PH02 - Do Not Disturb
The Seeds of Suspicion Are Planted …
Madeline gulped. “Dr. McDuff said he is sure that Colin Bickley died from some kind of poisoning.”
“How dreadful. How the poor man must have suffered.” Cecily still couldn’t understand why Madeline should be so upset by the news—until she spoke again, and then it all became abundantly clear.
“Dr. McDuff thought the poison was cyanide at first, because Colin’s skin had a blue tinge to it. But there was no smell of bitter almonds, which ruled it out. Upon further examination, Dr. McDuff decided some kind of poisonous plant killed Colin.” She stopped wringing her hands and clasped Cecily’s arm. Her fingers felt deathly cold.
“Cecily,” Madeline said in a low, urgent voice, “Colin Bickley was at my house last night. I cooked him a meal, which he ate. A few hours later he was dead.”
A Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery
Do Not Disturb
Kate Kingsbury
Copyright © 2012, Kate Kingsbury
Contents
The summer of 1906 had been cool and damp in England. Nevertheless, autumn came slowly to the village of Badgers End and its sheltered cove on the southeast coast.
The season began with a crisp, clean chill in the breeze from the English Channel and a tinge of gold to the willow leaves that hung over Deep Willow Pond. Acrid smoke curled from chimney pots and drifted lazily across Putney Downs, and the sun threw long shadows a little earlier each day.
Hawthorne Lane crossed the Downs in a meandering trail of hedgerows and wildflowers, barely leaving room for the cart horses pulling their loads to market. Usually the lane became deserted by sundown, except for the stray rabbit or inquisitive hedgehog.
This evening, however, as dusk seeped over the countryside,
four grubby-faced urchins dressed in shabby knickerbockers stole along the lane, one behind the other.
A muffled giggle disturbed the quiet peace, and the leader of the group twisted his head with an urgent “Sshhh!”
“Shut up, you blithering idiots,” someone else whispered, and the laughter was suppressed.
The straggly line continued in silence, except for the occasional scrape of a boot against the surface of the road. Soon the boys reached the cliffs and could look down from their lofty perch to the dark blue cove below with its crescent of golden sand. Ahead of them stood a row of cottages.
Hidden by the tall hedges that lined the lane, they conferred with hand signals. Then one by one they each crept silently up to a front door. Quickly each boy tied one end of thick cotton thread to the door knocker, then scuttled back to the shelter of the hedges.
The leader of the group, a tough-looking redhead with protruding ears, lifted his hand. Four fists clutched four lengths of thread, trembling with anticipation.
The signaling hand fell, and four fists jerked at once. The door knockers clattered in a cacophony of sound, setting off a furious chorus of barking dogs.
Three of the doors opened as if on cue, one after the other. After a short pause, two men and a woman stepped outside, looking across at each other in bewilderment.
With a loud snort of uncontrolled laughter, one of the boys raced down the lane, followed by his three companions, all with fists shoved in their mouths to curb the sound of their glee.
Looking after them, the woman said sharply, “Those boys and that stupid game. Ought to know better, they did.” Her neighbors shook their heads and, amid muttered curses, returned to their fireplaces. Peace settled once more over Hawthorne Lane.
The sun gradually sank out of sight, abandoning the sky to the moon. The shadows merged, softened, and reappeared, bathed in a ghostly pale light.
A man walked steadily along the lane, from the direction of the cove. In spite of the steep climb, his breathing sounded even in the shrouded silence of the Downs.
The cottages were in darkness, the inhabitants having succumbed to the weariness of long hours in the fields. The man strode past them all, his firm footsteps echoing behind him. Reaching the last cottage in the row, he opened the door with a key and disappeared inside.
Sometime later, a single rap of a door knocker once more disturbed the peace in the lane. This time the summons had been served on the door of the end cottage.
The man inside cursed. He was just about to snuggle down in his bed, his hot-water bottle already warming the sheets. He was inclined to ignore the knock, in the hopes that whoever it was would go away.
But he couldn’t. There was always the possibility that it could be someone from the work site, some problem that needed his immediate attention.
Muttering to himself, the man turned up the wick of the oil lamp. In the flickering light, he shuffled down the passageway to the door and dragged it open.
Frowning, he leaned forward, peering into the darkness. He could see no one out there. Surely he hadn’t imagined the knock? He thought he heard a slight sound, a soft movement in the shadows. He stepped outside for a better look. Still he could see nothing but the outline of the hedges against the dark sky.
The damp night air chilled his bones, and he turned impatiently back to the warmth of the cottage. Something touched his neck, and he lifted a hand to explore. He took a couple of steps, then blinked. His eyelids felt curiously heavy. He hadn’t realized how desperately tired he felt—so tired he couldn’t lift his eyelids again.
He couldn’t open his eyes. He felt odd; his face seemed stiff, his jaw tight. He tried to grimace, but his mouth wouldn’t move. His chin dropped, and try as he might he couldn’t lift his head.
Panic rose, swift and terrifying, as he staggered, one hand
groping for the door frame. He couldn’t swallow. His lungs felt as though they were gripped in a steel vise, tightening, tightening …
The pain was terrible. His legs buckled, writhing in agony, while the top half of him seemed frozen solid. He couldn’t breathe … the awful agony of it … he twitched violently … then lay still.
By midmorning Cecily Sinclair had finished her rounds of the gardens and sat relaxing in the library of the Pennyfoot Hotel, awaiting the arrival of Phoebe Carter-Holmes and Madeline Pengrath, the members of her entertainment committee.
Although the waning of the season meant a lull in the social activities at the hotel, Cecily still liked to arrange something for the few guests who chose to visit the tiny seaside town during the quieter months.
The cool, mellow autumn days always brought a special feeling of pleasurable relief after the hectic weeks of summer. The Pennyfoot had gained a considerable reputation as a unique and elegant retreat for the jaded upper class of the big city.
From May to September its rooms were filled, enjoyed by the elite in their pursuit of pleasure, safe in the knowledge that their indiscretions would be kept secret by the remarkably discreet staff of the hotel.
James Sinclair, Cecily’s late husband, had chosen his employees with the utmost care, leaving each of them in no doubt of their fate should they ever breathe one word of the goings-on behind the Pennyfoot’s sedate white walls.
It was a measure of the staff’s loyalty that no word of scandal had ever touched the name of the Pennyfoot Hotel. Cecily was very proud of that. And now that her beloved James was gone, taken by the malaria he’d contracted while serving in Her Majesty’s Service in the tropics, Cecily was more determined than ever that his legacy be maintained in the manner he had dictated.
That was the main reason Cecily had taken over some of
the duties as owner of the hotel. The renovations James had undertaken still left heavy debts, and Cecily was determined to keep the hotel in the family, as James had requested at his death.
Seated at the head of the long mahogany table, Cecily glanced up at her husband’s portrait hanging over the huge marble fireplace. At forty-three she was much too young to be a widow, she thought sadly. Who would have imagined, when James first acquired what had once been the family home of the Earl of Saltchester, that a few short years later he would die, much too soon, leaving her to carry on alone?
The paneled door opened, cutting short her reverie. A very large hat appeared, loaded down with ostrich feathers, with a swathe of cream chiffon enveloping huge bronze and dark red chrysanthemums. The middle-aged face underneath it smiled, while a pair of bright blue eyes gazed across the room.
“Cecily, dear, am I late? I’m so sorry. Algie was fussing over his sermon for Sunday and insisted I listen to it. Sometimes I wonder what he’d do if I weren’t around to hold his hand. There can’t be many vicars who have a mother willing to spend so much time helping them with their work.”
Cecily smiled back. “Come in, Phoebe. No, you’re not late. I came in early. It’s getting a little cool to stay out in the gardens too long in the mornings. The sea breeze can be very fresh.”
The hat nodded vigorously, threatening to overbalance had it not been securely pinned. “I know exactly what you mean. I shall have to dig out my winter coats and muffs before the east wind gets a bite to it.”
The door opened again, and a willowy woman dressed in pale mauve muslin swept in. Long dark hair flowed free and settled about her shoulders, and her expressive dark eyes flitted about the room, never still.
“My goodness,” she murmured in a low, whispery voice that always reminded Cecily of windblown rushes, “I do
declare, the evil spirits are about in force today. I can feel them all around me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Madeline, please don’t start that again,” Phoebe complained, carefully smoothing her green silk skirt as she sat on the padded chair behind the table.
Madeline paused long enough to give Phoebe a disdainful sniff before floating over to a chair on the opposite side of the table, in front of the massive bookshelves. Shaking her hair back from her face with a toss of her head, she looked at Cecily. “At least you have the good sense to take heed of what I say.”
Cecily shifted uncomfortably on her chair. It was true that Madeline had an uncanny knack for sensing trouble. In fact, Madeline had a certain strange aptitude for all kinds of things.
Her talent for healing various ailments with potions concocted from plants grown in her abundant garden caused much speculation among the villagers. Half of them swore that Madeline’s potions worked far better than anything the doctor could prescribe, while the other half were convinced that they’d be possessed by demons if they so much as touched a leaf from one of her plants.
The fact of the matter was, Madeline had earned the dubious reputation of being, at best, a gypsy changeling and, at worst, a witch. The woman’s appearance went a long way toward fostering that belief.
Although Cecily was quite sure that Madeline was close to her own age, the woman’s gleaming black hair revealed not a single strand of gray, and her skin was as smooth and soft as a young woman of twenty.
Compared to Madeline, Cecily felt positively ancient, what with her sensible light brown chignon sprinkled with silver and the deep laughter lines at the corners of her eyes.
“Well,” Phoebe said, opening her handbag to pull out a lace-edged handkerchief, “I’m quite sure your evil spirits are nothing more than those little hooligans running around playing that Knock Down Ginger. Such an annoying game.
I’m so tired of answering my door to thin air, and Algie swears his nerves have been shattered by the little devils.”
“Algie’s nerves can be shattered by a sneeze,” Madeline said dryly.
Sensing the usual confrontation between the two women, Cecily launched into a discussion of the tea dance planned for that week.
Madeline, who took care of all the floral arrangements, outlined her ideas, and Phoebe, as entertainments director, described the women’s violin quartet she’d hired. The details had just been finalized when a smart tap sounded on the door. All three heads turned toward the sound as Cecily called out, “Yes, come in.”
The tall, broad-shouldered man who entered wore a worried frown on his pleasant features. “Please excuse the intrusion, madam, but I thought you should know right away. We have a small problem in the bathrooms.”
Cecily regarded her manager with anxious eyes. Baxter never consulted her unless the matter was serious. “What kind of problem?” she asked warily.
“I’m afraid it is a plumbing problem, madam. We shall have to close the bathrooms down until it is taken care of. I have sent for the plumber, but he is in Wellercombe at the moment, and it could be some time before he arrives. I felt that you should be informed.”