Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

by C. J. Archer

  “Then I’ll put your bag away for you.”

  “That’s all right. It needs to go up high. I’ll ask one of the men to do it.”

  Instead of returning to the bedroom, she headed for the front door. “We don’t need men.”

  She left the suite and returned a moment later with a step ladder. She opened the door of the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe and set the ladder in place then hefted my empty bag and hat box up to the top shelf.

  “The trunk can be stored elsewhere in the hotel,” she said, stepping down. “You won’t be needing it.” She dusted off her hands and folded up the ladder. “Anything else? Do you require something to eat?”

  “I just ate.”

  “A cup of chocolate? Our chefs make the most delicious hot chocolate.” Her eyes half-closed in pleasure. “I’ve tried it twice when there was some left over.”

  “Perhaps later. Flossy told me I can use the speaking tube and order what I want and a footman will deliver it from the kitchen.” I pointed at the brass mouthpiece.

  “You can, but I thought since I’m here I might as well be useful.” She carried the ladder through to the sitting room and looked around. After a moment, she leaned the ladder against the edge of the desk and assembled the papers I’d left scattered about. She set them down in a neat stack and flipped the lid closed on the inkwell.

  She turned to me and smiled. “Anything else?”

  “All is in order, thank you, Harmony.”

  “Do you have any mending? I’m very good with a needle and thread.”

  “No mending.”

  “Would you like me to air out your clothes for the morning?”

  “I’ll be wearing this again.”

  Her smile slipped a little. “But it’s Christmas Day. Do you have something special to wear?”

  “I’ll put some ribbons in my hair.”

  “Oh. Well then, perhaps I could help you undress and put on your night clothes.”

  “I can do it myself, thank you.”

  “What about your hair?” She stepped closer and, thanks to her height, inspected my arrangement from above.

  “I can also do my hair myself,” I assured her. “It’s not complicated.”

  She sighed.

  “I appreciate your offer, Harmony, but there’s really no need to fuss. I’m used to taking care of myself. I’ve never had a maid before.”

  “You haven’t? But you’re a Bainbridge.”

  “Actually, I’m a Fox. We’re the Bainbridges’ poor relations.” I attempted a laugh but it fell flat when Harmony gave me a blank look. I supposed her notion of poor and mine were quite different, and it wasn’t fair of me to call myself that when I was living in a luxury hotel where she worked.

  “I just want to be of use,” she said before I could change the subject. “We don’t have many guests at the moment, and I find myself idle most evenings back at the residence hall. I like to do a little sewing or spot cleaning while we maids chat until bedtime. Some guests require my assistance of an evening, but most ladies bring their own maids. It’ll be busy closer to the ball, of course, but until then…” She shrugged and her darting gaze looked around the room again. Suddenly her face brightened. “I could fix your hair in the morning. Something a little more elaborate.”

  I touched my hair. Elaborate had never really been something I could manage on my own, and my grandmother hadn’t been any help. She preferred old fashioned simple styles. Fortunately I rarely attended events that required complicated arrangements.

  “Please say yes,” Harmony said. “I can come in after my early duties are accomplished and before I have to clean the rooms.”

  “You work long hours.”

  “I have two half days off a week, which is more than most maids at country manors. Well? Shall I do your hair each morning? Your cousin has hers done, and Lady Bainbridge too, when she leaves her room.”

  “Very well. But only if you don’t have too much work to do. I don’t want to add to your burden.”

  She smiled and picked up the ladder. “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow, Christmas morning. Goodnight, Miss Fox. I hope your first night in your new home won’t feel too strange.”

  I smiled back. “Thank you, Harmony. I think I’m going to like it here.”

  It was closer to eight-thirty when Harmony knocked on my door in the morning. She rushed in, a little out of breath, her dark eyes huge.

  “I’m sorry for my lateness,” she said, a hand to her stomach.

  “You look flustered. Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head. “Something terrible has happened. Mrs. Warrick from room three-two-four died overnight.”

  “How awful. What did she die of?”

  “That’s the terrible thing. They’re saying she was murdered.”

  Chapter 3

  I directed Harmony to my sitting room but she refused to sit on the sofa. “I’m all right. Just a little shaken.”

  I poured her a glass of water from the jug and handed it to her. She wrapped both hands around it and drank.

  “Better?” I asked when she passed the glass back.

  She rose and smoothed down her apron. “Thank you, Miss Fox. Now, come and take a seat at the dressing table, and let’s do something pretty with your hair. Lord! I almost forgot! Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you too, although there’s nothing merry about it now. That poor woman.”

  Harmony still looked shaken, but her hands were steady enough as she brushed out my hair. Her gaze, however, seemed unfocused. “I don’t understand, though,” she said, as if we’d been in the middle of a conversation. “Why would one of the staff want to poison her?”

  “Poisoned!”

  “The police are questioning Danny, the footman who brought her hot chocolate last night.”

  “They think he did it?”

  “It seems so.”

  “Does he have a motive?”

  “Motive?” she echoed.

  “A reason for killing Mrs. Warrick?”

  She scooped my hair back with the brush, letting it cascade over her other hand. “She reported him after he spilled hot chocolate on her fur coat the night before last. He ruined it, so she said. She demanded the money to replace it be taken out of his wages.” She clicked her tongue. “It would take Danny a year to replace something so valuable. He was cross with her, and quite rightly so, but not enough to kill her.” She stopped brushing and her gaze connected with mine in the mirror. “I’m worried the police will think it is reason enough. Lord knows, men have hanged based on less evidence.”

  “I’m sure the manager will vouch for Danny.”

  She put down the brush and started parting my hair. “Mr. Hobart is a good man.”

  “So the police are here now?”

  She nodded. “They’ve inspected the room and taken the cup away for testing. They’re about to interview staff.”

  “That’s promising. It means they’re keeping an open mind and don’t blame that particular footman.”

  “True, but what if they come up with another suspect amongst the staff? No good will come of this for us,” she warned. “We’ll all be tainted now, from the lowliest scullery maid right up to your uncle. The bad publicity will cause all sorts of problems, particularly if the killer isn’t caught before the ball. Can you imagine if the ball is canceled? That’s our major event of the winter. If it’s canceled, the reservations will follow. It could be a disaster for the hotel.”

  My uncle must be very worried. The newspapers would relish splashing details of the murder across their front pages.

  Harmony placed some hair pins between her lips and spoke around them. “Sir Ronald will want the killer caught quickly to minimize scandal. I’m afraid the police won’t be thorough enough in their search for the killer, and will blame the easiest culprit.”

  “Danny.” I handed her more pins as she used up the last between her lips. “Don’t worry about an elaborate arrangement this morning, Ha
rmony. The sooner you’re done, the sooner I can find out what’s happening.”

  It might not be my business, but I wanted to know more details. My uncle could railroad the police into rushing their investigation for the sake of the hotel’s reputation. And as Harmony feared, the person to suffer could very well be an innocent employee.

  I found Floyd yawning in the corridor just outside his father’s office. Low voices could be heard on the other side of the door, but other than being male, I couldn’t determine who they belonged to.

  “Merry Christmas,” Floyd said wryly. “By the look on your face, I suspect you’ve heard.”

  “I did. How awful.”

  “Father is beside himself with worry. He’s talking to the police now, but they’re refusing to make an arrest without more evidence.”

  “I’m glad they’re being thorough.”

  “Thorough?” He grunted. “I wish they’d just bloody get on with it. The sooner they arrest someone, the better. The hotel can’t afford for this to drag on.”

  “Surely it’s only better if the right someone is arrested.”

  He grunted again.

  A door opened further along the corridor, and Flossy emerged, her hair down around her shoulders and a dressing gown thrown over her nightdress. “My maid just told me what happened,” she said as she rushed towards us. “Poor Mrs. Warrick. And on Christmas Day, too.”

  “You knew her well?” I asked, taking the hand she stretched out to me.

  “Only by sight. I’d never met her. She was the lady waiting at the lift with us yesterday.”

  I remembered her. She’d talked to herself about a man she’d seen who was out of place in the hotel. She’d been looking in Mr. Armitage’s direction as she said it.

  Floyd indicated his father’s office door. “Now that we’re all together, we might as well get this over with. The police want to question the three of us about our movements last night.”

  “Us?” Flossy clutched her nightgown closed at her throat. “Why?”

  Her brother waggled his brows at her. “Because they think one of us did it.”

  She gasped, and he chuckled.

  “They’re just following a process,” I assured her. “It doesn’t mean anything. They’ll probably ask all the staff what they were doing at the time of the murder.”

  Flossy went pale. “Murder,” she whispered. “It’s so awful to have the hotel’s good name dragged through the mud like this, and just before the ball, too. What if our friends get wind of it and don’t come?”

  I expected Floyd to tease her to make light of it, but he just muttered, “Indeed.”

  He knocked and opened the door. A uniformed constable stood beside the bookshelf, a notebook in hand. A second man, dressed in a dark gray suit, sat at the desk opposite Uncle Ronald. He looked familiar, but if it weren’t for his distinctive bright blue eyes, I wouldn’t have guessed why. What was a relative of Mr. Hobart’s doing in Uncle Ronald’s office after a murder?

  “Ah, the rest of the family,” he said, rising. “Come in, come in. The sooner we get these interviews over with, the sooner we can move on and enjoy Christmas festivities, although it’ll be difficult to get into the spirit, I imagine.” He extended his hand to Floyd. “Detective Inspector Hobart, Scotland Yard.”

  “Hobart?” Floyd glanced at his father.

  “Your manager is my brother,” the detective said.

  “Delighted to meet you,” Flossy said, putting out her hand. “Please excuse my appearance.”

  The detective inspector grasped her hand loosely and seemed unsure whether to shake it, kiss it, or bow over it. He let it go quickly and shook mine when I extended it to him as Floyd had done.

  “You must be Florence,” he said to me. “I see the resemblance with your brother.”

  “I’m Cleo Fox,” I said. “Sir Ronald’s niece. Flossy is Floyd’s sister.” I indicated my cousin.

  The inspector put up his hands. “My apologies to you both.”

  “Get on with it,” Uncle Ronald growled. “This is a waste of time, anyway. None of us did it.”

  “Perhaps one of you saw something relevant. Telling me where you were last evening might bring important evidence to light.”

  “Approximately what time did the murder take place?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not speculate here and now. I’m inquiring about everyone’s movements throughout the late afternoon and evening, just to be sure.”

  “Did she dine in the dining room?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind detailing your movements, Miss Fox.”

  I told him I’d written letters then been taken on a tour by Mr. Armitage, which produced a small smile on the detective’s lips. “I dined with my uncle and cousins at eight, then retired to my rooms. I went to bed a little before eleven. I awoke at seven-thirty this morning, but didn’t hear of the murder until just now when a maid mentioned it.”

  The constable scribbled furiously in his notepad throughout my retelling. Flossy recounted her evening next, but it was as uneventful as mine. She sat with her mother after dinner then went to bed. Uncle Ronald worked in his office until midnight after having a brief discussion with Mr. Armitage at the conclusion of our dinner. Floyd said he went out.

  “Where did you go?” Detective Inspector Hobart asked.

  “To a gentleman’s club.”

  “The name of the club?”

  “You wouldn’t know it. It’s very private.”

  “Nevertheless.” The detective waited, his face friendly and eyes sparkling in the pale morning light filtering through the window.

  “Does it matter?” Uncle Ronald spat. “My son isn’t the murderer. He wasn’t here. None of us poisoned Mrs. Warrick.” He flicked his hand towards the door. “Do your job, Inspector, or I’ll have you replaced. I want this matter resolved today.”

  “I’ll do my best, but it’s unlikely we’ll have an answer today. There are a lot of staff and guests to interview—”

  “Do not talk to the guests! Is that understood? They are not to be bothered.”

  The inspector pursed his lips, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The two men entered a glaring match until the inspector departed the office. The constable followed.

  Floyd flopped onto a chair. “Incompetent fool. Clearly our Hobart got all the brains in the family.”

  Uncle Ronald glowered at him from beneath the deep shelf of his brow. Floyd swallowed heavily and rose. He left the office. Flossy and I followed.

  While Floyd and Flossy returned to their rooms, I joined Detective Inspector Hobart and his constable at the lift.

  “The stairs are faster,” I said.

  “So I discovered on the way up.” The inspector smiled at me. “You’ve just arrived at the hotel, I believe.”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “What a shocking introduction to your new home, and on Christmas Day too, a day of peace and goodwill. I hope this doesn’t reflect poorly on The Mayfair in your eyes. The hotel has an exemplary reputation.”

  “I didn’t think murders happened very often here, but thank you for the reassurance.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll take the stairs, Constable. The lift doesn’t seem like the most efficient device.”

  “May I join you?” I asked, following anyway.

  The stairwell was quiet, but I knew from experience that voices echoed so I kept mine low. “Is it true you suspect the footman who delivered Mrs. Warrick’s hot chocolate last night?”

  The detective’s step slowed. “I’m keeping an open mind at this juncture.”

  “That is a relief because I have it on good authority that he’s not the type to commit murder just because Mrs. Warrick accused him of ruining her fur coat.”

  “In my experience, people who are not the type commit murder all the time.” He softened his harsh statement with a smile. “But I don’t expect an innocent young woman such as yourself to know that.”

  He quickened his pace, perhaps in the hope
of leaving me behind. I picked up my skirts so as not to trip over them as I kept up.

  “Was the poison definitely in her pot of hot chocolate?”

  He hesitated. “The pot and cup have been taken away for testing, along with the teacup delivered by the maid who discovered the body this morning.”

  That was neither confirmation nor denial. Surely if the chocolate cup held the poison, it could be smelled or a residue had been left behind.

  “Have you questioned the footman who delivered it?” I asked.

  “I have.”

  “And the chef who made it?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited, but he offered no more information. “I assume they both deny adding poison to the pot of chocolate.” Again, I waited, but he said nothing. “Did anyone else handle the pot in the meantime?”

  “That is not yet clear.”

  “I don’t understand. Was the chocolate unattended between the chef making it and the footman collecting it or was it not?”

  He stopped on the top step of the next flight. By my estimation, we were somewhere between the second and first floor. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I simply want to understand how it could have happened that a guest was poisoned and no one knows who put the poison into her cup.”

  “As do I, Miss Fox. As do I.”

  He continued on and I almost let him go. Almost.

  “I thought of one more question,” I said.

  “Only one?” he muttered. The constable snickered, but it withered when the inspector glared at him.

  “I appreciate your patience in answering me, Inspector,” I said in my sweetest voice. “You’ve been most indulgent. My question is, was there any sign the door to Mrs. Warrick’s room had been forced? Was the lock broken?”

  The silence was peppered with the taps of our footsteps on the stairs, and finally broken by the constable clearing his throat.

  “If it were forced open,” I went on, “that means the footman didn’t do it. Mrs. Warrick would have let him in if she was expecting him.”

  “Is that so?” the inspector asked. I detected a hint of humor in the idle question. I wasn’t sure if my attempt at detecting amused him or he was laughing at my lurching to conclusions. He gave no hint whether my conclusion was correct or not. I needed to find out.