No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (15 page)

Madeline's eyes were bleak when she answered. "For once you are quite correct, Phoebe. Dr. Prestwick will not be joining me this Christmas."

Cecily's heart ached when she saw the despondency on her friend's face. "But you will join us, will you not?"

"I wouldn't miss it." Madeline rose to her feet, her
peasant skirt fluttering in folds around her ankles. "I thought I'd ask Gertie's twins to help me with the decorating. It will give their mother a rest and keep them out of mischief."

"Oh, they'd love that, I know they would. If you ask Miss Bunkle where to find the decorations, I'm sure she'll be able to help you. Meanwhile, I'll talk to Doris and ask for her help with the pantomime."

Phoebe rose, too, smoothing her skirt down with her gloved hands. "And I must go in search of my husband. He is most likely getting lonely without me."

"If you've left him in the bar, he's most likely forgotten your existence by now," Madeline drawled.

Phoebe sniffed. "It won't take much to jog his memory. Pity you can't say as much for the good doctor."

Madeline smiled, though there was no humor in her eyes. "I can't imagine why you are so possessed with Kevin, Phoebe. Could it be that you are as enamored of him as half the female population of Badgers End?"

Phoebe tossed her head, at great risk of dislodging her hat. "If I were, Madeline dear, I would do everything in my power to make sure his attention was on me, and not on half the female population of Badgers End."

"Better women than you have tried and failed," Madeline murmured.

Phoebe was about to answer when a light tap on the door caught everyone's attention.

Cecily opened it, surprised to see Moira bobbing up and down in an awkward curtsey. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, m'm," she mumbled, "but Lady Lucille sent me. She asked to meet with you right away." Moira's gaze slid past
Cecily to the other two women. "She said it was important, m'm, that she speak with you in private."

"It's all right, Moira," Madeline said, gliding to the door. "We were just leaving." She transferred her smile to Cecily. "I will begin the decorating and I'll try not to get into anyone's way."

Caught up in wondering just what it was that Lady Lucille had to say to her, Cecily nodded absently. "Tell Miss Bunkle to give you enough candles to put on the tree in the library. I'd like a really good display of them."

Madeline nodded and passed through the door, then came to a standstill so abruptly Cecily thought she had bumped into Moira, who still hovered outside in the hallway awaiting further instructions.

But then she saw Moira standing to one side. Madeline, it seemed, had been seized by one of her trances. She turned slowly to face Cecily, and the stark expression on her face sent a chill coursing through Cecily's veins.

In that ghostly voice quite unlike her usual throaty tone, Madeline said softly, "Beware the candles. They are burning too brightly."

Cecily stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. "What is it, Madeline? What are you trying to tell me?"

Behind her Phoebe uttered a shocked gasp as Madeline's eyes seemed to glow with an unearthly light.

"I see you playing with fire, Cecily," Madeline whispered. "Take great care, or you will be horribly burned."

Moira let out a whimper of fear, while Phoebe said harshly, "Madeline! Enough of this nonsense."

Madeline seemed not to notice. She simply wafted off down the hallway and disappeared from view.

"Well," Phoebe said, sounding shaken. "What was that all about?"

Moira stared at Cecily with wide, frightened eyes. "M'm? Is the lady all right?"

Cecily pulled herself together. "Yes, I'm sure she's quite all right. Phoebe, you had better join your husband. It's getting late. Moira, please ask Lady Lucille to come here to my suite at her convenience."

Moira gave a frightened nod of her head and rushed off.

Phoebe left, too, shaking her head and muttering about Madeline not being right in the mind. Cecily closed the door and leaned against it.

There had been only a handful of times that Madeline had warned her in this way. And each time, she had found herself in deadly danger. She could only hope that this warning did not carry the same ugly threat.

CHAPTER

11

Less than ten minutes after Cecily had sent the message to Lady Lucille, a light tap summoned her to the door. Feeling somewhat apprehensive, she opened it and regarded the elegant woman, who stood looking down the corridor as if afraid someone might see her.

"Please, do come in," Cecily murmured, stepping back to allow her to enter. "Can I offer you some refreshment? I can have some tea sent up—"

"Non, non, merci."
Lucille trotted into the room in great haste. "I can only stay but a moment."

Cecily closed the door and indicated the nearest chair. "I hope there is nothing amiss with your room?"

"Pardonnez-moi?"
Lucille turned anxious eyes on her. "Oh, not at all." She tugged at the fingers of her left
glove, as if about to draw it off, then changed her mind and smoothed it down again. "Madame Baxter. I must ask of you a favor."

"Of course." Cecily waited until Lucille had seated herself, then took a chair across the room from her. "I'll be most happy to oblige if at all possible."

For a long moment it seemed as if the lady had trouble remembering what it was she had come to ask. Her hesitancy was such a marked change in her attitude that Cecily found it hard to realize it was the same woman.

Finally, Lucille lifted her chin and stared straight into Cecily's eyes. "My husband tells me that you returned the hat pin to him."

Having anticipated that Lucille's visit would have something to do with the hat pin, Cecily had prepared her reply. "Yes," she said smoothly. "I happened to be asking the other gentlemen if they recognized the pin when your husband declared that it belonged to you. It is rather distinctive, after all. An anniversary gift, I believe he said."

"Oui."
Lucille dropped her gaze. "You say you found it in the farmhouse?"

"Quite by accident, I assure you."

"You did not tell my husband where you found it?"

"No, of course not."

She looked up then, and to Cecily's surprise, her eyes filled with tears. "Madame Baxter, I know what you think of me. I am a weak woman, yes, but I have reason to seek attention elsewhere. My husband, he is a very busy man. He has many . . . interests that occupy much of his time. He does not have any time left for his wife. I might as well be a pretty picture on the wall for what little attention he pays to me."

"I'm sorry," Cecily murmured, at a loss as to how to respond to this outpouring of misery.

Lady Lucille shrugged. "He has a good position with the Inns of the Court. Why is he not satisfied with that? 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. If he wasn't so busy all the time, I would have no reason to . . . " She caught her breath on a sob, and hunted for a handkerchief in her sleeve.

Instantly intrigued, Cecily would dearly have loved to know what extra demands were taking so much of Sir John's time, and who "the others" might be. She was far too polite to ask, however. In spite of her disapproval of the woman's infidelity, Cecily felt a modicum of sympathy for her. It couldn't be easy to love a man and be ignored by him. Especially for a woman as seemingly passionate as Lucille. Sir John was making a grave mistake by neglecting his wife.

"Lady Lucille," she said softly. "It is not my place to pass judgment, nor is it any of my business. If you are asking me not to reveal to your husband where I found the pin, I assure you, your secret is quite safe with me."

Lucille pressed her handkerchief to her lips, her eyes still brimming.
"Merci, madame,"
she murmured. "You are most understanding."

Cecily studied her carefully. "Although, as I said, this is none of my business, I feel compelled to offer a note of warning. In view of the location where I found the pin, and since that is also the location where our former manager, Barry Wrotham, met his death, should there be an investigation forthcoming, I might have to mention it to the constables."

Lucille's eyes grew wide with apprehension. "An investigation? But I thought . . . I was told . . . Barry's death was an accident."

"It would seem that way, yes." Cecily deliberately paused, aware of the other woman's intense concentration. After a moment she continued, "There have been some questions raised, however, that need to be answered."

"Questions?"

"Yes. For instance, why Mr. Wrotham should be wandering around a deserted farm for apparently no good reason."

Lucille's expression was one of pure bewilderment. "But . . . I . . . I thought you knew. Mr. Wrotham, he came there to meet me."

Cecily felt her own eyes widen. "Barry Wrotham was your lover?"

"Mais, oui."
Lucille lifted her hands and let them drop again. "I am sure you understand why I cannot tell the constables what he was doing there."

Cecily was still struggling with this latest revelation. She had been so certain that Lucille was involved with one of the Benchers. It had never occurred to her that this elegant, proud creature could have lowered herself to engage in an illicit alliance with Wrotham.

Apparently Lucille must have read her mind. "Madame Baxter, I have not always been a . . . how you say . . . member of society. When I met my husband, I was with the
Folies Bergère
. Sometimes, I miss the excitement of that time. Monsieur Wrotham reminded me of the woman I once had been." She raised a delicate hand to wipe her brow. "I do not expect you to understand."

"I understand better than you imagine," Cecily said
dryly. "Lady Lucille, I can't promise that your . . . association with Wrotham can remain a secret. Perhaps if you tell me what happened?"

Lucille shrugged. "I do not know what happened to him. I left when he was still in the house. We could not take the chance someone might see us together. I walked all the way to the town. I was to meet a car that would bring me back to the club. The same car that had taken me earlier. I told Raymond I was visiting the shops."

"So the last time you saw Barry Wrotham, he was alive and well in the farmhouse?"

"Oui."
She sighed. "It grew dark as I left. Barry, he had been drinking the cognac,
n'est-ce pas?
I think he must have stumbled into the well and pouf!" She jerked a hand in the air. "He fell down it." She covered her face with her hands for a moment. "Imagine my great distress when I learned of Barry's death. I feel so terrible that this happened to him. If I had not responded to his attentions, he would remain alive to this day."

Cecily stared at her in silence, while outside in the hallway the jangling of a bell summoned the guests to dinner. "I see," she said at last. "Well, that would explain a great deal. I'm so glad we had this discussion, Lady Lucille."

"And you will tell no one what I have told you?" Lucille leaned forward, her hands outstretched in appeal. "You must understand . . . my husband . . . if he hears of this . . . "

"I see no need to inform the constables of our conversation," Cecily said slowly. "They have ruled Barry Wrotham's death an accident, and what you have told me seems to bear out that deduction."

"I am deeply grateful,
madame,"
Lucille rose, looking
more like her former self. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must join the others for dinner. I am sure they must be wondering where I am,
non?"

Cecily got to her feet and walked with Lucille to the door. After seeing the lady out, she waited long enough for her to return to her suite, then headed down the stairs to the first floor. She couldn't wait to tell Baxter what she had learned. Nor did she have any qualms about discussing it with him. She had promised Lucille not to repeat anything that was said to the constables or to Sir John. She had not said anything about discussing the news with her own husband.

"You never did tell me how it was you got here a day early," Gertie said, bending down to unfasten the button on James's shoe. "I thought you said you still had a few customers to take care of."

"I did."

"So how did you get them all done so quick?" James kept kicking his feet so she couldn't get ahold of him. She made a grab at his pudgy leg and he let out a howl. "Oh, now, now," she muttered as she wrestled with the shoe. "Stop pretending that you're hurt. I didn't grab you that hard."

"Don't wanna go to bed," James yelled.

"Well, you're bloody going, so there."

Ross's voice, harsh with impatience, cut across the room. "For pity's sake, woman, can't you keep the bairn quiet for one minute?"

Gertie jerked her head up and stared at her husband. Ross was normally an even-tempered man, far less likely to get in a tizz than she was. This wasn't like him at all. "Sorry, luv. I'll get him in bed in a minute."

"Don't wanna!" Jamie yelled.

"You'll do as I
say!"
Gertie carried the squirming child to the bed, where Lillian was already half asleep. She dumped James in beside her and pulled the covers over his flailing arms. "Father Christmas is not going to fill your pillowcase with toys if you don't go to sleep right now."

James stopped yelling and blinked sleepy eyes at her. "Father Christmas is coming tonight?"

"Not tonight, no. But soon," she added hastily as James opened his mouth to scream again.

James gave her a suspicious look. "He won't know where to find us. He'll go to our house an . . . an . . . we won't be there. He'll think we don't want any toys . . . " His voice rose on yet another wail.

Gertie frowned. "Of course he'll find you. He's watching you right now from the North Pole. He knows if you're being naughty and it all goes down in his little book. Look at Lillian. She's being good. Father Christmas will bring lots of toys for her."

James pouted. "I want lots of toys, too."

"Then you'd better go to sleep right this blinking minute."