by Joan Smith
Snoad watched me go. “Thank you for the watch, Miss Hume,” he called after me.
“You’re welcome. Good night, Mr. Snoad.”
It was not until I was downstairs that I noticed I had called him Mr. Snoad. Whatever possessed me to give him the dignity of that “Mr.,” when I had been calling him Snoad for years? It was his conversation, so surprisingly cultured. Who would have thought Snoad knew about Julius Caesar, and Shakespeare? He spoke like an educated man. I found myself wondering how he had been treated at Branksome Hall. I also searched my mind in vain for any mention of lung trouble when he first came to us.
The duchess thought highly enough of him to give him a gold watch, so there could be no scandal with her daughters. He was not what I thought he would be like at all. He was better-spoken, friendlier, more ... thoughtful, really quite nice. But dangerously handsome. I had underestimated his appeal. He was one of those people who improve on longer acquaintance. There would be no disgraceful scandal over the mistress of the house carrying on with a servant at Gracefield.
Chapter Four
Aunt Lovatt and I were relieved to see the weather was fine for our trip the next morning. The only regret was that I did not have proper mourning attire. I had outgrown the clothes from my mother’s mourning. The modiste had hastily fashioned one black gown for me, but it was a gown for evening. My pelisse was pale blue. Mrs. Lovatt decided that my navy traveling suit and navy straw bonnet with the flowers removed would be more fitting. They made me look like a governess, but I wore them. Mrs. Lovatt was better equipped. She, at least, would be wearing somber black.
Bunny Smythe posted over at eight-thirty, as promised. His mourning attire was limited to a black arm band and a black ribbon around his hat. Even in our well-sprung carriage, a journey of over fifty miles was no small undertaking. The road along the sea was well maintained and well traveled, however. Between the natural beauty of the coast and the diversion provided by many towns and villages, we were kept from brooding on the troublesome nature of our quest. After a stop for lunch at Eastbourne, we arrived at Brighton in midafternoon.
Both its charms and geography were familiar to us. Brighton was a favorite spot for a weekend’s vacation from Hythe. The Prince of Wales’s Pavilion had made it a mecca for holidayers of the nobility, and for the commoners who came to gawk at their antics. It was not the onion domes of the Royal Pavilion that drew our interest that day, but the Royal Crescent Hotel at the east end of town, just off the Marine Parade.
“We shall try if we can to get the same room Papa had,” I said as we approached the portals.
“The room will have been cleaned; you will not find any clues, if that is what you mean,” Mrs. Lovatt replied.
Still, it was worth a try. We were left cooling our heels at the desk. I put the time to good use to scan the registry. A lump formed in my throat when I saw Papa’s name, inscribed in his familiar crabbed script. Harold Hume, Esq., Gracefield, Hythe, it said. He was registered in the Prince George Suite. If the suite lived up to its name, it would be the most lavish set of rooms in the hotel. Such lordly accommodations did not sound like my father’s way of carrying on.
“We would like the Prince George Suite,” I announced when the clerk attended us. He was a pompous-looking little dandy, of the sort commonly called a “man milliner.”
He looked from me to Mrs. Lovatt, and over our shoulders to Bunny Smythe. “Is it a honeymoon, ma’am?” he asked. Mrs. Lovatt’s inclusion in the party confused him.
“No, it is Mrs. Lovatt and myself who wish the Prince George,” I said.
“That suite is often used by honeymooners.” He glanced at some papers beside the registry and said, “Unfortunately, that suite is spoken for. Lord Fairfield will be arriving any moment.”
“Oh dear, and I did so want to see Papa’s room,” I said to Auntie. “Would it be possible for us to just see it?” I asked the clerk. “My father was Mr. Harold Hume,” I added in an undertone, thinking the name would be familiar to him. A death at the hotel must have caused quite a ruckus.
He recognized the name at once. “A most tragic and regrettable accident,” he said. “I can show you the suite, if you would like a quick glance at it.”
“Yes, we would.”
“I can give you and Mrs. Lovatt the Eastview Room,” he suggested, and mentioned the lovely view from the window. We signed up for this chamber, and Bunny took a room on the west side with a promised view of the Royal Crescent.
The clerk, whose name was Mr. Soames, personally escorted us to the Prince George Suite. “Here we are,” he said, throwing the door open to a view of unaccustomed splendor. The gleam of gilt and glare of red canopy and window hangings struck the eye with a blinding force.
“Are you quite sure Mr. Hume stayed here?” Mrs. Lovatt asked in a weak voice.
“Yes indeed, ma’am. Mr. Hume always stayed in the best suite. I’ll just leave you to have a look around. But I should remind you, Lord Fairfield will be arriving shortly.” He bowed before leaving.
“Before you leave us, Mr. Soames,” I said, “could you tell us anything about my father’s death? How it came about, or when it happened. We were quite at a loss when we learned he was shot, for we had been told it was a heart attack.”
“Oh dear!” he said, with a worried look. “Oh dear. Shot—yes, we thought it was a water jar falling. Just at the supper hour it happened, when most of the rooms were empty.”
“Did he have any visitors?”
“No, none. He had been out that afternoon, and returned to change for dinner. Perhaps someone was with him. We are busy here, you know. We cannot keep an eye on everyone who comes into the hotel. We are all deeply sorry, Miss Hume.” He continued on a tide of condolences as he backed away. He was so flustered that I took pity on the man and let him escape.
We walked into the suite, staring and blinking in astonishment. “There is some mistake. Harold never stayed in this room,” Mrs. Lovatt declared.
Bunny had strolled to the bed and was lifting the skirt to peer under it. I went to the desk and began opening drawers to search for clues. It was Mrs. Lovatt who discovered the adjoining saloon. It was rigged up like a polite saloon, with sofas, tables, chairs, and pictures on the wall. When I joined her, she said, “Unless your papa held some important meetings here, I cannot imagine what he would want with this extravagance. It would cost a fortune.”
“It’s just as well we aren’t hiring it,” I said in a small voice. I had been going over my father’s bankbook when his estate was being wound up. He had not taken any very large sums from the bank prior to his trips to London—or Brighton. Soames had mentioned Papa “always” hired this lavish suite. Had he been coming here all along?
“Found something!” Bunny called in an excited tone.
We raced in to find him kneeling by the bed, holding a feather. “This was under the bed,” he announced.
“Good gracibus,” Mrs. Lovatt laughed. “He would not have brought the birds here. He would have left the cage in the stable. That is a goose feather, from a feather duster.”
Bunny pocketed the feather and we continued our search. The rooms revealed no further clues. We were about to give up and leave when the door flew open and a young gentleman stepped in. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at us. His eyes, of a brilliant cerulean blue, studied us each in turn, finally settling on me. “You must be Miss Hume,” he said, in a cultured voice.
“Yes, and you, I collect, are Lord Fairfield. I am sorry. We are just leaving.”
“The clerk explained that I might find you here—and the reason. May I express my condolences on your loss, Miss Hume. Please, take your time. I shall return later.”
While he spoke, I subjected the newcomer to a thorough examination, and decided he belonged on a pedestal in Greece. From the tip of his sleek golden head to the toe of his shining Hessians, and in every inch of the intervening six feet, he was perfection. His noble visage might have been chiseled by Pericles. Hi
s body, while somewhat slighter than the Greek ideal, was perfectly proportioned.
I pulled myself back to attention and replied, “We were just leaving, milord. I am sorry to have intruded.”
“On the contrary! It is I who feel an intruder. You must have this suite. We shall exchange.”
“Oh no! Really, that is not at all necessary. We only wanted to see it.”
“I insist!”
Mrs. Lovatt advanced to introduce herself and Mr. Smythe, as I had lost all sense of propriety. “Very kind of you, sir, but we do not require such a lavish set of rooms.”
“Nor do I!” he insisted.
“But we don’t want it, milord!” I assured him.
“We cannot afford it,” Mrs. Lovatt added bluntly, as her concern for the gentleman’s good opinion did not quite match mine.
“I shall arrange the matter to your satisfaction,” he said, and left, his ears still ringing with denials.
“What a pickle!” I complained. “You need not have told him we couldn’t afford it, Auntie. He was just trying to be civil.”
“Daresay he didn’t want it himself, once he got a look at it,” Bunny said.
We were still discussing the vexing situation a moment later when our bags were brought up by a hotel page, accompanied by the pompous little clerk. I used the word “little” in the sense of insignificant. Soames was tall as a bean pole, and of roughly similar width.
“Lord Fairfield insists you have his suite. There will be no change in the price of your accommodation,” Soames said discreetly.
“We don’t want him to pay for us,” I exclaimed.
“The hotel is happy to defray the cost, madam, as a token of our esteem for your late father’s patronage.”
“In that case, I hope you will thank Lord Fairfield for us. And thank you, sir,” Mrs. Lovatt said.
Satisfied smiles were exchanged all around. Even Mrs. Lovatt was content with the arrangement. We were both fully alive to the glories of the suite, and particularly to the benefit of getting it at a nominal cost. She allowed it was “very handsome” of both Lord Fairfield and the hotel to take this generous stand. Bunny Smythe went to his room, promising to return shortly.
“We shall write up some notices for the Brighton journals, Heather, inquiring for information of your father, and have them delivered at once,” Mrs. Lovatt said. “I’ll include the word ‘urgent.’ If they appear in tomorrow’s papers, we shall not have to stay longer than two days.”
“I wonder how long Lord Fairfield is remaining in town,” I said, smiling vaguely at the doorway that had taken my hero away.
“He didn’t say. I wonder if we ought to write him a note and thank him,” Auntie said, striding purposefully to the desk. She drew out the cream vellum paper. “This stationery looks almost too good to use for the notices.”
I helped myself to a sheet. “It will do nicely for my note to Lord Fairfield.”
While I struggled over making a three-line note to Lord Fairfield a thing of beauty, Mrs. Lovatt wrote and sealed notices to the three Brighton journals. Mr. Smythe returned as we were sealing our respective missives.
“No need for us to deliver them. The hotel will have them taken around,” he informed us.
“Excellent, then that leaves us free to have a nice cup of tea,” Mrs. Lovatt said. “My head is splitting after our long drive. We’ll have it in the saloon. That saloon will come in handy if we actually get any replies to those notices. We cannot interview strangers in the bedroom, and the lobby would not give us any privacy.”
She pulled the bell chord, sent off the various letters, and ordered tea. When we were comfortable in the saloon with tea poured and a plate of sandwiches before us, we got down to discussing our unhappy business.
“The next step is to visit a constable and show him the bullet holes in Papa’s jacket,” I said.
“I’ll handle that,” Bunny said. “No need for you ladies to be put upon. I’ll find out which officer handled the case and give him a stiff quizzing. Seems to me there ought to have been some clues. Mean to say, you don’t shoot a fellow in a high-class hotel like this without attracting some attention. And some blood,” he added, peering down at the striped sofa.
I stiffened, and began to look around the carpet and sofa.
“I already checked,” Mrs. Lovatt said. “If it happened in this room, the hotel has cleared away all signs. You might ask that nice, friendly clerk exactly where it happened, Mr. Smythe.”
“I’ll have a word with him, too.” He lifted a ham sandwich, frowned at it, then returned it to his plate. All this talk of blood had taken away everyone’s appetite for meat. He reached for a slice of cream cake instead. Two slices later, he was just rising to leave when there was a tap on the door.
An image of Lord Fairfield leapt into my head. I made an unladylike bolt for the door. A shy smile sat on my lips as I drew it open. The smile faded to a question at the first view of the caller. He was as insignificant and uninteresting as Lord Fairfield was outstanding and memorable. The man was of medium height, pale of face, with straight brown hair and hazel eyes. He was outfitted like a gentleman in a decent blue jacket and faun trousers, but one looked in vain for any elegance or charm. Stick a pencil behind his ear, and he might be a junior clerk from any place of business.
“Miss Hume?” he asked, in a flat voice.
“I am Miss Hume.”
“Depew,” he said, handing me a card. I glanced at it and read Sir Chauncey Depew, K.B.E. The name meant nothing to me, but my lively imagination soon suggested that Lord Fairfield was involved.
“Might I have a word with you?” He looked up and down the hall, as if afraid of being overheard.
“Certainly,” I said, and stood aside to let him enter.
“I have come about your father’s death,” he announced.
“Pray come into the saloon, Sir Chauncey.” He looked taken aback to see I had company. “This is my aunt, Mrs. Lovatt. Mr. Hume’s sister,” I explained. “And this is my cousin, Mr. Smythe.”
Bunny narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Sir Chauncey bowed. He looked unhappily at Smythe. “This is a private matter,” he said to me, sotto voce.
“Mr. Smythe is here for the purpose of helping me look into Papa’s death. You can count on his discretion,” I said.
“Mum’s the word,” Bunny said, tapping his nose.
Sir Chauncey was given a seat. He looked around nervously, moistened his lips, and said, “An extremely distressing business. My first duty is to tender my condolences. An extremely regrettable affair.”
“Thank you,” I said dutifully, waiting to hear what more pressing reason had brought him.
“I was to meet your father here the evening he ... passed away.”
“Did you meet him?” I demanded. At last, someone who knew what had really happened!
“No, he was gone by the time I arrived.”
“Do you mean gone from the premises, or dead?” I asked bluntly.
“Deceased.” He could not bring himself to use the common four-letter word.
“What was your business with him, Sir Chauncey?” Mrs. Lovatt asked.
“He was to give me some information—a message,” he said vaguely.
“We don’t know what you are talking about,” I said bluntly. “We have come here to look for information, not give it. Was it something to do with the pigeons?”
“Precisely!” he said, with a significant nod of his head, which meant nothing to any of his auditors.
“You would have to speak to Snoad, my father’s helper with his birds, about that. He is at Gracefield,” I explained.
“Snoad,” Depew said, puzzling over the name. “Were the birds your father brought with him returned to Gracefield then?”
I just stared a moment, thinking. “That is odd! His coffin was returned, and his valise, but what happened to the birds? He usually took a dozen with him.”
“They are not here. I inquired,” Depew said.
&n
bsp; “Was it a particularly valuable bird you were interested in?” Mrs. Lovatt asked.
“Extremely valuable,” Depew replied, frowning.
Smythe took no part in the conversation, except to listen and look. What he stared at for the most part was the buttons on Depew’s jacket. They were rather ornate, with some sort of crest on them.
Mrs. Lovatt said, “If they are not here, I daresay the hotel got rid of them. They would have starved long since, with no one to feed them.”
Depew shook his head. “I inquired the night of your father’s demise. The cage was already missing.”
I thought it showed a lack of feeling that Depew should have worried about pigeons at such a time, but I knew well enough that Papa was equally obsessed by the birds, and forgave him.
“I am sorry we cannot be of help to you, sir, but if you wish to be in touch with Mr. Snoad, I daresay he could sell you a bird of equal value to the one you wanted to buy. He knows as much about all that business as my father did.”
Smythe said, “Was it here you was to meet Mr. Hume, or in London, Sir Chauncey?”
“London?” he asked, startled. “No, it was here. Why should you think it was London?”
“Because my father’s coffin was sent from London,” I explained. “That is where he told us he was going, to a meeting of the Columbidae Society. It is very odd, is it not?”
Sir Chauncey frowned into his collar. “London! That is odd.” He looked as if he would say more, but he came to an abrupt halt. “Are you quite certain?”
“Indeed we are,” I assured him. “It is a matter of the utmost confusion to us as well, Sir Chauncey.”
“London,” he repeated. His shock now held a tinge of something akin to fear.
He drew out his watch and glanced at it. As his jacket moved aside, Smythe peered to check the lining. It was of yellow silk. “I must dash. Snoad, you said, at Gracefield?”
“Yes, Mr. Snoad is tending the pigeons,” I assured him.
Depew rose. “Thank you very much, Miss Hume. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am, sir,” he added to the others, already hastening to the door.
