Chapter 14

Imay have been determined not to see Harry today, but circumstances had changed. I couldn't jeopardize the investigation based on my decision to put some distance between us. It would be wrong of me.

That's what I told the voice in my head that sounded remarkably like Harmony.

I stopped at the Roma Café before going up to Harry's office. Luigi signaled for me to wait while he finished serving a trio of women seated at one of the tables. Dressed in housemaids' uniforms, they spoke in rapid Italian until Luigi joined them, at which point they fell silent. The younger one smiled sweetly at him as he set down a cup of coffee in front of her.

When he walked away, the other two women gave the third girl teasing looks that made her blush.

Quite oblivious to the byplay, Luigi returned to his usual position behind the counter where the two elderly men sat on their stools, openly watching me as if I were an exhibit in the zoo. I ignored them. I was used to them staring by now.

"Will it be two coffees, Miss Fox, or would you like a cup of dirty water?" Luigi asked.

"Not tea, just coffees, please. I need something strong to get me through the day."

One of the elderly men withdrew a battered old flask from his inside jacket pocket and offered it to me.

"Grazie, but I'll just take the coffees as they come," I said.

Luigi reached for the pot warming on the stove behind him and poured coffee into two cups. "How's the detective business coming along?"

"All right, I suppose."

"That's what Harry says." He nodded at the ceiling, to indicate Harry's office, above. "You'd be busier if you joined together. Two heads are better than one, and you could cast your net wider."

"I used to think the same thing, but I'd rather work alone now."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

He looked past me to the women seated at the table. "It often is."

With my bag hooked over my arm and my parasol tucked under it, I headed upstairs to Harry's office, balancing one cup on the other to free a hand to open the door. The door was jerked open from the other side, however, causing me to lurch forward. Coffee would have spilled over the floor if Harry hadn't smoothly whisked the top cup off.

"That was close," he said, returning his hat to the stand.

"I see you prioritized rescuing the coffee over rescuing me." I nudged the door closed with my foot. "Nice to know what's most important to you."

"Don't be so tart. Coffee is important. Besides, you were my second priority, above both the parasol and the bag."

"A true gentleman."

He sat behind the desk and smiled into his cup. After a decent sip, he set it down. "I tried telephoning you this morning, but Uncle Alfred said he'd seen you leave. I thought you might come here, but that was over an hour ago."

"I wanted to return the tiepin and watch to Mrs. Hardy. You weren't required for that. As it turned out, I couldn't give them back. They were stolen."

"When?"

"After you and I parted yesterday. I bumped into a youth around the corner. He must have taken them from my bag."

Harry swore under his breath, then picked up his cup and finished his coffee. "I'll go there now," he said, rising. "If it's his usual haunt, he could be there again today."

"Sit down, Harry. You and I both know he won't return to the same corner."

He sat, but looked decidedly annoyed about staying put.

"Mrs. Turner no longer wants me to investigate," I went on. "She says there's no point."

"I suppose there isn't. The Whitchurches are probably innocent of Hardy's murder."

"She'd made up her mind before I told her that."

He arched his brows. "What reason did she give?"

"She said there's no proof it was murder."

"That didn't stop her from hiring you to begin with."

"I spoke to the Campbells, too," I said. "They admitted destroying Hardy's references. They thought they were protecting the Whitchurches."

"Congratulations on getting that much out of them. Very impressive. So…is that all? Are you leaving the investigation there, as Mrs. Turner suggested?"

I tapped my finger on the cup's handle and nibbled on my lower lip.

A crooked smirk cast him in a rather wicked light. "I didn't think so."

"There's no client anymore," I reminded him.

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"There's also no real evidence that a murder has occurred."

"Except your instinct is telling you otherwise. Isn't it?"

I didn't answer that. I wasn't sure whether my instincts were entirely trustworthy. "And there's almost no reason to think he was murdered now that we proved the Whitchurches had no motive."

"First of all, are we sure that's put to bed?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's why I telephoned you this morning. I was thinking after you left last night that we shouldn't believe the dowager's claims that Rupert died in New York. She could have been lying."

I shook my head. "She seemed genuine to me. A lot of what they told us was rather humiliating to admit, so why admit it if it wasn't true?"

"Even so, you should check."

"How? Send a telegram to each of the New York cemeteries and ask if a man named Rupert Whitchurch was buried there in the last two months? And what if he went by an assumed name? It's an impossible task, Harry."

"It'll be difficult, but involving Scotland Yard will speed up the process considerably. I thought you could approach Forrester."

Detective Sergeant Forrester was one of Harry's father's former colleagues at the Yard and had been helpful before. But this was an old case that had been brushed aside by his predecessors after the late Lord Whitchurch pressured them. I wasn't sure he'd get approval.

"He could telegram his counterparts in New York," Harry went on. "The former lead detective is deceased, as is Lord Whitchurch, and the dowager doesn't have the same influence as her husband. I doubt it will be buried this time. And don't you want to know for sure?"

"All right, I'll call at the Yard and speak to him, but I do genuinely believe the dowager when she says her son is dead. So, what's your second point?"

"You tell me, Cleo. You said ‘almost no reason to think he was murdered', which implies you believe there is still a reason to keep investigating."

"It may be nothing…"

"If it was nothing, you wouldn't have come here to discuss it with me." He leaned back in the chair with that wicked, crooked smile again. It was both annoying and devastatingly attractive at the same time. "Unless you made something up so you had an excuse to come here."

"Would you like me to confide in you or not?"

My heated response wiped the smile off his face. He put up his hands. "I'm all ears."

"After speaking to the Campbells, I called on Mr. Gannon and Mrs. Hatch to thank them for their assistance and tell them how their information had helped. Given they both knew Charlotte, I thought they'd want to know. Anyway, Mrs. Hatch had a photograph on her side table that wasn't there during our last visit. It was of her daughter, Betty, the Campbells' maid."

He drummed his fingers on the chair arm, frowning. "That's quite a coincidence, but it's possible the Campbells employed her because the Whitchurches recommended her as a favor to their former maid, Virginia Hatch, or Fryer, as she was known then."

"Mrs. Hatch hasn't been employed by them in years. Not only that, it's very unlikely they'd recommend someone who has never worked for them, even if she is related to a former member of staff."

"Perhaps Betty was inexpensive. You said yourself the Campbells don't have a lot of money."

It was a valid point, yet it still didn't explain the coincidence. "Why would the Whitchurches recommend her? And why are they making up a basket for Mrs. Hatch once a month?"

"Perhaps Lady Whitchurch is just nice."

"And why is Betty always in tears, or close to tears?" Now that I thought about it, that was odd. The first time, she could have still been in shock over Mr. Hardy's death. But the shock should have worn off. Tears like that implied more. It implied she was deeply saddened. Why would a housemaid be deeply saddened by the death of a butler much older than her, who she had only known for a month? "And don't forget Mrs. Turner's change of heart about me investigating."

Harry nodded slowly, beginning to agree. On their own, each piece of information wasn't suspicious. But lined up one beside the other, they pointed to guilt.

Harry gathered up our cups and rose. "We'll question Betty and Mrs. Turner together. You're not leaving me out this time."

"I wasn't planning to. It's why I came. Besides, a little masculine charm might be required. After all, except for Davey and Sir Ian, it's a household full of women, who think you're rather handsome."

He scowled at me, but didn't offer a quip in response. I'd found commenting on the reactions of women to his good looks and charm was often a way to silence him.

With a coffee cup in each hand, he held the door open for me. "Can you fish my key out of my top pocket?" He indicated his full hands.

Removing the key would bring me closer to him than I dared get. There may be layers of clothing between my fingers and his chest, but I knew without a doubt that it would be unwise to comply. I suspected he hoped the nearness would spark something in me, too, going by the way his eyes gleamed with mischief.

I took one of the cups. "Fish it out yourself."

I waited for him downstairs on the pavement and we returned the cups to Luigi. As we set off along Broadwick Street, Harry asked me if I'd made it home in good time the day before. "I assume you didn't get into trouble for being late, or you wouldn't be here now. Or did you sneak out of the hotel without Sir Ronald's knowledge?"

"I arrived home at a decent hour. Nobody minded," I lied. "Do you know, I haven't needed to sneak out in some time. It's rather dull being good."

"Let me know if you want me to liven things up for you."

I only had myself to blame for walking into that trap.

* * *

I wasn't terriblysurprised when Mrs. Turner refused to let us in to see Betty. I'd suspected she was thwarting my attempts to find answers after she'd canceled the investigation and now, when she told us that Betty was too busy, I was sure. The maid hadn't looked busy the last few times I'd called.

As Mrs. Turner began to close the door on us, I put my hand out to stop it. I hadn't wanted to ask my next question to the housekeeper at the front door, but she left me no choice. "Betty has a lover, doesn't she? At least, she used to."

"Whether she does or doesn't is none of your affair." Mrs. Turner tried to close the door again.

I pushed back on it. "It is our affair if her lover was Mr. Hardy."

Her jaw dropped before snapping shut again. "Don't be absurd!"

I let the matter rest. I'd warned Harry as we walked that she was going to try to block any further investigation into Mr. Hardy's death, so we'd formulated a plan. He now put it into action.

"Mrs. Turner, may we speak privately?" he asked. "This is nothing to do with the investigation. It's about the hotel where your sister works. I used to work there, too."

Her features softened at the mention of her sister. She opened the door wider for him to enter, then closed it in my face.

I waited several seconds before I cracked the door open and peered along the service corridor. It was empty. This next phase of the plan was the trickiest. I crept along the corridor until I reached the staff parlor. I peered around the doorway, but the parlor was empty. I continued on, knowing the kitchen would not be empty. Once again, I peered around the doorway. Mrs. Cook had her back to me as she worked at the stove.

Birdy, however, saw me. She smiled and waved.

Bloody hell. One word from her and the cook would turn around and alert Mrs. Turner. I put my finger to my lips and mouthed ‘Our secret'.

Birdy's grin widened. She put her finger to her lips, too, and nodded.

I continued on, up the steep, narrow service stairs, all the way to the top level. It was easy to identify the bedchamber belonging to Betty and Birdy. Where the rooms used by Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Cook were somewhat practical in their plainness, the girls had tied ribbons to the bedposts, and had collected feathers, shiny buttons and other pretty objects that took their fancy. My hunch was confirmed when I saw one of the photographs on the dressing table was of Mrs. Hatch and a man who must be her late husband.

My hopes of finding a diary or letters were dashed after a search of the dresser drawers, cupboard, and old suitcases above the cupboard. There were no mementos or photographs of Mr. Hardy, and nothing to indicate Betty had been given the maid's position because of her mother's connection to the Whitchurches.

Harry would be winding up his conversation with Mrs. Turner soon, so I searched the next logical hiding place—under the mattress of the bed the girls shared. Instead of paper, my fingers touched cool glass. I removed the small bottle and opened the stopper.

A vaguely familiar minty scent wafted out. I'd smelled the same odor mere weeks ago when I was investigating the murder of the polo player. I'd not known what it was then, but Harmony had.

I returned the stopper to the bottle and closed my fingers around the glass. It was small enough to fit in my palm.

I hoped to see Betty on the stairs as I headed down, but I met no one. Harry's deep voice could be heard quite clearly from Mrs. Turner's office as he spoke loudly for my sake. He was expounding on the virtues of employment at the hotel, telling her that any of her staff would be welcomed there if they found the Campbells no longer had any need of them. She interrupted him, telling him she already knew that from her sister, but he continued on as if she hadn't spoken, to draw out the conversation. He was doing his best to give me more time, but not even Harry could keep going much longer.

I ought to leave before Mrs. Turner realized what we were up to, but the glass bottle in my hand couldn't be ignored. Or, rather, its contents couldn't.

Betty wasn't in the kitchen, either, but this time, Mrs. Cook saw me. "Everything all right, Miss Fox? Are you looking for Mrs. Turner?" Not only did she not attempt to throw me out, but she was being agreeable. Mrs. Turner must not have told her that I was essentially banned from the investigation, and therefore the house.

I took full advantage of the miscommunication and entered the kitchen. It wasn't the cook I wanted to talk to, it was her assistant.

I smiled at Birdy. She smiled back, completely without guile. I felt a little guilty for asking her not to say anything earlier, and I was wondering how to make it up to her when she started to lightly clap her hands.

"That was a good secret," she said, grinning. "I like secrets."

Yes, she did. She'd told me on one of my visits that she knew a secret, but I'd dismissed her. I'd not taken her seriously, rather like a busy adult brushing off a child who wants to play. It had been rude of me. Even if I'd thought she could tell me nothing, I should have indulged her for the sake of making her smile. If she knew something important, I deserved the delay my carelessness had caused.

"Do you have a secret you'd like to share with me?" I asked her.

Mrs. Cook placed a hand on her hip and glared at her assistant. "Don't you go telling stories now, Birdy."

Birdy shook her head vigorously. "It's not a lie. I do know a secret. I know that Betty had a row with Mr. Hardy before he died." She placed her hands at her throat and made a choking noise. She finished the little act by sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and closing her eyes.

Mrs. Cook nudged her in the arm. "All right, that's enough of that. Have some respect for the dead. Tell Miss Fox about the argument. Where did it happen?"

Birdy pointed to the butler's office next to Mrs. Turner's near the end of the corridor. I'd half expected her to say it was in the courtyard outside. Mrs. Danvers' housekeeper had told Harry she'd overheard Mr. Hardy arguing with a man out there, but perhaps she was mistaken, and it was a woman.

"What did they argue about?" I asked.

Birdy shrugged, then glanced past me to the doorway.

I spun around, preparing an excuse for Mrs. Turner, but it wasn't the housekeeper who stood there, staring at us through swollen eyes rimmed red. It was Betty.

I took her hand lest she run off. "Just the person I wanted to see. Come with me into the parlor."

She allowed me to lead her to the staffroom. I closed the door that led to the kitchen and the second one that led to the corridor. "Will this take long? I have work to do."

"I just have a few questions." I opened my hand to reveal the bottle in my palm.

Tears filled her eyes.

"I found this oil of pennyroyal under your mattress. It's used to abort a pregnancy."

She sat on a chair and burst into tears.

I almost crouched before her, but if she were the killer, it was a vulnerable position to be in. Instead, I remained standing and kept my distance, ignoring my instinct to offer comfort. I passed her a handkerchief instead, then stepped back again.

"You're with child, aren't you?" I asked.

She buried her face in the handkerchief to smother her sobs.

"Given how upset you are, I assume the father is Mr. Hardy, and that you were in love with him."

She stopped sobbing and lowered the handkerchief. "No! Not him."

I wasn't entirely sure if she was lying or not. Her denial was vehement, but that could mean she was violently opposed to the idea of having intimate relations with Mr. Hardy, or it could simply be her eagerness to make me believe her lie.

"You were overheard arguing with him before his death. What did you argue about?"

"He guessed I was with child and blamed me. He said this is what happens to girls with loose morals. He demanded to know who the father was, but I refused to say. He got cross with me and called me all sorts of horrible names. But I didn't kill him, Miss Fox. I didn't!"

I set that line of questioning aside for now. I had others I wanted to ask and I was running out of time. "How did you come to be employed here?"

The abrupt change of subject ended her tears altogether and she blinked at me with damp lashes. "My mother heard about the position and suggested I apply."

"How did your mother hear about it?"

"I don't know."

"Have you met Lady Whitchurch?"

Yet another sudden subject change ended her tears completely. "No." She wiped my handkerchief across her eyes. "She sends a basket of food once a month to my mother in the shelter, but she doesn't deliver it herself."

"Do you know why she sends your mother a basket once a month?"

"She's kind."

"Your mother hasn't worked for the Whitchurches in years. Why would she send her food now?"

"I s'pose because my mother's spirits are low after her accident, and we're very poor. My wages aren't enough and if this baby stays in my belly…" Her face crumpled, but she didn't cry. "If you see my mother, Miss Fox, please don't tell her. She doesn't know. She'd be so angry with me for succumbing to temptation. She thinks fallen girls are sinners, you see. She won't understand."

"That you loved him?"

She looked down at the handkerchief scrunched in her fist.

"If the father isn't Mr. Hardy, who is it? Why doesn't he marry you?"

She lowered her head even further. "I haven't told him yet."

The door to the kitchen suddenly flew open and Mrs. Turner stormed in, wagging a finger at me. "I told you Betty was too busy to talk to you. Off with you, Miss Fox! Or I'll have Davey throw you out."

While I would have liked the opportunity to speak to Davey, I relented. Causing a scene that alerted the Campbells to my presence wouldn't help my cause. Besides, Harry looked at me apologetically over the top of Mrs. Turner's head, and I didn't want him to feel as though he'd failed. It was my fault for taking so long.

Mrs. Turner wagged her finger at him next. "I knew it was strange you informing me about the hotel's staffing policies when my sister could do it."

He attempted a smile, but it was too late. She was furious.

"Get out, the both of you! Go on! And you, Betty, get back to work."

As I passed her, I pressed the bottle into Mrs. Turner's palm. She would treat Betty kindly and advise her rather than blame her. Mrs. Turner frowned, but I didn't stay to see her reaction when she sniffed the contents. I hurried along the corridor, Harry at my heels.

"Well?" he asked me as we walked away from the house. "Was it worth it?"

"It was. I learned that Betty is pregnant and doesn't want to or can't keep the child."

"And Hardy's the father, which is why she's upset and can't keep it? There's no one to support her?"

I frowned as I shook my head. "She says he's not the father, and I think I believe her."

"Then who is it?"

"She didn't say, but I think it's Davey. I presume she's hopelessly in love with him, but he's leaving the Campbells' employ to work elsewhere."

"Meaning he isn't in love with her." He sighed. "Poor Betty."

Poor Betty indeed. "She had an argument with Mr. Hardy before his murder. She claims he was scolding her about her condition and demanding to know who the father is. She denied killing him out of anger, but…"

"You don't believe her?"

"It's a very strong motive. She grew up in a religious household with a mother who is vehemently opposed to men and women having relations outside of marriage. Mrs. Hatch condemned Charlotte for it, and might be equally cruel toward her own daughter if she knew. She might desert her at a time when Betty needs her most."

Harry turned to me, his face alight as an idea occurred to him. "What if Hardy threatened to tell Mrs. Hatch? He might think it was the right thing to do, but Betty knew it would destroy her relationship with her mother. Or worse, destroy Mrs. Hatch's love for her. That gives Betty an even stronger motive to silence him."

It did indeed. It would be another strong reason for her to consider getting rid of the baby.