by C. J. Archer
“That doesn’t sound very lucky for her.”
She gave me an arched look. “This is no time for jokes.” She reached up to unpin my hat. “You ought to see Lord Rumford while he’s in his suite. Room four-fifteen, just down the hall.”
I relinquished my hat and gloves when she asked for them too. “Why do you think Miss Westwood was murdered? And are you suggesting Lord Rumford is her murderer?”
“He’s the one who thinks she was murdered. He doesn’t believe she killed herself. He says she had far too much to live for and was a very happy person. But the police don’t believe him and are refusing to investigate further. They’re too lazy, if you ask me. Suicide is the easy verdict and saves them the trouble of finding out what really happened.”
“Detective Inspector Hobart isn’t lazy.”
“He might not be the investigator on this case. There must be many other detectives in Scotland Yard.” She shooed me towards the door.
I planted my feet on the floor, refusing to budge. “I don’t know.”
She thrust a hand on her hip. “If it is murder, he or she should be uncovered for poor Miss Westwood’s sake.”
“I suppose.”
“And if the police won’t do it, who else is there?”
“Harry Armitage is a private detective now.”
“Mr. Armitage can find his own clients. Besides, I don’t know if Lord Rumford will pay. He made no specific mention of hiring anyone.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have eyes and ears.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping?”
She remained silent, which was probably wise. That way she couldn’t be accused of anything.
I sighed. “Very well, but only because I have nothing better to do.”
“Very true.”
I eyed her sideways. “And if Miss Westwood was murdered, her family should have justice.”
She beamed. “Excellent. I’m so glad you agree.” She gave my shoulder a little shove. “Let’s do it now before he heads out again.”
“You’re coming with me?” I asked as she followed me along the corridor.
“Of course. You need a chaperone. We can’t have your reputation ruined.”
I swallowed my laugh when she gave me a sharp glare. Sometimes Harmony could be more censorial than a parent.
Perhaps she was right to be protective. Although I was used to going where I wanted without being accompanied, I was now part of the Bainbridge household, and they lived by different rules than my middle class grandparents.
Lord Rumford looked like a man in need of sleep. Dark shadows circled his eyes, the whites of which were webbed with tiny veins, and his gray beard and hair were in need of a comb. While he didn’t smile in greeting when he opened the door on my knock, he didn’t bark at us either. He simply sighed and said, “Yes?”
“My name is Cleopatra Fox and this is Harmony Cotton.” At his blank expression, I added, “I’m Sir Ronald Bainbridge’s niece.”
He shook my offered hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next. “I’m going to uncover your mistress’s killer” sounded presumptuous.
Harmony came to my rescue. “Miss Fox is going to investigate Miss Westwood’s death and wishes to ask you some questions. May we come in?”
A spark lit Lord Rumford’s eyes. “You are not what I was expecting.”
“You were expecting someone else?”
“Someone a little older and…”
“Male?”
His smile was kind. “Admittedly, yes.”
“Miss Fox is very experienced,” Harmony said. “She solved the case of the hotel’s murdered guest a couple of weeks ago.”
“The Christmas Eve Killer?” he asked, citing the name the journalists had dubbed Mrs. Warrick’s murderer. “You weren’t mentioned in the papers.”
“Miss Fox is Sir Ronald’s niece.” Harmony didn’t need to say more. Lord Rumford understood that it was unseemly to associate the Bainbridge name with the solving of a murder, particularly when the sleuth was a female member of the family.
“You won’t want to attract attention to yourself then,” he said to me.
“I don’t.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to attract attention to myself either. Not in relation to Pearl’s death.”
“Or her life?”
“Precisely.” He glanced up and down the corridor then, seeing it empty, stepped aside. “Do come in. I’d be very happy to hire you as long as my name is kept out of it.”
Chapter 3
The fourth floor of the hotel had the largest suites and was used by the Bainbridge family and important guests. Lord Rumford’s suite resembled mine, with a sitting room and adjoining bedroom. The only difference was the view over Green Park. His was from a more easterly perspective.
He indicated we should sit on the sofa. I sat but Harmony hung back, keeping her distance while being close enough to overhear us.
“I’m sorry for your loss, my lord,” I began.
“Thank you. It’s come as a shock. I only saw her early yesterday afternoon. It must have been shortly before…” He passed a hand over his jaw and drew in a shuddery breath.
I hesitated. I hadn’t expected such grief. I’d assumed Pearl Westwood was the latest mistress in a long line that stretched back decades and would soon be replaced. It seemed as though he truly cared for her. It was no wonder he wanted to find her killer. “Why do you think she was murdered?”
“When I saw her before Christmas, she was happy. She was typical Pearl—lively, fun, not a care in the world. Then, when I returned to London two days ago, she’d changed. She was troubled.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but whatever caused the change could be the reason she committed suicide.”
“She was troubled but not sad. Not desperately so that she would end it all. She asked for money, you see. She didn’t say why, just that it was important. She was dreadfully apologetic about it.”
I hesitated, not sure if I ought to ask the question that was on my mind. It was terribly impolite. Thankfully Lord Rumford guessed anyway.
“You want to know the details of our arrangement,” he said.
I nodded.
“I paid for her flat and gave her gifts from time to time. No money passed between us. It was all quite dignified.”
Sometimes it amazed me how people justified their actions to themselves. If he thought not giving Pearl money meant she was not a prostitute, and he wasn’t her customer, he was wrong. It was precisely that. Neither his intentions nor his feelings towards her mattered. I would have liked to know what she’d felt about him. Had she cared for him? Or was he a means to an end?
“Did you give her the money when she asked?”
He looked down at his hand, resting on the chair arm. “I hadn’t got around to it.”
“Did she know that you planned to give it to her?”
“I hadn’t got around to telling her.” The hand on the chair arm fisted. “The point is, she needed money and she wouldn’t say why. I believe someone was blackmailing her.”
“About her arrangement with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then wouldn’t she tell you?”
“She’s very proud. Was very proud.” He swallowed heavily. “Knowing her, she would try to deal with it on her own. Pearl was like that. Very independent. She didn’t like relying on me to rescue her, you see.”
“Are you aware of anyone in her life who might blackmail her about your relationship?”
“No.”
“Who else knew about you two?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. We were very discreet, but those close to us knew. There is a sister, but I can’t recall her name. The other actors and theater staff knew too. Ask the manager. She was close to him. Culpepper, his name is. Good fellow. He introduced us.”
I rose to leave. “Thank you, my lord. Can you give me the address of Miss Westwoo
d’s flat?”
He wrote down an address on a piece of paper at the desk and handed it to me along with two keys. “Thank you, Miss Fox. I appreciate you doing this.”
I bit my tongue. I ought to ask if he was going to pay me but refrained. I would investigate regardless. Harmony was right; I had nothing better to do with my time.
Harmony and I emerged into the corridor. Just as the door closed behind us, Harry Armitage stepped out of the stairwell.
“Good morning, Harmony. Miss Fox, we meet again.” He looked past me at the door labeled four-fifteen. Time seemed to slow. His lips parted in surprise then pressed together. Hard. His face darkened. “You stole my client.”
I stiffened. “I did no such thing!”
He grabbed my elbow and marched me away from the door. “Are you investigating Pearl Westwood’s murder?”
I shook my arm free. “Yes.”
“Then I repeat: you stole my client. I can’t believe this. I trusted you!” He dragged his hand through his hair and shook his head.
I was about to protest again when Harmony mumbled something about work and hurried off. It would seem I’d get no help from her.
“You sent me on a wild goose chase about some mysterious beak-nosed fellow just so you could distract me from your real quarry.”
“What?” I blurted out.
He jutted his chin at room four-fifteen. “Don’t deny it. I saw you leaving.”
“I’m not denying I was inside speaking to Lord Rumford. But I will deny that I sent you on a wild goose chase to deliberately distract you. First of all, it isn’t a wild goose chase. I think there is something going on with Mr. Hirst and that fellow, whoever he is. Probably.”
He crossed his arms and gave me a look as if he didn’t believe me.
“And secondly, I wasn’t going to investigate Miss Westwood’s death until Harmony suggested it to me after I returned from having coffee with you. It was she who said I should have a word with Lord Rumford after she overheard him say he suspected his mistress had been murdered.”
“And how did she hear that?” He arched his brows. “Let me guess. She was eavesdropping on Lord Rumford’s conversation with my uncle.”
“She didn’t say.”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Lord Rumford approached my uncle earlier asking for the name of someone discreet to look into Miss Westwood’s death. My uncle didn’t give Lord Rumford my name, as he didn’t know if I had the time to dedicate to the case. He told Rumford he’d send someone to his room if available, or a note if not. When I showed up in his office a few minutes later, he told me all about it, and here I am.” He watched me with a glare so icy I shivered.
“Why did it take you so long to come up here to speak to Lord Rumford?” I asked.
“Because I was talking to Uncle Alfred about Hirst and the guest named Clitheroe.”
“And?”
“And he doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about, hence the wild goose chase.”
“Oh.”
“My delay gave you just enough time to swoop in and take my client from under my nose.”
I was growing a little tired of his accusation. He mustn’t hold me in very high esteem if he thought that of me. Considering prior events, perhaps that was understandable, but it still hurt. “I can see how it looks, but I assure you, my intentions are innocent. Harmony must have been eavesdropping on your uncle and Lord Rumford and decided to put me forward as an investigator. She wouldn’t have suggested it to me if she knew Mr. Hobart was going to ask you.”
I wasn’t entirely sure of Harmony’s complete innocence in the matter, but I would try to defend her as best as I could. She was going to get a talking to from me later, however.
“Anyway, Lord Rumford is not my client,” I went on. “I don’t think he’s paying me.”
“Because you insisted you didn’t want to be paid.”
“No, because he didn’t offer.”
“He didn’t offer because discussing something as vulgar as money with Sir Ronald’s niece isn’t the gentlemanly thing to do to.” He put an ugly twist on the word vulgar which summed up perfectly what Lord Rumford and his ilk thought of any kind of financial discussion, particularly around ladies.
I sighed. I really hadn’t wanted to step on Mr. Armitage’s toes. “We’ll talk to him now and tell him you’re the official investigator and I’m just…” I sighed again. “Sir Ronald’s nosy, bored niece.”
I crossed the corridor to the door and raised my hand to knock.
Mr. Armitage closed his hand around my fist and drew it away. We stood so close my shoulder brushed his chest. When I looked up, his face filled my vision.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“Why not?” I whispered.
He simply shook his head and let me go. He walked off, his long strides quickly taking him away from me.
I picked up my skirts and ran after him. “Mr. Armitage.”
He did not slow down.
I quickened my pace. “Mr. Armitage.”
He didn’t respond.
“Harry, stop!”
Finally he halted and turned to me. “You won the case. I won’t say fair and square, but I can’t say I would have been any less devious.”
“Harmony was the devious one, not me,” I pointed out.
“Keep the case. I don’t want your charity.”
“It’s not charity, it’s…sharing. We’ll share the case.”
He firmed his jaw and set off again.
I got the feeling I’d insulted him. Idiot men and their idiotic pride. It served him right if he had to wait a while longer for his first case. It wasn’t my fault. He wasn’t going to starve in the meantime anyway. His mother would feed him every chance she got, and his father would lend him money if he needed it. Harry Armitage would be just fine.
And I had a murder to investigate.
Pearl Westwood’s flat was on the ground floor of a modern complex a mere ten minute walk from the Piccadilly Playhouse, which meant it was also within walking distance of the hotel. Not that I could imagine Lord Rumford ever walking to his mistress’s place. He was quite portly and very rich. He would be driven.
One of the keys Lord Rumford had given me fitted into the iron gate positioned within the archway that led from the street into the building’s hallway. The gate creaked as it swung closed then relocked itself.
I headed along the hallway to the twin doors at the end and was about to insert the other key into the lock of the one marked 1B when the door suddenly opened. The woman standing there emitted a small squeal then let out a breath.
“Goodness,” she said. “You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
The woman was in her early thirties with light brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She was otherwise unremarkable, as was the plain woolen coat she wore over a black dress. The little girl holding her hand had the same shaped face as her mother. A red bow in her blonde hair provided a pretty dash of color to an otherwise bland outfit of ill-fitting gray coat. She must have been about four years old. In her other hand, the woman held a carpet bag.
“I’m sorry, I thought this was the home of the late Pearl Westwood,” I said.
The woman drew in a shuddery breath. “It is. I’m her sister, Mrs. Larsen.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you in peace and come back later.” I turned to go.
“Why do you have a key to my sister’s home?”
“It was given to me by her…” I glanced down at the girl. She didn’t seem to notice me. She stared straight through me, humming quietly to herself. “By a gentleman by the name of Lord Rumford.”
Mrs. Larsen’s lips pressed together in disapproval.
“My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m investigating the death of Miss Westwood on his lordship’s behalf.”
She glanced down at the little girl then back up at me. “Why?”
“He doesn’t believe she ended it herself.” I
didn’t want to use the words kill or murder in front of the girl. Such talk was too grim for tender ears. “He thinks someone else…” There was no need to finish the sentence. I could see from Mrs. Larsen’s shocked face that she understood my meaning.
“He thinks that, does he? Good lord.” She swallowed heavily. “And he hired you to…” She looked down at the little girl and led her back inside. “Will you stay for tea, Miss Fox?”
“Thank you, that’s most kind, but only if you can spare the time. I know how much there is to do when you lose a loved one.”
I followed her into a parlor decorated with dusky rose pink wallpaper and a darker pink, blue and cream Oriental carpet. Although not large, the parlor managed to fit an upright piano, sofa, two pink velvet armchairs with matching footstools, and three tables. Ash swirled in the grate as a gust of wind blew down the chimney, chilling the cold room even further.
Mrs. Larsen stood the girl in front of an armchair and set down the bag. “Now sit here and be good. Don’t make a fuss. I have to talk to this lady.”
The girl continued humming.
“Do you hear me?”
The girl nodded and put her arms up to be lifted onto the chair.
Mrs. Larsen deposited her on the armchair and indicated I should sit on the sofa. She disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.
It gave me a few moments to study the framed photographs on the table nearest me. The same woman appeared in all of them, accompanied by different people in each. In many, they wore costumes—Egyptian pharaohs, medieval peasants, bathing and dancing outfits which showed off Pearl’s shapely legs. The only photograph where she was not in costume was one of her standing beside Lord Rumford, seated on an armchair, her hand on his shoulder. They wore formal evening clothes, as if they were just about to head off to the opera. The woman sported a tiara in her hair and a pearl choker at her throat.
She must be Pearl Westwood, although I did think it a little odd she was in all of the photographs and there wasn’t a single one of her sister or niece.
Pearl was also the subject of a large painted portrait in a gilded frame hanging above the fireplace. She wore a pink chiffon dress that left her shoulders bare and a diamond pendant nestled in the deep V of her bosom. Her dreamy expression was so different to the smiling photographs on the table, yet she was no less beautiful. While I could see the family resemblance to her sister, Pearl’s features were arranged in a way that captured the onlooker’s attention and held it. It was as if two sculptors had taken two identically shaped molds, yet the amateur had sculpted Mrs. Larsen’s features and the experienced artist had used his superior skill to sculpt Pearl.
