Chapter 2

Iremoved the cork stopper and sniffed the bottle's contents. It smelled like ordinary bicarbonate of soda. "Why do you think the poison is in here?"

"Where else could it be? Mr. Hardy ate and drank the same as the rest of us and we're all well. The seltzer was beside his bed. He suffered from headaches, and a dose of the powder was the only thing that gave him relief."

I studied the bottle, but the label didn't list the ingredients. "Where do you keep the household poisons?"

"We don't have any. I refuse to have them in the house."

"Not even for mice control?"

"We don't get mice," she said snippily. "I run a tight, clean ship, Miss Fox."

I removed my notebook and pencil from my bag and flipped to a blank page. "Tell me about Mr. Hardy. How long had he worked here?"

"A month."

"And before that?"

"I don't know. He avoided answering questions about his past."

"Lady Campbell didn't tell you?"

"Why would she? It's none of my business."

"You mentioned Mr. Hardy's character changed after friends of Sir Ian and Lady Campbell came to dinner one evening. Was it the same dinner as the one during which he died?"

"No, it was earlier. Lord and Lady Whitchurch live not far away, although they also have an estate in the country. I forget where. No children, just his elderly mother who lives at the estate."

"What was their behavior like on the night they were served by Mr. Hardy?"

"I can't say for certain as I wasn't in the dining room. I did see them arriving and leaving, and all I can say is they seemed on good terms with the Campbells. It was all very cordial."

"But you said the footman noticed them looking oddly at Mr. Hardy."

"He did. You should speak to him before the Campbells return home. He'll be busy when they arrive, having to do Mr. Hardy's duties as well as his own now."

"I'd like to speak to the other staff, too."

"Of course."

"How much time passed between the two dinner parties, the one at which Lord and Lady Whitchurch were present and the one where Mr. Hardy died?"

"Only a few days."

"Tell me about the guests who were present at the fateful dinner."

"I don't think they're suspects. Both couples had seen Mr. Hardy on earlier occasions, and there was no change in their behavior before or his after those meetings. They were all very shocked when he collapsed. One of the ladies wouldn't stop screaming."

She gave me their names, although her account convinced me they were unlikely to be involved in the butler's demise.

Mrs. Turner led the way back along the corridor to the kitchen and adjoining staff room. She introduced me to the footman, maid, the cook, known simply as Mrs. Cook, and her assistant, a quiet girl of about fifteen who Mrs. Cook bluntly stated was simple and unable to answer any questions.

"I'm also unable to answer your questions," she went on.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know anything, do I?" She picked up a large knife and sliced through a potato with more aggression than the humble vegetable deserved. "I knew nothing about Mr. Hardy or the dinner guests." She pointed the knife at the ceiling. "They all ate the same thing upstairs, and we ate the same thing, too, well beforehand, so it wasn't my food that done him in."

"You believe he was poisoned, too?"

"I suppose he must have been. He was hale and hearty, but he wasn't himself lately. Not ill, just…different. Almost like he was thinking something through, ever since the night of that dinner party with the Whitchurches." She scooped up potato pieces and placed them into a large pot. "Fill this with water, Birdy, and place it on the range."

The footman snatched a slice of uncooked carrot from the pot before the assistant, Birdy, removed it. He winked at her and she giggled.

"Leave the girl alone, Davey," Mrs. Cook chided.

Davey popped the carrot into his mouth. "You'll want to question me, Miss Fox. I was in the dining room the night Mr. Hardy died. He fell right into me, and I was carrying the soup tureen. Made a real mess, it did. All over the carpet. Betty here can't get the stain out, can you, Bet?"

The maid named Betty shook her head without looking up from her feet.

"Did he clutch his chest or throat before he fell?" I asked. "Did he vomit?"

Betty gulped loudly, then covered her mouth and ran from the room.

Mrs. Turner clicked her tongue. "Sensitive girl. Go on, Davey, answer Miss Fox."

Davey scratched the side of his face where many young men his age grew sideburns. As with most household footmen and butlers, however, he was clean-shaven. He was tall and quite good-looking, which seemed to be other features common amongst footmen. "His face went a little red just before he collapsed," Davey went on. "He seemed confused, too, like he didn't know where he was. But it was over in a blink. Then he just crumpled to the floor and sort of shook all over before going still."

"Did the seizure last long?"

Davey shrugged. "I'm not sure. One of the ladies started screaming, the men were shouting at each other and me, the soup was all over the carpet…it was chaotic."

I jotted notes in my book. I wasn't very familiar with the symptoms of different poisons, but disorientation and seizures were certainly symptoms of some, but could also point to natural causes, too. "How well did you know Mr. Hardy, Davey?"

"Not at all. He gave the orders and I followed them. We never discussed anything other than work, but I liked him. He didn't often get cross, unlike the butler before him." He pulled a face.

Mrs. Cook pointed her knife at him. "That's not true. I heard you two arguing in his office. The day before he died, it would have been."

"We weren't arguing. He was scolding me." Davey rolled his eyes. "I lost a button. He found it and gave me a talking-to about how I had to maintain standards, that my missing button was a poor reflection on Sir Ian and Lady Campbell and that I needed to do better in future. It was the only time he scolded me. Most of the time we got along fine."

Being scolded for a missing button sounded a little excessive to me. I tried to imagine Mr. Hobart getting cross with one of the porters for poor presentation, but couldn't. He would take them aside and tell them quietly to fix their attire at the earliest opportunity. He wouldn't raise his voice. Mr. Chapman, on the other hand, would certainly have stern words with his waiters in front of the other staff, so perhaps Mr. Hardy's scolding wasn't all that unusual, after all.

"Tell me about the night Lord and Lady Whitchurch dined here," I said to Davey. "Did you notice Mr. Hardy acting oddly after meeting them?"

"Before."

"Pardon?"

"He started acting strangely before meeting them. I don't know how long before, but it was definitely before. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me to mind my own business. Then when they came, he seemed tense. He always acted stiff when speaking to Sir Ian and Lady Campbell, but that night he was stiffer, not making eye contact with anyone. But they couldn't stop staring at him. Both Lord and Lady Whitchurch seemed to recognize him, but I reckon they couldn't place him. They kept frowning as if they were searching their memories."

"Did they speak to him?"

"No."

Betty re-entered the kitchen. She looked pale, drawn, and Mrs. Turner ordered her to sit on the stool in the corner. She signaled to the young cook's assistant, Birdy, to make her a cup of tea.

"Buck up, Child," Mrs. Turner chided. "You've got floors to scrub."

Betty nodded quickly. "Yes, Mrs. Turner. I'll be all right. It was thinking about poor Mr. Hardy that made my stomach turn. I can't believe he's gone." She pressed a hand to her middle, but fortunately didn't need to rush off again. "Why would that lord and lady poison him?"

"We don't know if they did," I assured her.

"But Miss Fox will find out," Davey said brightly. "I have a feeling she's very thorough." He winked at me.

"According to Mr. Hardy, someone entered his room on the day of his death," I went on. "Did any of you go into his room and move his things?"

They all shook their heads. Mrs. Cook and Mrs. Turner protested vehemently. "It wasn't any of the staff," Mrs. Turner said. "None have permission to enter Mr. Hardy's room. He cleans it himself."

I refrained from telling them that not having permission wouldn't stop anyone. Not even locked doors could. "Did any of you see someone else that day who shouldn't be in the house?"

They all shook their heads.

I closed my notebook and slipped it back into my bag. "Thank you. Mrs. Turner, I'd like to see the dining room before Sir Ian and Lady Campbell return, then I'd like to look around Mr. Hardy's office and bedchamber, please."

She marched toward the door. "Follow me, Miss Fox."

The dining room was a sumptuous statement of the Campbells' wealth. Masterful artwork in gilded frames decorated the deep red walls, and tall silver candlesticks stood proudly on the black marble mantelpiece. The large table and sideboard were polished to a sheen, and the velvet-covered chairs looked comfortable for a long evening chatting with friends. The only thing missing from the scene was the rug, which Mrs. Turner informed me had been thrown away since it couldn't be cleaned. They were waiting for a new one, which Lady Campbell was yet to purchase.

There was nothing more to see, so we headed up the stairs to the servants' quarters, housed on the top floor. The butler's bedroom contained a single bed, dresser, wardrobe, and a chair positioned by the window.

"It's as he left it, except for the seltzer bottle," Mrs. Turner said. "He was a neat and tidy man, with never so much as a loose button." She pointed to the bedside table with the lamp and a copy of an old Sherlock Holmes mystery. "That's where the seltzer salts bottle was kept."

I ran my hands over the bedspread then checked under the mattress, inside the pillow slip and other places for hidden objects, all under the frowning gaze of Mrs. Turner. She remained by the door, however, and didn't say a word as I moved to the dresser. Finding nothing of note, I opened the cupboard door. To see the highest shelf, I stood on the chair. Tucked into the corner was a sturdy metal box, the sort used to keep money or valuables. The padlock was still in place, locked, but the lid had been pried open. Whatever tool had forced it had scratched and dented the metal. I lifted the lid. The box was empty.

I showed it to Mrs. Turner. "Do you know what he stored in here?"

She shook her head.

I returned the box and checked the rest of the cupboard. Mr. Hardy kept a selection of neatly pressed suits, two pairs of polished shoes and a woolen coat. Other items were conspicuous by their absence. "Where are his underthings?"

"When my sister told me you were a young unwed lady, I removed them. Your virtue must be protected."

My virtue wouldn't be lost by seeing a man's underclothes, but I bit my tongue. I checked the jacket and coat pockets, then inside the shoes. My fingers touched cool metal near the toe.

I removed a fine silver watch. It was very shiny and there wasn't a scratch on it. I held it up by its chain to show Mrs. Turner. Like me, she knew immediately it was a quality timepiece of the sort a wealthy gentleman would wear, not a butler.

"Where did he get that?" she murmured.

I checked the case, inside and out, but there were no initials or other way of telling whether Mr. Hardy owned it or had stolen it. "You've never seen him wear it?"

"No."

"It doesn't belong to Sir Ian?"

"No! Mr. Hardy wasn't a thief, Miss Fox. I hadn't known him long, but he struck me as a fine fellow of good moral fiber."

I didn't point out that if he'd come by it using legitimate means, he wouldn't have kept it in his shoe. The question was, why in his shoe and not the metal box? Unable to think of a good reason, I placed it back into the shoe only to discover another object tucked into the toe.

I removed it and laid it flat on my palm. It was a gold gentleman's tiepin shaped like a sword with small diamonds inlaid into the pommel and a sapphire the size of my smallest fingernail in the center. I didn't bother to ask Mrs. Turner if she'd seen it before. I knew by the shocked look on her face that she hadn't, and that she was as confused as me as to why Mr. Hardy had it and why he kept it in his shoe. I returned it along with the watch to its hiding place.

"Did he have family?" I asked.

"I don't know. I didn't find any correspondence when I came in here after he died. Lady Campbell will have his details in her writing bureau listing his next of kin."

"The day of his death, when he told you his things had been moved, did he mention which things?"

"The bottle, his pillow, some items in the top drawer of the bedside table. His bedcovers were wrinkled, too. He couldn't abide wrinkles."

I smoothed my hand over the bedcover when searching. If the intruder had left wrinkles, it would seem they'd been searching for something, too. The question was, what? And had they found it in the metal box?

"I'd like to see his office next, please, Mrs. Turner."

She locked the butler's bedchamber door and led the way downstairs to the basement. She was in the process of unlocking the butler's office when Davey the footman hurried past, adjusting his collar as he went.

"They just arrived home," he said over his shoulder before disappearing up the stairs. "Nice meeting you, Miss Fox. Pity we can't chat longer."

I waited until he was out of earshot before I asked Mrs. Turner my next question. "Will he be made butler now?"

She opened the door and indicated I should go ahead of her. "It's unlikely. He doesn't have the experience or the…how shall I put it? There's a foreign sounding word that starts with g…"

"Gravitas?"

"That's it. Mr. Hardy had gravitas. He was the perfect butler. Very knowledgeable, discreet and calm in a crisis. We all liked him." A shadow passed across her face before she cleared her throat and shook it off. "I once asked him if he'd worked in a grander place than this one in his last employment, but he didn't answer me. I could hazard a guess, though."

"Please do."

"I'd say he worked in the country, in one of those manors where they have large dinner parties and house parties that last for weeks. I could picture him butlering in one of those places with dozens of staff under him." The shadow returned. At the very least, she'd admired him. I wondered if there'd been more than admiration between them, hence her decision to investigate his death.

I scanned the contents of the desk. "The Campbells don't have a country property?"

"No. Sir Ian's father lost it some years ago."

She made it sound like he'd merely misplaced the estate. "How unfortunate."

"Quite."

"Are there any more staff here?"

"Just the five of us, now that Mr. Hardy's gone."

It didn't seem like many to me, but I wasn't an expert on the service requirements of Mayfair households.

Mrs. Turner unlocked the silver cabinet and watched me like a hawk as I looked through it, making sure I didn't tuck a napkin ring up my sleeve before leaving. She also unlocked the sideboard cupboard where the liquor was kept. There weren't many bottles inside, but I wasn't sure how much wine and spirits a butler usually kept close to hand and how much was stored in the cellar.

The desk drawers contained nothing out of the ordinary, just the most current ledger listing household expenses, a box of receipts, and spare stationery.

When I completed my search, Mrs. Turner followed me out of the office and locked the door. "Well? What are your thoughts?"

"It's difficult to say. There's very little evidence that he was murdered."

Her top lip twitched. "My sister tells me you're very good at solving murders. She doesn't offer praise lightly, so I'm inclined to believe her. If you think no crime has been committed, well, that will suffice, too."

"Suffice?"

"The staff are unsettled, particularly Betty. She's anxious and upset. Davey, too, despite outward appearances. He says he's going to leave, that he doesn't feel safe here anymore. I don't want either of them to go. It's hard to find good staff. So either find the killer, Miss Fox, or find out for certain that Mr. Hardy died of natural causes. Either result will assuage their fears."

"I'll do my best." I looked to the stairs. "I'd like to talk to Sir Ian and Lady Campbell. Can you announce me, please?"

For a woman who'd shown a limited range of emotions so far, she became positively animated with disapproval. "No, Miss Fox, I cannot just announce you."

"Why not?"

"You've not been invited."

"But I'm investigating the death of their butler in their own house."

"They don't believe a crime has been committed. They won't talk to you."

I huffed out a frustrated breath and once again glanced at the service staircase that led to the upper floors. It felt as though I'd asked to be let into Heaven without going through due process at the gates. "Very well. Try to convince them. If you do, contact me at the hotel at any time, either by telephone or in writing. A message will reach me."

"I will try my best, but I cannot be sure that Sir Ian or Lady Campbell will agree to a meeting." She glanced up the stairs and leaned closer to me. "It would be quite awful for them if the investigation into Mr. Hardy's death was reopened."

"I understand. But do try."

She escorted me to the front door of the service area. As we passed the kitchen, I spotted Mrs. Cook standing with hands on her hips as she studied a recipe book, while Birdy licked a wooden spoon behind her back. Betty the maid sat hunched over her sewing at the table again, a cup of tea within arm's reach. She looked up as we passed. The tea had done little to return the color to her cheeks.

I thanked Mrs. Turner at the door, then climbed the steps to the pavement. I was just adjusting my hat and gloves when a familiar voice greeted me.

"If it isn't the greatest female sleuth in the city. Nay, the country. Perhaps even the world!"

My heart leapt into my throat, but I knew if I hesitated, it would open a crack through which all the emotions I'd bottled up over the last two weeks could escape. And I did not want him to see that the kiss had rattled me. "You mean greatest sleuth, female or otherwise. Hello, Harry. How have you been?"

"Fine, although I could be dead for all you care."

"I would have heard if you were. Don't worry, I'd have come to your funeral and cried."

"Sobbing or merely a few silent tears slipping down your cheeks?"

"The latter. I'm an ugly sobber. Besides, silent tears are both beautiful and intriguing."

He grinned. "It's good to see you."

"And you." I hadn't realized how much I'd missed his company until seeing him standing there on the steps of the neighbor's townhouse, looking like he belonged here, in one of the city's most exclusive streets. It was that innate confidence he had, the effortless charisma, that made him fit in everywhere. The handsome face and broad shoulders helped, of course.

He joined me on the pavement. "What are you doing here?"

I nodded at the Campbells' front door. "The butler died. It was deemed natural causes, but the housekeeper has her doubts. She thinks he was poisoned. She mentioned her doubts to her sister, who happens to be the hotel's housekeeper, and she suggested I look into it."

"Are they paying you?"

"Yes." I didn't mention it wasn't much. I wasn't sure why.

We both started walking without either of us suggesting we continue on. It seemed we needed to go in the same direction, so it made sense to walk together. To avoid a small puddle, I stepped to the side, bumping him. I quickly put distance between us again. To distract from my reddening face, I tugged on the hem of my waistcoat, smoothed the fabric over my middle, then touched my hat to ensure it was still in place.

Harry laughed softly. He seemed quite unaffected by our meeting after more than two weeks without a word passing between us. Whereas I couldn't look at him without thinking of the kiss we'd shared last time, he was his usual unruffled self. It was annoying, not to mention a little deflating. While I'd purposely avoided him, it hadn't been easy. I'd told myself it was the right thing to do, the best thing, despite going against my instincts. He, on the other hand, seemed to take it in his stride. I supposed he was more experienced at kissing than me, but it would have been nice if he felt as tortured as I did about what to do next.

"Tell me about your investigation," he said. "If you want to, that is. I won't help you unless you ask."

"Why wouldn't I want your help? Your insights are valuable."

"Then it'll be my pleasure to be a sounding board for the world's greatest detective, female or otherwise."

I would have jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow if I wasn't afraid of getting too close to him again. I entered into comfortably familiar territory by telling him what I'd learned so far about Mr. Hardy's demise, and why Mrs. Turner thought he'd been murdered.

He listened without interruption and didn't respond immediately. We'd come to an intersection and needed to cross the street. The sweeper spotted us and, sensing a tip, hurriedly cleared away the horse manure to create a wide enough path for us. The lad doffed his cap as we passed and Harry dropped a coin into it.

"Have a good day, sir, miss."

On the other side of the street, we continued walking in the direction of the hotel. It was a warm day and I was a little thirsty, which probably meant Harry was, too. Should I invite him in? Would he accept, given my uncle had vowed that Harry could never step foot in the hotel again? Where would we go if he did accept?

"The evidence for murder is flimsy," Harry finally said.

"I'm inclined to believe it was natural causes, after all, and the housekeeper says she'll be satisfied with that verdict. She wants to assuage the fears of the rest of the staff, either by catching a murderer or assuring them no murder took place."

"They'll be suspects if it was murder."

I proceeded to give him my opinion of each member of staff, even though he hadn't asked. It seemed natural to confide in him.

By the time I finished, we were on Piccadilly, almost at the hotel. I realized there was something I hadn't asked him yet. "Why were you calling on the Campbells' neighbor?"

"I had a telephone call from the occupant this morning. She's a regular client who asks me to investigate one thing or another from time to time. That was my fifth visit to her house."

"Fifth! Either she lives in a house riddled with crime, in which case you're not doing your job properly, or she simply wants to spend time in your company. A merry widow, is she?"

He grinned. "She is a widow, as it happens, and is also good company. I like her very much."

"Do you?" I murmured. I wished I hadn't brought it up. "And what reason did she give for hiring you for the fifth time?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his lips tilt with his smile. "Her housekeeper thought she heard a noise in the kitchen."

"How strange that a large house filled with servants should have noises coming from the kitchen," I said wryly.

"There are no other servants. Just the housekeeper. She and my client were in the sitting room at the time."

"Did your client hear the noise, too?"

"She's hard of hearing, so no, but she gets anxious if her housekeeper is concerned. She's eighty, you see, and her housekeeper is not much younger."

"Eighty!" I blurted out. "Ohhhhh. So she just wants to have tea with you."

"Probably." His lips twitched again. "Why? What did you think she wanted?"

"To, er, ask you to reach things on high shelves."

He laughed. "That and drinking tea have become my main tasks when I call on them. I no longer charge Mrs. Danvers a fee after the last time when I discovered her cat lapping up milk spilled from a bottle it had knocked off the table. The time before that, she tasked me with finding her missing jewelry. I found the necklace under the bed and the earrings in the bathroom. The housekeeper thinks Mrs. Danvers is losing her memory."

"The poor dear. It must have been upsetting when she thought she'd lost valuable jewels."

"They were paste. I gather she has sold off everything of value over the years. I think she and the housekeeper were more fearful of an intruder being inside. I checked all the doors and windows and assured them they would keep thieves out as long as they remembered to lock them at night."

It was good of him to take extra precautions, as well as not charge a lady in reduced circumstances for a false alarm.

He stopped before reaching the hotel. "I'll cross the road here." He paused. "Cleo…" He released a breath and shook his head. "Good luck with your investigation." He gave me a flat smile, touched the brim of his hat, and looked down Piccadilly for a gap in the oncoming traffic.

"Wait!"

He turned suddenly. "Yes?"

I removed the seltzer salts bottle from my bag. "You've got a knack for sciences, perhaps you'll know the answer to this. Do poisons all have a distinctive smell? Or do some have no smell at all?" I removed the cork stopper and held it out.

"Some have no smell or taste, so my reading of detective fiction tells me. I don't know which ones." He sniffed the bottle's contents. "It smells like bicarbonate of soda."

I replaced the stopper. "I'll take it to a pharmacist and see what he has to say."

"I may have a better idea. When my father left Scotland Yard, I met a fellow at his farewell party who works at St. Mary's Hospital. My father and his team sometimes took their medical questions to him. He should have the right chemicals on hand to test the seltzer salts for poisons."

"Is he a doctor?"

"More of a scientist. His specialty is dead people, not living ones." He put out his hand. "I'll take it to him now."

"We both will."

"Are you sure you won't be missed?" He glanced at the hotel where Frank was opening the door of one of the hotel's carriages as Goliath retrieved luggage from the back.

"I'm sure. I have nothing scheduled until afternoon tea."

"And if your family looks for you before then?"

"I'll tell them the truth. My uncle doesn't mind my sleuthing now, as long as it doesn't interrupt my social engagements and nobody finds out."

"I was worried Sir Ronald had changed his mind. He tends to do that."

I couldn't deny that my uncle could be fickle. For now, he had given his approval, and I wasn't about to let him forget it.

Cobbit, the coachman, spotted us and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. The acknowledgement wasn't for my benefit, I was sure of it. Harry had helped Cobbit and the other mews staff keep their jobs when they threatened to go on strike over the stabling of a guest's automobile. Harry had suggested a compromise that suited them and Uncle Ronald. Although, if my uncle had known at the time that Harry had a hand in negotiations, he might have dug his heels in. He wasn't prepared to forgive Harry for lying about his past, even though Harry had been one of his best employees and losing him had interrupted the smooth running of the hotel.

Uncle Ronald was a stubborn man, and I feared he'd never forgive Harry. He might be allowing me to investigate alongside him, but I suspected that was only because he thought Harry was still courting Miss Morris. If he knew their relationship was over, he'd forbid our acquaintance for fear we'd develop feelings for one another.

That's why I was determined he should never know.