Ring for tomb service, p.1
Ring for Tomb Service, page 1
Ring for Tomb Service
Kate Kingsbury
Copyright © 2013, Kate Kingsbury
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
CHAPTER
1
Phoebe Carter-Holmes’s delicate face looked quite pained as she sat herself down at the long polished table in the library of the Pennyfoot Hotel. “I really don’t know where on earth I am going to find one hundred people to dance around the church,” she exclaimed. “Sometimes I do believe that Algie takes unfair advantage of me. There are definite drawbacks to being the mother of a vicar.”
The willowy woman seated opposite her uttered a low, mocking laugh. “Nonsense, Phoebe. You know you adore bossing people around. Nothing makes you happier.”
Phoebe directed a disdainful glance at Madeline Pengrath. “At least I achieve something worthwhile with my efforts. I don’t have to resort to hocus-pocus to impress people.”
Madeline smiled. “It’s such a pity you don’t believe in the powers of herbal medicines. I have the perfect remedy for Algie’s unfortunate stutter.”
Phoebe tossed her head with such force that a wisp of mauve feather detached itself from the large plume decorating her enormous hat. It floated gently down and rested comfortably on her nose.
With a small sound of irritation, Phoebe wafted it away with a flick of her gloved fingers and turned to the third member of the group seated at the head of the Jacobean table.
“Cecily, dear, do you suppose the members of your bicycle club would consent to assist us with the clipping?”
Cecily Sinclair, the owner of the Pennyfoot Hotel, was only half aware of the conversation. Her thoughts had been concentrated on her new manager. Ever since Baxter, her last manager, had left her employ three months ago, the paperwork in the office had been mounting up at an alarming rate, to the point where she could no longer cope with it.
She had hired Malcolm Ridlington more out of desperation than anything, and now she wasn’t sure that she had done the right thing. The problem was, she thought gloomily, absolutely no one could ever match up to Baxter. Professionally or personally.
“Cecily? Are you all right?”
Cecily looked up with a start to find two pairs of eyes regarding her. Madeline’s dark gaze was knowing and full of sympathy. Phoebe merely looked put out.
“I have spoken to you twice already,” she said, sounding a trifle offended. “I do hope and trust I’m not intruding on your thoughts?”
“I’m sorry, Phoebe,” Cecily said hastily, “I must admit my thoughts were elsewhere. Please forgive me. What was it you were saying?”
“I asked you,” Phoebe repeated, speaking slowly and clearly as if Cecily were deaf, “if you thought that the members of your bicycle club would assist us with the Clipping of the Church ceremony.”
Cecily blinked. “Bicycle?”
Phoebe heaved her prominent bosom in an exaggerated sigh. “You are expecting fifty members of a London bicycle club this afternoon, are you not?”
“Oh, the women’s bicycle club.” Cecily nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Phoebe, I seem to be just a little preoccupied.”
Phoebe sniffed. “Perhaps you should make an appointment to see Dr. Prestwick. In my opinion, you have not been yourself for quite some time.”
“Ever since the estimable Baxter left, in fact,” Madeline said wickedly.
Cecily shot her a warning glance before turning to the other woman. “Please don’t concern yourself, Phoebe. I am in good health. It is just that with all the office work falling behind, I’m a little concerned as to how my new manager is getting along.”
“Well, we all know he won’t be another Baxter,” Madeline said, ignoring Cecily’s scowl. “So don’t expect too much from poor Mr. Ridlington.”
“Thank you, Madeline. I’ll bear that in mind. Now, what is it you wish to ask the club members, Phoebe?”
“I have to find at least a hundred people for the clipping. I thought they might like to help out.”
Cecily gave her a blank look. “You want them to help you clip the hedges?”
Madeline chuckled as Phoebe’s cheeks turned pink.
“No, Cecily dear,” Phoebe said carefully. “I thought I explained that Algie wants to arrange the Clipping of the Church ceremony in honor of the bishop’s visit to Badgers End. After all, St. Bartholomew’s Week is a celebration to commemorate the birthday of our church’s saint. It is only fitting that we do something special involving the church.”
Cecily’s brow cleared as her memory supplied the answer to the mystery. “Oh, now I remember. That’s the ceremony where everyone joins hands and encircles the church.”
“Quite.” Phoebe sat back with a look of relief on her face. “When the circle is complete, everyone sings and dances, thus clipping the church, or embracing it, if you will. Algie thinks the ceremony will be a fitting finale to the week’s celebrations. That’s why he wants to do it on Friday, seeing as the garden fete and flower show will be on the Saturday.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” Cecily murmured.
Phoebe sat forward again with a look of alarm. “You haven’t forgotten that the bishop will be arriving this afternoon for the feast of St. Bartholomew?”
Cecily shook her head. “No, Phoebe, I can hardly forget that event, considering that the feast will be held here at the hotel tonight.”
Phoebe looked relieved. “He will be bringing us the Helmsboro chalice this afternoon, of course. It will be on display during St. Bartholomew’s Week.” She clasped her hands and cast her eyes toward the ceiling. “I can hardly wait to see the chalice. It is on loan from the Abbey for such a short while, and only a few churches have been selected to place the cup on display.”
Madeline snorted. “All this fuss over a silly cup. It isn’t even gold from what I hear.”
Phoebe stiffened her back, stretching her chin above the lace ruffle at her throat. “For your information, Madeline, the chalice was fashioned for King Charles II. It happens to be made of pewter and is encrusted with pure gold and jewels.”
“How terribly bourgeois.”
“The chalice,” Phoebe said coldly, “is usually reserved for only the most influential confirmations, but someone thought it would be nice if ordinary people could have a glimpse of the cup.” She leaned forward slightly. “But then, of course, there are always those who are too ignorant to appreciate something of such priceless value.”
“The chalice sounds wonderful, Phoebe,” Cecily said, giving Madeline a beseeching look. “I’m looking forward to seeing it myself.”
Phoebe turned eagerly to her more appreciative audience. “It is such an honor to be singled out this way. Algie can’t imagine why St. Bartholomew’s was chosen to display the chalice. After all, we are such a small, insignificant parish, but, as I told Algie, news of his dedication to the church and his wonderful, inspiring sermons must have reached the bishop’s ears.”
“More likely the bishop heard about all that yawning and snoring that Algie’s sermons inspire and decided to liven things up a bit,” Madeline said dryly.
Phoebe visibly bristled. “I do not have to sit here and listen to insulting comments from someone who knows nothing about religious artifacts.”
“How can you say that, Phoebe dear, when I’m looking right at one?”
“Madeline, please?” Cecily held out her hands in appeal.
“Oh, very well.” Madeline rose, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulders with a majestic sweep of her hand. “I have to be going, in any case. I have to arrange the flowers for the feast, and I still have to take care of the final arrangements for the flower show on Saturday.”
“Perhaps that will keep you out of our hair for a while,” Phoebe said with a disdainful glance at her tormentor.
“Out of Cecily’s hair, at least.” Madeline floated across the room and paused at the door. “I will see you on Saturday, then, Cecily?”
Cecily nodded, relieved to see her friend go. Much as she loved Madeline, the constant bickering between her and Phoebe could be intolerable at times.
Glancing at Phoebe, Cecily could tell from the red spots high on the other woman’s cheeks that Madeline’s parting shot had found its mark. Although no one knew for sure, it was generally suspected among the staff of the Pennyfoot that Phoebe’s hair was actually a wig. The fact that no one had ever seen her without one of her enormous hats added fuel to the rumor.
Feeling sorry for the woman, Cecily leaned forward and patted her hand. “Don’t take Madeline’s words to heart, Phoebe. She does genuinely care for you. Madeline has trouble dealing with emotions. It’s her way of paying you attention.”
“Really. Well, that kind of attention I can well do without, thank you.”
Cecily decided it was time to change the subject. “Tell me, Phoebe, how is Algie dealing with all the excitement of the bishop’s visit?”
Phoebe produced a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it i
“I’m quite sure he’ll manage beautifully,” Cecily murmured, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. She needed to be in the office in case her new manager needed her assistance. She would have put an end to the meeting, except that Phoebe seemed inclined to chatter on.
“It is so nice the bishop was able to have a suite here at the hotel. I just know that Algie would have had a pink fit if we had been forced to put him up at the vicarage.”
“I’m glad he booked early; otherwise we might not have had a room,” Cecily said, gathering up her notebook in the hopes that Phoebe would take the hint.
“Quite so, this being the middle of August. The bicycle club must be the biggest group you’ve had at the Pennyfoot, is it not? How did you arrange that?”
“I didn’t.” Cecily sent a meaningful glance at the clock. “Apparently a London banker recommended us. The bank is sponsoring the event.”
“Well, I sincerely hope that your more elite clientele don’t take offense at being ousted by a group of women riding bicycles. I can’t imagine what the world is coming to, when women can gallivant unescorted across the country astride an abominable machine.”
“I understand most of the women will be bringing their husbands,” Cecily said mildly. “As for our regular clients, most of them don’t care to come down to Badgers End during St. Bartholomew’s Week. It’s too crowded. As you know, the aristocracy prefer their privacy.”
“Only because they are ashamed to let their acquaintances know what they are up to,” Phoebe retorted. “No doubt some of the goings-on in this hotel would make your teeth curl if you did but know it.”
“No doubt.” Cecily pushed back her chair and rose. “I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I really have to look in on my new manager now.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Phoebe got fussily to her feet, smoothing, tugging and straightening her immaculate oyster silk two-piece frock. “I just hope you have made a more fortunate choice than you did with your new doorman. A very strange fellow, if you ask me. I can’t understand him at all. He appears to be talking English, but it sounds like a foreign language.”
“Cockney slang, Phoebe. Surely even you must have heard of it?”
Phoebe reached for her mauve parasol and shook it to smooth out the folds. Smoothing her fingers up her elbow-length glove, she murmured, “Oh, yes, I do believe I have. It’s that dreadful way the East End Londoners have of talking. Never could understand it, of course, which is why they do it, I suppose. Though what on earth those commoners think they have to hide that could possibly interest us, I have no idea.”
“Well, I’m sure Ned has nothing to hide. He seems to be a very nice young man.”
Phoebe swept to the door, paused, then turned back to give Cecily a sly look. “It’s none of my business, of course, but don’t you think you might be lowering the tone of the place by hiring such a vulgar person for your doorman? I’m quite sure were Baxter here he would never have consented to such a … strange choice.”
“You are quite right, Phoebe; it is none of your business.” Cecily softened the words with a smile. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the ceremony on Friday.”
Phoebe looked affronted, then shook her head and sailed out of the door, closing it behind her with a little more force than usual.
Cecily winced. Perhaps she had been a little short. It was never pleasant to have one’s doubts confirmed. She had hired Ned Harris on the spur of the moment, mainly because he was the only person who applied for the job in three weeks. He seemed to be a cheerful young man, fairly intelligent, and smartly, if somewhat flashily, dressed.
His unfortunate speech pattern, a strange form of rhyming slang commonly used by the London cockneys, was confusing, but Ned had promised to speak “proper” when addressing the guests. The fact that his references were vague and impossible to follow up had seemed a minor point when faced with desperation. In fact, Malcolm Ridlington’s references had not been much better.
Glancing up at the portrait of her late husband that hung over the marble fireplace, Cecily grimaced. At one time she had found solace in talking to James’s portrait. After his unfortunate death from malaria several years earlier, somehow she had felt closer to him when she was able to tell his image about her worries.
Now, looking at the erect, smiling figure in his military uniform, he no longer seemed the compassionate, comforting presence he once had been. Now he was just a painting of someone she had known and loved, but whom she no longer held in her heart.
Another man held that place now. A man who cared so little for her he had deserted her and the Pennyfoot, without a word as to where he was going. Nor had he sent word to her since. To all intents and purposes, Baxter had walked out of her life, without any intention of ever coming back.
If she had any sense, Cecily told herself as she made her way to the office, she would forget that Baxter had ever existed. But then, when did a woman in love ever have any sense?
Shocked that she had finally admitted the truth about her feelings, Cecily paused for a moment before tapping on the door of the office.
This was the moment she had always enjoyed, the anticipation of spending a few minutes alone with Baxter. Now there was only a feeling of emptiness and an ache that wouldn’t go away. Now she knew why. Shaken by the thought, she made an effort to pull herself together.
Her summons on the door was answered immediately by a curt “Come in!”
Malcolm Ridlington sat at the desk, a pen clenched in his thick fingers. His bushy, dark brows were drawn together above his hawkish nose, which supported a pair of flimsy glasses. In front of him a sheaf of papers had been scattered across the desk, as if swept there by an irritated hand.
Upon seeing her, the manager rose awkwardly to his feet. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead, no doubt because of the heavy black morning coat he still wore.
Cecily tried not to remember how Baxter always scrambled into his coat whenever she entered the office unannounced.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” Malcolm said in his low, quiet voice. “Is there something I can do for you?”
The longing for a cigar almost overwhelmed her. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her new manager if he smoked them, but then she thought better of it. “I just wanted to see how you are coping with the accounts. I’m afraid things have got a little out of hand since Baxter left.”
“So I can see.” Malcolm glanced across the desk. “It has taken me all morning just to separate the debits from the credits.”
“I’m sorry.” Cecily averted her gaze from the door to Baxter’s old room. It was Malcolm’s room now. She had to remember that. “I was wondering if you planned to join us for the feast tonight,” she said brightly. “Perhaps you would care to share my table. Then we can discuss any problems that may have arisen.”
“Thank you, madam, but I will not have time to indulge in leisurely pursuits. I have too much work to do sorting out this ghastly mess that your last manager left behind.”
Cecily opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Nothing would be gained by arguing with him. She turned to leave, feeling guilty for not leaping to Baxter’s defense. After all, she was the one who had allowed the paperwork to fall into such disorder.
Trudging up the hallway, she sadly reflected that the state of the hotel accounts was not the only casualty of Baxter’s departure. Somehow she could no longer generate an interest in resolving the problems of the hotel. If she didn’t pull herself together, she could very well lose the Pennyfoot. If that happened, she had no doubt in her mind that James Sinclair would come back to haunt her.
CHAPTER
2
“He’s here, Algie, so please stop twittering and fasten that top button on your cassock.” Phoebe cast a critical eye over her son’s portly figure in the long, black robe, then, mildly satisfied, turned to bestow her brightest smile at the bishop, whose feet crunched loudly on the gravel as he approached the church door.
