Murder in the Drawing Room

by C. J. Archer

  Flossy touched her hair, arranged into a swept-up style and kept in place with a blue enamel comb. “My hair was a mess afterwards. I had to remove my hat to save it from being blown away. No amount of pins could keep it in place. Next time I’ll wear a headscarf and tie it tightly under my chin. That’s the only problem with motor cars, that I can see. The lack of protection for the driver and passenger. The wind plays havoc with one’s outfit and hair.”

  “That’s not the only problem with motor cars,” Floyd said with a roll of his eyes. “But the engineers are making great strides so it won’t be long before they’re more efficient. We’ll be swapping horse-drawn vehicles for motor cars in no time, just wait and see.”

  “So you’re going to invest in the company?” I asked.

  Floyd’s gaze focused on something behind me. I turned to see Uncle Ronald storming towards us like an out of control barrel rolling down a hill. He must have learned that I’d taken on the Warrington case.

  “Hell,” Floyd muttered. “Did you tell him where we went today, Flossy?”

  “No! I swear. I haven’t even told Mother.”

  Uncle Ronald yanked the chair out before the waiter could do it for him. “I’ll have the soup then the duck. And wine.”

  The waiter seemed to shrink a little more with every barked word. Usually Richard, the head waiter, served the family table, but Uncle Ronald had ordered so quickly that he hadn’t had a chance to join us. He was tied up with other diners at a nearby table. He glanced anxiously at the hapless junior waiter, still hovering uncertainly at my uncle’s side.

  “Uh, what sort of wine would you like, sir?” he asked.

  “Anything. I don’t care.”

  The waiter sent an appealing glance at Richard, but Richard was once again speaking to other diners. “Very well, sir.” The junior waiter bowed and went to walk off.

  “I’ll also have the soup and duck,” Floyd called after him.

  The waiter hurried back, recollecting himself. “Very good, sir. And for Miss Bainbridge and Miss Fox?” The poor fellow had gone quite pale and the hand that held the menus shook. I worried he wouldn’t remember our orders if we made them too complicated.

  “I’ll have the soup and duck too,” I said. “And so will Miss Bainbridge.”

  Flossy blinked at me. “But—”

  I kicked her lightly under the table and she thankfully kept her mouth shut. “And please ask the sommelier for a wine that goes well with duck,” I added.

  The waiter backed away, looking relieved that he only had to remember a simple order and he didn’t need to take responsibility for the wine choice.

  My two cousins sat in silence while my uncle continued to fume like an active volcano. I waited for one of his children to speak up, but neither seemed too keen to probe.

  I could stand the tension no longer, however. “Is something the matter, Uncle?”

  “It’s the bloody chef.” Not apologizing for swearing in the presence of Flossy and me was a testament to his fury. “He’s too self-important. He forgets that he doesn’t own this hotel; I do. He takes his orders from me.”

  Floyd shot me a warning glare but I forged on.

  “What has he done?”

  “I called him up to my office and told him about the plans for the new restaurant. He threw a tantrum, saying he won’t work in it. He wants to keep this restaurant for the guests only and not expand to serve the public.”

  “Did you explain the benefits of expansion?” Floyd asked, suddenly taking an interest.

  “Of course I bloody well did.”

  The guests at the nearby table looked up at the sound of his angry voice. Uncle Ronald collected himself and greeted them warmly. When he turned back to us, he appeared somewhat calmer.

  “If the chef doesn’t come around, you’ll have to dismiss him,” Floyd said.

  “I know,” Uncle Ronald snarled through an unmoving jaw.

  Floyd sucked in a breath and stared straight ahead. Beside me, Flossy picked at the tablecloth’s edge. This was going to be a very long dinner.

  “Is Aunt Lilian joining us this evening?” I asked.

  “She’s unwell,” Uncle Ronald said. “She overdid it yesterday at her bridge party. It’s time I put a stop to them if she’s like this the next day.”

  That wasn’t going to solve the problem, just cover it up. But I kept my mouth shut. It was a battle for another day when he wasn’t in such a foul mood.

  Mr. Chapman showed a gentleman to the table reserved for Mr. Trickelbank. Mrs. Warrington’s half-brother was an unremarkable looking man in his late thirties with a neat gray beard and brown hair, receding a little at the front. Mr. Chapman called over a waiter who handed him a menu then proceeded to talk Mr. Trickelbank through it. Mr. Trickelbank dismissed him mid-sentence with a flick of his fingers. The waiter bowed and walked off while Mr. Trickelbank read the menu.

  Despite the poor start to our evening, I wasn’t giving up on the task I’d set myself. “Uncle, shall we ask a guest to dine with us tonight? Perhaps someone dining alone.”

  Floyd arched a brow at me.

  Uncle Ronald tapped a finger on the table between us. “I almost forgot, Cleo. Why did you steal the reservations book from Mr. Chapman?”

  A bubble of laughter escaped my lips. His insinuation was absurd. “I didn’t steal anything from Mr. Chapman.”

  “I didn’t think you would, but those were his words.”

  “Chapman is a turd,” Floyd said.

  “He’s a good steward.”

  “How hard can it be to write down names in a book and show guests to their table?”

  “He does more than that and you know it.”

  “I was simply looking through it,” I said quickly, before the conversation descended into an argument. It seemed such an unlikely topic for them to argue about, but I got the feeling that anything was possible given the tension in the air. “I didn’t even remove the book from the dining room.”

  “Well?” Uncle Ronald asked. “Why were you looking through it?”

  I should have taken the small window of opportunity to think of a suitable answer. Indeed, I should have thought of one while I’d been dressing for dinner in my room. Harmony would have helped. But I didn’t think Mr. Chapman would tattle to my uncle. He was a turd.

  Flossy came to my rescue, bless her. “Cleo doesn’t like to say, but there’s a particular gentleman she wishes to acquaint herself with.”

  Oh dear. This could make everything worse.

  “A guest?” Uncle Ronald looked around. “Who?”

  “A friend of a guest,” I said. “I thought he might dine here tonight with Mr. Trickelbank, but my hopes were dashed after I looked through the reservation book. Mr. Trickelbank dines alone.”

  Uncle Ronald followed my gaze then signaled to a passing waiter. He asked the waiter to invite Mr. Trickelbank to join us for dinner.

  Uncle Ronald’s mood seemed to instantly lift. He even smiled at me. “I’m glad to see you taking an interest, Cleo. Your aunt will be pleased. She’s determined to find you a husband before the year is out.”

  I sighed.

  Floyd pressed his lips together to suppress his smile. At least someone found my situation amusing.

  Mr. Trickelbank listened to the waiter then glanced our way. With a nod and a self-conscious brush of his fingers along his sleeve, he rose.

  “Please don’t mention the friend to him,” I begged my uncle and cousins. “The thing is, I hardly know him and it would be terribly gauche to claim an acquaintance when there isn’t one.”

  Uncle Ronald patted my arm. “We’ll use tonight as an opportunity to get to know this Trickelbank. If he’s a good man then I’m sure his friend will be too, and we can orchestrate a proper meeting between you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully that had averted a disaster.

  “Thank you for inviting me to dine with you, Sir Ronald,” Mr. Trickelbank said as he joined us. “I’m honored.”
>
  “We are the ones who are honored, my good man.” My uncle introduced us then Mr. Trickelbank gave his order to the waiter.

  “Do you personally dine with all your guests?” he asked as the waiter walked off.

  “Not as many as I’d like.”

  “Then I am fortunate indeed.”

  He spoke in the cultured accent of the upper class and sported an air of confidence that my uncle responded to. Indeed, the two of them got along splendidly as they discussed all manner of topics. We learned that Mr. Trickelbank had gone to Oxford then went into law. He was now a barrister in Birmingham. It seemed being illegitimate had not held him back.

  I listened attentively, biding my time before I asked him about his family.

  “And are you in London for business of pleasure?” my uncle asked as our soup bowls were taken away.

  Mr. Trickelbank plucked up his wine glass and sipped. If I weren’t mistaken, he was stretching out the pause before he answered. Was he considering how much to reveal? If he were here to see his sister, it could lead to uncomfortable questions. Mr. Trickelbank might be reluctant to open that can of worms.

  “Business,” he eventually said. There was a finality in his tone that invited no further questions.

  “I hope you have an opportunity to visit our many museums while you’re here,” Uncle Ronald said.

  “I hope so too.”

  “My niece, Cleo, is a great patron of museums.”

  “She goes all the time,” Flossy added. “Perhaps you saw her there.”

  “Where?”

  “At the British Museum, of course. She went today.”

  “I just arrived in London today and have not yet had the pleasure. I’m not sure I’ll have the opportunity before I leave either. I’m a busy man. You know how it is, Sir Ronald. We gentlemen of business don’t have the benefit of endless time like gentlemen of leisure.”

  Considering Uncle Ronald was descended from nobility and had only gone into the hotel business out of necessity, I thought he might feel slighted, but he bore it with only a moderate tightening of the corners of his eyes.

  Flossy didn’t notice a thing. She seemed intent on following her own thread of the conversation. “If you have friends who enjoy museums, you should ask them to go too. Museums are more bearable with friends. Oh, I’ve just had an excellent idea! You and your friend could meet Cleo there. I could attend too, and Floyd and Mother. We can make it a party. What do you say?”

  She seemed to have decided that I’d met Mr. Trickelbank’s friend at the museum. I supposed it made sense since, as far as she was aware, I frequented the British Museum often.

  Mr. Trickelbank blinked at her. “I don’t quite follow. Which friend?”

  “The one who likes museums, like Cleo. Perhaps he went today too.”

  “I’m not sure I have such a friend as you describe. Not here in London anyway.”

  Flossy frowned. My uncle did too, but Floyd sported a curious expression. He was skeptical of my motives for inviting Mr. Trickelbank to our table.

  It was time to focus on what I needed to achieve from tonight. “Do you have family in London?” I kept my tone pleasant. Hopefully he thought it merely a polite question one asked a stranger.

  “No.”

  That one-word lie ended my hopes of learning more about his relationship with his half-sister. If they were close, he wasn’t going to admit it if he couldn’t even admit that he had a sibling here. It would seem I couldn’t rely on Mr. Trickelbank to feed me information about Mrs. Warrington’s affair.

  Finding Mrs. Warrington’s photographs or the negatives was not only my best option for obtaining the proof Mr. Warrington needed, it had just become my only option. I might have to break into the photographic studio, after all.

  I awoke with a start the following morning to bright light streaming through the curtains that Harmony unceremoniously pushed open.

  “Get up, Cleo! There’s something you have to see.”

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Are you calling me by my first name now?”

  She held out my dressing gown to me. “Only in private. Is that all right?”

  “Of course. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with me to do it.”

  I must have been taking too long for her liking because she peeled back the covers and shoved the dressing gown at me. “There’s been a murder. It’s all over the front pages of the morning editions.”

  “How awful. But I can’t just approach the victim’s family and offer my detection services. The police investigation will have to run its course, and if that fails to find the murderer then Harry Armitage can—”

  “Do not give this case back to him. If the situation has developed in a direction he didn’t expect, that’s his misfortune, not yours.”

  I stared at her as her words sank in. A heavy weight settled in my stomach. “Harmony, what’s happened? Who died?”

  “Mrs. Warrington. Last night. She was stabbed in the throat in the drawing room of her Kensington home.”

  Chapter 6

  The newspaper had very few details, but it did suggest that Scotland Yard was speaking to a suspect and an arrest was imminent. It didn’t mention which detective was assigned to the case. I hoped it was Detective Inspector Hobart, Mr. Armitage’s father.

  Harmony took the newspaper from my hand and replaced it with a piece of buttered toast. “Eat this and drink your coffee. You’ve got work to do.”

  “Actually, now I have no work because I have no case. Mrs. Warrington’s death means Mr. Warrington no longer needs a divorce.”

  “Your divorce case just became a murder case.”

  “Not quite. We’re missing one key ingredient—a client. Mr. Warrington will have no reason to hire me. Unless he’s arrested for the murder, of course.” I gasped. “What if he did it? No, wait. He wouldn’t bother attempting to divorce her if he planned to murder her.”

  “What if he didn’t plan to kill her but lashed out in anger?”

  I nibbled on the toast as Harmony poured coffee into two cups. She was right. Mr. Warrington clearly disliked his wife enough to divorce her. Perhaps they’d argued last night and jealousy and anger had driven him to kill her.

  “If she was stabbed with a kitchen knife then it would indicate the murder was planned ahead.”

  “Because no one carries a kitchen knife around with them?”

  “Certainly not into drawing rooms. But if her throat was stabbed with something close to hand then it could have been unplanned and that would certainly put Mr. Warrington in the picture. Something like a pocket-sized blade or sharp letter opener, perhaps.”

  “Or fire poker.” Harmony set the cup down on the table in front of me. “Or a hat pin. The ones used to keep large hats in place are as long as a kitchen blade.”

  “You’re right. I should inform the detective in charge that all was not well in the Warrington marriage.”

  “At the very least you have information that may help.” At my blank look, she added, “The naked photographs.”

  “How do they help?”

  “Well, I don’t know, do I? You’re the experienced detective.”

  “Hardly.”

  She passed me the cup. “You’ll feel more awake once you get this into you.”

  I accepted the cup and sipped thoughtfully. “Whether Mr. Warrington did it or not, one thing won’t change. I won’t be getting paid now. Thank goodness I asked for half up front.”

  I studied Harmony over the rim of the cup. She wasn’t dressed in her maid’s uniform. “Is it your day off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you at the hotel?”

  “To give you the newspaper, of course. I still wake up early on my day off and read the paper. I came as soon as I saw the article.” She picked up a piece of bacon from the plate. “You also get better a breakfast than me.”

  I drained my coffee then rose. “Eat up quickly.”

  “You want me to do your hair?”
r />   “Never mind that. I can do it myself while you finish breakfast. I want you to hurry because you’re coming with me to the Warrington house. We’re going to speak to the detective in charge.”

  She stared at me. “You want me there?”

  “Yes, why not? Have you got anything better to do?”

  She shoved the bacon into her mouth and drained her coffee while still chewing. She waved me off to the bedroom, urging me to hurry.

  To my great disappointment, Detective Inspector Hobart was not assigned to the investigation. According to the constable stationed at the front door of the Warrington house, the detective in charge was not present. The constable was the only policeman on duty, and he was there merely to keep onlookers away. He eyed the small cluster of journalists on the pavement nearby, hunched into their coats and stomping their feet to stave off the cold.

  “You don’t look like a journalist,” he said to me.

  “I’m not. Mr. Warrington is my client. Is he in?”

  The constable’s eyes widened. “You’re his lawyer?”

  “I’m a private detective and this is my associate.” I indicated Harmony. “Does Mr. Warrington need a lawyer? Is he a suspect?”

  He shook his head. “A vagrant was arrested early this morning. They found Mrs. Warrington’s jewels amongst his things.”

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “A small knife.” He crossed his arms and looked me up and down as if I were a statue in a museum. “Private detective, eh? Well, well.”

  Harmony thrust a hand on her hip. “Don’t ‘well, well’ her. She’s Cleopatra Fox. She solved both the Christmas Eve murder at the Mayfair Hotel and the murder of Pearl Westwood. You ought to treat her with respect.”

  The constable swallowed heavily. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Now let us in so we can speak to our client. Mr. Warrington will be furious if he learns you blocked our entry.”

  The constable couldn’t knock on the door fast enough.

  “I knew I brought you along for a reason,” I whispered to Harmony.

  The door was opened by Mr. Henderson the butler. He hesitated upon seeing me, and I thought we’d have to go through the spiel again about his employer being my client, but then he stepped aside and allowed us in.