Room With a Clue (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery) (5 page)

Gertie took off her pinafore and sat down on the padded coal box at the corner of the fireplace. “Ethel,” she said.

Mrs. Chubb frowned. “What about Ethel?”

“She’s the one what told me about Robert Danbury.” Gertie closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Oo, ’andsome devil, he is. I wouldn’t mind being done by that one, I can tell you.”

Mrs. Chubb tutted her disapproval, but was too fascinated by now to interrupt with a scolding. “How does Ethel know?”

Gertie opened her eyes and smiled. “She saw him. He was coming out of a room on the second floor, while his missus is waiting for him in her room on the floor upstairs.”

Mrs. Chubb swallowed. “That doesn’t mean anything. Mr. Danbury could have been visiting a friend.”

“Yeah, a friend with long blond hair and big tits. A lot
younger than his wife, so Ethel reckons.” Gertie jabbed the needle into the white cotton fabric and yelped. “Gawd, strewth! Right through me bloody finger.”

Deciding she’d heard enough, Mrs. Chubb established her authority once more. “If you don’t stop using that filthy language, I’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap, young lady.”

“Well, it bloody hurt.” Gertie stuck the finger in her mouth, sucked on it, then pulled it out with a loud plop. “Anyway, she got what she bleeding deserves, that’s what I say. Nasty, mean-tempered bitch.”

“Gert-
ay
!”

Knowing when she’d gone far enough, Gertie wisely shut up.

The door flew open a few seconds later, and all thoughts of Robert Danbury were wiped out of Mrs. Chubb’s mind.

Phoebe stood in the doorway, looking like a drowned scarecrow, with a look on her face as if she’d seen the devil himself.

CHAPTER

5

If anyone were to mention Badgers End in the elegant, discreet tea rooms of Edwardian London, more often than not the speaker would be greeted with a blank stare. Badgers End, such as it was, could never be termed a popular seaside resort, like Brighton, for instance.

Badgers End was really little more than a village. As Gertie often remarked, the place was as dull as a wet Sunday afternoon. The biggest excitement came from watching the sea gulls fight over a piece of bread.

Whereon Mrs. Chubb invariably suggested that Gertie find somewhere else to live if all she was interested in was excitement.

Few people would disagree with Gertie. The tiny shops along the Esplanade attracted the ladies, who peered from beneath dainty parasols at the useless knickknacks behind the leaded bay windows. Dolly Matthews ran a quaint little tea
shop in the High Street; her chelsea buns and fairy cakes had to be sampled to be believed.

The grassy slopes of Putney Downs provided the perfect updraft from the east wind to send a kite almost up to the clouds, and no one could dispute that the loudest laughter and the wildest tales could be heard in the public bar of the George and Dragon.

The summer visitors to Badgers End were not interested in such pastoral pursuits, however. The tiny village had what all those big, fancy, pleasure-promising resorts didn’t have. Badgers End had the Pennyfoot Hotel. Now that was a name the upper crust recognized.

Several days of breathing in the pristine sea air was a guaranteed cure for the respiratory ailments that plagued the citizens of smog-bound cities. In truth, the benefits of the ozone made a handy excuse for the less commendable reasons some of the clients sought the shelter of the Pennyfoot’s discreet charm.

Less than seventy miles from London, the secluded hotel offered ample opportunity for bored city dwellers to dally with Lady Luck in the card rooms or taste the forbidden fruits of hanky-panky in the silk and satin boudoirs.

Even so, no hint of scandal ever touched the name of the Pennyfoot. Though the staff might gossip, as indeed they did, no word had ever been leaked outside the hotel walls. Their jobs depended on it. The success of the hotel depended on it.

All that was about to change, Cecily thought, as she followed Baxter and John Thimble into the courtyard. The flickering light from the hurricane lamps illuminated the scene.

Her mind seem to register the tiniest details, as if needing to implant them for posterity. Chunks from the roof garden wall had gouged the surface of the courtyard floor. It would cost a fortune to replace the polished bricks. Most likely the entire area would have to be resurfaced.

Her wet skirt flapped dismally around her ankles as the salty wind scurried in from the sea. The scent of roses mingled with the earthy odor of clean, damp soil, seeming somehow appropriate for the smell of death.

She tilted her head back slowly, reluctant to confirm what
she already knew. Against the darkening sky, the ugly gap in the outline of the wall was a stark accusation of her own negligence.

If only she’d spotted the damage earlier. It could have been repaired by now. A woman’s death would not then lie heavy on her conscience, as it surely would for the rest of her days. Madeline’s omen had been fulfilled after all.

Thunder rolled in the distance from the dying storm, and she dropped her chin. Some feet from where the men struggled to lift the lifeless body of Lady Eleanor off the jagged rocks, a pitiful pile of uprooted edelweiss tangled with a yellow rock rose.

Cecily saw John take great care to step over the torn plants, as he and Baxter carried the dead woman through the gap in the hedge. With a last guilty glance at the roof, Cecily shook her head and followed the men back to the hotel.

She had argued with Baxter about the wisdom of moving the body before the police constable arrived. But, as she had told her manager, she could not in all good conscience, leave milady out there in the cold, wet night. Even if the poor woman didn’t know the difference. And if Baxter suspected that Cecily’s concern was more for the possibility of an unsuspecting guest coming upon the body than for the dead woman herself, he’d refrained from saying so.

Rather than risk being seen by a stray guest or two, she directed Baxter to cross the lawn to the library rather than enter through the front door. She then hurried back through the front entrance to unlock the library’s French windows.

She watched the men lay their burden down on the polished hardwood floor in front of the bookshelves. The poor woman must have fallen head first to suffer so much damage.

The clothing seemed to make it all the more incongruous. Lady Eleanor had obviously dressed for the ball before going to the roof garden. The Queen Elizabeth costume was a popular choice for the fancy dress balls. This was one queen who would never enjoy the glory.

Blood from her crushed skull had soaked into the tall white ruff she wore around her neck, and the once beautiful satin and brocade dress had been ripped in the fall. Little pieces of brick
and mossy plants had caught in her intricately coiffured hair, which had somehow remained immaculate on the undamaged side of her head.

John Thimble looked shaken when he straightened. “This be a bad day. What with that there snake missing, and now this. And I planted that edelweiss just the other day. I’d best get back there and see if I can save ’em.”

He wandered over to the windows, which creaked back and forth in the wind. “Delicate plants they be, that edelweiss. Don’t know as if I can save ’em, but I’ll try.”

“Thank you, John,” Cecily said quietly. “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then touched his cap and disappeared into the dark, wet night.

“He seems more concerned about his plants than poor Lady Eleanor,” Cecily said, getting up to lock the windows behind him.

“John cares very much for his gardens,” Baxter said, opening the drawer of the sideboard. “He tends to his plants as if they were his children. I’m afraid he views the human species with less enthusiasm.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” She watched Baxter spread a white tablecloth over the body. “I’ve sent a maid up to the Danburys’ room. Robert Danbury should be here any minute. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with me until he leaves.”

“Of course, madam.” Baxter straightened and tugged at the hem of his waistcoat.

Cecily sank into a chair at the head of the table. “The news will spread fast, I’m afraid. Soon everyone will know that one of my most prominent guests fell to her death because of my negligence.”

“I don’t think that is the case, madam. I erected the warning sign myself. The danger was quite clearly marked.”

“Obviously it wasn’t enough.” Cecily tapped the polished mahogany with her fingernails. “I should have been aware of the problem before it could become dangerous. I should have had the wall inspected after that last bad storm. It’s been catching the brunt of the wind and rain for over a hundred years. I should have known better.”

She rested her chin in her hands, and studied the image of her dead husband. Was it her imagination, or did his smile of approval seem less broad?

“I would suggest that it was my duty to inspect the premises, not yours. If anyone is to blame, it is I.”

“Piffle. James always stressed the importance of an owner taking care of his own property. You are here to run the hotel, not to maintain it.”

“Forgive my humble opinion,” Baxter said quietly, “but neither of us can be blamed for another’s carelessness. If someone ignores a blatant warning, she should expect to pay the price.”

“Thank you, Baxter. I’ll attempt to keep that in mind.”

“Yes, madam.”

Cecily studied the roses. “I wish he hadn’t had to leave so soon. He would have known how to deal with this.” The lump in her throat stopped her for a moment. Recovering, she added softly, “I miss him so much.”

“Yes, madam. I know.”

She raised her gaze to Baxter’s square face. “There are times, Baxter, when I wonder if I’ve taken on too much. But James used his last breath to tell me to hold on to the Pennyfoot. How can I not uphold his last wish?”

“I know he would be most proud of you. You have no reason to reproach yourself.”

“I wish I could be so certain of that.” Once more she rested her gaze on the roses.

“I would be happy to take care of Mr. Danbury, if you would rather.”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. This tragedy happened in my establishment, and I have to accept the responsibility of dealing with it.” She straightened her back as a sharp tattoo sounded on the door.

Baxter crossed the carpet swiftly to open it, and Cecily braced herself. This was likely to be extremely unpleasant. She could only hope that Robert Danbury would not lose his composure. She had seen a man weep only once, when James had cried in her arms after the death of their firstborn. She had found it most distressing.

The craving for one of her cigars was almost overwhelming. Not for the first time she wished that propriety allowed her to smoke in public. She had begun the habit soon after James had died, partly out of curiosity, and partly rebellion.

If she were to embark on this strange new life that James had so heedlessly heaped on her, she had told herself, she might as well start by establishing her independence.

At this particular moment, she needed that confirmation. She folded her hands and waited.

“Mercy me, whatever’s happened,” Mrs. Chubb exclaimed, hurrying toward the trembling Phoebe. “You look terrible.”

Phoebe must have felt terrible, as her mouth opened and shut, but nothing came out.

“Gertie,” Mrs. Chubb snapped, “help me get her to a chair, quickly. She looks like she’s going to faint any minute.”

Gertie dropped her sewing and heaved herself to her feet. “Blimey, she don’t ’alf look a blinking mess.”

“Gertie, fetch my smelling salts.” Mrs. Chubb grabbed hold of Phoebe’s arm. She was soaking wet and as cold as a dead fish. The arm hung limply, offering no resistance, and Mrs. Chubb peered into Phoebe’s eyes. “Come on, duck. Come and sit down. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

“I wet my drawers,” Phoebe said in a high-pitched voice quite unlike her own.

Mrs. Chubb gasped. “What?”

“I wet my drawers,” Phoebe wailed, and promptly burst into tears.

A loud snort exploded from Gertie, and she slapped her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

Mrs. Chubb dumped Phoebe hurriedly into the chair and grabbed the sniggering housemaid by the arm. Propelling her to the door, she rapped out, “Go and find Ethel and tell her to get along here at once, you hear me?”

Gertie nodded, her lips clamped tight on her grin.

Mrs. Chubb cracked out another order. “You keep your mouth shut about this, Gertie Brown. If I hear one word from anyone else, you’ll be short a week’s wages. I’ll make sure of it. Do you understand?”

Gertie nodded again, then rushed through the door. Her raucous laughter followed her all the way down the hall.

Phoebe sat moaning, swaying back and forth as if she rode a rocking horse. She sat back with a gasp fast enough when Mrs. Chubb waved the bottle of smelling salts under her nose.

“There, duck, that’ll do you. Now sit there while I fetch the tea.”

Dying to know what could possibly have sent Phoebe into such a dither, Mrs. Chubb whisked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. She dumped it on the stove, then grabbed the poker and opened the doors to give the coals a hefty stirring. Sparks flew as the flames leapt in protest.

Satisfied, she slammed the doors shut and went in hunt of the chef’s best brandy. She knew all the hiding places and found the half-empty bottle just as the kettle began to sing. Before long she had two steaming cups of tea, one of them fortified with a strong dose of cognac.

Returning to the sitting room, she found Phoebe staring into space, her hat a trifle lopsided, her hands beating a ceaseless tattoo on the arms of the chair.

Thoroughly alarmed, Mrs. Chubb held the cup and saucer in front of Phoebe’s face. “Here, duck, swallow this. You’ll feel much better when you’ve drunk it.”

To her relief Phoebe came out of her trance and took the cup. After stirring the tea with a shaky hand, she took a sip. Then another. After a moment the frozen look thawed from her face, and a glow of appreciation crept over it.

She finished the tea with a gulp and set the cup and saucer down. “That was good, Altheda. Very good indeed. I feel much better. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, dear,” Mrs. Chubb assured her. “Now, how about telling me what’s happened to get you in such a state.”

Phoebe did, in graphic detail, with Mrs. Chubb hanging hungrily on every word.

“Go on!” Mrs. Chubb exclaimed when Phoebe had struggled to the end of her horrific tale. “Lady Eleanor. Well, I never.”

Phoebe, warmed to a pleasant state of drowsiness by the brandy, nodded. Usually a lady of her background would not
be exchanging confidences with a mere housekeeper, but Phoebe’s sensibilities had gone through some drastic changes. Mrs. Chubb, or Altheda, as Phoebe called her in private, had been there when she’d badly needed a friend. And Phoebe never forgot a kindness. Or a slight for that matter.

“It was simply awful, I tell you,” she said, hunting for her handkerchief in her soiled handbag. “Oh, my, I shall have nightmares for weeks.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will.” Mrs. Chubb looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “So what are you going to do about Henry, then?”

Phoebe blinked. “Henry?” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Henry! I’d forgotten about him in all this distress. He’s still out there somewhere. Oh, Altheda, whatever shall I do?”