Chapter 9

The blood rushed like a torrent in my ears, drowning out all sounds. Even the voices of the dowager and Lord Whitchurch faded to nothing. Or perhaps they'd stopped talking. I didn't know. All I knew was that the door handle kept turning and turning and turning. Panic froze me to the spot. For all my bravado, I knew I couldn't talk my way out of my predicament. The dowager would make sure that I was arrested. I'd be an embarrassment to my family. My uncle would never let me leave the hotel alone again. He would forbid me from investigating. If I refused to follow his orders, I'd have to defy him and leave the hotel, perhaps never to return.

My heart seemed to stop altogether.

The set of hands clasping me from behind restarted it with a ferocious thud. I spun around to see Harry leaning in through the window, trying to encourage me to climb through. Somehow, he'd got it open from the outside.

There was no time to ask where he'd found the key, or how he knew that I was in this particular room.

I sat on the windowsill, intending to swing my legs out. Instead, Harry grasped me around the waist and hauled me through. I fell against him, my skirts tangling around me, revealing my legs. There was no time for blushes, however. He pushed me down and we lay side by side on the courtyard bricks, as close to the wall as possible.

Inside, the dowager scolded her son for being gullible and a fool. One of them closed the window, muffling her voice.

Harry put his finger to his lips to silence me, then rose to peep through the window. Without a word, he signaled for me to leave via the mews. He made sure I was on my way before he re-entered the house via the service entrance.

We met ten minutes later at the same place where we'd parted, a few streets away. I could have kissed him when I saw him striding toward me, safe and sound and looking roguish with the smudged soot on his cheek. I wanted to kiss him. Instead, I grinned.

It was met with a scowl. "Never again," he growled. "Next time something like that's required, I'll do it."

"But I can't haul you out of a window, can I?"

His jaw set firm as he indicated we should walk.

"You picked the window's lock quickly," I said.

"It wasn't locked. It was just stuck."

"How did you know I was in there?"

"I saw you through the window when I came outside to see if you'd managed to leave while I wasn't looking. I heard the dowager and Lord Whitchurch's voices and knew you'd probably heard them too. Was that the dowager's bedchamber?"

"They must have moved her things to the ground floor for the duration of her London stay on account of her frailty. It was fortunate they did."

He grunted. "It didn't seem fortunate to me. If her bedchamber had been on one of the upper floors, you would never have been in that predicament."

"I would never have found what I was looking for, either."

"You got a photograph of Rupert?"

I shook my head. "There wasn't a single photograph of him in any of the rooms, and I looked through all except for a few bedchambers. Don't you think that odd?"

"Perhaps the current Lord and Lady Whitchurch don't want any photos of him in their house. The dowager usually lives at their country manor, so perhaps they're all there."

"Or the family doesn't want anyone recognizing him. Perhaps they removed all photographs of him when they discovered he'd become butler for the Campbells."

Harry wasn't convinced. Not that he said as much. He fell silent, sullenly and profoundly. Somehow, it made his anger seem even fiercer.

"I knew the dangers," I told him. "But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and scold me. I won't interrupt."

He kept walking, not even muttering an oath under his breath. He continued to quietly seethe, his fists closed at his sides and the muscles in his jaw throbbing. He would give himself an ache if he kept clenching his teeth like that. I didn't like seeing him so wound up, and I certainly didn't like him being cross with me, so I attempted to lighten his mood.

"I'm glad I wore my prettiest undergarments."

He stopped and grabbed me by the elbows. He'd been angry with me before, but this was different. This was unreasonable anger, far more than the situation warranted. "This is not a game, Cleo."

"I know." My voice sounded as frail as the dowager's. I cleared my throat. "I know," I said again.

He released me. "Then why are you making jokes?"

I brushed my sleeve, even though there was nothing to brush off. "Because I don't like it when you're cross with me, and I don't know how else to make you stop."

His anger cleared as rapidly as it had surfaced. He took a deep breath, then another and another. The third was more of a sigh. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

I gave him a flat smile. "It's all right. I forgive you."

"I was just worried about you."

"I know."

"If you were caught…" He looked down at his feet and shook his head.

"My uncle would ensure I was released, if I were arrested. I doubt I would have been charged. If the dowager pushed for charges to be laid, I'd simply tell her what I'd found in her desk. She would have backed down then."

"It's not an arrest that worried me. It's what Sir Ronald would do after you were released. He'd lock you away and stop us…stop you from investigating."

"I'm not a heroine from a Brothers Grimm tale, Harry. If Uncle Ronald tried to lock me away, I'd simply leave."

He tilted his head to the side. "And go where?"

"Is your old room at your parents' house still available?" The slight twitch of his lips encouraged me to go on. "I could offer to keep house for your mother in exchange for free board. She might even start to like me after a while. I'm not a bad cook."

He smiled crookedly. "‘Not a bad cook?' That's hardly a solid recommendation. Do you even remember how to cook?"

"Of course. Eggs need to be boiled for an hour, don't they?"

He rolled his eyes, but his smile widened. "Let's go back to the hotel. The maintenance engineer will be wondering where his spare overalls got to."

We continued walking at a more sedate pace in comfortable silence until my nerves settled completely and I remembered I hadn't finished telling him what I'd found in the dowager's desk.

"I haven't told you the best part yet," I said. "Rupert had been sending his mother letters ever since he left the country."

"Where has he been?"

"All over the world. He sent her a letter every few months. At least, I think they're from him. They weren't addressed to ‘Mother' or anything like that, and they were signed Oblitus."

"Oblitus? Is that Latin?"

"It sounds Latin, but I don't know what it means. I have a little French and Italian, but no Latin. I'll ask Floyd. He would have learned it at school."

"So, if it is Rupert who wrote those letters to his mother from overseas, he and Hardy can't be the same person."

"Not necessarily. The last letter was dated several weeks before Mr. Hardy started working for the Campbells. It mentioned he was in need of money. It seemed as though his earlier pleas to his mother had gone unheeded, and he was getting desperate. What if he came back to England to beg her in person, but she refused, so he took employment as a butler for the Campbells just to get by?"

"It's feasible. The timing fits."

"Then, when his brother saw him at dinner, he grew worried Rupert would be recognized in time by their friends. Not only would it jeopardize Arthur's inheritance of the title and everything that went with it, it would cause a dreadful scandal. Maybe Arthur panicked and went back a few days later to kill him."

Harry nodded slowly. "Your far-fetched theory is looking more and more likely."

We walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. When I realized I was spending more time thinking about how much I liked that Harry had worried about me, I pushed thoughts of him aside and concentrated on the case.

I agreed with him that my theory about Rupert and Hardy being one and the same was looking more solid after finding the letters from Oblitus and the portrait showing the tiepin I'd found in Hardy's shoe. Now all we needed to do was prove it, because I doubted we'd get a confession from Lord Whitchurch or his mother, the dowager.

* * *

My family'ssocial calendar was empty for the evening, much to my relief. I needed an evening off from the whirlwind of parties and dinners. My aunt needed it too and excused herself even from a small family dinner in the restaurant. She ate in her room while the rest of us dined at our regular table. It wasn't all that peaceful, however. My uncle circulated amongst the other tables, while Floyd and I also chatted to diners who stopped by to give us their regards. Flossy wasn't as vivacious as usual. She smiled when appropriate and joined in conversations, but something was obviously wrong.

It wasn't until we finished the main course that I finally felt like we weren't at work or on display. When Uncle Ronald left us to speak to a group of Belgian guests, I asked Flossy what the matter was.

"Nothing," she muttered.

I exchanged a glance with Floyd, but he was enjoying his pudding and failed to notice. "I can tell something's wrong, Flossy. Go on, out with it. You'll feel better when you get it off your chest."

"I won't." Flossy poked a strawberry around her bowl, drawing patterns in the cream. With a huff, she put down her spoon. "What's wrong with me, Cleo?"

"Absolutely nothing! You're sweet, kind and lively, not to mention pretty." I clasped her arm. "What's caused this melancholia?"

She sighed. "Everyone is getting married except me."

"Sometimes finding the right man takes time. Look at Miss Hessing. It took her years to find Mr. Liddicoat, but it was worth the wait. He's a wonderful man and they're well suited. The right man for you will come along one day."

"I wish he'd hurry up. Another season as barren as this one and I'll officially be on the shelf. Then I'll have to stand with the elderly spinsters at the balls." She made a face.

"Like me, you mean?" I teased.

"Not at all, Cleo! I could never compare myself to you. You'll always have dance partners, because the gentlemen are intrigued by you and they enjoy your company. You're a great conversationalist. Also, you're very pretty."

"You're never short of dance partners either, Flossy. It will be the same next year. You won't suddenly become a wallflower."

She sighed again and picked up her spoon.

Finally, with his pudding finished, Floyd joined the conversation. "Against my better judgement, I'm going to voice an opinion. The maharaja's son failed to notice you flirting with him, didn't he?"

Flossy pouted. "I don't want to talk about him."

Ah, now I understood the source of her melancholy. It wasn't Miss Hessing's pending nuptials. It was the rejection from Flossy's current object of desire.

I squeezed her hand. "Perhaps it's for the best. I have it on good authority that he will be returning to India after his studies, and I couldn't bear it if you moved away."

"I suppose," she said on a sigh. "But it would have been nice to reject him, instead of being ignored."

"Take it as a compliment," Floyd said. When we both frowned at him, he added, "His father has arranged a marriage for him back in India, so he can't marry you or any other girl, even if he wanted to. The only women he sees here are his mistresses and he has a lot of them, none of whom are the sort of girl he can be seen with in public. The fact he ignored you means he thinks you're above that and he respects you enough not to want to sully your reputation."

The effect of his words on Flossy was instant. She brightened, and with a toss of her curls, she was once again her usual unencumbered self. She tucked into her strawberries as if she were ravenous.

I mouthed "well done" to Floyd. He merely shrugged, which was as good a sign as any that he spoke the truth and hadn't made up the story about the mistresses simply to cheer up his sister.

"Speaking of mistresses," I said.

Floyd put up his hands. "I haven't got one at the moment, I swear."

"I wasn't referring to you. I'm trying to solve an old murder case that the police shelved after the main suspect went missing. The victim, the family's maid, was his mistress. My investigation uncovered some letters today that I think were written by him to his mother, although he doesn't address her as Mother and the letters are all signed ‘Oblitus.' We think it's Latin."

"‘We?'" Floyd echoed. "Tell me you haven't teamed up with Armitage again."

"Uncle Ronald doesn't mind," I said as I searched the restaurant for him. Spotting him well out of earshot, I felt comfortable to add, "He knows I work better with Harry. We make an excellent team."

"My father hasn't seen the two of you together. I have. I know there's mutual affection between you."

"The only mutual affection we have is for investigating. We'll never be anything more than friends and colleagues, so stop being overbearing. It makes me dislike you."

"As long as you understand he's not suitable."

It wasn't what I said or meant, but I didn't correct him. "Are you able to translate Oblitus?"

"It means forgotten or the forgotten one. If your suspect fled to escape capture years ago, the nickname fits." He stood and pushed in his chair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a party to attend where some very unsuitable ladies will enjoy my attention."

Flossy made a scoffing noise as she watched him leave. "Why can men have unsuitable liaisons and women can't?"

"That is one of the greatest conundrums of our time."

* * *

With my parasolunder my arm and a wide-brimmed hat on my head, I was about to leave the hotel the following morning when Mr. Hobart intercepted me. "I received a telephone call from Harry," he said. "He wanted me to tell you that he won't be in his office until later."

That scuttled my plan to discuss my next steps in the investigation with him. Perhaps it was for the best; I was becoming too reliant on him. I needed to work alone sometimes, to remind myself that I was capable.

My uncle stepped out of the lift. He smiled at Mr. Hobart and me as he passed, then, when Mr. Hobart wasn't looking, he jerked his head at the manager, urging me to ask some questions.

I suppose it wouldn't hurt to gently probe. "I heard the position of manager is about to be filled at the Carlton."

"I heard that too," Mr. Hobart said.

"Do you know who's taking the role?"

"The Carlton doesn't confide in me, Miss Fox." He smiled, but it wasn't the most convincing one he'd ever given.

I smiled back. "It looks like a lovely day for a walk. Will you head out later?"

"I have an errand to run at lunchtime, so I'll go out then."

I waited in the hope he'd fill the silence. He did, but not with the information I wanted.

"How are you two getting along?" he asked.

"Well enough. He can be a little gruff at times, but I think I know how to manage him now. It helps to remember that he and my aunt have been good to me."

"I meant you and Harry. You seem to be spending more time together lately."

"He's assisting me with an investigation."

"So my brother told us over dinner last night. He was very impressed with your determination and intelligence. I told him that I wasn't at all surprised, that I knew you were up to the challenges of detective work. Then we all lamented that women weren't allowed to join the police force. The two Mrs. Hobarts were particularly vocal about the unfairness of it."

"At least we can have our own detective agencies."

"Then why don't you start one?"

"My uncle wouldn't allow it. For now, I need to stay on his good side. He provides a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Perhaps one day I'll have saved enough from the investigations I do manage to take on to move out of the hotel, but I think it's quite some time away."

"You could join Harry's agency for now, albeit secretly."

I laughed. "He made it abundantly clear that he won't add the name Fox alongside his and I wouldn't settle for anything less. Anyway, I think keeping our work separate is best."

Fortunately, he didn't ask why. He simply gave me a flat smile. Spotting an important guest arriving, he made his excuses. After a brief greeting, the guest went on his way and Mr. Hobart went on his.

It wasn't until I watched him join Peter that I wondered if he'd deliberately steered our conversation away from the topic of the Carlton Hotel and his lunchtime absences. He was an excellent manager of conflict, so it wouldn't surprise me if he'd manipulated me, too.

Mrs. Short emerged from the senior staff corridor and beckoned me to join her. She asked for a report on the investigation, but I refused to tell her anything.

"My work is confidential," I said. "But I'm sure your sister will update you on my progress if she wants you to know."

Her back stiffened. "Do you think we have time for socializing, Miss Fox? We're both very busy."

"She doesn't work far from here. You could meet for lunch in a teashop."

She gave me a look down her nose that could rival the pomposity of the Dowager Lady Whitchurch. "Long lunches are for those with too much spare time on their hands." She strode off without a backward glance.

In some ways, she was right. The staff rarely took long lunches, and Mr. Hobart even less so, until lately. His recent absences in the middle of the day were in contrast to his hard-working nature. He'd denied knowing who was taking on the management role at the Carlton, which I took to mean it wasn't him. So, what was he doing?

It was none of my business, and unlikely to be any of my uncle's, either. Mr. Hobart was within his rights to take a full hour for lunch and not inform his employer of his movements. He, like the rest of the staff, was entitled to a private life.

Just as Mr. Hardy was. I decided that would be my next avenue of enquiry.

I tucked my parasol under my arm and headed for the exit. Mr. Chapman and I crossed paths in the foyer. He glared at me. I smiled back. His glare turned frostier.

The parasol wasn't needed on my walk to the Campbells' townhouse. The day was overcast and cool for July, and Harry wasn't there to tease me. I left it by the door when the maid, Betty, answered my knock and invited me into the basement service area. I hadn't seen her on my visit the previous day, and I was struck by how drawn she looked. Mr. Hardy's death must be taking its toll on all the staff.

"Mrs. Turner is in her office," Betty said, starting to lead the way along the corridor.

"There's something I'd like to ask you before I speak to her," I said.

She stopped at the open doorway to the kitchen. "It's nothing to do with me!"

Her reaction was a little strong, given I'd never suggested that any of the staff were involved in the murder. I'd not had a reason to. I wondered if I'd overlooked something. "Perhaps you could help." I turned to face the kitchen. "Perhaps you all could."

Mrs. Cook came around the central table toward me, wiping her hands on her apron. "We'll help in any way we can. Davey?"

The footman emerged from the adjoining staff parlor, a bowler hat in one hand and a brush in the other. "What do you want to know, Miss Fox?"

"Did Mr. Hardy have any friends?"

They all looked at each other, then shook their heads or shrugged.

"What did he do on his day off?"

Again, the cook and the maid shrugged. Davey, however, said he'd seen the butler at the local pub a few times. "I saw him twice at the Coach and Horses, the one on Hill Street, not Bruton. Friends of mine said they saw him there, having a quiet drink on his own on his afternoon off."

I thanked him and departed, armed with my parasol and a plan. It was still early, but hopefully the landlord at the Coach and Horses could tell me something about Mr. Hardy's visits. I wasn't entirely sure what I expected to learn, but it was better than the alternative—confronting the Whitchurches without evidence that Rupert was, in fact, Mr. Hardy.

I was minding the steps as I headed up to the pavement when Harry's voice once again greeted me.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he teased. "People will talk."

"Why? There's nothing to talk about."

His face fell. "Has Sir Ronald forbidden you from seeing me again?"

I'd not meant to speak harshly. I must still be smarting from Floyd's accusation that Harry and I were more than friends. "He doesn't know we're investigating together at the moment. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere." I nodded at the Campbells' neighbor's house. "Were you called out again?"

Before he could answer, the Campbells' front door opened and Davey trotted down the front steps. "You still here, Miss Fox? Just a friendly warning that I'm fetching a cab for Sir Ian. You'll want to go before he sees you."

"Thank you. Which way is Hill Street?"

"I know it," Harry said, setting off in the opposite direction to Davey. "What's in Hill Street?"

I told him about the pub and my idea to learn as much as I could about Mr. Hardy's private life. "You don't have to come with me. I can manage on my own if you have work to do."

"There's something I need to tell you. Besides, I'm enjoying your investigation more than mine."

"Murder is a little more interesting than missing cats and false alarms. Speaking of which, why did the neighbor need you this time? Was it another false alarm?"

"That's what I wanted to tell you. It wasn't Mrs. Danvers who wanted to speak to me, it was her housekeeper. She'd seen me talking to you as I left there last time and asked her counterpart in the Campbell household about you."

"How nosy."

He smirked. "That's rich coming from you."

"I'm only nosy when it's relevant to an investigation. So, what do I have to do with her calling you out this time?"

"Mrs. Turner told Mrs. Danvers' housekeeper that they'd hired you to look into Hardy's death. That reminded her of something she'd overheard, and she felt you ought to know."

"Then why not invite me instead of you? Mrs. Turner could have told her that I could be contacted at the hotel."

"They like me. Besides, I think they wanted me to check the locks again."

I suspected they liked having a handsome young man around the house. It would explain all the false alarms, too. "What did the housekeeper say?"

"Two or three weeks ago—she can't recall precisely when—she was hanging washing out in the courtyard and overheard Hardy threatening another man in the Campbells' courtyard. She recognized Hardy's voice as he did most of the talking. The other barely spoke."

"What was the threat?"

"Hardy demanded the other fellow pay him. If he didn't, it would all come out."

"All of what?"

"He didn't say." Harry indicated to turn right to skirt the northern edge of Berkeley Square with its handsome plane trees providing dappled shade from the sun.

I'd been so engrossed in our conversation that I hadn't noticed when it emerged from behind the clouds. Remembering how many times I'd blushed the day before, I put up my parasol and had it at the ready. "It sounds as though Hardy was in possession of information that could damage someone if it came out. We know from the letters to his mother that Rupert needed money."

"Did Floyd translate Oblitus?"

"It means the Forgotten One, which seems appropriate for a banished son."

"So Rupert needed money and Hardy was blackmailing someone for money. It fits with your theory that they're one and the same person." He indicated we should turn onto Hill Street where the Coach and Horses stood on the next corner at the intersection with a mews. "I think Hardy—Rupert—was attempting to blackmail a member of his family. Pleas for financial help to his mother failed, so he tried threats instead."

"Mrs. Danvers' housekeeper said he argued with a man, so it must be Arthur since their father died a few years ago. Considering Arthur had a lot to lose, he has just risen to the top of my suspect list. The question is, what was he blackmailing Arthur about? It can't be over Charlotte's murder. If Arthur did murder her and blamed his brother, and Rupert realized it later once he sobered up, why continue to hide in exile all these years? He could simply tell the police that Arthur did it, then come home."

"Would he be believed?" Harry said. "By all accounts, he was drunk on the night of the murder, so the police might not take his word for it. Not to mention the dowager would probably support Arthur, not Rupert, particularly now. Rupert has been gone for decades, and she might think resurrecting him is pointless when Arthur makes a fine viscount. I think Rupert would have known that the family would prefer for him to stay dead and forgotten."

I wasn't convinced Rupert would want to lie low forever for the good of the family. He'd given up an awful lot when he fled. If he'd been wrongly accused, his resentment must only have deepened over the years. It seemed like an excellent motive to threaten his own brother, and for that brother to retaliate and kill to protect his reputation and the inheritance. Families weren't always loyal, and brothers had been known to fall out spectacularly over much less.

Harry opened the pub door for me. The smile he gave me was dashing, as always, and my heart fluttered a little, knowing it was entirely for my benefit. If I wasn't careful, I would end up kissing him again.

That would not do.

I lowered my parasol, but didn't go in. "Thank you for your assistance, Harry, but I'll be quite all right from here."

"Are you dismissing me?"

"I'm simply telling you that I can manage. I'm sure you have things that require your attention. I wouldn't want to keep you from them."

He leaned back against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "Discussing cases together helps you solve them faster. Don't you want to solve this one quickly?"

"Yes, of course, but…" I didn't continue. I recognized a winning argument when I heard one.

"I know what this is about." His eyes danced and his lips tilted with his smirk.

I had a feeling I was walking into his trap, but I couldn't stop myself. "Oh? What is it about?"

"You're afraid I might solve the case before you."

Relief turned my scoff into an inelegant snort. "That's about as likely as me kissing you again." There. Hopefully, by mentioning the kiss, I'd dissolved the tension between us. Sometimes confronting one's fears is the best way to alleviate them.

I entered the pub and took a moment to adjust to the dim light. Given it was still early, there were only a few patrons, all of whom looked up when we entered. Their gazes remained on me, not Harry, as we approached the polished dark wood bar and the landlord standing behind it. Going by the patrons' clothing and the waft coming off the fellow seated at the bar, waiting for his beer, I suspected they worked in the stables or coach houses belonging to the grand townhouses. Pubs in salubrious areas like Mayfair tended to attract service staff on their days off, rather than laborers or dock workers.

The landlord passed a tankard of beer to the patron then picked up a cloth to wipe the pump clean. "Ladies' bar is through there." He pointed the cloth toward the snug where a marble fireplace would make it a cozy place for maids in winter. It was currently empty.

"My name is Miss Cleopatra Fox and this is Mr. Armitage. We're private detectives looking into the death of a butler not far from here."

The landlord stopped cleaning the pump. The patron seated at the bar swiveled on his stool to face us, while the other patrons behind us fell silent. Far from being threatening, I got the impression they were intrigued.

"We heard about that," the landlord said. "He used to come in here. The footman from the house comes in, too."

Davey must have mentioned our investigation to someone. Gossip was as rife in a place like this as it was in the drawing rooms of the houses the patrons served in.

"Did Mr. Hardy, the deceased butler, drink alone?" I asked.

"Aye. He was new, didn't know anyone."

"Except for that one time," the patron on the stool beside me said.

"The toff didn't drink with him," the landlord countered. "She asked if the butler drank with anyone. He didn't."

"Tell me about the other fellow anyway," I said. "How do you know he was a toff?"

"Same way I know you're one. It's obvious."

I wasn't sure if he was being insulting or not, so I ignored the comment. "When was this?"

"About two days before he died."

"Did you overhear what they talked about?"

"No, but it was clear the conversation was tense. It ended when the toff stormed out."

"What did he look like?"

"Middle-aged, gray beard, reddish moustache."

That fit the description of Arthur, Lord Whitchurch. We may not know for certain whether he was the one arguing with Mr. Hardy in the courtyard of the Campbells' house, but now we could be sure that he'd spoken to him here.

He'd claimed he didn't recognize Mr. Hardy at dinner, but we now had enough evidence to confront him and accuse him of lying.