Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,81

without correcting her again. My mind was no longer on the ball. It was focused on murder and seeing Mr. Armitage. I found the prospect far more thrilling than a young lady should. Indeed, for the first time in months, I was looking forward to something.

Chapter 12

If I had to speak to Mr. Armitage on the doorstep again, so be it. At least it wasn’t raining this time. I had to first get an interview with him, however, and that meant getting past his mother. After my last visit, I wasn’t so sure she’d agree to a second meeting.

“You’ve got courage coming here again,” she said when she opened the door to me.

“Some would say I had a nerve.”

Her frown deepened. “Why are you here? You’ve already apologized.”

“It’s hotel business. It’s very busy there today with preparations for the ball, and I needed to talk to someone about the staff. I can’t think of anyone better to ask than Mr. Armitage.”

She crossed her arms. “He just arrived home. He’s been out all morning looking for work and is having lunch now.”

“I can wait for him to finish. Will you tell him I’m here, please?”

She looked torn between her desire to send me away and the need to be polite. When the lines around her mouth relaxed, I knew long-ingrained habit had won over maternal retribution.

She disappeared and a few moments later Mr. Armitage stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. He wore no jacket, but this time his shirt sleeves were firmly fastened at the cuffs.

“I’m surprised to see you here again, Miss Fox,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. It was impossible to tell if he’d worked the anger out of his system or if I was going to endure more sarcasm.

I decided it was best to steel myself for a few barbs directed my way. It was better to be armed than caught unawares. “A situation has arisen and I need your help.”

“I can’t help you.”

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

He merely smiled. It was not one of his charming ones. He was definitely still angry with me.

“It’s about the staff,” I went on. “Your father believes one of them is the murderer.”

He straightened. “He does?”

“He doesn’t know which one yet. He’s still investigating.”

His frown deepened. “You still don’t trust him, do you? Miss Fox, why are you trying to insult my family further?”

“I’m not! There’s no insult intended. Your father is very thorough. I have absolute faith in his abilities and that of Scotland Yard.” I swallowed. His glare was unnerving. “It’s just that he is perhaps too thorough. I spoke to him this morning and he told me he suspects the murderer is a staff member.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll interview the relevant staff again.”

“That’s the problem. He hasn’t narrowed down the list of suspects. He’s going through their statements again as well as checking with suppliers of mercuric cyanide.”

He slung the towel over his shoulder. He did not try to the shut the door or tell me to leave. It was a positive sign.

“The thing is,” I went on, “what if the murderer leaves the hotel before the inspector returns to question the staff again? If it were my investigation, I’d be speaking to the staff members with keys to Mrs. Warrick’s room.”

“Why isn’t he?” he said, more to himself than me.

“He claims he needs to be thorough before he accuses anyone. I think that’s my fault since I leapt to the wrong conclusion based on flimsy evidence.”

“There are some things that are you fault, Miss Fox, but my father’s thoroughness is not one of them.” He stepped aside. “You might as well come in. This isn’t going to be over in a few minutes.”

I peered into the hallway beyond. “Are you sure?”

“She won’t bite.”

“It’s her bark that worries me more.”

He led me through to a cozy parlor at the front of the house and added coal from the scuttle to the fire. I sat on the sofa and he occupied one of the armchairs. It was a pleasant room that reminded me of my grandparents’ house with its heavy drapery and embroidered cushions. The small space was filled to bursting with knickknacks, furniture and family photographs, which made it seem even smaller.

“Is this you as a boy?” I asked, picking up a framed photograph of a younger Inspector and Mrs. Hobart with a lanky youth standing behind them. It was clearly Mr. Armitage but with longer hair and a