lobby. With any luck, he would have reassuring news for her.
She had just reached the head of the basement stairs when she heard her name called. Actually it was closer to a loud bellow. Reluctantly she turned to face the stout, ruddy-facedman charging unsteadily across the Axminster carpet toward her.
Colonel Fortescue was a frequent visitor to the Pennyfoot. He considered it his second home, which was nice for business but hard on Cecily’s patience. The colonel had suffered trauma in the Boer War and had a habit of indulging in quite startling behavior when one least expected it.
Other times he appeared perfectly sound of mind, and as Cecily waited for him to reach her, she fervently hoped this was one of those times.
She could smell the gin on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth. “I say, old bean, bit of a filthy night out there, what?” His bloodshot eyes blinked rapidly at her, another affliction purportedly brought on by his narrow brush with death.
Cecily agreed, though the last she’d looked, the evening had seemed quite pleasant considering the time of year.
“Have to be careful of these dark nights, you know,” the colonel muttered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Never know when the little beggars are going to creep up on you.”
“Quite,” Cecily said, not sure to what she was agreeing.
“It’s Guy Fawkes, of course,” Colonel Fortescue continued, his pure white mustache twitching like a squirrel’s whiskers. “Puts the devil in them, by George. Never know where the damn ruffians are going to strike next. Dashed unnerving, I must say.”
Cecily began to glimpse some sense behind the remarks. “Are you referring to the village boys, by any chance?” She wondered if the colonel had heard about Colin Bickley’s unfortunate demise and had somehow connected the harmless games with the tragedy.
“What, what?” The colonel fished in the top pocket of his Norfolk jacket and pulled out a monocle.
Cecily watched in fascination as he fitted it into his right eye. It actually stopped the blinking on that side, though theleft eyelid continued to flap up and down like an SOS signal light from a distressed ship.
Disconcerted by this odd one-eyed stare, she shifted her gaze to the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby.
“Are you going to put on a show for Guy Fawkes?” the colonel demanded. “I remember last year well. Screaming fun. Could see the fireworks all the way across Putney Downs, so they say.”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Cecily admitted. “It’s always seemed such a macabre celebration to me, burning an effigy of a poor, unfortunate man on a bonfire. Even if he did plan on blowing up the Houses of Parliament.”
“Haven’t thought about it? But it’s the fifth of November next week. Can’t ignore it, old girl. That would amount to sacrilege, by George.” Colonel Fortescue was so dismayed his monocle popped out of his eye and fell to the floor. Muttering fiercely, he fell to his knees and began patting the carpet in front of him.
Cecily knelt down to help look for the small, round glass. The flickering gaslights cast shadows across the floor, making it difficult to see. “James always set up the fireworks display and set them off,” she said as she stroked the surface of the carpet. “I don’t think I could manage it on my own.”
Her fingers closed over the narrow ribbon attached to the monocle. “Ah, here it is. Perhaps you should keep it attached to your pocket. Just in case you lose it again.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, thank you. Pesky thing’s a dashed nuisance. Can’t see a thing with it stuck in the old peeper.” He took the glass from her, then his expression changed as he directed his gaze to a spot behind Cecily’s back.
“Ah … good evening there, madam! Awfully nice night out there, what?”
Cecily turned her head to see Mrs. Parmentier crossing to the stairs from the direction of the basement. The widow gave a
She had just reached the head of the basement stairs when she heard her name called. Actually it was closer to a loud bellow. Reluctantly she turned to face the stout, ruddy-facedman charging unsteadily across the Axminster carpet toward her.
Colonel Fortescue was a frequent visitor to the Pennyfoot. He considered it his second home, which was nice for business but hard on Cecily’s patience. The colonel had suffered trauma in the Boer War and had a habit of indulging in quite startling behavior when one least expected it.
Other times he appeared perfectly sound of mind, and as Cecily waited for him to reach her, she fervently hoped this was one of those times.
She could smell the gin on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth. “I say, old bean, bit of a filthy night out there, what?” His bloodshot eyes blinked rapidly at her, another affliction purportedly brought on by his narrow brush with death.
Cecily agreed, though the last she’d looked, the evening had seemed quite pleasant considering the time of year.
“Have to be careful of these dark nights, you know,” the colonel muttered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Never know when the little beggars are going to creep up on you.”
“Quite,” Cecily said, not sure to what she was agreeing.
“It’s Guy Fawkes, of course,” Colonel Fortescue continued, his pure white mustache twitching like a squirrel’s whiskers. “Puts the devil in them, by George. Never know where the damn ruffians are going to strike next. Dashed unnerving, I must say.”
Cecily began to glimpse some sense behind the remarks. “Are you referring to the village boys, by any chance?” She wondered if the colonel had heard about Colin Bickley’s unfortunate demise and had somehow connected the harmless games with the tragedy.
“What, what?” The colonel fished in the top pocket of his Norfolk jacket and pulled out a monocle.
Cecily watched in fascination as he fitted it into his right eye. It actually stopped the blinking on that side, though theleft eyelid continued to flap up and down like an SOS signal light from a distressed ship.
Disconcerted by this odd one-eyed stare, she shifted her gaze to the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby.
“Are you going to put on a show for Guy Fawkes?” the colonel demanded. “I remember last year well. Screaming fun. Could see the fireworks all the way across Putney Downs, so they say.”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Cecily admitted. “It’s always seemed such a macabre celebration to me, burning an effigy of a poor, unfortunate man on a bonfire. Even if he did plan on blowing up the Houses of Parliament.”
“Haven’t thought about it? But it’s the fifth of November next week. Can’t ignore it, old girl. That would amount to sacrilege, by George.” Colonel Fortescue was so dismayed his monocle popped out of his eye and fell to the floor. Muttering fiercely, he fell to his knees and began patting the carpet in front of him.
Cecily knelt down to help look for the small, round glass. The flickering gaslights cast shadows across the floor, making it difficult to see. “James always set up the fireworks display and set them off,” she said as she stroked the surface of the carpet. “I don’t think I could manage it on my own.”
Her fingers closed over the narrow ribbon attached to the monocle. “Ah, here it is. Perhaps you should keep it attached to your pocket. Just in case you lose it again.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, thank you. Pesky thing’s a dashed nuisance. Can’t see a thing with it stuck in the old peeper.” He took the glass from her, then his expression changed as he directed his gaze to a spot behind Cecily’s back.
“Ah … good evening there, madam! Awfully nice night out there, what?”
Cecily turned her head to see Mrs. Parmentier crossing to the stairs from the direction of the basement. The widow gave a
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