3 Service for Two (2 page)

Phoebe turned her head so smartly, a tiny wisp of bright pink feather broke free from the plumes on her hat and floated gently down to the polished surface of the table. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded sharply.

Cecily broke in hastily. “I trust you have the floral arrangements all taken care of, Madeline?”

“I have indeed. Since it’s a Valentine wedding, I’ve arranged for red roses and white carnations to be sent down from London, and my supplier in Devon is sending white mimosa for the bride’s bouquet, which I shall assemble myself that morning.”

Cecily ignored Phoebe’s slight click of the tongue. “Now, Phoebe, I believe you mentioned something about a fencing display for the entertainment at the ball after the reception?”

“Ah, yes.” Phoebe sat up straighter and preened herself. Although in her early fifties, she still paid a great deal of attention to her appearance. She was once the wife of an
aristocrat, and although his family had disowned her and her son after “dear Sedgely’s” death, Phoebe maintained as best she could the style to which she had become accustomed.

Due to the fact that she had to rely on her son’s meager salary as the local vicar to sustain her, she had her work cut out for her. But Phoebe did a remarkable job with the little she had, and Cecily never failed to admire the woman’s determination to hold onto her status, whether official or not. Though at least ten years younger, there were times when Cecily felt as though she were the older woman.

Looking at Phoebe now, seated at the end of the table beneath James’s portrait, Cecily eyed the pale gray suit she wore. It was somewhat out of date, with its pink pearl buttons on the jacket and the slight bustle draping the folds of the floor-length skirt. Her waist, however, was ridiculously tiny, and the pink ruffled blouse framing her delicate chin added a certain flair that couldn’t be ignored.

As far as style went, Phoebe’s trademark was her hats. Bright pink and white feathers curled lovingly around a pair of lovebirds on this one, which nested on a cloud of pink tulle. If anyone was ready for Valentine’s Day, it was most definitely Phoebe.

Cecily tore her attention away from the hat and concentrated on what the woman was saying.

“… naturally, if it wasn’t for the fact that we were acquainted when dear Sedgely was alive, I’m quite sure he would not have agreed.”

Out of the corner of her eye Cecily saw Madeline’s eyeballs roll up toward the ceiling in an expression of intense boredom. Cecily cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. So who is it who has agreed to what?”

Phoebe tutted in irritation. “Really, Cecily, were you not listening to me? I’m speaking of Lord Chickering, your guest here in the hotel. Surely you know who is staying at your hotel this week? I’m quite certain if I owned a hotel I’d know who my guests were.”

Cecily hastened to make amends. “I’m terribly sorry, Phoebe. I quite lost track of what you were saying.”

“Yes, well, I was speaking about a matter of some
importance to this committee, and that’s what we are here for, are we not? To discuss arrangements for this Saturday’s big event?”

“Absolutely,” Cecily assured her. “You say Lord Chickering has agreed to offer his services?”

“I remembered that Reginald has acquired an impressive reputation as a swordsman. He has most kindly agreed to give us a display of fencing at the Valentine’s Ball on Saturday.” She sat back with the air of someone who has achieved something remarkable.

Cecily tried to look suitably impressed. She was, in fact, rather taken aback by this news. She knew Lord Chickering well. He had been a regular and frequent guest at the hotel for several years. Her general opinion of him was that he was an overweight, self-indulgent bore whose sole reason for living appeared to be the intention of stuffing himself with as much rich food and spirits as he could consume. To discover that he was an expert at something as energetic as fencing took her by surprise.

“Chickering?” Madeline said, in a disgusted tone that echoed Cecily’s thoughts. “The man’s a superstitious old fool. He acts as if he’s afraid of me. I met him in the hallway once, and he crossed his fingers at me.” She made a cross with her two forefingers and held them protectively in front of her face.

Phoebe inhaled sharply. “I should have thought, Madeline, that you would be the last person in the world to condemn someone for being superstitious.”

Madeline’s eyes glittered with warning. “The powers that I possess can in no way be compared to the silly notions held by that simpleton. In any case, the man is vulgar. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he isn’t a lord at all. He wouldn’t be the first one to tag a title onto his name without entitlement.”

Knowing that Madeline’s comments were intended to provoke Phoebe, Cecily interrupted. “Will that be the entire entertainment, Phoebe, or do you have anything else planned?”

Phoebe glared at Madeline and straightened her hat, giving it a sharp tug with both hands. “As a matter of fact, I do. A dancing monkey. His owner assures me that the monkey is most talented and will intrigue the guests.”

“I seem to remember a very large python intriguing the guests not too long ago,” Madeline murmured.

“Perhaps I should have hired a dancing bear,” Phoebe said acidly.

Cecily sent Madeline an imploring glance. “The monkey sounds wonderful, Phoebe. I’m sure we can leave everything in your capable hands.”

Phoebe nodded. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting home. The doctor’s funeral this afternoon has Algie in a state of nerves. I have to do my best to soothe him before he takes the service.”

She rose, smoothing down the folds of her skirt. “I’ll see you both in church this afternoon, then.” She allowed her gaze to skim over the top of Madeline’s bowed head, then swept from the room, leaving a fragrance of lavender in her wake.

Cecily looked up at her late husband’s portrait. She wasn’t looking forward to the service that afternoon. The last funeral service she had attended had been for her husband, James, at the same church, just a little over a year ago. It would be painful to be reminded so vividly of her own loss.

“I can’t believe that Dr. McDuff has gone,” she said quietly. “James would have been so sorry to hear it. This is a sad day for everyone in Badgers End. The good doctor will be sorely missed. I’m so thankful that he left no wife behind to mourn him.”

Realizing that Madeline had made no response to her comments, she looked at her friend. The dark head was bowed, the long silky hair hiding her face.

Cecily felt a pang of apprehension. “Madeline?” For a moment she wondered if Madeline had been more fond of the doctor than anyone realized, then chided herself for considering even for a second the nonsense in the village about Madeline’s dubious reputation.

Then the other woman lifted her chin, and the chill in her eyes touched Cecily’s spine.

“What is it, Madeline?” she whispered.

Madeline stared back at her, with eyes as cold as the frozen wastes of Siberia. “Death,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Violent death. And it’s not over yet.”

CHAPTER
2

“It was the strangest thing,” Cecily told Baxter as the trap bore them along the Esplanade that afternoon. “Even for Madeline, it was very strange. I have never seen her quite so … distant. I know she has her peculiar ways, but this was something quite different. It brought out goose pimples over my entire body.”

Baxter coughed in a way that told Cecily she had managed to embarrass her hotel manager as usual. Deciding to ignore it, as usual, she added, “I just hope she feels better by now. I really don’t think I can sit through the entire service with her if she’s hovering somewhere in the spirit world.”

Seated opposite her, Baxter gave her a swift look. “Will you be all right, madam?”

Cecily managed a smile for him. As always, his concern comforted her as nothing else could. It would not only be
difficult for her to endure the service that afternoon, but Baxter, too, would no doubt feel the pain of loss. Although James had been Baxter’s employer, the two men had shared an uncommon friendship.

Which was why, Cecily reflected wryly, Baxter had given that ridiculous promise to James on his deathbed. It was bad enough that Baxter had promised his friend to take care of his wife, but occasionally the zealousness with which Baxter maintained that promise could be more than a trifle irritating.

Cecily subscribed to the new way of thinking—that women were not only capable of running their own lives, but also had a right to do so. Baxter, on the other hand, was of the old school. Women were delicate creatures, to be protected at all costs.

“I’ll be perfectly fine, thank you, Baxter,” she told him. “I hope you will be, also.”

“Thank you, madam. I’m quite sure I shall.” His words were almost lost beneath the loud clop of the chestnut’s hooves.

Cecily turned her head to look out across the cove. Little white flecks danced on the gray water, and the cliffs looked bleak with their blanket of snow. The dull, leaden sky seemed to promise another cold night ahead, and even the sea gulls sounded more mournful than usual as they hunted for food along the empty beach. It was a fitting day for a funeral.

“Will you be needing me at the hotel on Saturday, madam?”

Cecily looked back at her manager with a guilty start. “Oh, heavens, I’m sorry, Baxter. I should have mentioned it before. All this business with Madeline and the funeral put it right out of my mind.”

Baxter’s dark eyebrows lifted in guarded query. At a little past his fortieth birthday, he was still an attractive man. He had the solid, dependable, square-cut look of a man who was comfortable with who he was and where he was going. His dark hair, though heavily silvered at the temples, was still thick at his forehead, and his gray eyes spoke more than he would ever allow himself to say.

Cecily often wondered why he had never married, or if
indeed he had. James, no doubt, had been privy to that information, but then James would not consider it her business to know. Maybe it wasn’t, but one day she was bound to ask him.

Resisting the temptation to do so now, she said brightly, “If you don’t mind giving up your half day, I would be so obliged if you could be there. What with Gertie’s wedding, and the ball on the same day, there will be so much to take care of at the last minute.”

“I don’t mind at all. As a matter of fact, I am quite looking forward to it.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Truly? A wedding and a Valentine’s ball? I had no idea you had such an interest in romance.”

A tinge of pink touched his cheeks. “I was referring to the preparations, madam. I prefer to be busy, and this time of year doesn’t afford much opportunity to do so.”

Smiling, Cecily dug her hands deeper into her muff. She enjoyed penetrating the stuffy sense of propriety that Baxter took such pains to hide behind. He would be so much more entertaining if it weren’t for his strict adherence to what he considered correct behavior.

A few minutes later they rounded the corner of the churchyard. The trap jerked to a creaking stop, and at the sight of the freshly dug grave, Cecily felt a sudden pang of distress. She lifted her chin and held her breath until the moment passed.

“Madam?”

She looked into Baxter’s anxious eyes and gave a brief nod. “I’m fine, Baxter. I’m all right.”

For once she allowed him to help her down from the trap, and then marched steadily into the small church, where several pairs of eyes watched her progress to her pew.

Not wanting to be alone, she had asked both Phoebe and Madeline to share the pew with her. Phoebe was already there, fussing surreptitiously with the black lace collar at her throat. Her head was dwarfed by the wide flat brim of her hat, which was loaded down with black taffeta ribbons and tiny violets.

Cecily knelt for a moment, then sat down next to Phoebe.

“Madeline’s not here yet,” Phoebe whispered fiercely. “It would be just like that woman to enter late and disrupt the service. Poor Algie is nervous enough. I don’t know how he’d handle a disturbance.”

“Don’t worry,” Cecily murmured. “Madeline will be here.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when Madeline materialized at the end of the pew. She wore her one good coat, a charcoal-gray that had seen better days, and a lighter gray hat pulled carelessly on her head.

Phoebe would no doubt bemoan the fact that Madeline was not in black. Not that Madeline would care. Cecily rather envied her rebellion. She had just spent the last year in mourning for James, and hated having to don yet another black coat and hat for the service this afternoon.

Lydia Willoughby began to play the organ, too loudly and with several missed notes that made Cecily wince. Then, after much shuffling and coughing from the congregation, the Reverend Algernon Carter-Holmes appeared from a side door and stood silently waiting.

The black curtains in front of the altar parted, drawn by invisible hands, presenting a dramatic moment that produced a few murmured “ah’s” among the assembly as the coffin was revealed.

The closed casket bore a magnificent display of color in contrast to the somber shades of the mourners. Huge sprays of freesia mingled with gladiolus in purple and white, pale green ferns mixed with bright yellow tulips, and pink and white carnations joined with masses of delicately hued lilies to adorn the wreaths piled high on top of the oak coffin.

The gathering rose as members of the doctor’s family walked slowly down the aisle to the front pew, then remained standing as the vicar moved in his peculiar mincing walk toward the pulpit.

Once more a sharp pain of loss invaded Cecily’s thoughts, and she shifted her gaze to Algie. He wore a solemn expression on his round face. His spectacles reflected the light from the candles, hiding his eyes as he stepped up to the lectern and cleared his throat.

In spite of the deathly hush from the pews, Algie’s voice barely carried past the first three rows. Even Cecily, seated in the second row, had to strain to understand him. Algie’s voice was high-pitched, and whether due to nerves, or, as some of the congregation asserted, a certain lack of masculinity, it had a soft timbre that made it somewhat ineffective.

In fact, a large proportion of Algie’s sermons were lost to those in the rear pews, especially when the vicar was forced to compete with the loud snores echoing in the vaulted ceiling.

Cecily glanced at the three men standing in the front pew, and wondered who they were. Dr. McDuff had never mentioned his family. She wondered if the men had traveled down from Scotland for the funeral.

Algie paused as someone near the back of the crowded pews began to cough. Phoebe muttered something under her breath, and Madeline heaved a huge sigh that was clearly audible.

Cecily could feel the cold seeping through the soles of her boots on the stone floor. The musty smell of ancient wood and damp hassocks overwhelmed any fragrance of the flowers at the altar. Algie’s voice droned on, and she began to wish the whole thing over so that she could get back to the warmth and comfort of the Pennyfoot. Her sense of guilt sharpened her attention, and she concentrated once more on the vicar’s words.

It was at that moment that a disturbance broke out in the rear of the church. Just the sound of the door opening and then closing could be heard at first, but then murmurs and whisperings rippled through the congregation, like wind on the still surface of a pond.

Madeline turned her head to look behind her, while Phoebe tutted with the fretful sound of an anxious mother. Then Cecily saw the stout figure of Police Constable Northcott striding toward the pulpit, his helmet tucked under his arm.

Beside her, Madeline muttered softly to herself, but Cecily’s attention was on the constable, who spoke quickly and urgently to Algie.

The vicar nodded so hard his spectacles slipped down his
nose, and he snatched at them, somehow catching them before they fell to the ground. Turning to the assembly, he spoke in his feeble voice. “Ladies and … ah … gentlemen. If you … ah … would remain seated for … ah … just a moment … ah … thank you.”

Stumbling down the steps, he scuttled for the vestry, with P.C. Northcott hot on his heels.

“Oh, my,” Phoebe said softly, clutching her throat. “Whatever can the matter be? Do you think I should … ?”

She half rose, and Cecily laid a hand on her arm. “Just wait for one moment, Phoebe,” she said quietly. “I’m sure Algie will be back presently to explain.”

Lydia squeaked, left the organ, and disappeared down the aisle. There followed a tense few minutes while Phoebe fidgeted, Madeline muttered, and the rest of the congregation whispered and murmured among themselves.

Cecily thought of Baxter seated somewhere behind her, and wondered if he had the same sense of foreboding as she was feeling now.

Algie reappeared, shuffling forward as if he had trouble controlling his legs, his face chalk-white. As he began to speak, P.C. Northcott walked slowly over to the coffin and stood looking down at it. The policeman rocked back and forth on his heels, his fingers stroking one side of his bushy mustache.

“I … ah … have to postpone the service until tomorrow morning….” Algie said weakly. “Eleven
A.M
. Please … ah … return then.”

The three men in the front pew, obviously agitated, surged forward to where the constable stood, all demanding to know what was going on.

Algie clutched the side of the pulpit, looking most distressed. With a little cry, Phoebe scrambled out of the pew and rushed to his side.

P.C. Northcott, apparently realizing that the vicar needed help, moved to the front steps and in a quiet voice of authority asked that everyone leave the church immediately. There was a moment’s silence; then the people obediently began filing out.

Cecily looked over her shoulder, but could see no sign of Baxter. When she turned back, she saw the constable talking to the McDuff family members, who were shaking their heads and muttering to each other.

Phoebe stood close to Algie, looking as if she were about to cry. Unable to stand it a moment longer, Cecily hurried over to them. “What’s wrong?” she asked Algie, who had a dazed look on his face.

“He won’t tell me,” Phoebe said, glancing over at the constable. “Whatever it was, it has quite devastated him. Just look at him.”

“Sacrilege, that’s what it is,” Algie muttered, shaking his head. “We shall all be condemned for this. Every last one of us.”

“Now, now, Algie,” Phoebe said nervously, “I’m sure the good Lord will know that it wasn’t your fault. It’s all on the shoulders of the constable.” She sent a scathing glance over to where P.C. Constable was still talking to the three men. “Should know better, that he should. Whatever was he thinking about?”

“I’m sure it has to be important,” Cecily said, trying to imagine what could possibly be urgent enough to disrupt a funeral service.

Madeline’s strange moaning voice came from behind her. “I knew this would happen. I could feel it. I almost suffocated with it.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Madeline,” Phoebe said crossly. “We have enough to worry about without you muttering all that mumbo-jumbo nonsense.”

Algie groaned. “And in the house of the Lord, too. Heaven preserve us.”

Cecily saw the three men turn to leave, and seized her chance. She walked over to P.C. Northcott and said quietly, “I do trust, sir, that you have a valid reason to disturb the funeral of such a respected member of our community?”

The constable looked at her, and she was shocked at the expression in his eyes. “Believe me, ma’am, I would not have behaved with such disrespect without good reason.”

“And what, pray,” Phoebe demanded from behind her,
“could that reason be? You have upset the Reverend Carter-Holmes most desperately, sir. I demand an explanation.”

Any other time, Cecily would have been impressed by Phoebe’s uncharacteristic assertiveness in defense of her son. But right then, she, too, was anxious to hear the constable’s reply.

For the space of a few seconds P.C. Northcott looked from one face to another. Algie and Madeline had joined Cecily and Phoebe, and the four of them stood waiting in tense expectation.

Very slowly the constable stretched out his hand and began to lift the lid of the coffin. Madeline cried out as the flowers slid off and landed on the floor. No one took any notice of her. They were all staring at the corpse lying in the casket.

It wasn’t the body of Dr. McDuff that lay there at all. It was the body of a younger man. A stranger. He was naked and had been stabbed cleanly through the heart.