Room With a Clue (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery) by Kate Kingsbury Page B

received a message from a gentleman asking her to meet him. Did Daphne Morris know who that man was? Any one of a number of men would be wearing military uniforms to the ball.
    It could have been Robert Danbury, of course, but that seemed extremely unlikely. But
someone
had sent that note. Whoever he was, he must have had a pressing and urgent reason to request a meeting with Lady Eleanor at that hour. And she had gone alone. At the request of the mystery man? If so, then it would seem that Baxter’s suggestion was not as preposterous as it had at first sounded.
    In fact, Cecily was aware of a growing conviction that Lady Eleanor’s death had not been an accident at all. It seemed as if she could well have died by someone’s hand. In all probability, a murderer still lurked somewhere around the hotel.
    Phoebe had spent a precious twenty minutes peering nervously under the tropical plants, to no avail. Henry remained stubbornly missing. She finally had to give up the search when a young woman came whirling into the conservatory on the arm of a besotted gentleman, both of whom giggled and whispered, obviously wishing to be alone.
    Phoebe felt a moment’s pang of envy before scuttling from the room. It really didn’t seem that long ago since she had existed in that happy state of affairs with dear Sedgeley.
    Though what he would think of the world now, with all this to-do about women and their rights, she shuddered to think. Poor Sedgeley would be horrified by the antics of that Pankhurst woman, what with her being thrown in prison like a street urchin. And all this talk about reform. Goodness knows what good they thought it would do.
    Reaching the foyer, she thought about going down to the cellar to see how Colonel Fortescue was doing. On second thought, she decided it wouldn’t do to be alone down there unchaperoned, and heaven knew what the colonel had been into. What if he were drunk, for heaven’s sake? He could have his way with her, and she would be helpless.
    Phoebe considered the possibility with more interest than could be considered proper, then dismissed it. Definitely not the colonel. If she was going to be ravaged, she would much rather it was one of those dashing young men whirling around the ballroom floor at that very minute.
    A little scandalized by her own audacity, Phoebe concentrated on the problem at hand. Time was running out fast. If she didn’t find Henry in time for the tableau, it would have to proceed without him.
    She had intended to have Henry coiled in his basket on top of a pedestal center stage, after having been fed, which, Mr. Sims had assured her, guaranteed his staying put.
    Once the orchestra began playing “his music,” Henry had been trained to raise his head and sway majestically back and forth until the piece ended, wherein he would retire once more to his red satin pillow.
    Phoebe sighed. If Mr. Sims had not been called away on an emergency, he would have been there himself to handle Henry, and none of this would have happened. But it had happened, and she couldn’t do much about it now.
    The tableau wouldn’t be nearly as spectacular without the python, of course, but short of climbing up there herself and doing a fan dance, she just couldn’t come up with an alternative.
    She could, of course, put the basket up on the pedestal and hope no one would notice Henry wasn’t in it. She could always tell everyone afterward that he slept through the entire performance.
    Delighted with herself for coming up with a reasonable answer to her problem, she hurried down to the kitchen. Perhaps, if she could find the girl, she could ask Gertie to retrieve Henry’s basket for her.
    Madeline was floating around the kitchen when she gotthere, a sausage roll in one hand and gesturing vaguely with the other while spouting to Mrs. Chubb rubbish about bad spirits floating around the Pennyfoot.
    “I can sense them, my dear,” she declared as Phoebe came through the door. “The full moon