by C. J. Archer
“Well then,” I said stiffly. “Goodbye.” I turned and walked away. There was nothing more to say. It was the end of our friendship. He’d made that very clear.
“I don’t want to part in anger,” he called after me.
“Then you shouldn’t have angered me.”
There was no response and I refused to turn around and see if he had left or was still watching me. By the time I arrived at the hotel, my temper had cooled and I was beginning to think clearly again. Unfortunately, I didn’t like my thoughts. Harry was right. We shouldn’t have parted in anger. It wasn’t fair to him when he was doing what he thought was the right thing.
I considered telephoning him, but he was on his way to Scotland Yard, and his office didn’t have a telephone anyway. Besides, his entire point was that I shouldn’t contact him anymore. All communication must be stopped if I was to keep on my uncle’s good side.
This was entirely Uncle Ronald’s fault. Yet there was little I could do about it.
What I really needed was some time with Harmony. Her direct, no-nonsense manner would clear my head and steady my frayed nerves. But she must have finished her duties for the day because I couldn’t find her.
I returned to the foyer where Mr. Hobart broke away from the porters he was addressing to speak to me. He seemed in earnest. Surely Harry didn’t have word from Scotland Yard already. He must have only just arrived there himself.
“Peter said you’d returned.” Mr. Hobart nodded towards the front desk where Peter was checking in two women dressed in furs. They were Americans, going by their accent.
“Is this about my uncle again?” I asked.
“No.” He glanced around. “I received a message from my brother this morning. Apparently you’d asked him to look into the beneficiaries of Mrs. Warrington’s will. He has an answer for you.”
My breath caught in my throat. What if we’d got it all wrong? What if Mr. Trickelbank had a motive after all? “Go on.”
“Her husband gets all of it.”
It took a moment for the implications to sink in. If Mr. Warrington got it all, then Mr. Trickelbank had no motive and Mr. Warrington was now a very rich man. He could spend his wife’s money without answering to her, or to anyone.
“Thank you, Mr. Hobart. Thank you very much. I’m now certain we’re on the right path.”
His kind face creased with his smile. “I’m so pleased to hear it. I knew you and Harry would solve it.”
“The problem is, we have no proof and our suspect has an alibi.”
He patted my arm. “I’m sure you’ll solve the puzzle, as long as you work together.”
I managed to smile, but doubted it was convincing. Fortunately he was distracted before he got a chance to ask me what was wrong. He spotted my uncle emerging from the lift and joined him. They spoke briefly and even glanced towards me. I nodded a greeting at my uncle and he nodded back. Mr. Hobart gave me a small smile then followed my uncle back into the lift. I suspected Mr. Hobart had made sure Uncle Ronald saw me, to account for my presence in the hotel today. He really did think of everything.
If only he could think of a way to prove that Mr. Warrington was not at the club on Tuesday night, after all. Had he paid the manager to lie for him? Even if he had, there were other witnesses and he couldn’t silence them all.
Goliath loped towards me, pulling an empty luggage trolley behind him. With one eye on the guests checking in at the counter, he greeted me. “You look troubled, Miss Fox. Is it the investigation?”
“In a way. You look better, not quite so tired.”
He squared his shoulders. “I wasn’t tired. I’m as strong as an ox.”
“As stupid as one, too,” came Frank’s voice from behind me.
Goliath scowled at him. “Shouldn’t you be on the door?”
“I’m having a short break. How is the case coming along, Miss Fox?”
“We’ve hit a blockage,” I said. “I’m quite certain the husband murdered his wife, but he has an alibi.” I explained how the coachman had driven Mr. Warrington to his club where the manager had signed him in and witnesses saw him.
“How can they be sure of the time they saw him?” Goliath asked. “I’ve seen gentlemen in the billiards room after they’ve downed a few drinks and they don’t have much concept of the time, even with a clock in there.”
Frank agreed. “Sometimes their wives have to retrieve them if they’re heading out to a show.”
Goliath drummed his fingers on the trolley. “Is it the Carlton Club on Pall Mall? That’s where most of the Conservatives belong.”
“The Alpine Club on Savile Row.”
“Alpine Club, eh?” Frank grunted. “So he’s a mountaineer. Explains how he was able to climb up the pipe.”
Goliath’s fingers continued to tap out a military beat on the trolley. “Savile Row is a fifteen minute journey by carriage from Kensington, maybe a little less if the traffic is light and the vehicle quick. It would take thirty minutes for a round trip.”
“The timing fits,” I said. “He left the house around nine-thirty, arrived at the club at nine-forty-five, and could have been back in the drawing room ordering tea at ten.” The more I considered the theory, the more it made sense. But how to explain the manager seeing Mr. Warrington check in at nine-forty-five and not leave until midnight?
I watched Peter with the guests checking into the hotel in much the same way as Mr. Warrington would have checked into his club on the night of the murder. Peter wrote down the time in the book, followed by their details, then turned the book around for the guest to sign.
Good lord! That was it! “I know how he did it. I know how he checked into the club and didn’t leave, yet was still able to order tea at ten in his own drawing room. You’re right, Goliath. A fast vehicle was involved.”
Goliath puffed out his chest.
“Did he pay the manager to sign him in at a different time?” Frank asked.
I shook my head. “The manager is innocent. Indeed, no one else colluded with Mr. Warrington. He did it all on his own.”
I hurried upstairs to fetch my coat and gloves, and returned to the foyer, only to stop short upon seeing Uncle Ronald talking to two gentlemen. I hid out of sight for a few minutes then peered around the corner. The coast was clear.
With a quick scan of the foyer, I hurried across the tiles and left the hotel. It was a short walk to Savile Row. It would have taken me twice as long to go to Harry’s office first so I didn’t divert my course. Besides, he was probably still at Scotland Yard, or in transit. I didn’t need to be accompanied anyway. I was not confronting a killer and there was no danger in confirming my theory.
The manager on duty at the Alpine Club was the same one I’d talked to on the day I’d first met Mr. Warrington here. He had reluctantly let me in that day, and now, he peered down his nose at me with the same snobbery he’d shown me then. In my experience, there were two ways of getting men to do what I wanted—through flirting or threats. Flirting wasn’t going to work on the stony-faced manager, so threats it would have to be.
“My name is Cleopatra Fox.”
“Yes. I recall.”
“Then you’ll remember that I work for Mr. Warrington, one of your members. I’ve been tasked by him to investigate the murder of his wife.”
The manager’s brows arched. “No, you haven’t. There was another fellow here who insisted he is investigating the murder.”
“We work together.”
“Of course you do.” The condescension dripping from his tone was as thick as jam.
“I need to see your book,” I went on.
“Book?”
I indicated the open register on the desk. “You note down arrival and departure times in it. I need to see it to help prove a theory.”
He slammed the book closed. “Your superior has already checked.”
I gathered up all my patience, but it was wearing very thin. “He is my colleague, not my superior, and I am quite sure you di
dn’t let him see the register himself. He merely asked you a question about it, and you checked. Isn’t that right?”
He sniffed.
“You made a grave error in doing so, sir.”
He bristled. “I simply read out the time of Mr. Warrington’s arrival. How could I possible have gotten that wrong?”
“I’ll fetch the detective inspector and tell him, shall I? I need to speak to him anyway.”
The manager’s face flushed and his nostrils flared. His temper would only be rising if he knew he couldn’t win, otherwise he’d have a smug look about him.
It was time to press home my advantage. “You wouldn’t want to be considered an accessory to murder, would you?”
He glared at me and I glared directly back. After a deep breath, he re-opened the book. “What do you want to know?”
“I need to see it myself.”
He hesitated then turned the register around for me. I flipped back through the pages to Tuesday night and ran my finger down the column until I found Mr. Warrington’s name. Beside it was his signature and the time of his arrival and then his departure. The arrival time was noted as 9:45PM, which fit with the time the coachman claimed he left his master here.
I then checked the line above and below, and closed the book. My heart thundered in my chest as I slid it back across the desk to the manager. “May I use your telephone?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Miss Fox! What are you doing here?”
I spun around to see Mr. Warrington standing in the doorway, walking stick in hand. He removed his hat and coat and handed them to the doorman, but held onto the stick.
I breathed deeply in an attempt to tamp down my rising panic, but it didn’t work. My stomach twisted into knots. “I was just following up on a clue.”
His face froze. “Oh?”
“Is this woman working for you, sir?” the manager asked. “She claims she is investigating the murder of Mrs. Warrington, but I’m skeptical.”
Mr. Warrington’s gaze slid to the book. His Adam’s apple bobbed with his swallow, but he had otherwise gone quite still.
A chill seeped through to my bones. He knew I’d discovered his secret.
“She no longer works for me.”
If I needed confirmation that I was on the right path, that was it. Panic must have set in for him, too, if he was denying our agreement to my face.
“I dismissed her for incompetence,” he went on. “Have her thrown out.” He signaled to the doorman
The doorman looked to the manager for approval. The manager nodded.
“I’ll go voluntarily,” I said.
I edged past the doorman, who looked keen to do his duty and make sure I left.
Mr. Warrington clicked his fingers at the manager. “Pass me the book.”
“No!” I lunged towards the desk, but the doorman caught me around the waist. I kicked back at his shins, but my skirts tangled around my legs and lessened the impact. Pushing at his arm was just as useless.
Mr. Warrington clicked his fingers again. “The book!”
The manager frowned. “Sir? Why do you need it?”
“Just give me the bloody thing!”
“Don’t give it to him,” I begged. “He’ll take it away and tear the relevant page out.”
The manager eyed Mr. Warrington. “Would you, sir?”
“It’s none of your business what I do with it. Give it to me.”
I struggled to free myself from the doorman’s grasp, but his arm was too tight around my waist. I even tried stomping on his toe, but he merely grunted without loosening his grip. I wished I’d brought an umbrella to stab him with, but it hadn’t looked like rain when I left the hotel.
“The register is my responsibility, sir.” The manager looked torn. I doubted he was used to disobeying the members.
“I don’t bloody care,” Mr. Warrington growled. “Your wages are paid by my fees.”
The manager hugged the register to his chest.
Mr. Warrington raised his walking stick and struck the manager’s shoulder. The manager cried out and dropped the book on the desk.
Mr. Warrington picked it up and calmly flipped through the pages. If he tore out the relevant page and destroyed it, there’d be no evidence, just my word to describe what I’d seen. It wouldn’t be enough to convict him.
“Let me go, you fool!” I screeched. “That man is a murderer!”
The manager gawped at me. The doorman’s grip loosened, but not enough for me to wriggle free. Mr. Warrington tucked the book under his arm and walked off. In one of the rooms back there would be a fireplace where he could burn the incriminating page.
“Stop him!” I cried. “Murderer! He killed his wife!”
“What?” The voice behind me sounded thin, but I recognized it.
“Mr. Drummond, please, you have to stop him. Stop Warrington. He killed her. Go! Before he burns the evidence. I’ll explain later. Go!”
Mr. Warrington glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Pierce. She’s just another female suffering a bout of hysteria. You know what they’re like.”
Mr. Drummond passed a shaking hand over his mouth and jaw. He looked small, insignificant. I’d seen him take command when he’d ordered the photography assistant to hand over the negatives, but he clearly felt superior to the youth. Not here. Not with the man who supposedly loved him.
Mr. Warrington’s smile was filled with contempt.
“If you’re not guilty, why are you removing the register?” I asked.
His face hardened.
“Because you know it proves you weren’t here when you say you were.”
He clutched the book tighter.
“Did you do it?” Mr. Drummond’s voice was still reedy and unsure. At least he was brave enough to pose the question.
Mr. Warrington merely sneered at him and walked off.
I pushed against the doorman’s chest, but it was no use. “Mr. Drummond, please, stop him! I can prove he murdered her, but only if that page is still in the book.”
Mr. Drummond pressed his lips together and raced after him. “Release her!” he called back to the doorman. It would seem he’d rediscovered his bravery, at least with the staff.
The doorman let me go and ran after them.
“Women are not allowed in there!” the manager shouted.
I ignored him and pushed open the door that closed behind the men. The room beyond was a large sitting room with comfortable looking chairs and tables scattered throughout, covered with newspapers and books. The air was hazy with the smoke from cigars and pipes. Some of the gentlemen members had stood, while others looked on with interest or protested at the disturbance. Those who had seen me enter frowned in disapproval.
Mr. Warrington wound his way past the furniture, heading for the fireplace.
“Stop him!” I cried.
But only Mr. Drummond moved. The other members were either confused or not willing to take orders from a woman.
Mr. Drummond darted around tables, pushing them aside, knocking over a lamp as he tried to get to Mr. Warrington before he reached the fireplace.
He failed. Mr. Warrington opened the register and flipped to the page he needed, tearing it out.
Mr. Drummond lunged, but it was no use. Mr. Warrington threw the page into the fire. At the same time, he brought his walking stick down on Mr. Drummond’s head. The crack reverberated around the sitting room, and Mr. Drummond collapsed on the floor, his eyes closed.
Chapter 16
A cacophony of voices erupted. Gentlemen shouted. Someone knelt at Mr. Drummond’s side, while three more grabbed Mr. Warrington, holding his arms to stop him striking again. The stick was torn from his grip.
I noted all of this yet I kept my eyes on the page, its edges browning in the fireplace. It would catch alight at any moment. I fell to my knees on the hearth and plucked out the paper. I suffocated the flame that had taken hold of the corner with my gloved hand.<
br />
The paper was singed, but the relevant lines were legible. With a release of breath, I sat back on my haunches, and eyed Mr. Warrington.
He struggled against his captors—gentlemen who wouldn’t obey a woman’s order but drew the line at one of their own striking another member. Yet again, the English gentleman’s code of honor was on display.
The manager and doorman stood in the doorway, looking somewhat dazed by proceedings. Thankfully, Mr. Drummond was regaining consciousness. Another member helped him to sit up, while a second assisted me to my feet.
I clutched the page to my chest. “Telephone Scotland Yard,” I ordered the manager. “Tell them you have a suspect for the murder of Mrs. Warrington in custody and require urgent assistance.” Whispers and murmurs of disbelief followed him out.
“You’re a fool if you think they’ll believe you,” Mr. Warrington snarled at me.
“You’re a fool if you think this little scene makes you look innocent.” I smiled, pleased that I sounded braver than I felt.
Mr. Drummond held a bloodied handkerchief to his forehead as he stood on unsteady legs. A gentleman assisted him to an armchair where he sat, looking dazed. I sat on the chair next to him.
“You’ll need to see a doctor,” I said gently.
His eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said and meant it. Sorry that he’d learned that his lover was a murderer. Sorry that he’d found out in such a dramatic fashion and in a public place in the presence of friends. “Thank you for your assistance.”
He lifted his gaze to Mr. Warrington, being held by the doorman and a club member. Mr. Warrington glared back at us, his face thunderous. Murderous.
“Why?” Mr. Drummond whispered.
“To keep his secret,” I said.
“Our secret, you mean.”
“He had more to lose than you if it got out. Murdering her solved several problems for him. His secret would be safe, it killed her unborn baby too, and meant he inherited her fortune.”
One of the gentlemen handed a glass of brandy to Mr. Drummond and another to me. It was far too early to be drinking, but I welcomed the burning sensation in my throat as I sipped. They say it steadied nerves, but one sip didn’t do the trick. My nerves still vibrated like plucked violin strings. I took two more sips.