Chapter 7

H arry dodged stagehands and props that had been left in the corridor as he chased Beecroft. Someone in one of the rooms he passed screamed, but I wasn’t sure why until I reached it and saw her hastily throwing on a dressing gown. She wore bloomers and a tightly laced corset, which was more than the dancers we’d seen earlier wore.

Harry disappeared around a corner. I picked up my skirts and raced after him as best as I could. I was surprised to catch up to him at a closed door. He tried the handle. Locked.

“I know you’re in there, Beecroft,” he called out.

The sound of a door or drawer slamming shut came from inside, but Beecroft didn’t answer.

“If I have to break this door down, it won’t go well for you when I get my hands on you.”

“Leave me alone,” Beecroft shouted back. “I don’t have the money.”

“What money?” Harry asked through the door.

There was a moment’s silence, before Beecroft answered. “You, er, said you were private debt collectors.”

“Private detectives,” Harry corrected him.

The lock tumbled and the door opened. Harry charged in and I followed. Beecroft stepped back and stared at us. The small room must be his office and dressing room. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Aside from the desk there was a narrow storage cupboard with a full-length mirror attached to the door. A yellow armchair with gold braid detail was tucked into the corner. The walls were covered with framed posters of the shows he’d starred in and photographs of the actor in various poses that accentuated his handsome features. He had the classic good looks that made women swoon, much like Harry. But unlike Harry, there was a showiness in the gold cravat, the needle-thin moustache and heavily oiled hair.

He smoothed the palm of his hand over his hair before checking his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he sat at his desk and removed a cigarette from a battered old tin. “I misheard you. I thought you were here to collect a payment.” He offered a cigarette before lighting his with a match.

“You owe money?” Harry asked.

Mr. Beecroft suddenly smiled as if lighting his cigarette had flicked on an electrical switch within him. “Doesn’t everyone?” He pointed the two fingers holding the cigarette at the guest chairs. “Please, take a seat. I do apologize for the mess,” he added as he gathered up pages that appeared to be a script with notations in the margin. “The week before opening is always hectic, but I can spare a few moments.”

He might be a good entertainer, but his acting skills were clumsy. I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d misheard me when I said I was a private detective. So, what was he hiding?

Whatever it was, he wouldn’t tell the truth if I simply asked. I decided to play along and make him believe he was assisting me, even though his odd behavior made him a suspect.

“A young woman died on the ten-thirty express from Brighton on Thursday. I happened to be on the same train, hence my interest. You were also on that train.”

“Good lord, I had no idea. Was she ill?”

“I believe she was pushed out of her compartment window after being rendered unconscious first.”

He gasped. “Murder! Surely, I would have read about it in the newspapers.”

“The police are treating it as suicide, but I have grave doubts.”

He sat back heavily, blowing out a breath that puffed out his cheeks. “The poor woman. And to think there was a killer on the train.” He shook his head only to suddenly stop and focus on me. “Am I a suspect? Is that why you’re here?”

“I haven’t found anything linking you to her.” It was true. I hadn’t. It was simply a guess that Ruth had unearthed his liaison with his mistress while in Brighton.

His chest rose and fell with his deep breath before he switched on a smile again. “I can assure you, I haven’t killed anyone.” He pointed the cigarette at the door. “Despite what you saw out there, I’m actually quite a good-natured fellow. That was a performance. I’ve found the only way to keep them on track is to turn into a ghastly beast and shout. I wish I didn’t have to, but with only a few days to go until opening…well, you saw the state of that set.” The more he spoke, the more of a cockney accent seeped through his cultured one.

“I will be speaking to everyone who occupied the compartments between mine and the victim’s.” I removed my notebook and pencil from my bag and drew the layout of the carriage again, this time only noting Ruth’s location, my position, and Mr. Beecroft’s. “She was in the first compartment, and you were in the third with another fellow. Did you see anyone pass by your compartment during the journey?”

He stroked his thumb across his lower lip until the smoke from the cigarette got in his eye. He lowered his hand to the desk. “Nobody passed, but the fellow in my compartment left for a few minutes.” He straightened and leaned forward, frowning in thought. “I was reading my script for a while, which made me drowsy. I closed my eyes but didn’t fall asleep. I heard the man get up. When I heard the door to our compartment close, I opened my eyes, and he was gone. He returned a few minutes later. Good lord,” he muttered. “Could he have killed her? Was I sharing a compartment with a murderer?”

“It’s possible.”

“Oh, God. What if he knows I’m a witness? He could easily find me. I’m very well-known. My face is everywhere.” He indicated the photographs and posters.

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “The police aren’t treating her death as suspicious. They’re not even looking for the fellow. He has no reason to panic unless they do.”

“But it might be a good idea to keep your doors locked,” Harry added. “Just to be safe.”

Mr. Beecroft placed the cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand. “He looked like a killer. Mean eyes. Ugly face, as though he’s taken a few beatings in his life.”

“Had you ever seen him before? Perhaps in Brighton?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did you speak to one another?”

“I said good morning when he entered, and he responded in kind. He only just made it before the train departed. I knew there was something wrong about him. He wasn’t dressed like your typical first-class passenger. The conductor checked his ticket and clipped it without question, so I assume he paid the correct fare like the rest of us.”

“What about the two women in the compartment next to yours?” I asked. “Did you recognize them?”

He thought about it a moment then shook his head. “They both wore very large hats. I couldn’t see their faces. I doubt they could see me, either. What was the victim’s name?”

“Ruth Price.”

He showed no indication the name meant anything. “Poor girl. Her family must be distraught.”

“Her brother is, as are her colleagues at The Evening Bulletin .”

His gaze held mine several moments too long. “She was a typist?”

“Assistant to the gossip columnist who goes by the name Mrs. Scoop.”

He picked up the script and shuffled the pages. “I’ve read her column.”

“I’m sure you’ve even appeared in it a number of times.”

He gave me a flat smile.

I thanked him and rose. As he walked Harry and me to the door, I engaged him in what I hoped he mistook for idle conversation. “I enjoyed my holiday in Brighton. Did you find it relaxing?”

“Not entirely.” He indicated the script on the desk. “I went there to learn my lines in peace and quiet. I find a few days of uninterrupted rehearsal is the only way to remember them all.”

Harry laughed good-naturedly. “You have an understanding wife to let you go to Brighton alone.”

“Mrs. Beecroft gives me the space my creative process needs. Anyway, I was ensconced in my hotel room for much of the time. It was hardly the glamorous holiday that yours would have been, Miss Fox.”

“I stayed at the Grand Brighton Hotel,” I said. “Were you there, too?”

He pointed the cigarette at me, sending a clump of ash onto the carpet. He smiled at me. “I can’t tell you that. I hope to stay there again, in peace, and the gossip columnists would have a field day if they found out.”

“I wouldn’t pass it on.”

“Even so.” He reached past me to open the door. “I hope you’ll attend a performance one evening. It will be spectacular. The script is terribly funny, and the music will have you tapping your feet all night. You can purchase tickets from the box office when you leave.”

Neither Harry nor I spoke as we strode along the corridor. We passed a door labeled Geraldine Lacroix but didn’t stop. Clement Beecroft stood in the doorway to his office, watching us.

Once we were safely out of earshot, I pointed out that Beecroft had made sure we left the premises without speaking to the woman who was most likely his mistress.

“We can’t say for certain that she is,” Harry said. “We are merely assuming, considering his well-known fondness for his leading ladies.”

“You’re right, I won’t jump to conclusions. I am reasonably sure Ruth Price’s name meant nothing to him, though. Do you agree?”

“I do, but he was lying about other things, including the fact he misheard you when you said you were a private detective.”

“For someone who makes his living on the stage, he’s not a great actor.”

Harry huffed a humorless laugh. “One thing I can’t decide is whether he was lying about the other man in his compartment leaving it for a few minutes.”

That part had seemed convincing, but like Harry, I wouldn’t believe it unless others verified it. The compartment between Beecroft’s and Ruth’s had been occupied by the two women, but unless I identified them, I couldn’t question them.

We crossed over St. Martin’s Lane, heading in the direction of Harry’s office, even though we’d not discussed a destination. “I think Beecroft needed to hide something in his office from us, that’s why he rushed there,” Harry said. “The question is, what?”

“The other question is, when do we break in to find out?”

Harry’s steps slowed and his gaze slid to me. He didn’t try to talk me out of it, however. That was most unlike him.

“No dire warning about what could go wrong?” I asked. “No attempt to forbid me?”

“That tactic has never worked with you. Besides, we’ll be breaking into a theater, not someone’s home. It’ll be empty. I’ll allow you to join me this time.”

“How magnanimous,” I muttered.

We made plans to meet later, then parted ways when we reached Piccadilly. As I entered the hotel, Frank stopped me with an ominous warning.

“Miss Bainbridge is looking for you. She asked me to tell you to join her and her friends for afternoon tea if you’re back in time.” He removed his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “You only have fifteen minutes to get ready.”

Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind partaking in afternoon tea if I had nothing else to do, but I wanted to nap for a while knowing my sleep would be interrupted later to conduct the search of the theater. If I were to join Flossy and her friends, I needed to change into something more appropriate first, then sit through an hour or two of gossip.

Gossip . Perhaps I would make the effort, after all.

Jane was in my room when I arrived, having anticipated that I might need her assistance if I was going to afternoon tea. She’d already chosen an outfit for me to wear and set out matching jewelry. “If you don’t mind, Miss Fox, I’ve also chosen your outfit for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I asked her reflection in my dressing table mirror. “I wasn’t aware of any plans.”

“Sir Ronald has requested the family dine together in the restaurant, since it has been some time since you were all home.”

I sighed. “Thank you, Jane. Prepare whatever outfit you think will look nice.”

“You look nice in everything, Miss Fox, but the blue gown does go well with your eyes.”

Fifteen minutes later, I joined Flossy and two of her friends for afternoon tea. Although much of society’s elite had left London, the sitting room was still full. The Mayfair’s legendary afternoon teas were so popular that reservations were a must. If left too late, patrons missed out. It was a little easier to get a table in August, however.

A full room meant a hot room. Almost every lady flapped a fan at her face, some more vigorously than others. From the entrance, they looked like butterflies amongst the potted palm trees that were placed strategically between tables to allow for privacy. Mr. Chapman was very particular about the positions of the tables, ensuring gossip could be safely exchanged without being overheard, if one kept one’s voice low.

Once the waiter delivered the finger sandwiches and pastries, I steered the conversation to someone I assumed the other girls knew. “Did Flossy tell you we met Odette Pridhurst in Brighton?”

The two sisters, Cora and Mary Druitt-Poore, gave me blank looks.

“They don’t know her,” Flossy told me.

“Mr. Holland was with them. His family is in canned goods.”

More blank looks.

Flossy changed the subject. “Speaking of Brighton, we saw Clement Beecroft, the actor, on our train home. He’s so dashing in real life. I wanted to talk to him, but was too shy.”

“What was he doing in Brighton?” Mary asked.

“Having a holiday,” Flossy said as if Mary was silly. Which, to be fair, Mary often was.

Cora, who at nineteen was the elder of the sisters, leaned forward conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she whispered. “Earlier this week, I read that the actress in his next play was in Brighton, too. Coincidence?” She picked up her teacup and arched her eyebrows. “I think not.”

“Where did you read that?” I asked.

“Either The Evening Bulletin or The London Tattler . They have the best scoops.”

Mary scolded her sister. “You’re wicked to spread such rumors, Cora. Mr. Beecroft is far too gentlemanly to do what you’re suggesting.”

“How do you know he’s gentlemanly?” Cora asked.

“I can tell by looking at him. He has such a nice smile on his posters.”

Cora rolled her eyes.

I excused myself from the sitting room as soon as I’d finished my tea. Instead of heading upstairs to my suite, I made my way to the staff parlor. Goliath was chatting to one of the footmen over cups of tea and cake. Neither was surprised to see me there, but the footman greeted me with more formality and awkwardness than Goliath.

I reached for the stack of newspapers on the table in the corner. “Don’t mind me.”

I sorted through the stack, separating the newspapers according to the paper’s title then sub-sorted them by date. There were several papers represented in the pile, including The Evening Bulletin and The London Tattler . Some of the editions dated to a week prior, but most had been printed in the last four days, although none in the past twenty-four hours

I began with the editions of The Evening Bulletin , even though I doubted I’d find what I was looking for. As suspected, there was no mention of Geraldine Lacroix in Mrs. Scoop’s column.

The footman left and Goliath joined me, cup of tea cradled in the palm of his big hand. “What are you looking for, Miss Fox?”

“An article about Geraldine Lacroix in Brighton. Have you read it?”

“Can’t say I have, but I don’t read the gossips much.” He sat and picked up a copy of The London Tattler . “If it appeared in today’s edition, it won’t be here. The maids rescue the papers the guests throw out, but no one throws them out on the day they come.”

“It was printed earlier this week, so it might not be in any of these. It’s certainly not in The Evening Bulletin .”

“Did you expect it to be?”

“No, but I wanted to rule it out.” So far, there was still nothing connecting Beecroft to Ruth Price. I continued to search with Goliath’s help.

He found the article about Geraldine Lacroix in The London Tattler . The anonymous reporter claimed she’d been seen in Brighton enjoying the ‘numerous entertainments on offer.’ It didn’t mention sea bathing, or who she was with, nor was there any mention of Clement Beecroft.

“Not very scandalous,” Goliath said, folding the newspaper. An article on the back page about cheating rumors at an automobile event caught his attention and he stretched out his long legs as he read it.

The door opened and Peter popped his head inside. “Goliath! There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

Goliath continued to read without looking up. “It’s not Miss Fox’s fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Peter strode in and snatched the newspaper out of the porter’s hands. “You’re needed.”

Goliath hauled himself to his feet. “This place would fall apart without me.”

Peter clapped him on the back. “It’s true. You’re indispensable. No one moves luggage like you.”

Goliath rounded on him. “I was being sarcastic.”

Peter pushed him toward the exit. “I don’t have time for your sarcasm, but I can assure you, you are a valuable member of the front-of-house team. Nobody carries heavy luggage with as much ease as you do.”

Goliath scrubbed a big paw across his jaw. “Thanks, Peter. Don’t mind me. I’ve been spending too much time with Frank lately. His sullenness is contagious.”

I followed the two men out of the parlor. “Peter, have the hotel’s copies of the evening newspapers arrived yet?”

“Some. They’re in the smoking room.”

I crossed the foyer, keeping my eyes peeled for my uncle. He didn’t like me entering the domain of the male guests. The billiard and smoking rooms were spaces for the gentlemen to be themselves, so he’d told me. If ladies insisted on joining them, where could men go to discuss topics unsuitable for female ears? He hadn’t liked it when I listed a number of other places, from gentlemen’s clubs to parliament.

I’d not snuck into either room on the hotel’s ground floor for months. I’d had no reason to do so. Uncle Ronald wouldn’t be pleased, particularly if the two guests enjoying cigars and whiskey complained. Hopefully they didn’t know I was the niece of the owner and wouldn’t take their complaints to him.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m looking for the latest edition of The Evening Bulletin . I’ll be but a moment.”

One of the gentlemen picked up the newspaper from the table beside him and handed it to me.

I turned the pages, skimming each article. Once again, there was no mention of Ruth Price’s murder. Mrs. Scoop’s column was about the secret guest list for an upcoming royal event that she’d managed to see. I wondered if Ruth had been the one to ferret out that information before her death.

I handed the newspaper back. “Enjoy your cigars, gentlemen.”

I lingered in the foyer for a while, chatting to Miss Hessing. Or, rather, she did all the chatting while I listened. Her enthusiasm for the wedding spilled out of her. It was infectious, and I encouraged her with smiles and nods until it was time to change for dinner.

In my suite, Jane had been replaced by Harmony. “I sent her to Miss Bainbridge’s,” she said as she laid out a sage green and silver dress on the bed.

“Why?”

“I expected you’d want to tell me about your progress on the investigation.”

I sat at the dressing table and removed the pins from my hair. “We could talk over breakfast tomorrow. You don’t need to assist me in the evenings while you’re working with Floyd, you know that.”

She helped me with the pins. “I don’t mind.”

I turned my attention back to the mirror’s reflection. Behind Harmony, the beads on the dress shimmered in the light. “I thought I was wearing the blue gown tonight.”

“You wore the blue last time you had dinner with your family in the hotel restaurant.”

“Did I?” I frowned, thinking back.

“Be still so I can do your hair. It’s a mess.”

“It’s not that bad.”

To prove her point, Harmony ran the brush firmly through it. When I protested, she simply shrugged. “It’s knotty.”

“If it is, it’s not Jane’s fault. It’s because I’ve been outside most of the day and wind attacked it.”

When she didn’t answer, I laid a hand on her arm. “Harmony, what’s wrong?”

She lowered the brush to the dressing table. “All right, I admit it. I miss your company. Mr. Bainbridge is testing my nerves. He’s kind and not too demanding, but he’s not my friend. Not like you. When we have spare time, he doesn’t want to talk about interesting things like books or mysteries. He talks about cricket or automobiles.”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself laughing. “I miss you too, Harmony. But you don’t have to pretend to want to help me get ready in order to talk to me.”

“All right.” She sat on the bed. “Tell me how your investigation progresses.”

“Well, now you have to help me get ready for dinner, since you got rid of Jane.” I turned to face the mirror. “Although I think I can manage my own hair tonight. You’ll just have to help me with the buttons on my dress.”

She picked up the brush again. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re dreadful at doing your own hair.” She passed the brush through my hair with gentler strokes. “What did Ruth Price’s brother say about the police verdict?”

I told her that Enoch Price didn’t think his sister would take her own life, and how speaking to him led me to call at the office of The Evening Bulletin on Fleet Street. “According to Mrs. Scoop, Ruth went to Brighton to find out more about Lord Pridhurst. Apparently, he’s about to lose his share of a shipping company, which will cause Mr. Holland to lose interest in Odette. Isn’t that dreadful? Imagine never knowing if a man was interested in you for yourself or for your money and connections.”

Flossy faced the same problem. It was a good thing I’d vowed not to marry. I wasn’t a wealthy heiress, but not many people knew that, and with my close connection to the Bainbridges, most assumed I was worth a fortune, too.

Harmony wasn’t listening, however. “Mrs. Scoop, the gossip columnist?” She dug a pin a little too firmly into my hair, scraping my scalp. “I’ve had it up to my neck with the gutter press. Victor told me about a fellow Mrs. Poole threw out of the kitchen this morning. Apparently, he was trying to find out what would be served at the wedding reception.” She slid another pin into the arrangement, this time gentler. “You should inform Harry. He’s looking for a gossip columnist who wants to check in and spy on us.”

“I did. It’s her, Mrs. Scoop.”

Harmony’s jaw dropped. She stared at me in the mirror’s reflection for a moment before pressing her lips together and once again poking my scalp with a pin. “I have a mind to march into her office and demand she stop. Not that it will do any good, but it will make me feel better.”

“She told me she’s not that interested, after all.”

“And you believed her?” Her humph implied I was naive.

“I think she’s a little deflated after the death of Ruth. I think Ruth was the one who did all the real work, gathering evidence, following leads. Rather like me. Mrs. Scoop merely writes up the article when she has all the information.”

“At least Harry knows, I suppose,” she said as she admired her handiwork in the mirror. “He can give her name to Mrs. Hessing, and Mrs. Hessing can confront Mrs. Scoop if she wants to.”

“He plans to, but hasn’t yet. We were busy the rest of the day.”

She frowned. “He helped you?”

“We questioned Clement Beecroft together. Before you say anything, working with Harry is for my benefit, not his. My uncle thinks I’m helping Harry investigate for Mrs. Hessing. If he knew I was investigating a murder, he’d demand I stop and take only genteel cases, like finding missing puppies.”

“Missing puppies are a tragedy, Cleo.” Harmony sifted through the hair combs in the box on my dressing table and found the silver one with the aquamarines that went well with the gown she’d chosen. “What did Beecroft say when you asked him why he was in Brighton?”

I told her how our interview had started, and how it ended, and that Harry and I planned to break into the theater to find out what Beecroft was hiding. “We both think he was behaving oddly.”

“Just be careful. I don’t want you getting arrested this close to the wedding.”

“As opposed to any other time?”

“You know what I mean. A scandal could overshadow the event. Speaking of the wedding, I’ve told Jane which dress you should wear and to sweep all of your hair up with a few little delicate curls hanging loose at the sides. That style always looks fetching on you, and it’s simple to do. Tell her to attach a string of pearls at the back of the arrangement. Miss Bainbridge will make her own decisions, so at least Jane doesn’t have to worry about that.”

I took her hands in mine and leveled my gaze with hers. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but you don’t have to. You have enough on your plate. Besides, Jane is perfectly capable. Now. Deep breath.” She obliged. “And another. Better?”

“Not really.”

I kissed her forehead. “The reception will be marvelous. Don’t worry. You’re the most organized, efficient person I know. You won’t let Miss Hessing and Mr. Liddicoat down.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. I can control what I do and don’t do. It’s everyone else that I can’t control, particularly the mother-of-the-bride and the suppliers. If she gets her way, someone will have to pay. In practical terms, that could be your uncle. Figuratively, it could be me.”

Flossy and I went downstairs together. We were early, but her brother was even earlier. He stood at the steward’s desk at the entrance to the restaurant, studying the reservations book. Mr. Chapman was nowhere in sight.

“Are you filling in as steward tonight?” Flossy asked.

“Don’t be absurd,” Floyd said without looking up. “Chapman’s probably replacing the flower in his buttonhole. In fact, this would go faster if he was here because I could just ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“Whether Mrs. Hessing is dining here tonight.” His finger skimmed over the last few names before reaching the end. “Good. She isn’t.” He suddenly smiled. “I can enjoy myself.” His gaze slid past us and tightened. “Chapman’s back. Let’s find our table. I don’t want to have to explain myself.”

We took our seats at the family table but did not stay seated long. As diners began to arrive, we got up to welcome them. It was something my uncle insisted upon doing whenever possible. He claimed the personal touch was what set the Mayfair apart from other luxury London hotels. After experiencing the Grand Brighton Hotel’s service, I tended to agree with him. The Mayfair had a warmth about it that hotel lacked.

Conversations were not so varied tonight. Indeed, they were generally limited to two and divided according to gender. The men exchanged gossip about a motor vehicle cheating scandal and the women wanted to know about the arrangements for the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding. Considering Flossy and I couldn’t divulge anything, and indeed knew nothing, those conversations were rather short.

I extricated myself once my aunt and uncle arrived, but my heart sank upon seeing her. Her pupils were huge, her gaze darting about, and her movements were jerky as if she had too much energy coursing through her. They were all signs she’d just taken a dose of tonic. What worried me more, however, was seeing the way Uncle Ronald fussed over her. He quickly pulled out her chair before she asked, signaled for the menu to be brought over immediately, and asked my aunt several times if she needed anything. He didn’t get up and converse with guests as he usually would, but stayed with my aunt. He settled for watching Floyd play host instead. He must be worried about Aunt Lilian, too.

“What do you think, Cleopatra?” Uncle Ronald asked. “Will the wedding be good enough for Mrs. Hessing?”

“Floyd is doing a fine job with the arrangements,” I assured him. “And Harmony is an excellent assistant. She’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

Uncle Ronald’s lips flattened as he once again watched Floyd.

Aunt Lilian sniffed. “Stop undermining him, Ronald.” Never had I heard her snap at him. She’d been brusque with Flossy, Floyd and me, but never her husband.

He seemed just as taken aback. “I, er…”

“It’s typical of you to doubt his ability. It’s no wonder he struggles, with you being so critical all the time.”

Uncle Ronald glanced at me, but I wasn’t sure what he expected me to do. I didn’t dare say a word in case Aunt Lilian turned her wrath on me.

“Don’t defer to Cleopatra,” she whispered loudly. “She isn’t her mother, no matter how much she looks and behaves like her. My sister may have been gone all these years, yet you still value her opinion above mine, and above Floyd’s. Cleopatra may be cleverer than he is, but this hotel is in his bones. He was born here. It’s the only home he’s ever known, and he deserves a say in its future, since it will be his one day.” She paused as the sommelier poured wine into our glasses, and resumed once he was out of earshot. “It’s time you stop favoring your niece over your own son.”

I wanted to list all the times my uncle had argued with me, or forbidden me from going somewhere or doing something, to prove that he didn’t favor me. But my aunt was in no mood to listen, and the restaurant wasn’t the right place for such a conversation. Besides, a part of me knew there was some truth to her claims. Uncle Ronald did value my opinions, and he could be cruel to Floyd. But that was changing. I hoped.

Dinner was a tense affair. Aunt Lilian turned sullen, barely managing smiles for the friends who greeted her. Uncle Ronald sat stiffly throughout the first course. Sensing something was amiss, Flossy and Floyd exchanged worried glances.

I excused myself early and retired to my room. I had to get some rest if I was going to wake up in a few hours to meet Harry. The trouble was, I couldn’t fall asleep. I went over Aunt Lilian’s words in my head, wondering if I could have said something to reassure her. That led to the realization that her addiction was getting worse. If she didn’t stop taking the tonic soon, she was going to destroy her relationship with her family or destroy herself.