Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,14

me the tour, the lights had blazed from the three large chandeliers hanging from the high ornate ceiling, but now the lighting was not so bright. Even so, the silver cutlery and crystal glassware sparkled. There was just enough light to read the menu. Each dish was written in French, but thankfully an English translation accompanied it.

“So what do you think of your new home?” asked my cousin Floyd.

He was the same age as me, and Flossy had been right when she said we looked alike. Our hair was a similar shade of light brown, and we both had high cheekbones and green eyes. It was difficult to tell what his character was like yet. The dinner was subdued and quite formal so far. Even Flossy’s vibrancy had been turned down like a gas flame. I blamed their father.

Uncle Ronald had said very little to us since sitting down. He seemed pre-occupied with something and gave his children and me very little attention.

“The hotel is beautiful,” I said to Floyd. “Every room is a piece of art in itself. There is something different to admire in each. The foyer is very grand and looks wonderfully festive with the Christmas tree in the middle.”

A slow smile stretched Uncle Ronald’s moustache, proving he had been listening after all.

“Everyone has been nice to me,” I added.

“Of course they have. You’re the owner’s niece.” Floyd tempered the spiteful comment with a smile that transformed his face from handsome to mischievous.

“Hopefully they’ll be less reserved around me once they know me better,” I said.

Flossy looked appalled. “You don’t want the staff knowing you too well. They already gossip about us too much.”

My chest pinched as I recalled what I’d told Mr. Armitage about not knowing my family. But the feeling of panic dissipated just as quickly. Not only would the assistant manager be unlikely to gossip about his employer, he didn’t seem like the type to take joy in the exchange of titillating information.

Floyd leaned closer to his sister. “Perhaps Cleo wants people to like her for her character, not because she can have them dismissed.”

“Why would she want anyone dismissed? They all do such a splendid job. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

Floyd rolled his eyes. Neither his sister nor father saw it.

Our soup course arrived along with a group of carolers from the nearby boys’ home who sang Christmas carols before being led out by their teacher. When the musicians resumed their regular playing, we resumed our conversation. We chatted easily enough about Cambridge and my life there, and about the features of the hotel that I needed to know. It seemed nothing was off limits to me. I could go where I pleased.

“The staff don’t live here?” I asked. Mr. Armitage had mentioned only the senior staff lived on the ground floor. He hadn’t spoken about the rest.

“Unmarried staff were moved off-site into residence halls years ago,” Uncle Ronald told me. “They used to be accommodated on the top floor prior to that, but installing the lifts meant those rooms could be renovated and turned into guest rooms. Five flights of stairs was a little too much to ask of the guests.”

But not the staff, apparently.

Flossy pulled a face. “It used to be exhausting going up to our rooms on the fourth floor.”

“You can’t possibly remember that,” her brother said. “You were very young when the lifts were put in.”

“Old enough to remember. Anyway, the fifth floor now has some of the best rooms. Not as good as the fourth floor suites, naturally, but the guests like the view.”

“Except for Mrs. Cavendish-Dyer,” Floyd said, reaching for his wineglass again. “The old bat isn’t satisfied with anything.”

“Floyd,” Uncle Ronald bit off. “Don’t speak that way about a guest.”

“No one can hear me, and Cleo is family.” Floyd drained his glass and beckoned a waiter standing nearby to refill it.

Uncle Ronald didn’t take his hard glare off his son, but Floyd pretended not to notice. He raised his refilled glass in salute to me.

“The ball,” Flossy said suddenly and rather loudly. “You must both convince Cleo to attend and to wear something other than black. An exception to the rules of mourning should be made for balls, don’t you think?”

Her breezy chatter didn’t hide the fact that her father and brother were waging a silent battle with one another, but it did lead them to call a truce. Both men turned to me and, taking Flossy’s side, tried to convince me to attend