be.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she glanced up to look at the kissing bough. To her dismay, it had disappeared. Someone must have taken it down. Maybe because of Charlie.
More depressed than ever, she crossed the lobby to the stairs. The kissing bough had looked so cheery hanging up there.
It was the first thing people saw when they walked in the door. Not that anyone would feel like celebrating once word got around about Charlie. It was bound to get around, like it always did, no matter how hard they tried to keep such bad news under their hats.
She reached the first landing and stomped around the railing to the second flight of stairs. Two small bodies barred her way and she came to an abrupt halt. Just her luck to bump into the Millshire brats.
“Excuse me,” she muttered. “I have to go upstairs.”
Wilfred, a freckle-faced lad with orange hair, stood on his toes to look at the tray. “What’s that?”
Gertie resisted the temptation to tell him to mind his own business. “It’s somebody’s meal, that’s what. Now please move aside so I can take it upstairs.”
Adelaide was a smaller version of her brother, except that her hair, a much darker shade of red, hung almost to her waist. “Who’s it for?”
“A gentleman.”
“Can Harriet have some?” She held up a china doll, beautifully dressed in pink satin and white lace. A pink hat sat on the yellow woolen curls, decorated with flowers, ribbons, and a tiny white dove.
The doll reminded Gertie of Phoebe Fortescue, and she hid a smile. Mrs. Fortescue would not be flattered by the comparison.
“I don’t think your dolly would like roast beef sandwiches.”
“Harriet likes anything to eat. I give her some of my food all the time.”
“She doesn’t eat it,” Wilfred said, his tone thick with disgust. He looked up at Gertie. “She thinks her doll is really alive. She gives it stuff to eat and drink and sings it to sleep every night.”
Adelaide snatched the doll to her chest and stamped her foot. “She
Wilfred laughed. “I can’t hear it crying. Where are its tears?”
“You just can’t tell, because you’re a stupid boy and boys don’t know anything.”
Sensing a squabble coming on, Gertie raised the tray above the children’s heads. “I have to take this upstairs now, so kindly get out of my way.”
Adelaide shifted sideways, but Wilfred held his ground. “Why doesn’t the gentleman eat his meals in the dining room, then?”
Gertie gritted her teeth. “Because he doesn’t want to be bothered with naughty little children who won’t do what they’re told.” Shoving her hip forward, she nudged Wilfred aside and charged up the stairs.
The last thing she heard as she reached the landing was Adelaide declaring, “Harriet is alive, I tell you. She wets her drawers and everything.”
Gertie didn’t hear Wilfred’s answer, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t polite.
Reaching room nine, she balanced the tray on her hip and rapped on the door with her knuckles. After waiting for longer than her patience would allow, she rapped again. Louder this time.
The door swung open, but all she could see was hairy fingers clutching the edge. “What is it?”
The harsh tone seemed to grate right inside her head. “Your tray, sir.” Her own voice had sounded higher than usual and she cleared her throat.
“Leave it there. I’m indisposed at the moment. I’ll pick it up in a while.”
Concerned, she edged closer to the door. “Are you ill, sir? I can bring some powders up for you, if you like?”
“I am not ailing, woman! Just leave the tray and go away.” The door snapped shut again.
Offended, Gertie bent her knees and dropped the tray none too lightly on the floor. Serve him bloody well right if the ants got to it before he did. Straightening, she thumbed her nose at the door and turned her back on it. That was the last time she was taking up a tray to that old bugger. He could starve inside that bloody room for all she cared. Having settled that in her mind, she tramped back down the stairs to the kitchen.
Cecily shivered as she rounded the corner of the building.
Stray snowflakes still floated down on the wind, but turned to water the moment they hit the ground. With any luck, they would have no snowfall to spoil the Boxing Day hunt.
Her skirts whipped around her ankles as she entered the rose garden, and she drew her shawl closer around her throat. She was thankful to see Clive raking the flower beds as she passed under the trellis arches that supported the roses in the summer.
Although Charlie’s body had been removed from the premises, viewing a crime scene was never one of her favorite things to do, and it was comforting to have someone else present.
The big man paused when he saw her coming, and propped his rake up against the wall. “I’m sorry about what happened to Charlie,” he said, as she approached. “I would have come and told you myself, but I thought it best to stay here until the body had been taken away.”
“Of course, Clive. Thank you.” Cecily glanced at the rose bushes. “Whereabouts did you find him?”
“Right here, m’m.” Clive stepped into the row of bushes and pointed at the ground. “I picked up the gargoyle pieces and raked it all over. I hope that was all right.”
Cecily would rather have seen the murder weapon still in place, but she was reluctant to tell Clive what she suspected. He would find out soon enough if Madeline’s vision proved to be correct. “Where did you put those pieces?” she asked him instead.
“In the dustbin, m’m.” He gave her a sharp look. “I can retrieve them if you like?”
She shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Both Dr. Prestwick and P.C. Northcott are satisfied with their investigations.” She glanced up at the roof, unable to suppress a shudder at the thought of that heavy masonry hurtling down on Charlie’s defenseless head. “I suppose the men are still doing the repairs on the roof?”
“No, m’m. They finished up this morning. They left a short while ago.”
“Oh, dear. I really needed to talk to the foreman.”
“Mick Docker?” Clive looked even more curious. “Well, he did say he’d be back this afternoon to pick up his money.”
“Oh, good. I can talk to him then.” Of course, how silly of her. The man had to be paid, and she would take care of that herself, as usual.
“The constable talked to Mick this morning about the accident,” Clive said, reaching for his rake. “I heard Mick tell him he packed everything down tight last night and he can’t understand how the gargoyle got loose.”
Avoiding Clive’s probing gaze, Cecily said hurriedly, “Well, these things happen. It could have been the wind, or maybe a cat brushing up against it.”
“Yes, m’m. If you say so.”
She was about to answer him when she heard someone call out behind her. Turning, she saw Samuel hurrying toward her. One look at his face told her he was bringing bad news. Clutching her throat, she prayed it wasn’t another so-called accident.
“It’s Ellie, m’m,” Samuel said, panting a little. “She’s gone missing and her mum doesn’t know where she is.”
Cecily felt as if someone had punched her right in the ribs. “Missing? For how long?”
“Since last night, m’m. According to Mrs. Tidwell, Ellie never went home from here.”
“I see.” Aware of her maintenance man’s steady gaze on her face, Cecily made an effort to recover her composure. “Well, perhaps we should pay Mrs. Tidwell a visit, Samuel. Please have a carriage ready at the front door in half an hour.”
“Yes, m’m.” Samuel touched his cap with his fingers and hurried off in the direction of the stables.
“Thank you, Clive.” Cecily gave him an uncertain smile. “I appreciate you taking care of things here.”
“Not at all, m’m. My pleasure.” Clive’s dark eyes raked her face. “I hope you find Miss Ellie, m’m.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold wind chased down her spine. “So do I, Clive,” she muttered as she turned away. “So do I.”
