Kate Kingsbury: Herald Of Death

“You could have gone with him, you know. He wanted you to go.”

“What? Leave my home and drag my twins all the way up to the city where they don’t know nobody and there’s no beach to play on and nothing but busy streets and all that smoke and noise? I don’t think so. No man is worth all that. Even if he did have money.”

“You could have lived in luxury up there.”

“Yeah, and been unhappy. It would never have lasted.”

Pansy picked up her tray of serviettes and moved over to the next table. “What about Clive? Would you go with him?”

For some strange reason, Gertie felt her stomach clench at the mention of the Pennyfoot’s handyman. She managed a light laugh. “Clive? Whatever makes you think he’d ask?”

Pansy shrugged. “Everyone knows he’s sweet on you.”

“Everyone except me, then.”

“Go on with you.” Pansy looked up, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “You must know he likes you.”

Gertie pulled in a deep breath. “Clive and me are just friends, that’s all. If I ever get cozy with another man, it will be with someone what can provide for me and the twins in a manner much better than what I got now.”

Pansy suddenly looked sad. “Does he know that?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Maybe you should. It’s not nice to lead a man on.”

“I’m not leading him on,” Gertie began hotly, then shut her mouth. Maybe she was, without realizing it. She knew Clive liked her, but as a friend. He’d never said anything to make her think differently. Maybe she was taking his friendship for granted. He was so good with the kids and all, and she really liked being in his company. That didn’t mean she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

“Well,” Pansy said, laying the serviettes neatly by the place settings, “I think you should make it clear to him how you feel. Just in case he should have any strong feelings for you.”

Gertie glared at Pansy. “When I want your advice, missy, I’ll bleeding ask for it. I know what I’m doing, and I ain’t doing nothing wrong, so there.”

“All right, all right.” Pansy held up her hands. “I was just saying, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t say.”

“All right, I won’t.” Pansy tilted her head to one side and gave her a sly look. “I heard he was building a sleigh. A big one, pulled by a horse.”

“He’s already built it.” A little stab of excitement caught Gertie under the ribs. “He’s taking me and the twins for a ride on it on my afternoon off.”

“Lucky you.” Pansy pouted. “All I get to do with Samuel is walk the dog into the woods and back.”

Gertie grinned. “Yeah, but I bet you have more fun in those woods with Samuel than I would ever want or need with Clive.”

Pansy’s cheeks glowed pink. “How do you know?”

“I can tell by the soppy look on your face when you come back.” She glanced at the clock. “Blimey, we’d better get going. We’ve still got potatoes to peel for supper, and if Michel doesn’t get his bloody cauliflower washed he’ll be crashing saucepans around again.”

She headed for the door, still feeling a little guilty about her friendship with Clive. It would not only devastate her to lose that companionship, the twins would never forgive her if she said something to break up what they had.

Still, she didn’t want him thinking that their relationship was headed for something more permanent. Maybe she should sound him out and try to find out if he was expecting more from her than she was prepared to give.

Drat Pansy and her unwanted advice. Gertie stomped down the hallway to the kitchen, her enthusiasm for the sleigh ride fading fast.

That evening Cecily waited until Baxter was settled in front of the fire with the latest copy of Lloyd’s Weekly before putting down her book. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

Baxter eyed her over the top of the newspaper. “Is it bad news?”

“Not directly, though it is disturbing.”

Baxter sighed, and lowered the newspaper. “Very well, we might as well get it over with.”

Somewhat wary, she related her conversation with P.C. Northcott.

Baxter said nothing until she was finished talking. Then he shook the newspaper, raised it in front of his face, and murmured, “Well, I’m thankful you remembered your promise.”

She wasn’t sure why, but his indifference stung. “It wasn’t easy.”

He lowered the newspaper again. “Nor was it easy to refuse a position that would have been not only financially rewarding but immensely stimulating.”

“Yes, I suppose-”

“To be charged with the installation and launching of hotels in various locations abroad was the most exciting opportunity I have ever been offered.”

“Yes, dear, I do understand-”

“Only your obvious reluctance to accompany me on the venture could have persuaded me to turn it down.”

Frowning, she muttered, “I am not questioning your sacrifice in order to please me. This is, however, the very first time Sam Northcott has openly asked for my help, and only dire circumstances would have prompted him to do so. I felt honored that he considered me capable of the task.”

Obviously sensing an argument brewing, Baxter folded the newspaper and laid it on the arm of the chair. “Apart from the fact that the constable is anxious to visit his relatives for Christmas as usual, what is it about the case that so desperately requires your help?”

Cecily pursed her lips and stared at the smoldering coals in the fireplace. “I think he’s afraid that we have a serial killer in the village, since both Jimmy Taylor and Thomas Willow were apparently killed by the same person.”

“If you remember, you thought we had a serial killer in the Pennyfoot last year. It turned out he was killing people simply to throw you off the scent.”

She threw him an uneasy glance. “Are you suggesting this could be the same scenario?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely pointing out that you can’t assume anything-something that Sam Northcott apparently hasn’t learned yet.”

She sighed. “He does have a tendency to jump to conclusions.”

“That’s not his only tendency.” Baxter tapped the newspaper with his fingers. “I’m surprised Cranshaw isn’t in charge of the case.”

“So am I. There has to be something of vital importance to keep him in London at such a time.”

“Nevertheless, I think Northcott has a blasted cheek asking you to help him do his duty.”

“As I said, he must be desperate.” She turned her gaze from the fireplace to her husband and found him watching her with a wary look in his gray eyes. “It is rather an intriguing case. I feel very sorry for Jimmy’s family. How sad to lose someone so young. And then there’s Thomas Willow, the shoemaker. I seem to remember you mentioning his name?”

“He made my last pair of shoes. Dratted nuisance, that. Now I shall have to go into Wellercombe to get new shoes fitted.”

“What was he like?”

Baxter shrugged. “Old man, gray hair, gnarled hands. It amazed me how he could use those twisted fingers to make such remarkable shoes. He was a bit of a grouch, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill the old goat.”

“He doesn’t sound much like Jimmy Taylor.”

“He wasn’t. Couldn’t have been more opposite, if you ask me.”

“That’s very strange.”

Baxter’s eyebrows drew together. “What is?”

“I just wonder what it was they had in common to cause their violent deaths.” Cecily returned her gaze to the fireplace. “It would seem, from what Sam told me, that Jimmy’s death was unintentional, yet someone used Jimmy’s whip to beat an old man to death. Not only that, there’s the gold angels and the missing locks of hair. There has to be a connection somewhere.”