by C. J. Archer
“He can find me at the Mayfair.” I shook his hand and sat back. “Tell me why you think your wife is having a liaison with another man.”
“At first, it was just a feeling I had. She was always going out, according to my butler, and came home empty-handed or with only a few items even though she claimed to have been shopping all day. So I had her followed. She met with a man in the park and went to a hotel with him.”
“The Mayfair?” I asked, thinking that was why he’d readily agreed to hire me.
“The Midland Grand at St Pancras Station.”
I noted the name in my book. “What day was this?”
“Friday.”
That was only three days ago. I wrote that down too. “Do you have a description of the man?”
“He had the physique and bearing of a youngish fellow. He may have been early middle age, but certainly wasn’t old. He was only seen from a distance so I cannot tell you more.”
“And did the person who followed them to the hotel make inquiries of the staff?”
“Certainly not.” He smoothed his hand down the front of his waistcoat, stopping to finger the gold watch-chain threaded through one of the buttonholes and ending in a T-bar.
I suspected he’d been the one to follow them and hadn’t wanted anyone to know, including me. “What evidence do you require for the court to grant you a divorce?”
“Anything that proves her adultery beyond doubt. I suggest you start by questioning the staff at the Midland Grand and finding one who can identify her.”
I wasn’t sure a matching description from a single witness would be enough. Divorces were difficult to obtain and required absolute proof of either adultery or violence. Unhappiness or dissatisfaction was not enough. Proceedings were often lengthy and therefore expensive, and because of their rarity, they almost always ended in scandal and shame.
“May I question your household staff?” I asked.
“Only the butler. Go to the service entrance and ask for Henderson.”
I wrote the name down. “May I ask him to let me into Mrs. Warrington’s private rooms?”
“Certainly not.”
I looked up from the notebook. “There could be personal correspondence between Mrs. Warrington and her lover. All the evidence you need may be there.”
“It isn’t. I’ve looked. Henderson has looked. She’s not a fool, my wife, and does not keep correspondence lying about where the staff can read it.”
I wasn’t suggesting she left it lying about, but somewhere hidden. I didn’t say as much, however. That was a battle for another day. I would start with learning more about Mrs. Warrington’s movements.
“You can begin by speaking to Henderson today,” he said. “I’ll tell him to expect you.”
“Tomorrow.” I closed the notebook and tucked it into my bag. “I have other avenues to try today.”
“The Midland Grand. Yes, of course. You may need this.” He pulled out a photograph from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was a head-only image of a woman in middle-age wearing a hat decorated with a whole bird nesting on one side of the wide brim. It was difficult to tell the specific bird in the black and white photo, but it looked to be some kind of parrot. “Her name is Isobel.”
The photograph would help with my inquiries at the railway hotel, although that wouldn’t be the only lead I’d follow today. I planned to make my way back to the Mayfair, where I would learn more about my client and his wife using the oldest of investigative techniques—gossip.
The Midland Grand Hotel was as impressive as its name suggested. Positioned alongside St Pancras Station, it was a monolithic tribute to the booming railway industry of decades past. The Mayfair was a small cousin by comparison, but not a poorer one. Indeed, from what I’d heard, the Midland Grand was somewhat dated now, not having ensuite bathrooms and other modern amenities that newer luxury hotels enjoyed.
It was glorious, however. The gothic confection of the façade was echoed in the porte-cochère entrance to the hotel. After navigating the revolving door, I found myself tipping my head back to take it all in. My first impression was of overwhelming opulence. The walls and ceiling were painted with intricate designs in vivid blues, greens, yellows, golds, and pinks, the moldings decorated with gilded carvings of peacocks and foliage. There was a Medieval cathedral quality to the place that had gone out of style decades ago, but was uniquely fascinating.
As I waited to be served at the busy front desk, I caught a glimpse of the famed staircase at the end of the curved entrance hall and would have gone to admire it if I hadn’t been called up by the clerk. I schooled my features, pulled out a handkerchief and some coins from my bag, and put on the saddest face I could manage.
I introduced myself with a false name. “I have an unusual request, and rather a distressing one,” I said.
The clerk maintained his professionally bland expression. “How may I help you, Madam?”
“My cousin has run away from home. We think she has fallen victim to a no-good snake who fed her lies and promised her a better life. We’re very worried about her.”
My sordid tale brought a spark to his eye, as sordid tales had a tendency to do for most people. “I am sorry to hear that, Madam.”
“Ever since we read her note, we’ve been searching for her, and our search has led us here, to this hotel. We believe she stayed here on Friday. Is it too much trouble for you to look through your reservation book to either confirm or deny?”
He shook his head. “That goes against our hotel policy.”
“Oh please, please, help me.” I dabbed at the corner of my eye with the handkerchief. “My poor dear cousin could be in grave danger.”
The clerk looked past me to the waiting guests.
“It will only take a moment and then I’ll leave you be,” I added. “I’d be ever so grateful.” To show him how grateful, I discreetly passed the coins across the counter.
He scooped them up and pocketed them. “What name?”
“Isobel Warrington.”
He flipped back through the reservations ledger and ran his finger down the column. “No one here by that name. What about the fellow?”
I waved my handkerchief in dismissal. “He wouldn’t have used his real name so there is no point looking. Were you on duty on Friday?” At his nod, I showed him the photograph of Isobel. “Does she look familiar?”
He studied it then shook his head. “I’m afraid not. A lot of people pass through this hotel.”
“What about your colleague?”
The second clerk studied the photograph, but shook his head too. I thanked them and spoke to the porters and doorman next, but received the same response. As I expected, the lead had led nowhere. A place like the Midland Grand had a lot more guests than the Mayfair Hotel, and Isobel would have been one face among many on Friday. Without any remarkable features, the desk clerks would not have paid her much attention, particularly if her lover was the one to check in.
I returned to the Mayfair where Frank greeted me at the front door with a warning. “Lady Bainbridge is looking for you.”
“That sounds ominous. What does she want?”
“How would I know?”
“Don’t you know everything that goes on in this hotel, Frank?”
He puffed out his chest. “True enough. But not this time.”
“How did she seem?”
“Who can tell with her ladyship?” He realized too late how that sounded and apologized. “I didn’t mean to be so familiar, Miss Fox. It’s just that your aunt doesn’t let on what’s on her mind. Not like Sir Ronald. His moods are easy to guess.”
I patted his arm. “It’s quite all right, Frank. You don’t need to be as formal with me as you are with my Bainbridge relatives. I’m more like you than them.”
From the skeptical way he eyed me, I suspected he didn’t think of me that way at all. I sighed as I entered the hotel through the door he held open for me. My attempts at making friends among
the staff had worked to a point, but not to the extent I wanted.
In truth, I was not like them and never could be while I was their employer’s niece, even though I felt an affinity with them. Living with my grandparents in Cambridge, we could afford only one maid, so I’d helped her with all the household duties. I preferred to roll up my sleeves and contribute than live the idle life that my aunt and Flossy enjoyed. While the occasional long luncheon or free afternoon to explore the city was certainly more appealing than scrubbing floors for hours, it became dull after a while.
It would seem I was yet to find the happy medium between the two worlds of staff and employer. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever find it, or if the staff would ever treat me as an equal. For now, I would take any level of friendship they were prepared to offer. I was sorely lacking in friends here in London.
There was often a lull in the middle of the day for the front of house staff. Guests scheduled to check out had already done so and new arrivals were not yet due to check in. The maids would be preparing the rooms and the cooks and waiting staff would be busy cooking and serving luncheon, but the foyer itself was quiet.
Goliath stood by the front desk, one hip leaning against the counter. Peter the clerk rested both elbows on the counter, chatting quietly to him. Goliath yawned as I approached.
“Cover your mouth,” Peter said as I joined them. “And don’t let Mr. Hobart see you yawning.”
“Mr. Hobart’s in his office,” Goliath said. “He’s too busy to come out here these days. And there’s no one else about, so I’m going to yawn as much as I like.” To hammer home his point, he yawned again.
I leaned against the counter too and looked up at Goliath. The dark circles under his eyes amid his pale face made him look like a giant ghoul. “You need to tell Mr. Hobart that you can no longer perform the duties of both night and day porter. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m all right. It’s double the pay, so I’ll do it as long as Mr. Hobart needs.”
Ever since one of the previous night porters had been dismissed after it was revealed he and the new assistant manager were letting in prostitutes in exchange for money, we’d been short staffed. Goliath filled in as the second night porter and Mr. Hobart was still looking for another assistant manager. Harry Armitage’s shoes were proving difficult to fill, but they needed to be filled soon. The hotel’s busiest season was just around the corner.
“You’re making mistakes, too,” Peter said to Goliath. He turned to me. “Just yesterday he took some luggage to the wrong room. All three porters spent an age looking for it and Mr. Hobart had to use all his diplomatic skills to calm the guests down.”
Goliath stifled another yawn.
Peter rolled his eyes. “Lady Bainbridge asked me where you were earlier.”
“I heard she was looking for me.”
“You should tell me when you’ll be back each time you go out so I can pass it on if any of your family asks.”
“That seems fraught with problems. For one thing, what if I’m late? They’ll worry. And for another, what if I don’t want them knowing where I am?”
He put up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough, Miss Fox.”
“You’ve got a new case, haven’t you?” Goliath said, proving his mind was still sharp despite exhaustion.
“I do.” I showed them the photograph of Isobel Warrington. “Do either of you recognize her?”
They both shook their heads.
“Was she murdered?” Peter asked.
“No. I’m afraid I can’t give you any details of this case just yet.”
Goliath crossed his arms and pouted, looking like a very large toddler on the cusp of a tantrum.
Peter sighed. “Pity.” He straightened and his gaze shifted to my right. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hobart.”
The manager joined us and I tucked the photograph back into my bag. He looked tired too, although not quite as exhausted as Goliath. His usually bright, friendly eyes were dull, his smile strained as he greeted me. “Have you seen your aunt yet, Miss Fox?”
“I’m on my way to her now.”
“She’s playing bridge with friends in the small sitting room.”
“How did she seem?”
“Quite well today. There was no sign of her illness.”
My aunt’s illness had been diagnosed as melancholy by her doctor. He’d prescribed a tonic that lifted her spirits for a few hours, but gave her dreadful headaches once it wore off. The more she took it, the more often she needed to take it. Flossy and I tried to encourage her to take it only when necessary, and sparingly at that, but she didn’t always heed our advice.
As a guest approached the desk, I signaled to Mr. Hobart to move to the side with me. He smiled at the guest and greeted him by name then allowed Peter to answer his question.
“Is something the matter, Miss Fox?” he asked with the greatest concern.
“No, nothing really. When I asked you how my aunt was, I meant how was her temper? Did she seem annoyed that she couldn’t find me? Or that she needed to speak to me in the first place?”
He shook his head, accompanying it with a small shrug. “Not particularly.” He lowered his voice. “I know it’s none of my business, but have you two had a falling out?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. It’s just that…” I looked around the foyer and not seeing any of my family, stepped closer to Mr. Hobart. “The thing is, before he left, Mr. Hirst told my uncle something about me as a means of punishing me for my role in his dismissal.”
At the mention of Mr. Hirst’s name, Mr. Hobart’s mouth set into a grim line. “I wish I’d never hired him.”
“It wasn’t your fault. He duped you. He duped us all, including my uncle. But his fit of pique has left me in a bit of a pickle where my uncle and aunt are concerned. You see, he told Uncle Ronald that I have called on your nephew a few times.”
“When you say called on, you mean…”
“I mean in a professional capacity. We worked together to solve the Piccadilly Playhouse murder.”
He tugged on the front hem of his tailcoat. “I see. Then what’s the problem? Your uncle and aunt surely wouldn’t want you to conduct an investigation alone, without a man at your side.”
I bit down on the instinct to point out that I didn’t need a man at my side. Mr. Hobart, like most men, wasn’t interested in women’s suffrage and a snide response from me wasn’t going to educate him.
It turned out that I wasn’t being fair to him. Upon seeing me bristle at his words, he added, “I meant only when you met with an undesirable character during the course of your investigation. You don’t need a man at your side at other times. I can see very clearly that you are an independent and capable woman.”
“Thank you for elaborating. But the problem isn’t my role in that investigation. The problem is that they think Mr. Armitage and I, er, have intentions.”
He clasped his hands together behind him. “Ah.”
“Not that we do have any of those kinds of intentions. I assure you, by the way Mr. Armitage talks to me you’d think I was the enemy. Or, at best, an annoying acquaintance whose company he must politely endure.”
He laughed softly.
“My relationship with Mr. Armitage is purely a business one. He helped me with the Piccadilly Playhouse murder, and now I am investigating a case that he didn’t want to take on.”
He frowned, nodding thoughtfully. “So the problem is, you cannot avoid one another.”
“It would seem so.”
“And you don’t want to tell your uncle and aunt that you are a private detective.”
“Correct. They would only forbid me from continuing.” I winced. “I am sorry if telling you this puts you in a bind. I shouldn’t have said anything, except I need to ask you something.”
“About the new case? Then I am happy to help. As to the matter of your aunt and uncle finding out, I do not involve myself in Bainbridge family matters. Sir Ronald and Lady Bainbridge kno
w this and respect it. The topic of your investigative activities won’t come up, and therefore your relationship with Harry won’t either, since you only see each other in a professional capacity.”
I breathed out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Mr. Hobart.”
“Now tell me about your case and how I may help.”
“I’ve been hired by a gentleman by the name of Warrington who believes his wife is seeing another man. He wishes me to prove it so he can divorce her.”
None of what I said made much of an impact on Mr. Hobart. As hotel manager, he saw and heard things that would make me blush. The Mayfair may attract an elite clientele, but the wealthy and important weren’t immune to carrying out sordid affairs. Indeed, they seemed to be more likely to live outside the rules of society than regular folk. My life in Cambridge had been a sheltered one. I’d learned more about human nature in the Mayfair than I had in the lecture halls of the university or the tearooms nearby.
“Warrington rings bells,” Mr. Hobart said. “He hasn’t been a guest here, I can assure you of that, but his name is familiar.”
“He’s a member of parliament.”
“That must be it.”
“He has a townhouse of his own so wouldn’t stay here. His wife’s name is Isobel and she was seen entering the Midland Grand last Friday with a man.” I showed him the photograph. “Peter and Goliath don’t recognize her, but do you? Do you think she has ever been here?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen her.”
I tucked the photograph away and glanced across the foyer in the direction of the two sitting rooms. My aunt and her bridge partners awaited me in the small one. If I went to her now, she wouldn’t chastise me in front of them. She would avoid all mention of Harry Armitage altogether so as not to associate my name with his in their eyes. It made sense to see her now and get this meeting over with so that I didn’t have to call on her later when she was alone.
Mr. Hobart sighed, drawing my attention back to him. His gaze had fallen on a stiff-backed man standing a little to the side, waiting for Mr. Hobart to finish speaking with me. He must think me a guest and was politely waiting his turn.