Chapter 13

The following morning, Harmony eyed me dubiously as she carried our breakfast tray into my room. "Either you had a very good night after imbibing a little too much wine, or you had a terrible night. It's not always possible to tell which with you."

I followed her into the sitting room and flopped onto a chair. "I slept poorly. I couldn't stop thinking about the case. Both cases, actually—the murders of Charlotte and Mr. Hardy."

"We still don't know if Hardy was murdered." She lifted the lid on the platter and passed me the plate of toast. "You'll feel better after you've eaten something."

"I'll feel better after coffee." I reached for the silver pot and poured the steaming contents into the matching cups.

"You'll look better after you've dressed and done your hair." She gave me another dubious glance. "And perhaps a little powder under your eyes to cover the dark circles. Do you want to discuss the thoughts that kept you awake?"

"Inspiration didn't strike, so unfortunately I don't have any new theories. Let's discuss something else instead. I need a distraction."

"A distraction in the form of Harry Armitage?"

"Absolutely not. I mean, he's not distracting. Not in the least. He's simply…a friend."

"Friends don't kiss."

I eyed her over the coffee cup. "I regret telling you about that now."

She chewed her toast thoughtfully. "If he's merely a friend, why did you involve him so much in this investigation? Could it be that you want to see more of him and the investigation is a good excuse?"

"He's helpful. Can we discuss something else?"

"How was the ‘suitable gentleman' at dinner last night?"

"A perfect gentleman and eminently suitable. The son of a wealthy heiress and an earl, no less. He stands to inherit a title and a fortune."

"What more could a woman want?"

"He was also quite good-looking, didn't get drunk, and didn't speak about himself overmuch, although on three occasions, he did manage to inform me how one day he'd be wealthy and titled."

"You can't blame a fellow for ensuring a lady knows his best traits. So, what was wrong with him?"

"What makes you think something was wrong?"

"There always is with you."

"That's not true!" I plucked a piece of toast from the platter. "But in this instance, you're right. He asked me what plans I have for the future."

Harmony groaned. "You told him you want to be a private detective."

"Lord, no. My uncle would loathe it if I told yet another gentleman about that. No, I simply told him I don't plan on marrying. He spent the rest of dinner speaking to the lady on his other side."

Harmony laughed.

"What about your evening?" I asked. "Did you and Victor discuss your plans for the future?"

"He was working the dinner shift, and I was in bed by the time he finished, so I didn't see him. Even if we did make plans, it would only be to discuss the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be given the opportunity to organize it, unless Mr. Bainbridge is handed the task, but it seems Mr. Chapman has a tight grip on managing the preparations, despite how poorly he handled the engagement dinner."

"The reception will be here and not at the Savoy, after all? What a relief!" Miss Hessing must have spoken to her mother after all. "Mr. Chapman won't give up control easily, it's true, but I'm afraid it will be a disaster unless he starts listening to the bride's mother. The wedding reception needs to please her, not Miss Hessing. She's the one paying for it. She's the one who will be returning to the hotel, year after year. It is noble of him to think that Miss Hessing's wishes matter, but even she says he ought to do as her mother wants."

"She should tell him that."

"I told her to speak to him, but I don't think she will. I think she wants to avoid conflict at all costs." A lifetime of having her opinions disparaged by her mother had made her terrified of speaking up.

Harmony sighed. "Perhaps she'll find some courage."

"Or you could approach my uncle and suggest you assist Mr. Chapman. Remind him that you did most of the work for the restaurant's opening, not Floyd, and tell him everything we just discussed about Mr. Chapman's reluctance to follow Mrs. Hessing's directives. I'd go to him on your behalf, but you told me not to." I watched her carefully for signs she secretly wanted me to. There were none.

Her answer didn't encourage me, however. "Sir Ronald barely even knows I exist and won't see me, anyway." She cracked the shell of her boiled egg with the back of a spoon. "Let's change the subject. What are you going to do today now that the investigation has stalled?"

"I'll return Mr. Hardy's belongings to Mrs. Turner for her to pass on to his next of kin, if any are found. They're probably worth quite a bit, particularly the tiepin. The watch is rather plain, although still a handsome piece."

"May I see the tiepin? You made it sound beautiful."

I fetched my bag from the desk and dug through it for the pieces. They weren't there. I tipped the contents out onto the desk. No tiepin or watch. I cursed under my breath.

Harmony came up behind me. "Did you leave them with the Whitchurches?"

"No. I remember returning them to my bag, because Lord Whitchurch wanted to keep the tiepin and I wouldn't give it up. His father gave it to Mr. Hardy as thanks, so it no longer belonged to the family." I closed my eyes and squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying to recall where I could have left the pieces.

But I'd not taken them out since leaving the Whitchurches, nor had I set the bag down anywhere until placing it on the desk upon my return. It wasn't an evening bag to carry to dinner. I'd used a small, beaded purse last night. There were only two explanations. Someone had entered my room while I was at dinner and removed them from my bag, or the youth I'd bumped into on my way home was an excellent pickpocket and had fished them out when he picked my bag up off the pavement. He may have even had an accomplice. I'd not really taken much notice at the time. I'd been distracted by the lateness of the hour. The spare hotel room keys were kept secure when the maids weren't cleaning, and we rarely had a problem with thieving staff, so I was inclined to think the youth was the culprit.

Either way, the pieces were gone.

* * *

Davey answeredmy knock on the basement service door, but didn't immediately let me in. He glanced over his shoulder, along the corridor. "I'd leave if I were you, Miss Fox. Mrs. Turner's in a right mood today. She was yesterday, too, after you were here. Don't know what happened, but she was suddenly real angry with me."

"Does it have something to do with you leaving them in the lurch?"

"Don't you start. I've had enough of that from the others."

"Sorry, your employment is none of my business. When is your last day?"

"Friday." He stepped aside. "Enter at your own risk."

Mrs. Turner emerged from her office before I reached it. Davey was right to warn me. She crossed her arms under her bosom and looked at me as though she already knew I'd lost Mr. Hardy's valuables. She couldn't possibly know, however. Nor could she be in a bad mood because of me.

"Good morning, Mrs. Turner. May I speak to you in private, please?"

She hesitated before inviting me into her office. She closed the door, but didn't offer me a chair. "I see you didn't receive my message yet. I asked my sister to pass it on."

"I haven't seen Mrs. Short this morning. Is everything all right?"

"We—the other staff and me—don't want you to continue with the investigation."

"Why not?"

"You said yourself there's no evidence Mr. Hardy was murdered. There doesn't seem any point in continuing."

"But you were so sure, Mrs. Turner."

"I no longer am."

She must have heard about my confrontation with the Whitchurches, and learned Mr. Hardy was indeed known to them, as she suspected, but they didn't have enough motive to kill him. "Were the Whitchurches here last night? Did Davey overhear them informing the Campbells of their innocence?"

"They weren't here and I haven't heard anything. I'm sorry for taking up your time for nothing, Miss Fox." She rounded the desk and used one of the keys on the bunch at her hip to unlock a metal box. "I can pay you a little for what you've done so far."

"No, please don't. I can't take any fee when there's been no outcome. Mrs. Turner, I don't understand why this sudden change of heart if you didn't know what I learned from the Whitchurches."

"If they're innocent, then it's clear I made a mistake, isn't it?" She moved past me and opened the door. "Thank you, Miss Fox, but I have work to do."

I was so stunned by her change of heart without giving a reason that I was halfway down the corridor before I remembered the tiepin and watch. "Mrs. Turner, I almost forgot." I strode back to her.

She scowled. "What is it?"

"You haven't asked me for Mr. Hardy's tiepin and watch."

"Oh. Of course." She put out her hand, brows arched expectantly.

"I, er, I'm afraid they've been stolen. I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Turner. I believe it was a pickpocket—"

"There are thieves everywhere in this city. Never mind, it can't be helped. There appears to be no next of kin anyway, so no one will miss them. Good day." She returned to her office and closed the door.

"Good day," I muttered.

I headed back along the corridor. As I passed the kitchen, I hesitated. Birdy had her back to me, and Mrs. Cook merely glanced up at me, nodded a greeting, then returned to her recipe book. Betty sat on a stool in the corner, cradling a cup of tea in both hands. She watched me over the rim with bloodshot eyes. She'd been crying again.

Outside, I began to walk away, but paused at the neighbor's house. This time, Harry didn't trot down the steps as though he was a favorite guest of Mrs. Danvers. Unlike me, he didn't come and go through the basement service entrance. The lady of the house welcomed him with smiles and refreshments, while I was treated abysmally by the Campbells when I'd met them.

Disappointment at not seeing Harry settled like a stone in my stomach.

That would not do.

I turned around and marched up the main steps of the Campbell residence and knocked on the front door. Davey opened it.

"Miss Fox! What are you doing up here?"

"Are Sir Ian and Lady Campbell at home?"

"They are, but are you sure you want me to announce you?"

"Yes. Actually, no. I'll announce myself."

He moved aside to let me pass. "She's in the sitting room at her writing bureau," he whispered. "I'll fetch Sir Ian."

Lady Campbell did not look up from the letter she was writing upon my entry. "Who is it, Davey?"

"Miss Cleopatra Fox, private detective," I said.

She spun around in the chair, her eyes wide. "You have a nerve coming here after the last time."

She wore a plain dress with a small bustle that was at least ten years out of date, and no jewelry to speak of. She wasn't expecting visitors or she would have dressed in her finest clothes. For a morning at home alone, she'd reverted to older outfits. It seemed Lady Campbell couldn't afford to have them altered to newer styles, and it was likely Mrs. Turner and Betty didn't have the skills required for such a complicated task. The Campbells couldn't afford highly skilled maids.

I heard Sir Ian's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs moments before he burst into the sitting room. Davey followed him in and remained by the door, standing quite still so as not to attract attention.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Ian demanded. "Davey, send for a constable."

"If you do that you won't know what I have to say," I said. "I think you'll want to answer my questions rather than Scotland Yard's."

"The Yard! What the devil?"

Lady Campbell stood and put out a hand to silence her husband. Her icy composure was on full display as she jutted her chin forward. "Is this about the butler's references again? You can't have them. That's his private information and his death doesn't change his need for privacy. When his next of kin are found, you can bring it up with them."

"I don't want to see them," I said. "I know you destroyed them."

Sir Ian's jowls wobbled with indignation, but his wife's reaction interested me more. Lady Campbell's gaze slid to her writing bureau where the other employee files were kept.

"You don't know a thing," Sir Ian spat.

"Protecting your friends is a commendable trait, sir. You shouldn't feel ashamed."

"I don't," he bit off.

Again, his wife put out her hand to silence him. "I'm sure the references are here somewhere, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to look. What does any of this have to do with your investigation into Hardy's death?"

"From natural causes," her husband felt compelled to remind me.

I ignored his comment and answered her question. "Lord Whitchurch told you, Sir Ian, that he recognized Hardy. He used to be known as Harding, a groom at their country estate who'd gone missing while in London, on the night their maid, Charlotte, was murdered."

None of that seemed to be news to either of them, so I assumed Sir Ian had informed his wife about it after Lord Whitchurch approached him.

"Charlotte was murdered by Rupert, who fled London that night. His escape was aided by Harding, but at the time he spoke to you, Lord Whitchurch didn't know that for certain. He hadn't seen Harding or Rupert in twenty-two years, and he wanted answers. Then Mr. Hardy died, and I came here asking to see his references after learning of a connection between Hardy and the Whitchurches. Is that when you decided to destroy his file?"

Sir Ian grunted. "We don't have to answer your questions."

I pushed on. "You believed you were protecting the Whitchurches, yet Mr. Hardy's references never mentioned that he worked there as their groom years ago under a different name. So why bother?"

Sir Ian wagged a finger at me. "Now see here, you are upsetting my wife."

Lady Campbell's jaw hardened. She'd given me an icy glare, but the one that now bored into her husband was positively venomous.

I suddenly realized I'd get more from her than him if I played my cards right. It meant placing pressure on what mattered to her. In this case, her friendship with the Whitchurches—and their money and influence—mattered more than her husband's pride.

"Did you destroy the references with or without the Whitchurches' knowledge?" I asked.

Sir Ian clicked his fingers at Davey. "Escort Miss Fox out."

Davey hesitated.

"Lady Campbell?" I pressed. "You can see how this looks for them."

Sir Ian clicked his fingers again. "Get out, Miss Fox!"

"Stop it," his wife hissed. "You're making it worse."

He fell silent and signaled for Davey to leave. The footman exited and closed the door behind him.

Lady Campbell drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Destroying the references was a mistake." She said it more to her husband than to me. "It makes them look guilty, when they're not. After Arthur—Lord Whitchurch—told Sir Ian about our butler's connection to the murder of the maid, I had luncheon with Lady Whitchurch. She told me everything. How Rupert killed the maid and his father had it covered up, how the girl was carrying Rupert's child and had tried to blackmail him into marrying her. He wasn't yet married at the time so it was possible, although it was never an option as far as the Whitchurches were concerned." She stretched out her neck and pursed her lips. It was obviously distasteful to her to even discuss it. "The upshot is, Rupert stabbed her in a moment of drunken rampage, not only taking her life and his baby's, but ruining his own life, too. It's horribly tragic. And all because of a pretty face who lifted her skirts for any man with deep pockets. Stupid, stupid man," she spat.

"Men," I said. "Charlotte was with the late Lord Whitchurch, too."

Sir Ian reached out to the nearest chair and sat down heavily. Lady Campbell clutched her throat. Perhaps I shouldn't have confided that information to them, but I was in no mood to be discreet anymore. Discretion didn't lead to clues. It seemed this discussion wasn't giving me new clues either. It had been worth trying, but it was time to bow out as gracefully as possible.

Lady Campbell pressed a hand to her narrow waist and drew in another breath. "Once she told me the story, I realized she and her husband were quite innocent in the entire affair, and that destroying Hardy's references after you came here asking for them was unnecessary, as they revealed nothing. When we spoke to you, Miss Fox, we didn't know the story. We thought we were protecting our friends."

Sir Ian got to his feet. "My wife's telling the truth. The Whitchurches have been kind to us. We thought we were repaying that kindness, but as it turns out, we needn't have bothered." He opened the door, taking Davey by surprise.

"One more question." I addressed Lady Campbell. "Do you, or did you, own a silver watch?"

She looked at her husband.

He removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Both it and the chain were gold, the case engraved with a crest. "This is mine. Why?"

"I came across one with Mr. Hardy's belongings. The case was plain, not engraved. It's not yours?"

"You can see that it's not."

I thanked them and left.

"Well?" Davey asked when we reached the front door. "Did you learn anything, Miss Fox?"

I sighed. "Not a thing." I was about to walk out, but stopped. "Davey, do you think Mrs. Turner is right to end my involvement? Or do you still think Mr. Hardy was poisoned?"

He scratched the side of his clean-shaven jaw. "Well, I've never seen a person die before that night, but I would have thought poisoning would show some signs."

"Not hyoscine."

"Then how can you know he was poisoned?"

"Without an autopsy, you can't. But the coroner won't perform an autopsy and look for hyoscine poisoning unless there is a suggestion of foul play. Which there no longer is. The Whitchurches had no reason to murder Mr. Hardy."

He gave me a flat smile. "At least Mrs. Turner can get on and not dwell or mope. I reckon she was half in love with him." A bell rang in the depths of the house, and he sighed. "Goodbye, Miss Fox."

"Goodbye, Davey. Good luck in your new position."

Speaking to the Campbells' servants reminded me that there were other servants who'd helped me understand the link between Mr. Hardy and the Whitchurches. They deserved to know the full story behind Charlotte's murder. I also had nothing else to do that morning, and if I didn't distract myself, I was in danger of wandering to Broadwick Street in Soho.

* * *

I pretendedto be interested in the tie display while Mr. Gannon finished serving a customer. Once he was free, he approached and pointed to a lovely blue silk tie.

"This color will look very fetching on him," he said.

"Who?" I asked idly.

"Mr. Armitage, of course. He could wear any color, really, and I'd wager he'd look just as dashing in a navvy's neckerchief." He smirked. "Perhaps more so. Shall I wrap the blue one up for you?"

"No, thank you. I wanted to let you know that your information about the former Lord Whitchurch's blood-stained jacket was helpful. We confronted the dowager and she admitted that her late husband tried to save Charlotte by keeping her warm, but it was too late. He then helped Rupert escape with the assistance of one of the grooms."

"One of the grooms? Must have been one of the lads from the country estate. I didn't get to know them. How intriguing. Thank you for coming here and telling me, Miss Fox. I've often thought back to my time there and poor Charlotte's murder. I know I should have spoken up about the bloody jacket, but I also know it wouldn't have gone well for me afterward. What would it have solved, anyway? Lord Whitchurch would see that the evidence was destroyed, then he would have ruined me. Besides, speaking up wouldn't have brought Charlotte back."

As much as it galled me that Mr. Gannon hadn't come forward at the time, he had a valid point. If he'd done the right thing, he'd have been dismissed without a reference, and all for nothing, as it was unlikely old Lord Whitchurch would have faced justice over his part in helping Rupert escape.

"What a family they turned out to be," he said with a shake of his head. "They had the seemingly perfect son in Rupert, but his actions could have destroyed their reputation if not for his father's intervention."

And his mother's continuing intervention over the years, I could have said. I did not tell Mr. Gannon about the dowager's letters from her son. With Rupert dead, it no longer mattered.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you to purchase the tie?" he asked when I made to leave. "They say the way to a man's heart is through his wardrobe."

I laughed. "I'm quite sure that's not the way."

"It is for me," he muttered.

"I have no interest in Mr. Armitage's heart anyway, so no thank you, although it is a nice tie. I'll return for my uncle's birthday and perhaps you can sell it to me then."

I left the shop and stopped to buy a box of chocolates from a confectioner's before catching an omnibus to Bloomsbury. I found Mrs. Hatch looking the same as she had on my last visit, propped up by pillows in bed in her room at The Female Servants Benevolent Society shelter. She was pleased to see me, particularly when I gave her the chocolates.

"How thoughtful of you, Miss Fox, although you needn't have. Your company is enough for me." She removed the box's lid and wiggled her fingers at the array of choices. She made a selection and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed as she hummed in pleasure. When she opened them again, she offered me one.

I declined and sat on the chair beside the bed. "I came to thank you for your assistance the other day. It was most helpful to learn that Arthur hadn't been in his room on the night of the murder. I was able to use that information to pressure the family into giving me answers, although it turns out that he wasn't involved in Charlotte's murder. His father, however, helped Rupert escape."

"And the dowager? She must have had something to do with it, surely."

"Why do you say that?"

"She's the type, that's all. It wouldn't surprise me if she instructed her husband. She was wily, that one. S'pose we'll never known the truth, especially with his lordship gone. She has no reason to admit it."

"I just thought I'd drop by and let you know that you helped me complete the picture of what occurred that night," I went on. "I appreciate your assistance."

"I would say it was my pleasure, but there's nothing pleasurable about murder, is there?" She shook her head and sighed. "I sometimes wonder where Charlotte would be now if she'd lived, but I always come to the same sad conclusion."

I suspected I'd regret asking, but I did anyway. "And what conclusion is that?"

"She would have given birth to several children by now, all by different fathers, and all adopted out because she couldn't, or wouldn't, take proper care of them." She set aside the box and picked up a framed photograph of a young woman dressed in a maid's outfit standing on some familiar-looking stairs. "Children are a gift, Miss Fox. Mr. Hatch and I only had the one daughter, but Betty is everything I could have wished for in a child."

Betty?

"May I have a closer look?" I asked.

She passed me the photograph, smiling proudly. "You can't tell from that, but she has lovely hair."

I stared at the girl's face, hardly believing the coincidence. Or was it a coincidence? I tried to think back to the previous conversation with Mrs. Hatch and couldn't recall mentioning the name of the Campbells to her. "Is this photograph taken at your daughter's first placement?"

"Yes, the Campbells of Mayfair. She has nothing to do with Sir Ian or Lady Campbell, but she likes the other staff and says the housekeeper is kind. She's very content there."

That wasn't the Betty I'd seen. The girl always looked like she'd been crying. "This picture wasn't here when I last called on you."

"I knocked it off the table and the frame broke. I placed the photograph in the drawer until Betty bought another. Isn't she pretty?"

"Yes," I murmured. She was even prettier in person, I could have added but did not. I didn't want Mrs. Hatch to know that her daughter worked in the house where I'd been investigating the death of the butler. I wasn't yet sure why I withheld that information. It might not be important.

I needed to think it through to decide if the connection mattered. Actually, I needed to talk it through with someone. And I knew just the person.