An hour or so later, Eleanor looked around at the bright silk wall hangings and the ornate lamps which shone through the latticed stonework of the tiny galleried landing above her table. Clifford, true to form, had found just the kind of restaurant she loved.
‘Is this a suggestion of Thomas’?’
‘Actually, your uncle and I used to dine here when the need arose, my lady. A Punjabi dining room, authentic to its Indian roots. It is also a discreet setting, being off the main thoroughfare.’
‘Well, it all smells far too delicious for me to even begin looking at the menu.’
A smiling waiter appeared at their table.
‘May I?’ Clifford asked.
She nodded, but her jaw slackened as Clifford launched into what she assumed was near-fluent Punjabi. The waiter’s face lit up, and he was soon eagerly pointing out particular dishes on the menu.
Once Clifford had finished ordering, and the waiter gone, she gave him an enquiring glance.
‘Did you pack any more surprises in your case, Clifford?’
‘That we will only discover as events dictate. But as to my knowing a smattering of Punjabi, his late lordship and I while in the army spent several years in Northern India, as you know. We both developed a great respect for the local people wherever we found ourselves to be lodging. In fact, there is a considerable population of Indian soldiers who remained in Brighton after the war.’
‘Really? I never knew that.’
He poured her a tall glass of water with fragrant mint leaves. ‘Are you feeling somewhat restored after our afternoon among the rabble that are masquerading as your respectful staff?’
That made her laugh. ‘Yes, thank you. It is such a treat to see them enjoying themselves. And they are hilarious. When they’re allowed to be,’ she said carefully, wanting to make sure he didn’t think she was criticising his way of handling them on a daily basis.
He nodded. ‘Agreed, but one cannot always be on holiday. The eminent Irish playwright, Mr George Bernard Shaw noted, “A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of hell.”’
She laughed. ‘I know what he means. Mind you, I’ve never really been one for too many rules and what I love about holidays is there are none.’ She shrugged at his mock look of horror. ‘I guess my parents gave me so much freedom, I never really learned how to obey rules.’
‘Something I learned quickly, my lady. From your very first visit to Henley Hall as a child I realised I would have to be extra resourceful.’
‘I suppose in some ways, I was spoiled. Or neglected, depending on your viewpoint.’
‘Or given the freedom to find your own way, perhaps?’
She smiled at him, remembering the quote from Oscar Wilde he’d hidden in one of her shoes when she’d first inherited the Hall. ‘Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.’
He smiled back. ‘I am pleased to see you are feeling somewhat better, my lady.’
‘Much, thank you. So much so actually, would it spoil your meal if we talked a little about the photograph Hilary sent me? You’re such a good sounding board because I know you’ll make sure the conversation will be drowning in logic and reason.’
He arched a brow. ‘Is there any other way to converse?’
She reached into her handbag and pulled out the half of her wedding photograph, running her finger down the frayed cut edge.
‘It looks like you had an idyllic setting,’ Clifford said, clearly hoping to help her begin.
‘We did. And it felt so right on the day and until… until he disappeared. I keep vacillating between believing he did care for me and then hitting the ground with a painful bump as my thoughts whisper not to be so stupid, he couldn’t possibly have.’
‘Would it be inappropriate to suggest Mr Eden might have wanted to return to you, but was thwarted in some way?’
‘Who knows? As we’ve said before, we have all been through extraordinary times, times I hope we never repeat. It is possible he simply couldn’t return. Or even find me.’
Clifford cleared his throat. ‘And it does appear that he was caught up in some… complicated business matters.’
‘It’s alright, we both know you mean questionable, dangerous and almost certainly highly illegal. None of the roguish types we’ve encountered so far would be candidates for a gentleman of the year award, would they?’
‘Indeed not.’
They paused as the waiter returned bearing an enormous tray stacked with a raft of clay dishes, each bubbling and wafting delicious aromas.
‘Wow! What a stunning spread.’
‘A whistle-stop tour of the incredible culinary traditions of the Punjab region, my lady. But I know you cycled that way when you crossed the Himalayas, so I believe it is already familiar to you?’
She nodded. She’d cycled around the world before she’d taken Thomas Walker up on his offer of a job in South Africa. Most people she spoke to expressed disbelief that a woman could have undertaken such a journey. She invariably pointed out to them, however, that she certainly wasn’t the first. Annie Londonderry, a Latvian immigrant in the US, had taken that accolade way back in 1895.
‘Wonderful cuisine though it is, Clifford, it really wasn’t quite the perfect food for cycling. Now, however, I shall be able to do it justice!’
With their plates sizzling and their palates tingling, they continued their previous discussion.
‘I know we’ve gone over this, Clifford, but why do you suppose Hilary was here?’
He held her gaze. ‘In truth, I have only two theories at this point. One, that he was here to conclude whatever… business he was involved in. Which means there must be some reason he chose Brighton as opposed to any other town, but what that reason is eludes me.’
‘And the other?’
‘That he returned to England to see you, my lady. Although, again, why was he in Brighton? The South African ships dock at London.’
She turned her fork in her hand. ‘Wouldn’t that be the ultimate tragedy? I mean, after all those years, if he had decided to contact me, even if only to explain where he’d been and why he let me believe that he had died. But then that he was murdered before he could tell me in the very hotel I was booked into the following day.’
‘Undoubtably. But there is still the possibility, remote I admit, that whatever the reason Mr Eden was killed, it is not related to either of those scenarios.’
‘I suppose so.’ She held the photograph up to the light.
‘And the inscription?’ Clifford pointed to the reverse side. ‘I noted a similar set of faded markings on the half the inspector showed you.’
‘Golly, I missed those.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘I’ve just been staring at the picture itself, wishing he was still standing next to me.’ She turned the photograph over and peered at it, struggling to make out the faint lettering. Clifford moved one of the lamps nearer so they could read each of the incomplete lines.
Her hand went to her throat as she read the last line.
‘That’s Hilary’s handwriting, Clifford. And I remember this photograph, of course, but it never had this writing on the back. He must have written this after he disappeared.’ A frisson of something she couldn’t name ran down her spine and back up through her chest to her heart. ‘Clifford, what was that Mark Twain quote you said this morning?’
‘“Supposing is good, but finding out is better.”’
‘And how right he was!’ She turned the photograph over and stared at the image of herself in her bridal gown. How happy she looked in the simple ivory silk dress, smiling up at her new husband. Ex-husband now, Ellie, you saw his body. He’s not coming back this time.
She looked up at her butler with an expression that brooked no disagreement. ‘Clifford, I don’t care what Hilary was mixed up in; I owe it to him to find his killer if the police don’t. And I owe it to myself to find out why he still had our wedding photograph six years after he left me. And why he sent me the half he did. And…’
‘
And, my lady?’
‘And if he really loved me.’ She laid the photograph down a little sadly. ‘Or not.’
Twelve
Despite Clifford’s insistence that Eleanor jam a chair under the door handle into her suite the night before, she slept only fitfully. However, she felt surprisingly restored the following morning. A generous plateful from the hotel’s extensive breakfast definitely helped, as did the sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As the waiter offered her more coffee to finish, she inhaled the delicious aroma but shook her head and groaned. ‘No, thank you. I’m afraid I have failed to show sufficient restraint to leave room. My compliments to your chef, but I shall need to purchase an entire new, and larger-sized wardrobe if he keeps this up.’
‘I’ll pass on your compliments, Lady Swift.’
She looked around the almost empty breakfast room. ‘Is it always this quiet in March?’
‘This year is, in fact, exceptionally so, Lady Swift.’
He left her to deal with the other guests, only four, dotted about the exotic palm-filled room. Three tables away sat the strong-jawed man she had noticed smoking in the hotel’s lobby on the day they first arrived. Immaculately dressed in a tailored steel-grey suit, the unusual amethyst purple of his tie caught her eye. She’d learned from Clifford his name was Willem de Meyer. He selected a cream bloom with purple edging from the crystal vase on his table and slid it into his lapel buttonhole.
At another table, the two elderly ladies were twittering over their smoked kippers. As they talked, they repeatedly knocked their walking canes from the arms of their chairs with their velvet-jacketed elbows. But it was the other guest who was making her feel uncomfortable. The curvaceous woman with the deep-blue eyes who Eleanor had first seen on the staircase in the lobby kept staring in Eleanor’s direction despite the woman’s pretence of reading the book in front of her. The waiter had called her Miss Summers. Her dress – a decorous navy twinset and two strands of pearls – failed to convince Eleanor that Miss Summers was as modest as she was trying to appear. Even with her blonde hair twisted into a demure chignon, the heavy use of blush and kohl gave her the air of someone aware that her charms could be extremely useful.
Clifford appeared with Gladstone and she joined them, motioning towards the French doors out to the hotel’s small ornamental garden. ‘A little constitutional after a hearty breakfast is always a good idea, I feel, Clifford.’
As he closed the door behind her, she tightened the belt of her jade-green wool jacket against the cool air and lowered her voice. ‘I do wish you had gone and had breakfast yourself instead of watching me like a hawk. Though I appreciate your concern, I’m sure I shan’t come to any harm in full view of the other guests. Although I may be in significant danger of overeating from devouring sausages, salmon and a delicious stack of pancakes.’
‘Perhaps, my lady. But perhaps not.’
‘Let me guess, you’ve been awake most of the night too, only you managed to arrive at some cogent conclusions?’
‘Hopefully. Although in between I did manage to lose myself in the exceptional detail of the marvellous lighthouse painting, for which, again I thank you most sincerely. And yourself?’
‘Oh you know, bouts of nightmares. Being on the Titanic with Hilary as it went down, interspersed with visions of you riding into the hotel pond on a donkey to rescue Gladstone from the ornamental goldfish.’
‘Ah. Then I suppose we should be thankful for the restorative effects of a mountain of sausages and pancakes.’
They followed Gladstone as he trotted down the stone steps, past the beds of early spring guelder roses, irises and lily of the valley. At the end of the herringbone brick path stood a conservatory, a glass pagoda housing a mosaic-topped table surrounded by four white, wicker, wingback chairs, each nestling a plump peacock-feather print cushion. Once inside, she pulled out a slim tissue-wrapped parcel from her pocket and wafted it under Gladstone’s nose, smiling as he spun in a lopsided circle with a deep woof.
‘I thought you might be missing Mrs Trotman’s special breakfast treat, old chum.’ She passed him the sausage she’d been unable to finish.
From the inside of his jacket, Clifford produced a long slim flask that he set on the table before pulling a chair out for her.
‘The warming coffee you didn’t manage with your breakfast,’ he said by way of explanation as he poured her a steaming cup of richly roasted coffee.
She smiled at his thoughtfulness. ‘Because you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the incredible array of breakfast items. Very kind and disturbingly astute. I guess I have Thomas to thank for filling your Thermos?’
‘Actually, yes. He was particularly keen to oblige my request.’ Clifford cleared his throat. ‘He is rather a fan of yours.’
She frowned. ‘Why? I wasn’t even aware I had fans.’ She glanced down at Gladstone, who, having devoured the sausage, was now resting his head on her lap in the hope of more. ‘Unless you count greedy bulldogs, that is.’
Clifford’s eyes twinkled. ‘It seems Thomas has somehow formed the unshakeable belief that you are the famous American actress Gloria Swanson, checked in under an assumed name for anonymity purposes.’
Eleanor tried to surreptitiously wipe away with her sleeve the coffee that she had snorted through her nose at this news. Realising she’d failed, she took the handkerchief Clifford offered her. ‘Where on earth did he get that impression?’
‘Perhaps from an overactive imagination and a heartfelt longing to meet the lady in question?’
‘But that’s ridiculous. I should probably know, but do I even look like this woman?’
‘From certain angles. But, if you will forgive my observation, mostly in the area of deportment. Miss Swanson is considered to be Hollywood’s most elegant star.’
She shook her head. ‘He obviously didn’t see me yesterday then, sprawled on my knees in the sand, cuddling Mr Wilful here after you rescued him from the waves.’
‘Very likely he did, my lady. Miss Swanson is known to be a devoted dog lover and often takes one with her when she travels. It is also unusual for a guest of the Grand to have such a large entourage to accompany them around the town as you did yesterday with myself and the ladies.’
She cocked her head. ‘But you didn’t see fit to put him straight on who I really am?’
‘Disgracefully, no.’ He held up a hand as she went to speak. ‘For two reasons. First, the other hotel staff have delighted in fuelling his notion. It has become something of a game between them, and, as the interloper they have kindly welcomed into their midst, it was far from my place to interfere.’
‘Hmm. And the second?’
‘I thought his fixation with the idea would come in useful, should we need to call on his assistance during our investigations.’
She laughed. ‘Clifford, beneath your flawless demeanour, I detect the hint of a scallywag. But if needs be, I shall play along and try and pull off the Hollywood heroine persona.’
‘Then let us hope that does not result in diminishing Miss Swanson’s reputation to that of also being a scallywag. However’ – his demeanour became serious – ‘are you still resolved in the decision you made last night at dinner?’
‘Even more so, having woken to the sight of the cut photograph propped against the lamp on my bedside table this morning.’
‘Then, at the risk of causing you further anxiety, might I share a thought with you?’
She nodded tentatively.
‘As we know from Detective Inspector Grimsdale the timeframe within which Mr Eden died—’
‘We do?’
‘Indeed. You may have tuned out when the inspector shared the details of Mr Eden’s death. You were in shock. It seems—’
‘Wait a minute, I need—’
Clifford passed her a notebook and her uncle’s favourite fountain pen.
She opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head with a fond smile. Turning to a clean page, she wro
te the two words:
Hilary’s Murder
She looked at Clifford and shook her head again.
‘I never expected on my thirtieth birthday to be trying to solve the case of a man who died twice!’
Thirteen
‘Are you alright, my lady?’
Clifford’s voice broke into her thoughts. She shook her head. ‘Perfectly, thank you. Now, what did Grimsdale say?’
Clifford looked unconvinced, but dutifully cleared his throat. ‘Mr Eden checked in around five-and-ten to eleven on the evening of Saturday, the fifth. He then left the hotel before breakfast the following morning around seven, only to return that evening at six and, except for a trip out around nine thirty, stayed in his room. The maid alerted the manager at nine o’clock the next morning after breakfast, as Mr Eden had not vacated his room in time for it to be cleaned. And as no amount of knocking could rouse a response, the manager used his pass key to enter the room, only to find Mr Eden—’
‘Dead.’ She pictured him at the writing desk, but with an effort shook the image out of her head. ‘You really do have an amazing memory, Clifford.’
‘Thank you, my lady. Thomas told Detective Inspector Grimsdale that on Sunday night, Mr Eden entered the hotel at ten forty-five and proceeded straight upstairs. Thomas assumed to his room. And that was the last sighting of him alive.’
Mystery by the Sea: An utterly addictive English cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 5) Page 7