Cecily was about to follow Baxter to the library when she heard a familiar voice call out her name. Turning, she saw Phoebe hurrying toward her, followed by a stout gentleman with a full face of white whiskers.
Cecily forced a smile as they approached. Much as she adored Phoebe, the colonel could be quite difficult at times. Mindful of the drama unfolding on the roof, she hoped her friend’s husband would be anxious to visit his usual seat at the bar. Colonel Fortescue never missed an opportunity to enjoy a snifter of brandy, no matter the time of day.
“I say, old girl!” Fortescue bellowed, well before he reached her. “Jolly good to see you again, what? What?”
“Indeed, Colonel.” Cecily looked meaningfully at Phoebe. “What brings you here at such an hour?”
“Oh, didn’t Madeline tell you?” Phoebe’s girlish laughter bubbled out. “Madeline asked us to help her decorate the ballroom. We just couldn’t resist, could we, precious?” She slipped a white-gloved hand into the crook of the colonel’s elbow. “Frederick has very graciously consented to help.”
“I have?” The colonel looked confused—a fairly constant condition in his case. “Good Lord! What the devil did I say I’d do?”
“Just help me put up a few decorations, my love.” Phoebe snuggled up to him. “I need a pair of broad shoulders.”
“You do?” Fortescue stared at his wife in amazement. “What on earth for? Your shoulders are perfectly presentable the way they are.”
Phoebe sighed, while Cecily hid a grin. “Not my shoulders, precious. I’m talking about your shoulders.”
“Oh, I see.” For a moment the colonel’s face cleared. “Well, why didn’t you say so.” He turned to Cecily. “Reminds me of the time I was in India, old bean. Had to carry my lackey on my shoulders across the river—”
Knowing the colonel’s capacity for stretching out a story to the point of delirium, Cecily rather rudely interrupted. “Ah, Colonel, I’m sure your story is fascinating but—”
“Just a little chap, he was.” The colonel twirled the waxed end of his mustache. “Couldn’t let the poor little bugger drown, now, could I.”
“Frederick,” Phoebe cried, covering her mouth with her gloved fingers. “Such language in front of ladies.”
“What?” Fortescue focused his perpetually bloodshot eyes on his wife. “Who’s using foul language in front of my wife? I’ll thrash the blighter.”
“You are, dearest.” Phoebe turned to Cecily. “Please forgive him. He’s not quite himself this morning.”
Cecily couldn’t remember a time when the colonel was ever himself. “Quite all right,” she assured her friend. “But I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Dropped him. Right there in the middle of the raging current.”
Both women stared at Fortescue.
“Frederick!” Phoebe sounded shocked. “Don’t tell me the poor man drowned.”
“Drowned?” Fortescue blinked, his eyelashes flapping up and down in rapid motion. “No, no, of course the blighter didn’t drown. I took hold of his hair and hung on like grim death. There we were, the enemy bearing down on us from the hills, our equipment floating down the river—”
“The bar is already open, I believe,” Cecily said in desperation.
“Don’t tell him that. If he hears the slightest mention of the bar I’ll never get him to the ballroom.”
Phoebe’s urgent whisper must have penetrated. Fortescue stopped talking and peered at his wife. “Ballroom? There’s a bar in the ballroom?”
“I don’t know,” Phoebe said sweetly. She took his arm. “Let us go and see, shall we?” She smiled at Cecily. “We’ll catch up with you later.”
Not if she could prevent it, Cecily thought, as she watched the two of them march down the hallway with Phoebe trying valiantly to keep in step with her husband’s long military stride.
The last she heard of them was Fortescue’s voice floating back to her. “Bald as a blasted badger by the time I got him to the other side.”
Cecily rolled her eyes at the ceiling. A quick glance assured her that Doris and Miss Boulanger were on their way up the stairs to their room. Now, at last, she could go back to the library. High time she had a word with her own husband and found out exactly what he didn’t want her to know.
Just then the Westminster chimes rang out from the grandfather clock in the corner. Eleven of them. Crossing the lobby, Cecily hoped that the workmen had completed their grisly task. She wouldn’t rest easy until this whole ghastly business was over.
Just before she reached the hallway she paused, her attention caught by an empty space in the corner of the lobby. Normally a very large aspidistra sat there, its wide, dark green leaves brushing the walls. For some strange reason, it had disappeared.
Frowning, Cecily entered the hallway. She would have to ask Mrs. Chubb about the plant. It would be such a shame if it had died, though it had seemed perfectly healthy the last time she’d seen it.
She forgot about the aspidistra the moment she opened the door of the library. Baxter stood in front of the fireplace, talking to Kevin Prestwick. She hadn’t seen the doctor come in, and obviously her husband hadn’t bothered to let her know Kevin had arrived.
It wasn’t Baxter’s negligence that upset her just then, however. It had more to do with the expression on both the men’s faces. She knew at once they had news for her, and that it would be something she’d rather not hear.
“Gorn? Whaddayou mean it’s gorn?” Gertie shook her head at Pansy, who seemed to be having trouble spitting out words.
“It were there this morning. I dusted it meself. Then it vanished.” Pansy’s voice trembled. “Just like that.”
“Go on.” Gertie snorted with derision. “Plants don’t just disappear. It’s not like someone just bleeding walked off with it, now is it? I mean, the bloody thing must weigh a ton. Who the ’eck could lift it, leave alone carry it off? Who would want it, anyway? It’s just a blinking plant.”
“The g-g-ghost took it.”
Gertie could actually hear the maid’s teeth chattering. She felt a chill between her shoulder blades and tried not to shudder. “What ghost? What are you bleeding talking about, Pansy?”
“I seen it.” Pansy leaned forward, her voice no louder than a whisper. Which was just as well, seeing as how they were standing outside the ballroom doors with their arms full of balloons. The last thing Gertie wanted was for Madeline to hear them talking about ghosts.
Madeline gave her the creeps, especially when she started talking about spirits and seeing things nobody else could see. Everyone in Badgers End knew Madeline had strange powers. It weren’t for nothing that the blokes came by her house to buy her potions. Said it made them more frisky in bed.
Not that the potions worried Gertie, as much as the trances. She’d seen Madeline when she was in a trance. Scared the bloody hell out of her, it did. The last thing Gertie wanted was for Madeline to hear them talking about ghosts and go into a blinking trance.
“You’ve seen what,” she said, hoping her stern tone would chase away the eerie feeling she had looking at Pansy’s frightened face. “Shadows, that’s what you seen. Nothing but shadows.”
“No, I seen it as large as life. I heard it first, like the sound of tinkling bells, it were. Then I saw him. It were…” she leaned even closer. “It were him.”
“Him who?” Gertie grabbed the string of an escaping balloon.
“Him what’s stuck in the chimney. Sid Porter. It were a clown I saw, with paint on his face and a colored silk costume with little bells for buttons. I know it was Sid. My boyfriend knows him and he told me Sid used to dress up like that when he was a clown.”
“Don’t be daft.” Gertie could feel her heart beginning to thump really hard in her chest.
“I seen him, I tell you. Sid Porter is dead, and his ghost is running around moving things. Ghosts do that, you know, when they can’t pass on. They give signals so people will know they’re still around.”
Normally Gertie would have laughed her head off at such a wild story. Except she’d seen a ghost once herself. More than once. Right there on the balcony of the ballroom. So she knew such things really existed.
Mind you, she’d never admitted as much to anyone and Pansy didn’t have to know that, neither. “Go on,” she said, managing a scornful laugh, even it was a bit high-pitched. “So what things has he been moving around, then?”
“Well, there’s the aspidistra, and then Michel’s knife. Who else would want to throw a knife up into the ceiling?”
Until that moment, Gertie had been convinced the knife in the ceiling was someone having a joke with him. She’d even thought Michel might have put it there, just to cause a stir. Michel liked to cause stirs, especially if he wasn’t getting enough attention. But now, what with the plant and all, it all seemed very strange and frightening.
The thought that another ghost could be roaming the Pennyfoot so unnerved her she let go of the strings, and balloons floated to the floor and rolled away from her.
Taking her fright out on the hapless Pansy, she yelled, “Now look what you’ve made me do!” She darted after them, and her foot kicked a couple so that they floated away from her.
Cursing, she bent double and grabbed at the strings. Then, all of a sudden, she saw a pair of black shoes. At first she thought Baxter stood in front of her, and she braced herself for his scathing comments.
Then she straightened, and nearly let go of the strings again when she saw Jeremy Westhaven staring at her with a most peculiar look on his face.
Thinking what an utter twerp she must seem, she stammered, “Good morning, sir. I beg your pardon. The balloons sort of got away from me. I’ll have them cleaned up in a minute.”
She half expected him to offer his assistance, as he’d done earlier in the dining room. Instead, he backed away from her muttering, “Balloons. Hate the things.” Then he spun on his heel and stalked off.
Disappointed, she stared after him. Well, he’d certainly changed his mood since breakfast. Someone must have upset him. Maybe he’d had a quarrel with his lady friend and she wasn’t coming down for Christmas after all. If so, Gertie was happy about that. Very happy.
Smiling at the thought, she dragged the balloons back to the ballroom. Pansy hadn’t bothered to wait for her. She’d gone inside and started helping Madeline hang paper chains over the balconies. Phoebe and her dotty husband were there, too, arguing about something.
Just for a moment, Gertie remembered the ghost of the Scots piper she’d seen a few years earlier. Then, with a shake of her head, she put it out of her mind. She had far greater things to worry about than an imaginary clown ghost.
Her mind going back to Jeremy Westhaven, she began tying balloons onto the pillars that surrounded the ballroom. Maybe she could sneak in there on Christmas Eve. That’s when they held the Grand Ball.
Maybe Jeremy would be there alone. She could just happen to bump into him. He’d take her in his arms and they’d start dancing around the floor. Around and around, floating in each other’s arms. Humming her favorite waltz, she forgot everything except her wonderful daydream.
“What is it?” Cecily entered the library and crossed to her husband’s side. “What’s happened now?”
“They’ve managed to remove Porter from the chimney,” Baxter said, his face still wearing that grim expression that worried her so.
Cecily looked at Kevin. “He was dead, I suppose.”
“Quite.” Kevin glanced at Baxter.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Cecily turned to her husband again. “Baxter, I shall find out eventually, so you might as well tell me now.”
For a moment a flicker of apprehension crossed his face, as if he realized she’d referred to more than the unfortunate death of Mr. Porter. “I’m sorry, Cecily,” he said quietly, “but it appears Sid Porter was stabbed.”
“If I’d taken off his other boot last night,” Kevin said, “I’d have seen the blood. The boot he’s wearing is covered with blood.”
Cecily’s stomach took a nasty turn. “Stabbed? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” Kevin said, sounding far too cheerful. “Twice in the stomach and once in the side. Whoever did this had a nasty temper.”
“I’ve sent for Northcott,” Baxter said. “He’ll be here shortly. With a great deal of reluctance, I might add. We’re interfering with his holiday plans.”
Kevin uttered a snort of disgust. “For all the good he’ll do with or without his holiday plans.”
“So this entire situation is not an accident after all.” Cecily looked at Baxter. “Things did get worse after all.”
Baxter placed his warm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear. I know how much this upsets you. Let us hope we can get this all cleared up before news of it spreads.”
“I don’t see how we can.” Cecily gave him a look of pure misery. “Where is Mr. Porter’s body now?”
“In the stables, along with Roland. Northcott is coming with the carriage to pick them up and take them down to the morgue.”
“I wonder how many people saw you remove Mr. Porter from the roof.”
“Not too many, I hope.” Baxter glanced at Kevin. “We made sure they lowered him behind the building, out of sight in the rose garden.”
“It only takes one person to start off a grapevine,” she reminded him.
Just then an urgent rapping on the door turned their heads. Without waiting for an invitation, Phoebe rushed into the room. The pink ostrich feathers on her hat waved and danced with her agitation.
“Cecily! Is it true? Did you find my Father Christmas dead on the roof?”
“Not exactly—” Cecily began, but Phoebe was far too distressed to heed her words.
“I can’t believe it! What happened to him? I do hope he didn’t have a heart attack. I should never have suggested he go down the chimney. I told him it would be dangerous, but he assured me that for the sum I’d offered him he was more than willing to take the risk. Now I feel responsible. Oh, dear, oh, dear.” She found a chair and plopped herself onto it. “Please don’t tell me that poor footman’s death is a result of all this. I shall never forgive myself. Never, never, never!” With that she promptly burst into tears.
Cecily hurried over to her. “Phoebe, dear, don’t upset yourself so. None of this was your fault. We don’t know exactly what happened yet, but I can assure you, Mr. Porter did not die from a heart attack.”
Phoebe had buried her face in a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief, but her sobbing gradually ceased. “Then how,” she inquired, her voice shaking with emotion, “exactly did Mr. Porter die?”
Cecily looked at Kevin for help and he quickly came forward. “We have yet to discover that, Mrs. Fortescue. Perhaps you will allow me to offer you a sedative, to help calm your nerves? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
Phoebe brightened at once. “Thank you so much, Doctor. I really do feel in need of assistance right now. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the bar? I left my husband there, and I would like to join him.”
“Why, of course.” Kevin managed a sly wink at Cecily as he took Phoebe’s arm and led her to the door.
Had Cecily been less preoccupied, she would have enjoyed the expression of displeasure on her husband’s face. “Goodbye, Phoebe,” she called out. “We’ll meet again soon.”
The door closed behind them, and Cecily sank onto the chair her friend had just vacated. “So now we have a murder on our hands,” she muttered.
“And we are going to let the constabulary take care of it, are we not?” Baxter said firmly.
Cecily gave him a look of pure innocence. “Well, of course, darling. Why on earth would you think otherwise?”
For an answer, Baxter merely scowled at her.
Fortunately, at that moment, one of the maids appeared to announce the arrival of P.C. Northcott. He barged into the library, looking extremely put out.
“The missus is waiting for me at the train station,” he said, dragging his notebook from his pocket. “So I’m going to make this swift. I’ve taken a look at the body, and I’ve h’ascertained what happened.”
“You have,” Baxter said dryly. “My, how dashed clever of you.”
Sam eyed him with suspicion. “It weren’t hard. What with my training and all.”
“Quite.” Baxter clasped his hands behind his back and started rocking back and forth on his heels. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to share your remarkable powers of deduction with us poor mortals.”
Cecily frowned a warning at her husband. “We’d be most obliged, Sam, if you could enlighten us.”
“I’ll be happy to, m’m.” Sam turned the pages of his notebook and cleared his throat. “It is h’of my professional opinion that during the course of fisticuffs h’up on the roof, Roland, the footman, drew a knife and stabbed Sid Porter, causing him to fall down the chimney to ’is death. Roland then, in a state of panic to avoid detection, moved too fast and lost ’is footing, thereby plunging to his death.” He snapped the notebook shut, his face glowing with pride.
Cecily hated to deprive the constable of his moment of triumph, but she could not allow the matter to rest there. “If that’s the case, then why did we not find the knife?”
“It must still be up on the roof.”
Northcott took a step toward the door, then halted when Baxter said quietly, “There was no knife on the roof. Prestwick questioned the workmen who brought down the body. They saw no sign of a knife anywhere.”
“Then he must have hidden it before he fell,” Sam declared. “Or it got stuck in the gutter, probably.”
“Then we should look for it.” Cecily stood. “I shall send someone up there immediately.”
“You can do as you please, m’m.” Sam reached the door and looked back at her. “Since the perpetrator of this crime is already dead, there is no great rush to pursue this matter. I’ve given orders for my assistant to transport the bodies to the morgue, and I shall be on my way to Northampton. I’ll give my report to the h’inspector as soon as I return. May I wish you all a very ’appy Christmas.” He closed the door behind him with a loud snap.
“That man,” Baxter said fiercely, “is nothing but an unmitigated fool.”
“I quite agree with you.” Cecily walked over to the fireplace and stared down at the hearth, which had been cleaned until it sparkled. “Look at the bright side. We won’t have to deal with his bungling, or the inspector’s disruptions of our Christmas events. Doris has promised to sing in our Christmas variety show, and I’d hate to have that spoiled by Inspector Cranshaw’s ruthless investigations.”
“He can be something of an ogre at times.”
“The man is a monster, nothing less.” Cecily smiled at her husband. “Now, who shall we send up to the roof to look for the knife?”
Baxter scowled. “I suggest we leave that to the inspector. Once he reads Northcott’s report he’ll be here posthaste to investigate.”
“Quite, which is why I think we should conduct some of the work for him and shorten the time that he’ll be obliged to spend here.”
Baxter narrowed his gaze. “Something tells me you are planning to conduct an investigation of your own.”
“I merely want to tie up the loose ends, so to speak. After all, if Sam is right, the case is already solved.”
“But I strongly suspect that you don’t believe Roland killed Porter.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know the boy very well, but I find it exceptionally hard to believe he would deliberately murder someone. After all, if it happened the way Sam has surmised, and an argument did break out while the two of them were on the roof, how did it happen that Roland had a knife with him?” She caught her breath. “Oh, my, I need to talk to Kevin again before he leaves.”
“I’d say there’s a very good chance he’ll make sure of that.”
Ignoring her husband’s irony, Cecily sat down again. “Mrs. Chubb said a knife is missing from the kitchen. A carving knife. If that’s the murder weapon, then Roland could certainly have taken it from the kitchen without anyone seeing him.”
“So you do think Roland could have stabbed Porter, after all.”
She felt a shudder down her spine. “I don’t know. It does seem more likely, I suppose, since he was on the roof with Mr. Porter. If he did take the knife with him, however, that means he planned to kill him. They say anyone is capable of murder, but the idea of that nice young man scheming to go after someone to stab him over and over again…” She paused.
“What are you thinking now?”
“What if Roland didn’t kill Mr. Porter? What if someone else killed him, and Roland, too?” She looked up at him. “We could very well have a murderer still lurking in the hotel. I think we need to find that knife right away.”
“Very well. If that will satisfy your insatiable thirst for meddling in police matters, I will ring for Samuel.” He gave the bell rope a rather impatient tug. “But I must warn you, Cecily, I will not tolerate you placing yourself in danger again. I almost lost you the last time. I have no intention of living through that kind of hell again.”
“And I have no intention of forcing you to do so.” She gave him a reassuring smile, though already her instincts were telling her that she just might have to renege on that pledge. She could only hope her instincts were wrong.