A Merry Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  She watched Edwin Coombs stride across the lobby toward the front doors, his words still ringing in her ears. It appeared that Percy had acquired at least one enemy. Judging from the opinion Mr. Coombs had of the dead man, it seemed entirely possible Percy had upset more than one person. Who was this man? Where had he come from? What was he doing at the Pennyfoot and why was Mazie planning to meet with him?

  Cecily sighed. She would have to hunt down Sir Clarence Oakes. Hopefully, he would be able to supply her with at least some of the answers.

  After venturing fruitlessly into the library and the conservatory, she peeked into the bar as a last resort. There she was rewarded. Sir Clarence sat alone at a corner table, enjoying a glass of ale.

  At least, she assumed he was enjoying it. It was hard to tell from the ferocious scowl and clenched fingers around his glass.

  She rarely entered the bar. Women generally were not allowed in there, and only her position allowed her the privilege. Even so, there were some gentlemen who felt uncomfortable with her presence, and she avoided the room unless she had an urgent reason to enter.

  Deciding that her desire to speak with Sir Clarence was not reason enough to upset her guests, she retreated to the lobby, where she was immediately hailed by a shrill voice.

  “Cecily, dear! I’m so happy to see you. I have an urgent request and it simply won’t wait.”

  Cecily halted as a slight woman dressed in a royal blue coat sailed toward her. Phoebe Fortescue’s hat almost hid her face, its extensive brim loaded down with an assortment of blooms, ribbons, and two stuffed doves.

  Reaching Cecily, she stretched out a gloved hand. “I need the ballroom tomorrow to rehearse our Christmas pantomime. The church hall simply isn’t big enough, and we have only a few days left to prepare.” She fluttered her hand in front of her face. “I’m quite sure I don’t have to remind you how troublesome the dance troupe can be at times. They become quite difficult when they don’t have enough space to perform.”

  Cecily winced at the memories Phoebe’s words conjured up in her mind. Her longtime friend had presented many recitals at the Pennyfoot over the years. She engaged several young women from the village of Badgers End, most of whom were lacking in talent and, in some cases, intelligence.

  Cecily could not remember a single performance where some kind of calamity had not occurred. Performers falling, sets collapsing, enraged players storming off—it had all happened more than once. There was the matter of the escaped snake that terrified the audience, and one horrified matron had almost been stabbed by an errant sword tossed from the stage.

  Fortunately, there had never been any serious injuries, though one young lady had her arm encased in a sling for six weeks, and another had a limp that lasted for months. Mostly, though, it was a matter of bumps, bruises, and a heavy dose of hurt pride.

  Baxter had often hinted, rather darkly, that it might be better to forgo Phoebe’s valiant attempts at entertaining.

  Apart from the fact that Cecily could not possibly offend such a close friend in that manner, there was also the fact that the audience actually enjoyed the disasters. They appeared to gleefully anticipate the moment when the mayhem occurred. Cecily would even go so far as to say that was the reason the seats were always filled to capacity.

  “We’re doing Aladdin this year,” Phoebe prattled on, oblivious of the glances cast her way as her raised voice penetrated to the walls. “We have an enormous set that we absolutely must start building tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Cecily frowned. “I have already informed Archie he is to help you.”

  Phoebe peered up at her from under the brim of her hat. “Archie? I’m not familiar with that name.”

  “Archibald Docker, our handyman.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe frowned. “What happened to the other one you had? Jacob something or other.”

  Cecily hesitated. She didn’t like to remember what had happened to her previous handyman. “He . . . er . . . passed away, about this time last year.”

  “He did?” Phoebe actually looked relieved. “Well, thank goodness.”

  Cecily raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry for him, of course.” Obviously agitated, Phoebe withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her forehead with it. “But, I have to admit, I’m not sorry he’s gone. He was absolutely useless at building sets. Do you remember the horrible mess he made of the stage for our last pantomime? I’ve never been so ashamed of a performance in all the years I’ve been presenting them.”

  Cecily had to swallow hard. In her humble opinion, it seemed that Phoebe had far more to be ashamed of than a shoddy stage set.

  “However, one should not speak ill of the dead. What did the man die of anyway? He was quite young, wasn’t he?”

  Again Cecily paused to ponder. Apparently, Phoebe had forgotten about the incident, or perhaps she had missed the account of it in the newspaper. Cecily herself had never spoken of it to anyone after the dust had cleared.

  Phoebe stared at her, obviously intrigued by her silence, and Cecily made an effort to carefully phrase her words. “Jacob met with an . . . accident, while working on the cellar wall last year.”

  “Oh, my. How unfortunate. That must have been uncomfortable for you.”

  That was putting it mildly, Cecily thought, considering that Jacob was actually stabbed in the chest by a gang of thieves who were using the tunnel beneath the hotel to store their ill-gotten gains. She wasn’t about to upset Phoebe with that news, however, and thankfully, her friend accepted the explanation without any more questions.

  “So, what about this new handyman, then? Who is he? Is he capable? Will he be able to build me a set as per my instructions?”

  “I’m quite sure you will find Archie not only capable but extremely pleasant and accommodating. He only joined us recently. The fellow we hired after Jacob died was incompetent and we had to get rid of him. We found Archie about a month ago and he seems to be working out very well. He’s taking care of the gardening as well as the maintenance, so he’s living in the caretaker’s cottage on the grounds.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Well, I hope he turns out to be a better employee than your last maintenance man. You don’t seem to have had much luck with them since Clive left.”

  “Indeed, but I feel confident we’ve picked a good one this time. I will instruct him to meet you in the ballroom tomorrow morning.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Thank you, Cecily. I’m much obliged. We shall need three changes of sets, so I hope your handyman has plenty of energy.”

  Cecily was already feeling sorry for her new servant. Phoebe could be quite unmanageable when she was under stress.

  She was about to make her excuses when a loud voice hailed her from across the room.

  “Cecily, old girl! Haven’t seen you in quite a while. You’re looking dashing today. Must have something special going on, what? What?”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” Cecily smiled at the white-whiskered gentleman striding toward them. Phoebe’s husband, Colonel Frederick Fortescue, was always lavish with his praise, whether deserved or not, which in Cecily’s opinion was not necessarily a bad thing.

  The colonel reached Phoebe’s side and gave his wife a hefty nudge that almost toppled her off-balance. “What are you up to, my little peacock? Hatching nefarious plans, no doubt, what? What?”

  Phoebe gave him a scathing glance that would have floored a more astute gentleman. “Freddie, dear, please do refrain from bellowing my business for all ears to hear.”

  Blissfully ignoring that, the colonel looked at Cecily. “All ready for Christmas, are we, old bean?”

  “We’re getting there,” Cecily told him. “This is always a busy time of the year for us.”

  “Yes, yes, of course it is.” The colonel twirled one side of his luxurious mustache. “Prepar
ing for Christmas can be utterly exhausting. I remember when I was in India, I—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Freddie,” Phoebe muttered, rudely interrupting him. “You’re not going to launch into another of your eternally long, boring stories, are you?”

  Totally ignoring her, the colonel continued, “It was Christmas Eve, and the chaps wanted a tree. Couldn’t find a blasted fir tree anywhere, so we put one together with brooms and brushes, hung tin mugs on it, and draped it with string.”

  Cecily smiled. “Most admirable, Colonel. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “You should have seen it, old girl.” The colonel twirled his mustache again. “Dashed magnificent, if you ask me. You can’t beat the genius of the king’s army, by George!”

  “Freddie.”

  Once more he ignored the warning in his wife’s voice. “Anyway, there we were, all standing around the tree, knocking back the gin and singing carols with as much gusto as we could muster, when someone fell over the bucket of coal by the fireplace.” The colonel smacked the air with his hand. “Coal dust everywhere. One chap grabbed one of the brooms to sweep it up and the whole blasted tree came down, raining tin mugs everywhere. You never heard such a racket in your life. I—”

  “That’s enough, Frederick!”

  The colonel shut his mouth and gave Phoebe a reproachful look. “What’s the matter, old bean? Feeling a bit liverish this morning, are we?”

  Phoebe’s cheeks burned with indignation, and at that moment Cecily caught sight of Sir Clarence Oakes striding across the lobby toward the door.

  “I’m sorry, Phoebe, I have to run. Do feel free to take over the ballroom tomorrow. Once the ball is over tonight, we shall have no use for it until your pantomime.” Without waiting for an answer, she sped after the retreating figure of the aristocrat.

  She reached him as he paused in front of the Christmas tree. Halting at his side and slightly out of breath, she frantically rehearsed how to phrase her questions. She wasn’t quite sure why the man disturbed her. She wasn’t easily intimidated by anyone, but Sir Clarence had a way of scrutinizing people when talking to them, as if he was delving into their innermost secrets.

  Feeling decidedly at a disadvantage, she prepared to disarm the man. Maybe she could charm him into answering her questions. And maybe not.

  * * *

  • • •

  Gertie huffed and puffed as she reached the top landing. It didn’t help to settle her nerves. She was already on edge, given that the new handyman was directly behind her, apparently having no trouble with the climb.

  She wasn’t about to admit it, even to herself, but there was something about Archie that unsettled her. In a good way. This was the first time she was actually alone with him, and it was doing strange things to her stomach.

  Which was extremely disturbing, since she had sworn off all men after her breakup with Clive. The very last thing she wanted to do was to get cozy with another handyman. Besides, Archie was younger than her, and a lot more energetic—she didn’t think the man had an ounce of excess fat on him. Whereas she had bulges everywhere.

  Annoyed with herself for even thinking about him in such a personal way, she turned on him as he stepped up next to her. “I need the door to the chute mended right away. I don’t want to have to carry all those linens down all those stairs again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Archie gave her a cheeky grin that warmed her toes.

  He was clean-shaven, which she liked. She never did care for all that fuzz on a man’s face. His dark brown hair had gold streaks in it, and curled at the back of his neck. A deep dimple appeared in his cheek when he smiled, and he had a way of tilting his head to the side when he made a joke, which made it all the more amusing. She liked a man who could make her laugh.

  Reminding herself of her resolution, she turned sharply away from him and marched down the corridor to the chute. “There it is.” She pointed at the door. “It’s stuck and I can’t get it open.”

  Archie stepped in front of her, peered at the door, and stroked his chin. “Hmm . . . has it ever got stuck before?”

  “Yeah, once or twice. But usually I can get it open.” Gertie grabbed the handle and heaved as hard as she could. “This time it’s well and truly bloody stuck.”

  Archie grinned again. “Well, we can’t have that, can we. We’ll just have to see what we can do about it.”

  “Good.” Gertie avoided looking into his eyes. “And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, m’m.”

  Something about the way he said it drew her gaze to his face. “You don’t have to call me m’m, Mr. Docker,” she said stiffly. “I’m only the chief housemaid here.”

  “And a very good one at that, I’m betting.” He took a screwdriver out of his tool belt and walked over to the chute. “So, do I call you Mrs. McBride?”

  “You can call me Gertie, like everyone else around here.” She didn’t know why she was talking so gruffly, but she couldn’t seem to get her voice to sound normal.

  “Thank you, Gertie, and please call me Archie.” He fitted the screwdriver into one of the screws in the door hinge and started twisting it around. “And what about Mr. McBride? What does he do for a living?”

  “Mr. McBride is dead.” Aware that she’d sounded rather short, she added more calmly, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  She was walking away when Archie called out softly, “Gertie?”

  She turned to look at him.

  He had a look on his face that melted all her resistance. “I’m truly sorry. About Mr. McBride, I mean.”

  For the first time she gave him a genuine smile. “Thanks, Archie.” After that, she flew down the stairs a good deal faster than when she’d come up them.

  She reached the first landing and barreled around the curve. The elegant figure in the fur-trimmed velvet coat appeared in front of her without warning, but she was moving too fast to stop. With a sickening lurch of her stomach, she slammed into the woman, sending her into the wall.

  The lady’s hat tipped over her face, dislodging two large hat pins, and it was a moment or two before her hand jerked the extensive brim back into place.

  Staring at the sharp features burning with rage, Gertie’s stomach sank even farther. She was looking into the furious eyes of Lady Penelope Oakes.

  Gertie stooped down to retrieve the pins and handed them to the woman. “I’m ever so sorry, your ladyship—” she began, but Lady Oakes cut her off with a haughty wave of her hand.

  “Look where you’re going next time. There are other people on these stairs besides you.” With a toss of her head, she rudely pushed past Gertie and marched stiffly up the steps to the landing.

  Gertie traipsed down the rest of the stairs, muttering under her breath, “Who the heck does she think she is? Bleeding queen of England?”

  Vowing to make sure she never came close to that stuck-up toff ever again, she crossed the lobby and stomped down the stairs to the kitchen.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sir Clarence Oakes was an imposing figure with his black curly hair and clipped mustache, but it was his eyes that caught attention—dark, mysterious, and unfathomable.

  At that moment those eyes were focused on Cecily’s face, and she had to gather her thoughts. The gentleman was apparently waiting for someone, most likely his wife, judging from the irritated glances he kept taking of his pocket watch.

  Deciding to come straight to the point, she declared, “Sir Clarence, please excuse the intrusion, but I’m trying to locate a gentleman who is improperly attending the card rooms. I believe you are acquainted with him. His Christian name is Percy. I need to obtain his surname.”

  Sir Clarence continued to gaze at her in silence for a little too long before answering. “I regret that I cannot help you, Mrs. Baxter.”

  Disappointed, Cecily nevertheles
s persisted. “I heard that the gentleman in question had an altercation with Mr. Edwin Coombs. He mentioned that you were present at the time.”

  Sir Clarence narrowed his eyes a fraction. “Ah, yes. I do recall that instance. Most unpleasant.”

  “Mr. Coombs also mentioned that the gentleman was a member of your club in London.”

  Sir Clarence stiffened his back. “I am quite certain, madam, that the person to whom you refer is not a member of the Bond Street club. We are most particular about whom we accept as our patrons.” He raised his chin, his gaze shifting to the lobby behind her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Baxter. My wife is about to join me.”

  Although Cecily had seen Sir Clarence upon occasion in the hotel, she had yet to meet his wife. Eagerly she turned around to see an elegant woman sweeping toward them from the stairs.

  Lady Oakes wore a heavy blue velvet coat trimmed with white fur and carried a white fur muff. Swirling white feathers decorated her matching blue hat, and a white lace collar covered her throat. “Darling,” she murmured as she reached her husband’s side, “please forgive me. I was delayed by a servant on my way up to fetch my muff, and then had trouble finding it once I reached our room.” She nodded at Cecily. “Good evening.”

  Cecily smiled at the newcomer. The woman was quite beautiful, with greenish brown eyes that appeared to have trouble focusing on one spot. “I trust you are enjoying your visit to the Pennyfoot?”

  “Quite, thank you.” Lady Oakes stretched out a hand to take her husband’s arm, then apparently changed her mind and fidgeted with the folds of her coat instead.

  “I was just asking your husband if he knew a gentleman by the name of Percy,” Cecily said, ignoring Sir Clarence’s fierce glare. “I wish to learn his surname. I don’t suppose you know of him?”

  Lady Oakes shot a glance at her husband. “The name sounds familiar. My husband may have mentioned him, but from what I hear, the gentleman was not the sort of person with whom we would care to associate.”