Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

by C Jane Reid

  “Mr. Argyle,” she greeted the elderly desk clerk. Mr. Argyle, his silver hair in perfect style as befitted a former butler, turned his keen, hazel eyes to her.

  “Miss Rose.”

  Mr. Argyle’s accent was absolutely perfect. His carriage was perfect. His poise was perfect. His carefully neutral expression was perfect.

  Lola made it a habit to try to ruffle him. She had yet to succeed, but she was working her way up from silly to eccentric. Not today, however.

  “Might you know,” she said, knowing he would know exactly, “how I might go about visiting a person detained by the police?”

  Mr. Argyle arched a slender brow.

  Lola could have cheered. She’d never managed a brow raise. And she hadn’t even tried.

  “Yes,” he answered. She waited. He said nothing more.

  “Will you tell me?”

  His mouth tightened ever so little.

  Twice! She’d gotten to him twice!

  “No.”

  Lola blinked. “No?”

  “May I assist you in your inquiry?”

  “You mean you’ll go to the police?”

  A tiny little sigh.

  She was on a roll.

  “I shall make a telephone call.” He said the word with disdain, no doubt because he would prefer to send a telegram. Or a lad.

  “I’d rather go in person, thank you.”

  They stared at one another.

  “Is this about my mother marrying Sir Caldwell?”

  “No, miss. I would never presume.”

  “But you’ll presume to keep me away from the police?”

  “No, miss.”

  Ah.

  “It must be the man they are holding, then.”

  Another tiny little sigh.

  “Miss—”

  “Lola!”

  She whirled, her coat and skirt flaring around her legs.

  “Brandon!”

  He came up to her with a concerned expression. A young woman was with him, looking curious.

  Lola felt a moment of misgiving. Where was Willa?

  “Are you quite all right?” Brandon took hold of her hands. “By Jove, when I heard the news about Gordie—”

  “You heard?”

  “It’s in the rags,” the woman said. She elbowed Brandon.

  “Oh, yes, Lola, this is my sister, Daphne.”

  “Older sister,” she added archly, but to Lola she smiled. “Pleased to meet you at last.”

  “And you. I hadn’t known Brandon had a sister.”

  “We often pretend the other does not exist.”

  Lola wasn’t certain if Daphne was being honest or playful.

  “Are you quite all right?” Brandon asked again.

  “I’m fine. A little put out with Mr. Argyle, though.”

  She cast the elderly ex-butler a look. He did not react.

  “What has good old Argyle done?”

  “He refuses to tell me how to see Gordie.”

  “You want to see him?” Daphne’s eyes widened. Her eyes were sloped on the edges, giving her a serious expression that clashed with her perfect cupid bow mouth, which she’d emphasized with dark red lipstick. The shade matched her coat, and the black fur trim matched the kohl around her already dark eyes. Her hair, what Lola could see from under her dark red, black trimmed cloche, was dark curls. She and Brandon did share a resemblance, but only in features. Their expressions were opposite, with Brandon’s confused concern and Daphne’s in serious consideration.

  “He’s innocent,” Lola declared.

  She heard a discrete cough come from behind the desk.

  Fourth reaction. She had no idea a possible murder could move Mr. Argyle so. Or maybe it was simply her involvement. Because she was involving herself.

  “You could catch a taxi,” Brandon suggested.

  “Don’t be daft,” Daphne told him. “She can’t take a taxi to the police station.”

  “Why not? The driver would know the way.”

  “One,” Daphne answered, ticking it off on her finger, “she’s a young woman asking to go to a police station. How is a driver going to react?”

  “By taking her?”

  “You should never go in a taxi without being aware of exactly where your destination is,” Daphne intoned it like a schoolroom tutor.

  “Then why take a taxi?”

  Daphne didn’t bother to answer. “Two,” she continued instead, ticking off another finger, “her mother is engaged to Sir Caldwell Blythe.”

  “And?”

  “Really, Bran, there are times when I pity your wife.”

  Brandon’s jaw tightened. “I am not married.”

  “It’s only a matter of time. And three,” she said, not allowing him to respond, “you have an auto.”

  “Yes, I do.” Brandon straightened. “Yes, I do have a very fine Vauxhall D-Type,” he said with more certainty. “Lola, we can take you.”

  Behind her she heard Mr. Argyle sigh, his loudest yet. She also heard him lift the telephone.

  “Quick,” she mouthed to the siblings, and she darted toward the double doors, Brandon and Daphne fast behind her.

  “Auto?” she asked Brandon.

  “This way.”

  The doorman let them out of the hotel, though Lola suspected that Mr. Argyle would have stopped them if possible. The valet brought Brandon’s auto for them, pulling a handsome green auto with black fenders, green leather upholstery and a black top with green piping to a halt before them.

  “It is a very fine auto,” Lola complimented. Brandon smiled and handed her into the passenger side of the car as Daphne climbed to the rear.

  Brandon started the auto and pulled out onto the street.

  “Tell us everything,” Daphne demanded.

  Lola did so.

  “That’s quite a full evening,” Daphne remarked.

  “I say, Lola, we never should have left you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Brandon,” Lola told him. “You could hardly know what was coming.” She paused. “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “I was simply wondering if you might have overheard or seen anything that would now seem suspicious.”

  Daphne laughed, a sharp, short sound.

  Brandon glared at her, then smoothed his expression as he glanced past her to Lola. “No, I can’t say I did. That row with Gordie and the German, of course.” He winced. “I suppose that would be suspicious now, considering.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “He has an alibi?” Daphne asked.

  Lola hesitated.

  “No, I gather,” Daphne answered for her. “That’s a pity. It truly is. The newspaper made it sound very definitive that he was the perpetrator.”

  “Perpetrator?”

  “Don’t mind with her,” Brandon warned. “Daphne thinks using big words means she’s intelligent.”

  “Only if they are used correctly,” Daphne added archly. “And I do so.”

  Brandon pulled the auto to the side of the road in front of a plain brick, two story building. A few police officers mingled out front on the side walk.

  Lola slid out of the auto, not waiting for Brandon to open the door, which seemed to throw him off balance. Instead, she looped her arm through his and he regained his footing, metaphorically speaking.

  As they approached the entrance, Daphne on Brandon’s other side, one of the police officers stepped forward.

  “Might you be Miss Rose?” he asked, glancing from Daphne to Lola.

  Daphne answered before Lola could. “Possibly. You’re here to escort us to our friend. That is kind of you, but hardly necessary.”

  The police officer eyed her, then turned to Lola. “I apologize, Miss Rose, but you will not be able to speak with Mr. Canfield.”

  “Whyever not?”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “I’ve been instructed to ask you to respect the constabulary’s wishes on this.�
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  “Constabulary.” Daphne nodded. “That is a fine word.”

  The police officer glanced at her, baffled.

  “And who was this person who instructed you on behalf of the constabulary?” Lola asked tightly.

  The officer narrowed his eyes as though trying to think of a worthy response. She knew he was going to try to avoid answering, but she didn’t need him to.

  “Arthur.” She ground her teeth. “He is inside?”

  “Who, miss?”

  “Detective Inspector Arthur Blythe.” She pronounced each syllable clearly and distinctly. And then muttered, “The cousin’s son.”

  Brandon coughed to cover his chuckle.

  “I’m afraid—”

  “Of course you are,” Lola interrupted.

  She began to turn away, fuming, when a young woman leaving the building caught her eye.

  Marilyn.

  She was crying.

  “Marilyn,” Lola called, waving at the woman. Marilyn stopped when she saw Lola. Her woebegone expression hardened into hatred.

  “That’s a little dramatic,” Daphne observed.

  “You.” Marilyn stalked over, her hands in fists. She was trembling. “This is all your doing.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll get no such courtesy from me.” She let out a barely contained sob. “And if Gordie isn’t released, I’ll— I’ll—”

  “Miss,” the police officer interrupted, reminding them that he was standing there. “Allow me to call you a taxi.”

  Marilyn nodded tersely, still glaring at Lola. She looked as though she wanted nothing more than to push Lola into traffic.

  “And you lot,” he said to the three of them, “move along.”

  “As you like, officer,” Brandon said, taking Lola’s arm and pulling it around his. “Come along, Lola, old girl. Let’s be off. It’s nearly time for luncheon, and I could use a tipple.”

  Lola let him lead her back to the auto.

  “Of all the nerve,” she swore when they were back on the street.

  “This Arthur had best know what he’s gotten himself into,” Daphne said.

  “He has no idea.” Lola clench her jaw. But he would, just as soon as she could track him down.

  Chapter Ten

  When Lola calmed down, she looked out the window to find they were driving through a fancy neighborhood. The houses were tall, elegant, and manicured. The autos, what she saw of them, were the same.

  “Where are we?”

  “We were coming to invite you to tea before the detour to Scotland Yard,” Daphne said. “And pick up Willa afterward as she was expected to attend an early tea with her mother. She’ll be waiting.”

  “Thought you could use a cuppa,” Brandon added. “Or at least something warming.”

  “What sort of tea was Willa attending?” Lola asked, suspicious.

  “The usual harmless sort with the ladies,” Brandon assured her.

  Daphne and Lola exchanged looks. That didn’t sound harmless in the least.

  Brandon pulled the auto to a halt in front of an old, lovely house. House didn’t quite match the building. Estate? Mansion? Small palace?

  “The Earl’s home?” she asked.

  “His city home,” Daphne answered. “Have you met the Earl?”

  “I’ve only seen him from a distance.”

  “That is the best way to meet him.”

  Lola laughed.

  This time, she waited for Brandon to open her door. They followed him to the front door, a rather intimidating creation, and knocked. It didn’t take long for a young man in fancy livery to answer.

  “Is Miss Maitlyn available?” Brandon asked. “Mr. and Miss Darring and Miss Rose to see her.”

  “Yessir.” The lad stepped back to allow them entry. He gestured to a nearby room and they retreated there.

  Lola sat so she wouldn’t wander, staring. The place was impressive. Artistic, stylish, fashionable, and far, far too lovely to be a room used often.

  “Lola!” Willa rushed to her. Lola stood to meet her and was greeted with a strong embrace.

  “You poor thing.” Willa stroked her back. “Was it terrible?”

  “It was shocking.”

  “Are you quite recovered?”

  “I’m much better, yes.”

  “Good.” Willa drew back, taking hold of her hands. Her expression had gone from raging concerned to insistent curiosity. “Tell me everything.”

  “Now just you wait, Willa,” Vera said from behind her. She gave Lola a hug and before she pulled away, she whispered, “I’m not surprised. He was awful.”

  Lola wished she could disagree.

  “Let’s take this somewhere less Earlish,” Daphne suggested.

  “That is not a word,” Brandon accused.

  “I rather like it,” Willa said. She smiled becomingly to Brandon, who melted.

  “It is fitting, isn’t it?”

  Daphne rolled her eyes.

  They returned to the auto. This time, Willa sat up front and Lola, Vera, and Daphne squeezed into the back.

  “Where to?” Brandon asked.

  “The scene of the crime,” Daphne stated.

  “That hardly makes for a suitable place to take tea.”

  “I think she meant the Regal Rose,” Willa told him.

  “But not the Tea Rose,” Lola said.

  “We can dine,” Willa said. “I’m famished. I could hardly touch a morsel without some comment upon my weight.”

  “You’re absolutely perfect,” Brandon defended. “They’re daft to think otherwise.”

  Vera and Daphne exchanged glances, then both focused on Lola, who merely shrugged.

  They ended up seated in The Empire, the largest of the four fine restaurants the Regal Rose Hotel boasted. The menu was pure British Isle cuisine, which suited Lola, who was new to it, and Brandon, who was not adventuresome and had firmly declined Daphne’s suggestion of the French or Italian restaurants.

  Once they had ordered, Willa repeated her demands for Lola to tell them everything. She did so once again, starting with the to-do in the nightclub, with Daphne adding a few observations and comments as she went.

  “Poor Gordie,” Willa said with a sorrowful expression. “I agree. He couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “The German was zozzled,” Brandon said. “Tripped down a flight.”

  Lola stared at Brandon, then at Willa, who mouthed “drunk.”

  “Gordie was in his right to be quite put out with Herr Arrogant,” Vera told them all.

  “It isn’t fitting to speak ill of the dead,” Willa reminded her. “Though,” she added, “he was abominable. Baiting poor Gordie like that.”

  “I’d say that the Portage Club wasn’t the first place he’d visited that evening,” Lola said.

  “That might have contributed to his poor judgment,” Daphne agreed.

  “Poor judgment of baiting Gordie or taking out Marilyn?” Lola asked.

  “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  Lola had to conceded that they probably were.

  “What do we do for Gordie?” Brandon asked. “We can’t very well let him hang for something he didn’t do.”

  “They haven’t arrested him yet,” Daphne reminded him.

  “He must be miserable.” Vera toyed distractedly with her food. “I bet they are feeding him porridge and stale scones.”

  “He would have had worse during the war,” Daphne observed.

  “Which is exactly why he shouldn’t have to eat it now. I’m going to have them make up a box to take to him.”

  “They wouldn’t let us in to see him,” Lola reminded her.

  “That’s because Arthur Blythe feels duty-bound to protect his family’s name,” Willa said, “and has enlisted Mr. Argyle into his scheme.”

  Lola had guessed as much, but hearing Willa state it aloud made her angrier about the situation.

  “They’ll let me in.” Vera gave them a saucy wink.r />
  “I hope so,” Lola said. “You can tell him we’re trying to prove his innocence.”

  “We are?” Brandon looked confused.

  “Yes, we are,” Willa told him. “How?” She directed that to Lola.

  Lola tapped her finger to her chin. “We need more information on the German, a reason he’d overindulge to the point where he’d fall down a flight of stairs. Perhaps it had to do with his argument with Miss Edie.” She’d refrained from mentioning the sale but had shared about seeing them at the Tea Rose.

  “Ask the staff,” Daphne suggested. “They always know more than they let on.”

  “That is true,” Willa said with a grin.

  “Something you’ve used in your favor, no doubt,” Vera said to her.

  “Naturally.”

  “Gaspard.” Lola declared. “He definitely didn’t like Herr Prinz, but I have it on good authority that he adores Madame Meunier.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Henry told me.”

  “Since when is the lift operator a good authority?”

  “As you said,” she reminded Daphne, “the help knows more than they let on.”

  They finished their meal, and Lola charged it to her room. Brandon made a noise of arguing until Daphne elbowed him.

  “Where will we find Gaspard?” Willa asked.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Argyle I need him.”

  “Need him for what?” Daphne asked.

  Lola looked at her.

  “You realize he is going to ask.”

  “Especially if Arthur has tasked him to watchdog you,” Vera added.

  Lola sighed.

  “Tell him you need the address of a boutique that you overheard another guest mention while at tea,” Willa told her.

  Lola raised her eyebrows at Willa.

  “Mr. Argyle will want to suggest several, but it is Gaspard’s job to do so, and Mr. Argyle wouldn’t dare intrude on another’s position at the hotel.” Willa looked smug.

  “She is right,” Daphne agreed.

  “This staff business is more complicated than I thought,” Lola admitted.

  “You get used to it.”

  Vera wished her luck and departed with a boxed meal for Gordie. Brandon offered to drive her, and Willa joined them.