“What was he like?”
Baxter shrugged. “Old man, gray hair, gnarled hands. It amazed me how he could use those twisted fingers to make such remarkable shoes. He was a bit of a grouch, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill the old goat.”
“He doesn’t sound much like Jimmy Taylor.”
“He wasn’t. Couldn’t have been more opposite, if you ask me.”
“That’s very strange.”
Baxter’s eyebrows drew together. “What is?”
“I just wonder what it was they had in common to cause their violent deaths.” Cecily returned her gaze to the fireplace. “It would seem, from what Sam told me, that Jimmy’s death was unintentional, yet someone used Jimmy’s whip to beat an old man to death. Not only that, there’s the gold angels and the missing locks of hair. There has to be a connection somewhere.”
Baxter sounded worried when he answered. “I trust I don’t have to remind you of your promise?”
“No, darling, you certainly don’t.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Cecily sighed. This was one promise she wished heartily she hadn’t had to make. For somewhere deep inside her, she had the uneasy feeling that she might break it.
The following morning, as she crossed the lobby on her way to the office, she heard the desk clerk calling her name.
Bowed at the shoulders and fast losing his gray hair, Philip seemed to age every time she saw him. His wrinkled forehead gave him a permanent frown, but he seemed even more anxious than usual as she approached the desk.
Still unsettled by her conversation with P.C. Northcott the day before, Cecily felt her nerves tightening. “What is it, Philip? Not bad news, I hope?”
Philip’s eyes were clouded with apprehension. “I’m not sure, m’m. It’s a telegram.” His hand shook as he offered her the wrinkled yellow envelope.
Cecily smothered a cry of dismay. The news had to be something quite disastrous to arrive in such an exceptional fashion.
Her first thought was of her two sons, both abroad. Had something dreadful happened to one of them? She stared at the envelope, too petrified to open it.
“Would you like me to read it, m’m?”
Philip’s tremulous voice jolted her out of her trance. “No, thank you, Philip. I shall take it upstairs to Mr. Baxter. He can open it.” If it contained the awful news she feared, she wanted her husband by her side when she heard it.
Her hasty return to her suite surprised Baxter, who was in the boudoir engaged in some activity that involved rustling paper. He seemed put out when she burst through the door, and immediately escorted her back to the sitting room, where he sat her down in her favorite armchair.
“Now,” he said, smoothing back a lock of gray hair. “Please tell me the cause of all this agitation.”
For answer, she held out the envelope, which shook even worse than when Philip had handed it over.
Frowning, Baxter took it from her, turning it over and back again. “What is it?”
“It’s a telegram.”
“I’m aware of that. What does it say?”
“I don’t know. I was too afraid to open it.” Her voice broke, and her words came out in a rush. “Oh, Bax, what if something has happened to one of the boys?”
“Hush, now.” He stuck his thumb under the flap and slit it open. “You are borrowing trouble again.”
She watched him anxiously as he scanned the lines. Her heart skipped when she saw his expression darken, and he swore under his breath.
“What is it?” She leaned forward, her heart now pounding like a sledgehammer.
“Are we never to escape this dratted curse?” Baxter thrust the piece of paper into her hands. “Here. Read it for yourself.”
She read it out loud, relief blended with dismay. “Cancel booking. Stop. Wife refuses to spend Christmas with murderer on the loose. Stop. With regret, Lord Chattenham. Stop. Oh, no!”
Baxter cursed again. “How the blazes did he get the news? Northcott only told you about the deaths yesterday.”
“I have no idea.” She stared at the faded letters pasted on the paper. “That’s four people less for Christmas. Oh, Bax, what if more people do this? We’ll be ruined!”
“Blasted cowards. We’ve had murders here before. It’s never stopped people coming here.”
“They don’t usually get forewarning,” Cecily reminded him. “What I don’t understand is that this time, it had nothing to do with the hotel. Why should something that happened in the village scare them away?”
“I suppose they’re worried the Pennyfoot might be next on the killer’s list.” Baxter began pacing back and forth. “I have to admit, with our record, it’s a viable concern.”
“Piffle.” Cecily got up and walked over to the window. Staring outside at the wintry lawns, she murmured, “And I was worried about the snow. This is a vastly more serious problem.”
“We’ll just have to hope that idiot Northcott and his inept bobbies can find this killer and put him behind bars before the rest of our guest list evaporates.”
Feeling a glimmer of hope, Cecily turned to face him. “He could certainly use some help, don’t you think?”
Baxter’s frown deepened. “I hope you’re not contemplating what I suspect you are contemplating.”
Cecily approached him, hands held out in appeal. “Bax, darling, I know I gave you my solemn promise, but this is an emergency. If we don’t catch this killer soon, more of our guests may decide it would be safer to stay in London for the Christmas season. What if our special guest were to cancel? We’d never live down the scandal.”
“He’s a prominent London citizen. He can’t afford to be perceived a coward.”
“He could find some feasible excuse, I’m sure. We simply cannot sit by and do nothing.”
“By we, I assume you mean yourself and that traitorous stable manager, Samuel.”
Cecily smiled. “Actually, I was rather hoping you would contribute your intelligent opinions and ideas.”
Baxter grunted. “You flatter me, my dear, but we both know I have no head for hunting down criminals. That takes a profound understanding of how those people’s minds work, and that is something for which you alone have an aptitude.”
“Why, thank you, sir!” Pleased with the unexpected compliment, her cheeks warmed.
“The fact remains, however, that the purpose of your promise to me was to keep you out of jeopardy, since you have a propensity to dive into danger without the slightest regard for your safety.”
“If I swear to use extreme caution this time?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “When has
“Please, darling.” She caught his hand and held it. “Our entire Christmas season is in jeopardy. At least this time I will have the sanction of the constabulary. Sam Northcott will be close at hand should there be any sign of peril.”
Baxter’s expression darkened. “That’s what concerns me the most.”
She smiled. “I shall be quite all right. All the constable needs is for me to ask a few questions in the village. Samuel will be with me, as always, and despite your displeasure at his willingness to help me, you will be the first to admit he is more than capable of taking care of me should the need arise.”
She saw his scowl deepen and added hurriedly, “Not that it would, of course. I will make sure of that.”
Baxter brushed a weary hand across his brow. “My dear Cecily, you will be the death of me yet. I refused a marvelous opportunity to work abroad so that you could continue your duties here at the Pennyfoot. In exchange, you promised to give me peace of mind by avoiding all contact with police business. Now here you are, proposing to actually assist the constabulary in a murder investigation. Is it any wonder my hair turns whiter by the day?”
Cecily gave him another sheepish smile. “It is very becoming, dear.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“No, dear.” She held out her hands to him again. “What would you have me do? Sit here and do nothing while our guests cancel their bookings one by one?”
