Room With a Clue (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery)

A sudden squall in the English Channel dumped a measure of rain on the southeast coast that evening in mid-June, soaking the thatched roofs of the cottages in Badgers End and leaving puddles in the courtyard of the Pennyfoot Hotel.

Not long after the storm had passed, a shadowy figure paused at the wall of the hotel roof garden and looked down on the deserted Esplanade. The wind felt cold and damp, and few would be inclined to brave a late night stroll along the sands in such weather.

After furtively looking around, the figure crouched and stretched out a hand with a long, thin knife in its grasp. With swift, short jabs, the knife chipped away at the aged mortar that
bound the bricks, finding little resistance in the dry, crumbling texture.

The hand worked steadily at the wall, until an area roughly three feet wide and four feet deep had been gouged and weakened. Then the figure rose and on silent feet faded into the shadows.

The following morning Cecily Sinclair was late for the meeting to organize the Friday ball. Her two committee members were constantly at loggerheads, and it usually took all her considerable powers of diplomacy to avoid a confrontation. So it was with some trepidation that she entered the hotel library.

Phoebe Carter-Holmes was outspoken, to say the least, and made no secret about her disapproval of Madeline Pengrath. When Cecily hurried through the large paneled doors, she heard Phoebe’s shrill voice declare, “Upon my word, Madeline, I’ve never heard such utter nonsense in my entire life.”

Cecily took her seat at the head of the heavy Jacobean table and frowned at Phoebe. “And what is it that you are dismissing as such nonsense?”

Phoebe waved a gloved hand in irritation. “She’s muttering all that mumbo jumbo again. I don’t know what possesses her to dally in that sinful rubbish.”

Cecily was very fond of Madeline. That didn’t mean that she believed all the drivel the villagers whispered about her. After all, Cecily prided herself on her common sense. As the only girl in a family of six, her brothers had instilled in her an inquisitive mind and a zest for adventure, and recognizing the futility of control, her mother had taken great pains to ensure her daughter kept a realistic outlook on the world.

Most of the villagers in Badgers End were convinced that Madeline was a gypsy changeling. “Talks to the animals, she does, and they understand every blooming word she says,” they whispered to each other when she passed by. “Don’t matter whether it be animals, birds, or plants, they knows exactly what she’s saying to ’em.”

Well, maybe the plants stretched it a bit, but the woman definitely had “powers.” For one thing, she never seemed to get any older. Neither the icy winter winds that blew in from
the English Channel nor the midsummer sun that bleached Lord Withersgill’s wheat fields appeared to mar Madeline’s smooth skin.

She always wore her long dark hair floating about her shoulders. Her bean-pole figure was invariably enveloped in soft muslin, which swirled around her like a captured cloud. When seen gliding across the croquet lawn in the gathering dusk, she looked rather like a benevolent ghost on a mission.

The petite woman made Cecily feel big and clumsy. She tried not to envy the long, gleaming black tresses that showed none of the gray hairs that sprinkled profusely through her own light brown hair. Though she was quite sure she’d never manage all that stuff floating around her shoulders. She much preferred the chignon that held the whole mess off her face.

Cecily largely ignored the tales bandied around in the George and Dragon on a wet and windy night, or whispered behind a gloved hand while browsing at the white elephant stall at the church bazaar.

She hired Madeline to do the floral arrangements at the Pennyfoot Hotel because she was first and foremost a friend, and because of the woman’s knack with flowers, not because of her reputation for foreseeing the future. So when Madeline made her announcement, quite naturally Cecily dismissed it as usual.

“I feel disaster in the air,” Madeline said in her low musical voice that sounded like the wind in the bulrushes on Deep Willow Pond. “There’s a full moon tonight.”

Full moons appeared every month, and so far the Pennyfoot had survived enough of them as well as the wrath of the east winds for most of the last century and the first six years of this one. Which was precisely what Cecily told her.

There were more pressing problems to worry about. The fancy dress ball was scheduled for that night, and there were still a dozen or more details to be taken care of. And Henry presented quite a challenge.

Phoebe was in charge of the entertainment at the Pennyfoot’s weekly events. Henry was the live python she’d hired to embellish the tableau she planned to present at the ball.

Cecily had some reservations about Phoebe’s ability to
handle an eighteen-foot snake in a crowded ballroom. “There’ll be at least sixty guests in attendance tonight,” she said, her fingers absently tapping the polished surface of the table. “I shudder to think what would happen if an eighteen-foot snake were to be allowed loose among the dancers on the floor.”

At the far end of the table, dwarfed by shelves of dusty volumes that for the most part hadn’t been touched in years, Phoebe adjusted the very large brim of her hat. “Mr. Sims assured me that Henry is as docile as a kitten. He’s left me full instructions on how to take care of him, and I am quite sure there is nothing to worry about.”

Madeline, seated behind a huge bowl of pink and white roses, pursed her lips. “This is not the night to trust a wild animal. All living creatures are unpredictable during a full moon. Lovers quarrel, children run away, husbands cheat, and murderers murder on the night of the full moon.”

Phoebe sniffed in disapproval. She tolerated Madeline because of her association with the Pennyfoot but secretly considered her decidedly strange and rather beneath her consideration.

Although Phoebe’s clothes had seen better days, they were of good quality, and she had taken very good care of them. In Phoebe’s eyes, one’s dress indicated character and class, and Madeline’s deplorable frocks appeared to denote a definite lack of both.

“I should think that with all my experience,” Phoebe said stiffly, “I can be trusted to know what I’m doing.” Her face looked small and pinched under her hat. The brim resembled the size of a tea tray and looked just as cumbersome, loaded down as it was with enormous silk gardenias, feathers, and, for good measure, a pair of emaciated doves.

Cecily often wondered how Phoebe’s neck, which was long and slender, managed to hold up the weight of such a monstrosity. “I have absolute faith in you, Phoebe,” she said, hoping that this meeting wouldn’t develop into a battle of wits between the two women.

Her gaze fell on the bouquet, arranged by Madeline in a Waterford crystal bowl. The air hung heavy with its fragrance. She noticed a single pink, velvet-soft petal lying forlornly,
mirrored in the gleaming surface of the table. Staring at it Cecily was reminded of evening strolls in the gardens with James, enjoying the refreshing breezes saturated with the sweet perfume of roses.

She glanced up at the portrait that hung over the marble fireplace. Her late husband had looked so handsome in his military uniform. Even now, six months later, she found it so difficult to believe he was gone.

She had recently passed out of full mourning and now favored soft pastel blouses trimmed with black ribbons with her black skirts. Although her appearance might have lightened, her heart still ached for her loss.

Who would have thought that the malaria he’d contracted in the tropics, ending a brilliant career, would return to take him from her much too soon?

She closed her mind on the thought and concentrated on the task at hand. “Madeline, how are the floral arrangements coming along? Did you manage to find the tiger lilies?”

Apparently absorbed in her own thoughts, Madeline blinked. “Yes, I had them sent down from Covent Garden this morning. I decided on tiger lilies, ginger blossoms, and birds of paradise. A perfect choice, I think, for the Arabian Nights theme. Though I might have a problem with the ferns. They do tend to dry out.”

“Ferns in Arabia?” Phoebe took a large pin out of her hat, straightened the brim, and jabbed the pin back in again. The doves bobbed precariously on their perch.

Madeline’s dark eyes rested intently on Phoebe’s face. “We’re not in Arabia. And I always use ferns.”

“Ferns will be fine,” Cecily said firmly. She closed her ledger with a loud snap to indicate the end of the meeting.

Following Phoebe out, Madeline paused in the doorway. “It has a ring around it,” she said.

Cecily stared at her, wondering what her friend meant.

“The moon,” Madeline explained, drawing circles in the air with a languid hand. “It has a ring around it. You know what that means.”

“It usually means there’s another storm brewing in the Channel.”

“It means,” Madeline murmured, ignoring Cecily’s dry comment, “a death.” She followed her dramatic pause with a long, drawn-out sigh.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Cecily promised, trying not to think about Henry.

Later that day Cecily discovered the loose bricks. The guests, happily established in the dining room, enjoyed a feast of deviled kidneys, cold roast pheasant, and galantines garnished with melon.

Cecily, having already eaten, had gone up to the roof garden shortly after noon to spend a few moments alone with her thoughts, as was her custom. She and James had spent many an enjoyable respite in this tiny retreat, and she felt close to him whenever she visited the quiet spot.

The wall blocked off the narrow passage between the roofs, and the flat rectangle area had been turned into a small rooftop garden. The slope of the roofs bordered both sides and one short end, while the other finished at the edge of the roof, hence the protection of the wall.

This had become a favorite place for hotel guests to view the stone thatched cottages dotting Parson’s Hill or the fishing boats bobbing in the cove. In order to see the entire panorama, one had to lean over the wall. It took only a cursory inspection of the loosened bricks for Cecily to recognize the wall presented a clear danger.

An average person’s weight could conceivably collapse part of the wall and send an unsuspecting guest toppling four stories down to the red-brick courtyard below.

Harry Davis, the brick mason, would need a day or two to repair it. Meanwhile, Cecily decided, she needed to do something at once.

The staff would be busy with the lunchtime chores. Since she couldn’t shake the sense of urgency over the situation, she fashioned a crude sign from an orange crate and carried it up four flights of stairs to the roof garden.

The rain barrel was half-full of water and resisted her efforts to drag it closer to the wall to support the sign. Struggling to move it, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. She started
violently when a deep voice inquired, “Pray, what are you doing, madam?”

Without turning her head, she muttered, “I should think it’s fairly obvious what I’m doing, Baxter. I’m attempting to move this barrel close to the wall.”

“Yes, madam. I can see that. To be more precise, I meant
why
are you doing that?”

“I need a support for this sign.”

“That is something a footman should be doing. Surely Ian could have done that for you?”

“He could,” Cecily agreed, grunting with exertion. “I didn’t ask him, however. He has his own duties to be concerned about.”

She hadn’t noticed that she stood on the hem of her long skirt until she tried to straighten her back. Momentarily set off balance, she grabbed the edge of the barrel. “Trousers, Baxter. That’s what I need, trousers. Like those knickerbockers women wear nowadays for riding bicycles.”

“I hardly think so, madam.” He stepped forward and took hold of the barrel. “Allow me?”

She eyed her manager’s impressive build in the immaculate black morning coat and crisp white shirt. “You’ll get dirty, Baxter.”

“I’ll take care, madam.”

She clung to it for a moment, reluctant to give up. “Perhaps if we both push?”

“I would rather manage on my own.”

“Oh, very well.” She stepped back, her frustration increasing when she saw how easily he maneuvered the heavy barrel into position. She reached for the signpost, but he stopped her with a disapproving gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, come now, Baxter. You are not going to throw that ‘helpless little woman’ attitude at me, are you? You surely know better.”

“I happen to believe, madam, that there are some tasks that could be more appropriately assigned to the staff.”

“And if I waited for someone to do half of them, they would never get done. Besides, if you read the sign, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that some urgency was warranted.”

Baxter tilted back on the heels of his immaculately polished shoes and examined the heavily scrawled letters. “Danger! Keep off!” he read out loud, sounding as if he were announcing a rather distasteful breakfast menu. “Wall under repair. Extremely dangerous.”

She watched his face for his reaction and, as usual, could detect none. “Well? So what do you think?”

“It certainly draws attention to the problem.” He glanced at the wall, which served as a barrier at the edge of the roof. “A dire message indeed.”

“And necessary,” Cecily said firmly. “There are several loose bricks in that one spot. I can’t imagine how the wall could get in that state without someone noticing it before. Must have been all those fierce winds we’ve had lately. I’ve sent a message to the mason to take care of it as soon as possible, but I don’t want anyone to go near the wall until it’s been repaired.” She shuddered. “If someone should lean against it to admire the view …”

“I understand perfectly.” Baxter wedged the sign between the barrel and the wall. “But I would feel far more comfortable if you would not take it upon yourself to perform the manual labor.”

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