Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,53

have been home and returned to meet me.

“How long have you worked at The Mayfair?” I asked.

“Two years.”

“And where were you before that?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m hearing that often lately.”

The collar hid his mouth, but the creases around his eyes drew together as if he smiled. “Be careful, Miss Fox. Some people don’t like it when you ask questions.”

“Is that a threat, Victor?”

“A warning. If I were threatening you, you wouldn’t need to ask. You’d just know.”

“Understood.”

We passed through Piccadilly Circus, notably quieter compared to that afternoon but not altogether without life. Hackneys and private carriages still drove past, though there were no pedestrians. The shops were closed, the nearby theaters shut for the break between Christmas and New Year, and few people had a reason to be out in mid-winter at midnight.

The blurred lights of the streetlamps tried valiantly to pierce the descending fog, but it was a hopeless cause. It seemed to thicken with every step we took, and by the time we reached Dean Street, our footsteps echoed in the cold, dense air.

“Why do you trust me?” Victor suddenly asked. “It’s not usual to walk with a man you hardly know in the middle of the night.”

“Harmony trusted you enough to recommend you, and I trust Harmony.”

He made no comment, just kept up the pace until we reached the orphanage. “Cover me,” he said, crouching.

I put up my umbrella which I’d brought to use as a weapon in case we were set upon by thieves, and used it and my body to shield him. “Can you see?” I asked.

“I don’t need to see. It’s done by feel and sound.”

“How interesting. Perhaps one day you can teach me.”

He looked up at me. “I said feel and sound.”

“Sorry,” I whispered.

I watched as he inserted two long pin-like instruments into the lock.

Then he suddenly glanced up at me again. “Keep watch.”

I scanned the street, but there was no one about. After one or two minutes, Victor stood and turned the doorknob. The door opened.

I lowered my umbrella and followed him in only to bump into his back. I gave him the umbrella then pulled out a small candlestick and holder from the pack slung over my shoulder, and a box of matches. I lit the candle and tiptoed to the office door. It was also locked.

Victor crouched again and had it unlocked quickly. Inside the office, the cabinet drawer marked A was not locked. The files were sorted alphabetically by surname, as I’d expected when I’d seen the drawer labels earlier. For common surnames, like Adams, the files were then sub-sorted by first name. Each child had only a single page dedicated to them. It was somewhat sad to think that a life could be summed up by a page of notes. Indeed, many were not even a full page.

There was only one Harry Armitage. A quick calculation in my head confirmed that the date of birth written on the file matched the age I assumed Mr. Armitage to be. I folded up the piece of paper and pocketed it before returning to Victor, keeping watch at the office door.

I closed the door softly behind me, turned and froze. A boy of about twelve stood in the doorway to an adjoining room, a large piece of pie halfway to his mouth. He stood just as frozen as he stared wide-eyed back at us.

Victor put his finger to his lips to shush the lad then blew out my candle. He led the way back outside, closed the front door, then grabbed my elbow and hustled me down Dean Street.

I didn’t dare look back until we reached the corner. “No one seems to be following us,” I said. “But if that boy raises the alarm, we could still be caught.”

“He won’t,” Victor said.

“How can you be certain?”

“Thieves don’t snitch on each other.”

I was about to protest about being called a thief when I remembered the piece of paper in my pocket. “Let’s hurry back to the hotel. He might change his mind.”

“And explain why he was raiding the kitchen? Unlikely.”

Even so, we walked quickly. Once we reached the hotel, Victor remained in the shadows until I was safely within the arc cast by The Mayfair’s welcoming lights. The doorman greeted me by name and opened the door for me. I’d wager gossip about my nocturnal outing would be all over the hotel by morning, but hopefully only among the staff. I didn’t have to answer to them. I did have