Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

by C Jane Reid

  The night shift concierge brought her coffee on a silver tray with a plate of biscuits and small, round sandwiches on white bread with a stuffed olive placed in a hole in the middle.

  She raised an eyebrow at the young man.

  “Tiger Eyes,” he told her.

  “I’m intrigued.”

  When he left, she sipped the coffee and then tried one of the small sandwiches.

  Fresh bread, creamy butter, seasoned cream cheese, and the stuffed olive.

  Wonderful.

  Lola had a new favorite sandwich.

  “How long is he staying?”

  Lola sat upright, a second small sandwich partway to her mouth. She lowered her hand. That voice belonged to Jack and she’d thought he was speaking to her, but he was speaking quietly from the other side of the partition.

  “Until the end of the week.” That raspy, whispered voice with its French accent could only belong to Monsieur Gaspard, the chief concierge.

  “Why here?”

  A pause.

  “It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

  Lola waited for one of them to say who was ‘her.’

  “They took tea together today.”

  “I know. They were in the next room when I was there.”

  Miss Edie was ‘her.’

  “It can have nothing to do with the past,” Gaspard insisted. “The relation is slight, and only through her husband. Madame Meunier is blameless.”

  “I suppose if anything, she’d have a bone to pick with him. Why would she want anything to do with a German?”

  Silence.

  “Gaspard, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  More silence.

  “Blast it.” Jack let out a hard breath. “What do we do?”

  “We take advantage of the situation.” Gaspard’s raspy voice was cold.

  Their voices were growing distant and then cut off with the closing of a door.

  Cautiously, Lola raised to look through the beveled glass. On the other side of the elegantly carved rose wearing a tiara, she saw Gaspard and Jack walking away.

  She sank into her seat.

  What had she just overheard? Gaspard’s tone had sent chills running up her spine. Were they planning to act against Herr Prinz? It had to be him they were discussing. No one else took tea with Miss Edie that she was aware of.

  And what did he mean about Miss Edie being blameless? Blameless of what? It had involved her late husband, if Lola had understood Gaspard correctly.

  The door to the lift opened. Marilyn stepped out, alone.

  Lola froze in her chair. Marilyn, however, walked by with hard, purposeful steps behind the partition without looking her way.

  Oh, yes, the staff entrance. The door to it was at the far end of the lobby.

  Lola breathed out. At least Marilyn had left alone. And hopefully, she had no intentions of meeting with Herr Prinz later. Lola remained seated in case he followed her. She finished off the sandwiches and coffee and most of the biscuits before the lift opened again.

  Herr Prinz stumbled out, speaking in German. He sounded as though he were cursing at Henry, who wisely stayed silent, though his expression said everything.

  Jerome came from around the desk in alarm, but he masked his features as he approached.

  “Herr Prinz, is there some way I can be of assistance?”

  Herr Prinz threw up his arm at Jerome with a muttered curse. He stumbled for the stairs, nearly tripped on the bottom step, grabbed for the brass railing, and pulled himself up one step at a time, leaning heavily forward as though attempting to climb a rope.

  Jerome and Henry stood watching. Lola found she was standing too.

  Herr Prinz reached the top of the main staircase and turned, disappearing out of sight.

  Jerome and Henry exchanged looks.

  “Should someone go after him?” Lola asked them.

  Jerome hesitated.

  “He’s drunk,” Henry said. “I don’t think he’d appreciate knowing he had to be helped to his room. Arrogant blighter.”

  Jerome returned to the desk in a rush and lifted the telephone to make a call.

  Lola headed for the stairs.

  “Miss Rose,” Henry hurried forward. “You shouldn’t, miss. No telling what a man like that might do in his state. Not safe.”

  “What is the matter?”

  Lola whirled to see Monsieur Gaspard approaching, Jack hard behind him.

  “Herr Prinz, sir,” Jerome told him. “He’s over-indulged—”

  “He’s drunk as a mad hatter,” Henry cut in. Gaspard glared at him.

  “And he’s taking the stairs,” Lola said.

  Gaspard studied her, then Jerome. Finally, he and Jack exchanged looks.

  “We’d best see to him,” Jack told him, clapping him on the shoulder with his good hand.

  Lola’s stomach sank as the two men went for the stairs. Lola rushed after them.

  “Lola—” Jack began, a warning in his tone.

  “Oh, I’m heading this way,” she said flippantly. “Herr Prinz likely has the best idea. Always good to walk off too much drink, isn’t it? And I expect taking the stairs is even better.”

  “If you don’t fall and break your neck,” Jack said crossly.

  She looped her arm through his. “Now, Jack, how ever would I do that with you here to keep me from stumbling?”

  Gaspard threw her a dark look, but neither of them sent her away.

  An ominous thudding broke through the quiet. They each paused, looking to one another, before racing together up the final steps of the stairs.

  On the marble landing at the foot of the next flight of elegant stairs, Herr Prinz lay. His left arm and right leg were at an unnatural angle. So was his head.

  Lola covered her mouth with a gasp, her stomach roiling. She turned away and saw a man standing at the top of the second flight of stairs.

  It was Gordie.

  Chapter Six

  Someone pressed a cup of tea into Lola’s hands. The warmth from the cup and the soothing scent of sweetened tea helped chase part of the chill away.

  She looked up to find her mother standing over her, listening to someone. Dimly, Lola realized she could hear voices. Several of them. She couldn’t focus to understand the words, though.

  “Lola?”

  Her head turned at the sound of her name.

  “Arthur?”

  He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes, those warm brown eyes that had watched her so carefully on New Year’s Eve, trying to learn her secrets. Or at least where she was from. She hadn’t seen him since he bid her goodnight after that sweet New Year’s kiss.

  “Take a sip,” he encouraged with his precise accent. She did so, and the tea slid down her throat, sweet and warm.

  She focused on Arthur kneeling before her. Arthur, the cousin’s son. Sir Caldwell’s cousin’s son. Whyever was he at the Regal Rose at this time of night and kneeling before her in the—

  She looked around. She was in the Steward Room, sitting in one of the wood and leather chairs. The scent of cigars, whiskey, and wine hung in the air. The room was the Regal Rose’s wine and liqueur room, used mostly as a greeting area before events held in the hotel. Lola had last been in here New Year’s Eve, where she’d first met Arthur.

  She had the disconcerting feeling of having traveled back in time.

  “What at you doing here?” she asked.

  A uniformed police officer approached.

  “Beg your pardon, Detective Inspector, but the coroner is ready for you.”

  Arthur gave the man a tight nod.

  Lola found her mouth hanging open. She closed it with a snap. “Detective Inspector?”

  He gave her another grim smile. “Remain here. I’ll return in a moment.”

  “Wait—” But he was already leaving.

  Her mother sat in the chair next to her and laid her hand over Lola’s.

  “How are you feeling?”

  �
��I’m not sure.” She lifted the cup but found it empty. When had that happened?

  Her mother gestured. Sir Caldwell brought her a fresh cup.

  “Drink this, my dear,” he told her.

  “Sir Caldwell?”

  “Deborah had the front desk telephone,” he told her. He put his hand on her mother’s shoulder, and she raised hers to clasp it, her engagement ring catching the light.

  It all came back to Lola in a rush that stole her breath.

  “Herr Prinz—”

  “Yes, we know,” her mother interrupted.

  “And Gordie—”

  “The young man is in custody,” Sir Caldwell assured her.

  “What?” Lola was on her feet in an instant and stalking across the room. She noted from the side of her eye where Gaspard and Jack stood speaking with a police officer, but her stride took her out of the room.

  She halted on the other side of the door.

  Arthur, no, Detective Inspector Blythe, and two other men were crouched near the prone body of Herr Eckhardt Prinz. Two police officers stood on either end of the stairs, one at the top of the first flight, and other at the bottom of the second, positioned to keep people away. Nearby, Mr. Abernathy, the intimidating head of hotel security, and Sir Winston Gladstone, the Director of the hotel, stood watching. Both looked as grim as Arthur, no Detective Inspector Blythe.

  At the bottom of the first flight of stairs, Lola saw Jerome and Henry. Henry raised his hand to her, trying for a smile and failing. Jerome was rocking on his heels with his hands clasped behind him, trying not to pace.

  Mr. Abernathy noticed her and approached.

  “Miss Rose,” he said in his slick, clipped tone, “please return to the Steward Room.”

  “I need to speak with Arthur. That is, Detective Inspector Blythe.” She was still reeling at the shock. Detective Inspector? No one had said a thing about him working for Scotland Yard. She’d thought him another entitled member of the gentry, not a . . . a what? Doer of good deeds? Finder of bad men? Whatever it was, she had not been prepared for it.

  Mr. Abernathy’s jaw ticked. “The detective inspector will speak with you shortly.” He gently but firmly took her by the upper arm. Lola knew she wouldn’t get anywhere fighting him, so she opted to shout instead.

  “Gordie couldn’t do it,” she called to Arthur. He turned his head.

  He studied her a moment, gave her a terse nod, and focused back on the dead man.

  Lola let Mr. Abernathy take her back to the Steward Room and escort her to her chair. As she sat, he gave her a warning look with that perfect stillness that made him look half-statue, half-predator, then retreated from the room.

  “Lola,” her mother said in her disapproving tone.

  Lola sank back into the chair, finding the leather stiff under her. “This chair is uncomfortable. I prefer the one in the lobby.”

  “I’ll speak with Arthur,” Sir Caldwell told her mother. “I don’t see why she cannot return to the suite.”

  Her mother nodded.

  “I want to stay here.” Lola sat up. “But maybe over there.” She stood and crossed to the sofa. Much better.

  Jack came over to her. “How are you holding up?”

  “I have tea.” She raised her cup. It was empty again. How did that keep happening?

  “I see that.”

  “Arthur works for Scotland Yard.”

  “Do you mean Detective Inspector Blythe?”

  Lola rolled her eyes and let it go. “What’s happened?”

  “That’s what everyone’s trying to figure out.”

  Jack sat down next to her. She glanced up to find Gaspard watching them.

  “It couldn’t have been Gordie,” she said quietly.

  “He was at the top of the stairs,” Jack reminded her. “And he fought with the man at the club.”

  “It was an argument, and barely that,” Lola defended, then lowered her voice. “He wasn’t the one plotting against the German.”

  Jack jerked upright, startled. “What?”

  “I was in the lobby,” she whispered. “I overheard you and Gaspard. He’s the friend you’re staying with, isn’t he?”

  His jaw tensed. “Lola—”

  “I know neither of you did anything. There wasn’t time between when I overheard your conversation and the—” She winced. “The death. That’s why I was with you,” she confessed, “to keep you from acting rashly. I thought you’d be less likely to do so in front of a witness.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he said with a snort. “Lola, seriously, it was all talk.”

  “And now he’s dead. What if I hadn’t been with you? What if it had been all three of you there when it happened? I heard your conversation, and I saw Gordie’s argument. You each had reason to hate him.”

  Jack bit back a response.

  Lola took his hand, the wounded one. He flexed it in her gentle grip and she could feel how his fingers barely moved. “I like you, Jack. I like Gordie too. And Gaspard is . . . competent.” She wasn’t sure what else to say about the man. He was fairly standoffish. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”

  “By that logic, Gordie can’t be guilty.”

  “Herr Prinz was drunk. We all saw that.”

  Jack shook his head.

  “He was staggering and sputtering in German. Why else would he take the stairs and not continue on the lift?” Why indeed? Perhaps he had felt ill.

  “Mr. Edgars.” One of the uniformed officers approached. “The detective inspector would like a word, please.”

  “Right.” Jack flexed his hand again in what she thought was a show of solidarity.

  “Tell the truth,” Lola warned him, “because I will.”

  His expression tensed, and he looked at Gaspard, whose own expression was hard. Lola had the impression that if she hadn’t had confessed what she’d overheard, they would have conveniently omitted it.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said quietly.

  “Me too.”

  Releasing her hand, he walked away.

  Lola sat back with a sigh. She raised her cup and smiled to Sir Caldwell. Now was an excellent time to take advantage of her soon-to-be stepfather’s gentlemanly nature. She was certain he wouldn’t mind. Perhaps she might learn why no one had told her about Arthur.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday, January 7th

  “When will you accept that he is innocent?”

  “Miss Rose—”

  “He had every right to be angry.”

  “Miss Rose—”

  “He’d lost a piece of his body, not to mention the parts of his soul.”

  “Please—”

  “I don’t understand why no one considers it an unfortunate accident. After all, we did see him staggering—”

  “Lola!”

  She fell silent. Arthur, no, Detective Inspector Blythe, rubbed his hand over his face as though exhausted. He probably was, though it hadn’t gotten in the way of his impeccable dress, clean shave, and tidy pale hair.

  “Finally.” She sat back and crossed her legs. Her navy- and cream-striped day dress was just long enough to cover her knees, pity that, but she was pleased to see he wasn’t immune to the sight of her calves. They were nice calves. Not as lovely as her knees, of course, but they would do.

  He looked at her. “Finally?”

  “I don’t know why you began the ‘Miss Rose’ business, but it was becoming annoying.”

  “I’m here in my official capacity of—”

  “A detective inspector,” she finished for him overly sweet. “That is a mouthful. Can I simply call you Inspector? Or Detective? No, why don’t we go back to where we were before I learned you work for Scotland Yard. Does that suit you, Arthur?” She stressed his name with a tone decidedly less sweet.

  He sighed. “You’re angry with me.”

  “I’m angry with the entire situation.” She stood and paced the length of the suite’s main room. The sun, pale and wan as it wa
s, did little to lighten her mood. “I’m angry and I’m shocked and I’m sick at heart.”

  Arthur had stood when she had. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” she snapped, turning on him. She drew up short at the look on his face. “Of course you do. I apologize, Arthur. I’m being beastly to you, and you are only here to do your job.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “A job no one bothered to tell me of.” She crossed her arms.

  Arthur drew in a long, self-suffering breath. “Lola—”

  She waved off his words. “It’s of no matter. For now, at least. It’s probably best that you are who you are. You can have Gordie released all the sooner.”

  Another long sigh and then he gestured to her chair. “Please?”

  Lola hesitated then swung to the tea tray, filled two cups, and brought them over after spooning a healthy dose of sugar and dollop of cream in hers.

  She set them on the low table between them.

  “Very well. I’m here. Let the interrogation commence.”

  Arthur managed not to sigh, if only barely.

  “I am sorry, Arthur,” Lola told him sincerely. “Why don’t I tell you what I recall?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  She waited.

  He waited.

  “Aren’t you going to write down what I say?”

  “I have an exceptional memory.”

  “The criminals must cringe with fear.”

  “Lola—”

  “I first met Herr Eckhardt Prinz the night before last.”

  “Where?”

  “Are you going to let me tell this, or shall I simply wait for you to ask questions?”

  Arthur sat back. “Please. Continue.”

  “Thank you. As I was saying, I met Herr Prinz in the Portage Club the night before last. My friend, Vera Tracy—” She paused. “Are you certain you don’t want to write this down?”

  “Lola—”

  “It’s amazing how you can make my name sound like a threat. However do you do that?”

  “Lately, with practice.”

  Lola chuckled, but then she sobered. She’d taunted him long enough. “Vera came into the club with Herr Prinz with her usual, well, flair. And before you ask, they had only just met in the lobby and she did not leave with him.”