by C. J. Archer
“Don’t I? And what does a typical guest of The Mayfair Hotel look like?”
He nodded at the gentlemen. “Older.”
“You’re not old.”
He was indeed not. I gauged him to be in his middle to late thirties going by the dashes of gray specks in his sideburns. He was also handsome, but not in an overt way. He wasn’t a man that women would gush over, but his features were pleasingly arranged and there was an air of refinement about him and in the way in which he held my gaze. This man did not lack confidence.
“Perhaps I was being unkind to my fellow guests. Not all are stuck in their ways like those two. I’ve seen some younger ones coming and going. I hear Sir Ronald’s son brings in a younger crowd.”
“Is that so? I wouldn’t know. I only arrived yesterday.”
“Alone?”
I gave him an arched look, and he instantly apologized.
“Forgive me, the question was too personal, but innocently meant.” He offered me another bow, deeper this time. When he straightened, his smile had vanished and he did indeed seem apologetic.
I decided to be honest. If I wanted him to trust me enough to tell me about himself, I had to give something of myself in return. “I arrived alone but I live with my family on the fourth floor. Sir Ronald Bainbridge is my uncle.”
He paused, the cigarette halfway to his lips. “Does your uncle know you’ve taken up smoking today?”
I leaned in a little. “No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him or anyone else. I’m not sure I’ll continue with the habit. I can’t seem to get the technique right.” I inhaled and coughed again.
Mr. Hookly placed his cigarette between smiling lips. He blew out a smoke ring. “You’ll get used to it. But perhaps giving up before you properly begin is a good idea. It’s a terribly addictive habit.”
“Tell me, what brings you to London—and The Mayfair in particular?” I asked, trying to sound as though I were merely attempting to make small talk.
“I’ve newly returned to English soil from Africa.”
“Africa! How thrilling.” He did not look as though he’d just come from a hot land. He wasn’t tanned. I supposed he could have worn a wide-brimmed hat out of doors to protect his pale skin.
“Do you think so?” He seemed to like my enthusiastic response, his shoulders squaring ever so slightly.
“What were you doing there?”
“Mining. Trouble with the Boers was worsening, however, so I decided to return to England. I sold my mine just before war broke out and here I am.” He spread his hands apart. “I came directly to London after my ship docked to purchase all necessaries for a brisk English winter. I don’t recall it ever being this cold, however.”
“Are you staying for the ball?”
“I think I will, yes. Sir Ronald has asked me to and issued me an invitation personally just today, as it happens. I suspect the personal touch was in response to the murder and not because he particularly desires my company for the evening. Nasty business, isn’t it? I hope they find the killer soon.”
“They arrested one of the footmen this afternoon.”
“Good. Glad that’s resolved. I feel better knowing there are no killers wandering the halls, looking for jewels to steal.”
I didn’t bother to correct him. It seemed like a good idea to let him think that I believed theft was the motivation and that the right culprit had been arrested.
A slim man with sleek black hair and a goatee beard entered with a beautiful woman on his arm. I found myself staring at her, unable to look away from her lovely face, the exquisite beaded cream silk gown and the diamonds at her throat.
The goateed gentleman offered her a cigarette from a gold case and lit it for her. She blew out her first breath of smoke in the direction of the two elderly gentlemen who’d not stopped muttering to themselves since her entry.
They promptly got up and walked out. Her languid gaze watched them go.
“She’s striking, isn’t she?” Mr. Hookly said quietly.
Good lord, I’d been staring too long. I cleared my throat. “Tell me more about yourself. You mentioned selling your mine at an opportune time just before the war, but what happens next for you?”
“I’ll return home to Berkshire and find something to do, I suspect. I haven’t decided what yet.”
“And why did you choose The Mayfair for your stay in London?”
He flashed me a smile. “Spoken like a member of the Bainbridge family.” He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the fire and pulled out the silver case again. “The hotel was recommended to me by a friend, Lord Addlington. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Excellent chap. Regular guest here. Sir Ronald knows him well, so he told me when he read his lordship’s letter of recommendation.” He suddenly glanced up and nodded at someone.
I followed his gaze and froze. Then my insides sank beneath Mr. Armitage’s shocked stare.
He quickly recovered, however. “Good evening, Mr. Hookly, Miss Fox. May I say it’s a surprise to see you in here. I didn’t think you smoked.”
“If you saw her attempt it, you’d realize she doesn’t.” Mr. Hookly chuckled. “Armitage, any word from that fellow I asked about?”
“As far as I’m aware, he’s still coming to the ball.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Mr. Hookly threw his cigarette into the fire. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go. I’m dining out tonight with a friend at his club.”
“Enjoy your evening, sir.”
Mr. Hookly took my hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fox. Perhaps I’ll see you in here again tomorrow.”
Not unless I could think of more questions to ask him.
Mr. Armitage checked the levels of the decanters on the sideboard. I ought to leave too, but I wanted to speak to him again. The air between us felt a little tense after he’d quite rightly accused me of doubting his father’s ability as a detective. I was also very aware that he’d lied to his father about his whereabouts. I was considering how to discover the reason for the lie when he spoke.
“What are you doing in here, Miss Fox?” he asked idly.
“Smoking, of course.” To prove my point, I inhaled on the cigarette. The resulting cough was unladylike. A sip of sherry helped a little.
Mr. Armitage plucked the cigarette from my fingers. He tossed it into the fire.
“I was smoking that,” I said irritably.
“You were choking on it, not smoking it.”
I abandoned the idea of trying to find out why he lied to his uncle. Not only could it put me in danger, if he were the murderer and guessed my motive for asking, but I simply didn’t feel like talking to someone highhanded enough to take my cigarette and stub it out without my permission. He was not my uncle or cousin. Indeed, if Uncle Ronald or Floyd had done what Mr. Armitage had, I’d be just as vexed with them.
Unfortunately Mr. Armitage followed me out of the room. “You do realize that wasn’t Count Ivanov’s wife. She’s his mistress.”
Mistress! Good lord. What sort of man brought his mistress to a hotel like The Mayfair and treated her as if she were his wife? Russians, I supposed. Wealthy, titled Russians.
“I see I’ve shocked you,” Mr. Armitage said.
I schooled my features. “Not at all. Anyway, I don’t see that Count Ivanov’s private arrangements are any of my affair, or yours, for that matter.”
“On the contrary. As assistant manager to the hotel, the private arrangements of the guests are very much my affair. I need to know who is staying here, with whom, and why. Not that I expect Countess Ivanov to arrive from Russia out of the blue, but I must be prepared for the eventuality and act swiftly to divert a disaster.”
“By disaster, you mean the wife meeting the mistress on the arm of her husband.”
“You catch on quickly, Miss Fox.”
I narrowed my gaze. He was mocking me. He must think me terribly naïve not to have realized she was the
count’s mistress. I even knew that only two types of women smoked and that lovely creature didn’t strike me as a proponent for the female cause. But she didn’t look like a prostitute, either. I’d only ever seen them slouched in tavern doorways, their clothing half-off and their faces painted. Admittedly, my experience was limited to a single accidental adventure into a Cambridge slum when I’d taken a wrong turn on my way to meet a friend after a lecture.
“Will you accept a friendly word of caution, Miss Fox?” he asked.
I didn’t expect a friendly word. I expected a scolding, but I didn’t want to get Mr. Armitage off-side. Not yet. Not until I knew whether he was involved in the murder or not. “Go on.”
“The reason I told you about Count Ivanov’s mistress is because the niece of the hotel owner shouldn’t be seen smoking in public or people will think you’re like her. If you must do it, reserve it for the privacy of your own rooms and swear your maid to secrecy. Sir Ronald would not approve of you doing it in the hotel’s smoking room where anyone could see.”
“Then perhaps you ought to put a sign on the door: women not allowed; mistresses excepting.”
He took a small step back. “You’re angry with me. I’m sorry. I was trying to help. I thought you might appreciate some advice from someone who knows what Sir Ronald is like.” He gave me a curt bow. “I apologize.”
I sighed as he stalked off. This wasn’t going at all well. I was supposed to be obtaining information from him. I hurried after him. “Mr. Armitage, thank you for your advice. It is appreciated.”
He stopped and eyed me carefully. He looked uncertain.
“I thought I would try something new,” I went on. “I’ve never smoked before and Mr. Hookly was kind enough to give me a cigarette. Now that I’ve done it, I doubt I’ll try again. I didn’t enjoy it. How do you men like it so much?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Does Mr. Hookly smoke every evening before dinner?”
“Before and after.” He was still rather formal and stiff, and I wasn’t sure how to make him relax and encourage him to talk. At least he didn’t walk off again.
“He’s an interesting fellow,” I went on. “He recently returned from Africa.”
“Southern Africa, so he told me.”
“Where he sold a mine, yes. What do you know about the man whose letter of recommendation he carries?”
“Lord Addlington? He’s a regular guest when parliament sits. A very fine gentleman and well respected around here.” He bid me a good evening, and went to walk off, but stopped suddenly. “Your uncle would have gladly introduced you to Mr. Hookly if you’d asked.”
It was my turn to take a step back. I was about to ask him why I’d want my uncle to introduce me to Mr. Hookly when I suddenly realized that Mr. Armitage thought I was romantically interested in the African miner. Asking for an introduction would certainly have been a more respectable way to go about orchestrating an encounter instead of following him into the smoking room.
It was a rather horrifying notion that Mr. Armitage thought I was interested in Mr. Hookly and not in a way that required a respectable introduction. He must think I was hunting for a wealthy benefactor, someone who’d parade me in jewels at luxury hotels while his wife stayed home.
I watched Mr. Armitage leave, a storm of feelings brewing inside my chest. I wasn’t sure whether to feel ashamed or annoyed. After all, he’d made his mind up about me after knowing almost nothing about me.
One thing I was sure of, however. I wouldn’t get more answers out of Mr. Armitage. If he hadn’t been inclined to trust me before, he certainly wasn’t now.
Chapter 5
It was Flossy who encouraged me to dine in the hotel dining room instead of in my suite alone. I sat with her as she prepared for her evening out. Three hours later, I could see why it took her so long to get ready. Her maid arranged Flossy’s hair in three different styles, each more elaborate than the last, before Flossy settled on the first. She changed her clothes so often that I lost count, and when she discovered a loose thread in the dress she did decide to wear, her poor maid had to sit beside a lamp and quickly mend it.
I was rather glad when one of the footman knocked on the door and announced that her parents were waiting for her. I returned to my own suite and changed outfits and fixed my hair. It smelled a little smoky, but thankfully Flossy hadn’t noticed. I sprinkled a few drops of perfume on it then slipped on my shoes.
Floyd hadn’t invited me to join him for dinner so I assumed he’d gone out, as Flossy said he would. I took the lift downstairs, chatting to John all the way, and was about to turn from the foyer into the vestibule when I spotted one of my suspects. It was the man who’d been reading the newspaper in Mrs. Warrick’s line of sight when she’d uttered words of surprised recognition.
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping alongside him. “Are you Mr. Duffield?”
It was terribly unladylike of me to speak to a strange man, but this was an extraordinary circumstance that called for desperate measures. He stopped and gave me a polite, if strained, smile. “I am.”
“I’m Miss Fox, the niece of Sir Ronald Bainbridge.”
At the mention of my uncle’s name, the strained smile vanished, replaced by a friendly one. He bowed over my extended hand. “Miss Fox! How lovely to finally meet you. I was just talking to your uncle about you. He said he wanted us to meet.”
It rang utterly false, for some reason. Perhaps it was because he was a little too enthusiastic. “Oh dear, I hope he only said good things about me.”
He laughed. “The best of things. Are you dining with him tonight?”
“He’s dining out with my aunt and cousin, unfortunately. I find myself all alone on my second evening in London.”
“Only your second! Well, we can’t have you dining alone, can we? Would you care to join me? I find myself dining alone tonight too.”
I graciously accepted and he thrust out his elbow for me to take. He gave his name and room number to Mr. Chapman the restaurant steward, but when Mr. Chapman recognized me, he made a point of closing his book without writing anything down.
“Enjoy your meal, Miss Fox, Mr. Duffield.” If Mr. Chapman thought it odd that I was dining with a guest, he didn’t show it. He was the epitome of formality as he signaled for a waiter.
I glanced over my shoulder as we followed the waiter to a table, but there was no sign of Mr. Armitage. I’d half expected to see him there, watching me with a scowl marring his too-handsome features.
Mr. Duffield pulled out the chair for me, and pushed it in as I sat, then took his own seat. He had a nice smile, which he freely bestowed on me, but that was where his good features began and ended. At first I’d thought him well over forty, but on closer inspection, he had the smoother skin of a man in his thirties. It was the lack of hair that made him seem older. Aside from the clusters just above his ears, the rest of his head was bald. He didn’t even have facial hair.
Mr. Duffield gave me his uninvited opinion of every dish on the menu and hailed a passing waiter without asking me if I was ready. He ordered a bottle of wine and our meals.
“You’ll enjoy the duck, Miss Fox,” he said as the waiter departed. “It’s delicious.”
“Fortunately I like duck,” I said tightly.
Mr. Duffield’s smile widened, pleased with my approval. “Tell me all about yourself, Miss Fox. Why have you come to live at this delightful hotel?”
I gave him the brief version, merely mentioning the recent death of my last remaining relative on my father’s side, and my uncle and aunt’s generous invitation to live with them until I married. His eyes lit up at the mention of marriage.
“And do you have a fiancé, Miss Fox?” he asked, oh-so-innocently.
“Not yet,” I said, matching his tone. “Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Duffield. Where are you from?”
“I have an estate in Lincolnshire with several tenant farms. My family has lived there for generations.”
Pet
er had said Mr. Duffield was the second son of a second son of an earl, so it shouldn’t surprise me to hear that he was landed gentry. Still, I was a little taken aback. When he’d offered me his arm, I’d noticed the fabric at the elbow of his dinner jacket was thin. His shoes were well worn too, molded to fit hit foot to the point where I could see the outline of his smallest toe. My grandfather had kept his dinner suit and good shoes for only the most formal occasions. They were in the same condition as Mr. Duffield’s.
It would seem Mr. Duffield wanted me to know he was landed gentry so that perhaps I’d overlook the evidence of his hardship.
“And what brings you to London and The Mayfair in particular?” I asked.
“Business matters bring me to the city. Always business.” He leaned back in the chair, puffing out his chest. “As to The Mayfair, isn’t it obvious?”
“Pardon?”
“The ball! I’m looking forward to attending. Are you going, Miss Fox?”
“I’m not sure. I’m in mourning and it doesn’t feel appropriate.”
He frowned and patted my hand. “I do hope you’ll reconsider. You would be an ornament to the evening. Your uncle would be very proud, I’m sure.”
“Oh, er, thank you.” I’d hardly heard his compliment, if that’s what it was. I was thinking about business during the quiet Christmas to New Year period. Surely the banks were closed and most men of business not in their offices. Perhaps Mr. Duffield’s business was urgent and couldn’t wait for the reopening of the banks in the new year. Or perhaps he’d come solely for the ball and lied about business.
Or perhaps there was another reason. A reason which Mrs. Warrick had confronted him about. If she knew he was too poor to afford to stay here, she could very well be surprised at seeing him. If she’d asked him about it, he might have worried that she would foil whatever plans he had.
“Awful matter, the murder, don’t you think?” I asked as our meals arrived.
“Yes. Horrible. But let’s not discuss such a thing.”
