Mistletoe and Mayhem

Alarm slashed across his face. “You don’t think he’s after someone else, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think. I certainly hope not, but I don’t think we can rule out the possibility.” She tried to sound confident when she added, “Just be on your guard, though, all right?”

“You bet I will, m’m.” Samuel patted the dog again. “So will Tess, won’t you, girl.”

Cecily rather doubted that the friendly dog would be much defense against a ruthless killer, but if it made Samuel feel better to think so, then she certainly wouldn’t argue.

On her way back to the building she spotted Clive digging up potatoes in the vegetable plot and hurried over there to have a word with him.

He straightened when he saw her, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Nasty business, this, m’m.”

“It is, indeed.” Cecily peered up at him. “I suppose Samuel told you he found Ellie?”

“Yes, m’m. He was shaken up, all right. It must have been a shock for him.”

“I’m sure it was.” She hesitated, then added, “Clive, I’m sure you’re aware that we could have a dangerous criminal still lurking around the Pennyfoot. With two of our staff dead, I’m worried there could be more. I’ve asked Samuel to be on guard, and I’d appreciate it if you would keep an eye open for anything unusual or suspicious.”

“I already made up my mind on that, m’m.”

“Good. That makes me feel a little easier. Thank you, Clive.”

She left him, somewhat reassured. Clive was big enough and strong enough to wrestle a bear, and she had no doubt he would take care of anyone who threatened to harm one of her staff. She had done all she could do to protect everyone. Now it was time to start looking for answers. All she could hope was to find them before someone else got hurt.

CHAPTER 11

“It’s the Mayfair Murderer, I just know it.” Gertie stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, feet spread apart. “I told you it was him that killed Charlie and now Ellie. Who’s blinking next, I wonder?”

“You, I hope,” Michel snapped, dropping a saucepan lid on the floor with a loud crash. “How can I make my souffles rise with all this racket going on? All that screeching is making them flat. I do not cook souffles until you shut up, comprenez-vous?”

“Oh, put a bloody sock in it, Michel.” Gertie turned back to Mrs. Chubb, who was beating eggs in a basin so rapidly, froth was flying over the edge of the bowl. “We’re not safe in our beds, that’s what. I was worrying about my twins being in London with that maniac on the loose and now I have to worry about them coming home to him.”

“It is not the serial killer!” Michel shouted. “You are a stupid woman to frighten everyone. He kills only the young girls, oui? Why would a serial killer come here to kill a footman and a maid? It makes no sense.” He glared at the housekeeper. “Stop beating my eggs to their death, s’il vous plait! There will be nothing left of them to put in my souffles.”

Mrs. Chubb put down the bowl. “Some of the maids think the man in room nine is the Mayfair Murderer.”

Michel snorted, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Pansy is ze idiot as well.”

Gertie glared at him. “She’s not an idiot. She could very well be right about that man. He’s really strange.”

“There are many strange people who come to the Pennyfoot. They are not serial killers.”

“People don’t usually come here alone, stay in their rooms all day, and cover their faces with a hat.”

“He is rather unsociable,” Mrs. Chubb put in. “I passed him in the corridor and wished him good morning. He just grunted at me.”

“Was he wearing that big hat?” Gertie demanded.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he was.”

Gertie swung around to give Michel a triumphant wave of her hand. “See? I told you!”

“Wearing a big hat does not make him a serial killer.” Michel bent over to pick up the saucepan lid. “Now give me the eggs and be quiet, both of you. I need complete silence for my souffles.”

“You’d better go and help Pansy with the tables,” Mrs. Chubb said, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost time to ring the dinner bell.”

Gertie needed no second bidding. There were times when she’d like to sock Michel in the jaw. Him and his fake French accent. Give him a bottle of brandy and that accent disappeared fast enough. Telling her to keep quiet, the saucy blighter. He made more noise than anyone when he was in a bad mood. Which was pretty much all the time.

She stomped up the stairs and across the lobby, her mind churning over the news that Ellie’s dead body had been found. Pansy had cried when she’d told her. Poor Pansy. She’d been so excited about going for that walk with Samuel. What a horrible way for it to end.

She turned the corner of the hallway and halted with a gasp as she collided with someone tall and stout. To her dismay Sir Walter Hayesbury stood looking down at her, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the oil lamps. She could smell a faint aroma of whiskey, and guessed he was on his way back from the bar.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she stammered, as she leapt backward. “I was thinking so hard I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“That’s quite all right.” He smiled at her, and a dimple flashed in his cheek.

Fascinated, she stared up at him. He might be getting on in years, but he was still a good-looking chap. She and Pansy had both said what a handsome couple he and his wife were. In fact, they’d fought over who should serve them in the dining room. So far Gertie had won, and although she would never admit it, she’d been flustered more than once by a smile and a wink from the charming aristocrat.

“So,” Sir Walter murmured, “what was it that occupied your mind so intensely? A young suitor, no doubt.”

Gertie shook her head, her face growing warm. “Oh, no, sir. I was thinking about the Mayfair Murderer.” Horrified, she slapped a hand over her mouth. She’d committed the cardinal sin. Her mind had been boggled by the handsome gentleman’s seductive voice, and she’d forgotten she wasn’t supposed to mention the murders to anyone outside the staff.

She saw the aristocrat’s face change, and her heart sank. Now the word would be all over the Pennyfoot and she was to blame. Madam would be really cross with her when she found out. Trust her to go and blabber it all out. She looked up at Sir Walter. “You won’t tell no one, will you? It’s supposed to be kept a secret.”

He stared back at her. “What is supposed to be kept a secret?”

Inwardly cursing her stupidity, Gertie shook her head. “Nothing, sir. It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

He glanced over his shoulder, down the empty hallway. “Are you talking about the footman who was killed?”

She felt a small ray of hope and clutched at it. “You already knew about that?”

“Mrs. Baxter mentioned it, yes. I understood it was an accident.”

“Oh, yes, sir, it was.” Relieved now, she started to back away. “I must be getting down to the dining room, sir. It’s almost dinnertime.”

“So what was all this about the Mayfair Murderer?”

Gertie’s nerves jumped. “Oh, nothing sir. Er… my twins are in London and I worry about them with that serial killer running around, that’s all.”

“Ah, I see.” He nodded, his expression amused. “Well, run along then. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She dropped a curtsey and rushed down the hallway without looking back. What a fool he must think her, blabbering like an idiot out there. Pansy would have a good laugh when she told her. Nearly spilt the milk, she did. You’d think she’d learn to keep her bloody mouth shut. Thank goodness he didn’t know what she was talking about. She’d have been in hot water, all right, if madam had found out she’d let it slip about the murders.

Still, she couldn’t help being nervous about Ellie being dead as well. She never really liked the girl, but it was sad to think she was dead. Gertie shivered as she entered the dining room. She only hoped it wasn’t the Mayfair