Page 49 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

“It bothered me greatly to learn that they’d published such awful things about the hotel.”

“So you visited their office and gave them what for?”

“Not quite. I can’t blame them for writing something that will sell the most copies. The real culprit here is the one who passed on the information about your, er, strident measures to ensure guests come to the ball. I wanted to find out who could have done such a thing.”

“Since it could only be someone with very particular knowledge.” He was about to take another sip but suddenly lowered the cup to the desk. “Do you mean to tell me you asked them point blank who it was?”

“Not quite. I watched the office from across the street and my patience was rewarded when Mr. Duffield entered the building.”

“Duffield! You know him?”

“He and I dined together the other night. It was…not an entirely pleasant experience.”

He frowned. “Why would you dine with Duffield?”

I dismissed his question with a small wave. That produced an even deeper frown, and I suspected my uncle wasn’t used to being dismissed. “I thought Mr. Duffield’s presence at the newspaper office too coincidental, so I waited until he left then went inside and spoke to the editor I’d seen him speak to. He claimed Mr. Duffield passes on gossip about people in his circle in exchange for money.”

Uncle Ronald’s moustache twitched with the movement of his mouth as he thought. “Thank you for informing me,” he said after a moment.

“What will you do about it?”

“Nothing.” He picked up his teacup.

“Why not?”

“Duffield is a guest here. I don’t want to embarrass him by confronting him. If it got out, it would affect our reputation.”

“But what if he provides the newspaper with further gossip about the hotel?”

He smiled over the rim of the cup. “He won’t have that opportunity again. Not about The Mayfair.”

Silence was one way of solving the problem, I supposed. Indeed, it was probably the best way for the hotel. Mr. Duffield might not be wealthy, but he did have friends in society who were. I was rather glad I hadn’t confronted Mr. Duffield myself as he left the newspaper’s office.

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “It’s regarding the murder. Have the police informed you of any developments today?”

“None.”

“What about the results of their tests for poison in the items they took away from Mrs. Warrick’s room?”

He shook his head. “They are keeping the results close to their chest.” He sighed heavily and looked as though he was about to tell me something, but thought better of it.

“Uncle? Is there something you wish to say? Perhaps if you share it, the burden will lighten.”

“That’s kind of you, Cleo.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m merely concerned that one of the staff may be found guilty after all.”

“I understand. You don’t want to think that you could have hired a murderer.”

“We’re like a family here. It would be a betrayal.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw. “I’ve never had any trouble from them, so why now?”

“It could be one of the guests.”

His gaze snapped to mine. “I don’t want you to worry, Cleo. The Mayfair Hotel is a London icon. It’ll take more than this to shake us.”

I smiled, although I hadn’t been terribly worried about the hotel’s future until now. He didn’t sound very convincing. “I’m sure the ball will be a sensation.”

His gaze softened. “Thank you, Cleo.”

I rose and headed for the door.