“Makes it a bit ’ard to ride me bike. That it does.” The constable sniffed and drew a crumpled white handkerchief from his pocket. Burying his nose in it, he blew, producing a sound rather like that of a bad-tempered elephant.
Cecily winced. “I’ll have Mrs. Chubb send up a drop of brandy. That might help warm you.”
Northcott beamed and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Awfully good of you, m’m, I’m sure.”
“My pleasure, Sam.” Cecily walked over to the bellpull and gave it a tug, then seated herself on a vacant armchair. “What else can I do for you today?”
Northcott sat down heavily and jumped up again just as swiftly. Tossing the helmet to one side, he muttered, “Forgot that was there.” He sat down again, much more gingerly this time. “I’m here to ask for an h’enormous favor, m’m. I wouldn’t be ’ere if I weren’t desperate, and I have to ask you to be completely discreet about all this, if you know what I mean. No one can know I asked you, especially the h’inspector.”
At the mention of Inspector Cranshaw, Cecily cringed. It was no secret to anyone that the dour police inspector would dearly love to shut down the country club.
The Pennyfoot had started out as a hotel, owned and run by Cecily, and much of its success had been due to the secret card rooms situated beneath the wine cellar.
Those rooms had entertained some of the most influential aristocrats in the country, including royalty. Patrons had enjoyed not only gambling to their hearts’ content, but also dallying with damsels in the boudoirs, secure in the knowledge that their indiscretions would be kept strictly within the walls of the Pennyfoot Hotel.
Inspector Cranshaw was aware that all was not aboveboard under Cecily’s reign, but without the proof he needed he was helpless to act upon it. He had vowed many times to close her down, and Cecily had no doubt that he waited with an eagle’s eye for an opportunity to do so.
Now that the Pennyfoot was a country club, and licensed for card games, the inspector had lost his trump card. Cecily knew, however, that he still harbored resentment for the times she had outwitted him, and would stop at nothing to extract his revenge, should the chance arise.
“You have nothing to fear in that respect,” she assured the anxious-looking constable. “I avoid contact with Inspector Cranshaw as much as possible. So, tell me, what is the favor?”
Northcott took out his handkerchief again and trumpeted into it before jamming it back in his pocket. He opened his mouth to speak, coughed, wiped his forehead as if he were now overly warm, and then cleared his throat.
Cecily watched all this with growing uneasiness. Whatever it was Sam Northcott wanted from her, it was apparently costing him a great deal to request it. What was more, she had a nasty feeling that it was about to cost her a great deal to accommodate him.
CHAPTER 2
“Well, m’m,” Northcott began at last, “it’s like this. I-” He broke off when a sharp tap on the door interrupted him.
Cecily called out, and a moment later the door opened. Gertie stuck her head inside and sent the constable a broad wink, which instantly sent him into a fit of coughing. “You sent for me, m’m?”
“Yes, Gertie. Police Constable Northcott would like a glass of brandy.”
“Yes, m’m. Coming up right away.” Gertie grinned at the red-faced policeman and withdrew her head.
“Very kind of you, m’m, I’m sure,” Northcott muttered, once more fishing his handkerchief out of his pocket.
Cecily waited until the constable had everything under control again before prompting him with a polite, “You were saying?”
“Ah, yes, well, I was coming to that.” Northcott harrumphed a couple of times, then said hoarsely, “I gather you’ve heard about young Jimmy Taylor?”
Cecily frowned. “Jimmy? The delivery boy from Rick-man’s Dairy? What about him?”
Northcott cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to h’inform you that he was found dead alongside his horse and cart last Sunday.”
“Great heavens!” She gulped a couple of times, a hand at her throat. “I had no idea. That poor lad. He was so young. What happened to him?”
Northcott got a pained expression on his face, rather as if he urgently needed to use the facilities. “He was struck in the ’ead by a sharp object, namely a rock. The doctor didn’t think that was what killed him, however.”
“Then what did cause his death?”
“He fell and hit his head again on the wheel hub. Broke his neck, didn’t he. That’s what killed him.”
Cecily was getting a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Where exactly did this rock come from?”
“Ah well, that’s the thing, isn’t it.” Northcott ran a finger around the edge of his starched collar. “Dr. Prestwick is quite sure someone threw it at the lad, which makes the perpetrator responsible for Jimmy’s death. We just don’t know the identity of that person. Not at present, anyhow.”
“I see.” Actually, to be precise, she didn’t see. It wasn’t like Sam Northcott to come and inform her when a crime had been committed. He usually did his best to keep such things from her, wary of the inspector finding out about her “constant interference in police business,” as he called it.
The fact that her “interference” invariably ended with her solving the case and therefore enhancing Northcott’s reputation with the inspector seemed to escape the constable, though he was always grudgingly grateful for her efforts.
The only reason she could think of as to why Sam Northcott was telling her about Jimmy was that his death somehow affected her, though she couldn’t imagine why.
“I didn’t know Jimmy all that well,” she said, feeling her way. “I barely spoke to him. I’m dreadfully sorry to hear of his death, of course. His family must be devastated.”
“They are, m’m. Devastated.”
She waited through another long pause, wondering where all this was leading.
“Ah… that’s not all, m’m.”
Now she was becoming more than a little uneasy. “Then tell me, Sam. Why are you here? Why are you telling me about this dreadful incident?”
“There’s been another murder, m’m. Up there on Putney Downs.”
Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Go on.”
“A passerby found him, lying on the path. Frozen stiff, he was. It were Thomas Willow, the shoemaker.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never met the man. I believe Baxter might have known him, but why-”
“He were whipped to death, Mrs. Baxter.”
Shocked anew, her voice rose. “
“There again, we don’t know who did it. We do know,’owever, that he was killed with Jimmy Taylor’s whip.”
A cold chill brushed across the back of Cecily’s neck. “You think they were killed by the same person.”
“Yes, m’m. It certainly looks that way. Especially since both victims had a gold angel stuck to their forehead.”
She stared at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. “A gold angel?”
“Yes, m’m. Those little gold stamps that you lick and then stick ’em on Christmas cards? Well, both Jimmy and Thomas had one stuck to their foreheads.”
“Oh, my.”
“Down at the station they’re calling the murderer the Christmas Angel.”
Cecily winced. “That’s a rather incongruous name for a killer.”
“Yes, m’m. I don’t think they mean anything by it. It’s just a matter of reference, that’s all. But there were something else you should know.”
Given that she was already intrigued by the case, Cecily wasn’t at all certain she wanted to know more.
