No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (21 page)

Baxter adamantly refused to remain in his office while Northcott worked on the list. His feud with the police constable went back a good many years. He'd once told Cecily that Northcott had stolen the young lady he was courting many years ago, but Cecily had always felt there was more to it than either man would say.

In any case, she volunteered to stay with Northcott until he'd completed his task, a decision that made the constable very uncomfortable indeed.

"It's not proper," he explained in his huffy voice, "for a gentleman to be alone in a room with a lady."

"A married lady," Cecily reminded him. "And a mature one at that." Nevertheless, she left the door open just a crack. There were a few things she wanted to ask the constable, and it was best that she wasn't overheard by the inspector, who was roaming the halls of the club looking for clues.

Northcott sat in Baxter's chair, the register open in front of him while he laboriously copied the names down in his notebook. She'd given him permission to remove his helmet, and he'd sat it on the desk next to him. The glow from the gas lamp gleamed on his bald head and the shiny buttons on his coat. He'd had a lot more hair the last time Cecily had seen him, and his pudgy face had lost much of its ruddy glow.

He looked older, and seemed slower in his movements, which had never exactly been swift. Every now and again he licked the end of his pencil before scratching it across the paper, and he muttered each name under his breath as if that made it easier to write it down.

Cecily pretended to be busy at the filing drawers for a while, until she was fairly confident that Northcott had relaxed. Then she sat down in her favorite chair in front of the desk. "This is like old times, Sam," she said pleasantly.

He seemed startled by her words when he looked up. "Yes, m'm. I s'pose it is. I must say, it's a pleasure to see you back in Badgers End. Not a very good reason to meet again though, is it."

"No, indeed. The poor girl." Cecily uttered a loud sigh. "I wonder who would have had reason to do such a dreadful thing."

"Well, I really can't say, Mrs. Sinclair."

"It's Mrs. Baxter now," she reminded him.

"H'oh, of course. I forgot you married
'im."

The note of disgust in his voice was evident. Cecily tightened her lips, but managed to keep her voice even when she answered. "Does the inspector have any idea who might have been responsible for this dreadful act?"

Northcott's eyes grew wary. "Now, you know very well, m'm, I can't let on what the inspector knows. He'd have my guts for garters if I told you anything."

"He does have some clues then?" Cecily leaned forward. "What about the knife? Mrs. Chubb told me she saw a carving knife. I assume it came from our kitchen?"

Northcott's desire to seem important apparently overrode his fear of the inspector's wrath. He cleared his throat then, as if addressing a full court and jury, announced, "We 'ave h'ascertained that the lady in question did indeed h'observe a utensil wot turned out to be a carving knife. You are correct in assuming that said utensil originated in the kitchen of this 'ere h'establishment. A witness, who shall remain nameless, identified it as such."

"Miss Bunkle recognized the knife?"

Looking put out at her assumption, Northcott nodded reluctantly. "Proper mess she were'n all. Carried on something alarming, she did. Anyone would think it was her wot got knocked off, the way she was caterwauling. That's a fact."

Something else she would have to deal with later, Cecily thought ruefully. "The knife was used to kill Jeanette, I assume?"

Northcott twisted his florid features into a gruesome grimace and drew his thumb across his throat. "One quick slice and it were all over," he said with a relish Cecily found quite unnecessary.

"I see. I suppose the inspector will be questioning the staff?"

Northcott nodded. "And maybe one or two of your guests. He'll be conducting the interviews in the ballroom this afternoon."

Well, that would take care of the rehearsal, Cecily thought gloomily. Knowing the inspector, he would make a big production of it all.

"Well, it looks as if I 'ave all the names down now," Northcott announced. He gave his pencil a final lick and jammed it in the top pocket of his coat. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. ah . . . Baxter, and if the h'inspector should ask, I didn't tell you nothing. Mum's the word. All right?"

"Agreed," Cecily promised cheerfully. She was anxious for him to leave now. Ever since she'd spoken to Moira the night before, she'd been anxious to speak to Roger Peebles alone. So far she hadn't had that opportunity. All morning he'd been accompanied by his wife and one or another of his Bencher colleagues.

But now there was even more of an urgent reason to speak to him. Although well aware of her duty to pass on to the inspector what she knew, she was reluctant to do so until she'd had a chance to question the man herself. Baxter was right. There was no point in arousing suspicion of an esteemed guest if Moira had been mistaken.

She could only hope that if the girl was questioned by the inspector, she would keep silent about Peebles's possible involvement with Jeanette. At least until she'd had a
chance to speak to him and, with any luck, learn exactly what Peebles was doing philandering with a lowly kitchen maid.

When Cecily went in search of Roger Peebles later, she was told that all four Benchers had retired to the card room for a game of baccarat. Resigning herself to a lengthy wait, she made her way to the library. She had promised Madeline and the twins that she would inspect their handiwork and no doubt they were waiting for her approval.

Upon entering the library, however, she found the four wives of the Benchers huddled around the fire, apparently engaged in deep discussion. They looked up as she approached, their faces lined with apprehension.

"Mrs. Baxter, is this dreadful news true?" Barbara Fitzhammer asked fearfully.

Cecily had hoped to keep the murder quiet for a little longer, but it seemed word had already spread among the guests. Even so, she was deliberately vague in the hopes she was mistaken. "I'm not certain to what news you refer, Mrs. Fitzhammer," she said cautiously.

"The death of that poor girl." Gretchen Peebles shuddered. "I heard that her throat was slit with a carving knife and that her frock was soaked in blood."

Cries of horror greeted that comment.

"What kind of establishment is this," Lady Lucille muttered, "that such an atrocity is allowed to happen?"

"Indeed." Amelia Chatsworth languidly waved a pink satin fan in front of her face. "Such a dreadful deed. I certainly hope the murderer isn't loose in this very club. We could all be murdered in our beds."

Barbara Fitzhammer shrieked so loudly it made Cecily jump in alarm. "I think we should leave at once."

Lady Lucille looked about to faint. "I think that is a very good idea," she declared. "All this has made me feel quite unwell."

The chorus of agreement worried Cecily. Hiding her concern, she announced firmly, "I can assure you, ladies, that everything is being done to ensure the safety of our guests. I doubt very much if the person responsible for Jeanette's death has lingered long in the area for fear of being discovered. In fact, the inspector and constables have already left to return to the police station. They are satisfied that there is no danger to anyone here at the Pennyfoot."

That wasn't strictly true, since according to Northcott's furtively whispered comments to her upon leaving, the inspector had not discovered anything that would lead him to the murderer. What's more, he planned to return to an urgent case in Wellercombe, leaving the investigation in the hands of his constables for the time being.

It was Cecily's considered opinion that had the victim been a member of the aristocracy, or perhaps one of these ladies who were staring at her with such apprehension, Inspector Cranshaw might have been a great deal more interested in hunting down the murderer. Obviously a common kitchen maid didn't warrant as much attention as the "urgent case" in Wellercombe—a fact that infuriated Cecily.

"But what about the Christmas festivities?" Amelia Chatsworth demanded. "What effect will this tragic event have on everything?"

"Yes, indeed." Gretchen Peebles gazed up at Cecily
with anxious eyes. "We wouldn't want to spend Christmas in a place of mourning. It would be far too demoralizing. It would completely spoil our Christmas."

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to look for a hotel in Wellercombe," Lady Lucille murmured.

"Yes, yes, do let's," Barbara Fitzhammer chimed in. "I just wouldn't feel safe here now."

Thoroughly alarmed now, Cecily hurried to reassure them. "I beg all of you to calm yourselves and try to put this incident out of your mind. As I've said, you are in no danger. The Pennyfoot Christmas Season will go on as planned. We have some wonderful festivities for you to enjoy, including a delightful pantomime and Michel is planning a spectacular Christmas dinner in the ballroom, with champagne and gifts for everyone. It would be a great shame to miss all that, especially when it would be most difficult to find room at another hotel this late in the Season."

"True," Amelia Chatsworth murmured. "And there isn't another country club within traveling distance, unless we return to London. Think how our husbands would feel if they couldn't spend their time in a card room. Everyone knows that it is illegal in a hotel to engage in such pursuits. It's the main reason my husband chooses to stay at the Pennyfoot."

"You're right," Barbara Fitzhammer said mournfully. "Lionel would never agree to go to a hotel now."

"Neither would Roger," Gretchen Peebles murmured. "I'm afraid we have no choice, ladies. We might as well make the best of it."

Having avoided disaster for the time being, Cecily left them chattering together and headed for the kitchen. It had occurred to her that the staff would also need some
reassurance. Not to mention her own special guests.

Mrs. Chubb, the twins, and Gertie were lying down in their rooms, after having been questioned thoroughly by the inspector. Daisy, Doris, and Samuel had gone into town earlier that day, but would most likely have returned by now for the rehearsal, which would not now take place. Out of respect for Jeannette, Cecily had canceled everything for that day.

As she hurried down the steps to the kitchen, she realized she still hadn't inspected the tree in the library. That would have to wait until later now. There was just too much to be done.

As she entered the kitchen, it was obvious that Jeanette's death had a marked effect on the kitchen staff. The maids were all huddled by the sink around Moira, who sobbed loudly into her apron. The potatoes hadn't been peeled, the carrots had not been sliced, and even Michel stood aimlessly stirring his soup in apparent ignorance that the lengthy preparations for the evening meal were not being executed.

There was no doubt that the discipline Miss Bunkle kept talking about was sadly lacking. Looking around, Cecily was surprised to find no sign of the gaunt housekeeper. She was not in the pantry or the scullery, or even in the kitchen yard outside.

Clapping her hands to gain the maids' attention, she called out, "I want everyone back at their post immediately. We have a meal to serve in less than three hours, and by the looks of it, you haven't even begun your tasks."

At the sound of her voice, Michel had snapped to attention. "Hurry up, hurry up, you nitwits," he yelled, forgetting his fabricated French accent in his agitation. "Get a
bloody move on, all of you!" His tall hat slipped sideways, and he made a grab at it, seizing it just before it slipped into the soup.

"Where is Miss Bunkle?" Cecily asked him as the maids scurried back and forth. "Why isn't she in here taking care of all this?"

Michel shrugged. "She is in her room,
madame
. She refuses to come out." He jammed his hat back on his head and in a thick French accent added, "I do not know what is ze matter with her. She wail and cry and carry on . . . like a baby. I tell you,
madame
, this kitchen was a lot 'appier to work in when Mrs. Chubb was housekeeper.
Oui?"

"Oh, dear." Cecily glanced at the clock. "Don't fret, Michel. I'll take care of it."

Michel went back to his soup. "Someone needs to take care of things. I cannot work with such imbeciles."

Cecily hurried over to Moira, who stood sniffing mournfully at the sink, every now and then wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"I understand all this is a great shock to you," Cecily told her. "I'll need to talk to you later, but right now, do you think you can manage to do your work? Michel really needs you now that Jeanette is no longer with us."

It was the wrong thing to say, Cecily realized as fresh tears poured down Moira's face.

"I
told
her not go out," she sobbed. "She wouldn't listen to me."

Cecily patted the girl's shoulder. "I know, dear, I know. I'm sorry, Moira. Please try to manage as best you can this afternoon and we'll have a little talk this evening, all right?"

The girl sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and nodded. "Yes, m'm. I'll be all right. Really."

Feeling only a tad reassured, Cecily left the kitchen and hurried down the hall to Miss Bunkle's room. There was no reply to her sharp rap on the door, and giving up, she returned to the foyer and climbed the stairs to Mrs. Chubb's room.

Gertie had apparently recovered from her ordeal and was visiting with Mrs. Chubb when Cecily arrived.

"I really can't dawdle," she told them after making sure that all was well with them. "Miss Bunkle has locked herself in her room and refuses to come out. With Jeannette gone, the maids are short-handed. I must go back there right away to attempt some order."

Mrs. Chubb and Gertie looked at each other. Apparently a silent message passed between them as they both nodded.

"I could go down there and take over until Miss Bunkle feels better," Mrs. Chubb said, getting to her feet.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly ask you to do that," Cecily protested. "This is your Christmas holiday. I didn't ask you down here to work."