No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (28 page)

Cecily opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. He would not appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night to listen to yet another of her rash theories. This would have to wait until the morning.

Excited now, she lay back down and reviewed the whole sequence in her mind. The thing she had buried in her memory had suddenly resurfaced, so clearly she couldn't imagine how she could have forgotten it in the first place.

It was when she'd offered her condolences to Chatsworth and Fitzhammer after the news of Peebles's death. Fitzhammer declared that Peebles was careless and most likely hadn't bothered to get his brakes examined before he left London.
But she was quite sure that Samuel had told no one that the brakes had failed, and she had told no one but Baxter. She could safely assume that he had not passed on the information, in which case, the only way Fitzhammer could have known was if he had something to do with it.

The memory of Samuel's soft voice came back clearly to her.
I'd say someone helped them along a bit. Not likely they'd both go at the same time without a bit of nudging
.

It would seem she finally had her killer.

CHAPTER

20

Unable to sleep now, Cecily wrestled with her thoughts. If Fitzhammer had killed Peebles, it was entirely likely that he had killed Jeanette, too. Perhaps even Barry Wrotham as well. The big question was, of course, if he had indeed killed three people, why had he found it necessary to take such drastic steps? If she thought about it long enough, perhaps she could determine the reason.

She frowned in the darkness. If only she could talk the whole thing through with Baxter. Curses on the entire gambling scene. Once she had been tolerant of the practice, particularly when it had been an integral source of income for the Pennyfoot, albeit illegal. But now she had nothing but disgust for gambling and the men who perpetuated it. Too many lives had been ruined by the habit.
And many more would certainly follow suit. Even murder.

She was convinced that the three deaths had something to do with the gambling houses. What if Wrotham were a gambler also, and had frequented the gambling houses, somehow discovering the identity of the owners. If he had suffered a loss comparable with Baxter's devastating misfortune, he might have hoped to recoup his money by blackmailing the partners. Or one partner such as Lionel Fitzhammer.

Wrotham would then have to be silenced. Jeanette might have found out about the murder and confided in Peebles, with whom she was apparently enamored, in which case Peebles might have confronted Fitzhammer, who then had to silence them both.

It was a possible solution, and pleased with herself, Cecily uttered a small sigh of satisfaction. That certainly made more sense than all her other scenarios, and would justify her conviction that none of the deaths was an accident.

Now the problem was, how to verify her suspicions, much less prove them. Inspector Cranshaw was hardly going to pay any attention to her vague theories, unless she had something substantial to provoke his interest.

Something else occurred to her. Something that disturbed her a great deal. If her suspicions were correct, then Fitzhammer was a very dangerous man. He apparently had no reservations about killing a close associate, not to mention an innocent young girl. It was entirely possible he had killed Wrotham because of what he knew. If Lady Lucille had been close to Barry Wrotham, then her life could very well be in danger, too. If Fitzhammer should decide that Lucille might suspect him and was a
threat to him, he would have no hesitation in killing her as well.

No matter how vague her suspicions might still be, it was her duty to warn Lady Lucille, and Sir John Gilroy as well, that they could very well be keeping company with a mass murderer. Of course, that would mean she'd have to reveal what she knew about the Cureagambler partnership, but it couldn't be helped. It was up to her to see that another murder did not take place.

Having come to that conclusion, she finally allowed herself to fall asleep.

The next morning Baxter was still acting cold toward her, though he did answer her comments with a grunt or a nod. Somewhat encouraged by this first sign of thawing, she approached him as he was about to shave his chin.

One of the maids had brought a jug of hot water to their suite, and he was using the last of it in the washbasin. At the moment he was peering into the mirror at his lathered face.

As he brandished the long blade of his razor, about to stroke it down his cheek, Cecily said tentatively, "I've remembered what it was I'd forgotten yesterday."

She took his grunt for consent to continue and quickly told him about her conversation with Fitzhammer and the brakes on Peebles's car. When she received no response to that, she launched into her speculation of what might have happened, and why Fitzhammer might have seen fit to kill three people.

Baxter appeared to be listening as he scraped his chin and throat with the razor, though he kept his gaze squarely on the mirror in front of him.

"I think I should warn Sir John and Lady Lucille," she
said as she came to the end of her story. "If I'm right, then Lionel Fitzhammer is a very dangerous man. I think they should be aware that he could be a threat to them, especially Lady Lucille."

"If
you are right," Baxter said pointedly. "If you are mistaken, as you so often are, you could be exposing yourself to a great deal of embarrassment. You will also offend some very influential members of this club, whose loss your cousin Edward would surely resent. Not that I expect you to heed my advice, Cecily, but if I were you, I would think long and deeply before you embark on such a dubious mission."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

His glance at her was heavy with scorn. "Since when did you take notice of what I might advise? I see no point in offering my opinion, since you no doubt have already made up your mind and, in spite of what I might think, will indubitably take matters into your own hands. All I can ask is that you consider the consequences of your actions. And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do."

"You are not taking breakfast with me?"

"I'll have something sent to the office."

Miserably she watched him head for the door. "Is there any word on the state of our finances?"

He paused and without looking at her muttered, "Contrary to what you might think, miracles are not performed every day, even at Christmastime. Nothing has changed. The house will be sold to cover the debt. I am . . . sorry." The door closed behind him with a snap.

She twisted her lips in a wry grimace. At least he
expressed some regret. It was a start in the right direction. Patience, that's what it would take. A good deal of patience on her part. She could only hope he wouldn't keep her waiting too long. She couldn't bear the thought of spending Christmas at odds with him.

She was about to follow him out when a tap on the door announced the arrival of Gertie, whose engaging grin went a long way to lifting Cecily's spirits.

"Just wanted to let you know, m'm, there's a gentleman waiting to speak to you on the telephone. I think he's ringing all the way from a foreign country, 'cos I heard the operator speaking to someone with a funny accent."

"I wonder if it's Michael, or Andrew." She hadn't heard from her sons in so long. The thought of talking to one of them right now was like a candle lighting up the dark.

"I don't think so, m'm. The operator said it were that Mr. Sandringham what bought the Pennyfoot."

"Edward? Oh, dear." For a moment Cecily was tempted to have Gertie tell Edward that she had gone out for the day. Things were bound to be awkward. She didn't want to worry him with the news that three deaths had occurred in as many weeks, but on the other hand, he should be told. Perhaps Baxter . . .

Shaking her head, she said briskly, "I'll come down right away, Gertie, thank you."

She hurried out the door and closed it behind her. "How are you all managing in the kitchen?" she asked as she followed Gertie to the head of the stairs.

"Very well, m'm, thank you. Mrs. Chubb has got everyone running around like a bloody blue-ass fly, but she's getting things done on time, which is what counts."
Gertie hesitated at the top of the stairs. "I know this isn't the time, m'm, but when you have a moment, I'd like a word with you if I may?"

"Of course, Gertie. I'll come down to the kitchen just as soon as I'm free."

"Thank you, m'm." The maid sped down the stairs ahead of her and disappeared around the turning.

Cecily frowned after her, wondering what was coming next. No doubt Gertie had seen enough of kitchen work. She was more than likely about to ask to be released from her duties. Not that she could blame her, Cecily thought desolately, but her absence would leave a huge gap. What's more, without Gertie's strong arms and brazen confidence to help things along, Mrs. Chubb might well decide to desert her post as well.

Cecily's stomach was tied up in knots by the time she arrived in the foyer to answer the telephone. Edward was bound to ask how they were faring. She could hardly blurt out to him that three people had died and the housekeeper had walked out on them, leaving them to the mercy of good friends who were now reaching the limit of their goodwill.

Her hand actually shook as she took the receiver and placed it to her ear. After speaking to the operator, who appeared to be in conversation with another faraway operator, there followed a series of buzzes, whistles, and shrieks, then a faint echo of Edward's voice crackled on the line. "Cecily? Cecily? Drat this interference. Is that you, Cecily? This is Edward."

"Edward, hello! It's good to hear from you."

She pressed the receiver closer to her ear as Edward
spoke again through all the crackling and buzzing. "Can't hear you, too well, so I'll make this brief. I'm off to Bermuda . . . probably be there for a while. I need to . . ." His voice disappeared beneath a barrage of buzzing and whistling.

She waited for an anxious moment or two, then shouted, "Edward? Hello? Hello!"

The buzzing quieted for a moment and once more Edward's voice could be faintly heard. "Cecily? Need you to find a new manager. All right? I'll ring you again after Christmas. Hope you have . . ."

This time the crackling went on even longer, then finally cut off. The operator's voice sounded so loud in her ear Cecily almost dropped the telephone. "I'm sorry, madam," she said, "but we have lost the connection."

"That's all right," Cecily said quickly. "Thank you, operator." She replaced the receiver and smiled at the desk clerk, who had been doing his best to look as if he couldn't hear a word she'd said.

Weak with relief, she made her way back to the stairs. She'd been saved the embarrassment of having to explain to Edward, in front of anyone who happened to be passing by, the events that had been taking place since she had arrived. Not that the deaths, or Miss Bunkle's defection for that matter, were much of a secret. Still, they weren't things she wanted to shout about.

She could have talked to Edward in Baxter's office, of course. It would have been more private. But frankly, the thought of facing that formidable stony face again that morning was more than she could tolerate.

She supposed she should let him know about Edward's
request to find a new manager. Then again, this probably wasn't a good time to give him that news. Better to wait until he had recovered his good nature.

She forced herself to stop thinking about her angry husband and concentrated instead on the beautiful work Madeline had put into the decorations. The stair bannisters had been swathed in fir and holly, and smelled divine. Huge red ribbons clung to the holly boughs, matching the firm red berries nestled among the shiny green leaves. Tiny sprigs of mistletoe peeked out at intervals, which would no doubt arouse Phoebe's contempt when she saw them.

Which reminded her, she hadn't seen the tree in the library since Madeline had decorated it. She would do that just as soon as she'd spoken to Sir John and had that word with Gertie that she'd promised. If Madeline had taken as much trouble with the tree as she had everywhere else, it would be quite a sight to see.

She missed her friends, Cecily realized as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. As soon as she had spoken to Sir John, she would send messages inviting both Madeline and Phoebe to tea that afternoon in her suite. They could sit and relax, gossip a little, and perhaps for a short while she could forget her troubles.

Feeling more cheered than she had in quite a while, she reached the top of the landing and headed down toward Sir John Gilroy's suite.

Her light tap on the door was answered by Lady Lucille, who seemed a little put out upon greeting her. Her eyes were watery and her red nose looked painfully raw from an overuse of a handkerchief.

In spite of her malady she still managed to look elegant,
though her hair still draped her face in that peculiar style, which really wasn't suitable for day wear, Cecily thought uncharitably. "I trust your cold is improving?" she inquired.

"It is a little better,
merci, madame."

"I'm happy to hear that. If there's anything you need, please let us know." She glanced into the room. "I'd like a word with Sir John," she added. "Is he here?"

"No,
Madame
Baxter, he is not here. He is in the card room, as always, with Mr. Chatsworth and Mr. Fitzhammer. Even the death of his very good friend does not prevent him from spending his time with those card games.
C'est si tragique."

Cecily stared at her. Until that moment she had forgotten that part of her conversation with Lucille earlier. She had been too engrossed with the woman's confession that Wrotham had been her lover. But now she remembered something else Lucille had mentioned.
I do not understand why he needs all this extra work and demands. I tell him over and over again, I wish the others would leave him alone
. Of course. Now she understood. The thing that kept him so busy was his partnership in Cureagambler.