Kate Kingsbury: Herald Of Death

The third book in the Pennyfoot Hotel Special series, 2011

Once again I’m privileged to have worked with a wonderful editor, Faith Black. My deepest thanks for all your hard work, and for your enthusiasm and guidance. It means a lot to me.

My thanks, also, to my astute agent, Paige Wheeler. I truly appreciate all that you and Celeste Fine have done for me this year.

My dear friend in England, Ann Wraight, I thank you for your wonderful magazines that keep me in touch with my homeland.

As always, the art department has done an outstanding job on the cover. Truly brilliant. My grateful thanks to Judith Murello and her amazing team.

My apologies to all those wonderful fans who wrote with concerns about my health. I didn’t mean to alarm you with the acknowledgments in my last book. I assure you, I am quite well, and looking forward to taking you for another visit to the Pennyfoot Country Club. Thank you all so much for your e-mails. You have no idea how much I enjoy them.

To my husband, who can always make me smile when I feel like crying. Thank you for always being there when I need you.

The snow started falling the week before the first Christmas guest was due to arrive at the Pennyfoot Country Club. It began with just a few flakes that drifted on the wind and eventually disappeared into the gray ocean. Soon, however, the flakes grew thicker, fell faster, and a soft white carpet blanketed the sands.

Horses struggled along the Esplanade, dragging carriages that slid from side to side, until the icy ruts had worn deep enough to prevent the wheels from wandering.

Beyond the cliffs the snow clung to the bare branches of the oaks, gently covered the grass on Putney Downs, and partially buried the lifeless body of the elderly gentleman lying on the path, leaving only a bedraggled dog to mourn his departure.

At the far end of the Esplanade, Cecily Sinclair Baxter stood at the window of her sitting room overlooking the Pennyfoot grounds. The bowling greens resembled icing on a wedding cake-smooth, shiny, and begging for that first footprint to mar the surface. The sight brought her no pleasure, however.

“This storm couldn’t have come at a worse time,” she murmured, “with so much to be done. I have to go into town tomorrow. My gown for the Welcome Ball needs some alterations, and the snow looks very deep. I do hope Samuel won’t have trouble with the carriage.”

Across the room, her husband remained silent behind the pages of the Daily Mirror .

Cecily tried again. “I sincerely hope that all this snow goes away in the next few days. Our guests are not going to enjoy the Christmas season if they are floundering about with freezing noses and toes.”

The rattle of a newspaper warned her that Baxter was deeply immersed in an article and did not wish to be disturbed. Since Cecily had never conformed to the adage that a woman should bow to her husband’s wishes at all times, she turned to face him. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.”

The newspaper remained upright in front of Baxter’s face, much to Cecily’s annoyance. “Then please do me the courtesy of giving me a reply.”

Baxter’s sigh seemed to rebound off the walls. He lowered his newspaper and sent his wife a reproachful scowl. “What would you have me say?”

“That you agree that this snowstorm could be disastrous for our Christmas activities.”

Baxter pursed his lips. “In the first place, snowstorms on the southeast coast of England rarely last more than a few days. We still have a week before our guests arrive. By then it will no doubt be as balmy as a spring day.”

“But-”

He held up his hand. “In the second place, in the unlikely event that the snow is still with us, it should be a simple matter to organize activities that do not require our guests to go outside.”

Cecily tossed her head. “Simple? Simple? Do you have the slightest idea what goes into planning events for the entire Christmas fortnight?”

He started to speak, but this time it was she who held up her hand. “In the first place, no, of course you do not know. You have never been involved in such matters. In the second place, I cannot imagine a Christmas without carol singers on the doorstep, or shoppers strolling down the Esplanade to gaze into the windows, or Boxing Day without the hunt, or-”

Apparently deciding that a raised hand was not going to silence his wife this time, Baxter folded his newspaper and stood. “My dear Cecily, you are borrowing trouble, as usual. As I said, it is highly unlikely the snow will still be with us in a week. Even if it should be, since you are the Pennyfoot’s resourceful and proficient manager, I have no doubt that with the help of such brilliant and creative minds as those of your associates, the inimitable Phoebe Fortescue and the equally incomparable Madeline Prestwick, not to mention your own superior talents, this year’s Christmas season will be every bit as memorable as the previous ones. If not more so.”

Cecily gazed at him in awe. Baxter was usually sparse with his comments. Such a wordy compliment was rare indeed. Even so, at his words she couldn’t help but suppress a shiver. “I sincerely hope not. I would like, for once, a Christmas without a corpse to ruin the festivities.”

Baxter grunted. “I heartily agree. Dead bodies are hardly conducive to a merry Christmas. In any case-” Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a timid tapping on the door. Frowning, he called out, “Yes? What is it?”

The door opened, and a pert face beneath a white lace cap peeked in. “Begging your pardon, m’m, Mr. Baxter, but I have a message for you.”

Cecily beckoned to the young girl. “Come in, Pansy. You are not disturbing anything.”

“Yes, m’m.” The maid ventured into the room with a wary eye on Baxter. “It’s Police Constable Northcott, m’m. He’s in the library, and he’s asked to see you.”

At the mention of the constable’s name, Baxter emitted a low growl of disgust. “That numbskull can find numerous excuses to hang around this establishment at Christmastime. No doubt he is here solely to sample Michel’s cooking and Mrs. Chubb’s baking.”

“Well, he’s a little early for that.” Cecily glanced at the calendar hanging over the marble mantelpiece. “Mrs. Chubb won’t be making mince pies for at least another day or so.” She smiled at Pansy, who had retreated at Baxter’s grousing. “Did the constable say why he needed to speak to me?”

“No, m’m. He did say, though, that it was a matter of the utmost importance.”

Baxter’s scornful snort sent her back another two or three paces.

Cecily frowned at her husband before addressing the maid once more. “Thank you, Pansy. Please tell P.C. Northcott that I will be there in a short while.”

She waited until the door had closed behind the maid before saying, “Really, Hugh, do you have to instill the fear of death in the members of our staff?”

The only time she ever used her husband’s first name was when she was displeased with him, and he reacted at once by stiffening his back. “Is it my fault the maids have such a feeble disposition that they cringe at every word?”

“They don’t cringe when I speak to them.”