Jimmy’s mother briefly closed her eyes. “Possible, but not likely, to my way of thinking. Whoever threw that rock did so with enough force to knock our Jimmy right off his feet. I think that monster meant to kill my boy, and I shan’t rest until I know who did this evil deed. I just can’t bring myself to believe it was Basil. Those two were such good friends before that girl came along.”
She showed signs of breaking down again, and Cecily rose to her feet. “I don’t want to upset you further, Mrs. Taylor. I think I would like a word with Basil, however. He might be able to shed some light on this tragedy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?“
Mrs. Taylor looked up, her eyes wary. “You won’t be getting him in any trouble, will you?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to know why this happened.”
The other woman gave her an address, and Samuel nodded. “I know where that is, m’m.”
“Very well, then.” Cecily walked to the door. “Rest assured, Mrs. Taylor, should I get at the truth, you will be the first to know.”
Stepping outside, she took a good long breath of the chilly sea air. It was good to be on the trail of a killer again. When she’d given her promise to Baxter, she’d given up all thought of chasing down another murderer.
Her husband simply failed to understand that it wasn’t so much catching a criminal that gave her so much satisfaction, it was bringing closure to the people left behind-the mourners, who needed answers in order to regain some sense of peace.
“Come, Samuel,” she said, walking briskly toward the waiting carriage. “We have more questions to ask before we can go home.”
“Mr. Baxter will be waiting for you to join him for the midday meal,” Samuel reminded her. “He won’t be pleased if you keep him waiting.”
Cecily sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t do to upset him this early on in the investigation. Very well, then, Samuel. Home it is, and we will continue this quest this afternoon.”
She settled back in the carriage, her thoughts replaying her conversation with Mrs. Taylor. It would be most interesting to find out exactly how Basil felt about losing his sweetheart to Jimmy. Even more interesting was how Gracie Peterson fit into the picture.
Cecily felt a small tug of excitement. She was really looking forward to talking to Basil Baker.
When she arrived back at the Pennyfoot, Gertie met her with the news that Phoebe Carter-Holmes Fortescue and her husband were in the library awaiting her return. Cecily had no recourse but to invite them to join her and Baxter for the midday meal.
This did little to improve her husband’s sour mood, and throughout the meal Cecily struggled to keep Colonel Fortescue’s attention away from him.
The colonel had an unfortunate habit of launching into one of his tedious war memoirs, thus sending his audience into a near stupor before his long-suffering wife managed to halt the saga. Given that the colonel, thanks to his war experiences, was also somewhat touched in the head, Baxter’s tolerance of the gentleman was limited, at best.
Phoebe, as usual, was full of her plans for the annual Christmas pageant-a pantomime of Peter Pan. So enthusiastic was she, the crystal glassware was in imminent danger of being swept off the table by her effusive gestures.
Her face almost hidden by the enormous brim of her hat, which harbored a couple of robins among the ferns and ribbons, Phoebe spilled out a torrent of words. “We will have children flying across the stage”-she flung out an arm, nearly costing Baxter his sherry-“and pirates and a ship and-”
“How in blazes,” Baxter asked, rudely interrupting, “are you going to get a ship on the stage?”
Phoebe’s cheeks were red with excitement. “Your maintenance fellow, Clive, is building us one.”
That was news to Cecily, but she managed to meet Baxter’s glare with a serene nod. “Clive is so talented, and I’m sure it will be a marvelous addition to our Christmas celebrations.”
Baxter grunted. “How do you propose to get rid of the thing when the show is over?”
Phoebe looked somewhat deflated. “I suppose we will have to break it up and let the dustmen take it away.”
Seeing her husband’s scowl darken, Cecily hurried to intervene. “We’ll worry about that later. Think of it, Baxter, a real ship on our stage. We will be the talk of the town.”
At her words, Colonel Fortescue, whose nose had been buried in a brandy glass, suddenly came alive. “A ship, you say? Jolly good fun, what? What? I remember when-”
“Not that kind of ship, dear,” Phoebe said loudly, tapping her husband’s arm to get his attention. “We were talking about my pageant and-”
Ignoring her, he stabbed at his chest with his thumb. “Got one of these for helping to take over the palace during the Zanzibar skirmish. Blighters were firing on our Royal Navy in the harbor and-”
“You’re not wearing your medals, dear,” Phoebe observed.
The colonel looked down at his chest. “I’m not? Well, I’ll be blowed! Where the blazes are they, then?”
Phoebe squirmed in obvious discomfort. “We… You… ah… donated them, my precious.”
The colonel’s cheeks turned as red as his nose. “Donated… my… medals?”
Phoebe turned to Cecily. “Anyway, as I was saying-”
“Who’s the blighter who stole them?” the colonel bellowed, turning the heads of the two other couples in the dining room.
“The Salvation Army, dear.” Phoebe turned back to Cecily. “I was thinking-”
“Well, by George, we’ll get them back!” The colonel leapt to his feet, waving his fist in the air. “I’ll take my sword to them, the scoundrels. How dare they take my medals.”
Baxter’s face lit up. “Jolly good show, old man. Go get them. Right now, before they give them away to someone else.”
Phoebe gasped in dismay. “Baxter, how could you? You know he’ll stop at nothing when he gets like this.” She grasped her husband’s sleeve and tugged on it. “Sit down, Frederick, dearest. You agreed to… ah… get rid of the medals early this year. Remember?”
“Never!” the colonel roared. “I’m going after the blighters. Out of my way, you peasant, I’m off to battle.” This last was directed at Pansy, who had come to clear off the dishes.
Well used to Fortescue’s antics, Pansy skipped aside to let him pass.
Brandishing an imaginary sword, the colonel charged across the dining room and out of the door.
Phoebe’s hat bobbed up and down in her agitation. “Now look what you’ve done.” She glared at Baxter. “He’s probably going to attack the first person he sees in uniform.”
“Let’s hope it’s not a constable,” Baxter said, looking unusually serene. “Though I think it more likely your husband has taken refuge in the bar.” He got up, stretched, and smiled at his wife. “I think I’ll retire to our suite. I’ll leave you both to discuss whatever it is you plan to subject our guests to this Christmas.”
Cecily winced at the subtle reference to Phoebe’s infamous disasters with her Christmas events. The woman put all she had into the presentations, but invariable something would go wrong, due largely to the inept group of performers under her wing. Fortunately, Phoebe was an eternal optimist and never doubted that the next performance would be a masterful triumph.
She seemed unperturbed by Baxter’s comment and, indeed, watched him go with something close to admiration in her eyes. “He’s right, of course. Frederick always ends up in the bar when he’s upset.”
She sighed and leaned back on her chair. “Quite the gentleman, your husband. You are fortunate, Cecily, to have such an intelligent and thoughtful companion.”
Cecily pursed her lips. It was true that one never knew the true nature of a person unless one lived with them. Compared to Colonel Fortescue, however, she was forced to admit, Baxter was an angel. “I am, indeed. But what about the colonel? Should you not be hastening after him to see that he doesn’t meet with some mishap?”