Murder in the Drawing Room

by C. J. Archer

  “It’s for Cleo’s sake, not yours,” she shot back.

  He frowned. “I know your uncle doesn’t like me being at the hotel, but have you got into further trouble because of me?”

  I waved his concern off with a flick of my wrist. “Let’s talk about our next moves as we walk. Where are we going, by the way?”

  “I was planning on going to the hotel to use my uncle’s telephone to call my father at work. We need to find out what he discovered about the letters sent to Warrington. But now I’m rethinking. The hotel might not be the best place.”

  “We can go to Scotland Yard directly,” Harmony said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want anyone there knowing we’re taking on this case. Some of my father’s colleagues know me. If I’m seen, someone might ask questions and I don’t want to put my father in a position where he has to lie for me.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” Harmony muttered, somewhat reluctantly. It would seem Harry’s kind nature might soften her attitude towards him eventually. “We’ll enter the hotel through the staff entrance,” she went on. “We’ll meet you in Mr. Hobart’s office, Cleo. It’s unlikely Sir Ronald will see you.”

  I didn’t go directly to Mr. Hobart’s office, however. I was waylaid by Frank, the doorman. He paced back and forth on the pavement, his hands clasped loosely behind him, his chin buried in the high collar of his coat. I thought he was simply trying to keep warm, but the furrowed brow suggested he was worried. Or perhaps simply in a cantankerous mood, which seemed to be Frank’s normal mood when dealing with the staff. He was pleasant to guests, but other staff—and me—were not afforded the same civility.

  “Miss Fox, a moment of your time, if you have it.”

  “Is something the matter, Frank?” I asked.

  “It’s Goliath. He’s disappeared.”

  “Are you certain he’s supposed to be on duty? He is acting as night porter too. Perhaps Mr. Hobart gave him the day off.”

  “I know the roster. And he was here earlier. Half an hour ago, he brought down a guest’s luggage and loaded it onto their conveyance. He told me he would return in a few minutes with the luggage of the next departing guest, but he never came back. The second porter’s had to do twice the work. I’m telling you, Miss Fox, Goliath is missing.”

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Hobart—”

  “No! Blimey, not him. Make discreet inquiries, but don’t let Mr. Hobart know he’s disappeared. He could lose his job. He deserves it, but then I’d have to get used to someone new. Goliath’s better than most.”

  It was high praise coming from Frank. “Mr. Hobart isn’t as cruel as that. Anyway, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. I’ll check with Peter.”

  Frank looked relieved. “Thank you, Miss Fox.” He hurried to open the door as the second porter emerged, pushing a trolley laden with a trunk, bag and two hat boxes.

  Inside, the foyer was relatively quiet. I waited for Peter to finish checking-out the two guests whose luggage had just left ahead of them. He stood awkwardly, his upper body angled forward rather than upright as he asked for the gentleman to sign the register.

  When the guests departed, I approached the desk. “Have you hurt your back?”

  He frowned. “No. Why?”

  Now that I was closer, I could see that he was leaning forward because he stood back from the counter rather than up against it. “Is there something on the floor preventing you from standing nearer the counter?”

  His eyes widened. “Er…”

  I tried peering over the counter, but was too short to see the floor on the other side. A soft snuffle sounded from direction of Peter’s feet.

  Peter moved sharply and the snuffle became a grunt. Peter smiled at me. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Fox?”

  “Goliath is asleep down there, isn’t he?”

  “No.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “Peter, it’s just me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He sighed and stepped back from the counter. He studied the floor where I imagined Goliath was sound asleep, invisible to anyone not on that side of the counter. “He’s a great, big log of a fellow all stretched out like that. I had no idea he’d take up this much space when he asked me if he could take a nap there.”

  “I think you’ll need to wake him up. Frank has noticed he’s missing, and it won’t take long for Mr. Hobart to realize either. He’s as sharp as a tack.”

  As I spoke, Mr. Hobart emerged from the senior staff corridor where his office was located. He nodded a greeting to me which I took to mean Harmony and Harry had arrived in his office and were waiting for me. He continued on and was soon engaged in conversation with a guest.

  Peter looked down at his feet again and shook his head. “The problem is, he’s really tired. He needs to rest.”

  “Yes, but not here. Peter, you can’t protect him forever. He will be discovered sooner or later if this goes on.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Find a solution to the problem before Mr. Hobart finds out Goliath’s been sleeping while on duty. And wake him up now. Quietly.”

  Peter’s eyes widened again as he stared past me. “He’s coming,” he whispered.

  I turned to see Mr. Hobart approaching. I went to intercept him before he drew too close to the counter, but he spotted another guest and diverted his course. To my surprise, it was Mr. Trickelbank.

  What was Mr. Hobart up to? Or was he simply being the polite hotel manager, checking on a guest?

  I moved closer to listen in, using one of the large black vases to shield me from view.

  “I was very sorry to hear about your sister,” Mr. Hobart began. “On behalf of Sir Ronald and Lady Bainbridge, may I offer heartfelt condolences.”

  I held my breath, wondering if Mr. Trickelbank would deny he had family in London as he had done at dinner last night.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Trickelbank muttered. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  “You’re not checking out today, as initially planned?”

  “I’ll stay for the funeral.”

  “I do hope you were able to see your sister before her demise.”

  “I didn’t,” Mr. Trickelbank bit off.

  I knew that to be a lie. According to Miss Jennet, Mrs. Warrington had met her half-brother on the afternoon of her death.

  He tried to move past Mr. Hobart, but Mr. Hobart wasn’t yet finished with him.

  “I apologize for holding you up, sir, but would you mind waiting a few more moments. I’ll write a quick note of condolence for you to pass on to Mr. Warrington. He has never been a guest here, of course, but the Mayfair considers him an extension of yourself.”

  “I won’t be seeing him.” Mr. Trickelbank pushed past Mr. Hobart and strode out of the front door.

  I emerged from behind the vase. “Well done, Mr. Hobart. You were marvelous. Your questions were more effective than any police detective’s.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell my brother that. He thinks a blunt club gets better results than honey. You should be on your way, Miss Fox. Harry will send out a search party if you don’t join him soon.”

  Harry was indeed waiting impatiently for my arrival in Mr. Hobart’s office. He sat perched on the edge of the desk, his arms and ankles crossed, one finger tapping on his sleeve. The pose was both casually sophisticated and authoritative. The tap added to the air of barely-contained masculinity he exuded. He indicated I should sit on the guest chair while he took his uncle’s chair behind the desk.

  “Where’s Harmony?” I asked.

  “She was waylaid by the housekeeper. It seems one of the maids called in sick this morning and Harmony is needed.”

  “Now I feel awful for asking her to join us here. If she hadn’t come in, she would have had the entire day to herself. It’s not fair she has to work on her day off.”

  “Mrs. Short strikes me as someone who would have gone to great lengths to find her and bring her in anyway, no matter w
here Harmony spent the day.”

  “She is quite the dragon.” I indicated the brass telephone. “Shall we call your father now?”

  “I just did and left a message for him to call back.”

  “So now we wait?”

  “We wait.”

  I removed my gloves and placed them on my lap, only to pick them up again to stroke them in an attempt to do something with my hands. The silence stretched thin, and I hoped the distraction of the gloves would help calm me. It did not. I felt compelled to break the silence.

  “It’s good of you to share this investigation with me, Harry.”

  He looked up, blinking in a somewhat dazed manner. While I had been searching for something to say to fill the void, his mind had been elsewhere. “Not at all. You are sharing it with me.”

  “It was clever of you to conclude that Mr. Warrington was the intended victim.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “And thank you for including Harmony in the investigation.”

  He gave a single nod.

  “I think her work here bores her, and she finds investigating a pleasing distraction. I can’t blame her for that, can you?”

  “Right.”

  “She’s also very intelligent. She’ll be an asset to the investigation.” When he didn’t even answer me or look up from the spot on the desk he was staring at, I added, “Being a fairy princess is always an asset, don’t you think?”

  He glanced up, frowning. “What?”

  “Harry, you’re not listening. What’s the matter? Is there something about the case that’s bothering you?”

  “Actually I was thinking about the hotel. The kitchen, to be precise.”

  “Did you enter via the kitchen?” The hotel’s main staff entrance was on the ground floor, above the basement kitchen. A set of stairs inside the entrance from the side street led directly down to the kitchen and the warren of corridors, storerooms and other basement rooms used mainly by the cooks. The chef de cuisine loathed anyone being in his domain who shouldn’t be there.

  “I avoided the kitchen, but overheard heated words coming from one of the storerooms nearby. I recognized the chef’s voice and Sir Ronald’s.”

  “They were arguing?”

  He nodded.

  My heart sank. It would seem they had not resolved their issue. If this went on much longer, my uncle’s temper was going to continue to simmer and he would take it out on everyone, particularly his children. I had successfully managed to avoid it, but that was because I wasn’t one of his children, and I was better at eluding him than they were.

  “I know what it’s about,” I said. “My uncle plans to move the restaurant out of the dining room and into new premises next door.”

  He nodded. “Uncle Alfred told me. I think it’s an excellent business decision.”

  “But for some reason, the chef doesn’t like the idea. He’s resisting, and getting quite huffy about it. I honestly don’t understand his objection. He should be pleased he’ll be in charge of a larger establishment. He claims it’ll be less prestigious, but I disagree. The public restaurants at other luxury hotels are quite influential on the social and culinary scene.”

  Harry lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps he’s worried he’ll be out of his depth in a large restaurant. In the current restaurant, he is king of the domain, but it only caters to the hotel guests. In a public one, he’ll be subject to reviews in newspapers and journals. He’ll also have more staff to manage and more supplies to organize. He’ll need to renegotiate contracts with suppliers which could affect his relationship with them.”

  When he put it like that, I almost felt sorry for the belligerent chef. Almost, but not quite. “The chef does all the ordering, doesn’t he?”

  “Of the food, yes. The sommelier works independently with wine suppliers. Years ago, before I was promoted to assistant manager and before the current chef came to work here, Uncle Alfred negotiated the original contract with all our restaurant suppliers. It includes a twenty percent discount because the hotel orders large quantities, and a promise that we’re offered the choicest cuts of meat and the freshest produce.”

  “So the chef has never had to do the negotiations himself, but moving to a larger establishment will require the contracts to be renegotiated.”

  Harry nodded. “Perhaps it scares him. Despite his blustery manner, he’s not that bad outside of the kitchen.”

  “Can’t he just ask Mr. Hobart to do the renegotiations on his behalf?”

  “Perhaps he will. Sir Ronald won’t back down, so if the chef wishes to keep his job, he’ll have to re-open discussions with the suppliers. Uncle Alfred will help if asked.”

  I couldn’t see the chef swallowing his pride and asking, but I didn’t know him like Harry did. Our only communications had consisted of him shouting at me to get out of his kitchen.

  The telephone rang and Harry picked up the receiver. He waited for the operator to connect the call then greeted his father on the other end. The discussion was very brief, then he returned the receiver to the cradle of the candlestick shaped device.

  “I’m meeting him at my office where it’ll be easier to talk.” He rose and buttoned up his jacket. “Coming?”

  “Of course.” I led the way into the corridor and waited while he plucked his hat and coat off the stand by the door.

  “I’ll meet you on Piccadilly.” He headed off along the service corridor towards the back of the hotel.

  “You can come through the foyer,” I called after him.

  “I’ve done that before, remember? It was a disaster when your uncle caught us.”

  “Not a disaster.”

  It hadn’t been pleasant, it was true. With Harry leaving the hotel under something of a cloud, Uncle Ronald didn’t want him visible to the guests in the foyer. Indeed, he didn’t want him gracing the corridors of the hotel at all. It was not only unfair, it was ungracious. My uncle ought to let bygones be bygones. But he hadn’t liked it when Harry had stood up to him. It had been a rather tense exchange, all carried out in the full view of the guests.

  I ran after Harry, catching up to him at the end of the corridor. “Don’t let him dictate to you. You’re perfectly within your rights to come and go through the front door.”

  “It’s Sir Ronald’s hotel, and my right to be here is dependent on his whim.”

  “Don’t let him bully you. What will he do to you, anyway? Manhandle you out through the front door? Hardly.”

  “It’s not what he’ll do to me that makes me wish to avoid him.” He strode off.

  I frowned at his back. Did he mean he was worried about what my uncle would say to me if Harry was caught leaving the hotel through the front door?

  Well, if Harry was going to take the staff exit, then I would too. I followed him. At the sound of my footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder, shook his head, and faced forward again. But not before I saw the small smile tugging at his lips.

  Detective Inspector Hobart was a slightly more intimidating version of his brother. I didn’t think he meant to be intimidating, but Mr. Hobart was such a sweet man that almost everyone was gruffer by comparison. Harry allowed his father to take the main chair behind the desk while he and I occupied the two guest chairs. We sipped on coffees made by Luigi as Harry informed his father of our parallel investigation to the one conducted by Scotland Yard, including Harry’s theory that Mr. Warrington was the intended victim.

  “I don’t think it will be parallel,” the inspector said with a sad shake of his head. “My superiors are determined to pin the murder on the vagrant. You’re right to take on the case, Harry. Hopefully your efforts will bring justice for Mrs. Warrington.”

  “We’re both taking on the case,” Harry said. “Cleo is helping me.”

  “Working alongside you,” I countered. “I think that’s what you meant to say, isn’t it, Harry?”

  He smirked.

  His father glanced between us. “Is that wise? It could be dangerous. It may have
started out as a case of adultery, but it’s now a murder investigation. The killer is still out there.”

  “Thank you for your concern for my safety,” I said, and meant it. “But I’ve been involved in two other murder investigations. I know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Harry is capable of investigating alone.”

  “As am I. But he muscled his way in after he’d already given Mr. Warrington to me.”

  “For the divorce. This is an entirely different case.”

  “Or it could be linked.”

  Detective Inspector Hobart’s blue eyes bored into me. He was very good at using them to full effect, whether that was to pretend innocence during an inquiry, or making them seem as cold as ice, like now. “How can the cases be linked if Mr. Warrington was the intended victim, not his wife?”

  “Perhaps her lover did it out of jealousy.”

  My theory was so good that it rendered him speechless. Harry took advantage and stepped in to diffuse the tension. “Cleo is an excellent detective and she’s working with me. That’s final. And anyway, I didn’t expect you to object. Mother, yes, but not you.”

  I sighed. His mother must still be angry with me for getting Harry dismissed from his job at the hotel.

  The inspector gave me a sheepish look. “My apologies, Miss Fox. It’s nothing personal.” He cleared his throat. “To the matter at hand. You asked me for information about the person who sent the threatening letters to Mr. Warrington. I can do better than that. I can give you her name.”

  “Her?” I echoed.

  Harry sat forward. “Are you sure you should tell us? You could get in serious trouble if your superiors find out.”

  “It might be important,” the inspector said. “Indeed, if she’s guilty of killing Mrs. Warrington because she mistook her for her husband, then it’s my duty to do everything in my power to prevent her from killing her intended target. I would never forgive myself if he was her next victim.” He put up his hands. “I’m not saying she is your killer, but she must certainly be considered a suspect. Her name is Elizabeth Parker, and she lives at forty-two Arlington Road, Camden Town.”