Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,20
silence was peppered with the taps of our footsteps on the stairs, and finally broken by the constable clearing his throat.
“If it were forced open,” I went on, “that means the footman didn’t do it. Mrs. Warrick would have let him in if she was expecting him.”
“Is that so?” the inspector asked. I detected a hint of humor in the idle question. I wasn’t sure if my attempt at detecting amused him or he was laughing at my lurching to conclusions. He gave no hint whether my conclusion was correct or not. I needed to find out.
“So it was forced,” I said, watching him closely.
He stepped into the foyer. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Fox, I have staff to interview.”
Damnation. He’d given nothing away. He’d not so much as flickered an eyelash.
The inspector and constable were met by a very grave looking Mr. Hobart who directed them through to the vestibule. I followed at a distance, but Mr. Hobart closed the doors to the dining room where a number of staff waited. The manager did not join them.
“Is something the matter, Miss Fox?” he asked. “Did you have something to tell the inspector?”
“You mean your brother?”
“Ah. He told you.”
“Yes, but he didn’t have to. You’re very alike and have the same surname. Is there no one else you’re related to? The prime minister, perhaps?”
He smiled, and for the first time, it seemed genuine. “I don’t think you’ll come across more of us, unless my wife pays a call on me here. Sometimes she stops by if she’s out shopping. She likes to see Harry. He doesn’t call on us at home as much as he ought.”
“He gets fed too well here, I suspect. You know what young men are like. Once they grow up and leave home they only return for their mother’s cooking—or their aunt’s, in your instance.”
“I suspect you’re right. The food here is better than what he’d get at home.” Mr. Hobart nodded at the closed dining room door. “His parents often scold him for not visiting on his days off. I don’t think my brother has seen him yet, but I suspect he’ll receive just such a scolding when it’s his turn to be interviewed.”
“The detective inspector is Mr. Armitage’s father? But their surnames are different.”
He signaled that I should walk with him out of the vestibule to the foyer. “Harry is an orphan. He was taken in by my brother and sister-in-law at aged thirteen, but he wanted to keep his real name. He’d grown used to it, I suppose.”
It was quite a story, and I wanted to know more, but Mr. Hobart spotted a guest trying to attract his attention and excused himself.
I watched him greet the guest with a smile. Now I knew why he looked nothing like Mr. Armitage, although there was a similarity in their manner. They both had a way of putting others at ease, yet there was a quiet authority about them too. Instead of being a family trait, that manner must have been learned by Mr. Armitage as he studied at his uncle’s side all these years. Mr. Armitage would be a worthy successor to the role of hotel manager when Mr. Hobart retired.
The guest to whom Mr. Hobart spoke moved off. He looked somewhat familiar, but it took me a moment to place him. He’d been speaking to Mr. Armitage yesterday afternoon when Mrs. Warrick muttered to herself about a man who ought not to be in the hotel.
It was quite a strange comment to make, now that I thought about it. Who shouldn’t be in a hotel? Anyone could walk into the foyer.
On the other hand, not everyone would walk into the foyer of a luxury hotel. The rude greeting I’d received from the doorman upon my arrival was testament to that. Or, perhaps Mrs. Warrick was referring to a luxury hotel in London. There were so many things she could have meant. She had also mentioned he looked different and it had been years since she’d seen him.
There’d been three men in her line of sight—the guest who was now leaving the hotel clutching an umbrella, Mr. Armitage, and another man. Hopefully when I saw him again, I would recognize him. It might be important.
Or it might not. Perhaps I was seeing potential suspects where there were none. Grandmama called my imagination vivid, and my father had gently chastised me on more than one occasion for daydreaming instead of studying.