5 Check-Out Time (11 page)

“It’s a very expensive watch,” Stanley said, pulling a bright gold object from his pocket. “Are you quite sure it doesn’t belong to you?”

“Quite sure. Quite, quite.” The colonel was beginning to get a little irritable. This was, after all, his siesta time, and he did not want to miss it. He wanted to be thoroughly refreshed in order to toddle off back to the hotel for his gin before dinner.

Always had a snifter or two before sundown in the tropics. Of course, the sun went down at such dashed odd times out there. One had to start drinking in the afternoon, or nightfall could easily creep up on one, what?

“Take a good look at this watch, Colonel,” the boy said, holding up the gleaming watch by its chain. “Even if it doesn’t belong to you, you might remember seeing someone with it and can tell me who it belongs to.”

The colonel peered at it. “Never seen it before. Better take it back to the hotel. Mrs. Sinclair will soon find out who it belongs to.”

“But it’s such a handsome watch. Look at it, how it shines in the sun.”

“Why don’t you run along now, sonny,” Colonel Fortescue said, waving a languid hand in the direction of the hotel. “They are probably looking for you, old chap.”

“Oh, no, they are not,” Stanley said, beginning to swing the watch slowly back and forth. “They are quite busy at the moment and don’t even know I’m gone.”

The colonel blinked as the sunlight caught the shiny watchcase and sent a shaft of brilliant light into his eyes. He saw the watch swinging back and forth through a sort of hazy glow, pretty much as he saw things after a snifter or two of gin.

“Look at this watch, Colonel,” Stanley was saying in a low soft voice that was strangely soothing. “Keep your eyes on the watch. See how good it makes you feel. Back and forth, back and forth. Just keep your eyes on the watch.”

Actually the colonel didn’t think he could tear his gaze away if he tried. The swinging, shining object seemed to mesmerize him, and it was far easier to watch the pendulum swing back and forth than to try to look at something else. Very pleasant, in fact. Very pleasant indeed.

“That’s right, Colonel,” Stanley’s voice said, sounding a long way off. “Just watch it swing. Your arms are getting heavier … heavier…. Your body is relaxing, you are so tired … so tired….”

By george, the boy was right about that. The colonel had never felt so dashed tired in his entire life. Once more his eyelids felt weighted down, and no matter how hard he struggled he couldn’t lift them.

He could hear Stanley’s voice in the distance but couldn’t fathom a word of what he was saying. It just felt so good, dozing there in the warm sun, just a little doze …

He thought he heard himself say something, but that couldn’t be. He had to be dreaming … dreaming …

Suddenly he was wide-awake. His eyes snapped open as if someone had cut the ties that held them. He sat up straight, a little dazed, but very much alert.

He looked around, noticing the sun playing on the leaves of the rose bushes and the bees weaving in and out of the blossoms. Above his head a blackbird sang its achingly sweet song, accompanied by the chirping of sparrows. The
garden was heavy with the scent of roses, and a breeze rustled the branches of the weeping willow.

But of Stanley there was no sign. He had completely disappeared from sight. And, the colonel thought with amazement, he never heard him go.

CHAPTER
11

The sultry day had faded, and the welcome dusk brought cooler breezes to dispel the heat from inside the hotel. Windows stood ajar along the front of the Pennyfoot, as perspiring guests aired out their rooms. The front door stood open, while Arthur loitered outside on the steps, resplendent in his doorman’s uniform with its gold braid and buttons, completed by a lofty top hat.

Phoebe Carter-Holmes, approaching the hotel from the Esplanade, thought she had never seen a better sight in all her born days.

She had waited until the evening to take her stroll along the seafront. Walking in the direct sunlight made one perspire, and she definitely did not want to meet up with handsome Arthur Barrett with beads of moisture on her brow. Most unbecoming.

She had dressed with care in one of her gowns from her better days. The pale lemon silk tea gown had gone through some changes according to the fashion. The tiny pearl buttons from neck to waist had been painstakingly sewn by Phoebe’s own hand five years ago.

The appliqué lace and embroidery above the deep frill had been added when a copy of
The Tatler
had professed such an adornment to be sheer necessity for haute couture.

Phoebe was particularly fond of that phrase. Ever since she had discovered it in the magazine, borrowed from Cecily, she had taken advantage of every opportunity to say those delicious-sounding words.

Of course, when dear Sedgely was alive, she had dressed in the height of fashion all the time. But when the poor dear man had suffered that terrible accident, having been thrown from his horse during a wild fox hunt, that had been the end of Phoebe’s life as she had known it.

The Carter-Holmes family had never deemed her worthy of their name. They couldn’t wait to get rid of Phoebe and her son, considering them both to be far beneath their station.

It was true, Phoebe thought, patting the overloaded brim of her hat to make sure it was securely fastened, her background as a child left much to be desired. But she was a quick study and had done her best to become the lady dear Sedgely had always professed her to be.

Of course, Phoebe thought, as she sidestepped a small pile of excrement left on the pavement by some inconsiderate dog owner, dear Sedgely was incredibly stupid not to make a will.

In fact, now that she thought about it, he was also incredibly clumsy to have fallen from that ridiculous horse in the first place. If he had been a more experienced rider, he would have easily taken the fence. It really was most uncharitable of him to have left his wife and son in such an unfortunate predicament.

Shocked by the way her thoughts had progressed, Phoebe
paused for a moment at the railing to catch her breath. In all the days since dear Sedgely’s accident, she had never once put any blame on his shoulders for her misfortune. Until now.

Phoebe glanced across the street to where Arthur stood, his face tilted to the sky in obvious enjoyment of the cool breeze from the ocean. Could it be that her heart was beginning to accept a new interest? Could it be time to let go of dear Sedgely and try to find a new love with whom to finish out her life?

Phoebe’s pulse fluttered madly at the mere thought. How would it feel to share a bed with another man after all these years? What would Algie say? His mother and the doorman of the Pennyfoot? He would no doubt be shocked right out of his plimsolls, which would upset him no end. Some kind soul had recently given Algie a pair of the newfangled shoes, and the vicar practically lived in the dratted things.

Phoebe shook her head. She felt quite dizzy at the prospect of a liaison with the delectable Arthur Barrett. She dug into the pocket of her gown for her lace-edged handkerchief. Drawing it out, she waved it in front of her face to cool the warm flush that had spread over her cheeks.

At that moment Arthur Barrett turned his face in her direction. He must have mistaken her gesture, assuming she was waving her handkerchief at him. He doffed his top hat and gave her a low sweeping bow.

Phoebe had never seen any man bow to her that way before. A polite nod of the head or a slight dip of the shoulders, perhaps, but never a full, grand, majestic bow such as the doorman just executed. It quite took Phoebe’s breath away. So romantic. She couldn’t quite remember ever being so enchanted.

She tilted her head at a graceful angle, no easy feat considering the weight of her hat, loaded down as it was with stuffed doves and a mess of silk leaves and flowers, not to mention the wide satin bow in the front.

It was even more difficult to hold the pose as she crossed
the street, but somehow she managed it, determined to present the best picture possible as she stepped daintily across the cobblestones.

It was unfortunate that at that moment the driver of a motorcar chose to thunder down the street toward her at a good ten miles an hour, the car belching smoke, its horn blaring. Phoebe thought suddenly that the devil himself was out to flatten her into the ground.

She froze, staring at the oncoming vehicle, knowing she could not possibly escape those dreadful wheels. She saw a man bounce up and down in the hoodless compartment, shouting something at her she couldn’t comprehend.

Then, as if sent from heaven, two strong arms clasped her about her waist and lifted her bodily from the ground. She felt herself swung to one side, and closed her eyes as the motorcar hurtled past her, the draft of it swirling her skirt about her ankles.

Very gently she was set upon the ground, and a deep voice said in her ear, “Faith and begorra, dear lady, that was the closest shave I ever did wish to see.”

Phoebe’s knees slammed into each other as she looked up into Arthur’s heavenly blue eyes. “Oh, my,” was all she could manage to say.

“Ah, ’tis the shock of it all, to be sure,” Arthur said kindly. “Let me be helping you into the hotel, and I’ll find you a chair to sit yourself upon.”

Phoebe nodded weakly, her flesh still throbbing from the grasp of those manly hands. In fact, she wouldn’t have minded at all if the hands had still held her. Arthur had let go of her and was now guiding her with decorous fingers under her elbow up the steps of the hotel.

Nevertheless, Phoebe thought as her senses quickly restored themselves, it was a very auspicious beginning to what could turn out to be an interesting relationship. Very interesting indeed.

Cecily leaned her hands on top of the wall that guarded the edge of the roof gardens and looked down into the courtyard
below. Strains of a waltz floated up to her, making her feet tap in time. How she longed to dance again, as she once did, clasped in James’s arms, floating across the floor of the ballroom as if her feet had wings.

The sound of soft laughter drifted from the balcony, and she could hear the murmur of a deep voice mingling with the hushed tones of a feminine companion.

This was indeed a night for love, she thought, her gaze drifting across the gardens. Miniature gaslights strung from the branches swung to and fro in the evening breeze.

The roses still filled the night with their fragrance, not at all overpowered by the fresh salty air. Lights twinkled in the harbor from the windows of the thatched cottages and pinpointed Lord Withersgill’s estate high on the hill above Putney Downs.

How James had loved the roof garden. He had enjoyed the quiet times, standing side by side with his wife, touching hands, watching the night creep across the ocean until it blanketed his beloved village.

Something stirred behind her, and Cecily’s heart skipped a beat. For an instant she thought it could be James’s ghost, come to share his most treasured moments with her once more.

Then Baxter’s voice dispelled the notion. “Madam? I trust you are feeling well?”

She relaxed in the gathering darkness, comforted by his concern. She was well aware that he had made a special trip to reassure himself. “Quite well, Baxter, thank you.”

She kept her back to him, her gaze still on the restless ocean, and after a moment or two she heard him breathe a faint sigh.

“Very well, madam. I will leave you alone.”

“No.” She turned to look at him then and was struck by his expression. It reminded her of when her sons were small and she had been thoughtlessly curt when one of them had interrupted her at an inopportune moment.

She smiled at him, and the wounded look vanished. “I’m
feeling a trifle melancholy, Baxter. I would appreciate your company for a moment or two, if you have the time?”

“Of course, madam.”

She turned back to the view of the ocean, and he moved to stand beside her. She wondered what he would say if she touched his hand, and was immediately ashamed of the thought. How could she stand there and miss one man so sorely, and in the next instant feel a need to make contact with another?

Was she missing James? Or was she merely missing the warmth and comfort of a man’s love? Was it her dead husband she mourned or the loss of security, the intimacy of a familiar body lying next to her in bed?

“It is a beautiful night,” Baxter said softly.

She gave him a swift glance, half afraid he had read her thoughts, and embarrassed by the notion. But his face was tilted at the stars and the cloudless sky.

“It is indeed.” Deciding it was time to banish her wayward thoughts, she added, “I heard some disturbing news today. It’s troubling me a great deal.”

“Would you care to share it with me?”

She paused, wondering just how much she should tell him. Then she shrugged off her doubts. She had always confided in him in the past, and she saw no reason not to do so now.

“It’s Simani,” she said, tracing around a large stone embedded in the wall. “Madeline says she has been practicing voodoo.”

“Well, Madeline should know all about that.”

He sounded amused, and Cecily felt a flush of resentment. “Madeline says that Simani is capable of putting a curse on someone. Of making them do something they wouldn’t normally do.”

This time she waited for several seconds before Baxter answered. “Does this by any chance have anything to do with the death of Sir Richard Malton?”

She looked up at him, silently entreating him to understand.
“Sir Richard threatened Michael a few nights ago. He told him he was going to close down the George and Dragon. Michael was quite worried about it. Business has not been good at all, and Sir Richard could have done him a great deal of harm.”

Baxter raised his eyebrows. “Why would Sir Richard want to close down the George and Dragon?”

“Apparently he was rude to Simani, and Michael practically threw him out.”

“I see.” Baxter clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “That would no doubt annoy him. But I’m sure it would have been an empty threat. I doubt that he would have done anything quite so drastic. Just the anger of the moment, I should say.”

“Perhaps. But would Simani know that?”

Baxter stopped rocking. “Are you suggesting that your daughter-in-law placed a voodoo curse on Sir Richard, causing him to fall to his death?”

Put into so many words, Cecily had to admit it sounded ridiculous. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” she said, turning back to look at the gardens. “But I can’t stop thinking about the wedding, presided over by a witch doctor. I have spent time in Africa, and I have heard of voodoo and the harm it can do.”

“If I may say so, madam, with all due respect, I would suggest that you have been paying a little too much attention to Miss Pengrath and her mumbo jumbo. Whatever caused Sir Richard to choose to end his life in that manner, I feel reasonably certain it couldn’t have been anything to do with magic. Black or otherwise.”

Cecily looked at him sharply. “You still believe that Sir Richard ended his own life voluntarily?”

“I can think of no other explanation. It is the only one that makes sense.”

She was inclined to agree with him, except for one thing—the odd little dance that Phoebe described so graphically.
She couldn’t dismiss that so easily. It seemed such a strange thing to do when contemplating suicide.

Thinking of Phoebe jolted her memory. “Oh, good heavens,” she said, picking up her skirt, “I have to run. I have a meeting with Phoebe and I must be at least half an hour late.”

“The last time I saw Mrs. Carter-Holmes,” Baxter said, moving to open the attic door for her, “she was engaged in a most animated discussion with our intrepid doorman.”

Cecily grinned. “Was she, indeed? In that case I had better hurry before he sweeps her off her feet and carries her off into the sunset. I need her able assistance for the Saturday night ball, without which I fear the event would be very mundane.”

“If there is one thing we can be sure about,” Baxter said as Cecily passed through the doorway, “with Mrs. Carter-Holmes in command of the entertainment, the evening will be anything but mundane.”

Reaching the foyer a few minutes later, Cecily was surprised to see Phoebe happily chatting with Arthur. In fact, Cecily noted with some amusement, it looked very much as if the two of them were engaged in a mild flirtation.

Cecily had thought at the time that Baxter was being facetious when he mentioned Phoebe’s discussion with Arthur, but by all accounts they were both enjoying the conversation.

Across the foyer Colonel Fortescue stood talking to the grandfather clock. Cecily gave him no more than a cursory glance as she started toward Phoebe, who was seated in a chair by the front door.

Baxter had gone back to his office to finish the bookkeeping for the week, and most of the guests were either in the ballroom or strolling outside in the balmy evening.

Phoebe looked up as Cecily approached, a look very akin to disappointment crossing her face. “Oh, there you are, Cecily,” she said without too much enthusiasm. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten our meeting.”

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” Cecily said with a quick glance at Arthur. “I see my doorman has kept you well entertained in my absence.”

Phoebe’s face flushed a bright red. “I’ll have you know that this brave gentleman saved my life,” she announced, loud enough for everyone in to the hotel to hear. “I am most grateful to him.”