by C. J. Archer
“Did anyone ask about her funeral?”
“Several, but I didn’t tell them. Mr. Culpepper said it was supposed to be a private service and I weren’t to tell no one about it, so I didn’t. I swear to you, miss, I told no one.”
The man doth protest too much. A little nudge should procure a confession from him. “Come now, nobody expects you to withhold the details from her most intimate friends. That wouldn’t be fair, would it? They deserve to attend her funeral too.”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“But you did tell one person, didn’t you?” I pressed. “He gave you a very large incentive to tell him, didn’t he?”
The doorman stared straight ahead. He was considerably taller than me and very well built. His collar struggled to contain his neck and he wore no gloves, probably because he couldn’t find any to fit his broad hands. He could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. And yet he looked worried by my questioning.
“I won’t tell a soul, and certainly not Mr. Culpepper,” I said quietly. “Your secret is safe with me. But this is a murder investigation and I need to know about the man who paid you a considerable sum of money to tell you when and where Miss Westwood’s funeral would be. If you don’t, I’ll have to inform the police that you wouldn’t co-operate.”
“The police!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, but there’s not much to tell. He came here last night when Mr. Culpepper was inside with the others, having a drink in Miss Westwood’s honor. When I wouldn’t let him in, he asked me about her funeral and I told him. He said he was a real good friend of Miss Westwood’s and, like you said, a good friend has a right to farewell her.”
I suspected the man had paid him too, but admitting as much went against the doorman’s code of honor. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have warts or sores on his face?”
“I didn’t see his face. It was dark and he wore his coat collar up.”
Damnation.
“There was one distinguishing thing about him, miss,” the doorman said.
“Oh?”
“His carriage. The doors were green.”
The doors of the carriage the warty gentleman had driven away in were green. It had to be the same man. I opened my bag and pulled out some coins. How much did one pay for this sort of information?
The doorman put up his hand to halt me. “Keep your money, miss. I really didn’t see his face and that’s the truth.”
I thanked him and headed off into the busy early evening throng of Piccadilly Circus and wondered what path to follow next. While I’d learned quite a bit about Pearl from those who’d known her, I was little better off than I’d been at the start of the day.
I was in luck and caught Mr. Hobart just as he was about to leave the hotel for the day. “Did you think of something that I can do to involve Mr. Armitage in the investigation?” I asked.
He plucked his hat off the hat stand by the office door and reached for his coat. “I’m afraid not.” He indicated I should go ahead of him into the corridor.
I waited as he locked the door behind us and walked with him to the foyer. “What about the situation with Mr. Clitheroe?” I whispered lest we be overheard by Mr. Hirst.
“There is no situation,” he whispered back. “The fellow you saw must have indeed been Mr. Clitheroe. He does have a prominent nose. Besides, there’s no reason for Mr. Hirst to lie.”
Mr. Hobart really was naïve if he thought that. Indeed, now that I thought about it, the former housekeeper had stolen the silverware from under his nose. If it hadn’t been for one of the staff telling him directly that it was missing, and if Mr. Armitage and I hadn’t investigated, the former housekeeper would have got away with it. For some reason, that naivety only made me like Mr. Hobart more. But it didn’t help solve crimes.
“There’s one way to solve this definitively,” I said. “You must point out Mr. Clitheroe to me. I’ll be able to tell you immediately if he’s the same man I saw that night.”
Mr. Hobart gave me an apologetic look. “I’m afraid Mr. Clitheroe checked out today. So that’s the end of that.”
I doubted it, but bit my tongue. Perhaps I could involve Mr. Armitage in the case again. He didn’t need his uncle’s approval to investigate. He could make discreet inquiries of the staff or follow Mr. Hirst when he left the hotel. Indeed, it was a good compromise. If he wouldn’t share the Pearl Westwood case with me, perhaps he would consider the Hirst one.
I headed up to my room and, using the speaking tube, asked the kitchen to bring up a cup of tea. To my surprise, Harmony brought it along with two cups.
“Shouldn’t you have finished for the day?” I asked her.
She set the tray down in the sitting room and poured tea into the cups. “I’ve been waiting in the kitchen for you to get back. I thought if you didn’t order tea straight away, I’d soon hear you were back from Goliath.”
“Am I really that predictable?”
She handed me a cup and saucer then eased herself down on the sofa with the other. “Lord, my feet ache.”
“Put them up on the table. I don’t mind.”
“Lord no! This is a sitting room in one of the Mayfair’s best suites!”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You’re such a snob when you want to be.”
She pouted. “This table looks expensive and it shouldn’t have feet on it.”
“Then kick your shoes off and recline on the sofa.”
She considered this a moment then undid the laces on her shoes. She sighed with contentment as she leaned into the sofa’s end, her long legs outstretched beside her. “Mrs. Short had me running all over the hotel today, up and down, fetching this or that. I think it’s a test.”
“For what?”
“To see how agreeable I am. She’s been doing it to all of us. Those who complain get the pointy end of her sharp glare.” She sipped then put down the cup. “So what did you learn today?”
I told her about the funeral this morning and the anonymous gentleman paying his respects, as well as the conversations I’d had at the memorial service at the Playhouse. “Everyone agrees that Pearl was frivolous and liked the nice things Lord Rumford gave her, but there were differing accounts of jealousy. Her understudy says no one was jealous of Pearl or Rumford, yet another actor said men adored her and would have liked to be in Rumford’s place.”
“And if she’d rejected one, he might have become angry and violent?”
“Precisely.” I sipped my tea as I thought. “Perhaps I should ask Danny for his opinion of the actor. Mr. Alcott says he knew Danny, and I suspect that knowledge was of an intimate nature.”
“I’ll ask him,” Harmony said. “He’ll be honest with me.”
“Why wouldn’t he be honest with me?”
“Because you’re a Bainbridge.”
“I’m a Fox,” I said snippily. “I’m also very friendly and accepting of people, no matter who they’re intimate with.”
“You’re also related to his employer.”
She was right. No matter how much I didn’t like it, the fact was, most of the staff treated me differently and always would. Mr. Armitage had been right about that. “You don’t seem to care that I’m Sir Ronald’s niece.”
She flashed me a smile as bright as the electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. “That’s because I’m different to most folk.”
“You certainly are, Harmony.”
Her smile vanished and she once again became serious. “So what should we do now?”
“I have an idea, as it happens. Mr. Culpepper the theater manager suggested that Lord Rumford was actually going to end the affair with Pearl because he didn’t believe she loved him completely.”
Harmony screwed up her nose. “Is that a good reason to end it with a lover who’s much younger and more attractive than yourself? I mean, didn’t he already know she didn’t love him and was just with him for the gifts?”
; “Perhaps he was blind to her true feelings.”
“Stupid, more like.”
“Whatever we think, if there’s even the slightest chance Pearl could have killed herself, we must consider it. We aren’t positive she was murdered yet.”
Harmony drained her teacup and set it down. “So you think we should ask Rumford if he was going to end it with her?”
I shook my head. “Not ask. Would he even give us a direct answer? He won’t want us to think he was responsible for her throwing herself off the balcony.”
“If Pearl wasn’t in love with him, she wouldn’t have thrown herself off the balcony if he was going to end it with her. She’d be relieved she could move onto someone else.”
It was what I’d thought too. “Mr. Culpepper thinks she liked the gifts too much and if she was having financial difficulty, she might be worried about losing Rumford.”
Harmony sat up straight, putting both feet on the floor. “This is all backward, Cleo.”
If she realized she called me Cleo instead of Miss Fox, she gave no sign, and I didn’t correct her. I didn’t want to. It felt right that we were on a first name basis. “I still think we need to rule it out if it will prove Mr. Culpepper was lying and deliberately putting the idea into my head.”
She slipped her shoes on and bent to tie the laces. “And how are we going to do that?”
“I’ll enter Lord Rumford’s room when he’s not there and look for clues. There might be some correspondence from Pearl or details about this holiday they’re going to take together in the autumn.”
The idea didn’t shock her in the least. She finished tying her shoes and looked up. “We’ll need his key. I don’t do his room and I don’t want to ask the maid who does. The fewer people who know what we’re up to, the better. We could get Peter to let us into Mr. Hobart’s office and use his spare key.”
I’d learned in my last investigation that Mr. Hobart kept spare keys for all the rooms, as did the housekeeper. I’d also learned that the keys were kept in a locked drawer in Mr. Hobart’s office and he kept that key on his person, and another with the assistant manager. Mrs. Short’s spare keys were also kept in a locked box in her office. There was only one person I knew who could get into all those locks. Victor. There was also just one door that needed to be unlocked.
“We’ll bypass Mr. Hobart’s office and his spare keys and break into Rumford’s room,” I said. “Victor will do it.”
“And be glad to, knowing him.” She frowned. “What do you think he did before he came to work here?”
“I’m not sure. I thought you knew.”
“Something wild, I expect. He’s a no-good character, that one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s written all over his face.”
“If you mean his scars, that’s a little unfair. Without them, he’d have quite a sweet, babyish face.”
She stood suddenly and peered down at me. “Victor is neither sweet nor good, and you should remember that. He’s trouble.”
I smiled.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing,” I said innocently. “Now, you go and get some rest. I’ll see what I can learn about Lord Rumford’s movements.”
She gathered the teacups onto the tray and picked it up. “I’d better speak to Victor before I go and let him know our plans for him.”
“That won’t be necessary. You don’t have to speak to him if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to, but it must be done.” She indicated the tray. “Besides, I’ve got to return this to the kitchen.”
She strode towards the door, back straight. I smiled, until she suddenly turned around when she reached the door. She scowled at me, and I expected to be scolded for smiling again. But she simply opened the door and marched out.
According to Peter at the check-in desk, Lord Rumford had ordered a hotel carriage to take him to the theater then on to his club. He’d asked for the coachman to collect him there at three AM. It gave us plenty of time.
I went in search of Victor in the kitchen and spotted him at one of the long central benches. The chef de cuisine stood at a stove, breathing down the neck of a red-faced youth stirring a pot. The head chef had a fierce reputation and I didn’t like venturing into his domain, but this time it was necessary.
I darted into the kitchen and was immediately enveloped by the heat. It pulsed around me like a living, breathing thing, as if it were trying to warn me to get out. Chefs eyed my progress; some shook their heads in warning. The operatic one momentarily stopped singing until I signaled that he should continue.
Victor glanced up from his station and raised his brows.
I mouthed “midnight.” Hopefully he’d spoken to Harmony and understood me.
“YOU!” The bellow, spoken with a French accent, cut through the hot, dense air of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“I just lost my way,” I said.
The chef de cuisine barreled towards me like a bulldog. He was a short man with a ridiculous curled mustache, but I wouldn’t dare mock him for it. He looked as though he’d throw one of the knives from his belt at me. “I do not care who you are! Get out! Get out!”
I turned and fled.
I dined with Flossy and Floyd in the dining room that evening. Aunt Lilian kept to her suite, and Uncle Ronald had gone out to a gentleman’s club with friends. It made for a relaxing evening, despite having to keep up appearances for the guests. Some still approached our table and greeted my cousins by name, but their number was fewer than when my uncle was present.
For once, Floyd didn’t rush off after dinner. He ordered a glass of port while Flossy and I drank coffee, and sighed with contentment as he sipped. “Good stuff, that.”
“Did you order the most expensive?” Flossy asked.
“Who knows how much it costs?”
“Father.”
“He doesn’t check the accounts that closely, so he’ll never know it was me who ordered it. If he does see it, he’ll assume it was one of the guests.”
Her gaze lifted to the steward, standing by the lectern where he noted down the names of guests as they entered. “Mr. Chapman will know.”
“But he’ll never tell Father.”
“Why not?”
Floyd gave her a smug smile. “Because I’m going to take over one day and Chapman might like to keep his job.”
“That’s a long way off. Father could live for years. Sometimes I think he’ll be here forever.” She said it without much feeling, as if discussing the demise of a mere acquaintance. “And anyway, who’s to say he won’t leave his majority share to someone else? Someone he thinks is more capable of running the show.”
“I am bloody capable.”
“I know that, Floyd, but you know what Father’s like.”
Floyd hunched morosely over his glass while Flossy looked as though she regretted mentioning it at all.
“That was an excellent meal,” I said to break the tension. “I enjoyed your company this evening. To what do we owe the pleasure, Floyd?”
“I’m staying in tonight. I’ll entertain some friends in my suite later.”
“Who?” Flossy asked.
“The usual set.”
Her gaze narrowed, and I thought she’d press him further, but she simply said, “Make sure they’re quiet when they leave. Don’t wake Mother.”
“They’ll be very discreet. Don’t worry about me, Floss. I’m an expert in sneaking in and out of the hotel at all hours.” He finished his glass of port and rose. “Think I’ll rest up before my guests arrive. Goodnight, ladies.”
We watched him go. He seemed cheerful tonight, which I suspected had a lot to do with his father’s absence. Floyd had a carefree manner, much to his father’s consternation. Uncle Ronald wanted a son like himself, serious and business-like with the hotel always at the forefront of everything he did, every friend he made. But Floyd just wanted to have a good time.
“I wish I
could entertain friends in my suite whenever I wanted,” Flossy muttered. “It’s not fair that he can and I have to be stuck here until Mother or Father let me out, and even then I have to go out with Mother or a hotel maid as chaperone. I want to be free, Cleo. I want to see whomever I want whenever I want. You’re so lucky your parents are dead.” She winced. “Sorry, but you know what I mean.”
“You ought to tell them you’d like a little more freedom. Start small. Ask if you can meet a friend for lunch or coffee.”
“They’ll tell me to meet my friend here. The Mayfair has the best afternoon tea and lunch in London, after all.” She sighed. “Don’t mind me. I’ve just got a touch of melancholy. It’ll pass.”
She might not look like her mother, but in that moment, she reminded me of Aunt Lilian in one of her low moods. I wondered if Flossy’s parents ever saw the likeness, or if they were too keen for her to live the same sort of life they’d had at her age—one where she was expected to associate with the right sort and only under the watchful eye of a parent.
The fourth floor corridor was quiet at midnight. I heard the distant thud of a door closing on another level, but otherwise the building was silent. I didn’t even hear Victor’s footsteps on the stairs, and I only saw him emerge from the stairwell because I was watching it.
“Harmony said you had a task for me up here,” he whispered. “Am I right in assuming I’m picking a lock?”
“Lord Rumford’s suite.” I led the way along the corridor and stopped at the door numbered four-fifteen.
Victor dropped to his knees and went to work with the slender tools he’d brought with him. He didn’t have his knife belt on him, nor did he wear his chef whites. He must have returned to the staff residence hall and changed after his shift.
He hadn’t asked me why I needed to look through Lord Rumford’s suite. Indeed, he took the exercise in his stride, as if this were no more unusual than turning up to work.
The lock finally clicked, and Victor opened the door. I entered while he kept watch. I flicked the light switch on and headed straight for the sitting room. I looked through the desk but there was no personal correspondence among the hotel stationery. I looked through his belongings in the bedroom, but also found nothing. After a half hour, and a thorough search, I slipped out of the suite and rejoined Victor.
