Chapter 6

Mr. Chapman and I didn't get along and never had. He was a busybody who listened at doors. Perhaps he'd learned that I was also a busybody who listened at doors, but at least I'd given him a chance at the beginning of our acquaintance. He'd looked down his nose at me ever since my arrival at the hotel.

I'd thought his attitude toward me would soften after I didn't tell anyone that he had intimate relations with men, but it appeared it hadn't. Perhaps it was time to remind him that I knew something about him that would damage his reputation and get him thrown into prison.

"I thought you and I had an understanding, Mr. Chapman."

His eyes widened with alarm. "Are you threatening to tell Sir Ronald about me if I tell him about this?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all. Your secret is safe with me and always will be, no matter what you say about me to him. But I thought you'd be more inclined to forgive this since I've not told a soul."

He passed a hand over his mouth and jaw. When it came away, he was visibly more relaxed. "What else am I supposed to do, Miss Fox? You clearly have no regard for my privacy. Would asking you not to break in have made a difference?"

"I didn't break in. The door was unlocked."

He gave me an icy glare.

"I do have regard for your privacy, Mr. Chapman. I simply came in here to find out why you wanted to speak to Lady Campbell at afternoon tea."

"You could have asked."

I waited. When he did not go on, I said, "I'm asking now."

"I can't tell you. It's hotel business."

I sucked in a breath in an attempt to ease my frustration. It didn't work. "I am a member of the Bainbridge family and therefore as much a part of the hotel as my aunt. You can tell me since you told her."

"You have no authority here."

He would never give in, out of sheer spite and stubbornness. Unless I offered him something in return, something that would help him make a good impression on one of our best guests and therefore my uncle. "I spoke to Miss Hessing at the ball tonight. She gave me a friendly warning about her mother's plans for the wedding. Unfortunately, she doesn't think we're capable of putting on a reception grand enough, so she's considering the Savoy."

"Not grand enough!" He planted his hands on his hips and paced the floor, shaking his head. He suddenly stopped in front of me. "Is this because of the engagement party? It wasn't my fault the flowers she wanted couldn't be delivered on time, and the electrical wiring caught fire. The event was tasteful and elegant, which is more than I can say for Mrs. Hessing."

I was regretting bringing it up now. "I think that's the entire point. Mrs. Hessing wants the wedding to be…grand."

"You mean she wants it to be vulgar, like her. Well, I won't do it. She's not getting married anyway, her daughter is, and Miss Hessing has better taste than her mother."

"Mrs. Hessing is the one paying for it."

He didn't seem to hear me as he started pacing again. "I have an excellent reputation. I've organized over a dozen balls and countless exclusive dinners for the Mayfair, and they've all been a success." He stopped and wagged a finger at me. "This is about the restaurant opening, isn't it? Mrs. Hessing wants an ostentatious display akin to that ridiculous spectacle."

"The opening dinner was the talk of London and will be remembered for years. So, yes, I think that's what she wants."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "She can't have it. That was Mr. Bainbridge's style, not mine. Not that he did any of the arrangements, mind. It was all that upstart maid, getting above herself. Another one who wouldn't know a fish fork from a dessert fork."

I suspected he was referring to me as the other. In the household I was raised in, we only had one style of fork and it wasn't made of silver. "Miss Cotton did an excellent job. Not a single thing went wrong."

He bristled. "I told you, the problems with the engagement dinner were not my fault."

They were, but I wasn't going to tell him that. He was riled up enough as it was, and I had no interest in letting the argument continue. I left his office and headed upstairs to my suite. It took me some time before I'd calmed down enough to fall asleep.

* * *

My usual breakfasthad to serve three the following morning. It helped that Victor had stopped in at the kitchen on his way and added more toast and eggs to the tray. He sat beside Harmony at the table in my sitting room and gave his report while spreading butter on his toast. It was very brief.

"We didn't find any records for the butler. We found the references for the other staff in Lady Campbell's writing bureau, but nothing for Hardy."

"If the others were there, it means his have been destroyed." I frowned as something he said sank in. "‘We?' Did you go with him, Harmony?"

They glanced at each, giving me my answer.

"You invited Harry along, didn't you?"

"It was my idea," Harmony said. "Victor wouldn't let me go with him, and I didn't want him going alone. Frank's right: Goliath is too tall for clandestine activities, and Frank himself isn't suited, nor is Peter. It requires someone competent, with iron nerves. It could really only be Harry."

Victor gave me a shrug, as if to ask why it mattered.

I supposed it didn't. Harry wouldn't have minded.

But given I'd been resolved not to ask him for further assistance with the case so as not to complicate our relationship even more, I wasn't sure it was wise to involve him again. Even so, he'd helped me and I ought to thank him. It was the least I could do.

Or so I told myself.

Before heading to the Whitchurches' house, I walked to Soho. I paused outside the Roma Café, but decided against taking coffees up to Harry's office. I didn't plan on staying long.

Out of habit, I entered without knocking. He sat behind the desk, one of Luigi's small coffee cups cradled in one hand, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He sat side-on to the desk with his legs stretched out, staring at the wall. I felt sorry for disturbing him. Going by the blank way he blinked at me, he'd been consumed by his own thoughts and it seemed a shame to drag him from them.

"Working hard, I see," I quipped.

"I'm thinking."

"What about?"

"Your case, as it happens."

His admission caught me by surprise. "Oh. Well, that's what I came to talk to you about."

He indicated I should sit, but I shook my head.

"I'm not staying long. I'm going to call on the Whitchurches, and simply wanted to drop in on my way to thank you for accompanying Victor last night. It put Harmony's mind at ease. Mine, too."

His lips curved with his slow, easy smile.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Because my office isn't on your way to the Whitchurches. So why are you really here, Cleo?"

"To thank you, Harry, that's all. Don't read something into it that isn't there."

He set the cup on the desk and began to roll down his sleeves. "Harmony told me how the Campbells treated you yesterday. It sounds like it was an unpleasant encounter."

"Thoroughly. I don't think I handled them very well. I'm sure you would have done it differently and achieved a different result."

"I was available."

"I know."

"I'm also available now."

I knew precisely how the rest of the meeting was going to unfold, so I simply skipped the part in the middle where he tried to talk me into letting him come and I resisted at first, but eventually gave in. "You may as well join me. I'm sure the Whitchurches will be just as prickly as the Campbells, if not more so. If the encounter goes as badly as it did yesterday, at least I'll have someone to commiserate with."

"I'm happy to commiserate with you, Cleo." He rolled down his second sleeve as he stood. It occurred to me that he'd expected me to ask him ever since I entered. Surely, he wasn't that intuitive. Perhaps I was simply that obvious.

I peeked at the open file on his desk. The client wanted him to spy on her neighbor whom she suspected was operating a brothel out of the house. "You don't have work of your own that requires your attention here?"

He closed the file and placed it in the top drawer. "Nothing that can't wait."

"Very true. Brothels are busier in the evenings."

He shot me a withering glare.

* * *

Fortunately,it was a short walk to the Whitchurches' townhouse, so we had no opportunity to discuss anything other than the case. We decided to tackle the master and mistress first, but if they weren't home, or weren't very forthcoming, we'd speak to the servants.

We gave our names to the young footman who answered our knock, but not the reason for our visit. He led us through to the drawing room, where the butler waited with us while the footman fetched his employers. Under the guise of making idle chatter to pass the time, Harry asked the butler how long he and the other staff had been employed there. The longest serving member was the housekeeper, at seven years, well short of the twenty-two since the maid died.

While Harry questioned the butler, I took a turn around the room. The paneled walls were painted soft green, which was rather calming against the high white ceiling and pink-and-green rug. There were no signs of wear and tear like I'd witnessed at the Campbells' residence. The sumptuous furniture and furnishings were in good condition, even though most pieces were over a hundred years old, going by the Grecian aesthetic, the ormolu mounts and acanthus leaf motifs. I glanced at the framed photographs scattered across various tables. Most were taken in the countryside, at shooting parties, hunting parties, and picnics. One photograph struck me as odd. It wasn't the subject matter—a middle-aged man standing beside a horse—that had me taking a closer look. It was the position of the photograph within its silver frame. The horse was up against the edge of the photograph, butting up to the frame. Neither horse nor man were centered. Stables could be seen in the distance, but they didn't add anything of interest to the photograph. The size was also odd. It didn't fill the frame and a gap was left at its edge.

Something or someone on the horse's other side had been cut off.

The man and woman who entered the drawing room introduced themselves as Lord and Lady Whitchurch. They were both aged in their forties, with lines fanning from the corners of their eyes and plump waistlines thanks to decades of comfortable living. Lady Whitchurch didn't attempt to hide the gray in her hair, as some ladies did with hats. She wore it plaited and arranged high on her head with a center part at the front, a style that went out of fashion years ago. Her dress was more modern, but quite plain, with no color to lighten the dark gray and black trim. Her husband sported a full gray beard and a moustache that was still ginger. I recognized him from several of the photographs. He wasn't the man in the photo with the horse, although they looked similar.

They studied Harry and me with curiosity, but not wariness. That all changed when we mentioned we were private investigators. Their open countenances closed and their backs stiffened. While they didn't order us to leave, I sensed answers wouldn't come easily.

"I've been tasked with looking into the death of Mr. Hardy, the butler at the Campbell residence," I began.

"By whom?" Lord Whitchurch asked.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"I don't understand. He died of natural causes. What is there to look into?"

"There is doubt in some minds as to whether the verdict was accurate."

Lord Whitchurch looked surprised. Lady Whitchurch looked confused. "If it wasn't natural causes, how did he die?"

Her husband, standing beside his seated wife, placed his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding. Reassure your client that the coroner doesn't come to these verdicts lightly. He and the police are competent and thorough."

"Sometimes they make mistakes, particularly if the poison used can mimic death by natural causes."

Lady Whitchurch clutched her throat. "Poison?"

"I'm not sure what this fellow's death has to do with us," Lord Whitchurch said. "You're better off speaking to the Campbells."

"I have," I said. "The household staff were most helpful, and it's their responses that bring me here." If they noticed I spoke of the household and not the Campbells specifically, neither commented. "Apparently, Mr. Hardy recognized you when you dined there a few nights before his death."

Lord Whitchurch swallowed heavily. "Did he say something to another member of staff about us?"

"No. His reaction was noticed. As was yours. You recognized him, too."

"I didn't. Did you, my dear?" The hand that still clasped her shoulder squeezed.

She shook her head. "I'd never seen him before. He was new to the Campbells, I believe. That dinner was the first time we'd seen him."

"He has never worked for you?"

"No," they both said.

Pursuing that line of questioning wouldn't get me any further. It was time to use a different one. This time, as discussed with Harry on the walk over, I left the questions to him. We were heading into dangerous territory, and he was better at navigating than me.

"My father used to work for Scotland Yard." His manner was amiable, chatty, as if he were simply engaging in idle conversation. "When Miss Fox was telling me about her case, my father overheard her refer to Lord and Lady Whitchurch. The name was familiar to him. He told us about a dreadful incident that occurred here years ago. Your maid was stabbed, and your older brother was accused of her murder."

Lady Whitchurch gasped. She covered her mouth with her hand and visibly paled.

Her husband's fingers flexed on her shoulder again. I expected him to order us to leave, but he did not. "Your father has a good memory. I'm afraid I don't recall any policemen named Armitage, but it was such a chaotic time and there were so many police involved."

Harry didn't correct him on the name. "It must have been upsetting for the family."

"It was. But we've put it behind us." Lord Whitchurch's answer held a note of caution in his tone. He was wondering where Harry was heading with his questions.

Harry addressed Lady Whitchurch. "It must have been just as upsetting for you, ma'am, even though you weren't married yet. You were engaged to Rupert, weren't you?"

Lady Whitchurch blinked rapidly. "I, uh…" She glanced at her husband. "It was a long time ago."

"Indeed it was," Lord Whitchurch said tightly. "We would appreciate it if you let sleeping dogs lie. As you can see, dredging up old business is very upsetting for my wife. Are there any more questions?"

A thin yet authoritative voice came from the doorway. "There will be no more questions." An elderly woman approached with the aid of a walking stick, all her wrinkles—of which there were many—drawn into a fierce frown. Her pale face was tinged yellow and as she drew closer, I could see that the whites of her eyes were yellowed, too. Her black silk dress hung from her frame and her back was so rounded that she was probably shorter than her fully erect height by several inches.

Lord Whitchurch rushed to her side to assist her to a chair, but she clicked her tongue at him and he hesitated, uncertain.

She eased herself onto a chair unaided and pointed the walking stick at Harry. "You are impertinent, young man. Who are you and what do you want?"

Harry gave a shallow bow. "Do I have the honor of speaking to the Dowager Lady Whitchurch?"

"You do, and I am too old to fall for your charm, so don't bother. Just answer the question."

Harry gave a light laugh as if he respected being caught out by her sharp observation. Her scowl deepened, but it held a hint of acknowledgement. With that simple exchange, he'd earned a modicum of respect. Whether it would help or not remained to be seen.

He introduced us. "Miss Fox has been tasked with looking into the death of a fellow named Hardy. It's come to her attention that he may have known your son and daughter-in-law."

"If Miss Fox has been hired, then what is your purpose here, Mr. Armitage?"

"Moral support."

"Poppycock. You've been asking the difficult questions while Miss Fox asked the easy ones."

Harry's gaze wandered to the doorway. She must have been standing there eavesdropping for some time. There was certainly nothing wrong with her hearing.

"Yes, I listen at doors," she said. "What of it? It's my house."

Lord and Lady Whitchurch exchanged glances, but neither corrected her. In fact, it wasn't the dowager's house. Not since her son had inherited it, along with the country estate and title, upon his father's death.

"I didn't hear the beginning of this interrogation," the dowager went on. "Tell me, what do your questions about my daughter-in-law's prior engagement to Rupert have to do with the death of the man named Hardy?"

She addressed her question to Harry, but I answered. "Mr. Hardy was the butler at Sir Ian and Lady Campbell's residence and I was informed that he recognized Lord and Lady Whitchurch when they dined there recently."

The dowager's hand rubbed the end of her walking stick as she glanced at her son. It was the first time she'd looked at him, and her brows raised ever-so slightly. He gave a slight shake of his head.

"And then you had the audacity to ask about…prior events that occurred here years ago," the dowager went on. "All of that is none of your business and has nothing to do with your case. Now get out. Arthur, see that Miss Fox and Mr. Armitage find the door."

Lord Whitchurch signaled to the footman, and he stepped forward.

The dowager stamped the end of her walking stick into the floor, causing her daughter-in-law to jump and the footman to return to his position. "I ordered you to do it, Arthur."

"Yes, Mother." He politely indicated that Harry and I should walk ahead of him.

Before I exited, I glanced over my shoulder. Lady Whitchurch sat with her head bowed and her hands clasped in her lap.

The dowager poked her daughter-in-law's foot with the end of her walking stick. "You lack spine, girl. That's always been your problem. If only you'd been stronger…"

Lady Whitchurch hurried from the room in tears.

Outside, Harry and I trotted down the steps to the pavement. He indicated the descent to the basement service door. "Do you want to question the staff?"

"None of them worked here when Charlotte died, so I don't think there's any point. If Hardy was employed by the Whitchurches at that time, it's very unlikely he stayed long afterward." We both mulled on that for a while as we walked back the way we'd come. "Did you notice the dowager didn't recognize Hardy's name? It wasn't until I explained he was the Campbells' butler that her demeanor changed. I think her son and daughter-in-law told her they saw him at the Campbells that night, but never mentioned his name to her. There's only one reason they wouldn't."

"It meant nothing to them. They knew him by a different name."

"Precisely. The question is, why did he change it?"

Harry suddenly stopped. "Do you have the list of witnesses my father gave you?"

I dug it out of my bag and handed it to him, but he didn't want to see it.

"We need to re-interview them," he said.

"I agree, but how do we find them? The Whitchurches won't help."

"You could ask the current staff while I telephone my father. If any of the former staff have committed a crime, their names will be on record at Scotland Yard." He didn't sound hopeful, however, and I agreed it was unlikely. "If we both fail, we'll make inquiries at employment agencies that specialize in domestic staff."

We parted company, he going in search of a public telephone while I headed to the basement service area.

The Whitchurches' housekeeper must have heard that we'd been ousted from the drawing room, because she refused to talk to me. With more primness in her tone than her mistress's, she told me she couldn't answer my questions.

The butler who'd been present during our exchange with the Whitchurches appeared behind her. "We should help if we can. It's about that maid who died here years ago."

It would appear solidarity amongst the serving class counted for something, because the housekeeper nodded. Or perhaps they were curious to get to the bottom of the maid's murder, too. As Harry had said, servants liked to gossip about their employers.

"How can we help?" the housekeeper asked.

"Do you know where to find the staff who worked here at the time the murder occurred?" I asked.

"Most have either passed away or found employment in other households. I'm not sure where. There's only one that I have a current address for, but I don't know if she worked here at that time. Lady Whitchurch organizes a care package to a former maid once a month. It's delivered to Mrs. Hatch at The Female Servants Benevolent Society in Southampton Row, Bloomsbury."

I'd looked at the list of witness names so often I knew them all by heart. There was no Mrs. Hatch. I almost gave up, but the butler had a suggestion.

"Perhaps Mrs. Hatch went by her maiden name or first name when she worked here. Do you know it?"

The housekeeper nodded. "It's Virginia."

There was one servant named Virginia on the list, and she was perhaps the most important witness to be interviewed that night. She'd gone by a different surname then. It was from her witness statement that we knew Rupert had been having a liaison with Charlotte before her death.

I thanked them and headed back up the steps to the pavement. I met Harry coming out of the pharmacy where he'd found a silence cabinet the public could use to make telephone calls. "Any luck?" I asked.

He shook his head. "He says requesting a search of the records will only draw attention to himself and our investigation, plus it would take too long. He thinks we're better off making inquiries at employment agencies."

"We may not need to do that. Do you know where Southampton Row is?"

"I do."

"Can you give me directions?"

"I can do much better. I'll show you."

I no longer felt inclined to investigate without him. We achieved results when we worked together, so I smiled and asked him to lead the way.