Room With a Clue (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery) (15 page)

Gertie’s eyes widened. “No, mum. There weren’t nothing like that when I was in there. There was only one broom and some dusters and a dustpan. There wouldn’t have been no bleeding room for anything else …” Her face blushed scarlet, and she swallowed.

Cecily fought the impulse to smile. “Thank you, Gertie. You may go.”

The door closed quickly behind the mortified girl, and Cecily’s amusement faded. Whoever had hidden that sign in the broom closet must have done so after Lady Eleanor had fallen to her death.

So where had it been while the murder was taking place? It didn’t make sense. She shook her head in bewilderment. Nothing about this entire matter made sense. Anxious now to hear what Baxter had to tell her, Cecily left the kitchen and hurried back to the library.

She paused for a moment in front of the door, steeling herself to enter. The presence of Lady Eleanor’s body was most chilling. She wished she could have suggested Baxter meet her in her suite. But that would be far too scandalous for him to contemplate.

He stood by the window, looking out at the dark night when she walked into the room. He turned to face her, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“What is it?” Cecily demanded. “You’ve discovered something.”

“Robert Danbury denies having seen a note. He says he knows nothing about a message for his wife.” Baxter clasped his hands behind his back, a smug expression on his face.

Cecily eyed him with suspicion. “But?”

“I scrutinized the room, just to make sure.”

“And?”

“I saw nothing lying about on the furniture, so I moved over to the fireplace to take a look there.”

“It was on the mantelpiece?” Cecily asked impatiently. Baxter’s habit of dragging everything out for effect was beginning to irritate her.

“No, madam. It was not on the mantelpiece.”

“So what, then?”

“I saw something in the grate.”

Cecily gritted her teeth. “What did you see, Baxter?”

“Ashes, madam.”

“Ashes?”

“Ashes.”

She caught her breath. “The note. He burned it?”

Baxter’s smile was pure satisfaction. “I couldn’t be certain,
of course. I tried to get rid of him for a moment so that I could take a closer scrutiny, but he wouldn’t budge. One corner of the paper had escaped the flames, however, and I could see enough to ascertain that it was hotel stationery.”

Cecily frowned. “That doesn’t mean it’s the note. Either Mr. Danbury or Lady Eleanor could have written anything on a piece of stationery and discarded it.”

“Then why take the trouble to burn it?”

She stared at him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Why indeed?”

CHAPTER

15

“I would suggest that Mr. Danbury delivered the note to Gertie, who took it to Lady Eleanor,” Baxter said, a trifle pompously. “She must have left it in the room when she kept the appointment, whereon Mr. Danbury found it, and destroyed it so that his handwriting on it could not be recognized.”

When she continued to stare at him in silence, he looked disappointed. “The revelation does not appear to excite you.”

She moved over to a chair and sat down. “Baxter, I just don’t feel that Robert Danbury killed his wife. For one thing, how could he have possibly done all that in such a short time?”

“All what, madam?”

“Well, listen to this. Robert Danbury leaves the room at fifteen minutes to seven. You see him go through the foyer to the gardens about that time, am I right?”

Baxter nodded. “That’s correct.”

“He then slips back into the hotel and waits for his costume
to be hung on the rack, changes into it, presumably in order to mask his face, and gives Gertie the note at half past seven. He then would have to change out of his costume again, since Miss Morris collected it just a few minutes later, then dash up to the roof garden and wait for Lady Eleanor, who did not leave the room presumably until a quarter to eight.”

She paused for breath. “He then pushes her over the wall, hides the sign, races back down the stairs and out into the gardens, to stroll back at ten minutes to eight, seemingly in full command of his breath, which is when I saw him.”

Baxter nodded. “Very athletic, madam.”

“And seemingly invisible, Baxter.” She paused, remembering something. “Though I suppose that would explain the overturned plant pot at the end of the hall. He must have knocked it over in his mad dash for the stairs. I suppose we shall have to inform P.C. Northcott when he arrives back tomorrow morning.”

Baxter looked surprised. “He has left already?”

“Yes. I do believe he thought I was making all this up. He certainly didn’t seem too concerned by anything I said.” Cecily pinched her nostrils with her fingers. She was beginning to develop a headache.

Realizing she still hadn’t eaten, she decided to remedy that as soon as possible. “He’s decided to wait until tomorrow and report to Inspector Cranshaw. Then it will be up to him whether or not he wants to conduct an investigation.”

Baxter sniffed. “I was reasonably certain he wouldn’t have the courage to begin on his own. I doubt very much if Northcott would be anxious to open up an inquiry. He is not dealing with villagers in this case, he’s dealing with some prominent members of Society. He has only our conjecture to go on, nothing more. If we proved to be wrong in our suspicions, it could prove most embarrassing to Northcott if he were to question the innocence of our guests.”

Cecily raised an eyebrow. “You don’t care for the constable, do you, Baxter?”

His gaze shifted away from her. “Not particularly, madam.”

“Any particular reason?”

“None that I care to discuss.” He glanced back at her. “I
can assure you I have nothing to hide that could be construed as illegal or immoral, madam, if that’s what you are thinking.”

Cecily raised her hand to her throat. “Why, Baxter, perish the thought. It never for one moment crossed my mind that you could be anything but the epitome of perfection.”

He frowned. “You are making fun of me.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Have you ever thought about growing a mustache, Baxter?”

To her amusement, his cheeks flamed. “No, madam,” he said stiffly.

“Well, perhaps you should. It would make you look most distinguished.” She rose and crossed the room to the door. As he came forward to open it for her, she added, “I am going to look in on Phoebe’s tableau, then I’ll get something to eat. After that, I plan to retire for the night.”

“Yes, madam.”

For a moment her eyes strayed to the still form beneath the white cloth. She hadn’t cared for Lady Eleanor, but how sad to think of that poor woman, her life snatched away from her far too soon, lying on a cold, hard floor all alone throughout the night.

She had much to be thankful for, Cecily reminded herself. She looked back at her manager. “Good night, Baxter.”

“Good night, madam.” He opened the door, and she passed through, smiling at his still-flushed face.

Cecily was about to start down the hall to the ballroom when she heard her name being called urgently from the stairs. Looking back, she saw Daphne Morris clinging to the banisters, her face a stone mask. She beckoned with her hand, a furtive gesture that immediately alerted Cecily.

Hurrying over to the woman, she wondered if Miss Morris had decided to tell her she knew about the message after all. In spite of everything, she had a great deal of trouble believing it could have been Robert Danbury.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she looked up at the companion. Something else dreadful must have happened, Cecily thought in alarm. Daphne Morris’s face was flushed, her eyes red and swollen.

“I have something of the utmost importance to tell the constable,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “Can you tell me where to find him?”

“I’m afraid P.C. Northcott has left for the night. But he’ll be back in the morning.” Cecily stepped up one stair, bringing her closer to the quivering woman. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Miss Morris hesitated, then gave a quick nod of her head. “I should like to speak to you in private. Could I ask you to come to my room?”

Following Daphne Morris up the stairs to the second floor, Cecily couldn’t imagine what had happened to cause the younger woman such distress. In spite of the tragedy, she had seemed quite composed earlier on.

She waited while Miss Morris opened the door and invited her inside the room. Taking a chair, she waited for the companion to sit, but apparently Daphne Morris was much too agitated to sit down. Instead she strode back and forth across the carpet, hugging her body as if she were cold.

Cecily thought of the cigars tucked away in her bureau drawer upstairs and wished she could have one. “What is the problem, Miss Morris?” she inquired. “You appear to be quite upset.”

“And so I am.” Daphne Morris halted, her arms folded across her small breasts. “Mrs. Sinclair, I have reason to believe that Lady Eleanor’s death was not an accident.”

Cecily arranged her features in a look of surprise. “What makes you think that, Miss Morris?”

“I believe she was murdered.”

“You must have a reason for such a strong accusation.”

“Yes, of course I do.” Daphne Morris seemed to have trouble swallowing, since she made one or two attempts before going on. “I believe Lady Eleanor was murdered by her husband.”

Cecily blinked. “I must say I am shocked to hear you say that. Can you tell me why you believe such a thing?”

Miss Morris turned swiftly away, as if overcome by emotion. When she turned back, she appeared to have herself under control again. “I have had reason of late to suspect Mr.
Danbury of taking a lover. I’m afraid that was confirmed not ten minutes ago. I was on my way to his room to ask if he wanted me to take care of Chan Ying for the night. I thought it might be distressing for him to have such a vivid reminder of his dear wife.”

She paused, her throat working, and Cecily waited, wondering what was coming next.

“I had just reached the landing,” Daphne Morris continued, “when the door of his room opened. A young lady appeared in the doorway.” She swallowed, then went on. “Not wishing to intrude, I stayed back in the shadows. I was surprised, of course, but thought it might be one of Lady Eleanor’s acquaintances, wishing to console Mr. Danbury. I couldn’t see too clearly from where I stood.”

She drew the back of her hand across her eyes, as if she could banish the memory. “When she turned in the light, Mrs. Sinclair, I saw she was a young girl, a complete stranger. And then … and then …”

“Yes?” Cecily leaned forward, to catch the whisper.

“He bent his head and … kissed her.”

Cecily straightened. “I see.”

“Can you imagine?” Daphne’s hand fluttered aimlessly in the air. “His wife lying dead downstairs, not yet cold, and he doesn’t have the decency to wait until she’s buried, much less mourned.”

Cecily looked at her gravely. “I admit that appears to be dishonorable behavior, but I really don’t think you can assume anything from a simple kiss. It could quite well be as you first surmised, a genuine act of consolation, nothing more.”

Miss Morris shook her head impatiently. “I can assure you, Mrs. Sinclair, it was not that kind of a kiss. Besides, there is more. In the light from the room I saw it quite clearly, pinned to her collar at her throat.”

“You saw what, Miss Morris?”

“I saw Lady Eleanor’s brooch. The one that she had mislaid and accused the maid of stealing. Mr. Danbury must have given it to his lover.”

Cecily had to admit that certainly would seem to clarify
things. “Even so, I don’t understand why that should lead you to believe that Mr. Danbury murdered his wife.”

“Don’t you see?” The younger woman whipped around, her gown floating about her ankles, and began her restless pacing again. “He killed her for her money, of course. If he’d divorced her, she would have made quite sure he never saw a penny of her wealth.”

She paused in front of Cecily, breathing very fast. “Robert Danbury was terrified of being poor again. He had a most unfortunate upbringing and was a struggling accountant when Lady Eleanor married him. That’s why he married her in the first place. For her money. He was never in love with her.”

She bent down until her face was close to Cecily’s. “He would never have divorced her,” she whispered, as if afraid of being overheard.

“Really,” Cecily exclaimed, a little surprised.

“Oh, yes. And I know how he did it. He obviously was the one who sent that note to her. He must have changed into his uniform before I collected it, and he gave the note to the maid to take to Lady Eleanor. He most likely used the supply room next door to the steam room. It would have taken him only a moment or two.”

Cecily looked at her, thoughtfully nodding her head. “That would be possible, I suppose.” She could plainly see that the younger woman’s distress was quite real. And far more gut-wrenching than it had been earlier.

Daphne Morris straightened, tears standing at the corners of her eyes. “If he wanted this other woman permanently in his life, it was the only way. With his wife dead, Mr. Danbury inherits all the money.”

She whirled away to resume her pacing once more. “How could he do this to that poor, poor woman? After everything she’s done for him. It is despicable.” She paused, staring at Cecily across the room with eyes that now glittered with anger. “He must be made to pay, Mrs. Sinclair. We must see that he does. Or that poor, dear woman will never rest easy in her grave.”

Cecily rose, conscious of a dull pain increasing in her temples. “I can see you are quite upset,” she said kindly. “I
suggest you get some rest. There is nothing we can do until the morning, but if you wish to speak with P.C. Northcott when he arrives, I’ll arrange it.”

Daphne nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. I would be most obliged. I do not relish the idea, I can assure you. I am still badly shocked by all of this. But I must tell the constable what I know and bring milady’s murderer to justice.”

“I agree, Miss Morris,” Cecily said quietly. “I most heartily agree.”

She stood for some time outside Daphne Morris’s room after the door had closed behind her. Then, frowning, she made her way down the stairs.

“Come, come, girls,” Phoebe called out, clapping her hands. “Places, everybody.” She shook her head in despair as the girls shuffled awkwardly into position. Dora and Belinda had quite a problem with the pedestal, which really wasn’t that heavy.

Phoebe watched them struggle with it, reflecting that young girls of today didn’t know what it was to expend their energy. Not like in her day, on hands and knees, black leading the grate or scrubbing doorsteps. Whatever would they do if they were forced to work like that for a living, she’d like to know?

Just when she was about to explode with frustration, they finally got it hoisted onto their shoulders. Marion took up her position behind them, hiding giggles behind her hand.

Phoebe took one last look at the costumes. Isabelle, in her role of the sultan, looked magnificent. Phoebe was most pleased with her choice. Most pleased.

She’d intended to hire a male dancer for the part, but the weight might have been a shade too much for the slender dancers bearing the sedan chair. She’d hired a girl instead and stuck a false mustache under her nose.

It worked very well, Phoebe thought with pleasure. Very well indeed. From the dance floor it would be impossible to tell the sultan was female. Even close up, it was difficult to tell the difference.

Satisfied that she had done her very best, and with a pang of regret for the absent Henry, Phoebe opened the door leading
onto the ballroom. It really was too bad, she thought, looking out at the orchestra members. They had gone to great pains to learn Henry’s special music. It would have been magnificent to see him swaying back and forth to it. All that effort for nothing.

“Now remember,” she cautioned the dancers, “do not lift the sedan until your hear the opening bars of the snake-charming music. There will be a slight pause after the first piece, when the dancers get into position around the pedestal. Then, you make your grand entrance. I will be watching from the floor, so once you are in position, I don’t want to see the flutter of an eyelid.”

Isabelle muttered something under her breath that Phoebe didn’t catch, but by then the orchestra, having spied the open door, had begun a rather stilted version of “Song of the Sands.”

“Go on! Go on!” Phoebe urged as masked heads turned toward the door in expectation.

Dora and Belinda writhed up onto the stage, almost dropping the pedestal in their attempt to wriggle their anatomies as much as possible, to the obvious delight of the crowd watching from the floor.