Page 65 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

“I don’t know, sir,” Goliath said. “You could ask Mr. Chapman.”

“The restaurant steward?”

“He is taking over the role of manager for now.”

“Where is Mr. Chapman?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The gentleman sighed and turned instead to Peter when the guest he’d been speaking to moved off. Peter shot Goliath a harried glance, as if blaming him for not resolving the issue.

By late morning, the journalists had returned, demanding to know whether the dismissals of the manager and assistant manager had anything to do with the murder. Two of them got past Frank, but after they were thrown out by Goliath and the other porters, the doorman was more prepared and the rest were not allowed in. Fortunately they didn’t create a scene, but they lurked outside and accosted the guests as they left. Some brushed them aside, but others stopped to speak to them.

“I wouldn’t go out there if I were you,” Flossy said as she and Floyd joined me in the foyer. “A thunderstorm would be more inviting than walking through that lot.”

“They’re persistent,” I said.

“They smell blood,” Floyd added. “They can see we’re in trouble and want to beat us into submission while we’re down.”

Flossy made a small squeak. “Floyd, don’t be so ghastly.”

“They think the murder and dismissals are connected. Can you imagine if they get someone to say they are? It’ll be all their dreams come true.”

I pressed my lips together.

“Someone ought to go out there and disabuse them of the notion.” Floyd tugged on his jacket hem. “It should be me.”

Flossy grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare! Father will tan your hide, particularly now, given his dreadful mood.”

“Why?” I asked. “Wouldn’t he be pleased that Floyd sets the press straight?”

Floyd and Flossy exchanged knowing glances. “He wouldn’t like me to do it without his knowledge,” Floyd said. He glanced at the front door but made no attempt to go outside.

“Mr. Hobart and Mr. Armitage used to take care of the newspapermen,” Flossy said. “They were very good at handling them.” She sniffed and I realized she was crying. “I can’t believe they’re gone. Mr. Hobart has been here forever. He’s part of the hotel. Oh, Floyd, this is dreadful. Just dreadful. Why would Father do such a thing?”

Floyd peered at me. There was no anger or censure in his eyes, just disappointment.

“And so close to the ball too,” Flossy went on. “It will be canceled now.”

“It must go on,” Floyd said.

“How can it? Mr. Hobart was in charge of most of the arrangements, and Mr. Armitage responsible for the rest.”

“There are only two days to go, so I’d wager most of it is done. It’ll be too late to cancel now.”

Flossy wiped her tears. “Tell Father that.”

Floyd frowned. “Do you think he’s considering canceling it?”

“Who knows what he’s considering?” She pushed his arm. “Go and tell him.”

“No. You do it.”

Flossy looked as though she wanted to speak to her father about as much as she wanted to face the herd of journalists.

“I’ll do it,” I said. I’d been meaning to speak to my uncle all morning, but when I’d checked his office, he hadn’t been there. “Is he upstairs now?”

Floyd nodded.