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pale this morning.”
    “Yes, mum, thank you, mum. It was just the shock and all. I was just talking to Peter yesterday, you see.”
    Surprised, Cecily said quietly, “I’m sorry, Doris. I know how very upsetting these things can be. Has the constable finished with Samuel?” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby. The morning seemed to be passing much too quickly.
    “Yes, mum. He wanted to know where you wanted to receive him, mum.”
    Cecily sighed, giving up for now her intention of a few quiet moments alone in the roof garden. The secluded area created between the sloping roofs of the hotel had been James’s idea—a refuge from the hectic turmoil of the guests and their constant demands, and the numerous crises engendered by the unpredictable staff.
    Cecily had often escaped there when she needed time to rest, or to ponder on a dilemma, which seemed to happen at frequent intervals at the Pennyfoot.
    This latest news of a murder in the town had unsettled her a great deal. The fact that the victim had been a guest at the hotel was enough to implicate the Pennyfoot, something Cecily could ill afford.
    The hotel was a favorite hideaway for the aristocrats whopreferred to alleviate their boredom in more imaginative ways than was considered entirely proper. Secluded as it was on the quiet southeast coast, the village of Badgers End afforded a privacy that could not be found in the city, or in any town of some size.
    In the bowels of the Pennyfoot the affluent society could pursue card games and other forms of gambling without fear of being observed, and in the lush scented boudoirs one could dally with a lover without risk of tattling tongues.
    For it was the policy, and a strict one, that all who worked at the hotel did so with the knowledge that one word of gossip escaping from the realm of belowstairs meant instant dismissal.
    It was therefore imperative that any contact with the authorities in town be kept to an absolute minimum. The appearance of a uniformed policeman on the premises would not be likely to instill the trust that brought the majority of the Pennyfoot’s customers flocking from London on a regular basis.
    Then again, finding a guest of the hotel hanging in a butcher’s shop with his throat cut wasn’t exactly the kind of publicity Cecily needed either.
    “Mum?” Doris said tentatively, jolting Cecily out of her worried thoughts.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, Doris. I’m afraid I was wool-gathering. Please ask the constable to meet me in the drawing room. It is unlikely there will be any guests in there at this time of day.”
    “Yes, mum.” Again Doris dropped a curtsey, then rushed off to the kitchen stairs, leaving Cecily ruefully wishing it had been warm enough to meet P.C. Northcott outside the hotel. Preferably on the beach, where no one would be likely to notice him.
    She needed to know as much about the murder as Northcott was willing to tell her, however. As long as there was the slightest chance of the hotel being involved in aninvestigation, Cecily wanted all the information she could get.
    She retraced her steps and headed for the drawing room, trying to ignore the little voice of foreboding that usually preceded yet another calamity at the Pennyfoot.

CHAPTER
3
    Having dispatched the constable to the drawing room, Doris took the opportunity of a spare moment to look in on Daisy. Upon opening the door to Gertie’s room, she was greeted with a fierce “Hush!”
    Daisy sat in the rocking chair with a pile of pale blue fabric on her lap, her needle poised ready to strike. Across the room a large cradle took up most of the corner space between a small wardrobe and the three-legged bedside table.
    “They’re asleep,” Daisy whispered, jerking her head at the cradle.
    Doris nodded and crept across the floor to take a look. The babies lay on their side facing each other. Each head was barely covered by a fuzz of hair the color of coal, andone tiny fist seemed to