Page 16 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

“Thorough?” He grunted. “I wish they’d just bloody get on with it. The sooner they arrest someone, the better. The hotel can’t afford for this to drag on.”

“Surely it’s only better if therightsomeone is arrested.”

He grunted again.

A door opened further along the corridor, and Flossy emerged, her hair down around her shoulders and a dressing gown thrown over her nightdress. “My maid just told me what happened,” she said as she rushed towards us. “Poor Mrs. Warrick. And on Christmas Day, too.”

“You knew her well?” I asked, taking the hand she stretched out to me.

“Only by sight. I’d never met her. She was the lady waiting at the lift with us yesterday.”

I remembered her. She’d talked to herself about a man she’d seen who was out of place in the hotel. She’d been looking in Mr. Armitage’s direction as she said it.

Floyd indicated his father’s office door. “Now that we’re all together, we might as well get this over with. The police want to question the three of us about our movements last night.”

“Us?” Flossy clutched her nightgown closed at her throat. “Why?”

Her brother waggled his brows at her. “Because they think one of us did it.”

She gasped, and he chuckled.

“They’re just following a process,” I assured her. “It doesn’t mean anything. They’ll probably ask all the staff what they were doing at the time of the murder.”

Flossy went pale. “Murder,” she whispered. “It’s so awful to have the hotel’s good name dragged through the mud like this, and just before the ball, too. What if our friends get wind of it and don’t come?”

I expected Floyd to tease her to make light of it, but he just muttered, “Indeed.”

He knocked and opened the door. A uniformed constable stood beside the bookshelf, a notebook in hand. A second man, dressed in a dark gray suit, sat at the desk opposite Uncle Ronald. He looked familiar, but if it weren’t for his distinctive bright blue eyes, I wouldn’t have guessed why. What was a relative of Mr. Hobart’s doing in Uncle Ronald’s office after a murder?

“Ah, the rest of the family,” he said, rising. “Come in, come in. The sooner we get these interviews over with, the sooner we can move on and enjoy Christmas festivities, although it’ll be difficult to get into the spirit, I imagine.” He extended his hand to Floyd. “Detective Inspector Hobart, Scotland Yard.”

“Hobart?” Floyd glanced at his father.

“Your manager is my brother,” the detective said.

“Delighted to meet you,” Flossy said, putting out her hand. “Please excuse my appearance.”

The detective inspector grasped her hand loosely and seemed unsure whether to shake it, kiss it, or bow over it. He let it go quickly and shook mine when I extended it to him as Floyd had done.

“You must be Florence,” he said to me. “I see the resemblance with your brother.”

“I’m Cleo Fox,” I said. “Sir Ronald’s niece. Flossy is Floyd’s sister.” I indicated my cousin.

The inspector put up his hands. “My apologies to you both.”

“Get on with it,” Uncle Ronald growled. “This is a waste of time, anyway. None of us did it.”

“Perhaps one of you saw something relevant. Telling me where you were last evening might bring important evidence to light.”

“Approximately what time did the murder take place?” I asked.

“I’d rather not speculate here and now. I’m inquiring about everyone’s movements throughout the late afternoon and evening, just to be sure.”

“Did she dine in the dining room?”

“If you wouldn’t mind detailing your movements, Miss Fox.”

I told him I’d written letters then been taken on a tour by Mr. Armitage, which produced a small smile on the detective’s lips. “I dined with my uncle and cousins at eight, then retired to my rooms. I went to bed a little before eleven. I awoke at seven-thirty this morning, but didn’t hear of the murder until just now when a maid mentioned it.”