Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

by C. J. Archer

  “May we go shopping this afternoon?”

  “I have a headache,” Aunt Lilian said. “In fact, I think I’ll retire to my rooms for a rest.” She rose, having hardly touched her sandwiches.

  Flossy didn’t seem surprised by her mother’s response, or disappointed. “May I go if Cleo comes with me?”

  “Very well,” Aunt Lilian said, walking off.

  Flossy clapped her hands. “We’ll have such fun, Cleo.”

  Floyd watched his mother leave, both hands on the chair arms as if he would spring up at any moment if she looked as though she would fall. While her progress was slow, she wasn’t unsteady.

  “It’s Hobart,” he said as the manager appeared in the doorway to the dining room. He bowed to Aunt Lilian as she passed then scanned the room.

  “He looks troubled,” Flossy said.

  Floyd signaled to Mr. Hobart. “Something wrong?” he asked when the manager joined us.

  “I was looking for Sir Ronald,” Mr. Hobart said. “Have you seen him?”

  “I believe he went out for lunch. Why the grave face? Has something happened?”

  Mr. Hobart swallowed and glanced at me.

  “It’s all right,” Floyd said. “Cleo is family. If it’s something that affects the hotel then you can say it in front of her.”

  Mr. Hobart moved closer. “I just received a telephone call from an acquaintance at The Evening News. He wanted to warn me of an article they’re going to run about the hotel. I’m afraid it won’t be a favorable article.”

  Flossy gasped. “Is it about poor Mrs. Warrick?”

  “Yes, and the implications of her murder. My contact informed me that the front page article will mention the lengthy measures Sir Ronald is going to in order to ensure the ball goes ahead.”

  “What measures?” Flossy asked.

  “Telephone calls to invited guests begging them to come, calling in favors, that sort of thing.”

  “Begging? Calling in favors?” Floyd spluttered a laugh. “Ridiculous. Father wouldn’t stoop that low. Things aren’t that desperate yet.”

  Mr. Hobart stood quite still.

  Floyd’s smile vanished. His face fell. “Why didn’t he tell me it was that bad?”

  “I suspect he didn’t want to worry you, Mr. Bainbridge.”

  Floyd rubbed a hand over his jaw and mouth, shaking his head. Mr. Hobart looked sorry for telling him now.

  “Can you ask your friend at the newspaper not to run the article?” I asked the manager.

  “Unfortunately he does not have enough authority to stop it.”

  “Does Father have a friend with that power?” Flossy asked. “One who owes him a favor?”

  Floyd looked up, hopeful. “Is that why you want to see him?”

  Mr. Hobart seemed a little pained as he shook his head. “I simply came to warn him. He’ll want to know so that he can be prepared with a response. Some of our guests will read The Evening News.”

  Floyd stood. “Come with me. We’ll check his schedule in his office and see where he’s having lunch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge.”

  Flossy sighed heavily as she watched them go. “This is terrible, Cleo. It’s so cruel and so unfair. Who would go to the newspapers and spread rumors about us?” She picked up a napkin only to screw it up into a ball. “I’ll wager it was one of the other hoteliers. They’re always trying to be better than us, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d stoop to talking to the newspapers.”

  I wasn’t so sure it was a rival. Indeed, it could be worse. The information about begging invitations and calling in favors could only have come from one of the recipients of those invitations or calls—a guest.

  Unless it was a senior staff member with knowledge of them.

  Flossy placed a headpiece made of jet and set with several small diamonds against her hair. It was very becoming, but it wouldn’t suit her ball gown. It must also be very expensive. “I thought your gown has seed pearls sewn into it,” I said. “I don’t think the jet is quite right.”

  She pursed her lips as she studied her reflection in the mirror held by the Harrods’ jewelry counter attendant. “I’m not sure. Come closer, Cleo. I need to see how it looks on someone else.”

  She positioned the headpiece in my hair then stepped back and studied the effect. She smiled. “You’re right. Pearls are a better choice.”

  We spent some time choosing a headpiece for her and waited as the assistant packaged it up along with a matching necklace. It would seem Flossy wasn’t going to heed her brother’s advice and curb her spending. The two pieces would have cost a fortune.

  “Would you like to take the items with you now, Miss Bainbridge?” the saleswoman asked.

  “Have them sent to the hotel,” Flossy said.

  “Very good, Miss Bainbridge.”

  The staff at every counter we’d visited in Harrods’ department store knew Flossy by name. Flossy hadn’t paid for anything yet, so I assumed an account would be sent to the hotel along with the items she purchased.

  “Now, gloves,” Flossy declared, striding off.

  I dutifully followed. I couldn’t have left even if I wanted to. I didn’t know which way was out. The lights were bright, the counters numerous, and there were smiling attendants dressed in black everywhere. Perhaps the intention was to trap shoppers inside for as long as possible, to encourage them to spend more.

  “Are we going anywhere near Saville Row later?” I asked, stepping alongside her.

  “It’s not far from the hotel. Why?”

  “My grandfather used to get his suits made at a tailor there. Bentley and Sons. I want to see it for nostalgic reasons.” An idea had struck me as Flossy had gone from department to department in Harrods, sending her purchases back to the hotel. Now that we were coming to the end of our shopping expedition, it was time to act.

  “Your grandfather had his suits made in London?” she asked. “I suppose Cambridge tailors aren’t as good as ours. We’ll look for gloves then head home via Saville Row.”

  She didn’t buy gloves, in the end, despite trying on several pairs and having me do the same. We climbed into the hotel carriage that had waited for us outside Harrods and Flossy directed the coachman to take us to Bentley and Sons on Saville Row.

  “There’s no need for you to come in,” I told her. “Stay warm and dry in here.”

  I dashed into the shop as the drizzling rain came down. The tailor looked up from the counter where he was writing something down in a ledger, and arched his brows. He seemed surprised to see a woman in his shop. At the moment, there were no customers so I had his full attention.

  “I work for The Mayfair Hotel and have been charged with collecting Mr. Hookly’s dinner suit. Is it ready?”

  “There must be some mistake. The jacket was delivered this morning and the shirt and trousers are on the way there now.” The tailor turned his ledger around and pointed at an entry. “Has it gone astray? Dear, dear me, this is a worry.”

  “Please, don’t be concerned. Perhaps Mr. Hookly hadn’t checked with the post desk when he sent me on this errand. I’m sure it’s there waiting for him.”

  “Do check as soon as you return and let me know immediately if it has gone astray. I can’t have one of Mr. Hookly’s orders disappearing.”

  “One of?” I echoed. “Has he ordered several items from you? Should I be searching for other parcels too?”

  He pointed at several entries in the ledger. “Two coats and two cloaks, four jackets, trousers and waistcoats.” He flipped the page. “Two formal dinner suits—”

  “Two!”

  “Two formal dinner suits, seven shirts and ten ties. Could you check that Mr. Hookly received them all?”

  Good lord, he had enough clothing for several men. “I suppose he requires new things for winter.” I leaned in a little, hinting at a conspiratorial alliance between shopkeeper and hotel employee. “I believe he has just come from Africa.”

  “So he told me.�
� The tailor spun the ledger back and closed it with a thud. It would seem he wasn’t buying my attempt at friendliness.

  “How odd that they don’t dine in Africa.”

  “Pardon?”

  I indicated the stiff shirt and formal jacket on the tailor’s mannequin in the corner. “If they have dinners in Africa, he wouldn’t need a suit, would he? He’d already have one.”

  The tailor regarded me down his nose. “Perhaps he required a new one. It is neither my business nor yours as to the reasons for his purchases upon his return to home shores. I suggest you don’t gossip about your hotel’s guests, miss, particularly ones who are friends with Lord Addlington. His lordship would not approve.”

  “You know him?”

  “He is a great customer of mine and a gentleman of the first order. Now, if you will check with Mr. Hookly that all packages have been received, I’ll be most grateful.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  He studied the ledger and I turned to go. “One more thing, miss,” he called out. “Do you know when Mr. Hookly is leaving London?”

  “I’m not sure, but I believe he is staying for the ball.” I recalled Mr. Hookly asking Mr. Armitage about an invited guest he wished to see that night so he must intend on staying until then.

  The tailor looked relieved. I was considering whether to probe further when a customer entered. He held the door open for me and I left. The stop at the tailor’s shop had been a waste of time. I’d learned nothing.

  I loitered in the foyer again the following morning, pretending to study a tourist map of London which Peter had given me. I had coat, hat and gloves in hand, ready to follow out one of my suspects if they happened to leave the hotel.

  My patience was rewarded when Mr. Duffield walked past. I hid behind the map then raced after him. He didn’t stop to collect an umbrella from the luggage desk so I didn’t either. Hopefully the rain would stay away for the duration of our walk. I tucked the map into my coat pocket then put the coat on. I was still pulling on my gloves when I exited the hotel.

  “Heading out, Miss Fox?” Frank the doorman asked. “Do you require a conveyance?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A map?”

  I peered after Mr. Duffield, not wanting to lose sight of him. “I have one.”

  “Would you like me to fetch you an umbrella from—”

  “No, thank you,” I called out as I headed off. Poor Frank was trying very hard to make up for his initial rudeness, but today was not the day for me to indulge him.

  Mr. Duffield was a fast walker with a determined step. While Mr. Hookly seemed to be quite the shopper, Mr. Duffield was not. He did not venture into any of the shops, nor did he head to any parks for a leisurely stroll.

  I was curious about where he was heading, and my curiosity piqued even further when he turned into Fleet Street. A boy selling newspapers outside The Daily Telegraph building tried to sell him a copy, but Mr. Duffield ignored him. He entered the office of The Evening News, two doors down. I put my map up to cover the lower part of my face and peered through the window. Mr. Duffield spoke to the clerk at the front desk. He then waited while the clerk sent a lad into an adjoining room.

  A few minutes later, a middle-aged fellow emerged. He and Mr. Duffield greeted one another in what appeared to be a cordial manner, then they exchanged envelopes. Mr. Duffield tucked his into his coat pocket, while the other man opened his and read the enclosed letter. He smiled, nodding his approval, and extended his hand to Mr. Duffield.

  For a long moment I thought Mr. Duffield wouldn’t shake it. He eventually did, but not before the other man’s smile turned cynical. Then Mr. Duffield hurried out of the office, his head bowed.

  I lifted the map higher and didn’t lower it until he’d passed me. Instead of following, I entered the newspaper office.

  It wasn’t difficult to draw a conclusion for Mr. Duffield’s visit—he was the one passing on nasty gossip about the hotel and Uncle Ronald’s desperate attempt to secure guests for the ball. I wasn’t sure what else I could learn, but I’d regret not making inquiries.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerfully to the young man on the front desk.

  The clerk had been slouching against the counter but straightened upon my smile. He smiled back, revealing crooked teeth. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “May I speak with the editor?”

  The clerk’s smile stretched further. “Which one? We have an editor in chief, managing editor, news editor, features editor, political editor—"

  “The one who was talking to Mr. Duffield a moment ago.”

  His brows arched. “You know Mr. Duffield?”

  “We’re acquaintances and I want to warn your editor about using him as a source for gossip.”

  The clerk’s smile vanished. He sent the same errand boy off to fetch a man named Collier. “He’s the features editor,” the clerk explained. “What do you mean you want to warn him about Mr. Duffield?”

  I wasn’t going to answer but changed my mind. There was as good a chance of learning information from him as from the features editor. “His information is malicious.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Most of what comes through our doors is told to us by someone with an axe to grind. It doesn’t mean the information is worthless.”

  Mr. Collier shoved open the adjoining door, making it swing wide. “Yes?” he barked as the errand boy slipped past him into the foyer. He arched bushy brows at me.

  I abandoned my usual tactic of being cheerful and charming. Most men fell for that manner in a young woman, but I could see this man would not.

  “My name is Miss Smith,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I was walking past when I saw you speaking to Mr. Duffield. I know him, you see, and I wanted to warn you about using his information without verifying it first.”

  Mr. Collier grunted. “I always check my sources.”

  Despite the glare he gave me, I felt a sense of triumph at having my suspicion confirmed by his lack of denial. It must have shown on my face because Mr. Collier’s eyebrows moved apart from where they’d drawn together to form a hedge above his eyes.

  “Do you have something for me, Miss Smith?” he asked, making sure I knew that he knew the name I’d given was false.

  “I don’t trade in gossip about my friends,” I shot back.

  “Perhaps not your friends, but what about acquaintances?”

  I supposed Sir Ronald was not Mr. Duffield’s friend. The extent of their acquaintance was limited to Mr. Duffield’s stays at the hotel.

  Mr. Collier grunted again when he realized I understood his point. “If you have something of interest to me, you know where to find me. I pay better than some of the other papers.” He disappeared through the door, leaving me staring after him.

  I blew out a shuddery breath. It was unnerving confronting such a gruff man. I was more familiar with meek academics.

  “You all right, miss?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Mr. Collier is very…direct.”

  The clerk glanced at the door through which the editor had left then leaned his elbows on the desk. “You don’t have to come here in person.”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “If you have some information you want to sell to Mr. Collier, you can send it. Mr. Collier will see that you get paid. No one need know what you’re doing. I don’t know why Mr. Duffield came. He usually sends a letter. I work in the mail room sometimes, and I see them.”

  “How often does Mr. Duffield send a letter containing gossip to Mr. Collier?”

  “I couldn’t say, miss.”

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “And is he paid well?”

  “That’s between him and Mr. Collier. If you write to him, he’ll negotiate a fee that suits you both, so don’t fret about that.”

  I wanted to tell him that I’d never betray a confidence, even for someone who was a mere acquaintance. My own financial circumstances had never been good. Indeed, I’d barely managed to
keep a roof over our heads after Grandpapa died. It had never occurred to me to sell information about the people I knew. Not that a newspaper editor would be interested in the gossip I gathered. I wasn’t acquainted with high society like Mr. Duffield. As the grandson of a nobleman, he probably heard all sorts of interesting tidbits. Jealousy of their good fortune might also play a part in his motivation.

  A thought occurred to me as I headed back to the hotel. If Mrs. Warrick and Mr. Duffield had mutual friends, and she learned that he sold gossip about them to the newspapers, she could have confronted him at the hotel.

  And he could have killed her out of fear she’d expose him.

  Chapter 7

  It served nobody to keep what I’d learned to myself. I went directly to Mr. Hobart’s office to inform him. “I think he is responsible for that article in yesterday’s edition of The Evening News. The source had to have been someone with knowledge of Sir Ronald’s desperation.”

  Mr. Hobart clasped his hands on the desk in front him. Concern darkened his blue eyes. “That is a shame. Sir Ronald would be most upset to learn who it was.”

  “Is he close to Mr. Duffield?”

  “No. Mr. Duffield has stayed here before, but not for some time. I’d guessed his circumstances were reduced, but I hadn’t realized how far. Poor man.”

  “Poor man! He has betrayed the hotel.”

  “Not out of maliciousness. He was desperate and desperation can make a man do things he wouldn’t usually do.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that he won’t be able to pay for his room here?” I asked.

  “I’m quite sure he’ll see his account settled. He wouldn’t want his name blacklisted altogether.”

  “But why stay here at all? If he must be in London at this time, why not stay somewhere more affordable?”

  “I suspect he wants to attend the ball. Mr. Duffield is unmarried, you see, and the New Year’s Eve ball at The Mayfair attracts a particular caliber of guest. He could find himself a wife amongst them.”

  “You mean a wealthy wife.”

  He gave me a knowing smile.

  That was why he accepted my impromptu invitation to dinner, and also why he abandoned me just as readily. He must have asked Mr. Chapman about me, and the steward informed him that I was a poor relation. Although I wasn’t quite sure how Mr. Chapman knew.