Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,96
murderer. At that point, I hadn’t suspected her.
“Edith and I were together before Mrs. Warrick spoke a word to me,” he sneered. “So that destroys your theory.”
“Not really. Did you initially court her because you planned to use her keys to break into rooms and steal valuables? But you changed your mind when you got a better idea after learning about the banker, didn’t you? Either way, you knew you needed keys, and Edith could get you some. She was the perfect victim.”
“She’s not a victim,” he snarled. “She’s a murderer! She orchestrated everything.”
“Nonsense. She’s not devious. More importantly, she wanted attention. She craved to be noticed by a man, and you sensed that the way a hound senses a hare’s fear. You told her what she wanted to hear and she fell in love with you. She was prepared to do anything for you. You took advantage of her and manipulated her; you made her give you the key so you could enter Mrs. Warrick’s room and poison her.”
His eyes hardened. His mouth set firm and his grip became bruising. There was no shock or horror on his face, only cold acceptance. I needed no other confirmation of his guilt than that.
“Where’s Edith?” I asked. “What have you done with her?” When he didn’t answer, I stopped dancing. “Let me go.”
His grip tightened. I tried to jerk free but he held on. I tilted my chin, determined not to show fear. This man thrived on it. He used it to his own advantage, just like he’d used Edith’s nervousness.
The music stopped and the crowd counted down the last ten seconds until the new year. I glanced around and found we were near the edge of the dance floor, close to the service area. But no servants came and went. They were probably counting down the seconds to midnight in the kitchen, their attention focused on a clock, just as the revelers in the ballroom directed their gazes forward, not back to us.
“Let me go!” My shout was drowned out by the counting. Nobody took any notice of us.
“SEVEN! SIX!”
Mr. Hookly glared at me. He did not move. He did not try to hurt me, except for his firm grip on my wrist.
“FOUR! THREE!”
“Let me go!” I shouted again.
He did not, and nobody paid me any attention. The new century was almost upon us and they didn’t want to miss a moment of the celebration.
“TWO! ONE! Happy new year!”
The musicians struck up the tune of Auld Lang Syne as revelers clapped. Applause soon turned to gasps and squeals of delight as the ribbons above their heads gave way and the silver balloons rained down.
Mr. Hookly continued to smile at me as I continued to try to break free. I even called out for help, but the applause, music and loud chatter drowned me out. And then the slowly sinking balloons reached us. In the moment before they drifted past our faces, Mr. Hookly’s smile thinned.
“Let me go!” I shouted in a last ditch effort to be heard.
“Who’s that?” came a gentleman’s voice nearby. “Everyone all right?”
He couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see him with the hundreds of balloons floating to the floor. A balloon burst, then another and another. Guests squealed in fright and delight.
I opened my mouth to scream, but Mr. Hookly pulled me against him and clamped his hand over my mouth. Before the balloons had completely sunk out of the way, he ushered me out of the ballroom.
We were in the service area. There would be footmen coming this way very soon with more champagne and food. They would see me struggling with Mr. Hookly and come to my rescue.
But before we’d got far, he opened a door and shoved me through.
My back slammed into shelves, rattling what sounded like crockery and cutlery. Mr. Hookly had let me go to lock the door, but he hadn’t turned on the light. It was so dark I couldn’t even make out his silhouette.
He couldn’t see me either.
I crouched low, and just in time too. The contents of the shelves rattled again, louder this time, and something fell, breaking on the floor. He must have lunged in my direction but missed.
I reached out and realized how small the storeroom was. My fingers brushed shards of a broken vase or bowl. The fingers of my other hand touched Mr. Hookly’s leg, alerting him to my position.
I scampered away just as his hand swiped down, knocking my cheek.