Page 17 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

The constable scribbled furiously in his notepad throughout my retelling. Flossy recounted her evening next, but it was as uneventful as mine. She sat with her mother after dinner then went to bed. Uncle Ronald worked in his office until midnight after having a brief discussion with Mr. Armitage at the conclusion of our dinner. Floyd said he went out.

“Where did you go?” Detective Inspector Hobart asked.

“To a gentleman’s club.”

“The name of the club?”

“You wouldn’t know it. It’s very private.”

“Nevertheless.” The detective waited, his face friendly and eyes sparkling in the pale morning light filtering through the window.

“Does it matter?” Uncle Ronald spat. “My son isn’t the murderer. He wasn’t here. None of us poisoned Mrs. Warrick.” He flicked his hand towards the door. “Do your job, Inspector, or I’ll have you replaced. I want this matter resolved today.”

“I’ll do my best, but it’s unlikely we’ll have an answer today. There are a lot of staff and guests to interview—”

“Donottalk to the guests! Is that understood? They are not to be bothered.”

The inspector pursed his lips, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The two men entered a glaring match until the inspector departed the office. The constable followed.

Floyd flopped onto a chair. “Incompetent fool. Clearly our Hobart got all the brains in the family.”

Uncle Ronald glowered at him from beneath the deep shelf of his brow. Floyd swallowed heavily and rose. He left the office. Flossy and I followed.

While Floyd and Flossy returned to their rooms, I joined Detective Inspector Hobart and his constable at the lift.

“The stairs are faster,” I said.

“So I discovered on the way up.” The inspector smiled at me. “You’ve just arrived at the hotel, I believe.”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“What a shocking introduction to your new home, and on Christmas Day too, a day of peace and goodwill. I hope this doesn’t reflect poorly on The Mayfair in your eyes. The hotel has an exemplary reputation.”

“I didn’t think murders happened very often here, but thank you for the reassurance.”

He chuckled. “We’ll take the stairs, Constable. The lift doesn’t seem like the most efficient device.”

“May I join you?” I asked, following anyway.

The stairwell was quiet, but I knew from experience that voices echoed so I kept mine low. “Is it true you suspect the footman who delivered Mrs. Warrick’s hot chocolate last night?”

The detective’s step slowed. “I’m keeping an open mind at this juncture.”

“That is a relief because I have it on good authority that he’s not the type to commit murder just because Mrs. Warrick accused him of ruining her fur coat.”

“In my experience, people who are not the type commit murder all the time.” He softened his harsh statement with a smile. “But I don’t expect an innocent young woman such as yourself to know that.”

He quickened his pace, perhaps in the hope of leaving me behind. I picked up my skirts so as not to trip over them as I kept up.

“Was the poison definitely in her pot of hot chocolate?”

He hesitated. “The pot and cup have been taken away for testing, along with the teacup delivered by the maid who discovered the body this morning.”

That was neither confirmation nor denial. Surely if the chocolate cup held the poison, it could be smelled or a residue had been left behind.

“Have you questioned the footman who delivered it?” I asked.

“I have.”