by C. J. Archer
I handed her the program for the Hippodrome’s opening show and described some of the spectacular acts. While she made all the right sounds, I knew she wasn’t particularly interested. I cut my account short and turned to my breakfast tray and the newspaper she wanted me to read.
I didn’t even have to turn the page to know what had piqued her interest. It was right there on the front in bold type: ACTRESS FALLS TO DEATH AT THE PICCADILLY PLAYHOUSE.
“How terribly sad,” I said as I read the article. “That must be why the theater was in darkness last night. It says here the show was canceled following her death in the afternoon.”
Harmony moved up alongside me. “It says it was suicide.”
According to the article, Miss Pearl Westwood had thrown herself from the second tier dress circle. Her body had been found by the theater staff preparing for the evening’s performance.
“The poor woman.” I folded up the newspaper and set it beside the coffee pot and cups.
“Poor Lord Rumford.”
“Why?”
She gave me an odd look. “She was his mistress. Didn’t you know?”
I stared at her, aware that my mouth had dropped open. “Lord Rumford, the guest currently staying here at the hotel? That Lord Rumford?”
“The very one.” Harmony sat on the other chair and poured coffee into the two cups. She handed one to me, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “If only Miss Bainbridge could see you now. She’d call you provincial for not realizing gentlemen keep mistresses.”
I closed my mouth and tucked into my breakfast of a boiled egg and toast. “I’m merely a little surprised. I met Lord Rumford. He seems nice. He even told me how his wife was currently in the country as she no longer liked London’s fast pace.” Lord Rumford must have been in his sixties, while the newspaper article claimed Miss Westwood was only twenty-six.
“How convenient that Lady Rumford prefers the country manor,” Harmony said with a wry twist of her mouth. “Gives his lordship freedom to see his mistress while he’s in London. Which he is a lot.”
“She didn’t come here to the hotel, surely?”
“She did sometimes.”
I didn’t know why it shocked me. I knew gentlemen guests kept mistresses, and I knew they sometimes brought them here. A foreign count even had his mistress stay with him in his suite as if she were his wife, while his actual wife was at home in Russia. But he’d been from the continent, and they did things differently there. I hadn’t expected an English lord to parade his mistress openly at the hotel where he stayed while in the city.
Harmony scanned the newspaper article again. “I wonder why she ended it like that? She seemed to have everything she could want. Fame, money, adoring fans and an equally adoring lover.”
“Those are hardly things that make one fulfilled and happy,” I said. “And how do you know Lord Rumford adored her? Perhaps he was about to end their relationship and she threw herself over the balcony in despair.”
Harmony shook her head, loosening one of the dark coils of hair she’d tucked behind her ear. It fell in front of her face and she tucked it away again, although I knew it wouldn’t stay. The errant spring never obeyed for long. “I heard from Peter that he’s very upset.”
“How does Peter know?”
“He saw Mr. Hobart hurrying back and forth with a very serious face this morning. He was organizing flowers, notices for the paper, and sending little things up to Lord Rumford’s room to show him the hotel cares.”
“That’s very kind of him.” It was typical of Mr. Hobart to be so considerate of one of his guests. The manager always put them first, and always seemed to know what they needed, even before they asked. It was the sign of an excellent hotel manager, so Floyd told me.
“I think you should investigate,” Harmony suddenly announced.
I choked on my final bite of toast. I coughed into my napkin, my eyes watering. When I finally recovered, I lifted my gaze to Harmony’s. She was serious. “What are you talking about? What is there to investigate?”
“Perhaps it’s not suicide.” She shrugged. “The newspaper doesn’t say why Miss Westwood threw herself from the dress circle.”
“Probably because they either don’t know what drove her to such a desperate act, or they chose to protect her privacy.”
Harmony snorted. “No journalist is going to worry about her privacy. She’s a star. The public want to know everything they can about her life, and particularly about her death. The first newspaper to find out and report it will sell thousands more copies than their rivals.”
“So you think she was murdered?” At Harmony’s nod, I shook my head. “If it is, the police will find the killer.”
“Perhaps.” She sipped her tea with such an air of expectation that I knew she was going to say more on the subject. I was proved correct when she said, “But they didn’t prove themselves to be very competent in the investigation into Mrs. Warrick’s murder, right here at the hotel.”
I opened my mouth to defend Detective Inspector Hobart but shut it again. She was right; the inspector had been rather slow at finding the killer. His determination to be thorough had been something of a hindrance, but on the other hand, it meant he hadn’t accused the wrong man—like I had.
“Harmony, I’m not investigating Miss Westwood’s death.”
“But don’t you want to be an investigator?”
I chewed the inside of my lower lip, regretting that I’d told her I was thinking about entering the private detective business. “I do,” I said carefully. “But this is not the right case to take on. For starters, there is no client, and no client means no payment. And secondly, if it is murder, the police will investigate. I’ll just get in their way, and Detective Inspector Hobart won’t like it. He’s only just forgiven me for getting involved in Mrs. Warrick’s murder investigation.”
Her eyes gleamed like polished jet as she watched me over the rim of her cup. “Or are you just worried about offending the father of the man you’re sweet on?”
“I am not sweet on Mr. Armitage! What gave you that idea?”
“The way you look at him.”
I sliced the top off my egg with such vehemence it missed the plate altogether and landed on the table. “Every woman looks at him like that. He’s very pleasing to look at. Unfortunately, he has the personality of a man who knows he’s pleasing to look at. He’s arrogant and somewhat rude.”
“I always found him charming.”
“He can be.”
Mr. Armitage certainly turned on the charm when he worked at the hotel. But as soon as he left, the charm slipped and his true nature revealed itself. Of course, that could just be for my benefit. I had cost him his job, after all.
Harmony glanced at the clock and sprang to her feet. “We better do your hair so I can get on with my work.” She gathered up the dirty dishes and placed them on the tray then ushered me into the bedroom even though I hadn’t finished my egg.
I sat at the dressing table and succumbed to her ministrations. Afterwards, I dressed while she tidied up the sitting room. When I emerged from the bedroom, she had the tray balanced on one hand and was heading for the door.
“We’ll talk about Miss Westwood again later,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
I was hardly listening, however. A thought had occurred to me. “Do you know what Mr. Clitheroe looks like?”
“Who?”
“He’s a guest here.”
“What room number?”
“I don’t know.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. I only know guests by their room numbers not their names. Why?”
“No reason.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t pressure me for an answer either.
I headed downstairs and smiled at Goliath, waiting stony-faced beside a trolley stacked with a large trunk, two cases and three hat boxes. He gave me a fleeting smile, but it withered upon Mr. Hirst’s glare. According to t
he new assistant manager, porters should be as invisible as possible. I wasn’t sure how he expected someone as tall and well-built as Goliath to be invisible and had once joked to him about it. Mr. Hirst had laughed too, but it had rung false.
Frank the doorman signaled to Goliath to bring the luggage to the waiting carriage. The guests were still completing their check-out procedure with Peter at the desk as I passed them on the way to the senior staff offices.
Mr. Hobart’s office door was open and he looked as though he was just about to leave. Unlike Mr. Hirst, the smile he gave me was genuine. We’d not started on a very good footing, after I’d been the cause of his nephew’s dismissal, but he was quick to forgive me, thankfully. No matter how busy he was, he always had time to speak to me and never rushed me.
Today, however, I sensed his eagerness to get away. “Good morning, Miss Fox. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you about a particular guest, a Mr. Clitheroe.”
His clear blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly and the sense of eagerness vanished. He was very curious about my interest in Mr. Clitheroe but wasn’t sure whether he should ask me why. No matter how much he’d decided to like me, I was still his employer’s niece and not someone he should be demanding answers from. “What did you want to know about him?”
“What does he look like?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. Whatever he thought I was going to ask, that was not it. “Medium height and build, brown hair. Rather typical for a man in his mid to late thirties.”
“Does he have any distinguishing features?”
“Such as?”
“Such as his nose? Is it somewhat beaky?”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly before he schooled his features. “Some would call it a little prominent.”
“But you’re too diplomatic to say it?”
That got his smile to break free. “Is there anything else, Miss Fox?”
“That’s all, thank you.”
We walked out of his office together, and he closed the door behind him. “May I have one of the hotel carriages brought around for you?” At my arched look, he indicated the coat and gloves in my hand. “You appear to be going out.”
“I’ll catch a cab to the station. I’m heading to Ealing to see your nephew, as it happens.”
He stopped short. “Well, isn’t that a lovely surprise. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you.”
I doubted that but smiled anyway.
“You’re unlikely to find him there, I’m afraid. He moved out, much to my sister-in-law’s disappointment. She enjoyed having him home these last couple of weeks. But it was time for him to go. A man his age can’t live with his parents for long, especially when he’s been away from home as many years as he has. If I give you his new address, can you remember it or do you want me to write it down?”
I hadn’t expected him to give it to me so easily. I hadn’t even told him why I wanted to speak to Mr. Armitage. “I’ll remember it.”
He gave me the address in Soho, a mere fifteen minute walk from the hotel. “Now,” he said on a heavy sigh, “I have to see a bereaved man about funeral arrangements.”
“Lord Rumford?”
He nodded. “Sometimes this job is disheartening. But you enjoy your day, Miss Fox. No need for such a sorry business to upset you.”
It was kind of Lord Rumford to organize his mistress’s funeral. Then again, perhaps she had no one else. I hoped his wife didn’t find out.
That thought had me shaking my head at the direction my own moral compass was pointing. Three weeks ago, it had been straight as an arrow. Now it seemed not to know which way was the right way.
I accepted an umbrella from Frank at the door and headed off. My thoughts began with the “sorry business,” as Mr. Hobart called it, but moved to the prospect of seeing Harry Armitage again. No doubt he’d be surprised by my visit.
He’d be even more surprised at my suggestion we should become partners in his new private investigation venture. After he recovered from his surprise, he’d give me an emphatic no.
But I knew how to convince him it was a good idea.
Chapter 2
My hopes of convincing Mr. Armitage that I should become his partner in his new enterprise were dashed upon arriving at the address his uncle had given me. It was not Mr. Armitage’s home, but his place of business, and ARMITAGE AND ASSOCIATES: PRIVATE DETECTIVES had already been painted on the door. I wondered how difficult it would be to change it to ARMITAGE AND FOX. Probably as difficult as it would be convincing him he needed a partner.
Wedged between a barber shop and a café, the door was easily missed. While both shops sported clean windows and seemed respectable, there was a hint of the foreign origins of their owners in the translations below the English. I recognized the Italian words on the café window but not those painted on the barber’s.
Soho was the poor relation of neighboring Mayfair, and up until a decade ago it had been a slum. Its Bohemian heart and close proximity to the wealthy meant it was the ideal location for the theaters and assorted restaurants and cafés that sprang up on the main streets. There was an energy about Soho that was not present in Mayfair. It was as if the area looked forward to the possibilities of the new century, while Mayfair was too busy looking back at past glories to notice that the world had moved on.
Mr. Armitage’s office was not located on one of the busy Soho thoroughfares. The narrow street looked as though it was still struggling to leave its slum roots behind. The buildings’ paintwork was either fading or peeling away, and rubbish blew down the street whenever the wind picked up. Yet despite the muck-filled gutters and lack of street lamps, the stoops were swept clean.
I pushed open the door to Armitage and Associates and climbed the stairs to the first floor landing where another door was painted with the sign for Mr. Armitage’s business. The paint smelled fresh.
I hesitated a moment before knocking. The door was immediately opened by a smiling Mr. Armitage. The smile vanished upon seeing me.
“It’s you,” he said flatly.
“I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“I hoped it was a potential client.”
“Perhaps I am.”
Mr. Armitage’s gaze narrowed, clearly not believing me. He stepped aside, however, and invited me in. I brushed past him, very aware of his closeness. Harmony had been right when she said I found him handsome. I did. With dark hair and chiseled features, coupled with his height and broad shoulders, he was an impressive man.
A physical attraction was as far as my interest went, however.
The small office was as masculine as the man himself with its half-wall paneling and bulky furniture. He must have bought the desk and armchair secondhand. Both bore scratches and the leather of the armchair had faded to a mid-brown. Except for a clock, the walls were completely bare. There wasn’t even a bookshelf, although a filing cabinet stood behind the desk.
“You ought to put up a picture of your parents,” I said. “It’ll make the place a little more friendly. And get a bookshelf and stock it with books. A few knick-knacks wouldn’t go astray too, but don’t clutter the place.”
He slammed the door, making my nerves jangle. “Did you come here to give me decorating advice?”
“I’m simply trying to help. If you want clients to feel comfortable, you should add some small touches. You don’t want to intimidate the clients, but you do want to create an air of competence. Your choice of furniture makes it seem as though you’ve been in business a while, which will be good for establishing your authenticity.” I ran my hand over the back of the armchair. “This is nice. It’s very homely.”
His gaze narrowed further. “Are you angling for a commission?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve heard of ladies offering their services as decorators.”
“Good lord, no. That would involve shopping, and I’m not terribly good at that. Flossy would enjoy i
t, but she’d ignore your budget and shop at the high-end stores. Not that she’d be allowed to start such a business venture.”
“Of course. Bainbridge women don’t work.”
The way he said it, I suspected he was lumping me in with Flossy. I’d long suspected he and everyone else thought I was wealthy. It was an easy mistake to make, considering my mother and Aunt Lilian were the only children of a wealthy businessman. Few people knew that Aunt Lilian inherited everything after my grandfather cut my mother out of his will when she married my father. My father, an academic at Cambridge University, had not been the sort of man my grandparents wanted their daughter to marry. At first, I wondered why everyone here in London didn’t realize I was quite poor, when I had to move in with my uncle and aunt, but in time I learned they simply assumed I wanted companionship. They weren’t to know that my only income came from the allowance Uncle Ronald paid every month.
Part of me wanted to set Mr. Armitage straight, but only a small part. My financial situation was my business, not his or anyone else’s.
Mr. Armitage offered me the guest chair then sat behind the desk. “You said you have a case for me.”
“No, I said perhaps I’m a potential client.”
He tilted his head to the side. “So…you’re not?”
“No.”
He heaved a sigh. “Then why are you here, Miss Fox? Please be brief. I’m a busy man.”
“Oh? You have a case already?” Perhaps it was a little cruel, considering he’d clearly just opened for business, but his brusque manner grated me the wrong way. I never thought I’d miss the charming assistant manager I’d first met on my arrival at the Mayfair Hotel, but today I did. As false as that charm might have been, it calmed my fractious nerves.
