No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (14 page)

Gilroy stared at her as if she'd committed a sin by mentioning the pin, while Chatsworth merely looked bored. Peebles, on the other hand, frowned at the pin as though he were trying to remember where he'd seen it before.

When none of them answered her, Cecily turned to Gilroy. "I understand your wife mislaid one during a previous visit, Sir John. Would you care to take a closer look, just in case it should belong to her?"

Rather impatiently he reached out and took it from her, squinting at it in the dim light of the corridor. Finally, he muttered brusquely, "I believe this might
belong to my wife. I gave her one like it as an anniversary gift. I had no idea she had mislaid it. She'll be most relieved to have it returned to her. I'm very much obliged to you, Mrs. Baxter."

Elated at having her suspicions confirmed, Cecily beamed. "Not at all, Sir John. I'm happy to have been of service."

He stared back at her, his expression stony, as if a shutter had closed over his face.

Somewhat unnerved, she glanced back at Roger Peebles, and was intrigued to find him now watching Sir John with a furtive expression in his eyes. He seemed ill at ease, and fidgeted with his watch chain as if anxious to be somewhere else.

She watched the men move off down the hallway, wondering how Lucille was going to explain why she hadn't told her husband about the loss of his valuable gift, and what he would say if he learned where Cecily had found it.

She could at least be certain that it was Lucille who had been meeting someone in the farmhouse. If the pin had been stolen, like Miss Bunkle's pearls, or even found in the hotel and taken to the farmhouse by someone else, there would have been no need for Lucille to lie about the pin belonging to her.

Cecily uttered a heavy sigh. On the other hand, she was no closer to learning with whom the lady had taken such risks. Or if, indeed, the clandestine couple had anything to do with Barry Wrotham's death. Baxter was right. She had no proof that any of her theories were the right ones.

She had no time to ponder further at that moment, as a
commotion at the front door suggested visitors had arrived. She recognized the strident voice at once and hurried forward to greet the newcomers.

Phoebe stood just inside the closed doors, her hand on the arm of a stout gentleman whose red face beneath the elegant top hat he wore contrasted sharply with his frost white whiskers. The colonel was talking loudly and with a great deal of agitation, brandishing his free arm as if staving off imaginary assailants and completely ignoring the quiet pleas of his wife.

Cecily crossed the foyer at top speed, conscious of the stares of several people standing at the reception counter. "Phoebe! And Colonel Fortescue! What a pleasure it is to see you both again."

The colonel mercifully stopped bellowing, his watery, bloodshot eyes staring at her as if she had sprouted horns. "Cecily? Is that you? Good Lord, old bean, what the devil are you doing in this den of iniquity? Have you no blasted shame? What? What?"

Phoebe sent her a look of apology. "He thinks he's in a house of ill repute," she whispered from behind her gloved hand.

Cecily raised her eyebrows. "What on earth gave him that idea?"

"We passed a group of young ladies running down the steps outside. They were unescorted by gentlemen, and seemingly in high spirits. They called out to us, wishing us a happy Christmas, and I'm afraid that dear Freddie thought they were offering their services."

"Damn disgusting if you ask me," the colonel boomed. "Can't think why my wife would bring me here." He
leaned over Phoebe, his eyelids flapping up and down in agitation. "Unless you're trying to get rid of me, what? What? Heaven knows what ghastly things happen to the poor blighters who get lured into this obscene harem."

"Oh, don't be such a dunce, Freddie," Phoebe said crossly. "This is a country club, and a very respectable establishment. Surely you remember the time when Cecily owned the Pennyfoot Hotel?"

The colonel blinked at Cecily. "The Pennyfoot Hotel. Why, by George, of course I remember! Jolly good show, old girl. Nice to be back in the old Pennyfoot. So where's Baxter then, the old goat? What have you done with him? Hope you haven't sent him packing, what? What?"

Aware of the odd glances being directed at them, Cecily said hurriedly, "Baxter is in the office. I'm sure he will be pleased to see you. You remember where it is, don't you?"

"Right ho, old bean. Think I'll toddle off for a quick snifter in the bar. Tell the governor to join me in there when he's ready."

"You're not toddling anywhere without me, Freddie," Phoebe said crisply. "In any case, the bar is not where it used to be. The drawing room is no longer there, either. You'll never find your way on your own."

"I'm afraid you won't be able to go in the bar with him," Cecily said. "Club rules, I'm sorry to say. No women allowed in the bar. Not even me."

"Whose rules are they?" Phoebe demanded. "Not that peculiar woman with a knitting needle stuck in her head?"

"I say, old fruit, bit painful what?" The colonel twisted
the end of his mustache with a flourish. "Reminds me of the time I had an arrow shot right through my bloody pith helmet. Did I ever tell you—"

"A hundred times," Phoebe said rudely. She turned to Cecily. "Is Madeline here yet? I really need to talk to her about the backdrops for the pantomime. Are we meeting in the library?"

"I suppose we could," Cecily murmured. "Although it's not as private as it used to be. Perhaps it would be better to have our meeting in my suite. At least we have no fear of being disturbed there."

"Good idea. I'll take Freddie to the bar and he can wait there for me."

The colonel's eyes lit up. "I say, jolly good idea, old bean."

"And you are to have no more than two glasses," she told him sternly.

"Oh, right, of course, old fruit. Anything you say."

"Then that's settled." Cecily glanced at the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner of the foyer. "I have one small errand to run, but it won't take me more than a minute or so. I'll meet you in my suite." She handed Phoebe the key. "I shan't be long."

She left Phoebe to explain to the colonel why the bar had been moved since he was last there. The last thing she heard him bellow before she passed out of earshot was an explosive, "Well, I never heard such blasted stuff and nonsense. Tell them to put the damn thing back where it belongs!"

Reaching the library door, Cecily turned the handle and entered the quiet room. She was thankful to see that Lady Lucille had left, and that no one else disturbed the
peace of what used to be her favorite room in the hotel.

She wanted to take a closer look at the towering Christmas tree that she'd spotted earlier by the French windows. She was pleased to see that it was just as magnificent as her first impression of it.

The fragrance of it filled the room, and the thick branches laden with pine needles swooped down to the floor in perfect symmetry, leaving no unsightly gaps to be filled. The woodsman had done a fine job. Madeline would have a fine time decorating such a grand specimen.

Well content with the tree, Cecily wandered over to the fireplace. The portrait of James Sinclair, her late husband, had once hung on the wall overlooking the long Jacobean table where she had conducted so many committee meetings.

Now the portrait had been replaced by a turbulent seascape, and the Jacobean table with its constant vase of roses had been banished in favor of more armchairs and trestle tables.

Still, the memories could not be destroyed. It had been here in this room where she had once shared a cigar now and then with Baxter, and it had been here in this room where she had received her first inkling that his concern for her was something more than just a promise to her late husband.

She turned from the fireplace and gazed at the warm paneled walls and the shelves crammed with books that reached from the floor to the lofty ceiling. This was still her favorite room. Because it held so many wonderful memories. And because the spirit of everything that had mattered in her life still hovered within its walls.

She, Madeline, and Phoebe had spent so many pleasant hours discussing the frequent events that were held at the hotel to entertain the guests. Balls and tea dances, with
Phoebe's sometimes bizarre presentations on the stage, were an integral part of the hotel's routine.

The tableaux, dances, plays, and even a magician were some of the most memorable events Phoebe had presided over, with the help of her inept, argumentative dance troupe, who invariably managed to bring disaster to the entertainment in some strange manner or other.

Much as Phoebe lamented each calamity, Cecily was of the private opinion that the guests actually adored the chaos that ensued, and would have been vastly disappointed had the performance been anything less than a catastrophe.

The door opened abruptly, shattering her thoughts. Jeanette stood in the doorway, and she dropped a curtsey when she caught sight of Cecily. "Begging your pardon, m'm, but Miss Bunkle sent me to tell you that the last of your special guests has arrived."

"Doris is here?" Cecily hurried to the door. "How wonderful. Where is she?"

"Raymond took her up to her room, m'm." Jeanette waited for Cecily to exit the room, then closed the door and followed her up the hallway. "Is it true she's on the stage, m'm?"

"Doris is a professional performer, yes."

"In London?"

"Yes." Cecily paused. "Jeanette, I'd prefer that the guests didn't know that about Doris. I don't want her pestered by stage-struck admirers. I don't know who told you . . ."

"Samuel told Moira and she told me." Jeanette looked worried. "I haven't told no one else, m'm. Honest I haven't. I—"

Her sentence was cut off by a hefty sneeze that echoed up the wide staircase. Smothering her nose in a large white
handkerchief, Jeanette ducked another curtsey and rushed off for the kitchen.

Cecily watched her go with a frown. The girl seemed unnecessarily agitated. This business of the stolen pearls must be making the staff uneasy. She would have to abandon her efforts to find out what happened to Wrotham for the time being and concentrate on searching for Miss Bunkle's pearls.

Sighing, she made for the stairs. She was looking forward to seeing Doris again. The young girl had been one of her favorites. It wasn't until she'd reached the first landing that she remembered Phoebe, who was no doubt waiting for her in her suite at this very moment. Her reunion with Doris would have to wait after all.

She found both Phoebe and Madeline ensconced in her living room engaged in a heated argument over where to hang the mistletoe.

"It would be inviting serious embarrassment to hang mistletoe in the main hallway," Phoebe asserted, wagging her finger at Madeline to emphasize her point. "It is too dark and too narrow to pass a person without coming within reach. Heaven knows what liberties some of these gentlemen might take at such an enticing opportunity."

Madeline rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "Just listen to her. As if a simple sprig of mistletoe would change a gentleman's character. People have been hanging mistletoe over their doorways for centuries at Christmastime and so far there have been no rumors of mass molestation."

"Just because we do not hear of such tales doesn't mean it doesn't happen. If you must hang the stuff somewhere,
why not the ballroom, where any impertinent behavior can be easily detected and therefore avoided?"

Madeline fixed her with a baleful glare. "Has it ever occurred to your addled brain that some people welcome such advances? I seem to remember you being much less prudish when your colonel pursued you in the rose garden."

Phoebe's face turned scarlet. "I beg your pardon?"

Deciding it was high time to intervene, Cecily said hurriedly, "I think we can begin rehearsals for the pantomime tomorrow. Doris arrived a short while ago, and I'm hoping she'll agree to help us with the production. Phoebe, have you contacted your dance troupe? How many can we depend on to help us with our presentation?"

After giving Madeline a final lethal glare, Phoebe turned a cold shoulder on her and smiled at Cecily. "At least six of the girls are eager to participate. They've missed the excitement of performing in front of an audience."

"I hope Doris knows what's in store for her," Madeline murmured. "She's accustomed to professional performers. It's going to be something of a shock when she has to deal with the Troupe Fiasco."

"I've asked you not to call them that," Phoebe said sharply. "It demoralizes them."

"That's nothing compared to what they can do to an audience." Madeline gave Cecily a sly look. "Are you sure Doris wants to be associated with Phoebe's band of clumsy clowns?"

"Doris will be happy to donate her talents, I'm sure," Cecily said, crossing her fingers in her lap. "In any case, a pantomime is not exactly an opera. It's supposed to be a display of amusement, with lots of jokes and good humor
and audience participation. Who's going to notice if things are not quite perfect? And even if they do, really, who is going to care that much? It's all in the spirit of Christmas, is it not?"

"Exactly my sentiments," Phoebe declared, giving Madeline a triumphant smirk.

Madeline threw her hands up in defeat. "Very well. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"That's settled then." Cecily drew a sigh of relief. "When can you start the decorating, Madeline?"

"Right away, if you can tell me where to find the decorations." Madeline glanced at the clock on Cecily's sideboard. "Did you get another tree for the library?"

"I certainly did. I was just looking at it earlier. It's quite magnificent. I've decided to hold a private candle-lighting ceremony for my special guests in the library on Christmas Eve. You and Phoebe, and the colonel, of course, are all invited to attend. We'll have a wassail bowl and Christmas crackers, and roast chestnuts in the fire. We'll be hanging small gifts on the tree for the guests to be handed out on Christmas Day, so it will all look very festive with its candles burning."

"Oh, it does sound so heavenly!" Phoebe clapped her hands in delight. "I know dear Freddie will adore it." She glanced at Madeline. "I don't suppose you will be bringing the doctor, by any chance?"