3 Service for Two (19 page)

“Once Lord Chickering discovers that there is no such stone as the Star of Sudan, he will very quickly piece things together and realize that we have our suspicions,” she added
as Baxter still frowned at her. “In which case he will no doubt cover his tracks and disappear. We do not have the luxury of time to invent a more plausible scheme.”

As if to verify her words, a light tap sounded on the door. She jumped, and Baxter dug his fingers in his hair. “Oh, good Lord,” he muttered. “Now watch the tongues wag.”

If she hadn’t been so tense, Cecily would have enjoyed his discomfort. As it was, she was too busy wondering just why someone should come all the way to the top of the hotel to summon her.

Opening the door, she saw Ethel standing there, a look of apprehension on her thin face. The housemaid’s glance took in Baxter standing across the room, but she appeared to be unaffected by any implications of his presence.

Looking back at Cecily, she said politely, “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but you have a visitor waiting for you in the library.”

“Thank you, Ethel. Do you have his card?”

Ethel shook her head. “No, mum. He didn’t give me one. It’s Inspector Cranshaw, mum, and he said to tell you it is of the utmost importance that he speak with you.”

CHAPTER
19

“Just think,” Ethel said, scrubbing furiously at the inside of a large cast-iron saucepan, “this is your very last night as a spinster. This time tomorrow you’ll be a married lady. A wife.”

“Yeah.” Gertie pulled aside the curtain over the sink and peered into the darkness outside. “I just bloody hope it doesn’t snow. Everything else has gone wrong, that’s all I bleeding need.”

“It’s not going to snow,” Ethel declared. She turned the saucepan upside down and stood it on the draining board. “John, the gardener, told me it’s going to warm up by the weekend. So you’ll be able to stand outside the church to get your photographs taken.”

“Probably have goose pimples all over me arms.”

Detecting an odd note in her voice, Ethel peered at her. “Not getting cold feet, are you, Gertie?”

Gertie laughed, but it wasn’t her usual hearty guffaw. It sounded rather choked to Ethel. “What me? Nah … got nerves of blinking steel, I have. Nothing scares me.”

Ethel picked up the next pot and stood it in the sink. Lifting the heavy kettle of hot water, she poured some into the saucepan. “Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you was. I’d be scared, too, getting married. Having to do what someone else wants you to do all the time. Especially …
it
.”

Gertie looked as if she’d lost a ha’penny and found a farthing. “Everybody does it. It can’t be that bad.”

Ethel shrugged. She’d never talked about
it
to anyone who’d done it, so she wouldn’t know. She’d read about it in the book Gertie had given her, but that had made it all seem so … unromantic … embarrassing, even. She hadn’t really given a lot of thought to it herself, not until she’d met Joe. Then she’d only really known him three days.

She jumped when Gertie said in her ear, “Wake up! Where the bleeding heck are you these days? You haven’t been the same since you met that Joe Salter.” Her expression changed, and she looked closer at Ethel’s face. “’Ere, you haven’t been and done it with him, have you?”

Ethel could feel the blood rushing to her face. “’Course not,” she said crossly, and banged the saucepan down in the sink, slopping water over the sides. “Joe wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s a decent bloke, he is.”

“Ah,” Gertie whispered, a finger at her lips, “but you’d like him to, wouldn’t you?”

Without knowing why, Ethel’s temper snapped. “For God’s sake, shut up, Gertie! You always have to make some dirty rotten joke about everything, don’t you? I’m glad you’re going to be gone on your honeymoon next week, ’cos then you won’t be here poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” She was immediately sorry when she saw Gertie’s offended expression.

“All right,” Gertie muttered, “keep yer hair on. Why didn’t you tell me you liked him like that?”

“Like what?” Ethel said, knowing full well what Gertie
meant. She hadn’t meant it to show. After all, only three days … how could she feel this way over someone? Especially when she didn’t know if he liked her or was just being friendly because he was lonely.

“Have you asked him to the wedding?” Gertie said, surprising her.

“No, I didn’t know I could.”

“’Course you can. Madam said I could ask who I liked, and you’re my bridesmaid. You should have your boyfriend there.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be with the best man?” Ethel asked, liking the sound of Joe being called her boyfriend.

“With Samuel? Give over! Who’d bleeding want to be with him? He wouldn’t know what to do with you, anyway. You’d scare him to blooming death.”

Ethel grinned. “I’m surprised Ian asked him.”

“Yeah, well, he was going to have Dick Scroggins till he got nicked. ’Course, he’s out now, but Ian wouldn’t have him after that. Said it wouldn’t look good, him waiting for the trial and all.”

“Do you think he’ll go to prison?” Ethel rinsed out the saucepan with cold water from the tap. “Wonder what will happen to the George and Dragon if he does.”

“I heard he was selling it,” Gertie said, sitting down at the table in front of a pile of silverware. “Wonder who’d buy that dump?” She picked out a fork from the pile and began smearing silver polish on it.

“He probably wouldn’t be in prison for long, anyway.” Ethel carried the saucepans over to the cupboard and began putting them away. “He was only running booze, after all. Not like he was stealing jewels, like what they found in the other boat.”

“Yeah. Wonder if they found out who was doing that.”

Ethel shrugged. “Dunno. But I can tell you, madam didn’t look too happy when I told her the inspector was waiting for her in the library.”

Gertie looked up, her face alight with interest. “Go on! You think it had something to do with the stolen jewels?”

Aware she’d said too much already, Ethel shook her head.
“You know what the constables are like. They have to ask everyone in the village all those stupid questions.”

“Well, I hope they don’t bleeding ask me. I got too much on me mind already with me wedding tomorrow.”

Ethel barely heard her. She was thinking about madam, and the look on her face when she’d told her about Inspector Cranshaw. She’d looked ready to faint dead away.

Lord Chickering was feeling pleasantly bloated as he left the dining room that evening. He had enjoyed his meal, his third of the day, and the French Bordeaux he’d ordered had been admirable. Excellent wine cellar, had the Pennyfoot Hotel. Damned excellent.

Thinking about the wine cellar brought back last night’s fiasco of a card game. Dashed odd that, he thought, frowning. There was Mrs. Sinclair telling them her manager was an expert poker player, and it turns out he was damn near incompetent.

Then that business about the pendant. The Star of Sudan. He’d never heard of it. He was bloody well sure he knew of every important gem in the world, yet he’d never heard of that Star of Sudan. Could Mrs. Sinclair have been mistaken? But she’d sounded so damned sure of herself.

He reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner to cross the lobby. Soon have that little matter cleared up, though, by God. Now that he’d sent word to London, it should only be a matter of hours before he got the answer. If there was such a jewel, and one of those bastards had palmed it, he’d make damned sure he got it back.

Wishing he could shake the persistent feeling of uneasiness that had plagued him all day, he began to climb the stairs to his suite.

The staircase curled around on itself as it rose through the three floors of the hotel. Each floor had a landing, and it was as Lord Chickering reached the first landing that a willowy shape detached itself from the shadows and glided toward him.

His entire body jerked with shock when he saw it was that bizarre gypsy woman who always gave him the willies.
Couldn’t abide the woman. Damn heathen, that’s what she was. Had the mark of the devil on her if ever he saw it.

Instinctively he lifted his fingers and crossed them in front of his face. Why didn’t she get out of the way and let him pass, damn her? His sliding glance around told him he was alone with her. His hands trembled.

“Why, it’s Lord Chickering,” she said in that low, husky voice that had never come out of any woman’s mouth he’d ever heard before. “I’m so glad I found you. I have a message for you.”

“A m-m-message?” He cleared his throat. “I am not in the slightest bit interested in listening to any messages from you. Now, please allow me to pass.”

To his utter dismay, she advanced toward him, her long hair seeming to float behind her. The look in her eyes surely was put there by the devil himself. He could almost see the red glow.

“Oh, there’s no mistake, my lord. I assure you. He was most definite about it.”

“He?” This was damned ridiculous. Why was he standing here listening to this crazy woman? He lowered his hands and tried to sidestep her, but she moved across and barred his way again. He began to feel very sick. Maybe he’d eaten too much lobster tonight.

An icy chill descended over his body when the gypsy woman leaned closer and whispered, “The spirit of a dead man, Lord Chickering. A very unhappy man. He tells me he is angry with you. Very, very angry with you. He seeks revenge, my lord. Beware.”

“What? What?” Spluttering helplessly, Chickering flapped his hands at her. “Go away, you evil woman. How dare you speak to me like that. Go away, I say!”

She had the gall to laugh as she glided past him and down the stairs. He could hear the laughter echoing up the empty stairwell, filling all the corners, frightening even the shadows.

Thoroughly unnerved, he dashed up the remaining stairs as fast as his portly figure would allow, to arrive breathless and panting at the door of his suite. His hand shook so badly it was several moments before he could fit the key into the lock.
He kept throwing hunted glances over his shoulder, expecting any minute a ghostly hand to slide around his neck.

Even when he was safely inside the room with the door locked and the gas lamps lit, it was some time before he could settle his shattered nerves.

The bottle of cognac helped, and he had swallowed more than half of it before he was able to stop trembling. Only then did he start thinking seriously about what the gypsy woman had told him. The more he thought about it, the more his dread grew.

Some time later he was disturbed by a light tap on the door. He had fallen into a heavy brandy-induced stupor and sat sprawled in an armchair. Some moments passed before he could rouse himself.

The tap came again, more insistent this time. Cursing, he squinted at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. Thirty minutes to midnight. Who the devil was calling at this hour? He sat up straight. The devil?

For a third time he heard knuckles rapping on the door, and shook his head. If it had been the devil, or anything else ghostly, such a being surely would not be standing on the other side of the door. He would simply walk through it.

The fuzz in his head cleared. Of course! The answer to his urgent message he had sent to London. Now perhaps he’d know for sure if that fool Sinclair woman was right about the Star of Sudan.

He heaved himself out of the chair and stumbled toward the door. “I’m coming,” he muttered. “I’m coming, so stop that damn banging.”

He lunged at the door handle and twisted it open. One of the housemaids stood there, a sealed envelope in her hand. He snatched it from her and shut the door in her face.

Tearing at the envelope with shaking fingers, he fell back into the armchair and removed the sheet of paper. He could barely read the words scrawled on it in a thin, spidery hand and heavily smudged with ink.

If you want the Star of Sudan, be at Deep Willow Pond at midnight
. He blinked at the message and read it again. By God, the woman was right. Whichever one of his men had
hoarded it must have realized he knew about it. No doubt he was having a great deal of trouble disposing of such a recognizable gem. Surely the bastard wouldn’t have the gall to try to sell it back to him?

He shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness. No. More likely the fool thought he could hand it back and receive a full pardon and that all would be forgotten. Well, he’d see about that. Nobody made a fool of Lord Reginald Chickering. No, sir. He’d teach the damn oaf a lesson, that’s what he’d do.

Once more he staggered to his feet and made his way unsteadily to the bedroom. Sinking to his knees, he reached under the bed for his sword and drew it out. It took several attempts to climb back to his feet, but he managed it eventually, swearing lustily as he banged his knee.

Standing in front of the dressing table mirror, he buckled the sword around his hips. Immediately he felt stronger, more powerful. He liked the feel of the blade dangling at his side, and he patted it, admiring his reflection. Always did think he looked dashing with a sword.

Then he remembered why he was wearing it, and he turned and headed for the door. His motor car was parked behind the stables. Damn shame he couldn’t take that, but he would need too much time to power up the engine. The noise would probably be heard all over the village at this hour.

He’d have to saddle up one of the horses. His decision made, he lumbered down the staircase, already anticipating the fortune he would make from the sale of the Star of Sudan.

Less than half an hour later, he had reached the edge of the woods. The full moon glowed in a clear, star-studded sky, casting an eerie light across the patches of snow as he crept down the path toward Deep Willow Pond.

He’d tethered the chestnut to a tree, wary of making too much noise to warn his opponent of his approach. He wanted to see who the fellow was first before he revealed his presence. He wanted to know which of the bastards had betrayed him. And he wanted the element of surprise on his side.

Ahead of him the deep, dark pool of water shimmered in
the moonlight A light breeze swung the drooping branches of the shadowed willows lazily back and forth. Without their leaves, the long wispy branches produced a harsh, rustling sound, like ghostly green skirts of a dozen ball gowns.

The damp chill of the woods penetrated his jacket, and he shivered. He should have stopped to put on his overcoat. The cognac that had spread such welcome warmth throughout his body back at the hotel now burned in his gut like acid.

He swung his head from side to side but could see no movement by the pond, except for the dancing willows. From deep in the woods came the unearthly hoot of an owl, stiffening the hairs on the back of his neck. Steady, he told himself. He’d let that idiotic gypsy woman unsettle him tonight.

Angry with himself for thinking about her, he stepped forward, closer to the pond. Where was the fool who wanted him here? It had to be past midnight.

Perhaps the bastard was smarter than he supposed and was waiting for him to show himself before stepping forward. He didn’t like that. Be at a dashed disadvantage if he did that. But he could wait there all night, shivering in the cold, if he didn’t do something.

A vision of an enormous ruby, glowing in the heart of a circle of diamonds, rose before his eyes. He could almost feel the cold, hard, smooth surface of the gem sitting in the palm of his hand. A king’s ransom, Cecily Sinclair had said. And a fat, greedy sultan sitting there waiting to buy it.