Murder in the Drawing Room

by C. J. Archer

  Mr. Drummond drained his glass and held it out for a refill. He blinked back tears but no longer looked at Mr. Warrington. He seemed unable to face him.

  It took an eternity for the police to arrive, or so it felt. Detective Inspector Hobart came with another detective, the one who’d originally worked on the investigation and declared the vagrant was the killer. Harry arrived too, with two constables.

  He crouched beside my chair. His eyes were filled with concern, but his jaw was hard. “Are you all right?”

  “Fit as a fiddle. Thank you. Mr. Drummond needs to see a doctor, however.”

  The manager informed us he had telephoned for one.

  Detective Inspector Hobart ordered the club members and staff to leave. Once they were gone, only the police remained, along with Mr. Warrington, Mr. Drummond, Harry and me. I was glad to see Hobart taking charge, and not the other detective. Indeed, he looked contrite and willing to let his more senior colleague take over.

  “Miss Fox, I believe you have some evidence for us,” Detective Inspector Hobart began. “Something that proves Warrington killed his wife.”

  I stood and winced as my knees protested. There must be bruises on them from when I landed on the marble hearth. Harry grasped me by the elbow.

  “Cleo?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I handed his father the torn page. “Mr. Warrington removed this from the register.” I indicated the book on a table.

  The second detective picked it up and flipped through the pages until he came to the torn edge. “It’s for the night of the murder,” he said.

  “Take a look at the time noted for Mr. Warrington’s arrival,” I said.

  Detective Inspector Hobart glanced down the page. “Nine-forty-five. And?”

  “And look at the line above it.”

  Harry peered over his father’s shoulder. “It’s an entry noting the arrival of a Captain Fanshaw.” He swore under his breath. “If I’d seen this myself, I would have noticed. But the manager refused to let me look. How did you manage it?”

  “I threatened him.”

  The second detective asked to see the page. He also swore, but louder than Harry. “Captain Fanshaw’s time of arrival was five past ten.”

  “A full twenty minutes after Mr. Warrington,” I added. “But if he arrived after Mr. Warrington, why does his name appear above it in the book? It should appear below. According to these entries, Captain Fanshaw arrived at ten-oh-five, Mr. Warrington at nine-forty-five, and a Sir Leonard Lloyd at ten-thirty, in that order. Mr. Warrington’s actual time of arrival must have been between ten-oh-five and ten-thirty.”

  “Did you bribe the manager to write an earlier time?” Harry asked Mr. Warrington.

  Mr. Warrington pressed his lips into a thin line.

  “I don’t think he did,” I said. “The handwriting is different. The way the five is written for the arrival time of nine-forty-five is different to the way it’s written for Mr. Warrington’s departure time of twelve-oh-five, as well as all of the other times that include a five. You can see the number was written without lifting the pen in all instances except for that one arrival time, where the five was written in two parts with a tiny gap between the strokes, the horizontal line at the top being separate from the rest. I think he distracted the manager and wrote the time down himself then signed it. The manager never bothered to check. I got the idea from watching Peter at the front desk of the hotel. He did the same. He never glanced at what the guest wrote when they signed in.”

  Mr. Drummond groaned. “How could you, Bertie?”

  Mr. Warrington simply lifted his chin, but there was no defiance in his gaze now, only resignation.

  “Talk me through that night,” Detective Inspector Hobart said.

  Mr. Warrington looked away, presenting us with his obstinate profile.

  Harry recounted the events instead. “Warrington argued with his wife in the drawing room at nine, at which point he killed her.”

  Mr. Drummond made a choking sound then clutched at his throat.

  “Warrington probably carries a small knife with him, as some men do. He killed her from behind as she sat in the wingback chair then unlocked the window.”

  “He would have avoided getting blood on himself if he did it from behind,” Detective Inspector Hobart said.

  “He made sure the chair was angled in such a way that someone standing at the door could not have seen her face. He then left through that door, made sure the servants saw him, and exited the house at about nine-thirty. The coachman took him to the club and will testify to the fact that it was nine-forty-five when they arrived. But if we question him again, I’m sure he’ll tell us that he never actually saw Warrington enter the club. Instead of going inside, Warrington caught a cab back to the house. He climbed up the pipe and through the unlocked drawing room window. He rang for the butler and asked for tea, disguising his voice so that it sounded more feminine.”

  “For just a single word, it would have been easy to mistake him for Mrs. Warrington,” I added.

  “He waited until the butler returned with the tea. He didn’t speak again, but merely pointed at the table where the butler left the tea before retreating. It was ten past ten at that point, perhaps a little before. Warrington then removed his wife’s jewels and left the drawing room the same way he’d got in, through the window. He ran to the lane where he knew a vagrant had made his camp and tucked the jewels into his belongings. He took a cab back to the club, and entered for the first time that evening. He spoke to the manager and wrote his own time of entry in the book, noting it as nine-forty-five when in actuality it was more like twenty-five past ten.”

  Mr. Warrington snorted. “Anyone can write the incorrect time. It was a mistake. It means nothing, and it certainly won’t hold up in court.”

  Detective Inspector Hobart nodded. “All true. But a little legwork will uncover the drivers who took you back to the house and picked you up again and brought you here.” He looked to his junior colleague who quickly scrawled some notes in his notebook.

  “You made sure you were seen by as many club members as possible in the hour and a half you were here,” I said. “But I am quite sure none can pinpoint you as being here before ten-twenty-five with any certainty.”

  Detective Inspector Hobart signaled to the constables to escort Mr. Warrington from the club. “How unfortunate for you to employ the only private detectives in London with an ethical conscience. Anyone else would have overlooked your guilt and taken their money. Harry and Miss Fox couldn’t let a murderer escape justice, even if that murderer was paying their fee.”

  Harry removed his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “We almost let him get away with it. We even gave him the theory that he was the intended target, not his wife, and he faked his own stabbing because of it.”

  “But we worked it out in the end,” I said.

  He gave me a wan smile, but I suspected he was annoyed with himself for being so blind to the truth.

  The constables marched Mr. Warrington between them to the door. As they passed him, Mr. Drummond caught his arm. “How could you? Isobel was your wife. You didn’t have to love her, but you were duty bound to protect her.”

  Mr. Warrington’s lip curled with his sneer. “You always were a sentimental fool, Pierce. Duty, honor, love…none of them matter if you don’t have respect, and respect comes from power and money. If she had followed through on her threat and exposed me, I would have been finished.”

  “We would have got through it together,” Mr. Drummond whispered through trembling lips.

  “You’re an even bigger fool than I thought if you believe that.”

  “Do you not love me? Did you ever?”

  Mr. Warrington huffed a humorless laugh. “I enjoyed your company, I’ll give you that. Goodbye, Pierce. Mind the scandal that’s about to erupt. You wouldn’t want to get caught up in it.”

  Mr. Drummond watched his lover being escorted from the room, his eyes full of u
nshed tears. I touched his arm, but he shook me off.

  Harry and I followed the police outside to the pavement. The constables bundled Mr. Warrington into their waiting coach while the two detectives spoke to one another in hushed tones.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Harry said to me.

  It was broad daylight, but I didn’t refuse his offer. I wanted his company.

  His father broke away from his colleague and approached us. “Good work today. Both of you.”

  “Cleo did most of it,” Harry said. “I should have insisted on seeing the register and not taken the manager at his word.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  He didn’t seem entirely convinced.

  “You two make a good team,” the inspector said.

  “We’re not a team,” Harry cut in before I could agree. “In fact, our association ends after I walk Cleo back to the hotel.”

  His father’s gaze flicked from Harry to me then back again. “If that’s what you both want.”

  “It’s how it must be.”

  Detective Inspector Hobart touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Fox. And thank you again.”

  I watched him climb into the carriage then headed off along Savile Row with Harry. “I’m sorry about earlier today. I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have. The entire situation with my uncle is frustrating.”

  “We can agree on that, at least,” he muttered.

  We walked on in comfortable silence. The weather was mild for February and the walk quite pleasant. Or, rather, the companionship was pleasant. The traffic noise, smell of horse manure and overcast sky were certainly nothing worthy of note. Even so, neither of us hurried. A leisurely amble did us quite nicely.

  “It’s a shame we won’t get paid,” Harry said.

  “There might not even be any publicity for us,” I added. “I do hope you’ll be all right.”

  “Financially? Of course. There are still several inquiries coming in for new clients, thanks to the publicity from the last case. Thanks to you, I should say.”

  “Are any of them for investigations that don’t involve married men and women spying on their spouse?”

  “One. A missing black and white cat named Coco. Last seen on her owner’s front doorstep in Mayfair.”

  “Poor Coco. She could be anywhere by now.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for the cat, feel sorry for me. The owner insisted I set aside the Warrington case and find her pet. She has come to the office every day, and even followed me home once. Now that she knows where I live, I might never be rid of her.”

  “She must be desperate to find it. I know some older folk whose pets replace their children once they grow up and leave home.”

  “She doesn’t have children, grown or otherwise. She’s only about twenty. Her chaperone escorts her.”

  “Twenty and unmarried? Now I do feel sorry for you.”

  He eyed me sideways. “I’m going to ignore your insinuation since you couldn’t possibly think she’d want to hire me for any other reason than my reputation.”

  I laughed softly.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  I glanced up at him and caught him watching me with an intensity that was both unnerving and thrilling. He quickly looked away. “What’s better?” I asked.

  “You, smiling again. I don’t like it when you’re angry.”

  “I wasn’t angry with you.”

  “I know, but…” He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  We were almost at the hotel when we met Victor emerging from the lane that led to the staff entrance. He didn’t see us at first. He was looking down at the pavement, his hands in his pockets.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked him.

  “Afternoon, Miss Fox, Mr. Armitage. I was just thinking.”

  “Harmony will be pleased.” My tease fell on deaf ears. He merely blinked at me. He was a hundred miles away. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I wanted to get to the bottom of Chef’s unhappiness over the new restaurant.”

  “Because it didn’t make sense as to why he’d not want a larger venue?” Harry asked.

  Victor nodded. “I thought about what you said, about him not being bothered to negotiate new agreements with suppliers. So I took it upon myself to speak to one of the suppliers who stopped by just now with a delivery. He said he’d have no problem increasing the order. He was very keen to keep doing business with the Mayfair, and especially glad to supply more fish.”

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  Victor agreed. “So if all the suppliers are going to be as agreeable, why does the chef have a problem with expansion?”

  “Extra paperwork?” Harry suggested.

  “That’s the thing. I just had a word with the chef, and offered to draw up new contracts for him, specifying the quantities and everything. The supplier I spoke to insisted the discount remain the same, as agreed, but that seemed like a reasonable request to me.”

  “I fail to see why this troubles you,” I said.

  “Because when I told the chef, he dismissed me.”

  I gasped. “He can’t do that!”

  “He can,” both Victor and Harry said.

  “Not without a good reason,” I pointed out.

  They both looked at me. They were right. The chef could hire and dismiss staff as he saw fit. He didn’t need a reason. The kitchen was his domain and not even Mr. Hobart could overrule his decisions. The only one with any authority was my uncle.

  “Let me sort this out,” I said.

  “Wait a moment.” Harry glanced along the lane toward the staff entrance. “Tell me exactly what you told the chef.”

  Victor chewed on his lower lip as he tried to recall. “I said I spoke to our fishmonger when he brought around the delivery. Chef was furious. I thought he was going to slice me open like a leg of lamb. I tried to placate him by saying the supplier was real keen and there wasn’t a problem, and when that didn’t calm him down, I mentioned I’d take care of any extra paperwork. That’s when he told me to get out and take my knives with me.”

  “So he didn’t even like you speaking to the supplier in the first place,” Harry said. “Does anyone other than the chef speak to them?”

  “Only in passing if they happen to deliver goods themselves. No one but the chef discusses business.” Victor shrugged. “Maybe Chef doesn’t want anyone to know the hotel gets a thirty percent discount. Maybe he doesn’t want chefs at other hotels to find out we get more than them.”

  “Thirty!” Harry shook his head. “Now it all makes sense. The contracts all stipulate twenty percent discount, not thirty.”

  Victor swore under his breath. “Chef’s been pocketing the extra ten percent.”

  Chapter 17

  It was no wonder the chef had insisted on negotiating the contracts himself, and refused to let others discuss terms with the suppliers. He’d cheated the hotel out of the extra ten percent and kept it himself. He’d been doing it for years.

  Harry gazed towards the hotel’s front door where the doorman dressed in smart red jacket with brass buttons and rimless red hat opened the carriage door for a guest. “My uncle will be furious.” .

  “Mine will be apoplectic,” I said. “We need to tell them. Come on. Both of you. We’ll do it now.”

  Harry put up his hands. “You don’t need me.”

  “But you worked it out. You should be there when we tell them.”

  “You also knew the contracts stated twenty percent. I remember telling you. I’m absolutely certain you worked it out at the same time as me.” He shook Victor’s hand and touched the brim of his hat in farewell.

  “Harry,” I snapped as he walked off. “You’re missing an opportunity. My uncle will be pleased. It might be a way into his good graces.”

  He simply waved. He didn’t even turn around. Why did he not want to please my uncle? It might go some way to helping Uncle Ronald agree that we could be friends again.
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  “Honestly,” I muttered.

  “Can I offer some advice, Miss Fox?”

  “Please do. I don’t understand men sometimes.”

  “Mr. Armitage knows it won’t change Sir Ronald’s opinion of him. Not in any way that counts.”

  “Nonsense. Of course it will. A little, at least.”

  “He also doesn’t feel as though he’s done anything to earn thanks.”

  “I disagree.”

  “You’re not a Bainbridge, Miss Fox.”

  “Thank you. Finally someone acknowledges that.”

  “But you not being a Bainbridge means you don’t know how things are for people like the Bainbridges. I don’t know about Cambridge, but here staff have their place and they’re never going to rise above it. That applies to former staff too.” He nodded at the retreating figure of Harry about to be swallowed up by the pedestrian traffic.

  I sighed. “The University is no different, although snobbery of the intellectual kind is rife there too. I have seen sons of shopkeepers and tradesmen rise in academia, however, although they are very few in number.”

  “I reckon it’s rarer here. Even the hardest working hotel manager whose reputation for excellence extends across Europe won’t be seen as anything more than an employee. He might mingle with princes in the foyer, but he can’t sit down at the dinner table with them.”

  My heart sank like a leaden ball. He was right. My uncle’s snobbery would never allow him to accept Harry as anything more than a former member of staff who lied about his criminal record. He would never allow us to be friends.

  Victor and I entered the hotel through the front door since I was worried he’d be chased out by the knife-wielding chef if he was seen near the kitchen. The only reaction he received was from Frank who refused to let him in until I insisted. One or two guests stared, but that was all. None of the other front-of-house staff paid us any attention as we headed directly to Mr. Hobart’s office. He wasn’t there so I sent Goliath in search of him, and my uncle too.