
Still, after everything he’d done to her and the twins, all she could feel was relief that she didn’t have to worry about him ever again.
The thought put the smile back on her face, and she was still smiling when she shoved the kitchen door open and barged through it in her usual exuberant manner.
Coming face-to-face with Constable Northcott, however, wiped the smile from her face. It was the way he stared at her, those little pig eyes of his boring into her as if trying to guess what she was thinking.
“Well,” he said, in the sarcastic voice she hated, “you don’t seem to be that h’upset for a brand new widow.”
“I ain’t a widow.” She walked over to the dumbwaiter and removed a tray of dishes, then carried them back to the sink. Dumping them down hard enough on the counter for the saucers to rattle, she added, “Me and Ian was never married legally. That means I’m not his bleeding widow. His real wife is the lucky woman, that’s if he was still married to her, which I bloody doubt.”
She heard Mrs. Chubb cough and glanced at her over her shoulder. Reading the warning in the housekeeper’s eyes, she shrugged. She didn’t care what the stupid policeman thought. She’d hated Ian Rossiter and she wasn’t going to pretend to mourn his death.
“H’interesting,” Northcott murmured.
Mrs. Chubb picked up a plate of mince pies and thrust it at him. “Here, Sam, take some of these with you. I know you must be in a hurry to be off, having to get ready for your visit to London and all.”
Gertie turned back to the sink, but not before she caught the constable’s thoughtful gaze on her. Her heart started beating a little too fast for comfort. Surely the stupid fool didn’t think she’d shoved Ian in the pond.
“Thank you, Altheda. I’ll be off then.” The door creaked as the constable opened it. “Happy Christmas, all.”
“Happy Christmas to you, Sam.”
A strained silence followed, and Gertie knew Northcott was waiting for her to return the greeting. “Happy Christmas,” she mumbled, without turning around.
She relaxed her shoulders when she heard the creak again and knew the door had swung closed. Bracing herself, she turned to face Mrs. Chubb.
The housekeeper stood by the table, her arms crossed, her plump face creased in a frown. There was no sign of Michel and the maids hadn’t yet returned from the dining room, where they were still cleaning up.
Gertie drew a deep breath then blurted out, “If you’re waiting for me to cry over Ian, then you’re going to wait a bloody long time.”
“I’m not expecting you to cry.” Mrs. Chubb unfolded her arms and picked up a rolling pin. Slowly she began rolling it across the mound of pastry on the board in front of her. “I know it must have been a shock, though.”
“A bloody pleasant one.”
“Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb looked up. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Yeah, well, Ian Rossiter did a terrible thing to me, trying to steal my daughter away.”
“With that attitude you’d better not mention you saw Ian last night, then.”
Gertie frowned. “Why not?”
“You was fighting with him, weren’t you? That’s probably why he got drunk. They could blame you for him falling into that pond.”
Turning back to the sink, Gertie muttered, “It’s not my fault if he can’t bleeding look where he’s going. Besides, I weren’t the only one fighting with him. Like I told you last night, Clive ran him off the premises. He was a lot rougher on him than I was, and serve him bloody well right, that’s what I say. What’s more-” She broke off, thinking better of it.
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “What’s more what?”
Marching over to the stove, Gertie grabbed the handles of a steaming cauldron. There was no need to tell Chubby everything. The less said the better, under the circumstances. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said instead, “Ian Rossiter got what he bleeding deserved. Someone up there must have been watching over me and the kids.”
She hauled the hot water over to the sink and tipped it. Blinking against the cloud of steam, she added, “Maybe it was my dead-and-gone husband, Ross, shoving Ian in the pond with an angel’s hand.”
“Angels don’t kill people,” Mrs. Chubb said, her rolling pin slapping back and forth across the pastry. “They save them.”
“Yeah, well Ross was a real husband, and he loved my twins as if they were his own. He would protect them any way he could, even if it was all the way from heaven.”
“Gertie McBride, you are talking nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb sounded cross. “Sam Northcott told me Ian got drunk, wandered into the pond, and hit his head when he fell and drowned. Nobody pushed him. All I’m saying is there’s no need to complicate matters by saying you had a row with him last night.”
“Yeah, well, you can believe what you want and I’ll believe what I want.” Gertie grabbed a pile of the dishes and sank them into the hot soapy water. “Either way, Rossiter is out of my life for good, and I couldn’t be happier. So, Happy Christmas to me and my babies.”
Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue in annoyance, but refrained from answering her.
Gertie swished the cloth over a large platter, wondering what Chubby would say if she knew that she’d seen Ian not once, but twice. In fact, there was a lot that the housekeeper didn’t know, and Gertie saw no reason to enlighten her.
CHAPTER 4
Having answered a tap on her door, Cecily was delighted to see Madeline Pengrath Prestwick walk into her office. Madeline, as always, had dressed simply. She wore a simple peasant dress of pale yellow muslin, and in spite of the cold weather, a pair of gold sandals. She had forgone a hat and gloves, and her long dark hair flowed freely on her shoulders.
Without waiting for an invitation she drifted gracefully over to a chair. “I do believe it’s stopped raining,” she remarked, as she settled herself. “The sun is trying to peek through the clouds. I don’t think we will have a white Christmas this year after all.”
“Thank goodness.” Cecily smiled at her friend. “The men always enjoy the Boxing Day hunt far more if they don’t have to plow through a foot of snow.”
“I’m sure the horses prefer it, too.” Madeline gave her a grave look. “What’s all this about Ian Rossiter drowning in the pond?”
Cecily sighed. “Another Christmas tragedy, I’m afraid. At least this time it was an accident. I know Ian was unpleasant and caused a lot of trouble, but I feel dreadful that he died in such a wretched way. So sad.”
“Sad, indeed.” Madeline’s dark green eyes regarded her with speculation. “How is Gertie taking it?”
Cecily sighed. “As you would expect. More relieved than distressed, I suppose. Not that I can blame her.”
Madeline nodded. “Unfortunate business for everyone.”
Determined to change the subject, Cecily said brightly, “What plans do you and Kevin have for Christmas? You know you are more than welcome to join Baxter and me for dinner as we did last year. I simply cannot believe you have been married a whole year. It seems as if the wedding were only a few short weeks ago.”
