by Emily Organ
“Isn’t there a risk that the stories will make people stay away?” asked Mr Wentworth.
“Some will, of course, but they’re probably the kind of dull people who prefer to stay in dull hotels. Those aren’t the sort of guests we like here! I’ve been in the hotel business a long time, and I know that the history of a hotel is part of its appeal. Scandal and gossip can only be good for business.
“I’ll show you the Venetian Suite shortly, and you’ll see for yourselves that there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. There’s no hint of any tragedy that occurred in that room. Why, something similar could have happened in a room at your own home and you might not even know about it! That’s some thought, isn’t it? Have you all finished your drinks? Come on, then. I’ll show you around the suites on the first floor.”
Chapter 5
We followed Mr Gallo up the grand staircase and into a wide, thickly carpeted corridor. Although I refused to believe that the hotel could truly be haunted, I did feel some discomfort knowing that so few of us were gathered in such a large building. I didn’t like the thought of so many rooms lying empty behind the countless doors.
A young man walked toward us.
“This is Percy,” said Mr Gallo, shaking his hand. “He worked at Claridge’s for four years, and then I stole him!” He laughed and patted Percy on the shoulder. “I’ll show you all my favourite room first,” he said as we continued along the corridor. “I know that I should save the best until last, but I’m too excited about this one to let it wait. This is the Versailles Suite.”
He opened the door, and Captain led the way into a bedchamber that glowed with gold and white. Heavy damask curtains hung from a canopy above the enormous bed, mirrors in heavy gilt frames decorated the walls and two elegantly curved chairs had been placed either side of a marble table.
“Are you an admirer of Louis XV, Mr Gallo?” asked Mr Wentworth, pointing his walking stick at a portrait of the king dressed in ermine robes.
“It’s the Rococo style that appeals more than anything,” replied the hotel owner. “I’ve always dreamed of creating my own Palace of Versailles.”
“I adore it!” announced the flamboyant Mr Somers.
“I find it rather vulgar,” retorted Mr Wentworth.
“Yet that’s exactly what some guests like,” said Mr Gallo. “There’s too much ostentation here for your own home – unless you are Louis XV, of course – but you can enjoy it for a night under my roof instead! You can pretend to be a French king and bring your own Marie Antoinette with you.”
“I wouldn’t be in any hurry to emulate a French king,” said Mr Bolton, folding his arms. “We all know what happened to them.”
“It’s intended to be a work of fantasy,” said Mr Somers. “A stay in a hotel like this allows people to escape their everyday lives and experience new pleasures. Perhaps you’re happy as you are working for the South London Reporter and have no wish to be a French king, Mr Bolton, but plenty of people would.”
“Thank you, Philip,” said the hotelier. “I’ve always believed that when people come to stay at my hotels they can enjoy being anything they want to be.”
“As long as they pay the bill at the end of it,” added Mr Wentworth drily.
Mr Gallo laughed. “Absolutely! That’s the most important part.”
“I’m guessing there’s a view over the Thames from this room,” suggested a softly spoken, bespectacled man as he parted the heavy curtains at the window.
“You guess correctly, Mr Goldman,” replied the hotelier. “The best rooms have the most delightful views of the river. I believe the foreign traveller likes to rise in the morning, look out of the window and have an immediate sense of where he is. It needs to be a recognisable view; a unique one he can’t find anywhere else in the world. A view that says: ‘This is London.’”
“But not so much when the fog sets in,” added Mrs Mortimer.
Mr Gallo laughed. “No one in the world does fog like you Londoners. It’s not just a bit of mist, is it? It’s got a thickness to it that I’ve never seen anywhere else. And then there’s the colour of it. Brown… green… What did The New York Times call it? Pea soup, wasn’t it? But that’s unique in itself. When a foreigner comes to London he needs to experience all of it, including the pea soup. When he opens his curtains in the morning and that’s all he sees, well, it’s part of the experience, isn’t it?”
“Fog is indeed part of the London experience,” laughed Mr Hardy. “I like the idea of foreigners paying good money to come and see it!”
“The gentleman and lady staying in this room can expect freshly laundered sheets on the bed every day and service whenever it is required,” said Mrs Mirabeau. “Each of the suites has a bell beside the door that will summon the assistance of the staff. Chambermaids light the fire before the guests awake, and the room is dusted every day. On this floor we have a bathroom with running water – hot and cold – for each pair of suites. If guests wish to bathe in their room, the bath can be brought in and filled for them.”
“That’s a fine painting,” I commented, gesturing toward a picture of a lady sitting beneath a tree, reading a letter.
“I’m pleased you like it, Miss Green. It’s by Bessette,” replied Mr Gallo. “I needed a Rococo painting for this Rococo room.”
“I’ve noticed a lot of expensive paintings in the hotel. You must have quite the art collection,” said Mr Goldman.
“I have been collecting artworks for a long time, and London is the perfect place to find new treasures.”
“Do you buy them at auction?” Mr Goldman pressed.
“I sometimes visit Sotheby’s, but I also know the private galleries well, and particularly the Calthorpe Art Gallery. The curator there, Mr Court-Holmes, has been of great help in advising me on the best paintings for my hotel. Each painting requires its own setting, and I have found that a lot of thought goes into choosing its rightful location. You don’t want a painting to dominate a room, but neither do you want it to go unnoticed. The furnishing of a room must complement the artwork. I could bore you plenty more about my love of art, but I really must show you the Venetian Suite next door.”
The Venetian Suite featured white plaster columns, a bronze statue of a mermaid and a cabinet completely covered in tiny shells.
“My youngest daughter Nancy is sure going to love this room,” said Mr Gallo. “Just look at the chairs.”
The chair backs had been carved to look like shells, and I smiled as I considered how appealing they would be to a child. The room had an intimate charm to it and was considerably less intimidating than the neighbouring Versailles Suite.
“I usually stay in rooms up in the attic, but I’ll be sleeping in this suite for the very first time tonight,” said Mr Gallo. “I do this to demonstrate to all of you that the stories associated with the hotel are nothing more than myths and rumours. You couldn’t imagine that a tragedy had ever occurred in this room, could you?”
We glanced about the room and collectively muttered that we couldn’t.
“On the contrary, this room feels quite pleasant,” said Mrs Mortimer.
“I’m pleased you think so,” replied the hotelier. “Venice is one of my favourite cities; I dream of opening a hotel there some day. Have you ever been to the Festa del Redentore in Venice? It’s a fantastic festival, and an absolute spectacle with its countless decorated barges. I like to bring a little piece of Italy into all my hotels, and each year at the Maganza we hold a masquerade ball. I plan to do the same here at Christmas time.”
“It’s time for us to sit down to dinner, Mr Gallo,” said Mrs Mirabeau.
“Already? Oh, now that’s a shame. We’ve only just begun!”
Chapter 6
The Chinese Dining Room was decorated with yellow flock wallpaper and tall porcelain pagodas. A large chinoiserie clock made of gold stood on the gilded mantelpiece.
I took my place between the elderly Mr Wentworth and the flamboyant Mr Somers, with Mrs
Mortimer sitting opposite me. Mr Gallo perched at one end of the table, while Mrs Mirabeau sat at the other.
“Now then, tell me what you think so far,” said Mr Gallo as we dined on mock turtle soup. “Do you think I can attract the old clientele back to the hotel?”
“I think you have a fair chance of doing so,” said Mr Blackstone, wiping his dark whiskers with a starched serviette. “I hear that many in society are already bored with Claridge’s.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr Hardy, slicking back his hair with his hand. “Claridge’s is an exceedingly dull hotel.”
“Oh, but I quite like it,” said Mrs Mortimer.
“My dear lady, you cannot praise Claridge’s within earshot of another hotelier!” scolded Mr Hardy with a gentle smile.
“Of course she can!” said Mr Gallo graciously. “You’ve been rather quiet, Mr White. What do you think?”
The young, red-haired man earnestly swallowed a mouthful of soup before replying.
“I haven’t stayed in as many hotels as your other guests, sir, but I think it’s a perfectly splendid place, and I’m quite sure people will enjoy staying here for many years to come.”
Mr Gallo seemed unimpressed with this platitude and addressed Mr Wentworth without further comment. “You find the place vulgar, don’t you?” he asked.
“I find some of the rooms are a little ostentatious, but then I’m not the sort of client you’re after, Mr Gallo,” replied the old man. “Most of your guests will be foreigners, will they not? I think they should be more than happy with this hotel; especially the Americans.”
“I didn’t buy this place for my fellow countrymen.”
“Maybe not, but I think you’ll find that a number of them will stay with you here.”
“I see. Your thoughts, Miss Green?”
“I like what I have seen so far,” I replied. “The history of this hotel fascinates me more than anything.”
“You’d stay here for the ghosts, would you?”
“I can’t say that I believe in the supernatural, but I do believe that a building holds its history within its walls. I realise this hotel has been extensively refurbished, but I think there is still a sense, a sort of echo, of what has happened here in the past.”
“An echo. I like that description!” said Mr Gallo. “If you can still sense the hotel’s tragic history, Miss Green, would you say that staying here isn’t an entirely comfortable experience for you?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t, Mr Gallo. Please don’t misunderstand me, I—”
“Oh, I don’t misunderstand you at all,” he interrupted. “I appreciate your opinion. This building isn’t just a box of bricks; it holds its past within its walls, as you rightly say. I believe we are supposed to have a complicated relationship with this building. It is beautiful, and yet there’s something rather more sinister, too.”
Square-faced Mr Bolton sat back in his chair and folded his arms once again. “Mr Gallo, do you wish us to speak frankly?”
“I sure do.”
“This nonsense about a building holding its history in its walls and the idea that we somehow have a relationship with it, well, it’s piffle as far as I’m concerned.”
“Interesting to hear, Mr Bolton.”
“In all honesty, Mr Gallo, I think you’ll be lucky to attract the clientele the Corinthian once entertained. Hotels are opening up on practically every street corner in London these days, so you’ll have a great deal of competition. Your Chinese Dining Room, your Palm Room, your Turkish Room and that – what was it? – oh yes, your Venetian Suite, and so on. They’re impressive, but they’re also a contrivance. They all claim to be something they’re not. I think your desired clientele is looking for something with more integrity. I think the superior classes are looking for modernity rather than novelty.”
“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” Mr Gallo forced a smile, but the manner in which his eyes coolly remained on the reporter prompted an uncomfortable silence.
“You know what I think, Nathaniel,” blustered Mr Somers to my right. “I think this place is simply divine! And I wish you every success with it. I suggest a toast.” He raised his wine glass and everyone else followed suit. “To Mr Gallo, and to the Hotel Tempesta! May he have every success with it!”
Turbot, salmon and fried sole were served as glasses were drained, and the mood soon relaxed into idle chatter.
“How did you begin writing for the Morning Express, Miss Green?” Mr Wentworth asked.
“I pestered the editor with speculative letters and articles for about a year,” I replied. “Writing was all I had ever wanted to do, and journalism struck me as a good way to make a living.”
“You surprise me,” he replied. “It is not a profession many ladies choose to follow.”
“An increasing number of ladies are doing so.”
“You must be one of those girls who didn’t meet the right chap.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“I mean that the right fellow didn’t come along. In the absence of a suitor, I suppose an educated lady begins to think about a profession instead.”
“My decision to become a news reporter had nothing to do with my marriage prospects, Mr Wentworth.”
“Perhaps not. But if you’d fallen in love with a chap and he’d proposed marriage you would likely have acquiesced. And by that token, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
“I don’t believe in speculating on what might or might not have been, Mr Wentworth. The fact of the matter is that I wished to become a writer, and that was the profession I followed. Was your career affected by whether you chose to marry or not?”
He gave a snort. “What? Of course not. What an odd question to ask of a man!”
“And yet you ask it of a lady.”
“Because it is an entirely different situation.”
Mr Somers giggled. “Oh dear, Miss Green. I fear you have offended Mr Wentworth!”
“He offended me first, Mr Somers.”
“I suppose he considers it unusual for a lady to be working as a news reporter.”
“And I agree,” I responded. “However, it has nothing to do with my marriage prospects.”
“I can vouch that marriage prospects have never influenced my career, or my life at all, for that matter,” replied Mr Somers. “I am not the marrying type,” he added in a whisper that only I could hear.
The main roasts were pigeon, poulard, beef, ham, tongue, lamb and mutton. I wondered how I would be able to eat anything more with my corset so tightly laced beneath my evening gown. Every time I took a sip of wine my glass was refilled by the eager waiting staff. I decided to stop drinking it in order to avoid consuming too much. A tight corset and a large quantity of wine would make me unsteady if I wasn’t careful.
Mr Hardy and Mrs Mirabeau were conversing animatedly at one end of the table, I observed that the two seemed quite taken with one another. The previously quiet Mr White was talking loudly at Mrs Mortimer, and Mr Bolton had thankfully engaged the insufferable Mr Wentworth in conversation.
The bespectacled Mr Goldman seemed particularly interested in the room’s impressive artworks. I could only hear snippets of his conversation with Mr Gallo, but they seemed to be discussing the paintings at great length. Captain sat on Mr Gallo’s lap and happily consumed morsels from the hotelier’s fingers. Mr Blackstone was addressing Mr Somers, but the latter seemed rather disinterested in what the former had to say.
“That chap from The Times is half-seas-over,” Mr Somers whispered to me as soon as he was able to take a break from the conversation. “They have a lot of wine to pour down our throats here, haven’t they?”
I agreed, then inquired as to when he had first met Mr Gallo.
“Shortly after the Maganza opened about six years ago. I’d been in New York for about a year then, and I interviewed him for The City Journal. We’re very different, he and I, and have little in common, but for some reason we get along rather well. I introdu
ced him to a few people in Manhattan, and there were a few dinners and parties there. A lot of dinners and parties, in fact; perhaps too many. They are the main reason I’m so large.” He giggled and patted his stomach. “I need to put a stop to these parties. Anyway, as soon as Mr Gallo bought this place he wrote to tell me, and I was delighted to hear of it, of course. I have accompanied him to many places in London, though he always wants to visit the art galleries. Paintings are rather boring, don’t you think?”
“It depends on the painting, I suppose.”
“They’re all boring,” he replied with a dismissive wave of the hand, “but for Nathaniel they’re an obsession. It looks as though poor Mr Goldman has been receiving a lecture on the subject for most of the dinner.”
“He appears rather interested,” I replied.
“I think he’s merely good at feigning interest, as I was with that Times man just now. I declare that every Times journalist I’ve ever met swears his publication is superior to everyone else’s.”
Our plates were promptly cleared as three trollies bearing numerous plates covered with large silver cloches were wheeled into the room.
Mr Gallo lowered Captain to the floor and rose to his feet. “And now we shall enjoy the best part of the meal!” he announced. I gave a small sigh, feeling that it would be quite impossible to eat another morsel.
“Plum pudding!” he announced as one of the plates was placed on the table and its cloche ceremoniously lifted. “Cabinet pudding!” he crowed as the second was unveiled.
Italian creams, Bohemian creams and Genoise pastries followed, along with various tartlets and a lemon cheesecake. Other plates revealed wine jellies and impressive Macédoine jellies, which were ornately moulded and contained whole strawberries and red berries.
“But that’s not all,” announced Mr Gallo proudly. “There is another pudding that only a handful of chefs in London are able to make. My chef Jean-François has the ability. I stole him from the Langham!” He laughed as a final trolley was wheeled in. “I present to you, my guests, the Nesselrode ice pudding!”