No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (8 page)

After asking Raymond to wait, she rapped on the front door, her heart leaping with expectation at the thought of seeing the handsome doctor again. She had refrained from her customary habit of sending a calling card in the hopes of surprising him. She wanted to catch him off guard, so to speak. He was more likely to tell her what she wanted to know if he was unprepared for her visit.

She was most anxious to know exactly what Dr. Prestwick's opinion was of the death of Barry Wrotham. No doubt the good doctor would be hesitant to tell her anything at first, but in the past she'd been able to persuade him otherwise. She could only hope that she was still able to do so. So far, all she had were vague suspicions and theories.
Nothing substantial upon which to base an investigation that, if she didn't take care, could very well lead her into a great deal of trouble.

She needed the doctor's complete cooperation. And if she was to solve this case before Mrs. Wrotham left for London, she needed it now.

CHAPTER

6

The front door of Dr. Prestwick's house opened abruptly to reveal a gray-haired woman wearing a cap and apron, her lined faced creased in a frown. "The doctor's not ready yet to receive patients," she said crisply, and started to close the door.

"Oh, I'm not a patient," Cecily called out. "I'm an old friend of the doctor's, here to pay him a short visit."

The woman peered around the door with a suspicious look on her face. "Do you have an appointment, madam?"

"Well, no," Cecily admitted. "But I'm quite sure if you tell the doctor that Mrs. Baxter is here to see him . . . no, wait. Perhaps you'd better tell him Cecily Sinclair."

The housekeeper's expression darkened. "Perhaps you
should come back later," she said.
"After
you have made an appointment."

Right on the heels of her words came another voice, smooth and mellow, yet filled with surprise. "Cecily? It can't be." The housekeeper disappeared and the door was thrown wide.

The man who stood on the doorstep stared at Cecily as if she'd materialized out of thin air. "Good Lord. It is. I'd heard you were coming down to Badgers End, but I had no idea you were already here."

Cecily laughed up at him. "Kevin! You don't look a day older."

"And neither do you, my dear." He held out his hand. "In fact, if anything, you look younger. Do come in. This is such a pleasant surprise. At least, I hope it is." His piercing blue eyes narrowed. "You're not here as a patient, I trust?"

Putting her hand in his, Cecily allowed him to escort her into the narrow hallway. The familiar smell of disinfectant and furniture polish brought back so many memories. She looked about her, noticing at once that the walls of the waiting room had been papered with an embossed design of milkmaids and cows in shades of cream and brown. Rather pleasing, especially when one had to sit and wait with nothing better to look at.

"I'm quite well," she told Prestwick, in a delayed answer to his question. "I happened to be coming into town today to meet with Phoebe and Madeline, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to stop by and visit with you awhile."

At the mention of Madeline, she thought she saw a shadow cross the doctor's face.

"Ah, yes. Madeline. How is she? I haven't seen her in quite a few days."

"Really?" Cecily followed him into his office and took the chair he offered. "Then you must not have had much time to spare lately."

Prestwick's expression was evasive. "Do I detect a note of disapproval in that remark?"

Cecily laughed. "It's not my place to pass judgment on you. It's just that I thought you and Madeline . . . well, you know."

"Do I?" Prestwick shuffled some papers on the desk in front of him, his expression carefully bland. "Madeline and I are good friends, that's all. I enjoy her company. I trust she enjoys mine."

"I'm quite certain of that." Cecily hesitated, then added recklessly, "She cares about you a great deal. I do hope you don't do anything that will bring her pain. She's had a hard life. She deserves some happiness."

Prestwick's eyebrow twitched. "I have no wish to hurt anyone, Cecily. But I'm sure you didn't come here to talk about Madeline."

Accepting his effort to change the subject, she said brightly, "No, of course I didn't."

"I didn't think so." Prestwick tilted his chair back and crossed his slender hands across his chest. "If I were to wager a bet, I'd say you're here to inquire about the recent death of one of our citizens, are you not?"

Cecily did her best to look offended. "Why, Kevin, whatever do you mean? I stopped by to visit with an old friend, that's all."

He bowed his head. "Then I misjudged you, my dear. Please accept my apologies."

"Of course."

"So you have no interest at all in the death of the late manager of the Pennyfoot Country Club."

She tilted her head to one side. "Should I?"

He threw back his head, and a roar of laughter erupted from his throat. "Cecily, Cecily, Cecily. You are as transparent as a pane of glass. How can you sit there and tell me you're not gasping to know every single detail of Barry Wrotham's premature demise?"

She grinned happily at him. "Well, I must admit, my curiosity is somewhat piqued. After all, there does seem to be strange circumstances surrounding the accident. If it was an accident."

Prestwick shook his head, his mouth still curved in amusement. "You will never change, my dear, I'm happy to say. But I'm afraid this time you will be disappointed. There is no murderer lurking about Badgers End. I'm afraid you will have to curb your investigative instincts for a while. Barry Wrotham's death, sinister as it may appear, was an accident, pure and simple."

"May I ask how you arrived at that conclusion?"

Prestwick shrugged. "I don't see why not. There were no marks on the body indicating foul play. Death was by drowning. Wrotham was a regular visitor at the George and Dragon, and more than once left there with more in his belly than he could handle."

"You're saying he was intoxicated and fell into the well?"

"That's the official verdict, yes. P.C. Northcott ruled it as accidental and I signed the death warrant. Wrotham was buried a week or so ago."

"Do you have any idea of the time he died?"

Prestwick's eyes narrowed. "Cecily, if you know something I don't, perhaps you should tell me now. It could save us both a good deal of trouble later on."

Cecily folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know any more than you do, which is why I'm asking the questions. I simply want to settle things in my mind, nothing more."

Prestwick picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk before answering. "As far as I could tell, Wrotham had been dead less than two hours before he was found."

"On Sunday afternoon?"

"Yes. Several people saw him in the George and Dragon at midday. It was his habit to stop there on his way home, since Sunday was his half-day off."

"Did anyone mention that he'd had too much to drink, or that he appeared to be intoxicated when he left?"

"Not as far as I know. As I said, there was no investigation."

"And no one has questioned why Barry Wrotham should be wandering around an abandoned farm all alone on a Sunday afternoon? He must have known it was deserted . . . how long has it been since the owner left?"

"At least a year, so I believe." Looking serious now, Prestwick leaned forward. "If you want my advice, Cecily, let things be. There's no reason to suppose this is anything but an accident, and if you start poking around and asking questions, you're likely to raise the wrath of a few people, including our good friend Inspector Cranshaw. I doubt if he'll have much patience with you, after all the trouble you caused him in the past."

Cecily raised her chin. "I solved more than one case for
the inspector and P.C. Northcott. More often than not by asking questions and using my brains to sift out the truth. He should be thanking me, not condemning me."

Prestwick's lips twitched. "I doubt that will happen. But in this case, you are looking for something that isn't there. Tell me the truth now, isn't this just a case of you having missed all the excitement of tracking down villains? Aren't you trying just a little too hard to make a mountain out of an anthill?"

"I thought that was molehill."

"I like anthill better. Never could stand moles. They can do more damage to a garden in one night than a midwinter hailstorm."

Aware that he was deliberately changing the subject again, Cecily gave in. "Very well, Kevin, if you are so certain this unfortunate event was an accident, I suppose I must accept it. But it was very nice to see you again. You must join us for dinner at the Pennyfoot soon." She rose from her chair, and straightened her hat with both hands. "I should take my leave before you are deluged with patients all clamoring for your attention."

Prestwick jumped up and hurried around the desk to her side. "It was a very great pleasure to see you, Cecily. I trust your husband is well?"

"Very well, thank you." Cecily moved to the door and waited for him to open it. "I hope we shall see you again soon?"

"Just as soon as I can find the time." He opened the door for her and stood back to let her pass. "I mean it, Cecily. Forget about Wrotham's death and just enjoy the Christmas Season. I'm sure you have more than enough to
worry about with all the responsibilities of taking care of the Pennyfoot guests."

"I do indeed." She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Kevin. I'll remember you to Madeline. I'll be meeting with her in a few minutes."

Prestwick tightened his lips ever so slightly. "Please, give her my regards."

Outside in the cruel bite of the wind, Cecily hurried down the path to where Raymond waited with the carriage. The horses stamped with impatience, steam drifting from their nostrils as they tossed their heads.

"Straight to Dolly's Teashop, Raymond," she told him, and tugged her stole more securely around her shoulders. She was looking forward immensely to Dolly's warm tearoom, a very hot cup of tea, and a warm, luscious Banbury cake.

For the time being she would try to forget about Barry Wrotham's bizarre death, though she had no intention of giving up on it. Too many people had their suspicions about the accident. In any case, she was a great believer in hunches, and this time the tingling in her bones was so acute she could feel her flesh creep.

There was something else bothering her at that moment, however. Something that demanded her immediate attention. There was no doubt in her mind that all was not well between Dr. Prestwick and her dear friend Madeline. And right then that was more important to her than the death of a man whom apparently no one liked.

Arriving at Dolly's Teashop, Cecily paused in front of the square-paned window and gazed in admiration at the
magnificent Christmas cakes on display. The center one was raised above the others, and had been painstakingly decorated in glittering white royal icing. Tiny silver sugar beads nestled in the thick white swirls circling the top and bottom, and red and green sprinkles dusted the smooth shell pattern around the edges. Miniature sprigs of holly had been piped at intervals in the border, and a green paper sleeve wrapped around the sides of the cake. It made Cecily's mouth water just looking at it.

The familiar tinkle of the bell as she opened the door warmed her instantly. She was pleased to see nothing had changed. The familiar fragrance of newly baked bread blended with the exotic aroma of ginger and nutmeg, every bit as heavenly as she remembered.

The china jugs and vases shared space with boughs of fir and mistletoe on the wide mantelpiece, the decorative plates still balanced on the picture rail, and the large copper coal scuttle stood guard in the hearth as always. Even the polished brass fender with the dent in the right-hand corner had not been replaced, much to her delight.

The room was crowded, as usual, and the air hummed with lowered voices and the occasional titter of laughter. To Cecily's delight, Madeline and Phoebe were already seated at their favorite table close to the fireplace, where enormous flames leapt and sputtered up the wide chimney.

Phoebe's face was partially hidden beneath the brim of her hat, which tilted at an alarming angle, threatening to dislodge the mound of fruit and feathers adorning it. Madeline, as usual, was hatless, and gloveless, and as always, the target of many disdainful stares which she blithely ignored.

Madeline's presence in the village had always been clouded with controversy. Most people were afraid of her, intimidated by tales of her mystic powers, which were mostly embroidered with half-truths. There was no doubt Madeline was capable of some things that defied explanation and, at times, had unsettled Cecily quite considerably. It was doubtful, however, if Madeline had half the capacity attributed to her . . . magical or otherwise.

Nevertheless, her reputation exceeded her abilities, and most people tended to avoid her whenever possible, unless desperate enough to brave her cottage in search of a potion to cure their ills.

Apparently blissfully unaware of the sensation she caused, Madeline waved vigorously at the sight of Cecily, while tapping Phoebe smartly on the arm to get her attention.

Cecily was halfway across the room, threading her way delicately between the tables, when a strident voice rang out, easily overwhelming the quiet voices around her.

"Mrs. Sinclair! I don't believe it! Whatever brings you back here?"

Cecily smiled at the woman lumbering toward her, her massive bosom narrowly missing the heads of her customers as she squeezed by them. "Dolly! How lovely to see you again!"

"Well, this is a surprise." Dolly's florid face was wreathed in smiles as she held out her two chubby hands and grasped Cecily's. "Let me look at you. Well, looks as if the Smoke hasn't done you any harm, that's for sure."

"Not at all." Cecily withdrew her hands and edged over to the table where Phoebe and Madeline were
waiting. "And I see the teashop is still doing a wonderful business."

"Aye, that it is, thank the good Lord. How's that handsome manager of yours? No, wait. He's your husband now, isn't he." Dolly's rolls of fat jiggled as she uttered a deep belly laugh. "Can't call you Mrs. Sinclair now, can I. It's going to take some getting used to, remembering to call you Mrs. Baxter and that's a fact."