Chapter 4

Harry gave me the bare bones of the case, as told to him by his father. "Twenty-five years ago, one of the Whitchurches' maids was found dead in the kitchen, stabbed through the heart."

"Were the Whitchurches suspects?" I asked.

"He refused to tell me more over the telephone." Caution edged Harry's tone. He, too, was concerned about a telephone operator listening in to our conversation. "He suggested we call on him tomorrow morning. I'll meet you at my office and we'll catch the train."

"Together?"

Even though I thought I spoke mildly and without undue concern, Harry's laughter drifted down the line. "Afraid of being alone with me now, Cleo?"

I was surprised that he confronted the cause of my awkwardness head-on. Perhaps the physical distance between us made it easier for him. It didn't make it easier for me. I attempted a laugh, too, but it sounded flat. "Not at all."

"What if I promise not to kiss you again?"

"Harry!"

"I'll take that as you not agreeing to the promise, which is good because I had no plan to keep it."

I hastily said goodbye and hung the receiver on its hook as I flapped my hand in front of my warm face. I regretted not bringing a fan with me.

I entered the large sitting room where the hotel's famous afternoon teas were served on the finest china by impeccably dressed waiters. Mr. Chapman looked up from his reservations book with a ready smile, but it vanished upon seeing me.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fox." It was politely said, if lacking the enthusiasm he reserved for guests and Bainbridges.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chapman. Oh look, we match." I indicated the pink rose tucked into his buttonhole with two green leaves still attached. They were the same shade as my dress.

"How delightful," he said blandly.

I joined Aunt Lilian and Flossy, seated alone at our regular table as our guests had not yet arrived. They chatted quietly to one another, although my aunt fidgeted with her napkin and her gaze darted around the room. Richard, the head waiter, swooped in and asked if I required anything while I waited. Neither my aunt nor cousin had any refreshments in front of them, so I declined, too.

Mr. Chapman signaled for Richard to join him. They spoke, then Mr. Chapman disappeared. He reappeared a few minutes later with a white carnation in place of the pink rose. I laughed to myself, not at all surprised.

"Why are you smiling like that, Cleo?" Aunt Lilian asked.

"Mr. Chapman changed his flower after I pointed out that his rose was the same color as my dress."

She looked to Mr. Chapman, once again manning the reservations desk, and spotted her friend, Mrs. Druitt-Poore, arriving with her two daughters. "Here they are!"

Just as they joined us, Mrs. Digby arrived with her daughter. The older women fell into the easy chatter of long-term friends catching up on the latest gossip, while the younger women passed along gossip about their peers. I knew some of the people they talked about, but not all. Even so, I listened intently. Gossip was an important currency in my work. One day the information they imparted today might be useful.

Neither they nor their mothers mentioned the names of anyone I was interested in for my current investigation, however. I waited until after the first round of tea and scones had been consumed before steering the conversation in a direction I wanted.

"What do you know about Sir Ian and Lady Campbell?"

The young ladies all looked at me blankly.

"Lord and Lady Whitchurch?"

More blank looks.

"Why?" asked Cora Druitt-Poore.

Before I could think of an innocent reason, Flossy turned to her mother's friends. "Cleo wants to know about the Campbells and Whitchurches. Is anyone familiar with them?"

Fortunately, they weren't as curious as to my reason for asking, but were quite keen to impart their knowledge.

"The Whitchurches keep to themselves," Mrs. Digby said. "There was a scandal many years ago, but I don't recall anything about it now." She looked at her friends. While Aunt Lilian shrugged, Mrs. Druitt-Poore picked up the explanation.

"It had something to do with the current Lord Whitchurch's older brother. He went missing. This was when their father was still alive, so the eldest was the heir at the time."

I leaned forward, eager to hear more. "Missing?"

"The eldest of the two brothers was quite unsuitable to be a viscount anyway, so I heard. He was a notorious troublemaker, and a drinker and gambler. The younger brother was the opposite—serious, quiet, and generally thought to be a good egg. He inherited the title when his father died, since the elder brother had been declared dead by the authorities by then, despite his body never being discovered."

It must be the younger son and his wife who were friends with the Campbells.

Aunt Lilian made a sudden and surprising announcement. "Lady Campbell is here now."

Everyone glanced around until she hissed at us not to.

"She's seated with three others by the potted palm near the library. She's the one dressed in black with the large amethyst brooch edged with diamonds and pearls. She used to come to afternoon tea here regularly, although I haven't seen her in some time."

I subtly glanced in Lady Campbell's direction. She was about the same age as my aunt, with gray hair that she tried to cover with a large, feathered hat. She was dressed elegantly, albeit entirely in black. Her clothes were a little out of date, too, although not unacceptably so. Women her age didn't always follow the latest fashion like Flossy and her friends.

"What do you know about her, Aunt?" I asked.

"We've never been properly introduced, so we've never spoken." She picked up her teacup. Noticing it tremble in her shaking hand, she used her other hand to steady it. "She keeps to herself and her small group of friends. They rarely attend social gatherings."

"The Whitchurches are the same," Mrs. Digby said. "I never see them out."

My aunt abruptly changed the conversation to a different topic, not giving her friends the opportunity to ask me why I was making inquiries about the Campbells and Whitchurches. She probably suspected I was investigating them and so made sure I didn't have to face questions I couldn't answer. She wanted to keep my detecting a secret just as much as my uncle did, even from her closest friends.

The rest of the afternoon continued slowly, until our guests departed along with most of the other ladies in the sitting room. Flossy and I waited as Aunt Lilian thanked Richard for his service to our table. Near the door, Mr. Chapman was attempting to get Lady Campbell's attention, but she hurried off without acknowledging him.

Mr. Chapman asked to have a word with my aunt as we left the sitting room. We couldn't overhear him, so Flossy asked what he wanted when Aunt Lilian rejoined us.

"Nothing that concerns you," she said.

"But wasn't it do with Lady Campbell, who Cleo was just asking about?"

"That doesn't give her, or you, the right to poke your nose into other people's affairs. Nobody likes a busybody, Florence."

Flossy stopped and stared at her mother's back as she strode off toward the lift. I clasped her hand and squeezed.

"Her tonic wore off some time ago," I said. "She must have a dreadful headache."

To prove my point, Aunt Lilian pressed her fingertips to her temple as she waited for the lift.

"I know," Flossy said heavily. "But it doesn't make it any easier to bear." She glanced over her shoulder to Mr. Chapman, farewelling a pair of guests. "If you think it might be important, you should ask him why he wanted to speak to Lady Campbell."

"I doubt he'll tell me. He might be a busybody himself, but he doesn't like me and will be disinclined to help. Besides, it's unlikely to have any bearing on my investigation." I squeezed her hand again. "Come on, let's go for a walk. I could do with some fresh air."

* * *

Several conversationsfrom the previous day still weighed on my mind when I met Harry the following morning in the café below his office. The one that weighed heaviest, however, was the one I'd had with Mrs. Short about Harmony. As we sat drinking coffee at the table by the window, I couldn't help bringing it up. Of all my friends, Harry would give the wisest and most honest answer.

"Should I stop having breakfast with Harmony each morning?"

He watched me over the rim of his cup, then set it down on the table without taking a sip. "Who suggested you should stop?"

I told him what Mrs. Short had said, including her comment that she'd refrain from forbidding Harmony, as a reward of sorts for investigating Mr. Hardy's death. "Is she right? Am I being cruel by giving Harmony false hope? The thing is," I went on before he could answer, "Harmony doesn't want my help, so she gains no advantage from our friendship. Mrs. Short is wrong about that." I felt pleased with my argument and looked expectantly at Harry.

He deflated my hopes with a shake of his head. "Mrs. Short's biggest concern isn't you giving Harmony false hope. It's what the other maids believe. If they think Harmony has an advantage by being friends with you, then they'll take their grievances to Mrs. Short. Mrs. Short will then have to do something about it. At best, she'll tell you to stop. At worst, she'll dismiss Harmony or take her concerns to Sir Ronald. Perhaps both."

He was right, but I wished he wasn't. "How did she find out, anyway?"

"You'll be surprised how quickly gossip is spread amongst the staff, particularly if it involves their employers."

"I'm not their employer."

"Your uncle is. Besides, you're pretty, young, unwed, and new to the hotel. What better fodder for gossip is there? If you want them to stop, don't do anything interesting and they'll turn their attention elsewhere."

I briefly toyed with the idea of encouraging Floyd to resume his hedonistic ways to provide a distraction, but dismissed it. I didn't want him thrown out of carriages in the middle of the night, drunk and miserable after losing at the gambling tables again. He still stayed out most evenings until very late anyway, attending private parties. He didn't give anyone a reason to stop gossiping about him.

"So, you do think I should end my breakfasts with Harmony?"

"No."

"But you just confirmed that Mrs. Short might be forced to act."

"And if she does act, I'm sure you'll manage to defuse the situation and smooth ruffled feathers, be they hers or Sir Ronald's. You're good at that, particularly where he's concerned."

I finished my coffee and said goodbye to Luigi, the proprietor, leaning against the counter as he flipped through an instruction manual for a new coffee maker. Harry said a few words in Italian to the two creased old men perched on their favorite stools. They both looked at me, gave a single nod, and muttered something back to Harry.

Outside, I commended him on the rapid improvement in his Italian. "You were very fluent and your vocabulary has already exceeded mine."

"Thank you. I've been practicing with them every day."

I waited for more, but he didn't elaborate. "What did you say to them?"

"It was just a little gossip to impart."

"About me?"

"Not everything is about you, Cleo."

"But they looked at me and nodded."

"That was their way of saying goodbye to you." Harry spied a cab pulling to the curb to let some passengers out. "Forget the train. This is more convenient."

He signaled to the driver to wait. When he reached the carriage, he put out his hand to me to assist me up to the cabin.

There's a way a gentleman holds a lady's hand to assist her. It's a light, impersonal touch, involving the fingers only. Harry held my hand as though we were courting.

He didn't let go until I was seated, then he climbed in and sat beside me. If he was aware that he'd held my hand intimately, he didn't show it. Although he did seem rather pleased with himself. He smiled at me as we set off.

"What is it?" I asked cautiously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm simply remembering the look on your face after our kiss."

Of all the things he could have said, I'd not expected that. I was so surprised that I gulped in a gasp of air, causing me to choke. Harry offered his handkerchief as my coughing fit subsided. I pushed it away.

"This is how you looked at first," he said. "Startled. Then you blushed the brightest red I've ever seen, then you ran off, but not before I saw how much you liked the kiss."

"I did not!"

"It's understandable. It was a very good kiss, if I do say so myself."

His cockiness almost had me laughing out loud. I covered it with a derisive snort. "We need to change the subject."

"Why?"

"Because we can't let it happen again."

"Can't we?" he asked idly. "Why not, if we both enjoyed it?"

"I didn't say I enjoyed it. You said I did." I smoothed my hands down my skirt, over my thighs. My palms felt sweaty within my gloves, and my collar too tight. "Before we visit your father, I ought to tell you about yesterday's afternoon tea."

"You might want to pretend the kiss never happened, but I'm not going to."

"Stop changing the subject."

"You changed it first, Cleo. Very well. We don't have to talk about the kiss or how you've been avoiding me ever since."

"I have not! I've been too busy to call on you. Besides, there hasn't been a reason to see you until now."

With a smile playing at his lips, he pressed a hand to his chest. "Ouch."

"If you don't stop, Harry, I'll continue this investigation alone."

He stopped.

I spent the next few minutes telling him what I'd heard and seen at afternoon tea the day before. When I'd finished, we traveled in silence to his parents' home in Ealing.

His mother greeted us at the door with a hug and a big smile for Harry. The smile she gave me was less enthusiastic and I received no hug, just a cool welcome that wasn't quite as frosty as her usual greetings. I hadn't called on the Hobarts often, but when I did, Mrs. Hobart always made it clear that she hadn't forgiven me for getting Harry dismissed from his position at the hotel. She was fiercely protective of him, as most mothers would be. Even though she only became his mother when he was thirteen, she was no less protective of him than a natural mother would be. She and D.I. Hobart were wonderful parents to their adopted son.

A moment of melancholy welled within me as I thought of my own parents, both killed in an accident when I was ten. I didn't think of them as much as a daughter ought to, and that only made the melancholy worse. I loved my parents, and they'd loved me, but their marriage had been volatile. My paternal grandparents, who'd taken me in, blamed my other grandparents for not accepting their son, placing a strain on the marriage from the outset. I used to believe that, too, but as I grew older and saw more marriages, both good and bad, I began to realize the truth was more complicated. My mother's family's rejection of my father certainly hadn't helped, though.

Harry touched my elbow. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you."

"If it's about the conversation in the cab on the way here, I'm sorry. I was just trying to clear the air. It was clumsy."

"It was."

"And a little childish."

"True, but it's all right."

He gave me a flat smile and indicated I should walk ahead of him into the parlor where his father rose from an armchair to greet us. D.I. Hobart—I still couldn't think of him as anything other than Detective Inspector, even though he was retired—shook my hand and indicated I should sit with a flap of the papers he held in his other hand.

"Good to see you again, Miss Fox. Harry tells me you have another murder to investigate."

Mrs. Hobart clicked her tongue. "Stephen," she chided. "You've forgotten your manners."

D.I. Hobart looked sheepish. "My apologies, Miss Fox. How have you been?"

Satisfied that the formality of exchanging pleasantries was being observed, Mrs. Hobart left.

The moment he gauged she was out of earshot, D.I. Hobart asked me to tell him everything about the investigation so far. He knew most of it, so I simply updated him on what I'd learned at afternoon tea.

As I finished, Mrs. Hobart bustled in carrying a tray. She poured tea and offered me a cup. While she didn't smile, she didn't scowl at me either. It was an improvement.

D.I. Hobart sipped his tea thoughtfully. "I'll get to the disappearance of the older Whitchurch brother in a moment, but first, I think you should find out why Chapman spoke to Lady Campbell. It may have no bearing on the case, but you never know what will lead to the unearthing of a clue." He pointed the teacup at me, then Harry. "Not that I need to tell either of you that."

"Did any of your cases for Scotland Yard involve hyoscine poisoning?" I asked.

"One, although there could have been others that I or my fellow detectives attributed to natural causes, just as yours has been. While a body can be tested for hyoscine, if no one suspects murder, the coroner won"t order a test. The symptoms don't obviously point to poisoning."

"It's a pity we can't dig up the body."

Both Harry and D.I. Hobart nodded.

Too late, I realized how unladylike I must sound to Mrs. Hobart. "I'm sorry," I said to her. "That was unfeeling of me."

"Don't mind me, Miss Fox. I've heard far worse in this very room."

Her husband chuckled. "Very true." He took a large gulp of his tea, then set the cup down. "Now, let me tell you what I know. Harry informed me yesterday that your investigation has a link to the Whitchurches, so I called on a former colleague. He and I were part of the team that investigated the murder of the Whitchurches' maid years ago. He still works at the Yard and was able to bring me the old case file."

He picked up the papers he'd been holding when we entered and placed them on the central table between us. Sensing we'd need more space, Mrs. Hobart cleared away the cups and saucers.

D.I. Hobart spread the papers out. "Twenty years ago, we were called out to Lord and Lady Whitchurch's home in Mayfair. That's the former Lord Whitchurch, now deceased, and his wife, the current dowager. A housemaid named Charlotte was found dead on the kitchen floor, a knife in her chest." He passed me the report detailing the observations of the lead investigator.

Seated beside me, Harry moved closer and read over my shoulder.

"Suspicion immediately fell on Rupert, the oldest son of the Whitchurches, the brother of the current Lord Whitchurch," D.I. Hobart went on. "Rupert was the heir. According to one of the other maids, Charlotte was having a liaison with him."

"Consensual?" Harry asked. "Or was he taking advantage of her?"

"The question was never asked, as far as I know. According to these files, the D.I. questioned the other maid." He handed me another piece of paper with the maid's statement. "What she does imply is that Charlotte was…spirited."

According to the statement, the maid's exact words were that Charlotte "wasn't a good girl" and that Rupert had "fallen for her pretty face and low morals."

"Rupert fled before he could be arrested," D.I. Hobart went on. "He vanished without a trace. Despite an extensive search, he was never found. His absence cemented his guilt in everyone's eyes. Innocent men don't run away."

"I assume the Whitchurch family denied Rupert's involvement," Harry said.

"Strenuously."

"They didn't try to influence the police investigation or end it prematurely?"

"I don't know. If they did, it didn't work. The case has remained open, and Rupert is still the main suspect." He passed me the lead detective's final report and pointed to the last line, which stated he was leaving the case open until such time as Rupert was found dead or alive.

"You all assumed Rupert was guilty?" I asked. "Nobody thought he could also be a victim?"

"The idea was briefly bandied about after the family suggested it, but dismissed. There wasn't enough blood for there to be a second victim. And why remove Rupert's body, but not Charlotte's? If it was kidnapping, why no ransom demand? It was generally assumed he fled after he realized he couldn't get away with it."

"He was supposed to inherit the title," I added. "It went to Rupert's younger brother after Rupert was officially declared deceased."

"Arthur, yes." D.I. Hobart showed me Arthur's brief statement, in which he claimed he was asleep all night in his room and didn't hear anything. He was twenty-two at the time.

"My sources tell me he is a better viscount than his brother would have been," I said. "Rupert was wild and irresponsible. Arthur is more serious."

Harry found a list of witnesses and scanned it twice. "Hardy's name isn't on here. There's a butler and two footmen, which seems appropriate for a Mayfair household, but none are named Hardy. The remaining witnesses are women, except for the former Lord Whitchurch and the current one, Arthur. So where does Hardy fit in?"

"A good question," D.I. Hobart said. "Perhaps he doesn't fit into the household at all." He turned to me. "Are your witnesses sure Hardy recognized the Whitchurches?"

I nodded. "The other staff mentioned he changed after hearing they were coming to dine. It was the first time they'd come in the month he'd been working at the Campbell residence. According to the footman, the Whitchurches recognized Hardy that night, too."

"It doesn't mean he has a link to the murder of Charlotte. There could be another reason they recognized each other."

I still thought the connection was worth pursuing. While it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that Mr. Hardy's death had nothing to do with the Whitchurches, I'd rather know for sure before I attributed it to coincidence. "If there's a chance that looking into Charlotte's murder might help us solve Hardy's, I want to delve into it further."

"It won't be easy, given the case is so old. Some of the witnesses will be difficult to locate. Some may have passed away. The D.I. in charge certainly has."

"I'd still like to try. I'll begin by finding out where Hardy worked before becoming the Campbells' butler. I'll call on Lady Campbell and ask to look at his references. Inspector, may I borrow this list of witnesses?"

We finished our tea and headed off, but not before Mrs. Hobart made Harry promise to come for dinner the following night. It was the most she'd spoken the entire duration of our visit.

"Your mother was quiet today," I said as we walked to the station. "Last time I came here she blamed me for ending your relationship with Miss Morris."

"I set her straight."

"Still, that can't be the reason why she didn't glare at me today, not even once. I doubt she's forgiven me for getting you dismissed from the hotel."

"I told her to be nice to you."

"Oh."

He frowned at me. "You sound disappointed."

"I hoped I could win her over by being me."

"You will eventually. You have time."

I frowned back at him. "Time before what happens?"

He looked ahead to the railway station. "We should hurry. I think I hear the train coming."

It was a dreadfully clumsy avoidance tactic, but I didn't press him for an answer. I had an inkling it would make me uncomfortable again.

When we arrived back in Mayfair, I wasn't sure what to do about Harry. We'd teamed up for most of our investigations in the past, so it seemed natural to do so again. He was a good sounding board. Indeed, he was a good partner. We worked well together.

But asking him to help this time felt different. We'd been at a crossroads for some time, where we were both friends and colleagues, but lately a third factor had been thrown into the mix and it was unbalancing everything. I didn't like being unbalanced.

There was only one thing to do. I stopped near the line of cabs waiting to collect passengers outside the station. "Goodbye, Harry. Thank you for your assistance."

The look of disappointment on his face almost had me changing my mind. He quickly regained his usual air of self-confidence, however. "I'm glad I could help. I'll see you…at some point."

"I'm sure you will." Before I could stop myself, I put out my hand.

He stared at it, and for a moment, I thought he'd take my hand, pull me against his body and kiss me again. It was an alarming thought, but not a terrible one. Indeed, it was very far from terrible. That made it even more alarming.

Instead, he shook my hand before striding off without another word.