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“Me and Ian was never married legally. That means I’m not his bleeding widow. His real wife is the lucky woman, that’s if he was still married to her, which I bloody doubt.”
    She heard Mrs. Chubb cough and glanced at her over her shoulder. Reading the warning in the housekeeper’s eyes, she shrugged. She didn’t care what the stupid policeman thought. She’d hated Ian Rossiter and she wasn’t going to pretend to mourn his death.
    “H’interesting,” Northcott murmured.
    Mrs. Chubb picked up a plate of mince pies and thrust it at him. “Here, Sam, take some of these with you. I know you must be in a hurry to be off, having to get ready for your visit to London and all.”
    Gertie turned back to the sink, but not before she caught the constable’s thoughtful gaze on her. Her heart started beating a little too fast for comfort. Surely the stupid fool didn’t think she’d shoved Ian in the pond.
    “Thank you, Altheda. I’ll be off then.” The door creaked as the constable opened it. “Happy Christmas, all.”
    “Happy Christmas to you, Sam.”
    A strained silence followed, and Gertie knew Northcott was waiting for her to return the greeting. “Happy Christmas,” she mumbled, without turning around.
    She relaxed her shoulders when she heard the creak again and knew the door had swung closed. Bracing herself, she turned to face Mrs. Chubb.
    The housekeeper stood by the table, her arms crossed, her plump face creased in a frown. There was no sign of Michel and the maids hadn’t yet returned from the dining room, where they were still cleaning up.
    Gertie drew a deep breath then blurted out, “If you’re waiting for me to cry over Ian, then you’re going to wait a bloody long time.”
    “I’m not expecting you to cry.” Mrs. Chubb unfolded her arms and picked up a rolling pin. Slowly she began rolling it across the mound of pastry on the board in front of her. “I know it must have been a shock, though.”
    “A bloody pleasant one.”
    “Gertie!” Mrs. Chubb looked up. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
    “Yeah, well, Ian Rossiter did a terrible thing to me, trying to steal my daughter away.”
    “With that attitude you’d better not mention you saw Ian last night, then.”
    Gertie frowned. “Why not?”
    “You was fighting with him, weren’t you? That’s probably why he got drunk. They could blame you for him falling into that pond.”
    Turning back to the sink, Gertie muttered, “It’s not my fault if he can’t bleeding look where he’s going. Besides, I weren’t the only one fighting with him. Like I told you last night, Clive ran him off the premises. He was a lot rougher on him than I was, and serve him bloody well right, that’s what I say. What’s more—” She broke off, thinking better of it.
    The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “What’s more what?”
    Marching over to the stove, Gertie grabbed the handles of a steaming cauldron. There was no need to tell Chubby everything. The less said the better, under the circumstances. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said instead, “Ian Rossiter got what he bleeding deserved. Someone up there must have been watching over me and the kids.”
    She hauled the hot water over to the sink and tipped it. Blinking against the cloud of steam, she added, “Maybe it was my dead-and-gone husband, Ross, shoving Ian in the pond with an angel’s hand.”
    “Angels don’t kill people,” Mrs. Chubb said, her rolling pin slapping back and forth across the pastry. “They save them.”
    “Yeah, well Ross was a real husband, and he loved my twins as if they were his own. He would protect them any way he could, even if it was all the way from heaven.”
    “Gertie McBride, you are talking nonsense.” Mrs. Chubb sounded cross. “Sam Northcott told me Ian got drunk, wandered into the pond, and hit his head when he fell and drowned. Nobody pushed him. All I’m saying is there’s no need to complicate matters by saying you had a row with