Instead of answering Gertie, Baxter opened the door wider, grabbed her arm, and dragged her inside the room. Slamming the door shut, he took a deep breath. “All right. Now tell me where you found it.”
Gertie blinked hard. “It was under me bed, sir.”
“Under your bed? What the devil was it doing there?”
“I don’t know, sir. My twins found it. They were playing with it when I walked in there just now.”
Baxter took the candlestick out of her hand and walked over to the dresser, where he carefully set it down. “Are you quite sure they found it under the bed?”
“Yes, sir. Daisy was with them all afternoon and they never went out of the room.”
“And you’ve not seen it before now?”
Gertie shuddered. “No, sir.”
“Then how did it get under your bed?”
“I don’t know sir, but last night when I got back to me room I thought the twins had been messing around with my things. Now I think someone was in the room, and put the candlestick under my bed.”
Baxter’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“Perhaps he was looking for a place to hide it.”
“And in the entire building, all he could find was your bed?”
“Yes, sir. Or…” She hesitated, reluctant to put her thoughts into words.
“Or what, girl? Spit it out!”
“Or p’raps he wanted it to be found in my room, so’s people would think I killed Ian.”
“Oh, good Lord.” Baxter ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose that could be.” He thought for a moment, then said briskly, “All right. Leave this with me.” He put an awkward hand on her shoulder, gave her a gentle pat, then dropped his hand again. “Try not to worry, Gertie. Mrs. Baxter and I will sort all this out.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She bent her knees, then twisted around to reach for the door handle. “I didn’t kill him, sir.”
“I know that, Gertie. Now run along and do try not to worry.”
“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. Now!”
“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.”
Apparently realizing they had gone far enough, the girls fell silent once more, and dutifully began pulling on costumes and wigs.
Trembling with suppressed fury, Phoebe fought for composure. “Dora, where are your ballet shoes?”
Dora looked down at her feet as if amazed to see they were bare. “I can’t find them, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Then you will have to dance in bare feet.” Phoebe stalked over to another of her dancers and began tugging at her costume. “For heaven’s sake, Martha, pull this bodice up higher before you’re arrested for indecent behavior.”
Behind her, she heard Isabelle’s low voice. “He asked me out, you know.”
Dora answered in the same low tones. “Who did?”
“That Sid Barrett. He’s going to take me to the George for a gin and tonic after the show.”
“Oh, that one. He’s nothing but a saucy rake.” Dora tossed her curls so they bounced on top of her head. “He asks all the girls to go out with him. I wouldn’t trust that one for the life of me.”
Isabelle sounded sulky. “I didn’t say as I was going, did I.”
Phoebe whirled around. “I thought I said no sound.”
Both girls gave her mutinous stares. “We were just-” Isabelle began, but Phoebe stopped her with a sharp raise of her hand.
“I said no sound. Or would you like someone else to play the prince?” She glanced across the room. “Martha, for instance. She knows the part.”
Isabelle clamped her lips shut.
“We should have a man play the part of the prince, anyhow,” Dora said.
“Yeah,” someone else said. “Like Sid Barrett.”
Laughter rippled around the room. “He’d make a handsome prince,” Dora murmured.
“The prince is always a woman in a pantomime,” Phoebe said stiffly. “You all know that very well.” She paused, one hand to her ear. “Listen! That’s the orchestra playing the introduction. We have five minutes to take our places. Ladies-move!”
To her immense satisfaction, the girls jumped into action. For a frantic moment or two they scrambled here and there tugging and pulling on their costumes, and then, at last, they were ready and dashing out the door.
Phoebe waited until the last one left, then followed at a slower pace. She felt exhausted, and the show had yet to begin. This was her last pantomime. There was no doubt in her mind.
Out in the audience, Cecily sat in the first row, her husband on her left and Madeline on her right. Peering around her friend to where Kevin sat next to her, Cecily said quietly, “I have something of importance to discuss with you later.”
Kevin nodded, and Madeline gave her a curious look. “Something’s happened?”
“Yes, but I promised Baxter I wouldn’t talk about it until after the show.” Cecily studied the program. “I think this is the first time Phoebe has done Cinderella.”
“Well, that should give her plenty of opportunities for mistakes, then.” Madeline settled herself more comfortably on her chair. She wore a pale blue gown with simple lines and without any adornment. On anyone else it would have looked plain and uninteresting. On Madeline it looked elegant and sophisticated. Silver sandals peeked out from under her skirt, and she had bound her hair with silver tinsel-a decidedly Christmas touch that no one else would have dared to try.
Cecily did her best to enjoy the pantomime, in spite of the tension that kept her shoulders rigid throughout. She wasn’t quite sure if it was worry about the murder or the anticipation of disaster on the stage that kept her so on edge.
For the most part, the show went quite smoothly by Phoebe’s standards. Cinderella had trouble remembering her lines, and had to be prompted from the wings by the obviously irate and painfully audible director, and both Cinderella and the prince dissolved into giggles during what was supposed to be a romantic scene at the end, once more incurring the wrath of the long-suffering Phoebe.
The appearance of acrobats leaping across the stage during the finale drew surprised murmurs from the audience, however, especially since it was obvious they came as a surprise to the rest of the cast, who had to scramble to get out of their way.
As the five lithe young men balanced on each other’s shoulders, Baxter leaned toward her and whispered loudly, “What the devil are they supposed to be?”
At a loss, Cecily raised her shoulders in a gesture of bewilderment. She vaguely remembered Phoebe mentioning something about acrobats, but had assumed they would be part of the show, not simply added on at the end.
“Probably had them there to take over when those worthless dancers of hers messed everything up,” Baxter observed, as the curtains drew to a close amidst polite applause.
The curtains drew back again to allow the cast to take a bow, just in time to see Cinderella slap one of the acrobats across his face.
The audience rocked with laughter, and this time thunderous applause shook the rafters. Phoebe appeared on stage, red-faced and murmuring apologies, but by then her audience was scrambling to get out of their chairs and back to the dining room, where late-night snacks were being served.
“It was too much to hope that Phoebe would manage to get through an entire presentation without some kind of disaster,” Madeline murmured as she accompanied Cecily to the door.
Following behind her, Baxter grunted. “That woman should be locked up. She’s a menace to society.”
“Well, at least they haven’t hurt anyone.” Cecily looked back at her husband and smiled. “That’s the main concern.”
“Only by a miracle.” Baxter stepped in front of her and held the door open for her.
Madeline laughed. “Like the time one of her dancers in the Scottish sword dance sent a sword flying off the stage.”
Baxter rolled his eyes. “Or when she lost the performing python.”
“Or when the magician couldn’t bring his assistant back into the magic box.”
“Oh, be quiet, you two.” Cecily stepped out into the hall, where small groups of people wandered toward the dining room. “You know quite well that our guests love to see Phoebe’s fiascos. I think they would be quite disappointed if she managed a perfect performance.”
Kevin joined them at that moment, looking anxious. “What is it you wanted to tell me? Has it got anything to do with the murder?”
Cecily sent a quick glance over her shoulder, but now they were alone in the corridor. “We have found the murder weapon,” she said quietly. “It’s in my suite.”
Kevin’s eyes opened wide. “Where was it found?”
Cecily hesitated, hating to implicate Gertie if it wasn’t necessary. Before she could speak, however, Baxter answered for her.
“Gertie McBride’s twins found it under her bed. She believes that someone put it there to make it appear that she killed Ian Rossiter.”
Madeline drew a sharp breath, while Kevin looked worried. “If that is so, that means the killer is still here in the Pennyfoot.”
“Precisely.” Cecily glanced at her husband. “We have to find him before something else awful happens.”
Baxter raised an eyebrow. “How, may I ask, do you intend to do that?”
“I don’t know.” Cecily raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “I have suspicions, but nothing tangible. It’s all circumstantial.” She looked at Madeline. “I don’t suppose you could help?”
Madeline shot a guilty look at Kevin. “Well, I-”
“If you’re suggesting,” Kevin said coldly, “that my wife use her so-called psychic powers to help you solve this unfortunate murder, then I must strenuously object. We have an agreement, which I must ask her to uphold, and, which I sincerely trust she will honor.”
A flash of rebellion crossed Madeline’s face, then vanished. “Of course,” she murmured, but her eyes sought Cecily’s with a significant message. “I’m so sorry, Cecily.”
“Not at all. I completely understand.” Cecily smiled up at Kevin. “We shall simply have to use the tried-and-true methods of investigation.”
Baxter sighed. “I sympathize, old chap. It seems as if both our wives have a problem avoiding trouble.”
“Piffle.” Cecily took her husband’s arm to soften her words. “You are just jealous of our abilities, that is all. You men like to think of women as helpless little creatures who cannot make an intelligent decision without the guidance and wisdom of their husbands.”
“If that were so, my dear Cecily, you and I would have parted company a long time ago.” Patting her hand, he led her down the hallway to the dining room.