by C. J. Archer
I blinked. “Oh?”
“Harry tells me you are responsible for the newspaper article that named his agency in the solving of the actress’s murder.” He set two cups on the counter in front of me then returned to the stove and peered into the top of the siphon pot. Satisfied, he poured in the ground coffee and stirred it with a wooden spoon. “He also told me he didn’t deserve the publicity, and that you were the one who solved it. I should warn you that he ain’t happy about it.”
“He’s being childish.”
“Can I be there when you tell him that?” Once the coffee was brewed, he stirred it again. After allowing it to steep for a couple of minutes, he poured coffee from the bottom section of the siphon pot into the cups. “These are free.”
“You don’t have to do that. I was helping Harry, not you, although I am glad the café has benefited too.”
“They’re not free because you sent customers my way. It’s because you’re a beautiful lady.”
I laughed and thanked him. He rounded the counter and opened the door for me then opened the door to the stairs that led up to Mr. Armitage’s office. Just as I suspected, the elderly customers remained glued to their stools.
In the past, I’d opened the door to Mr. Armitage’s office at the top of the stairs without knocking. But our relationship had changed again and I didn’t feel comfortable entering unannounced. Besides, my hands were full. I tapped the door with the toe of my boot.
He opened it, smiling. The smile slipped a little upon seeing me, but not entirely. That was a good start.
“Peace offering,” I said, holding out the coffee. “No need to pay me back.”
“Since Luigi gave them to you for free, I wasn’t going to offer.”
“How did you know?”
He accepted the coffee and returned to his seat behind the desk. “I’m a good detective.”
“And Luigi is a terrible flirt whose business benefited from my actions? You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that he’ll thank me in the only way he knows how—with a wink, a smile and free coffee.”
He gave me one of those wry smiles he liked to give, the sort that filled his handsome face with character and warned of an intelligence lurking behind the warm eyes and charming manner. Not that he turned the warmth and charm on for me these days. In the beginning, when he worked at the hotel, he treated me as an assistant manager should treat his employer’s niece. But ever since he lost his job because of me, he’d shown his truer self, the one where he was occasionally annoyed, somewhat brusque, and rarely charming.
I liked this Harry Armitage better. He was more real, and far more interesting.
I found it difficult to suppress my smile. I was simply glad to have this opportunity to speak to him about our future partnership after almost two weeks of silence.
I glanced around the office and took in the decorative touches I’d suggested on a prior visit—a photograph of Mr. Armitage with his adopted parents and another of a woman alone, most likely his birth mother, a framed sketch of Tower Bridge, and the velvet cushion on the armchair. I was glad to see he’d kept the worn, brown leather armchair. Along with the secondhand desk, it gave the office a welcoming, lived-in feel which could help establish his authenticity and calm agitated clients.
He drained the cup and set it to one side, then sat forward. “I’ll begin by saying something I should have said days ago. Thank you for mentioning my agency to the journalists. I appreciate it.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re choking on the words?”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his jaw. “Fine. I’m sorry. It’s just that…I didn’t deserve to benefit from that case. I did very little to catch the killer. You did it all. I’m happy to accept publicity for something I did, but it feels like cheating to receive it for something I didn’t do.”
When he put it like that, it actually made sense. I would feel unworthy too. But on the other hand, I would also accept the assistance with grace. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact a woman was the one to help you?”
“I’m equally dismissive of the assistance afforded me by men and women.”
I laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell Harmony. She’ll be pleased to hear it, although she might not forgive you for the brusque tone in your letter.”
“Harmony? You speak to her about me? I mean, this?” He indicated both of us turn. “Our…whatever this is?”
“Yes. She’s my friend. A friend who kept your letter from me.” I explained why it had taken me two days to reply, including that she did it to protect my feelings.
“She thought your feelings needed protecting from my letter?”
“To be fair, it was rather curt.”
“It was brief. And that’s not the point. Why did she think your feelings needed protecting? Did the letter injure you in some way?”
“Of course not. I can cope with a little brusqueness in written correspondence from an acquaintance.”
“Then why—?”
“Can we change the subject? We’re going around in circles and I have work to do.”
“Work?”
“Isn’t that why I’m here? To work with you on a case since you’re too inundated to do it all?”
“Hardly inundated, but you’re right. Let’s get started.” He removed some folders from a stack on the corner of the desk and spun them around to face me. “Ever since my agency’s name became associated with the Piccadilly Playhouse murder, I’ve had several inquiries from people wishing to engage my services.” He tapped the stack of files. “I would like to give these ones to you.”
I flipped open the first folder and scanned the single page inside. The details were written in a neat if tight hand, beginning with the client’s personal information and concluding with a description of the problem he needed investigating. The client was a man who wanted to determine if his wife was committing adultery so he could divorce her. I closed the folder and opened the next.
“You mean you’d like me to join your agency as your partner to solve these cases,” I said as I read.
“That’s why I like you. You’re an optimist.”
I looked up from the file of yet another husband wanting to engage Mr. Armitage’s services to discover if his wife was involved with another man. “You want me to assist you,” I said flatly. “Mr. Armitage, is that fair considering my experience?”
“Not assist either.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. Why are you showing me these if you don’t want me to assist you or work alongside you?”
“I’m giving you those cases. I don’t want them. You can set up your own agency and work on them officially, or you can continue in an unofficial capacity. Either way, I’m sure you can negotiate a fair rate for yourself.” He sat back, arms crossed, looking rather satisfied with himself.
It took me a moment to gather my wits. “Is this your way of thanking me?”
“No. I truly don’t want them. If you don’t either then I’ll inform the clients and they can go to another agency. I don’t expect a commission, if that’s causing your hesitation.”
“It’s not. I…I’m not sure what to say.” I studied one of the files again, at a loss for words. It was a disappointment not to be asked to join him, even as an assistant, but not altogether surprising. “You don’t want any of these cases? Not a single one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My agency isn’t going to investigate adultery.”
“But if you’re being paid, what does it matter?”
His jaw firmed. “I’ll wait for more challenging cases.”
I opened my mouth to continue protesting, but shut it again. He looked as though he’d made up his mind, and I knew from experience that once he made up his mind, he rarely changed it.
I scanned each of the files again. There were five in total. By the look of the depleted stack of folders
on his desk, there were not many more cases. Indeed, there was only one. He wasn’t giving these up because he had too much work on. He was giving them up because he honestly didn’t want them. I admired his conviction. Associating his agency name to the sordid business of catching unfaithful spouses could narrow his focus too early and stop more interesting cases coming his way.
And then it struck me. There was another reason he was giving these away. I checked each folder again, to be sure. “They’re all the same. They are all husbands investigating their wives. Except this one, where it’s a wife investigating a husband’s infidelity.” I looked up at him and smiled. He scowled back. “However, she suspects her husband of having a liaison with a man, so it’s not completely dissimilar.”
“What of it?”
I tapped the final line on the document I’d been reading. It had appeared in each of the files. “The husbands—and the one wife—want you to ‘use your masculine ingenuity’ if no lover can be unearthed through the usual investigation methods. Does that mean what I think it means?”
He snatched the folders off me and shuffled them into a stack. His jaw had firmed even more and his shoulders were quite rigid. “It does.”
“They want you to seduce their wives to ensure their guilt?” And the one husband, I almost added.
“Only if I’ve exhausted all investigative leads to find their lover.”
My smile widened.
“It’s not amusing.”
“It is a little.”
He looked at me over the files he held in his hands. “You find it amusing that husbands want to pay another man to seduce their wives so they can use that in divorce proceedings as evidence of her adultery?”
My smile vanished. When he put it like that, it wasn’t amusing at all. “You’re right. I don’t blame you for not taking those cases and I don’t want them either.”
He nodded as if he agreed with me, but I could see he wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? If you’re prepared to investigate them privately, without starting an agency, then you can keep your name out of it while being paid. Also, there’ll be no misunderstandings over the techniques you employ. As a woman, you can’t seduce the wives. And that one husband wouldn’t look twice at you if the information in that file is correct.”
He made some good points. Excellent ones, in fact. Besides which, the fee would be helpful. If I took on one or two of these cases, I could begin to build a financial cushion for myself for when I moved out of the hotel. And as Harry said, there would be no attempts at seduction. I would not be trapping anyone, or risking my reputation.
“Are these the only cases that have come your way?” I indicated the sole folder he hadn’t given me. “And that one?”
He nodded. “It’s not uncommon. My father has encountered several private detectives in his time and they claim marital infidelity makes up more than three-quarters of their case load.”
“It’s going to limit you if you exclude them.”
He merely lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “So you’ll take them?”
I put out my hand and he passed back the files. I read through them again. “I will. Thank you. I’ll call on each of these gentlemen, and the woman, this afternoon and see which of them wishes to hire me, if any.”
Mr. Armitage offered to write a letter to each of the five explaining that his “esteemed and very experienced colleague” was willing to investigate since he couldn’t.
I tucked each of the letters into the relevant folders and headed for the door.
Mr. Armitage was quick and beat me to it. He smiled down at me as he opened it. “So you thought I was going to offer you a partnership here?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I told you, I don’t want a partner.”
“You don’t want a partner yet.”
“Your faith in my business acumen is refreshing. I hope to one day have so much work on that I do need to employ other investigators. But I won’t be taking on a partner. Nor would I ask you to work for me.”
I sighed. “Because you don’t wish to anger my uncle. Yes, I know.”
He shrugged an apology, although by the way his lips quirked I suspected he wasn’t at all sorry.
I slipped past him through the doorway, getting closer than a woman should to a man who wasn’t a relative. It was hardly my fault since he was partially blocking the exit. Well, it was somewhat my fault. I found I couldn’t stop myself brushing up against him. “I won’t tell him if you won’t.”
His eyes were bright with humor even though his lips were set into a flat line. “Good day, Miss Fox.”
I trotted down the stairs with my bag in one hand and the files under my arm, feeling lighter than I had in two weeks. Mr. Armitage had not only thanked me for getting his name into the newspapers, despite it not being what he wanted, he had also given me something to do. I preferred to have an occupation than sit around the hotel all day drinking tea.
And, for once, he bade me good day, not goodbye.
Chapter 2
I spent the next few hours in the heart of the city’s financial district having doors slammed in my face, metaphorically speaking and, in one instance, quite literally. The men had only given Mr. Armitage an address for their places of work, not their homes, to keep the investigations a secret from their wives. The first three potential clients expressed either regret or anger that Mr. Armitage wasn’t willing to help, and none wanted a woman taking their case. A fourth, the only woman, refused to hire me too, on the grounds that I wasn’t “suitable.”
That left only one gentleman on the list, and it was not as easy to gain an audience with him. He’d given Mr. Armitage the Savile Row address of his club. Since Mr. Armitage was not a member, he could only be admitted as a guest. As a woman, I couldn’t even do that. I had to suffer through the disdainful sneer of the manager on duty before he finally agreed to give Mr. Warrington my written message along with Mr. Armitage’s letter of recommendation.
Mr. Warrington’s response arrived a full ten minutes later. He refused to see me.
The manager attempted to close the door on me, but I wedged myself into the gap before he could. “Kindly take another message to Mr. Warrington, if you please.” I took out my pencil and notepad and scrawled a second note. I tore it out and handed the paper to the manager.
His nostrils flared. “Mr. Warrington has made his position clear. He doesn’t wish to speak to you.”
“He will once he reads that. I promise you, if he refuses to see me a second time, I’ll leave without a fuss. But he must read it.”
Unlike the first four cases, I wasn’t giving up on Mr. Warrington. I knew something about him. Something that gave me leverage.
The manager returned after mere moments. “Mr. Warrington will see you now. This way, Miss Fox.”
He led me across the black and white tiled entrance hall to an adjoining room with barely enough space for two leather armchairs and a wall of shelved books. A large painting of a snow-capped mountain range took up almost the entirety of another wall. With no fireplace, it must only be used in summertime. It was freezing inside, and smelled faintly of cigar smoke and leather-bound covers.
I remained standing and only had to wait a few minutes before a slim man of medium build entered. I guessed him to be aged in his late thirties, with a luxurious black mustache speckled with gray, thick hair that fell in waves to his nape, and a set of clear blue eyes. The scent of sandalwood and musk followed him into the room and quickly overwhelmed even the cigar smoke.
“How did you know I was receiving threatening letters?” he asked after we exchanged greetings.
He had not invited me to sit, but I sat anyway and indicated he should take the other armchair. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources,” I said.
“Nobody knows except a few close colleagues and the police.”
Having a good memory for names and an ear for gossip had proved fruit
ful for once. Uncle Ronald often tried to get Floyd interested in politics, but Floyd usually found the topic dull. To pique his interest, my uncle had mentioned an interesting piece of news he’d heard about a politician who’d recently received threatening letters because of a controversial bill his party was trying to block in parliament. Uncle Ronald hadn’t divulged where he’d heard the information, but I suspected it was in a club such as this.
“It seems at least one of your colleagues isn’t as discreet as you thought,” I said.
He studied me for a long moment. “What does any of this have to do with my wife’s adultery?”
“Nothing.”
“You wanted me to see how good an investigator you are. Is that it?”
I simply smiled.
“Very well. Consider me convinced. You’re hired.”
I was taken aback by the speed of it all. I’d expected his refusal, and had prepared an explanation as to why a woman would be suitable for the task of discovering the movements of another woman.
Mr. Warrington grunted humorlessly at my surprise. “I am not particular as to whom I hire, as long as they are good and discreet. You’ve proved you’re good, and Mr. Armitage’s letter also vouches for you. Now you must prove to me that you can be discreet.”
“A promise isn’t enough?”
“No.” I wondered if his no-nonsense manner worked in parliament. Given the theatrics the newspapers often reported, I expected he was an exception, but that didn’t mean his approach wasn’t effective.
“My uncle is Sir Ronald Bainbridge, owner of the Mayfair Hotel.”
His brows rose. “I see. And you don’t wish him to find out about your little investigative enterprise.”
“Precisely. So I will promise to be discreet if you are.”
He hesitated then thrust out his hand. “I’ll give you five pounds.”
I swallowed. Was that a good amount? It sounded good, but given I didn’t know how long this case would take to solve, it might be either too generous or not enough. “Half up front, to cover expenses.”
He extended his hand further. “You are a good negotiator, Miss Fox. I’ll have my man of business send you the payment before the end of the day.”