Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

by C. J. Archer

  And I knew someone who could help narrow down the suspects. Someone who knew every single staff member well and who didn’t have to prepare the hotel for the biggest event of the year.

  I made my excuses to Flossy and her friends, telling her I needed to go out for a while. “I’ll be back well before the ball,” I told her. “I want to help you with your preparations.”

  “Or get ready yourself,” she said, grinning.

  I left without correcting her again. My mind was no longer on the ball. It was focused on murder and seeing Mr. Armitage. I found the prospect far more thrilling than a young lady should. Indeed, for the first time in months, I was looking forward to something.

  Chapter 12

  If I had to speak to Mr. Armitage on the doorstep again, so be it. At least it wasn’t raining this time. I had to first get an interview with him, however, and that meant getting past his mother. After my last visit, I wasn’t so sure she’d agree to a second meeting.

  “You’ve got courage coming here again,” she said when she opened the door to me.

  “Some would say I had a nerve.”

  Her frown deepened. “Why are you here? You’ve already apologized.”

  “It’s hotel business. It’s very busy there today with preparations for the ball, and I needed to talk to someone about the staff. I can’t think of anyone better to ask than Mr. Armitage.”

  She crossed her arms. “He just arrived home. He’s been out all morning looking for work and is having lunch now.”

  “I can wait for him to finish. Will you tell him I’m here, please?”

  She looked torn between her desire to send me away and the need to be polite. When the lines around her mouth relaxed, I knew long-ingrained habit had won over maternal retribution.

  She disappeared and a few moments later Mr. Armitage stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. He wore no jacket, but this time his shirt sleeves were firmly fastened at the cuffs.

  “I’m surprised to see you here again, Miss Fox,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. It was impossible to tell if he’d worked the anger out of his system or if I was going to endure more sarcasm.

  I decided it was best to steel myself for a few barbs directed my way. It was better to be armed than caught unawares. “A situation has arisen and I need your help.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “You don’t know what it is yet.”

  He merely smiled. It was not one of his charming ones. He was definitely still angry with me.

  “It’s about the staff,” I went on. “Your father believes one of them is the murderer.”

  He straightened. “He does?”

  “He doesn’t know which one yet. He’s still investigating.”

  His frown deepened. “You still don’t trust him, do you? Miss Fox, why are you trying to insult my family further?”

  “I’m not! There’s no insult intended. Your father is very thorough. I have absolute faith in his abilities and that of Scotland Yard.” I swallowed. His glare was unnerving. “It’s just that he is perhaps too thorough. I spoke to him this morning and he told me he suspects the murderer is a staff member.”

  “Then I’m sure he’ll interview the relevant staff again.”

  “That’s the problem. He hasn’t narrowed down the list of suspects. He’s going through their statements again as well as checking with suppliers of mercuric cyanide.”

  He slung the towel over his shoulder. He did not try to the shut the door or tell me to leave. It was a positive sign.

  “The thing is,” I went on, “what if the murderer leaves the hotel before the inspector returns to question the staff again? If it were my investigation, I’d be speaking to the staff members with keys to Mrs. Warrick’s room.”

  “Why isn’t he?” he said, more to himself than me.

  “He claims he needs to be thorough before he accuses anyone. I think that’s my fault since I leapt to the wrong conclusion based on flimsy evidence.”

  “There are some things that are you fault, Miss Fox, but my father’s thoroughness is not one of them.” He stepped aside. “You might as well come in. This isn’t going to be over in a few minutes.”

  I peered into the hallway beyond. “Are you sure?”

  “She won’t bite.”

  “It’s her bark that worries me more.”

  He led me through to a cozy parlor at the front of the house and added coal from the scuttle to the fire. I sat on the sofa and he occupied one of the armchairs. It was a pleasant room that reminded me of my grandparents’ house with its heavy drapery and embroidered cushions. The small space was filled to bursting with knickknacks, furniture and family photographs, which made it seem even smaller.

  “Is this you as a boy?” I asked, picking up a framed photograph of a younger Inspector and Mrs. Hobart with a lanky youth standing behind them. It was clearly Mr. Armitage but with longer hair and a softer jaw. He was already quite tall, although I’d guess him to be no more than fourteen or so.

  He plucked the frame out of my hand and set it down on the table. “Don’t change the subject. You were telling me that my father believes a staff member is the murderer but he’s not re-interviewing any of them until he has further proof.”

  “I also wondered if he’s holding back until after tonight’s ball as a favor to your uncle.”

  “My uncle wouldn’t ask him to do that.”

  “Would your father do it anyway? Particularly knowing that Mr. Hobart is under pressure because he no longer has an assistant?”

  “Not to mention he knows that my uncle feels as though he owes Sir Ronald for giving him his job back,” Mr. Armitage added.

  I hadn’t thought about that. It was possible Mr. Hobart felt guilty and wanted to repay Uncle Ronald by being extra dutiful and efficient. It was understandable that his brother the detective would want to make it easier for him at the moment.

  Mr. Armitage drummed his fingers on the chair arm only to stop when his mother walked in. Mrs. Hobart ignored me and strode up to her son. She snatched the hand towel off him and finally turned to me.

  “I would offer you tea, but we’ve run out.” She marched out of the parlor, the towel balled up in her hand.

  “At least she didn’t throw me out,” I said on a sigh.

  Mr. Armitage seemed not to notice the exchange. He looked lost in thought. “Why does my father think one of the staff is the murderer?”

  I told him how poison had not been found in Mrs. Warrick’s room, and that she couldn’t have consumed it elsewhere then come back, changed into her night clothes and climbed into bed as if nothing were amiss.

  “Her door was locked,” I finished. “Edith had to open it with her key.”

  “So only someone with a key could have done it.”

  “Between the hours of three and six, according to the temperature of the body,” I added.

  “My uncle and I had access to his set of spare keys,” Mr. Armitage went on. “He would have noticed if they went missing. Mrs. Kettering also has a set, and the maid cleaning the room for the day does too. It’s possible either that one or Mrs. Kettering’s was stolen and they never reported it, or didn’t notice it missing before it was returned.”

  “Considering Mrs. Warrick was poisoned when they would have been asleep, that’s likely. I’ve met Edith,” I added. “She seems nice but has a nervous constitution. I can’t see her killing anyone.”

  “Nor can I. I don’t have much to do with the maids, but I remember interviewing her along with Mrs. Kettering. I found her to be timid. Not the sort capable of murder.”

  “And Mrs. Kettering?”

  “The opposite of Edith. She likes to lord it over the maids. She’s very unpopular. She’s a hard worker, however, and has been at the hotel for years. I can’t see why she would kill Mrs. Warrick.”

  “That could be said about all of the staff,” I pointed out. “But not about all of the guests.”

  His gaze sharpened and
focused on me. It was intense and unexpected. “You said Mrs. Warrick could have been referring to one of two other guests that afternoon. Aside from me, that is.”

  “The inspector doesn’t think a guest did it. It had to be someone with access to Mrs. Warrick’s key.”

  “Unless one of them stole a key.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose.” I’d been assuming another staff member stole a key, but there was no reason why a guest couldn’t.

  He gave me a smug look. “You hadn’t considered that possibility, had you?”

  I was quite sure he was being irritating on purpose. “I don’t think your father has, either.”

  “I’d wager he has and decided not to tell you. He won’t share everything he knows with members of the public.”

  “Members of the public or just me?” I asked, recalling the inspector’s cool reception earlier.

  He ignored the comment. “We need to find out which one of those two guests has a motive for killing Mrs. Warrick.”

  “I already have.” It was my turn to give him a smug look.

  “This isn’t a competition, Miss Fox.”

  “Then stop acting as if it is, Mr. Armitage.”

  “Just tell me about the two guests.”

  I settled back into the sofa. This could take some time. “Mr. Duffield lives near Mrs. Warrick, so it’s a natural assumption that they would know one another. Further investigation proved that he is experiencing reduced circumstances.”

  “Very reduced, if he had to resort to selling gossip about the hotel to the gutter press.”

  “I thought he might have also sold gossip about his friends, perhaps even about her, but that would give her motive to kill him, not the other way around. I suspected she’d simply known about his reduced circumstances and wondered how he could stay at an expensive hotel, if she was referring to him at all.”

  “He’s probably hunting for a wealthy wife at the ball,” he said.

  “Mr. Hobart thinks so too. It makes sense, since Mr. Duffield didn’t stay for dessert after he spoke to Mr. Chapman about me.”

  “You dined with Mr. Duffield? Why?”

  “To learn more about him, of course.”

  “By flirting with him,” he said flatly.

  “I didn’t need to flirt. He feigned interest only until he learned from Mr. Chapman that I was living at the hotel because I, too, am experiencing reduced circumstances.”

  “Reduced?” He grunted.

  I ignored him and pressed on. “I discovered that Mr. Duffield’s family had sold off his family estate and he moved into a cottage. As humiliating as that must be for him, I didn’t think it enough of a reason to kill someone to keep them quiet about it.”

  “Agreed. And what about the second guest you think Mrs. Warrick could have recognized that afternoon?”

  “My Hookly.”

  “Hookly?” He chuckled. “Do you mean to tell me you were flirting with him in the smoking room to get information from him?”

  “Again, I was not flirting,” I said tightly.

  “I’m sure he’d see it differently.”

  I bristled. “I was only in the smoking room for one reason—so I could talk to him.”

  “So you weren’t attempting a rebellion against your uncle?”

  “No! I’m twenty-three, Mr. Armitage, not fifteen. Anyway, through subtle questioning—not flirting—I discovered that Mr. Hookly has recently returned from southern Africa after he’d sold his mine.”

  “I know all that.”

  “But you don’t know that Mr. Hookly is dead. The real Hookly, that is.”

  It was immensely satisfying to see the shock on his face. “How did you discover that?”

  “Through clever deduction.”

  “You telephoned the address in the reservations register, didn’t you? Remind me to have a chat to Peter about—” He cut himself short. He’d forgotten that he no longer worked at the hotel. “It doesn’t matter if Mrs. Warrick knew the real Mr. Hookly was dead,” he went on. “She would have been surprised to see him if his ghost had shown up, but she couldn’t have recognized his imposter.”

  “Unless she did. Perhaps she knew he wasn’t the type to stay at luxury hotels. Or perhaps she knew he should still be in Africa, not here in London. He might be telling the truth about his mine there, but lying about some other aspect of his life.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t quite add up. It almost does, but there are holes.”

  I sighed. “I know. I do think he’s not at all as well off as he claims and he’s using Lord Addlington’s letter to order expensive clothes and jewelry on credit.”

  “He does have a lot of parcels delivered.”

  “Lord Addlington’s letter is real, however. Your uncle checked the handwriting against a letter from his lordship on file.”

  Mr. Armitage nodded slowly. “The imposter could have stolen it off the dead Mr. Hookly. I do know the fake Mr. Hookly wants to attend the ball to speak to another guest who will also be attending. He asked me about him a number of times, making sure he was still coming.”

  “Who?”

  “A banker known for giving loans to his friends, at generous rates, for their business ventures.”

  “Is he a friend of Lord Addlington’s?”

  Mr. Armitage’s lips curved with his triumphant smile. “I think you’ve just found your motive. Lord Addlington is friends with everyone who matters. It’s conceivable the fake Mr. Hookly will show the banker the letter tonight at the ball and ask for a loan.”

  “A loan which he wouldn’t have to pay back because the banker would never be able to find him again, seeing as Mr. Hookly is deceased.”

  He shot to his feet and put out his hand to me. “We have to return to the hotel.”

  I hesitated, surprised at the offered hand. Had he forgiven me already or merely forgotten in his excitement in solving the case? Perhaps politeness was so ingrained in him too that it was merely an act of a well-brought up man.

  My hesitation cost me and he withdrew his hand before I could accept it. He left and I could hear him speaking to his mother in another room.

  I sighed and stood. Next time I wouldn’t spend so much time trying to work out what an offered hand meant. Sometimes it meant nothing more than he was polite.

  I met him in the hall as he buttoned up his jacket. He plucked a hat and coat off the stand and opened the front door for me.

  “What did you tell your mother?” I asked.

  “That I have something to tell my father that might help him solve the murder.”

  “We’re going to Scotland Yard?”

  “Without evidence?” He scoffed. “He won’t accept our theory without proof.”

  “He won’t want us to confront Mr. Hookly.”

  “We’re not going to. We’ll avoid him at all costs.” He turned up his coat collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. “We’ll find out if there’s any possibility that a key to Mrs. Warrick’s room could have gone missing on the night of the murder. Our entire theory hinges on Mr. Hookly stealing one.”

  “The fake Mr. Hookly.” I quickened my step to keep up with his long strides as we walked along the street. “I wonder who he really is, and if he truly has just come back from Africa.”

  “If he has, I doubt he just sold a diamond mine or he wouldn’t be trying to swindle everyone.”

  “Gold,” I said.

  “No, diamonds. That’s what he told me.”

  I stopped. When he realized, he stopped too. “He hasn’t just come from Africa at all!” I said. “Otherwise he’d know that gold is mined in southern Africa, not diamonds.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read about it in a book I borrowed from the hotel library.”

  He smiled as we started walking again. “Your bloody visit to the library,” he muttered.

  I glanced at him sideways. “What do you mean?”

  He remained silent.

  “Mr. Armitage, if you won�
��t answer, I’ll tell your mother that you just used a vulgar word in front of a lady.”

  “I thought you were the silverware thief.”

  I burst out laughing.

  He smiled too, but with a measure of chagrin in the lopsided tilt of his lips. “I thought you were sneaking about in the sitting room. In hindsight, of course you couldn’t have been the thief. You didn’t arrive until after the thefts started.”

  “Why would I steal from my own uncle?”

  “I thought you liked to stir up trouble.”

  I laughed again. “This is rich. You’ve been punishing me for accusing you when all this time, you suspected me of being a thief.”

  “First of all, I’m not punishing you. Any guilt you feel is entirely of your own making. And perhaps my mother’s.”

  “And your father’s. You have very loyal parents.”

  “Second of all, I never actually accused you. Thirdly, you accused me of murder, Miss Fox. I merely thought you were a troublemaker. And finally, I lost my job thanks to your wild theory.”

  “It might have been wild, but at least it wasn’t stupid.”

  He shook his head and huffed out a breath. I wasn’t quite sure if he was amused or exasperated. Perhaps both.

  The train journey followed by the hackney ride to the hotel felt long, with many awkward silences between us. Our easy banter turned polite and dull; he asked me about Cambridge and I asked him about London. We avoided sensitive topics of his childhood, my family, and where he was going to work next.

  I was so relieved to see the hotel that I alighted from the carriage without waiting for Frank to open the door.

  “Mr. Armitage!” the doorman said. “What’re you doing here, sir? And with Miss Fox, too…” His curious gaze shifted from me to Mr. Armitage and back again.

  I simply smiled.

  Mr. Armitage placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. I came to see my uncle.”

  “And I wish to see mine,” I said—and meant it. If Uncle Ronald was in a good mood because plans for the ball were going well, I would ask him again to reconsider hiring Mr. Armitage.