No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (5 page)

"That's a matter of opinion." Madeline's beautiful eyes narrowed. "I happen to know that Kevin is not in the least interested in that woman. He has said as much to me. He does, after all, spend most of his spare time with me, not with Winifred Chesterton."

"Yes," Phoebe allowed. "I suppose he does. Then again, since he has yet to ask for your hand in marriage, one has to wonder if his intentions are honorable. It's a pity you have no father to question the doctor's purpose in pursuing a relationship with you."

Madeline's lips curved in the smile that always made Cecily nervous. "Phoebe, dear, I do believe that the doctor's purposes are none of your business. Perhaps you should keep a still tongue, lest you wake up one morning to find it transformed into that of a viper."

Phoebe pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve and fluttered it in front of her face. "I was merely concerned for your welfare, Madeline. There's no need to become vindictive. Perhaps you should save your doubtful threats for Winifred, since she appears to be intent on ensnaring your prospective suitor."

"Don't think I haven't considered the prospect," Madeline said darkly.

Deciding that it was time to change the subject, Cecily said hastily, "Did either of you make the acquaintance of Mr. Barry Wrotham, by any chance?"

Madeline made a face. "Yes, he came to me about a month ago, looking for some of my potions. Quite an
unpleasant man. I could sense a dark shadow hanging over him, even then. I thought about warning him, but his attitude was so offensive, I decided to let fate have its way." She looked directly into Cecily's eyes, and her voice changed to a low tone that Cecily knew well. "It wasn't an accident, you know," she said softly. "Someone pushed Mr. Wrotham down that well. Someone extremely dangerous. I have to warn you, Cecily. The shadow hangs over you, as well. Be very careful, for whoever killed Barry Wrotham could very well make you his next victim."

CHAPTER

4

Cecily was well used to her friend's dire warnings. Madeline's remarkable penchant for foreseeing the future was legendary, if somewhat unreliable. She had succeeded enough times, however, to give Cecily a decided chill at her words.

In an effort to lighten the moment, she uttered a breezy laugh. "Now, Madeline, what makes you think I have any intention of concerning myself with the death of a man whom I've never met."

The odd light still gleamed in Madeline's eyes. "Not only will you involve yourself," she said softly, "you will place yourself in grave danger. Please, my friend, beware of those who wish you harm. It could well be your undoing this time."

"Really, Madeline," Phoebe muttered. "You are positively macabre. Enough of this silly game."

Fortunately, at that moment a tap on the door announced the arrival of the cheese and sherry. The disruption managed to diffuse the somber atmosphere in the room, though Cecily could not quite rid herself of a vague sense of foreboding. She was thankful when the conversation turned to the upcoming Christmas Season.

"You really do need to do something more imaginative with the decorations," Madeline declared after sipping at her sherry. She placed the slim glass on the table in front of her. "The holly wreaths on the front doors are a nice touch, but the tree in the foyer is pitiable. I hope you have a larger tree in the library?"

"I haven't looked yet," Cecily admitted. "Hugh and I went up to the roof garden and then talked to Miss Bunkle in her room, but other than that, I haven't seen much of the hotel since I arrived."

Madeline looked surprised. "You call your husband Hugh now?"

"Only in company," Cecily confessed. "I gave him my promise. I must admit, it does sound rather demeaning to call him Baxter in front of everyone. It's not as if he's in my employ anymore. We are equal partners now."

Madeline nodded her approval.

"I thought the tree was very nice," Phoebe observed, having successfully ignored the exchange.

"Naturally you would think so." Madeline reached for the cheese knife and cut herself a square of Gorgonzola. "Judging from the meager decorations in the church, your taste is sadly lacking in the Christmas spirit."

She waved the knife at Cecily. "The Pennyfoot always
looked so wonderful at Christmastime. There used to be garlands of holly and gigantic red ribbons adorning the bannisters of the staircase. Those lovely handmade ornaments you used to have on the trees in the foyer and library. Candles to light in the evening, and enormous swaths of ribbons and velvets in red and green sweeping across the ballroom. Huge bunches of mistletoe everywhere."

"I wondered when we were coming to that," Phoebe muttered nastily. "In my opinion, any woman who walks around with mistletoe in her hair is begging to be ravished."

"Really," Madeline murmured. "What an utterly delicious thought."

"As a matter of fact," Cecily said firmly, "I was intending to ask if you would be willing to see to the decorations for us, Madeline. I'm sure they are in storage somewhere in the hotel . . . I mean club."

"I'd be delighted." She grinned at Phoebe. "You can help if you promise me faithfully you will not complain every five minutes."

"Actually, Phoebe," Cecily said before that lady could deliver the retort hovering on her tight lips, "I was rather hoping that you might be willing to put together a pantomime for us. Since the men will be off on their traditional hunt for pheasant on Boxing Day, I thought it would be nice to entertain the ladies with their special event. Though no doubt the gentlemen will join them. Everyone seems to love a pantomime at Christmastime. I know it's terribly short notice, of course, but—"

"Oh, I'd adore to help!" Phoebe clapped her hands in delight. "It's been simply
ages
since I've organized anything more challenging that a christening at the church. Algie is such a bore when it comes to events. He simply
refuses to allow me to put on a revue at the church hall. He keeps insisting it's immoral, no matter how much I try to explain that everything would be in good taste."

"I would imagine your habit of creating disasters has more to do with his reluctance," Madeline said. "I still haven't forgotten the fiasco of the lost python, or the time a member of your dance team did her best to stab one of the guests through the heart."

Phoebe visibly bristled. "It wasn't the girl's fault. Her foot slipped during the sword dance. Accidents happen in the best of productions. Even on the London stages, so I've been told."

Cecily loudly cleared her throat. "Well, I'm sure things will work out beautifully for the pantomime. I suggest we all meet at Dolly's Teashop the day after tomorrow to discuss the plans. I can't wait to sink my teeth into one of Dolly's exquisite Banbury cakes."

The ladies readily agreed and, accepting the hint, rose to take their leave. Cecily offered to show them around the newly renovated Pennyfoot before they left, then accompanied them as far as the main doors before heading toward the narrow hallway to her husband's office.

As she approached the staircase, she saw a couple descending to the foyer. It wasn't often she was struck by a woman's beauty, but the lovely creature on the arm of the distinguished-looking gentleman was the sort of woman who would attract attention everywhere she went.

Instead of a hat, she wore a band of cream velvet fastened with a white silk camellia around a mound of luxurious dark brown curls atop her head.

Cecily's mouth positively watered at the sight of the woman's exquisite gown. It was the color of champagne,
composed of panels of Swiss eyelet embroidery, which were divided by tiny insertions of gorgeous French Val lace. Her Gibson collar accentuated the woman's long, slim neck as she swept down the stairs with the air of one accustomed to grandeur and the services accorded by it.

Guessing that these were two of the "toffs" Jeanette was talking about, Cecily hurried forward to greet the pair as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

"Welcome to the Pennyfoot Country Club," she said as the couple paused in front of her. "May I introduce myself? I'm Cecily Baxter, the present manager of this establishment. If I or any of my staff can be of any service to you, please don't hesitate to ask."

The gentleman raised his eyebrows, looking down at her as if she were a vagrant who had wandered in off the street. "A woman manager? How very droll."

"Temporary manager, actually," Cecily corrected, deciding that she didn't like the man. "My husband and I are helping out the owner of the Pennyfoot, Edward Sandringham, who happens to be my cousin. As a matter of fact, I sold the hotel to him two years ago."

If she'd hoped to impress him, she was disappointed. "Really," the gentleman answered, sounding bored. "Well, I am Sir John Gilroy, K.C. Permit me to introduce my wife, Lady Lucille."

Cecily smiled at the woman. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, your ladyship."

"Merci."
Lady Lucille stared at a spot slightly above Cecily's head. "It is our very great pleasure to return to the club. I can only hope that the service is as impeccable as always."

Even without the thick French accent, Cecily would
have guessed the lady's origin. She positively breathed Paris. "We shall do our best," she said, a little miffed at the suggestion that the new management might not come up to snuff. "This is not your first visit to the Pennyfoot Country Club, I assume."

"On the contrary. We come here quite often," Sir John said, answering for her. "In fact, we were here quite recently for the hunting season."

"Then you should enjoy the pheasant hunt on Boxing Day."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Ah, there you are, John, old boy." The voice boomed down the staircase, startling Lady Lucille to the point of bringing a flush to her cheeks.

Cecily watched the portly gentleman rapidly descend, one hand on the bannister, the other clasping the arm of a scowling woman who was doing her best to keep up with him without tripping over the hem of her ruffled satin skirt.

"Evening, Lionel," Gilroy muttered.

The newcomer seemingly ignored him, his avid gaze instead devouring the delectable Lady Lucille. "Thought we'd join you for supper, old chap," he said a trifle breathlessly as he reached the bottom of the steps.

Gilroy nodded. "This is Mrs. Baxter, the new manager of the club. Mrs. Baxter, may I present Lionel Fitzhammer, K.C., and his wife, Barbara."

Fitzhammer held out his hand and Cecily reluctantly put hers into it, doing her very best not to visibly recoil when the scarlet-cheeked gentleman pressed his rubbery lips against her fingers.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she muttered, and withdrew her hand rather smartly.

"Have you met the others yet?" Lionel asked, standing close enough to Lucille that his wife was forced to hover in the background. "They should be down shortly. Though Percy's a bit of a slowcoach. He'll probably be late to the table. He usually is."

"No, I haven't met the rest of your party yet." Cecily tried to sound fascinated. "I understand that all four of you gentlemen are members of the King's Council."

"You are correct," Fitzhammer said, his gaze once more fastened greedily on Lucille. "Percy Chatsworth, K.C., and his wife, Amelia, and Roger Peebles, K.C., with his wife, Gretchen. We are all Masters of the Bench, here to enjoy the Christmas Season in this excellent establishment."

"Then we shall do our best to make your stay a memorable one. We are honored to have you all as our guests." Cecily met the wary gaze of Barbara Fitzhammer and smiled at her. Although the woman's lackluster brown hair and pleasant looks were vastly overshadowed by those of the flamboyant Lucille, her eyes were cornflower blue and quite beautiful.

"Jolly good," her husband muttered. "The Pennyfoot has always been one of our favorite places to stay, wouldn't you say, John?"

"Quite, quite." Gilroy pulled a fob watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and flipped open the lid. "I suppose we should make our way to the dining room."

"Oh, please, don't let me detain you." Cecily backed out of the way to allow them to pass. "I trust you will enjoy your evening meal."

"Bound to, madam," Fitzhammer boomed. "What with that excellent French chef of yours. Can't beat the French for knowing how to tickle a man's palate, eh, what?"

He gave Gilroy a sly dig with his elbow, his gaze riveted on Lady Lucille's face. The lady lifted her chin in a haughty gesture of contempt, yet her glance slid sideways at her husband, as if concerned the comment would offend him.

Sir John, however, merely grasped his wife's elbow, muttered his excuses, and steered her down the hallway, leaving a trail of expensive perfume behind. Fitzhammer barely took the time to bid Cecily good evening before charging after them with his unfortunate spouse in tow.

Left alone, Cecily breathed a sigh. It had been a long day and she was hungry. All she could think about now was retiring for the evening and enjoying a quiet meal alone with her husband in their suite. After spending two years in the quiet peace of her London town house, she found the bustle and noise of the club to be oppressive. It would take some time to accustom herself to all the upheaval again.

Feeling just a little depressed, for whatever reason she couldn't be sure, she made her way down the hallway to Baxter's office. Tomorrow would be another day. Her pulse quickened at the remembrance that she had an appointment with Wrotham's widow in the morning. She could hardly wait to find out what it was the late manager's wife had to tell her that was apparently so urgent.

If there was one thing that was clear after her discussions with Raymond and Jeanette, it was that quite a few people believed Wrotham's death was not an accident. She couldn't help wondering if Wrotham's widow shared that belief and, if so, might perhaps shed some light on what really happened. In any case, the meeting should prove to be quite interesting.

The following morning, Cecily arose feeling somewhat lethargic, thanks to a restless night in a strange bed. Baxter, apparently, had no trouble sleeping, and in fact, his snoring had been part of Cecily's problem—a fact she kept to herself. In the past Baxter had emphatically denied that he snored, and she had given up trying to convince him otherwise.