No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (6 page)

After a light breakfast of poached eggs and haddock in their suite, Baxter announced he had work to do. He kissed his wife and left, leaving Cecily to wait for the arrival of Barry Wrotham's widow.

Emily Wrotham arrived midmorning, just as Cecily returned from inspecting the accommodations for Mrs. Chubb, Gertie, and her family. Jeanette ushered the woman into Cecily's suite, and waited for her to remove her navy blue coat, which reminded Cecily of a military uniform with its large buttons on the shoulders.

Underneath, Emily Wrotham wore a serviceable skirt and a plain white shirtwaist relieved only by tiny rows of tucking down the front. Although she was young in appearance, her shoulders were bowed, as if she were too weary to raise her head.

Reminding herself that the poor woman had recently lost her husband, Cecily invited her to sit, and ordered Jeanette to have coffee and currant buns brought up to the room.

"I am so sorry to hear of your loss," Cecily murmured as the widow seated herself on the very edge of the couch. "It must have been a dreadful shock for you."

"Dreadful." Emily's thin voice wavered, and she sought in her sleeve for a large white handkerchief. After dabbing at her eyes, she said tearfully, "The police constable insists that Barry's death was an accident." She gulped, cleared her
throat, loudly blew her nose, then added, "They are mistaken, Mrs. Baxter. Someone pushed my Barry down that well. I'm quite sure of it."

Cecily lowered herself onto the comfortable armchair. "That's a rather serious statement, Mrs. Wrotham. What makes you so certain that the constables are mistaken?"

Emily blew her nose again, with more delicacy this time. "Barry hadn't been himself for quite some time before that day. I knew something was wrong, but every time I asked him about it, he insisted all was well. In the end he got quite cross with me for asking him about it. So I had to give up asking. Then, on the day he . . . he . . . died, Sunday it was, he told me he would be working all afternoon here at the club. Stocking the wine cellar, he told me. I was upset because it was his afternoon off, but he said it couldn't wait and he had to take care of it right away."

She paused, and Cecily waited a moment or two before prompting, "But you found out he wasn't stocking the wine cellar?"

Emily Wrotham nodded her head. "He'd been giving me that story about working late so many times, he must have forgotten he'd used the one about the wine cellar just two weeks before. I knew he wouldn't have to restock it that quickly, so I came here to see for myself."

"And he wasn't here."

"No, he wasn't." Emily's pale gray eyes filled with tears again. "I thought he was with another woman. I'd had my suspicions for a long time. Working at a place like this, he was bound to meet a hussy or two. I suppose I was expecting it in a way. He'd grown tired of me a long time ago. I could tell." A sob escaped, and she quickly smothered it with her crumpled handkerchief.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Wrotham." Anger burned in Cecily's breast when she saw the misery etched on Emily's once pretty face. Any sympathy she might have had for Barry Wrotham's ignoble fate was immediately erased. In her opinion, men who cheated on their wives ought to be horsewhipped. The pain and misery they caused while indulging in their selfish whims could not be measured.

"In any case," Emily said, still fighting tears, "I was really angry. I wanted him caught with whoever he was with, to bring shame on her and to put an end to it. So I told Mr. Sandringham that Barry was missing. I told him he'd never come home and I was afraid something had happened to him. I could tell Mr. Sandringham didn't care that much, but he knew I was worried about Barry, so he sent Raymond out to see if he could find him."

"Ah, yes. Raymond told me about finding your husband's body."

Another sob escaped her lips. "Yes, well, Raymond saw his bicycle leaning against the fence and went in to the farm to look for him. He found him . . . floating . . . in the well." This time her sobs overcame her.

Cecily was thankful to hear Jeanette's light tap on the door, thus giving Emily a chance to compose herself while she took charge of the refreshments.

After serving both women with a steaming cup of coffee and a buttered bun, Jeanette left the room, though not without raising a questioning eyebrow at Cecily as she passed by her chair.

Cecily pretended not to notice. That young maid's curiosity would no doubt get her into trouble one day, she thought, as she took a sip of her coffee.

Within a few moments, Emily Wrotham appeared composed enough to continue her story. "What puzzles me," she told Cecily, "is why my husband was on that farm in the first place. The land is being offered for sale, I understand, but Barry had no money to buy a place like that, and in any case, he's no farmer. I can't imagine what he'd be doing, wandering around an abandoned farm all alone."

"Perhaps, if your suspicions about another woman are justified, your husband might have intended to meet someone there."

Emily nodded her agreement. "That's what I think. It's the only answer, really. I think someone lured him there in order to kill him. And it's my thinking that perhaps the husband or suitor of whomever my husband was dallying with had a hand in it. Why else would someone want to kill a man like my Barry? He wasn't perfect, by any means, but he never harmed anyone in his entire life." Her words ended on a burst of weeping that took some time to dissolve.

Cecily let the woman cry, understanding that she needed to indulge in her grief. While she waited for Emily to control her sobs, she thought about what she'd heard. There was a ring of plausibility to the widow's words, though she had to admit that until now she hadn't thought about there being another woman involved. It would seem there was much more to Barry Wrotham than she'd realized.

When the widow seemed to have found her composure again, Cecily asked gently, "Have you spoken to the constable about your suspicions?"

"Oh, no." Emily dabbed at her pink nose. "I couldn't, Mrs. Baxter. For one thing, I don't know for sure that Barry was seeing someone else. I wouldn't want that sort of thing spread all over town if it isn't true. I have my children to consider. It's bad enough they lost their father. I don't want them thinking ill of him if I'm wrong about him."

"I see." Cecily's heart went out to this poor woman who had been left to raise her children alone. "Then why have you come to me?"

Emily leaned forward, her eyes glittering, her voice a low, fierce whisper. "I do believe, Mrs. Baxter, that the answer to it all lies somewhere right here, at the Pennyfoot Country Club. Someone either staying here or working here knows something, I'll stake my life on it. I want to know the truth. If someone did kill my husband, I want to know who it is and I want him punished. No one should be free to take a life without paying for it. I can't rest easy until I know the truth and see that justice is done."

"You do know that if your suspicions prove to be correct, then people will eventually be aware that your husband was being unfaithful to you."

Emily raised her small pointed chin. "If it's the truth, then I'll tell the children myself. I can't stay here anyway without Barry. I'll be taking the children back to London for Christmas, and we won't be coming back. We'll be living with my parents. I just can't leave until I know what really happened to him. I asked Mr. Sandringham to help me, but he was too busy getting ready for his trip. He told me to talk to you. He said you were very good at that sort of thing."

Cecily leaned back in her chair. So that was why Edward had told Baxter he thought there was something odd about Wrotham's death. Dear Edward. Had he mentioned
the fact that Barry's widow suspected foul play, Baxter would have adamantly refused to put a foot in Badgers End.

"I really can't promise anything," she said, reaching for her currant bun. "But I'll certainly look into it, if you like. Is there anything else you can tell me? Did your husband ever mention another woman by name? Or even a man's name you didn't recognize?"

"No, nothing. It was just a feeling I had, really. I know that's not much help, but believe me, Mrs. Baxter, when your husband is straying, somehow you can tell. Just little things. Like the way he avoided looking me in the eyes when he left for work."

She uttered a shuddering sigh. "He used to talk about his job all the time at first, then he got so he didn't want to talk about it at all. He was always in a hurry to get out of the house. Sometimes he didn't even bother to kiss me goodbye. He never used to be like that." She looked down at her hands, twisting the handkerchief around her fingers. "As I said, just little things."

"Well, I'll do my best to find out what I can." Cecily rose to her feet, and Emily followed suit, tucking her damp handkerchief back into her sleeve.

"I am much obliged, Mrs. Baxter. I know I can trust you to be discreet."

"Of course." Cecily tugged on the bell rope to summon a maid. "Though I have to warn you again, the truth will most likely come out in the end."

"If it
is
the truth. Then so be it."

Moira arrived a few minutes later to help the widow on with her coat, then escorted her out the door. After they'd left, Cecily wandered to the window to cast a wary eye on the darkening sky.

The clouds looked heavy and gray, and dried leaves drifted and swirled across the manicured lawn. It would seem that Baxter had been right in his prediction, for even as she watched, scattered snowflakes began to dance in the wind.

Mrs. Chubb and Gertie would be arriving soon. She could only hope that their stay would be uneventful. Much as she had missed the excitement of chasing after criminals, she had to admit, nothing would spoil Christmas more than the ugliness of murder once more invading the walls of the Pennyfoot.

CHAPTER

5

Gertie and her family arrived that afternoon in a flurry of excited greetings, hugs, and tears. The snow had begun falling quite heavily, coating the Esplanade and the roof of the Pennyfoot like a soft white coverlet.

Holding a hand of each twin, Cecily lead the party inside the warm foyer of the Pennyfoot, marveling at how big the children had grown. Their excitement at the sight of the Christmas tree was so infectious Cecily rashly promised them they could help Madeline decorate it.

"You'll be bloody sorry you did that, m'm," Gertie said, removing the tartan wool scarf she'd wrapped around her hat. "If I know these two, they'll have the bleeding tree upside down before you can blink."

"Gertie," Mrs. Chubb said sharply. "You promised. Not in front of the children."

"Sorry." Gertie grinned happily at Cecily. "I promised I wouldn't use them words. I'm getting better at it, but now and again they slip out." She stopped short, staring at her feet. "Crikey, look at this carpet. Must have cost a bleeding fortune."

Mrs. Chubb rolled her eyes and groaned, while Cecily laughed. "It is such a joy to see you all again," she said. "You have no idea how much I've missed you. Especially my godchildren." She beamed down at the twins, who were staring wide-eyed at the sweeping staircase as if they'd never seen one before.

"Are we going up there?" Lillian asked, pointing a chubby finger at the stairs.

"What have I told you about pointing, girl," Mrs. Chubb said sharply.

"It's rude," James said loudly. He gave his sister a shove. "Lilly's rude . . . Lilly's rude . . . Lilly's rude."

Gertie raised her hand. "Shut up, you two, or I'll box your bleeding ears."

The twins dived behind Cecily and clung to her skirt.

"I'm sure she doesn't mean it," Cecily said, laughing.

"Be the death of me, they will," Gertie said darkly. "I never thought—" She broke off, staring at Miss Bunkle, who was making her way across the foyer toward them. "Blimey, who the heck's that? Does she know she's got a knitting needle stuck in 'er hair?"

When the housekeeper reached them, Cecily hastily made the introductions. "Mrs. Chubb used to be the housekeeper here," she informed Miss Bunkle. "And Mrs. McBride was our chief housemaid."

"Really." Miss Bunkle sniffed, and looked down her nose at the twins. "And I suppose these were footmen?"

No doubt it was supposed to be a joke, but Gertie's chin shot up. "If you must know, these children were born right here in this hotel," she said, emphatically sounding her aitches. "That was in the good old days, when this
was
a posh hotel, not a bleeding country club for roadhogs."

"Gertie!" Mrs. Chubb gave her a horrified glare. "Mind your manners."

Miss Bunkle seemed unaffected by Gertie's scathing comments, dismissing them with a haughty toss of her head. "Your rooms are ready," she said, "if you care to follow Jeanette." She gestured at the maid hovering at the base of the staircase. "I'll have Raymond bring up your luggage as soon as possible."

"Blimey," Gertie murmured. "I never thought I'd end up being waited on at the Pennyfoot. It don't seem right, some'ow."

"I know what you mean." Mrs. Chubb slipped her hands out of her muff and glanced in the direction of the kitchen stairs. "I feel as I should be going downstairs, not up them."

"I'm sure you'll soon get used to it." Cecily beamed at them both. "Come on, I'll show you to your rooms myself." She smiled at Miss Bunkle. "There's no need for Jeanette to go up with us."

Miss Bunkle dipped her head. "Very well, Mrs. Baxter." She raised her hand. "Come along, Jeanette."

The maid scuttled forward, giving Gertie a curious stare as she drew close. "Did you really used to be the chief housemaid here?" she asked in a loud whisper.

Gertie grinned. "You bet your bleeding boots I did. I was
bloody good at me job, too. Best housemaid around, you just ask madam, here. Why, I could tell you stories—"

"Jeanette, stop bothering the guests and get down below stairs," Miss Bunkle ordered, raising her voice just enough to sound assertive.

Jeanette scurried off toward the kitchen stairs, while Gertie watched her go, an almost wistful expression on her face. "I dunno," she said softly, "but them days seemed so simple then. Nothing to worry about except getting the tables laid proper and the meals served."