Chapter 8

Harry seemed as excited by my theory as I was. He walked quickly along Savile Row and I had a devil of a time keeping up with his long strides while also avoiding bumping into other pedestrians. We hadn't discussed where we were heading, but I suspected we had the same destination in mind.

We needed to find out what Mr. Hardy looked like. Considering what we suspected, it made sense to try to get answers from Mrs. Turner at the Campbells' house rather than confronting the Whitchurches again.

Once we were clear of Savile Row and the throng of shoppers, I fell into step alongside Harry. I picked up the conversation where we'd left off, even though I doubted I was telling him anything he hadn't already realized. "That's why the Whitchurches recognized Hardy on the night they dined with the Campbells. He was the current Lord Whitchurch's brother, and Lady Whitchurch's former fiancé. He didn't escape overseas all those years ago. He'd been hiding in plain sight. Cut off from his family, he needed to work to support himself, so he took employment as a butler. Given he grew up with a butler always nearby, he knew how they behaved and what tasks they performed."

Harry agreed with one amendment. "It makes more sense if he was a footman first, given he was young at the time of his disappearance and he had no references. He would have worked his way up to the position of butler."

"So you like my theory?"

He cast me a crooked smile without breaking his stride. "It's just as far-fetched as the one about the old lord giving Charlotte his jacket then murdering her, but I like it more."

Instead of bolstering my confidence in the theory, he'd deflated it. The theory was quite far-fetched. "I'm sure I'm wrong. Usually, the simplest explanation is the correct one. This one is mad."

"But sometimes the mad explanations are the right ones. There's only one way to know for sure." He picked up speed and I had to trot to keep up.

"Harry, slow down. Not everyone has stilts for legs."

He paused and took my hand. It was an impulse on his part, a way of keeping us in step with one another. It took him a moment to realize what he'd done.

I noticed immediately, however, and couldn't decide whether I wanted to be released or not. I liked the way my heart skipped in response to the simple gesture.

But once my thoughts cleared, I became aware of what holding his hand meant. It was giving him the wrong impression. It was encouragement, when I wanted to discourage tender feelings, both mine and his. It was creating closeness when distance was the better course for a couple with no future together.

I slipped my hand free and focused on the pavement ahead, not on the way Harry cast a disappointed look in my direction. We didn't speak the rest of the way to the Campbells' residence.

Betty the maid couldn't take her eyes off Harry when she opened the door to us. Her pale cheeks suddenly flushed with color, and she developed a stammer as she invited us inside. The effect Harry had on some women was getting tiresome, and I was a little short with her when I asked to see Mrs. Turner.

She led the way along the corridor toward the housekeeper's office. Mrs. Cook and her assistant, Birdy, looked up from the pies they were assembling. I greeted them with smiles but received only nods in return. Davey the footman was more agreeable. He hurried out of the kitchen, carrying a domed silver platter balanced on the tips of his fingers.

"Miss Fox, what a pleasure! Can't stop for a chat today. Work to do."

We stepped aside to allow him to pass. When he reached Betty, he caught her hand and spun her with all the grace of a dancing master.

She giggled and blushed again.

Mrs. Turner saw them through her open office door. "Be off with you, Davey, they're waiting upstairs." Once we'd joined her in the office and Betty had closed the door, the housekeeper sighed. "That boy has caused me enough of a headache. I don't need him flirting with Betty. He seems to think it's all right now that he's leaving."

"He definitely is?" I asked as I sat.

She sighed again. "He applied for the position of butler, but Sir Ian and Lady Campbell won't give it to him, so he's given his resignation. Now we need a new butler and footman. I can't blame them, of course. He's not ready to be a butler. In a few more years, certainly, but not yet." She shuffled some papers on her desk with the shake of her head. "That's the problem with the younger generation. They want everything now, without working their way up to it. They don't understand they have to earn it." She suddenly stopped, perhaps realizing she was speaking to two people from the same generation as Davey.

I introduced her to Harry, calling him my assistant, not my associate.

He huffed ever so slightly, then smiled at Mrs. Turner. "Miss Fox doesn't need my assistance, but she likes to have me around."

She blinked at him. "Is that because people take her more seriously with a man at her side?"

"No, it's because I'm excellent company." His smile warmed.

The look she gave me left me in no doubt that she now assumed precisely what Harry wanted her to assume—that I liked him in that way. The fiend.

I launched into our reason for returning before he could cause any more trouble. "Is there by any chance a photograph of the staff that includes Mr. Hardy?"

"I'm afraid not. He wasn't here long enough for one to be taken. Why do you need a photograph?"

"We're trying to find out where he worked before coming here. If Hardy is an assumed name and he went by another, it will be easier to show his photograph to see if he's recognized."

"I see. There are no photographs that I've come across, and I've searched through his desk and his personal belongings. There's nothing of a personal nature at all, not even the name of a family member to send his things to. It's very sad."

It was also odd. "Can you describe his appearance?"

"He was tall, slim, but not too thin, and quite handsome. He wasn't going bald, like some his age. He had a full head of thick gray hair."

Her description was almost as thorough as Mr. Gannon's had been. There was one telling feature she'd omitted, however.

"Did he have a cleft in his chin?" I asked.

"I don't know. He had a beard. It was neatly trimmed, but it obscured his chin and jaw."

I was disappointed, but Harry's suspicion was piqued. "In my experience, butlers and footmen are always cleanly shaved."

"The Campbells didn't seem to mind the beard. They don't worry about appearances like some. Oh, I did forget one thing. Mr. Hardy had a limp. I never asked how he got it. I didn't like to pry, and I worried he might be sensitive about it. You know how some men are, Miss Fox."

"Indeed. But a limp is also an unusual trait for a butler. You say the Campbells weren't concerned about appearances, but a limp is different to a beard."

She glanced at the door, then leaned forward. "While I was cleaning out his belongings, I saw his letter of offer. He wasn't being paid much. In fact, he was paid the same as me. Usually, a butler receives more, even though they do less. I've been thinking for some time that the Campbells might be in some financial difficulty and seeing that letter confirmed it. I think they hired a butler with a limp because he was inexpensive. He couldn't get work in the better households with a deformity, so he took the position here where he had to accept less. Not that it was a deformity in my eyes, you understand. I thought it made him even more dashing. But you know how toffs are, Miss Fox."

The limp didn't matter to me as much as the beard did. If Hardy had a cleft in his chin, the beard would hide it. It was quite possibly the reason he grew it in the first place. If he was indeed Rupert, it was definitely the reason he'd grown it.

"Speaking of the Campbells," Harry said. "Do you know how long they've been friends of the Whitchurches?"

Mrs. Turner thought about it for a moment. "Ten or eleven years, I'd say."

Not long enough to have known Rupert then. They could very well have unwittingly hired their friend's brother.

Mrs. Turner followed us out of her office after we thanked her and called for Betty to see us to the door. Betty couldn't be found, however.

"Was she summoned upstairs?" Mrs. Turner asked the cook.

Mrs. Cook shrugged and returned to her workbench.

Mrs. Turner sighed. "I know she's upset about Mr. Hardy, but we all are, and we don't disappear at the drop of a hat, do we? She needs to learn to get on with it when there's work to be done."

While she went in search of Betty, Harry and I saw ourselves out.

He waited until we were walking away from the house before speaking. "Do you still think Hardy and Rupert are the same person?"

"Even more so," I said. "There are no photographs of him, nothing personal from family members, and he grew a beard. What better way to disguise his appearance? The rest of Mrs. Turner's description could match an older Rupert, except the limp, which could have been acquired in the last twenty-two years."

"My thoughts exactly. So where to now, Lead Detective?"

I eyed him carefully. "Are you upset that I introduced you as my assistant, not associate?"

"No. I am your assistant this time. It's your case."

We walked on, but I could feel the tension thickening between us. I really didn't like it, but I didn't know what to say to alleviate it.

Harry, however, had no such qualms. "Are you upset that I made a joke in there about you enjoying my company?"

"You said you were excellent company, not that I enjoyed having you around. And no, of course I'm not upset. Some people do find you excellent company."

"You being one."

I laughed. "Have you always been this arrogant, or am I just now being exposed to it?"

"It's not arrogance, it's confidence. I'm confident that you like having me around."

I quickened my steps to get ahead of him to hide my heating face. Unfortunately, his long legs meant he easily kept up.

"You should slow down, Cleo. You look hot and bothered." He said it with a heavy dose of humor that had my face heating more.

I must remember my parasol tomorrow. If Harry continued to tease me, I was going to need it to hide my blushes.

I was so disoriented that I forgot to answer his question. He asked it again. "Are you going to tell me where we're going, or shall I guess?"

"If you stop distracting me by changing the subject, I would."

"It's not the change of subject that has you distracted, Cleo." The humor was still in his voice, but the undertone of flirtation was unmistakable.

I studiously kept my gaze focused forward. "We're returning to the Whitchurches' house. We're going to sneak in and look for a photograph of Rupert."

My suggestion wasn't met with an ounce of surprise, which meant he already suspected that was my plan. "And how will we do that?"

"I don't know yet. I'm hoping for inspiration on the way."

He laughed softly. "Just when I think you're being predictable, you surprise me."

"Here's another thing that will surprise you. You're not joining me."

He stopped. "You said ‘we' will sneak in."

"I've changed my mind. You can't afford to be caught, Harry. You know that. I didn't want Victor to include you when he broke into the Campbells' residence, and I don't want you included this time."

Harry wasn't often annoyed, but he narrowed his gaze and glared daggers at me. "You need me in there, Cleo. You can't go in alone."

"I can and I will."

"The Whitchurches know you, as do some of the staff. They won't let you in, and without their permission, you can't sneak in."

"You didn't meet the housekeeper, Harry, only I did. That will do."

"Do for what?"

"For you to perform your role. I want you to create a distraction. If you do it well, not only will I not be discovered, but no one will know you were involved at all." I set off again, leaving him staring after me, still annoyed but also confused.

When he caught up, the annoyance had vanished altogether. Harry's bad moods didn't last very long. "What sort of distraction do you want me to create?"

"I'll tell you on the way to the hotel. Your costume is there."

* * *

The costume Harryneeded was in the maintenance room, located in the basement next to the coal cellar. The maintenance engineer was tall, like Harry, but unlike Harry, he looked like he lived in the basement with his pallid skin and fleshy sacks under his eyes and at his jowls. If ever a man resembled a sad hound, it was him.

I was keen to avoid him. Indeed, I was keen not to be seen in the basement at all. My uncle didn't like me mixing with the staff. If he knew I sat with them in the staff parlor, he'd scold me. If he knew I'd been breaking into the maintenance engineer's cupboard to steal his spare overalls, he'd be livid.

I asked Harmony to do it instead. As a maid, it was acceptable for her to be down there. She agreed to do it and told me to meet her in the lane near the service entrance where Harry waited for me. I'd entered the hotel via the front door so that I'd be seen, before heading to the staff parlor where I suspected she'd be enjoying a cup of tea after cleaning rooms all day.

As she went down to the basement, I returned to the foyer to spend a few minutes in full view of the guests and any of my family who happened to pass. It was mid-afternoon, a rather busy time as new guests checked in. Peter and Mr. Hobart were doing their best to greet guests and make sure all was as it should be. Peter looked so much more comfortable in his role as assistant manager these days. He was very agreeable to everybody, and good at calming demanding guests, although the most demanding were usually left to Mr. Hobart.

Mr. Hobart looked at ease this afternoon. Even when Uncle Ronald entered the foyer, hat in hand as he headed for the door, Mr. Hobart didn't bat an eye, despite the glare my uncle gave him.

Upon seeing me, Uncle Ronald approached. "He took an hour for lunch again today."

"I assume we're discussing Mr. Hobart?"

He grunted.

"Uncle, there is nothing wrong with taking his full allocated lunch hour."

He grunted again. "I heard the Carlton is close to filling the position of manager."

"That is good news. Then we won't have to worry about Mr. Hobart taking it."

He looked at me like I was a fool.

"Oh," I said quietly. "Unless they're close to filling it because Mr. Hobart has almost accepted."

He fidgeted with the hat in his hands, lightly skimming his fingers along the brim. "I know you told Floyd that you wouldn't investigate Hobart's change of attitude, but you didn't refuse me outright." He gave a hopeful lift of his brows.

I stared at him, trying to think of a delicate way to escape the conversation.

"It will give you something to do, Cleopatra, and you do want to be a detective."

"I am a detective already. I'm in the middle of an investigation now, as it happens."

He looked genuinely interested. "Is that so? What are you investigating?"

He wouldn't like me being involved in another murder. He thought a lady detective should only investigate gentle crimes. Death, divorce and violent crimes were all unpalatable topics.

So I skirted the truth, just a little. "I'm looking for a man who went missing more than twenty years ago."

"That's very noble, Cleopatra. I'm sure the family will be grateful to you, whether you find him or not. Make sure they pay you well."

I smiled as he put his hat on his head. It was a relief when he finally left the hotel. I was about to make my way to the kitchen exit when Miss Hessing and her fiancé, Mr. Liddicoat, emerged from the lift. She spotted me, said something to Mr. Liddicoat, then approached.

He continued on, greeting me as he passed before leaving the hotel.

"I'm so glad I caught you, Miss Fox," she said. "We've just been discussing wedding plans with my mother."

"How pleasant." At her frown, I changed my opinion. "Or not. Is something the matter, Miss Hessing?"

"Mother has booked my wedding reception at the Savoy."

I clasped her hands. "Oh, no. This is a disaster! Did you tell her you wanted it here?"

"We tried, but she says Mr. Chapman isn't listening to her."

The situation was grave indeed. Mrs. Hessing would rather trip over her own feet in the street than have no one notice her. "Mr. Chapman believes the reception to celebrate your wedding should suit your tastes, not your mother's."

"He doesn't understand," she moaned. "The wedding ceremony is for me, the reception is for Mother." She clutched my hands. "Miss Fox, will you talk to him?"

"It has to come from you." I squeezed her hands. "I must dash, but you must be strong, Miss Hessing. Go to Mr. Chapman and tell him to listen to your mother. Then go to your mother and tell her to cancel the Savoy, that you want your wedding reception here."

She assured me she would, but I wasn't convinced. For one thing, she did not go to Mr. Chapman even though she saw him emerge from the senior staff corridor. Instead, she hurried to catch the lift.

Mr. Chapman's gaze shifted from her to me. Then, with a tug on each of his cuffs and a tilt of his chin, he strode past me to the sitting room to prepare for afternoon tea.

I left the hotel via the service entrance and found Harry in the lane, chatting with Harmony and Victor. He already wore the maintenance engineer's overalls over his clothes and carried a clipboard.

Harmony, holding his jacket and hat, stepped back to study him. "You'll do. Just remember not to look so…" She wiggled her fingers at him.

He arched his brows. "So…what?"

"Polished."

Harry ruffled his hair, messing it up. "Better?"

"Hunch your back a little."

Harry hunched. "Now?"

Harmony lifted one shoulder, giving up.

Victor told us to wait, then disappeared inside. He returned moments later with a cloth blackened with soot. He drew a smudge on Harry's cheek, then told him to wipe his hands on the dirty cloth.

"I'm a gas inspector, not a chimney sweep," Harry said even though he obliged.

Harmony sent us on our way, then returned inside with Victor, still carrying Harry's jacket and hat.

"Are they a couple yet?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"Can we expect wedding bells soon?"

"Not everyone wants to marry, Harry. Perhaps they're quite content as they are."

He gave me a sharp look, but made no comment about the irritation underpinning my tone. He was wiser than most men when it came to understanding when a topic was best left alone.

We briefly discussed our plan, then separated well before reaching the Whitchurches' house. I headed into the mews to wait at the rear of the residence. The moments ticked by slowly, but eventually Harry appeared and signaled for me to enter.

"Sorry it took so long," he whispered. "The dowager is refusing to leave. According to the housekeeper, she says she couldn't smell gas so is staying put. She's in her room. I had the housekeeper assemble everyone else down the street, including Lord and Lady Whitchurch."

It would seem the dowager was prepared to risk her life. Gas leaks could prove deadly. I'd lost count of the number of reports I'd read of corroded pipes and fittings leaking gas that exploded. If a resident or passerby smelled gas, the gas company would send a gas fitter to fix the problem, but due to the volatility of the substance, the residents had to vacate the premises in the meantime. Given no one had smelled gas, the dowager was smarter than the rest.

"You'll need to be quiet or she'll become suspicious," Harry went on.

"I will."

"I'll help. It'll be twice as fast with two."

"No." I pointed at the service stairs that led to the basement kitchen and storerooms. The gas tanks would be down there. If anyone who might recognize him checked on his progress, he could keep his face averted as he pretended to work. I suspected the fear of an explosion would keep the household away, however.

He obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

I snuck upstairs and checked all the photographs on display in the first-floor drawing room, the only room I'd already been in. I recognized Arthur, the current lord, and quickly realized which other man was his father. With various family members I'd met appearing in all other photographs, and based on their age in each, I was able to determine that not a single one was of Rupert. I took a closer look at the oddly sized photograph with the late Lord Whitchurch standing beside a horse. I'd suspected a section had been cut off, and a second look proved I was right. Part of another person's shadow appeared on the ground.

I checked the rest of the rooms on the first floor and was surprised to find the second reception room was a dining room. Usually in grand townhouses they were on the ground floor, so that it wasn't far for the food to travel from the kitchen. There were no photographs in the dining room, but there was a large painted portrait over the fireplace. Closer inspection proved it was the late Lord Whitchurch and the dowager aged in their late thirties or early forties. She wore a lustrous gown of white satin and a necklace of diamonds and aquamarines. But it wasn't her clothing and jewels that interested me. It was Lord Whitchurch's tiepin. It was shaped like a sword with a sapphire embedded in the pommel.

Why was his tiepin hidden in the toe of Mr. Hardy's shoe?

I hurried out of the dining room and stood on the landing, uncertain whether to go downstairs to the ground floor where there ought to be a library and whatever had replaced the dining room space, or upstairs to the bedchambers where I suspected I'd have more success but might stumble across the dowager.

I decided to go up, but only search rooms where the door was open and I could see that it was empty. Unfortunately, there were only two rooms that fit that criteria. One was a guest bedchamber that held nothing of interest. The other was Lord Whitchurch's study. Despite a thorough search of his desk and shelves, I found no photographs of his brother, nor any correspondence from him or relating to him. If any existed, they'd probably be in the wall safe, which I found behind a painting, but cracking the code was beyond my limited skills.

I crept past the closed doors on both the second and third floors, wondering which one the dowager's bedchamber was behind. I didn't bother with the fourth floor, as the servants' quarters wouldn't contain anything relevant.

With only the ground floor left, I tiptoed down the stairs. I had to be careful searching the library. Located at the front of the house, the window overlooked the pavement, so I limited my search to the desk. Finding nothing, I exited via the rear door that led to the staircase, instead of the one leading to the entrance hall. The only main room left to search was the one that should have been the dining room, beyond the staircase. Curious as to what it might house since the dining room had been relocated to the first floor, I headed toward it, only to stop dead when the door opened.

Too late, I realized why the dining room had taken over the reception room on the first floor. The elderly dowager's bedchamber had been moved into the ground-floor room usually used as a dining room, so that she didn't have to climb up and down stairs all day. She'd refused to vacate it during the gas inspection and had stayed behind, not on the second or third floors where I'd been so careful to remain quiet, but on the ground level.

And now she was coming out.

I opened the nearest door and ducked inside. Before the light was blocked out by the closing door, I took note of thick, long coats and fur stoles. The enclosed space smelled of cedarwood, used to keep the moths away. Hopefully, the smell hadn't wafted out when I entered the coat closet.

"Who's there?" came the dowager's brittle voice. "Arthur? Is that you?"

I stayed silent.

The clomp clomp of her walking stick passed the closet door, heading away from her bedchamber then fading altogether.

I opened the door a crack and checked the vicinity. The dowager was nowhere in sight, but her bedchamber door was wide open. If anyone kept a photograph of Rupert, surely it would be his mother.

I didn't allow myself any more time to think through my actions. I didn't want to give doubt time to creep in. I slipped out of the closet and raced into her room, closing the door behind me.

The room was divided by a screen, behind which was a chair and space for dressing. In the main part of the room, aside from a bed and chest of drawers, was a dressing table and writing desk. If I were to keep photographs of my banished son, I'd keep them on the dressing table. It felt more private.

A quick search produced nothing but hair combs and pins, perfume and jewelry. I moved to the writing desk and checked each of the drawers. Finding nothing, I searched the small compartments at the back. Again, there was nothing related to Rupert. Perhaps his own mother hadn't liked him and had kept nothing of his after he disappeared. By all accounts, she'd been fond of him, but the witnesses could be wrong.

My hand skimmed over something protruding at the back of one of the desk's compartments. My father had owned a similar desk, and behind the small drawers was a secret compartment that I'd discovered one day when I was bored. Perhaps this one had something similar. Guided by my childhood memories, I easily found the latch. I flicked it up and the compartment revealed itself.

Letters spilled out onto the desk surface. There were dozens, all in the same hand, all signed with the name "Oblitus." Each was dated a few months apart, beginning mere weeks after the murder of Charlotte, and were sent from various countries. The most common was France or Italy, but there was quite a variety, including Malta, Greece, Russia and finally America. Oblitus was well traveled.

If Oblitus was a coded name for Rupert, then he'd been in correspondence with his mother throughout his exile, until a month before Mr. Hardy had begun working at the Campbell residence. After opening a few letters at random, I concentrated on the most recent ones. All were brief, some a mere paragraph. They said nothing of interest, most simply describing the weather, his health, and that he hoped she was well. The last few letters changed, however. He talked about being low in spirits, and missing home and the life he used to lead. These last ones asked for money, saying he couldn't continue with his former employment. In the final letter, the tone turned to begging. He asked her to send financial assistance "just this once" to get him back on his feet. The implication being she'd not sent money after his earlier requests.

I heard the clomp of the walking stick against the floorboards first, followed by the voices of the dowager and Lord Whitchurch. I hurriedly shoved the letters back into the compartment and closed it.

"There is no leak, Arthur!"

"The gas fitter said—"

"Can you smell gas?"

They were right outside the door! If I tried to escape, I'd be seen. Even if I hid my face and ran, they'd alert the staff to my presence, and I'd be stopped outside and my identity revealed. Hiding under the bed or behind the privacy screen would only be a temporary solution. And how long would I need to remain hidden before the dowager left again? It was too much of a risk.

"No," the dowager was saying in response to something her son said. "I can't either." The voices were close, but they seemed to have stopped at the door.

I had only moments to make my escape.

The good thing about being on the ground floor was escaping via a window meant I wouldn't need to put life and limb at risk. All I had to do was climb through.

Unfortunately, the bad thing about being on the ground floor was that the windows were usually locked to keep burglars out. The dowager's bedroom window wouldn't budge, and there was no time to search for a key.

The door handle turned as someone on the other side opened it.

I'd have to brazen it out. I drew in a fortifying breath, faced the door, and tried to think of an excuse.