“Yes, sir.” Feeling only slightly reassured, Gertie pulled the door open and left the room.
All the way down the stairs she thought about what could have happened to her twins with a killer in the room. In all the years she’d worked at the Pennyfoot, she’d never felt a need to lock her door.
For one thing, she didn’t have anything of value that a thief would want, but mostly, she’d always felt as if the Pennyfoot was her home, and she would never go around locking up rooms in her home. Nobody would.
Now all that security was gone. From now on she’d never feel the same about living in the Pennyfoot, and no thief could ever have taken more from her than that.
The second Cecily walked in through the door of her suite she was pounced upon by her irate husband.
“Where have you been? You’re late for supper and now we shall have to gobble down our food in order to get to the dratted pantomime on time. You know how I hate to eat fast. I have a good mind to enjoy my meal and skip the pesky show altogether.”
Feeling guilty, Cecily did her best to soothe his ruffled feathers. “I’m so sorry, my love. It took me longer than I had anticipated to choose just the right gift for you.” She headed for the boudoir, calling out over her shoulder, “I do believe you will feel it was well worth the extra trouble I took when you see it.”
After hurriedly shoving the package inside her wardrobe, she pulled off her hat and scarf and threw them on the bed. Quickly she peeled off her long gloves and threw them down, as well. She would put them all away later, she decided, as Baxter’s growl reached her.
“I hope you’re not stopping to change your clothes. We don’t have time for that.”
“No darling. I’ll be out in a minute.” She pulled open a drawer and snatched up a lace-trimmed shirtwaist. “I just need to tidy my hair.”
He grunted a reply and she made a face at herself in the mirror. Quickly she unbuttoned her blouse, dragged it off, and slipped on the fresh one. A quick flick of the brush had to suffice, and for good measure she slid in a mother-of-pearl comb to anchor any stray strands that might escape.
A splash of toilet water on her cheeks refreshed her face, and she hurried out to join her husband, who was pacing back and forth across the carpet with his hands behind his back.
“Oh, there you are.” He glared at her. “I assume we can leave for the dining room now?”
“Yes, of course, dear.” She started forward, then stopped as she caught sight of the candlestick on the dresser. “What on earth is that?”
Baxter sighed. “I don’t suppose it can wait until we get downstairs?”
With a muffled cry of distress, she darted forward and snatched it up. A quick peek at the base confirmed her suspicions. “Bax! For heaven’s sake! Why didn’t you tell me? Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it. Gertie brought it up to me a short while ago.”
Cecily listened as he repeated his conversation with the housemaid. “I told her to try not to worry,” he finished. “I promised her we’d look into it.”
“We will have to give this to Sam Northcott when he gets back.” Cecily replaced it on the dresser with a shudder. “There’s no doubt that whoever killed Ian wants the blame put on Gertie. It was most likely the same person who told Sam about Gertie’s threats to Ian.”
“Yes, she’s come to that conclusion herself.”
“Oh, dear. I shall have to speak with her.”
“After supper?”
Seeing his forlorn face, she relented. “Of course, my love. We shall go down to the dining room right now, and deal with this problem later.”
Her reward was a rare smile from him. Tucking her hand into his elbow he murmured, “Then let us proceed.”
By the time they reached the dining room nearly all of the tables were occupied. As she threaded her way to her table by the window, Cecily exchanged greetings with guests, most of whom seemed excited about the pantomime that evening.
Considering Phoebe’s reputation for disastrous presentations, Cecily found that quite heartening. She always viewed Phoebe’s efforts with a certain amount of trepidation, due largely to the fact that her entourage of performers was not only inept but also stubbornly resistant to orders. They even went so far as to occasionally take a devious delight in tormenting their hapless director.
Phoebe was no match for them and was frequently reduced to a raging mass of torn nerves and shrill reprimands. Not too conducive to a successful performance. The Pennyfoot guests, however, seemed to enjoy the ensuing mayhem as much or perhaps even more than the actual presentation, much to Phoebe’s utter dismay. She had sworn so many times never to direct another show that even she didn’t believe her own words.
All in all, it promised to be an eventful evening, and Cecily looked forward to it as a rather masochistic way of putting her problems behind her for an hour or two.
“What are you thinking about?”
Her husband’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she smiled at him. “I was just thinking about how much I’m looking forward to the pantomime tonight.”
“Good Lord. Are you out of your mind? You haven’t been at the gin or something, have you?”
She pulled a face at him. “Oh, come, you know you enjoy watching Phoebe make a complete fool of herself.”
“A dubious pleasure at best.”
“But one you wouldn’t miss.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “You know me too well, my dear.”
She relaxed, pleased that she had coaxed him into a better mood. For the time being, all thoughts of murder and villains would be banished from her mind, while she settled back and enjoyed what had become a great British tradition-the Christmas pantomime.
Backstage in the ballroom, Phoebe was doing her best to hustle her girls into the dressing room. Several of them appeared more inclined to exchange comments with the stage-hands who, instead of attending to the job, were tossing good-humored banter at the breathless dancers.
Having promised herself earlier that this time she would absolutely, definitely, not lose her temper with them, Phoebe attempted another tactic. It involved a lot of pushing and pulling, with a good deal of pinching thrown in, but one by one the young ladies were persuaded to join their companions in the cramped dressing room.
All but one. As usual, Isabelle lagged behind, lurching one shoulder up against a backdrop in a most disgusting manner. The stagehand grinning down at her wasn’t helping matters at all. He gave her a lascivious wink, which reduced the ridiculous girl to silly giggling.
“Isabelle!” Phoebe pitched her voice loud enough to make them both jump. “In the dressing room.
“Gotta go,” Isabelle said, blowing the man a kiss.
The oaf pretended to catch it and smack it against his mouth.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Her voice thick with disgust, Phoebe grasped Isabelle’s shoulder and propelled her toward the noisy dressing room. “Get in there and behave yourself for once.”
Inside the room, young women were wandering around in various stages of undress. Phoebe rolled her eyes and went to work, doing up buttons and lacing ribbons, muttering all the while that this was positively the last time she would ever waste her efforts on such an ungrateful, uncooperative, unruly bunch of hooligans.
The girls, as usual, completely ignored her.
“That Sid Barrett,” Isabelle said, amid giggles, “is so funny. He makes me laugh until I wet my knickers.”
Howls of laughter greeted this comment, which Phoebe immediately attempted to suppress. “The audience is coming in!” she shrieked at the top of her voice. “They will hear you cackling away like geese in here! How much respect do you expect to get from an audience when they hear you all behaving like animals! You are… such… disobedient…” Her voice trailed off as she realized that the girls had gone silent and she was the only one screeching.
Someone snorted, and the rest of the group dissolved once more into raucous laughter.
“Enough!” Phoebe raised her arms. “One more sound out of any of you and I will cancel this performance. Right here and now.”
