Later that evening, while Baxter read the newspaper, Cecily did her best to concentrate on her favorite magazine. Her mind kept wandering, however, to Desmond Atkins and his mysterious argument with Sid Porter. When she could no longer calm her thoughts, she dropped the magazine in her lap. “Darling, I wonder if you’d do something for me, tomorrow,” she said, as Baxter turned the page of his newspaper. “That is if you have no other plans, of course.”
“The only plan I have is to make sure you stay out of harm’s way.” Baxter folded the newspaper and laid it down. “What would you have me do?”
“I’d like you to look through the register for perhaps the last two or three years to see if Desmond Atkins has ever stayed at the Pennyfoot before this.”
Baxter drew his brows together. “Desmond Atkins? Isn’t he that bad-tempered fellow you were talking about?”
“Yes.” Knowing he would not let the matter rest there, she went on to explain. “He insisted we had given him the wrong room, but it isn’t like Philip to make a mistake. He’s always so careful to accommodate our guests in their special requests.”
“Everyone makes mistakes now and then.”
“I suppose so. But I wondered if he’s stayed here before in a first-floor room.
Baxter narrowed his gaze. “Does this have anything to do with Porter’s murder?”
She did her best to look innocent. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“I know you too well, my darling wife. What makes you think this Atkins fellow could be involved with Sid Porter?”
“Pansy heard Mr. Atkins arguing with him.”
“It was my understanding that Mr. Atkins has a penchant for arguing with just about everyone.”
“Well, that’s so, but I couldn’t help wondering if his limp is due to a recent injury.” She paused, then added delicately, “Perhaps during a climb over a roof?”
Baxter stared at her, then growled, deep in his throat. “Cecily, you are incorrigible. Your devious mind can find more ways to condemn a man than I can imagine. Just because the man has a short temper and an ugly disposition doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to know if he’s stayed here before, and if he specifically requested a first floor room at that time.”
“Why don’t you simply ask him if he recently injured himself?”
“I don’t want to give him the opportunity to lie, and I’d rather he not know I suspect him.”
“Well, at least with that I’m in complete agreement.” Baxter picked up his newspaper again. “Very well, first thing in the morning I’ll go through the ledger.”
“Thank you, darling. You are such an accommodating husband.”
Baxter merely grunted, letting her know he knew quite well she was humoring him.
Satisfied for the moment, Cecily reached for her magazine. Nothing more could be done until tomorrow. If Sid Porter’s ghost was indeed wandering around the hotel, he would have to wait another night for justice to be done.
Phoebe arrived early the next morning, followed soon after by Madeline. Both ladies seemed anxious to begin the rehearsals and took up almost an hour of Cecily’s time while they rounded up the performers.
Phoebe, as usual, fretted about her dance troupe, who straggled in at various intervals and continually disrupted the proceedings. Doris and Elise appeared midmorning, just as Cecily prepared to escape from all the chaos.
“You are not going to watch the rehearsal?” Elise asked, as Cecily greeted them both.
“I’m afraid my duties take me away.” Cecily gave the woman a cool smile. “I shall be in the audience tonight, of course.” She turned to Doris. “I certainly would not want to miss an opportunity to hear you sing. I’m proud to be so well acquainted with someone who has actually sung in front of the king.”
Doris laughed. “If you could have seen how hard my knees were shaking you would not be so proud. I could hardly get a word out I was so overwrought.”
“I’m sure you sang beautifully.”
“She sang like an angel,” Elsie said, linking her arm through her friend’s. “We both did, non?”
“Until Colin Masterson came on stage.” Doris giggled. “Then we were both struck dumb.”
Cecily pricked up her ears. “You’ve met Colin Masterson? Oh, how fortunate you are! He is such a wonderful baritone. I have been absolutely dying to hear the man sing. I mentioned his name once or twice to Baxter, in the hopes he would take me to see him, but Baxter, poor dear, is so jealous if I show the slightest affection for another man.” She slid a sideways glance at Elise. “I shall just have to put aside my wishes to appease my dear husband, I’m afraid.”
Elise exchanged a significant glance with Doris, then said warmly, “I’m quite sure your husband has nothing to worry about, Mrs. Baxter. You seem devoted to him.”
“We are devoted to each other,” Cecily assured her. “I look forward to tonight, but now I must be on my way. I do hope the rehearsal goes well.”
Just then Phoebe’s voice echoed shrilly across the ballroom. “Doris! Do come over here this minute. The pianist needs to see your music.”
Doris made a face at Cecily, then sang out, “Very well, Mrs. Fortescue!”
Cecily left them to deal with Phoebe’s fussing and closed the ballroom doors behind her. Walking down the hallway, she wondered just how convincing she’d sounded when she’d declared how devoted Baxter was to her.
As she reached the lobby she saw Desmond Atkins limping across to the main doors. She waited just long enough to see him depart; then she headed for the stairs. With a little luck, she’d find Mrs. Atkins alone in her room.
She tried to decide how she would phrase the questions she needed to ask the woman without arousing her suspicions, but the memory of that silent exchange between Doris and Elise Boulanger left a niggling ache of anxiety under her ribs, disturbing her concentration.
Much as she loathed to admit it, there was no doubt in her mind that both Doris and Elise were hiding something from her. The thought that it might have something to do with Baxter was like a knife in her heart.
Her husband had never given her cause to be jealous, but any man might be forgiven for having his head turned by such a beautiful woman. Even a man as solid and reliable as Hugh Baxter.
She reached the first floor, determined to put her worries aside for now. She had a delicate task to perform, and she needed her full attention. Lifting her hand, she knocked on the door of room eleven.
The woman who greeted her must have once been a great beauty, but age had robbed her of the freshness of youth. Obviously surprised by Cecily’s visit, she opened the door wider and invited her in.
“I wanted to assure myself that you are satisfied with your accommodations,” Cecily said, as she entered the elegant room. “Since your husband appeared to be so upset about the mix-up with your reservations, I thought it wise to verify things myself, just in case you needed something.”
“That is so kind of you, Mrs. Baxter.” Mrs. Atkins gestured to a chair and sat down herself. “I must apologize for my husband’s ill temper. He can be rather impatient if things don’t go as he planned.”
Cecily crossed the floor and seated herself. “I suppose he had reason to be annoyed, if he specifically requested a room on this floor. It must be quite difficult for him to manage the stairs.”
“He manages quite well, all things considered.”
Cecily longed to ask how the woman’s husband had acquired the limp, but good taste prevented her from posing an outright question. “I’m so very glad to hear it,” she murmured, casting about in her mind for a subtle way to obtain the information she needed.
Mrs. Atkins glanced around the room. “This is a very nice room, however, and we are most comfortable here. Of course, the news of the two deaths is unsettling. I understand an employee of yours was responsible for stabbing that poor man. That must have been so distressing.”
“Yes, it was.” If that was what everyone believed, Cecily thought with relief, then she’d let them rest with that assumption for the moment. She fully intended to clear Roland’s name, but if the guests thought the matter was settled, there would be less chance of panic and a mass exodus from the hotel. “I do hope the tragedy won’t spoil your enjoyment of the Christmas festivities,” she added. “We have so much planned for entertainment this year.”
“Not at all. Though I must admit, Desmond thought we should move to another hotel. I managed to persuade him to stay. After all, we’d already moved once since we arrived here.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience. My clerk must have misunderstood your husband’s request when he made the reservations.”
Mrs. Atkins inclined her head. “I’m afraid my husband can be quite difficult at times. You might be surprised to learn that he is actually a very considerate and affectionate man. Most people don’t understand him. My family certainly harbors the wrong impression of him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, one doesn’t need the approval of one’s family to fall in love. Though it saddened me when they refused to attend the wedding.” She sighed. “I wish they could see how happy we are together.”
“That’s all that matters, isn’t it.” Still unable to find a way to broach the subject of Desmond Atkins’s argument with Sid Porter, Cecily reluctantly rose. “I must attend to my duties, Mrs. Atkins. I’m pleased that the room is satisfactory. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
“I certainly will.” The woman sprang to her feet and accompanied Cecily to the door. “Thank you for being so concerned. Desmond will be gratified, I’m sure, to hear of your visit.”
Cecily rather doubted that. She turned to go, then paused. “By the way, I understand your husband was acquainted with Mr. Porter.”
Mrs. Atkins gave her a blank look. “Mr. Porter?”
“The man who was stabbed.”
The woman’s shock seemed genuine. “Are you sure? He has never mentioned it to me.”
“One of my maids happened to hear your husband arguing with Mr. Porter a few days ago.”
Mrs. Atkins shook her head. “Desmond most likely lost his temper over something or other. He tends to flare up quite quickly, and then just as promptly calms down again and forgets why he was angry in the first place.” She smiled. “Men are difficult to live with, and every bit as difficult to live without.”
“They are indeed.” Frustrated by her failure to find out anything useful, Cecily had no choice but to leave the woman and return to her office.
She found Baxter still leafing through the ledgers in an apparently fruitless search for an earlier reservation by Desmond Atkins.
“I should have simply asked Mrs. Atkins if they had stayed here before,” she said, when she caught sight of Baxter’s bored expression. “Except that wouldn’t have told me if he’d requested a first-floor room.”
“Well, you could have saved me a great deal of time.” Baxter shut the heavy book with a loud thud. “As far as I can tell, the Atkins have never stayed at the Pennyfoot. At least, not in the last six years.”
“Goodness. You went back that far?” Cecily felt guilty. “Well, it’s not as if you had anything pressing to do.”
“Doing nothing would have been more interesting than wading through all those signatures.” Baxter leaned back and opened his mouth in a yawn.
“I’ve had a wasted morning, too.” Cecily sat down opposite him. “Mrs. Atkins is quite sure her husband was not acquainted with Sid Porter.”
“Then it must have been a chance encounter, after all. That man sounds so unpleasant, I imagine he’d argue with anyone who looked at him the wrong way.”
“I suppose so.” She sighed. “Though I’d still like to know why he’d gone to the trouble of climbing all the way to the top floor.”
“Well, I did come across something interesting in my perusal of the ledgers.” Baxter opened the book up again and started turning pages. “Do you remember that article in the newspaper last month about the young woman who walked into the ocean and drowned herself?”
“I remember you mentioning something about it.” Cecily leaned forward and reached for the pile of bills sitting at his elbow. “I didn’t actually see the article. I never seem to have time to read the newspaper these days.”
“Well, I thought at the time her face seemed familiar.” Baxter flipped another page. “Ah, here it is! As I went through the register I recognized her name as that of the one in the article. She stayed here at the Pennyfoot last September, with her family. Her name was Felicity Rotheringham.”
“Oh!” Cecily raised her head. “I do remember the Rotheringhams. Wasn’t he something to do with banking?”
“I believe he was, yes.”
“She was a pretty little thing. Whatever possessed her to drown herself?”
Baxter shook his head. “Tragic story. She was supposed to marry this Christmas. With so much to look forward to, it seems very strange that she would take her own life.”
“How sad. I suppose we’ll never know the reason.”
“Well, I merely mentioned it because I remembered her name after reading the article. Then I saw it in the ledger and realized she’d actually stayed here.”
“Do you still have the article?”
“I believe I did keep it somewhere, yes. I meant to show it to you at the time, for some reason, but then I forgot about it until now.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll try to dig it up.”
Sensing a mystery behind the senseless death of one so young, Cecily resolved to delve further into the incident. Before she did anything about that, however, she had a murder to solve. A murder that had become more confusing than she’d anticipated.
She had to make some headway soon, or time would run out and P.C. Northcott would be back to complicate matters once more. Once Inspector Cranshaw, her immortal adversary, became involved, the investigation would be taken out of her hands and she was quite determined that should not happen. No matter what risks she had to take.
“Isabelle! What on earth are you doing!” Phoebe’s voice rose to a shriek, causing everyone in the ballroom to cease talking and stare in the direction of the stage. Even the pianist faltered and gradually came to a halt, his fingers still hovering over the keys.
Phoebe marched to the stage and stared up at the group of women standing there. “What is the matter with you, Isabelle! I have told you fifty times at least that you turn left as you come out of the circle. Left.” She nodded for emphasis and the wide brim of her hat flopped up and down like a giant fan. “Now, show me your left arm.”
Isabelle lifted an arm and the rest of the women giggled behind their hands.
“That,” Phoebe said coldly, “is your right arm. Good heavens, after all these years, do you still not know your right from your left?”
“She can’t remember which is which,” Dora piped up, giving the young woman next to her a nudge with her elbow. “She’s always putting her shoe on the wrong foot and her glove on the wrong hand.”
More giggles followed. Phoebe bristled. She had the distinct impression that Isabelle knew quite well her right arm from her left, and simply delighted in making things difficult for her.
For years she’d done her best to teach these ungrateful fools how to perform onstage. Why she wasted her time with them she just couldn’t imagine, though possibly it had a lot to do with the fact that local talent was not exactly abundant in Badgers End. In fact, it was nonexistent, which left her to deal with a collection of dunderheads who couldn’t tell a pas de deux from a pirouette.
Settling her hat more firmly on her head, she called out, “Once again, please. From the beginning.” Ignoring the exaggerated groans, she added, “And this time, Isabelle, left as you leave the circle. Left!” She waved her left hand at the young woman, who promptly waved back with her right.
Phoebe resisted the urge to rush up there and shake the annoying woman by the shoulders. Oh, for the days when all she had to worry about was placing them in position for a tableau. At least they could hold their places without moving, and she could relax.
Of course, now and then someone would slip and the tableau would collapse, sending everyone sprawling. That didn’t happen very often. Unfortunately tableaux had gone out of fashion and nowadays one was expected to present dancers for a successful revue. Which meant she had to be constantly on guard as her protégés pranced and cavorted around the stage like rampaging elephants instead of the ethereal sylphs she’d imagined.
Signaling to the pianist to begin, she braced herself for another debacle of the Fire Dance. The crashing chords startled the dancers. Taken unawares, they leapt into position several beats behind the music, then skittered about trying desperately to catch up.
Isabelle turned the wrong way again, causing Dora to slam into her. Both women clung to each other, tottered for several breathless seconds, then collapsed to the floor. The rest of the dancers gathered around them, loudly applauding.
Furious, Phoebe waved a hand at the pianist to stop. Either he hadn’t seen the confusion onstage, or he’d become tired of constantly pausing in his rendition of the stirring music. He went on crashing chords.
Phoebe yelled, “Stop the music!” twice. When that didn’t produce any effect, she marched over to him and cuffed his ear. “I said to stop,” she said through her teeth.
Her slap dislodged the man’s spectacles and they slid sideways down his nose. He straightened them, smacked down the lid of the piano and stood. “Madam, I regret to inform you that you and your mélange of boorish amateurs will never reach a margin of competence that will in any way, shape, or form be considered entertainment. I refuse to be part of this outrageous insult to my profession.”
“I’ll double your stipend,” Phoebe said bluntly.
The pianist flipped his coat tails and reseated himself at the piano.
Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe detected yet another disturbance onstage and turned to confront it. Her eyes widened when she saw her husband amble over to center stage, scattering the dance troupe left and right.
“Frederick!” Once more her shrill voice echoed to the rafters. “For heaven’s sake, what on earth do you think you are doing?”
“I, my dear, am reciting.” The colonel swayed back and forth, one hand stuck inside the lapel of his coat. “I waz-z on the road to Mafeking…”
Realizing her husband had been indulging heavily in his favorite refreshment, Phoebe sprung toward the stage. “Frederick, get down from there this instant.”
“Guns blazing and ships sinking…”
Phoebe opened her mouth to scream another order, then closed it again. The group of women standing behind her husband appeared to be staring at the balcony behind her, pointing and muttering among themselves.
Curiosity overcoming outrage for the moment, Phoebe spun around, blinked, and blinked again. Unable to believe what she saw, she started forward, her gaze glued to the object hanging from the first floor balcony. No, her mind hadn’t deceived her. She really could see a carpet sweeper hanging by its handle several feet above the ballroom floor.
Even Frederick had ceased his ridiculous recitation, and for once the women onstage were speechless. Then the silence was shattered, pierced by a horrendous crash and an ear-splitting scream.
Pansy stood in the doorway of the ballroom, a tray of sandwiches scattered at her feet. Her hand shook as she pointed at the balcony. “It’s the ghost! He hung it there! We’re being haunted by a clown!”