Herald Of Death

Madeline grasped her hand and gave it a little shake. “I know they will find him,” she said to Phoebe, who sat rocking back and forth on her chair.

For once Phoebe didn’t retaliate with a scornful dismissal of Madeline’s powers. Instead, she looked up at her, tears once more trickling down her cheeks. “I hope so,” she whispered.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Kevin said, giving his wife a penetrating look before striding out the door with Clive right behind him.

Cecily watched them leave, praying they’d return with the colonel, safe and sound.

“Clive feels really awful,” Gertie said, when Cecily turned to face her. “He heard someone crashing around in the woods while we were out there. He said he thought it was the Christmas Angel and that’s why he rushed us out of there, but now he thinks it might have been the colonel. He’ll know where to look, so I’m sure he’ll find him.”

“Oh, my poor Freddie.” Phoebe sought for a handkerchief in her sleeve, produced a dainty lace-edged one, and dabbed at her nose.

Gertie dragged a man’s white handkerchief from her apron pocket and flapped it at Phoebe. “Here, you can’t blow your nose on that flipping thing. Use this and have a bloody good snort.”

Cecily winced, expecting the distraught woman to scream in outrage.

Phoebe surprised her, however. She took the handkerchief without a word, dangling it from the tips of her fingers to inspect it thoroughly. Having apparently deemed it suitable to use, she heartily blew her nose.

Gertie beamed. “There, now. Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Thank you,” Phoebe answered stiffly, and handed the handkerchief back to her.

Stuffing it back in her pocket, Gertie looked at Pansy. “Come on, mate. We’ve got to get back to the kitchen before Chubby starts bellowing for us.”

She stomped off with Pansy following meekly behind.

“We’ll go up to the suite to wait,” Cecily said, helping Phoebe up from her chair. She turned to Madeline. “Would you like to wait with us?”

“I might as well.” Madeline glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “I could walk home, I suppose, but by the time I arrived there, Kevin will probably be back here with the carriage.”

“Oh, I hope so.” Phoebe clung to Cecily’s arm and looked down her nose at Madeline. “I hope for once your ridiculous hocus-pocus works.”

Madeline seemed not to take offense. “So do I.” She started climbing the stairs, saying over her shoulder, “The colonel may be as daffy as a duck but he turned you into an almost normal, decent human being. I dread to think what you’d become without him.”

Phoebe sniffed. “How in heaven’s name would you know what constitutes a normal human being?”

Cecily smiled. Phoebe was once more feuding with Madeline. Her friend was feeling better. Now, if only the colonel were to return with Kevin and Clive, everything would be almost normal again. Almost.

“What?” Mrs. Chubb dropped her rolling pin onto the table and slapped a floury hand across her mouth. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about all these killings?”

“Because no one was supposed to know,” Pansy said in a small voice.

Across the room, Michel slammed a saucepan down with a mighty crash. “Sacre bleu! What ees this world coming to, eh? Murderers running around willy-nilly, chopping off ze heads like chickens?”

Gertie gave him a scathing look. “Well, you needn’t worry. He only kills men.”

The chef’s tall hat wobbled back and forth as he shook a finger at her. “None of your sauce, cochon. I will not stand for it.”

“Who cares where you bloody stand, as long as it’s not next to me.”

“Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb removed her hand, leaving a white mustache and beard of flour on her face. “That’s enough!”

“All right, all right, keep your bloody socks on.” Gertie walked over to the sink and picked up a potato from the pile on the draining board.

“So how long ago did Clive and Dr. Prestwick leave to look for the colonel?” Mrs. Chubb demanded. “How will they know where to look? He could be anywhere.”

“The man is an idiot.” Michel slapped a lid on the saucepan so hard it bounced off and clattered to the floor. Cursing, he bent to retrieve it. “If you ask me, he should be locked up where he does no harm, oui?”

“Well, you should know,” Gertie muttered.

The housekeeper banged her rolling pin on the table, making Gertie jump. “Stop this bickering at once. Answer my question, Gertie.”

Opening the drawer next to the sink, Gertie hunted for a sharp knife. Finding one, she pulled it out and began peeling the potato. “Clive thinks he heard the colonel crashing around in the woods this afternoon while we were out there.”

“Why didn’t you stop to look for him, then?”

“Because at the time Clive thought it was the bloody Christmas Angel, didn’t he.” Gertie sliced one end off the potato.

“It might have been him,” Pansy said, her voice shaking. “The colonel could be dead, and Clive and Dr. Prestwick might run into him in the woods. They could be killed, too!”

Gertie turned on her swiftly. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that!”

“Ooh, la la!” Michel swayed his hips from side to side. “Our Gertie has ze amoureux, non?”

“No! So shut your bleeding mouth!” Gertie slung the potato across the room at Michel, who ducked. The potato hit a cupboard door and fell with a thud to the floor.

Pansy giggled, then pinched her lips together when Mrs. Chubb glared at her.

The housekeeper turned on her chief housemaid. “Whatever’s the matter with you?”

Gertie shrugged. “I’m just worried, that’s all. About the colonel,” she added, as Michel snickered. “He’s an old man. He must be so cold and lost out there all alone.”

“Especially with a murderer running around out there,” Pansy said, joining her at the sink.

Mrs. Chubb slapped a slab of pastry with her rolling pin. “That’s quite enough talk about a murderer. What I want to know is how all those women in the pantomime heard about it. I could hear them screaming from down here. I thought it was part of the presentation, until Pansy told me what it was all about.”

Pansy looked at Gertie for help.

“Lizzie told them,” Gertie said, splashing her knife into the cold water in the sink. “At least, one of the performers heard Lizzie telling another maid and she told the rest of them.”

“Who told Lizzie, then?”

Pansy swallowed. Still with her back to the housekeeper, she muttered, “It was my fault. I was telling Gertie about it and Lizzie heard me.”

Mrs. Chubb paused, both hands still on the rolling pin. “And who was it told you?”

“Samuel did.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Chubb wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “So what about the Pennyfoot rules that say not to repeat gossip to anyone? Did you all forget that?”

Gertie put down her knife. “It wasn’t gossip. It was news, and we didn’t tell anyone except ourselves and it wasn’t our fault that some people have bloody big ears and were flipping listening to what they shouldn’t have been.”

For a long moment Mrs. Chubb’s fierce gaze bored into Gertie, then she sighed. “Well, all right. I’ll let it go this time.”

“Speaking of gossip,” Gertie said, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “who are the special guests what’s supposed to be coming for Christmas? And why didn’t you tell me about them?”

“You don’t have to know everything, non?” Michel muttered.

Gertie ignored him. “Who are they, Chubby?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Mrs. Chubb waved her rolling pin at her. “And don’t call me Chubby! I’ll take your