Cecily took a deep breath. “I certainly hope not.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s the baby?”
“Over there.” Madeline nodded at the deep armchair facing the French doors. “She’s sleeping, so I thought I’d leave her there while I run into the ballroom and change over the greens. The ones I put in there a few days ago are looking extremely dried up. That’s the problem with them being out of water. I wish there were some way to keep them watered while they are hanging on the wall.”
“I’ll keep watch over Angelina.” Cecily glanced at the tree again. “I’ll put the rest of the candles on while you’re in the ballroom.”
Madeline smiled. “That’s a very good idea. It will help you overcome that awful phobia you have.” Her smile faded. “I don’t suppose you found out who killed that lovely honeymoon couple?”
Cecily shook her head. “P.C. Northcott was convinced it was the Mayfair Murderer, but he’s been caught now, so I don’t know if the constable will decide to continue the investigation or wait for Inspector Cranshaw.”
Madeline studied her face. “You’re not going to pursue it yourself?”
“I don’t know that I can.” Cecily picked up a candlestick and fastened it to the branch with unsteady fingers. “I have an idea who it might be but there doesn’t seem to be any way to prove it.” She frowned. “Yet that little voice that always tells me I know more than I think I do is starting to make a noise in my head. I need to concentrate on what I know. Perhaps I can think of something useful.”
“Excellent idea.” Madeline picked up the huge basket crammed with holly, cedar, and fir. “Meanwhile I’ll get these greens hung up in the ballroom.” She flipped her hand in farewell and disappeared through the door.
Sighing, Cecily picked up another candlestick. Somewhere in all the muddle in her head lay the answer. She was sure of that now. All she had to do was go back to the beginning, and try to remember everything that had happened, and all she had learned.
Hopefully, something would jump out at her and she could go from there.
Deep in concentration, she fastened the candlesticks one by one, her mind focused on her conversations with Mick Docker and Stan Whittle. Barry Collins had said that he couldn’t remember seeing Mick Docker for a while the night Ellie died. She needed to talk to Mr. Docker one more time. Stan Whittle, too, since he had left the pub well before closing time.
Samuel said he heard Mick Docker arguing with Ellie that night. It was possible, however, that Samuel had mistaken Stan’s Scottish accent for Mr. Docker’s Irish accent. Then again, how had either one of them been able to get into the Pennyfoot to kill the Danvilles, and why?
Unless her theory was right about wanting to make it look like the work of the Mayfair Murderer. After all, everyone was at the pantomime that night. In that case, it wouldn’t have been quite so difficult to enter and leave the building without being seen.
Hearing a slight sound behind her, Cecily turned her head. Thinking Angelina was waking up, she waited to see if the child would cry. She could hear no further sound, however, and turned back to fasten the last candlestick.
What if it wasn’t either Mick Docker or Stan Whittle? She had concentrated so much on those two, she really hadn’t considered anyone else. Who else would have wanted to kill Ellie? That’s what she needed to know, for that’s where it had all started. Find the motive behind that murder and she’d find the clues to the rest. She was sure of it.
For some reason, the handkerchief she’d found kept popping into her head. She reached into her sleeve and drew it out again. It was a very pretty handkerchief, edged in fine French lace, with the initials embroidered with a deep purple silk thread.
She raised it to her nose to see if she could detect a fragrance and was rewarded with the smell of rosewater. She was about to unfold the handkerchief, when the door opened and Madeline floated into the room, her floral frock swirling around her bare ankles.
At the same time Cecily felt a distinct draft-more like a blast of cold air. She glanced over at the French doors and was stunned to see them standing open.
Madeline came to a halt, her gaze fixed on the armchair. For a moment she looked like a statue, her face white and set in stone. Then, in a strangled voice Cecily hardly recognized, she spoke one word. “Angelina.”
With a harsh cry of disbelief, Cecily rushed across the floor to the armchair. The baby’s fluffy pink blanket lay on the seat, with a little pink bonnet lying on top of it. A wave of nausea made Cecily clutch her stomach.
Inconceivable as it seemed, Angelina had disappeared.
Pansy had just begun to lay the tables for the midday meal when Gertie rushed into the dining room, hair flying out from under her lopsided cap. “Quick,” she said, breathless and panting, “go and find Samuel.” She held out a pink baby’s bonnet, the ribbons dangling almost to the floor. “Give him this and tell him to shove it under his dog’s nose.”
Pansy frowned. Gertie was always playing tricks on her, but this was really stupid, even for her. “What for?”
“Ms. Pengrath… I mean Mrs. Prestwick’s baby. It’s been stolen!”
Still unsure if this was a joke, Pansy shook her head. “Go on with you.”
“Pansy, it’s true. The baby’s gone and madam wants Samuel to look for her. She said the dog might help if it smells the bonnet.”
Staring into Gertie’s face, Pansy thought she saw tears glistening in her eyes. Gertie never cried. Not even when her husband died. Her heart beginning to pound, Pansy took the bonnet. “All right, I’ll find him.” She started for the door, then paused. “What about the tables?”
Gertie threw a hand up in the air. “Never mind the flipping tables, just go! Everybody’s going out to search for the baby. I have to find Clive and tell him. Come on!” She rushed past Pansy and flew down the hallway faster than Pansy had ever seen her move.
Picking up her skirts, Pansy raced after her. No one was in the foyer when they ran across it, and they both burst out onto the steps together. Gertie went one way, toward the rose garden, while Pansy ran as fast as she could to the stables.
Samuel was cleaning one of the motorcars when she dashed inside. He looked up in surprise as she skidded to a halt. She was so out of breath she couldn’t get out the words, and she gulped air into her lungs as she shoved the bonnet into his hand.
He looked down at it as if he expected it to bite him. “What’s this?”
“It’s Mrs. Prestwick’s baby’s bonnet.” Still gasping for breath, Pansy held on to her side. “Someone stole her. Madam wants you to give it to Tess so she can find the baby.”
Samuel looked from the bonnet to her and back again. “Give it to Tess?”
Pansy puffed out her breath. “You know, make her smell it so she can follow the scent.”
“Oh!” Samuel nodded. “But if someone is carrying the baby, how can Tess follow the scent?”
Pansy felt like crying. “I don’t know! Just try it. That poor little baby is missing and heaven knows where she is and we have to f-find her…” She didn’t realize she was crying until tears started rolling down her cheeks.
Samuel dropped the rag he was holding and put his arm about her shoulders. “Hold on, hold on. Oh, God, don’t tell me the killer has that little baby. This is real then?”
“Yes, of course it’s real!” Pansy sniffed and lowered her voice. “Gertie said everyone is out looking for the poor little thing. Oh, we have to find her, Samuel. Where is Tess?”
Samuel dropped his arm, turned his head, and uttered a shrill whistle. From somewhere outside a rough bark answered him, and a moment later the dog came bounding into the stable.
“Here, girl. Good dog. Come here.” Samuel held out his hand and Tess eagerly bounced toward him. He held out the bonnet, and she sniffed, then looked up at him, tail wagging, waiting for further orders.
Samuel looked at Pansy and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Pansy wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It has to work. Show it to her again.”
Samuel bent over and held the bonnet to the end of Tess’s nose. “Here, find her, girl. Find the baby, Tess. Let’s go and find her.”
Excited now, Tess barked and ran out into the yard.
“Come on!” Samuel grabbed Pansy’s hand and tugged her almost off her feet. “We have to follow her.”
Pansy held back. “I can’t go! I have tables to lay.”
“What’s more important? Laying tables or finding a lost child?” He tugged again. “Come on. Four eyes are
